Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  A sound from the front of the house made Elmaran glance up. “Ah. Sathri is here. Shall we greet her?”

  He stood, and Ghithri followed him out to the front room, where they found Sathri frowning at the onion braid in her hand, a tray bearing Elmaran’s supper on the table beside her. Her brow cleared as she looked up and saw Ghithri.

  “Aha. Out in the forest again today, were you?”

  Ghithri smiled, knowing that Sathri was teasing. “There is so much of it I have not seen.”

  Elmaran took an olive from the tray. “She has seen more in the forest today than most have done.”

  Sathri looked from him to Ghithri, her expression curious. Ghithri suddenly wished she had not spoken. She sought for words to excuse herself politely, but before she could arrange them Elmaran continued.

  “She saw a shade today.”

  Sathri’s eyes widened. “Truth?”

  Ghithri nodded reluctantly, and described her vision in the fewest possible words. It sounded foolish to her now.

  Sathri, however, seemed deeply impressed. “Shade is an ill omen, child. Light a candle to the spirits tonight.”

  Elmaran frowned at her. “That is only a rumor, and one I believe to be in error. I know of no proof that a shade betokens ill.”

  “Venumi saw a shade the night before the summer flood, some years ago.”

  “But it told her nothing about the flood.”

  “It need not tell anything; its appearance tells enough.” Sathri turned to Ghithri. “Mark my words, child. Ask counsel of your friends in spirit.”

  Ghithri gave a small, rueful smile. “Do the spirits ever give you counsel?”

  “Aye, they do. They tell me I should keep a close eye upon you.”

  With an exasperated laugh, Ghithri shook her head and reached for an olive. Sathri frowned, but Elmaran pushed the dish toward Ghithri.

  “She is going to share our meal, Sathri. Have you another plate?”

  A plate was found, and the three of them sat around one end of the table, sharing a savory stew of woodhens with barley, fresh bread and butter, and greens dressed in balsam wine. Sathri had brought a pitcher of ale as well, which did much to soothe Ghithri’s unsettled feelings.

  Perhaps Elmaran was right, and the shade meant nothing. It had arisen for no more complicated reason than that it had been disturbed.

  Who was it, though? And why had that spirit’s passing left a shade?

  She considered Elmaran’s theory—had the female’s last moments turned happiness to terror? She found herself wishing to know.

  The only way to accomplish that was to return to the glade, and hope the shade arose again. Ghithri shivered.

  Sathri glanced at the empty hearth. “Almost Evennight. Shall I make a fire out here, Elmaran?”

  “No—thank you, but I mean to return to the study. Ghithri, do you stay?”

  She shook her head. “I should go. Thank you for the supper, eldermother. And thank you, Elmaran, for your advice.”

  “You are welcome to it, for all its worth.”

  Ghithri smiled as she rose and bent to hug him. “Great worth.”

  His fingers clung lightly to her arms as she slipped away. “Come again soon.”

  “I will.”

  She kissed Sathri’s cheek and went toward the hearthroom. Elmaran’s voice pursued her.

  “I need more onions!”

  More onions. That was her excuse for returning to the forest, for seeking out the starflower glade again. She stood outside it, peering between the trunks of greenleaf saplings, reluctant to enter.

  She both wanted and dreaded to see the shade again. Something deep inside her yearned for it, and this she did not quite understand. She was not sure she wished to understand.

  She set her basket down. It was empty; she would gather onions later. Drawing herself up, she stepped through the saplings.

  Cooler in the glade, and a little darker. The white blooms of starflower were points of brightness in the shadowed green. Those nearest to her rustled as she stepped past them, giving up a waft of sweet scent.

  Ghithri went to the center of the glade, where the shade had scattered her flowers. A faint scent of thyme arose to mingle with the starflowers’ fragrance. She stood there, thinking of what she had seen, questions occurring to her that could only be answered by the spirit who was long gone.

  Shades held no vestiges of life in them. They were echoes of distress, shed by spirits as they passed through the gray veil and out of the realm of flesh.

  Or echoes of happiness, it would seem in this case. But why?

  Ghithri turned in a slow circle, looking all around the glade. Starflowers everywhere, but no shade to cut them. Today was different.

  She frowned. Her mood was better since talking with Elmaran. Need she be in a foul temper to see the shade?

  As if in answer, the golden glow filled the glade once again. Ghithri turned and saw the shade almost beside her, cutting flowers once more. Moving away slowly, as if she might disturb the shade by incaution, Ghithri chose to stand beside a tree opposite to where she had been the day before.

  The shade repeated her motions, dancing as she gathered flowers and strew them on the grass, smiling and speaking or singing. Ghithri had not noticed that before; the shade’s lips were moving, with the rhythm of a song, or so it seemed.

  A whisper of music teased the edges of her hearing; the song, or some shadow of it, but beyond reach. Ghithri tried to guess what the melody might be, but was unable to recognize it.

  The shade paused, turned, and dashed toward the side of the glade as she had done before. Ghithri saw a flicker there—the glimmer of a form, not as defined as the shade, but definitely present. The shade ran up to it, her face lit with joy. She threw her arms around the figure, who wrapped vague, shimmering golden arms around her, then a moment later lifted her and carried her toward the center of the glade.

  Ghithri caught her breath. A lover. She stood frozen, afraid of what she might be about to see, but the figures both disintegrated into swirling motes of light which then dissipated through the glade and out into the forest.

  It was over. No danger had loomed for the female whose shade she had watched. Ghithri closed her eyes, and only then noticed the tears sliding down her cheeks.

  A lover. The shade had been waiting for her love, and greeted him with delight. No darkness here, why should she weep?

  She left the glade and caught up her empty basket. She was in no mood to pull onions just now. She hastened back to the village, and to her house in the middle ring.

  The welcoming hearth held only ashes. Muttering an impatient word, Ghithri cast her basket aside and knelt to clean away the ash and lay a fresh fire. Careless of her to let the fire die; it was customary always to offer visitors the welcome of the hearthroom. Some thought that to let the welcoming fire go out was to invite misfortune.

  Elmaran would scoff at that, she knew, but others might not. Sathri would not.

  Ghithri coughed at the cloud of ash she had raised in her haste. She set three logs in the hearth with a clump of kindling beneath them, then reached her palms toward it. Her thoughts were jumbled and would not be calmed at first; it took her some effort to set a spark among the kindling.

  Not misfortune, merely her unsettled feelings had dampened her ability to manage khi for a moment. To prove it to herself, she got up and touched the wick of a candlestick, sending fire into it instead of simply lighting it at the hearth. The warmth rose in the wick so quickly that it scorched her finger. She pulled her hand away hastily, shaking it, then put the burned fingertip in her mouth.

  No, she would not weep. She had wept enough.

  She caught up her basket and went into the house, passing through the front room into the kitchen. Here the banked coals in the hearth were still warm, and a pot of stew simmered gently over them.

  She hung her basket from its hook in the ceiling and sat down at the small kitchen table. Her gaze strayed to the hearth. S
ome stew would warm her, but her stomach knotted at the thought. Tea, perhaps. She should fill the kettle.

  She sat unmoving. To her dismay, all her careful control unraveled and she found her thoughts filled with Malikan. The smell of him, the bright blue of his eyes, his merry smile. Despite herself, she imagined him coming to her in the wood as the shade’s love had done—catching her up in his arms, carrying her to a bed of starflowers—

  No. She spread her hands flat against the table. She must not indulge in such fancies. They were no more than shades. Echoes of a love that had died.

  She folded her arms on the table, laid her head upon them, and wept. She lay there long after her tears were exhausted. Nothing would comfort her; nothing she could do would change the bitter truth that she had tried and failed to move past. Not until she heard the visitor’s chime from her hearthroom did she move.

  She sat up and wiped at her face. Her tears had dried on her cheeks, making her want to wash them, but there was no time. She pulled her kerchief from her sleeve and tidied herself as best she could on the way to the hearthroom.

  Cautiously drawing aside the tapestry, she saw Sathri standing before the hearth, carrying a cloth-covered basket. Blinking, Ghithri sniffed slightly.

  “Eldermother. Are you on your way to Elmaran?”

  “No, I have taken him his supper. This is for you.”

  Ghithri swallowed. “Oh. Welcome.”

  She held the tapestry aside for Sathri to enter. With bustling efficiency, Sathri moved to the table in the front room and began unpacking her basket. Ghithri followed hesitantly.

  “I have some stew—“

  “Yes, I smelled it as I passed your house earlier. I have brought you bread and cheese to go with it, and some pears, and this.”

  Sathri drew a jug from the basket and set it on the table with a heavy thunk. Ghithri pulled the stopper from it and leaned over to smell its contents. Sweet summer flowers and a heady hint of yeast.

  “Noshari’s mead.”

  “I thought it might be the proper treatment.”

  Ghithri watched Sathri fetch down two of her best goblets from the shelf, wipe the dust from them with the cloth that had covered her basket, and pour mead into both. Handing one to her, Sathri met her gaze.

  “I heard you crying, child. What troubles you?”

  Ghithri took a shaky breath, then sipped the wine. Its sweetness woke her hunger, and she took a larger swallow before answering.

  “Just memories.”

  “Malikan?”

  Ghithri nodded, not trusting her voice. She sat down at the table, for she meant to drink far too much of the mead. Sathri slid into the chair across from her.

  “A particular memory?”

  Ghithri shook her head, took another large swallow, and blew her nose. “I saw the shade again today.”

  Frowning, Sathri drew the bread toward her and began cutting thick slices. Ghithri picked up the heel and tore off a bite. The bread was fresh, still slightly warm, its crust golden and crisp.

  “You should stay out of the woods for a few days, I think.”

  “It was the same as yesterday, only I saw the last moment this time. She ran to greet her l-lover. He picked her up, then they faded.”

  Sathri cut a small round of soft cheese into wedges and pushed the plate toward Ghithri. “Are you sure it was a shade, not just . . . well, one of your memories?”

  Ghithri frowned. “I did not imagine it. Elmaran agreed that it must be a shade.”

  She finished the mead in her goblet and poured more. Sathri calmly sliced a pear, glancing at her now and then.

  “Evennight day after tomorrow. Will you help me with the currant cakes?”

  “To keep me out of the forest?”

  “So that they will be finished in time.” Sathri stood the pear slices on a plate, tipped them over to form a graceful, curved array, then wiped her knife and put it away. “Who am I to forbid you the forest? But you have seen the shade twice. It was the same both times. What will seeing it again gain you?”

  Ghithri picked up a slice of pear, cool and wet between her fingers. “Nothing, I suppose.”

  “Twas that shade roused your memories.”

  Ghithri nodded, chewing. It hurt a little less now, to think about it. The mead was helping. She drank some more.

  “Why would a happy memory form a shade?”

  Sathri tilted her head. “Happy?”

  “She was happy. Joyful, ecstatic. The more so just before she faded, when. . . . It was the opposite of everything I have heard about shades.”

  Sathri layered cheese and pear on a slice of bread and handed it to Ghithri, then began to assemble another slice for herself. “Perhaps the intensity of the emotion . . . though fear and pain at the moment of death may be the most intense feelings possible.”

  “No, I do not believe that! Our bright feelings are every bit as strong as the dark.”

  “That sounds like Elmaran’s teaching.”

  “Well, and I could not ask for a better teacher!”

  “True, true.” Sathri smiled. “And you are right that the bright feelings are strong. The most intense moment of my life was when Jhonalin was conceived.”

  Ghithri’s heart gave a small leap. She had often tried to imagine what it would be like to conceive a child—to hear its greeting, to be irrevocably joined with its sire. Children were rare, for the ælven were not blessed with the ease of breeding that lesser creatures enjoyed.

  Her mind went unbidden to the last night she had spent with Malikan. By custom, lovers did not speak of the possibility of children; it served no one to discuss the hope of such a rare blessing, and might easily cause pain. But she had thought of it then—of the joy it would give her should she and Malikan be so blessed—and she had thought . . . hoped . . . that he had felt the same.

  But perhaps not.

  She picked up her goblet, only to find it was empty again. She blinked, frowning at it, for she thought she had just filled it. Staring at the drop of mead remaining in its bowl, she pondered whether drinking herself into a stupor would be worth the consequences.

  Pain would be her atonement if she neglected her flesh’s welfare thus. She ate another slice of pear instead.

  Sathri ate the last slice and took another pear out of her basket. “Mayhap your shade was formed of that kind of joy.”

  Ghithri choked and a fit of coughing overtook her. Looking alarmed, Sathri hastened to the kitchen and returned with a cup of water. She set it on the table before Ghithri and watched her in concern.

  “Did I offend you?”

  Still coughing, Ghithri shook her head. She drew a somewhat painful breath and reached for the water, swallowing a mouthful and then coughing again. When at last she could speak, she took Sathri’s hand.

  “I think you are right, Eldermother! If the shade and her, her love were about to conceive—that would be a strong moment of joy for both of them.”

  “Y-yes, but I have never heard of a shade forming out of such a moment. Why, if that were likely, we would find shades of joy everywhere!”

  Ghitri laughed. “Popping up in the oddest corners!”

  “And lovers would be hard-pressed to find places to tryst without encountering them.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  Ghithri dissolved into helpless giggles, laughing so hard she had to wipe at her eyes with her kerchief. Sathri picked up the pear again and continued to slice it, glancing at Ghithri now and again. When she had finished cutting the fruit, she stood.

  “I think it is time we had some of that stew. No, stay there—I will fetch it.”

  Ghithri remained in her chair, still chuckling, imagining lovers searching the village for a bed in which no child had ever been conceived. They would have to build one, most like. It could become a customary gift for a handfasting—a new bed.

  Sathri returned with the stew. Ghithri tore a piece of bread in half and dipped it in her bowl, savoring the broth rich with mushrooms and thyme.<
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  “Thank you, Eldermother. You have lifted my spirits.”

  Sathri smiled. “Well, many is the time you lifted mine.”

  She poured more mead for herself and, after a sharp glance, for Ghithri. Ghithri raised the cup in salute to her, but only sipped. The stew was more appealing to her now. She savored two more bites before venturing a question.

  “Would you come with me to the forest? See the shade?”

  Sathri’s smile faded. “Whyever would I want to do that?”

  “You might notice something I have missed.”

  “I have no wish to go seeking a shade! They are ill omens.”

  “But this is a joyful shade.”

  “Still a shade.” Sathri blew across a spoonful of stew. “You would do best to forget it. And did you light a candle as I counseled you?”

  “No, I forgot.”

  “Light one tonight, then. Better yet, light two, since you saw two shades.”

  Ghithri shook her head. “The other was not a shade. It was scarcely there, just a vague shape.”

  “Then how do you know it was her lover?”

  “By the way she greeted it. And it picked her up as a lover would . . .”

  A dark thought occurred to Ghithri. What if the shade had greeted one whom she thought was a lover, but who in fact meant to kill her?

  She closed her eyes briefly, horrified by the thought. Not possible; Elmaran had said he knew of no one from the village causing another’s death. To do so was expressly against the Creed. Only a handful of such killings had occurred in all of ælven history, each so famous that it had become legend, and in each case there were extraordinary circumstances involved, such as the protection of others.

  There were no such circumstances here. The worst harm the shade had done—at least so far as Ghithri knew, was the cutting of numerous starflowers.

  With a knife. The shade had been holding it as she ran to her lover. What if some accident had occurred, and she died by her own blade?

  “What are you thinking, Ghithri?”

  She looked at her eldermother, who was watching her in uneasy fascination. “I must go back to the woods and watch the shade again. Please, please come with me, Sathri! I want you to watch, too. I need to understand what happened to her.”