“Good morrow, damsels,” said Jarred. “I heard the marshfolk need a fellcat slayer, and I have taken the job.”
A grin flashed, white, across his handsome face. Sunlight glittered off the nearby water, and larks trilled.
Brushing aside her tears, Lilith smiled.
III
The Amulet
Jarred of Ashqalêth had returned to the marsh on foot, carrying his meager possessions on his back. To the watchmen at the gray stone tower of the Northern Reaches he said, “As a result of a wager, I was honor bound to return here. Besides, the Summer is overhot. I would prefer to be near cool water and to cease for a time the daily pounding of the roads.”
“You lost a wager?” frostily demanded Lieutenant Goosecroft of the Northern Watchtower. “And the loser was forced to come begging at the gates of the marsh?”
“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Jarred warmly. “I won.” In his heart it was no lie. “And I come not to beg—I wish to join the folk of the marsh, to dwell with you and work alongside you.”
“We allow visitors, but no outsider may settle within the bounds of the marsh unless he is bringing with him some special skill,” returned Goosecroft flatly. “’Tis our law.”
Proudly Jarred proclaimed, “I am not unfamiliar with the crossbow, and you might have heard of my skill with the sling.”
“We already have archers,” the lieutenant returned dourly.
“As good as I?”
“Near enough.”
Jarred was barely daunted. “I was apprenticed to a blacksmith in R’shael.”
“We have a smith.” Goosecroft stood with his feet apart and his arms folded across his chest. He looked as grim and unassailable as the watchtower. At his back a couple of other watchmen shuffled their feet and stared sheepishly at their toes.
The young man pondered for a moment. “Well,” he said, “my father was a carpenter. I learned much from him.”
“We have carpenters.”
Jarred clenched his jaw, biting on his rising frustration. At last he exclaimed, “A lyre player! My lyre is still in R’shael, but I can fashion another—”
“We have a bard.”
“A poet?” Feeling himself sinking, the young man was clutching at feathers.
Expressionless, Goosecroft shook his head. “All posts are filled,” he said, and he turned away. It seemed hopeless. Jarred had exhausted the list of his skills. Yet he could not give up. As the watchmen shrugged and walked across the mossy drawbridge, he scoured his brain for inspiration.
“Wait!” he called.
Goosecroft halted in his tracks and turned back, raising one dubious eyebrow.
Jarred said, “But do you have a man who possesses all those skills at once?”
The lieutenant opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Beside him, the two other watchmen began a fast and furious discourse, in which he joined. Jarred recognized one of the feasters from the cruinniú, a genial young man who had later purchased a leather belt from Tsafrir. He seemed to be arguing in favor of allowing the visitor in; he was also the most eloquent and loquacious of the three. The argument spiraled into a shouting match illuminated by much gesticulation. Jarred waited, his pulse racing. Eventually, the excitement ceased and the three watchmen returned to the moat’s edge, where he stood.
Sourly, Goosecroft surveyed the Ashqalêthan.
“No,” he said.
“No?” Jarred was stunned.
“No. We do not have a man who possesses all those skills at once, as Watchman Rushford has pointed out. That post has not been filled. Enter.”
Whooping with exultation, Jarred ran across the drawbridge.
“’Tis welcome you are, young fellow,” said Chieftain Stillwater on formally remeeting him later that day. “I give you leave to hunt in this domain. You will be well paid if you can rid us of a goodly number of fellcats without marking their pelts.”
But there were few among the people of the marsh who were so short of wit they could not guess the genuine reason for Jarred’s return. Lilith guessed it too, and the freezing pain that had been consuming her heart warmed to a dull ache. His return could not diminish her loss, but it could soothe grief.
Not all the marshfolk were pleased with this turn of events, either out of an innate distrust of outmarsh strangers or dislike of the prospect that one of the marsh’s fairest daughters might someday be taken away, or for other reasons … One young man in particular was unwilling to accept this stranger in their midst, but his angry complaints knocked against deaf ears.
Thus, Jarred began to court the daughter of Liadán.
Summer advanced while the Mosswell household rode the troughs and crests of mourning. Lilith thought often about her mother, missing her, reliving past experiences, wishing she could share certain moments of her daily life. She would catch sight of something remarkable—perhaps a shivering spray of twigs edged with raindrops, caught in a shaft of sunlight that made every drop dazzle like tiny transparent pears, like tears of an unimaginably precious essence wept from another world, like gorgeous jewels purer than diamonds. And she would turn around in delight to say “Look!” to her mother, but no one would be standing there. Or she would sew a nettle-fabric garment with particular skill and long to show it to her mother, that Liadán might be proud of her. Above all she wished she might introduce her mother to the handsome youth who courted her.
There were two aspects of her relationship with her mother that she missed most. One was the sharing of things that only she and Liadán shared: certain attitudes, specific jokes, delight in discoveries within the natural world, appreciation of the beauty of sights others might consider unremarkable. The other was her mother’s pride in her achievements. She understood, at last, that most of her striving throughout her childhood years had been done to achieve that most esteemed of all prizes: her mother’s approval and admiration. To her surprise, consolation came from her own intuition: she sometimes felt certain her mother could see her, and knew what she was doing, and took pride in her.
The family’s grieving was ameliorated at times by lighter moods. “Grief comes in waves,” said Eolacha. “’Tis the world’s way of allowing us to cope.”
Watchman Odhrán Rushford had offered to share his living quarters with the appointed fellcat slayer in return for contributions to the larder and tales of adventure from Ashqalêth. Gratefully, Jarred had accepted the hospitality. Diligent at his new trade, he soon obtained several fine pelts.
Day and night, mirages of the shadow-haired girl of the marshes tortured and delighted him. When he was away from her, he framed conjectures of what she might be doing, wondered if she spared a thought for him, pondered topics of conversation he might share with her when next they met. Mighty was his envy of Eoin, who shared a roof with Lilith. It was like a barb in Jarred’s side to imagine them in the same room, she perhaps offering him a bowl of soup, his hand brushing hers as he accepted it; she laughing at some jest of his; he watching her walk gracefully across the floor. When these visions came to plague him, Jarred would thrust them aside and throw himself the more vehemently into his work. If jealousy should wake him from sleep, he would leap from his pallet of rushes, seize his quiver and crossbow, and go hunting in the night. On one such occasion he bagged no fewer than five fellcats. Already his labors were beginning to affect their numbers.
It seemed to him that somehow Lilith’s face and voice had burned themselves into his brain and the backs of his eyes, so that no matter where he looked he saw and heard hints of her: in the swaying of the green withies of sprouting osiers, in the flight of herons, in the shadows among the leaves. Even the sound of flowing water reminded him of her whispers.
He conjured ways of encountering her as if by chance. She penetrated his tactics easily; artless was he, and the devices he employed were transparent. He did not have to use these contrivances for long. From her smiles and words of welcome, first he hoped and then he knew for certain he had won a place in
her heart, and they arranged to meet one another as often as possible.
Exuberance captured him and flung him to dizzy heights. As is the way of love, instead of cooling the flame of his ardency, the notion that the feeling might be mutual encouraged it to burn the brighter. He offered to help with her many chores, one of which was gathering nettles for the making of nettle linen.
Armed with gloves and sharp knives, Jarred helped to cut the longest stalks, strip the leaves from them, and bundle them into mesh bags.
“Pray tell me of this wager you lost, or won, that brought you here,” said Lilith as they worked.
He told her how, as the company of Ashqalêthans rode through the pine woods, he had said to Yaadosh, “If I miss the target, I must leave this merry company and return to the marsh to seek employment there instead of forging ahead to Narngalis.”
“Oh no!” Yaadosh remonstrated disapprovingly. “I’ll not have that! Not that soggy, wight-haunted drain!”
“If you love me, comrade, you will accept this proposal,” Jarred rejoined. “If you wish, count this as reparation for any wrongs you might have ever done me.”
Reluctantly, Yaadosh agreed. Then a thought struck him and he said, “Bide a moment—you have tricked me! I must choose my own prize for winning!”
“But you have already chosen what you will forfeit for losing,” said Jarred. “Besides, we shook hands on the agreement. The bargain is sealed. And lo!” He placed a round stone in the leather strap of the sling, rapidly whirled the weapon three times over his head, and let fly. The shot flew far wide of the target, which remained hovering effortlessly on outstretched wings. The stone had not yet landed when Jarred gave a triumphant yell, saying, “The trial is over and I have failed!”
“Because you aimed in the opposite direction!” cried Yaadosh. “What are you playing at?”
“Just this,” said Jarred, reining his horse to a halt. “I intend to return to the marsh, and I would fain have a reason to do so. Other than the true reason.”
Yaadosh gaped at him. The other members of the band had also halted, crowding around Jarred and Yaadosh. They had overheard most of what had passed.
Tsafrir spoke calmly. “I guessed it might come to this.” Then he began to voice his thoughts earnestly, endeavoring to convince the youth to remain with the band, citing all the reasons he had joined them in the first place. Jarred listened courteously but remained adamant. “Are you then determined on this course?” Tsafrir asked.
“I am.”
The band’s leader frowned. “Then go.” After a pause he added, “And sain thee, my friend. May we meet again, and may good fortune regale us all.”
After they had all agreed to seek each other out whenever the opportunity arose, Jarred returned the horse to its owner and walked back to the marsh.
“Nasim was glad to regain his steed,” he concluded. “He claimed your grandmother had tended his wounded arm so well that he was able to ride easily now.”
“She is not my grandmother by blood,” said Lilith, “but aye, ’tis a wondrous healer she is.” She slashed a stinging leaf off a nettle stalk. “And what was the true reason for your return? Was it to be cutting nettles?”
“Of course,” replied Jarred. “How I enjoy being stung to the ears in such a beauteous weed patch!”
As he spoke, he stood near to her; unbearably near. His entire body was steel-tense, yet melting like wax at the same time. He felt the driving acceleration of his heartbeat, and every inch of his flesh tingled in anticipation of some careless graze of her elbow, some accidental touch of her fingers, the slightest pressure that would stop his heart and breath altogether and send shudders of agonizing delight prickling along every pathway of his being.
He had forfeited so much to come back to her—the search for his father, a possibly prosperous future in King’s Winterbourne, the companionship of his childhood friends—yet somehow these losses did not seem to matter much, if at all. In place of his old dreams, he had found a treasure rarer than he could ever have envisaged. The quest to find Jovan would have to wait.
Her head was turned away from him at that moment, so for a while he had an opportunity to study her. His focus wandered over the undulant lines of her form and the mysteries of her shadowy hair. He longed to touch her. As always, he marveled and was stunned, almost paralyzed, by the sight of her living perfection: her fine-grained complexion, the rosebud of her young mouth, the soft, high curve of her cheek beneath those blue diamonds of eyes, the sinuosity of her waist … In fancy, he reached out to entangle his fingers in her tresses and drew her close, pressing her against him until he was shot through and through with firebolts of passion, drowned by desire, intoxicated—blinded and deafened to all things that were not her.
She had turned around and was looking at him. Shocked into awareness of circumstance, he could only stand before her, momentarily tongue-tied.
Emotions welled and burst within his chest. “By my life’s blood,” he said, “do you know how beautiful you are?” But it was with his heart and mind that he spoke, not with his tongue, and therefore she did not hear him.
Gathering his wits, he helped her dump the bags of nettles into the canoe and rowed back to the cottage. There they lowered the bundles into the water and tied them to stakes so that they would not float away. The stalks would soak for a few days until they started to rot. After that, Lilith would allow them to dry out before rubbing the softened flesh from the inside fibers to make them ready for spinning.
“Why do your people use nettles?” Jarred asked as he dabbed salve on his stings.
“Flax will not grow in the marsh,” Lilith explained. “It must be bought at the market, and it is costly. Nettle thread is not as fine as flax, but it can be fashioned into sacking, ropes, and mesh bags, as well as fabric for garments. I shall weave a kerchief for you out of these very stems!”
Far away, Lilith’s grandfather wondered how he had come to such an unfamiliar place. He was lost. It was not the marsh. It was like nowhere he had ever seen. He looked around at the empty courtyard, above which the sky was bleeding. A square clock tower jutted from a humpbacked building that seemed to glare at him from many windows. The face of the timepiece was divided into eleven intervals. Two wide and lofty doors of brass-studded oak guarded the top of a staircase. At their bases, the landing was stained with blood. Near the doors a rocking horse seesawed, all by itself. Beside it, on the leaf-scattered flagstones, a set of scales: one pan loaded down with walnuts, the other empty. The lost man clapped his hands over his ears but could not shut out the sound of squeaking hinges, doors slamming, keys turning in locks. The clock struck thirteen, and just as Old Man Connick thought he would faint with horror, from the entire landscape arose one long scream of despair.
Then a cold gust swept down over the outer wall and raised spirals of withered leaves in a madcap dance. The leaves flew against him in rage, and behind the roar of the leaves there came the clatter of running feet. The old man turned to flee but stumbled to his knees, and he was kneeling on the rug on the floor of his own cottage with the echoes of the footsteps fading in his head.
Over time, the southerner learned how to survive in the wetlands. Odhrán Rushford taught him how to bake the fleshy roots of bulrush and lotus with butter and wild onions, how to cook soup by simmering a duck’s carcass with narcissus bulbs, flavoring the dish with herbs and a dash of creamy goat’s milk. Jarred made salads with the young leaves and shoots of bulrushes and the peeled stalks of water lilies. As well, he continued to hunt fellcats and to accompany Lilith in her daily work.
Jarred helped the marsh girl milk the two Mosswell goats, grind dried lotus roots to make flour for bread, and boil lotus seeds in honey to be eaten as candy. The affection between them expanded. Their passion was undeclared; to know it existed was enough. It was not necessary yet for such matters of the heart to be confirmed with words.
Lilith woke every morning to a gladness she would not have believed possible, eager
to greet the day, looking forward to the moment she would see the tall youth with cardamom-colored hair come striding toward her along the rickety bridges, waving a greeting. Each time she set eyes on him it was like being struck by lightning. His very existence induced the sweetest ecstasy, the most compelling and bewildering ardency she had ever known.
His attentions and ebullient companionship began to nudge out Lilith’s despair and grief: to numb the horror, soothe the pain, and replace the feeling of loss with a sense of ongoing happiness. Sometimes, as the abandonment of sorrow and the celebration of delight increased, she was able to forget the tragedy. Jarred was the physician to her ills, the repairer of her torn spirits, and the rebuilder of her smashed world. She felt as if she had been asleep and trapped in some tormenting, evil dream, only to be awakened by him to a joyous morning. Almost, his company banished her lingering sense of doom.
Almost.
As for Jarred, he did not in any way regret his choice to leave his comrades—only, sometimes he missed their company. Sometimes, too, he thought of his mother in R’shael and hoped she was not pining for her only child. He wished there were some way he could send her a message declaring that he was hale and hearty and in love. Daily he chafed to wrap his blue-eyed sweetheart in his arms and wed her, yet he sensed it was too soon to introduce the subject—she was still in mourning for her mother. Only one other aspect of his new life discomfited him—the irksome presence of Eoin.
He found himself bristling like a marsh upial whenever Lilith’s stepbrother crossed his path. He was not accustomed to such impulses—in R’shael he had been on good terms with all and sundry. Antipathy did not sit comfortably with him. He endeavored to hide it, and as a result he found himself overzealously displaying courtesy and goodwill toward Eoin.
The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 13