He awoke early each morning and collected the necessary animals and plants he needed to weave his spells. His nights were filled with baleful chanting, slaughtering followed by sticky organ arrangements, bleeding, and blazing bonfires. When at home, he had no energy to answer questions, feign interest in his family’s chatter, or eat.
“Poor Dag,” Orinleah cooed one night in her flirty way as she reached a hand toward his hair in the dark. He swatted it away and went to sleep with her sobs lingering in his head.
The next night, he walked in through the door to the sound of Dorhen whimpering in his sleep in the bedroom.
“I ran out of the salted fish you usually bring, so I used radishes for the stew. It’s on the table.” Orinleah pointed to the bowl.
He curled his hands into fists and hid them in his draping tabard by his sides. “You’ve no idea how difficult the human towns can be. They demand money. They’re not as kind and helpful as your old clan was!”
“I…”
“I, what? Radishes are fine! Go find more. And how can I sleep with Dorhen in there crying?”
“He’s not crying. He’s sleeping, and he’s been having bad dreams lately.”
“Then wake him!”
Orinleah stepped back, clutching the lapel of her aging elven hanbohik. “I can’t. He has to face the dreams on his own.” She dropped her eyes and scrambled out of his way.
The next morning, he found her gathering up the radish stew he hadn’t touched last night. He watched her for a moment. She didn’t say a word or even look at him, keeping a distance between them, her head stayed low. A bigger problem faced them than their silence, and coddling her back into his confidence wouldn’t help. His twin would return.
He set it all up. A dead raven lay split open and spread in the perfect layout on the sacrificial rock. The herbs and spices poured in lines wove the correct pattern. He’d arranged leaves along the sigil and tied a rag in the center of the raven’s open chest. An uncorked bottle of wine stood to the side. As he clicked the striker to light the rag, he focused, going over the words in his head. If he could make this work, he would be granted an audience with Hael, the death pixie, to ask about the state of Lambelhen’s protected mortality.
A spark from the striker ignited the oiled rag. Watching the moon, Daghahen commenced the chant. The flame grew and ate its way down the rag. He gazed into the flame, searching for some indication of a presence. Where would it show this time?
He drew near to the end of the chant, speeding up to race the flame, his hand on the bottle’s neck. As Daghahen tipped the bottle over the fire, the wind picked up and blew it out too early.
“Damn!” He smashed the bottle of wine across the setup and stabbed the broken neck of the bottle into the dead raven.
His hand slipped down the slick glass and smashed onto the other shards, cutting him. He roared and swiped his arm across the rock, knocking everything to the ground. Daghahen collapsed on the rock, pressing his face into the bloody entrails until his tantrum passed.
Orinleah no longer waited for Daghahen’s return. With the warmth washed out of his face, he’d become frightening. He moved around like a ghost, disregarding her and their son.
When she worked up the nerve to ask him why he’d skipped so many meals, he yelled, “Because I’m ill!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Sorry, I…I’m not well these days. I’ll be fine. It’s just…I dunno.” He drifted out the door and disappeared into the rows of white trees.
Falling to her knees, Orinleah stared at the forest through the open door. Dorhen wrapped his little arms around her neck and laid his head on her shoulder. Her heart slowed. She placed her hand on his head. At least she had her saeghar; she would always have him.
One day, in Daghahen’s absence, she packed some clothes and led Dorhen past Daghahen’s post barrier, many miles through Norr’s forest terrain to her old village. Leading her young child by the hand, she squared her shoulders and walked into the little village from the dense trees.
Little round houses were built along a large circular path with a big round Desteer hall standing in the center. The male answer to clan authority, the elder’s house, stood over on the north side. The practice yards were arranged on the west side where the saeghar, young males, were practicing. Soon Dorhen would be among them. In the distance, childish voices growled and huffed as they exercised. The wooden fighting sticks clacked in a musical rhythm. At intervals, a gruff adult voice barked a new command, and the rhythm changed.
Not so long ago, Orinleah and her friends had gone to the practice yards to watch the ranks of adult saehgahn in their sparring. Every young farhah dreamed of growing up and running her own household. Each farhah tasked herself with studying the saehgahn closely and, after becoming full faerhain, chose the best one out of the group to marry. Experience was critical: the young saeghar worked hard to graduate to the saehgahn order to be considered eligible. By strict commandment, only true-blooded Norrians could be eligible for marriage. If the Desteer decided one was tainted with foreign lineage, and the possibility of the Overseas Taint, he was branded “sarakren” and banished to the wilds—if not executed.
Six short years had passed since she was a farhah. The unexpected sight of Daghahen lurking about the forest had happened so fast. She would never forget the first day she had met him in the wild strawberry patch.
“Excuse me.”
Orinleah dropped her basket, her eyes darting upward. An odd saehgahn stood between two trees bowing toward each other like a doorway. When he removed his hood, yellow hair spilled out and shone in the dappled sunlight. All the saehgahn in her clan had dark hair.
“Yes?”
“I see you’ve got water. Can I trouble you for a sip of it? I’ve walked a long way today.”
“Of course, saehgahn.” She untied the water gourd from her belt. His hand brushed the back of hers when he took it, an improper contact, but she forgave him for it. He smiled, and his vibrant blue eyes reflected like a butterfly’s wings.
He plopped down on the dirt before her, his layers of robes pooling around him, and she did the same. Her training helped her judge the best saehgahn for marriage, and by the look of his form, he showed promise. All his features were exotic like his hair color. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and handed the gourd back.
“You’ve done me a great kindness. Thank you, lass… You are purely a lass, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly—I’m nineteen. I’m practically faerhain! Won’t be long now and I’ll be married.”
“Sorry. You strike me as young, is all.”
Young? What nerve! Orinleah straightened her back and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “What clan are you from?”
“McShivvey. That’s my family name. I’m Daghahen.”
“Where is your clan located?”
“I didn’t grow up there, wherever it is. I’ve been in the human lands most o’ my life. Especially Theddir, which is in the south.” He pointed out to the side. “Not far out of Norr. I’ve been all over, up north as well.”
“Really? Have you seen Hanhelin’s Gate?”
“Seen it? I’ve been on the other side of it.”
Her eyes widened, and she caught herself. “My name is Orinleah, soon to be faerhain, of the Linharri Clan. We have the greatest forge in Norr. We supply armor to the royal army.”
He cocked his head to the side with a smirk. “Impressive.”
She reached out her hand, and he took it between both of his warm palms. Her face heated, and butterflies raged in her stomach. She cleared her throat. “Um.” The back of her neck grew damp. “Are you married, Daghahen?”
He laughed. “I couldn’t be so lucky.”
“Well, I’m sure you do great honor to your family.”
“I try.”
Why was he still smiling? He’d be in so much trouble if her clansmen found him talking to her like this. She didn’t make a move to leave or raise an alarm. Would it really be so bad if this
attention continued? After they clasped hands, he moved closer to her, and she allowed it.
“Looks like you’re lucky, though,” he said, reaching over to brush a purple petal which had fallen from the trees off her shoulder. Once again, an improper gesture. His smile finally went limp when he ran his fingers across her collarbone. Her heart raced again, and he drew his hand away as she replaced it with her own. She pulled her collar tighter together. His smile vanished, and his eyes searched hers.
Though she trembled all over, she didn’t raise an alarm. Fear wasn’t exactly the thing causing her quaking. Remembering her basket of strawberries, she reached for it. When she moved, he frowned. But she didn’t leave; instead, she held it out to him. “Are you also hungry?”
His smile returned with a heavy exhalation. “Thank you.”
His voice… Though deep and grating, it drew her in, intensified her jitters. She watched him eat each one. He didn’t eat many, as politeness dictated, and placed the basket on the ground.
“Will you tell me about the lands you’ve been to?” She tried to control her breathing and relax her spine.
“Of course I will, lass. Anything for the person who saved me today. I might’ve died of thirst.”
He smiled deeper and touched his index finger to her forehead as if she were a child. His intoxicating attention made her smile nonetheless. He told her an amusing story about his childhood in Theddir, of how he used to play in the streets, and about the day he had helped some old human man find his lost coin purse. The man rewarded him with a magic button. It wasn’t actually magic, but Daghahen accepted the reward anyway.
“I still have it,” he said. “See?” From his pocket, he drew out an old wooden button, dark with age and scarred, a tool they didn’t use in Norr. “The humans often use these to close parts of their clothing. Like this.” He pointed to his shoulder, where his outermost mantle was fastened together with three similar objects.
The sun sank low, and Orinleah would have to go home soon. She grabbed his hand in both of hers and tugged. “Follow me. You can stay the night in my village,” she said to his questioning expression. His smile vanished, and she longed for it.
“I can’t. But meet me here tomorrow evening, and I’ll tell you another story.”
She made it her priority for the day to return to the spot. Long before sunset, he was already waiting for her. They talked for over an hour. He smiled and touched her forehead like he had yesterday, and told her a story as promised. And she listened to his voice, occasionally closing her eyes. She took his hand again and urged him to accompany her to the Desteer hall for evaluation. He refused and instead begged her not to tell anyone about him.
When she left him, instead of returning home, she banged on the door to the Desteer hall. None of the Desteer maidens had disrobed from their full regalia yet. Their hair hung long and loose, and their faces displayed pearly white paint with a purple stripe running across the eyes. They let her in and granted her an audience, noticing her state of energy and excitement. She asked them to grant her her faerhain ceremony early.
“No,” the head maiden said, her voice flat.
Orinleah pressed them, but one couldn’t argue with the Desteer after such a severe answer. “Why not?”
The maidens behind the leader were shaking their heads.
“You think we haven’t seen a farhah in your state before? You are asking this favor because you want to get married quickly. You don’t get married because you are in a momentary state of lust—you get married because you are ready to give your alliance, love, and service to a saehgahn for the rest of your life.” Orinleah lowered her head in shame. “Go home and go to bed. Pray to the Bright One and tell Him all of your feelings. Repeat that until you fall asleep. When you awaken, the state you’re in will have passed.”
Orinleah ran outside after they dismissed her. She didn’t go home; she ran back into the tangle of forest where she had left Daghahen. She found him lingering there, waiting and smiling. And she returned for several nights after. She didn’t care how he disregarded her clan’s laws. She wanted him.
Eventually, they were caught together in a bout of passion. The head Desteer maiden arrived with her father and the village elder with his rabble of sneering saehgahn, their faces burning red, blades in hand. But the head maiden kept calm and stern. As the roaring elder lifted his spear to skewer the foreigner, the head maiden grabbed the weapon’s haft.
“Not yet!” she cried. The Desteer’s pearly face paint glowed fresh in the soft morning sunlight; her black hair added shadow to her already grim face. Orinleah stood in her undermost gown, grasping her discarded garments to her bosom. Heeding the Desteer maiden’s command, the saehgahn remained poised.
She approached Orinleah, who shrank under her shadow. “Choose,” she ordered.
Orinleah didn’t need an explanation. She didn’t have to weigh the options. She stepped backward, shifting her eyes from the maiden to her father’s distraught face as he dropped his bow and arrow.
“No!” he cried, but the elder restrained him and the maiden also put her hands on him to try to calm him.
Orinleah set her jaw, took Daghahen’s hand, and allowed him to lead her away. She hadn’t seen her father since. On the day she left, she must’ve already been pregnant.
Now walking through her old village, Orinleah and her son met a mixture of reactions. Few smiled. Most stared at her in confusion or wonder. Orinleah waved and smiled at an old neighbor-faerhain whose eyes darted away after meeting Orinleah’s. Her mouth curled and slacked, and she retreated into her house. Orinleah tightened her hand around Dorhen’s and moved on in search of her old house.
“Mother,” Dorhen said, “these houses are funny.”
“They’re elvish houses, lad,” she replied. “This one is where I was born. The inside is like a big circle. We sleep on the floor.” As Dorhen stared at the building, his mouth dropped open. She pointed to the pavilion next to the house. “I used to cook in that kitchen. We cook outside in the clan village.”
“Will we eat outside too?”
“Mmm-hmm, unless it’s too cold or raining too hard.”
He grinned. “I like being outside.”
“I know you do.” She tried her best to keep her smile for Dorhen’s sake. The house hadn’t changed at all in seven years. A nice blanket of green moss collected on the north side of the same old brush roof, and the chimney leaned a little like always.
She led Dorhen toward the pavilion. The wobbly clay cups she’d made while learning pottery hung from tiny hooks. A flat stone on the pavilion wall still showed a chalk drawing she had made at age twelve. This might not be her home anymore, but it could be again.
Her father, strong as ever, sauntered down the forest path with a bundle of wood on one shoulder. Orinleah took Dorhen’s hand again and ran down the path to meet him. Strands of brown hair, the same color as hers, were falling out of his ponytail. She waited before saying anything. He glanced at her and dropped the wood. His mouth dropped open as he regarded her and Dorhen.
“Where is he?” he asked, his voice sharp as a snake’s bite.
“Daghahen is busy,” Orinleah said.
He shifted the wood on his shoulder. “Why are you here?”
“I…” Orinleah’s eyes moved to the ground, and she choked back tears. “I want to come home.” She dropped to her knees, leaned over, and placed her forehead on her crossed arms on the ground. She’d plant her face in the mud if it would be humbling enough. Reaching one arm to Dorhen, she tugged at his miniature tunic. At her prodding, he copied her pose, and they waited.
“You made the choice,” her father said. She raised her head again. “And I pleaded with the Desteer long after you left.” His furious voice rang at her like thunder.
When he stopped, she struggled for words. “But I—”
“You think I didn’t have all the saehgahn rallied to slaughter him on the spot? We were ready, but the Desteer forbade it. It’s over
now.” He squinted at her. “You made the choice. The Desteer silenced us and validated your marriage, though you were long gone.”
Orinleah stood but stayed bent. Dorhen stood too, and she took his hand again. She paused to wonder why wisdom and love didn’t go hand in hand. Why had she allowed herself to become a disgrace to her clan? Beholding her child’s beautiful face and trusting eyes, she curled her hand tighter around his. He was worth all the trouble.
“Let’s talk to the Desteer,” she said. “And the elder!”
“Go talk to them all if you wish. The Desteer will tell you the same thing they told me six years ago.”
She frowned and turned her face away.
“Orinleah,” her father said, snapping her attention back. “Listen to me. The elder might grant you citizenship again, but that one can’t stay.” He pointed at her six-year-old child.
She cupped her hands over his ears. “Shh, how could you say such poison in front of him?” She let Dorhen go and stepped forward, clenching her fists. Her face twisted.
“You were in a hurry to be an adult—so be one. Listen. The Desteer will never let him stay. They don’t know the origin of your husband. For all we know, he and your son might both carry the Overseas Taint.”
The Overseas Taint was an ominous deviation in the Norrian bloodline, the main reason their customs forbade marrying foreign elves, and the reason her marriage to Daghahen had brought such trouble. But what a ridiculous superstition. Dorhen did not have the taint!
“He’s my child. I know better than anyone, there is no shadow over Dorhen!”
Her father stared at her in silence for several moments, clearly aghast. “Is that his name?”
Her teeth clenched.
Her father’s voice rose. “That name. The forbidden name! Who named him?”
“I did,” she said.
“I know you’re not so ignorant of your own people’s customs. Or perhaps I’m wrong about everything! You let a foreigner court you, you ran away—before your faerhain naming ceremony—and now you’ve used the forbidden name and brought it among us?”
Sufferborn Page 3