by Greg Curtis
“What is given is given freely, if only because you stand against the toad. The spotted elf is right in one thing. We share an enemy, though you do not realise it yet.” The enemy of his enemy. That was interesting, though as Nanara’s sages warned, it did not make them friends. Only allies for a time.
“Finell stands against you as well?”
“Finell? Pah! The boy is nothing. A puppet, an angry child and no more. He serves his master, the odious Y’aris. A foul creature that knows no heart.” In that Iros was sure she was right, but it was good to hear another say it. Sophelia would not listen when he told her of his thoughts, and her brother had gently but firmly pushed his words aside, suggesting that he did not understand how things worked in their land. He knew the truth but could not hear it.
“I wondered the same when I attended the court of Leafshade. Always Y’aris stood by the high lord’s side, whispering into his ear, and too often he seemed to listen. But I did not think the bond between them so strong.”
“It is not complete yet. Finell still lives and Y’aris has not yet taken his place, though he will soon enough. That is the foul one’s plan. But even he is only a puppet. His master is darker still.”
“Who?” Maybe he should have been asking about the cure, but for the first time in far too many days or weeks he had something to speak of other than finances and fortifications, and Iros was curious.
“The dark one of course. The demon. The shadow of night. The wraith of souls. The Reaver. Y’aris serves him body and soul.”
Sophelia gasped when the witch spoke the name, and the rest of them looked no less shocked. The name she gave was too foul to be spoken aloud.
The Reaver was no true god but rather a demon of death and disease that had found his way into the world a thousand years before. At least so the priests claimed. Iros had never been too trusting of their words. Many of them he thought, were guesses, the oracles and divinations cast by priests who had consumed too many strange herbs. But as terrible as he was to the clerics and priests, for an elf the Reaver was worse.
He was the sworn enemy of their goddess Gaia the Mother. He had brought disease, pestilence, famine and darkness to their lands when he had first arrived, and death beyond death. And more than that he had brought a sort of waking death to those he captured, unleashing their still breathing husks as a soulless army upon the elves. Abominations.
No elf would ever follow the Reaver. Or at least so he had believed. But looking into the old woman’s eyes, he knew she spoke the truth. And he knew that Y’aris was evil. Now he knew how evil.
“I did not think that any of his followers still lived.” From what he had learned in school Iros knew that they had been put to the sword a thousand years before, shortly after that first terrible battle had been won. The thought was that with all of the followers gone and the temples burnt, even a hell demon would find himself powerless. But maybe even that hadn’t been enough after all.
“Evil persists, and there are always those who will take on the mantle of darkness to gain power.” In that Iros knew, she had described Y’aris perfectly. He did not know him well but he had seen that hunger in his eyes as he gazed upon the Heartwood Throne. He had witnessed the evil within him. Felt its touch.
“I think you portray him well elder.”
“And I think you need to drink my tea soonest boy.” She was staring at him strangely, and Iros could suddenly feel the warmth of tears on his cheek again. Tears of blood. He dabbed at them with the blood soaked cloth he carried in his pocket, but knew his cheeks would still be stained red until the attendants came and washed them again. She pulled a small container from her bag.
“Thank you. I will gladly taste of your tea elder.”
“What is it?” Koran jumped in again the moment he saw the container, suspicion to the fore. But did he really imagine that she had come to do him harm? When he was so close to the end anyway? What would be the point? And even if she had, how could she possibly make things any worse?
“An equal mix in three parts of blood rose, fire hazel and the leaf of the green dragon fern, gently heated, distilled through three layers of muslin to remove the bite of the dragon, dried, infused with an enchantment of health and blessed by the Mother. Does that make things any clearer?” Such as the fact that she seemed to know what she was speaking of, and even Koran had to admit it. He didn’t like it though.
“It might work.” He seemed reluctant to say it though. “With a prayer to the divine Phyllis.”
“Of course it will work. It is not the first time I have made it, and not the first time it has been needed. Between them the toad and his black hearted advisor have become quite accomplished poisoners as they have removed any number of obstacles to their dreams and there have been many in need. But I thank you for your confidence old man.” She managed another small bow, mocking him, and Koran’s face turned appropriately white. He was not a happy man. Even when she tossed the tin to him.
“Now, a pinch old man, no more, in a cup of boiling water. Drunk as tea, three times a day until the container is empty. Is that within your compass?” Sticking a knife in her face looked to be more within the physician’s compass just then, save that he didn’t carry a knife and even without the cats she would have made a fearsome opponent.
“I will do as you ask.”
“Good.” She grinned as though she’d just won a battle with the physician. Then she turned back to him. “Boy, you should go with him to the kitchen and the pots, and take these others with you. I have words to speak with your wife.”
“Elder?”
“You heard me child. Now go!” She waved imperiously at him from her bench, and the two cats still prowling around her, growled in harmony. Who he wondered, was she to give orders to him in his own house? But if what she said was true and the tea would work, then maybe he could allow her this one insolence Iros decided. Even if it only eased the fire in his joints it would be worth it.
Besides, the cats still looked hungry.
Chapter Fifty One.
After the others had left, some of them in what seemed like an unseemly rush, Sophelia was left alone with the witch, and she couldn’t help but feel nervous. Trekor Aileth was an elder. The woman had the blessing of the Mother upon her. Even she could feel that. It was like the freshness of the spring flowing from her. So much more powerful than that which she felt from the elders. And that made her a very important person, no matter of what blood.
It was a feeling that the bards had often sung of, but until then, not something that she had given credence to. But standing before her, she could not deny it. She had felt it the moment the elder had walked into the hall.
“Come sit with me daughter.” The witch waved her over, and despite it being the last thing she wanted to do, Sophelia grabbed a small chair from the side of the great hall and placed it in front of her so that they could speak face to face.
“Now daughter, we must speak of what is required of you.” The swamp witch sounded almost pleasant for the first time. Even the strange gravel sound in her throat had eased. But her words were less so.
“Required? You said the cure was given freely.”
“And so it was. Your husband must live. What is required of you is not for payment for his life. It is demanded of you because you are a child of the Mother, as are we all.”
Sophelia sighed quietly, realising the witch had the right to demand her service. Just as did any elder of the Grove. To refuse her would be unelven. Her cousin sitting upon the Heartwood Throne might never have understood that. Nor she feared would too many of the other high born. Her people had lost their way as Elwene used to tell her. But she did. She nodded her acceptance.
“A war is coming daughter. A terrible war, and not the one your husband so furiously plans for. But he is a man and men are simple creatures. He does not yet understand.” In that Sophelia almost believed the witch. More than that, she almost liked her. She sounded so like her mother when she had said
the same of her father, and it was hard not to smile at the thought. And to wish that her mother was with her again.
“Then how can he prepare for it? For what he does not know?”
“He should carry on as he is. It may be of some use against the Reaver’s armies. But in the end it is he who must be prepared and you who must prepare him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes you do. You don’t want to admit it even to yourself, but you do understand daughter.” The witch stared straight into her eyes and there was something in the power of her stare that left Sophelia shaken to her very core. Something almost primal.
“Your marriage was a good one. The priests told me that, even as they told me of their surprise at finding it so. It only looks poor to others, largely because of the way it was arranged. And in part because you are of the high born, and the high born have forgotten much of what it is to be of the people. It is not of lineage and wealth. It is not of privilege and respect. It is of service. Service to the people, to the world and to the Mother. Iros knows this. He is this.”
“But you are both the same. Creatures of honour and sacrifice. Your husband is noble in his heart, born to fill his very role. You are the same. Do you deny me?” Of course she didn’t deny her. No elf would dare. But that didn’t mean that she had to like it.
“Please continue.” If Sophelia sounded unsure it was only because she was. And worse she was frightened to think where it was going.
“Wars are won and lost long before they ever reach the battlefield. Even men know that. But they think it is about numbers and weapons and stratagems. These things are only tools in a victory however. It is hearts and souls that must be prepared for the battle first, because from them flow courage and resolve. And what prepares a heart better than hope?”
“Hope?”
“Hope. Your husband is a symbol to the people. All the people, even the elves. His name is whispered even in the darkness as one who has suffered the most terrible evil and come through it. As one who never bowed before torture. Who defied evil. As one who lost his family and his health and yet still leads a province to greatness. As one who will sacrifice everything for the people. All people. That is a powerful symbol.”
“In sooth.” Sophelia had to acknowledge that much about Iros. Every single word was true, and perhaps if she had dared to wander from the castle to the town she might have seen that truth in the people. She had seen it in the servants. They looked up to Iros in a way that almost seemed like worship.
“And did you never wonder how he could have survived for so long in that accursed prison?” Sophelia shook her head. She actually hadn’t thought about it. But then she tried hard not to let her thoughts dwell on that place.
“He survived because he is a child of the Mother. Favoured by her even though he does not understand it. She has designs for him yet. Designs that must yet be seen.”
Sophelia bowed her head, not sure what to say. Iros did not seem like the sort that the Mother would favour. He did not even worship his own people’s gods. But she would not dare argue with an elder about such matters.
“But he is yet broken. His honour is intact. His duty stands sacrosanct. But his heart fails. His home is damaged, his people hurt, his family is gone, destroyed by the very people who tortured him and then forced him to wed. Your people. He is half a man. And though he hides it most carefully, an angry man. He treats you with the utmost respect, but he does not love you. That too the people know.”
Sophelia nodded, knowing it was so. There was no secret there.
“It must change.”
“You are saying that …” Sophelia couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
“I am saying that he is your husband and you are his wife. It is a good marriage. The Mother finds it worthy. And from this day forwards you will attend to him in all the ways that a wife should attend to her husband.”
“You will bathe his wounds and help him to bed as he needs. You will eat with him and discuss the happiness that the day has brought. You will laugh at his japes and support him even in his poor decisions. You will share his bedchamber and in time there will be children. Is that clear enough daughter?” It wasn’t a question though.
“Yes.” She understood, which was why her blood had rushed from her cheeks and all she could stare at was the floor. But it wasn’t really fair. Not when she had almost found a new life for herself among these strange people. A quiet life of solitude perhaps, but at least a life.
“Why so sad little one?” The witch reached across and gently tugged at her chin, forcing her to look up at her. “You will be happy.”
“And know this. If we should win through this war ahead, both you and your husband will be a part of that. He is a symbol of hope and nobility. You are a symbol of duty and sacrifice. And together you will become a symbol of something greater still, love.”
She stood up suddenly, catching her by surprise.
“I will return this way in a few months, and when I do I expect to see that belly full daughter. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, elder.”
Chapter Fifty Two.
“Lady.” Sophelia heard her maid knocking at the door, and called for her to enter. There was no point in her standing outside with her breakfast after all, even if she was not in her usual bedchamber. Besides Iros was gone, the physicians had come, treated his wounds, poured the tea down his throat, dressed him, and carried him off for his day’s duties. There was nothing for the girl to see.
“Put the tray down there Rial.” She indicated the small writing desk by the window. There was no table in the bedchamber so it would have to do.
“Yes Sophelia.” Rial did as she was instructed, just as she always did, and for a moment it was almost like being home again. Just for a heartbeat. But she wasn’t home, and she never would be again. Never again would she waken in her own bed, to the sound of her sisters laughing as they played. Never again would she greet the sun streaming in through her window with a smile before heading downstairs to share breakfast with her family. That was gone.
Now she had to waken in a strange bed. One that was far too hard and covered in heavy blankets and heavier furs. She had to open her eyes to see cold stone walls, heavy furniture, and a far more distant sun shining through a barred window. Instead of warm, living wood under her feet, there was more cold stone that chilled her toes. And the sounds she heard were the heavy treads of the endless servants going about their business as they ran the castle, and the harsh bangs and clanks of the soldiers out in the front courtyard, practicing with their weapons.
“Shall I run you a bath?” Sophelia nodded as she sat down to her breakfast. A bath would be welcome. If nothing else the hot water would help to drive away the ever-present chill of the stone. And this was summer. What would the castle be like in the depths of winter? She shuddered a little at the thought.
At least she had a bath. It wasn’t something she’d expected when she’d come to Greenlands. She’d thought in terms of bathing with basins of water or down in the rivers. But the castle was more civilised than she’d imagined, and it seemed all of the bedchambers, or at least the two she’d seen, had indoor plumbing and their own baths.
Besides who was she to complain? She thought on that as she watched Rial going about her duties, lighting the fire to heat the water. At least she was the lady of the castle. The servants even addressed her as Lady Sophelia. A strange title for her to hear from humans, but still a sign of respect. How much harder was it for her two maids in this place?
They had no titles, no respect to be paid to them. They were far from their families, and with no prospect of returning to them, and little of even hearing from them any time soon. Pigeons were expensive, and traders slow and unreliable. And what hope did they have of ever marrying? Rial was of House Pirial, a respectable if modest house. Wheelwrights as she recalled. She worked as a maid to earn gold to send back to her family, and in time she had surely had hopes of
being wed. But that couldn’t happen here. There were few other elves of proper houses in Greenlands, and none of her family. None to make the arrangements.
In accompanying her here, she had surely destined herself to a life alone. And yet she had done it without a word of complaint, simply because it was her duty. Bria was the same. Of House Feniselle she came from a long line of farmers, and had taken up service to her because it was expected. House Feniselle and House Vora were old allies, and it was considered good for a daughter of House Feniselle to spend some years in service to them. It was expected that in doing so the daughters would learn something of the ways of the high born and so become more desirable as potential wives. But there were no husbands in Greenlands.
Duty. Such a terrible word, though she had never before thought of it as such. Not until the elder had ordered her to carry out her marital duties. Then she had considered it a punishment.