by M. S. Brook
We stumbled on for what seemed like hours, finally reaching the Highfield Road. “It’ll go easier now,” he said. But as soon as we began in the new direction, we heard the sound of horses and shouting. I pulled Papa off the road, and we took cover behind a clump of fir trees. Crouching still in the cold, wet snow, I wondered how long it would take to turn into an icicle. If it were the raiders coming back for us, it wouldn’t matter. They’d see our prints in the snow…
I still had Papa’s knife in my pocket. I gripped it with one hand, squeezing Papa’s hand with the other, straining to listen. My teeth were chattering, making it hard to hear, but as the sounds came nearer, I recognized my Uncle Fergal’s deep voice calling. I scrambled up to the road. Through the screen of leafless trees, I could make out the bobbing glimmer of moonlight on bronze helmets—a Guardian patrol. I ran into the roadway, waving and shouting, and the red-cloaked riders pulled up.
My uncle dismounted and swept me into his strong arms, holding me close. “Child, are you all right?”
“Yes.” I pulled away from his comforting embrace. “But Papa isn’t!”
The men followed me to our hiding place. Papa hadn’t been able to get up by himself. Crouched down in the snow, he managed a weary smile for his brother. “Fergal! Can’t say I’ve ever been happier to see you!”
“Same here, brother. Let’s get you home.”
Two strong Guardians picked Papa up and half carried him to the sleigh they’d brought with them. They tucked us in together with warm rugs, and Sergeant Longmeadow gave me my first ever sips of honey mead. Liquid warmth poured down my throat, settled comfortably in my belly, and then found its way to my frozen fingers and toes. We turned back toward home, and I snuggled close to Papa, who was already asleep.
I closed my eyes and images of the hooded riders appeared like black shadows cast against the snow-covered trees, their breath making steamy clouds in the cold air. I saw Papa’s still form in the snow and remembered the voice with its whispered message. “Warrior!” As we rode through the night, I turned the word over in my mind. It was a strange message, and yet it had given me courage.
The sleigh glided on over the moonlit snow. I was jostled into wakefulness as we crossed the town bridge and ascended the hill. We stopped halfway down the row of cottages that encircled the oval green in front of the tower fortress. I hardly remember getting out and climbing the ladder to my warm loft above the hearth, where Mama helped me undress and get into bed. I was far too old to need her help, but I was glad she was there.
“Will Papa be all right?” I asked her.
“Yes, my darling. Uncle Lionel is attending him. Between the two of you, he’ll be like new in no time. Now go to sleep. You’ve earned it.”
“Mama, I heard strange growling sounds in the woods tonight. Like some terrible beast was loose.”
Mama bent down and kissed my forehead. “I’m sorry you had such a frightful day, but you’re home safe now. The Guardians will be watching over Tower Hill all through the night. Nothing can harm you here.”
I stretched my toes toward the warming pan Mama had left at the foot of my bed and slipped into my dreams.
Dawn birthed a perfect sky of blue, scattering the east with wisps of pink and orange clouds, the sweet smell of morning rising up from dew-soaked grasses. The wind was blowing in my face as I ran across the fields. A commotion on the hill called to me, the swirling of flags and milling horses, men dressed in Guardian Red and Blues, mounting up. I ran partway up the long slope until I had a clear view of them and then stopped for a rest, my chest heaving as I bent over and tried to scrape the worst of the mud off my boots.
I looked up and spied their leader at the front. Like his men, he wore a red tunic tied with a yellow sash over a thigh-length coat of mail. His legs were clad in sky-blue trousers and high brown boots. A bronze helmet, strapped under the chin, hid the warrior’s hair, but I could see the young, beardless face. I noticed the slightly molded shape of the red tunic. The warrior was a woman.
I let out a slow, admiring breath. Never had I heard of a woman Guardian. She was mounted on a golden warhorse, the early morning sunlight glowing on her sleeves of shiny mail. A round shield was strapped to her left shoulder, and she held a sword in her right hand. Her standard, colored like a silken rainbow, fluttered overhead.
The company of mounted Guardians grew still, waiting at attention. I followed the young warrior’s gaze across the far valley where the camp of the enemy lay. Even at a distance, I saw the confusion and disarray her presence was causing—she had caught them by surprise. Men garbed in black cloaks looked over their shoulders and scurried to snatch up their weapons and prepare for attack, their actions jerky and frantic.
The young Guardian turned halfway in her saddle, signaling to the men behind her with a nod. In unison, they banged the flat of their swords against their shields, the rhythmic beat growing louder and faster as the sound built. Facing forward, she lifted her sword to the sky.
“For the king!” she roared, and the band of warriors joined in the cry, the sound seeming to well up from the very heart of the earth. The rocks and trees picked up the roar, flinging it to the wind that swept across the valley, and my heart pounded too, resonating with the sound. For a moment I thought the earth was singing as it trembled under my feet.
The warrior maiden nudged her horse’s golden flanks; he threw back his snowy mane and led the company down the hill at a gallop, the wind unfurling the streaming colors of her standard. The hooves of the war band pounded the grassy turf, and the sound became the rhythm of my heart.
I forgot to breathe as she galloped toward me. In one shining moment I saw everything I had ever hoped or longed to be. But who was I compared to her? If she happened to look my way at all, she would see a shy, foreign-looking girl with windblown dark curls and muddy feet—as far from her world as anyone could be.
She glanced in my direction as she thundered past, her dark brown eyes catching my own—but that glance was enough. I reeled with the shock of recognition when I saw her face.
That face was the mirror image of my own.
I sat up with a jolt and kicked free of the tangled bedclothes, my skin damp with sweat, my heart racing. Where was I?
The age-old moon was shining through the thick, leaded-glass panes of my little sleeping loft, assuring me that I was home in my own bed. I lay back with a sigh, allowing the dream to slowly come back to me—the young warrior on her golden charger leading her war band down the hill toward the swarming, black-cloaked figures. And then she turned, and I saw her face—unmistakably my own.
The dream didn’t make sense. The Guardians were a handpicked company. Only the strongest, bravest, most highly skilled warriors were allowed to join. Yet as I relived the dream in my mind, a raw yearning swept over me. To be that strong and fearless, to ride as one with a great warhorse, joined by a mighty company of warriors, at one with the land and the sky. To feel our roar touch the earth and scatter the enemy before our fierce charge.
I knew what I wanted. I saw the fearful girl huddled behind a loaded sledge, and I saw the young woman on the warhorse. I never wanted to be that frightened, helpless girl again.
Chapter 2
When I awoke, the moon had traded places with the pale winter sun, now shining through my window. I yawned and stretched and snuggled a little deeper into my warm nest under down-filled covers. My stomach growled, and I wondered why I was so hungry.
Then with a vivid rush, I remembered the attack. Papa was hurt. I jumped out of bed and found a pitcher of water, wrapped in a towel, on my bedside table. It was still warm. I hadn’t heard Mama bring it up. My hands felt a little shaky as I poured the water into the basin and hurried to wash.
Mama heard me stirring and called up to me. “Aidriana, your papa wants to see you.”
“Be right down!” I pulled on fitted blue trousers along wit
h a warm, thigh-length green tunic and fleece-lined boots and scampered down the loft ladder, jumping off the last few rungs onto the wooden floor of the sitting room.
Mama was at the hearth, spooning porridge into a bowl. She poured milk over it and handed it to me.
“Thanks. How is he?”
“He’s hurting right now, but your Uncle Lionel says not to worry, he’ll be fit again soon.”
“Uncle Leo’s here?”
“Just arrived.”
I scooped up a huge spoonful of porridge without sitting down at the table. “I missed supper last night.”
“You were too sleepy to eat. Once you knew your Papa was taken care of, all you wanted to do was get into your warm bed.” Drawing me into a hug, Mama whispered, “I’m so glad you’re home safe.” She kissed me on the forehead. Her eyes seemed a little moist, but she smiled and combed her fingers through my hair. “I’ll braid you in a minute, but go see your Papa first. He needs to see that you’re all right.”
“Will I be late for morning lessons?”
“We’ll stay in today. I’m sure Nieve will help you catch up. I’ve been relieved of my duties in the kitchen too.”
I nodded, my mouth full of porridge, and pushed open the sleeping-room door. Papa was lying on the big feather mattress. His head was bandaged, and his long, fair hair had escaped its usual neat braid. He looked tired and a little pale, but his face brightened when he saw me.
“There you are! I’ve been telling Lionel how brave you were last night.”
“Brave?” I set my porridge aside, leaned down, and kissed him on the cheek.
“Yes, we’re very proud of you,” Papa said, and Uncle Leo nodded.
In a quick flash of memory, I saw myself crouching behind the sledge while black-cloaked men kicked Papa with their heavy boots. I’d done nothing to help him. How could he say I was brave? I swallowed, ignoring the start of a lump in my throat. “How are you feeling, Papa?”
“Not too bad. A little sore maybe. You?”
“I’m fine.” He gave me a second look, and I said, “You’re the one who’s hurt.” I swallowed hard again. Papa made room for me to sit at the bottom of the bed. I put aside my porridge bowl and pulled his feet onto my lap, giving them a quick rub through his thick woolen stockings.
“Did you sleep all right, Princess?”
“I don’t even remember getting into bed.”
Uncle Leo smiled at me. “I looked in on you last night. You were sleeping like a bear in winter.”
“Dreaming, likely,” Papa said.
I almost told them about my dream then, but something held me back. It seemed too farfetched now, especially after all that had happened. I finished my breakfast and watched Uncle Leo pull linens and pots of salve out of his bag and organize his treatments. I always called him Uncle, although he wasn’t really, but then Mama and Papa weren’t my parents by bloodline either. Papa always said the Songmaker put our family together in a special way. I’d heard the story often, but I never grew tired of hearing Mama and Papa tell about the night Uncle Leo appeared at their door, holding a small, dark-headed girl in his arms. “We always wanted a family,” Mama would say, “and you came to us like the most beautiful gift we could ever imagine.”
When I was younger, she would hold me in her lap and tell me how amazed they were when they saw me, and how Papa kept calling me his “little princess.” Mama would always add, “You are the best thing that ever happened to us.” And then she would hug me close as if she would never let me go.
Mama and Papa never seemed to mind that I looked different from them and everyone else in Highfield. Everyone except Uncle Leo, that is. He was dark like me, and the only other Northlander I’d ever known. He’d been a friend of my blood parents, who were lost in the war between Domaine and the Northlands.
“You’re very quiet this morning,” Uncle Leo said.
I shrugged, and he said, “Give us a hand with Daryn’s nightshirt. Careful, he’s bruised a fair bit.” Uncle Leo helped Papa sit up in bed while I pulled the shirt over his head. His chest looked frightful—swollen and splotched with ugly purple, the skin broken and oozing in places.
Papa grunted with the effort of lying flat again, but he still had a wink for me. “Just a few kicks, Princess. They never got the better of me.”
I squeezed his strong hand, blinking back the sting of threatening tears.
“I expect some ribs are broken,” Uncle Leo said, “here on the left side where the bruises are the worst. We’ll keep his wounds clean and put on fresh dressings, but he’ll be sore for a while.”
“Poor Papa!” I bit my lower lip to keep it still.
“Don’t worry,” Uncle Leo said to me. “We’ll put him right. After all, he has an apprentice healer living in his own house. You can practice everything I’ve taught you.” Papa gave me another big wink, and Uncle Leo searched through his salves. “We’ll use ointment made from burnet herbs to draw away the bruising. But first we start with a clean slate.” He handed me a green bottle. “Would you get me a basin of hot water? Pour a bit of this into it.”
I ran out to the hearth and filled a basin from the kettle that hung by the fire. I carried it back without spilling a drop and poured in the tincture of camphor. The sharp fragrance quickly filled the room.
“Whew! Just the smell of that ought to cure me,” Papa said with a broad smile.
I knew what Papa was doing. He was trying to stop me worrying about him, but it wasn’t working. I attempted a shaky smile and started cleaning the scrapes on his chest while Uncle Leo worked the bandage off Papa’s left hip. It was stuck fast with dried blood, and Uncle Leo used a wet cloth to soak the bandage so it would pull off easier. When it came free, I saw that the flesh beneath was misshapen and swollen.
Papa was quiet. I didn’t want to disturb him with questions, but I couldn’t help myself. “Who were those terrible men?” I asked.
Papa glanced at Uncle Leo. “They pretended to be Northlanders, but they were Blackcoats—Saduk’s soldiers.”
“Oh…”
I knew all about Saduk, lord of the neighboring province of Domaine. He was the enemy of both the Northlands and of Canwyrrie, my adopted land. Domaine had a long history of war with its neighbors, but the troubles had mostly been far to the north. I’d never thought to see Saduk’s soldiers, we called them Blackcoats, in our own woods. “What were Blackcoats doing down here?”
Papa’s forehead wrinkled. “Nothing good.”
I swallowed. “They called you vithon bait!”
“Come here, Princess.” Papa pulled me down beside him, and I pressed my face into his silky beard. He held me close and said, “They were wrong, weren’t they? I’m home safe, thanks to you. And no vithons to worry about.”
I suddenly remembered the strange, bellowing roars I’d heard in the woods. “But there are! I heard them last night.” I told them about it, describing the terrible sound they had made.
Papa shot a look at Uncle Leo. “Vithons?”
“Saduk is testing our strength. And our will.” Uncle Leo’s hands kept busy while he talked, folding a dressing, preparing it with strong-smelling ointments, and placing it on Papa’s sore hip. “Apparently, the vithons suit his purpose.”
“But we are days away from the border,” Papa said.
“Yes.”
Papa and Uncle Leo exchanged a look I didn’t understand. “Well, never mind. They’ll be running for the border now,” Papa said.
“Sure,” said Uncle Leo, “and the Guardians will be looking for them. They’ll not bother us again.”
Both of them smiled at me, but it didn’t help me feel better. I treated the smaller scrapes and bruises, going back and forth to change the water. Uncle Leo worked on the lump on Papa’s forehead, washing the stiff, rusty blood out of his fair hair. I remembered how angry the Blackcoats had be
en when they saw his “yellow hair,” but I didn’t say anything.
“You took a good lick here,” Uncle Leo said, dabbing ointment over Papa’s swollen forehead.
“Mm, I wonder who their bootmaker is.”
“He seems to do solid work.” Uncle Leo’s face was straight, but Papa started to laugh and then stopped abruptly. “Ouch! Why did I do that?”
“You’ll live,” said Uncle Leo. “Meanwhile, we can’t let you get too comfortable. It’s time you were out of that bed.”
With our help, Papa slid his legs over the side of the bed and sat upright, holding himself rigid as if he was afraid to move.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” Uncle Leo said.
“Easy for you to say.”
Mama came in to help Papa finish washing and dressing. In a few minutes, she brought him out to the sitting room where I’d made a place for him by the hearth. She tucked him into a nest of pillows and woolen robes, selected a torn stocking and needle and thread from her sewing basket, and sat beside me on the wooden settee. I noticed that her fingers lacked their usual practiced ease.
With Papa settled, we were ready for the last part of our healing practice. Uncle Leo brought out his bag and unpacked his silver flute. He blew into it a few times to warm it and then began playing. I closed my eyes to hear better, waiting for the touch of dreamsong to come to me. Uncle Leo said it was different for everyone, but when I listened, I often saw images and colors in my mind’s eye. This time, the song began with flowing chords, weaving in and out in a way that reminded me of Mama knitting with her colorful woolen yarns…but light too, like feathers carried on a breath of wind.
I found my place in the song and joined in, blending my voice with the clear sound of the flute. It was kind of like dancing in a rainbow, melody and harmony melding together in streams of color—rich reds and purples and shimmering golds—moving and blending in constantly changing shades. We stayed with the song until it felt like it was finished, and then Uncle Leo led into a slow, calm sound. I saw vague impressions of the swelling and bruising washing away in blue waves, the pain leaving as the song called flesh and sinew back to its true form, restoring it to health.