Lark and Wren

by Mercedes Lackey

  The elven-king's eyes narrowed. "There's truth in that," he said slowly. "Truth in everything you have said thus far. But you, mortal girl-you're made of sterner, more flexible stuff. You would not pine away like a linnet in a cage. Tell me, would you trade your freedom for his?"

  "Yes," she said, just as Talaysen cried out behind her, "No!"

  The elf considered them both for a moment longer, then shook his head. "No," he said, anger filling his voice. "No, it must be both of you or neither. Cage the one, and the other will come to free it. Keep you both, and you will have my kingdom in ruins within the span of a single moon. You are too powerful to hold, too dangerous to keep, both of you. Go!"

  He flung his arm up, pointing at the tunnel behind her. But Rune wasn't finished yet; the treachery of elves was as legendary as their power and secretiveness. She dropped the bow to the strings and played a single, grief-filled phrase.

  "Stop!" The elven-king cried over it, tears springing into his eyes, hands clapped futilely over his ears. "What more do you want of us?"

  She lifted the bow from the strings. "Your pledge," she replied steadily. "Your pledge of our safety."

  She saw the flash of rage that overcame him for a moment, and knew that she had been right. The elven-king had planned to ambush them as soon as their backs were turned, and probably kill them. He had lost a great deal of pride to her and her music; only destroying them would gain it back.

  "Swear," she insisted.

  "By the Moon our Mother, the blood of the stars, and the honor of the Clan," Talaysen whispered.

  "Swear by the Moon our Mother, the blood of the stars, and the honor of the Clan that you will set us free, you will not hinder our leaving; you will not curse us, nor set magic nor weapons against us. Swear it!" she warned, as the rage the elven-king held in check built in his eyes and threatened to overwhelm his self-control. "Swear it, or I'll play till my arms fall off! I played all one night before, I can do it again!"

  He repeated it between gritted teeth, word for word. She slowly lowered her arms, and tucked fiddle and bow under one of them, never betraying by a single wince how both arms hurt.

  She turned just as slowly, and finally faced Talaysen, just as fearful of what she might see in his eyes as of all the power the elven-king could raise against them.

  He smiled, weakly; his face a mask that covered warring emotions that flickered behind his eyes. But he picked up his lute and case, and offered her his arm, as if she was his lady. She took it gravely, and they strolled out of that place of danger as outwardly calm as if they strolled down the aisles of a Faire.

  But once they reached the cottage, the rock door slammed shut right on their heels, and she began throwing gear into her pack, taking time only to wrap her fiddle in her bedding and stow it in the very bottom for safety. He joined her.

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he said, over the steady boom of thunder from overhead. The fire was almost out, but they didn't need it to see; lightning flashing continuously gave them plenty of light to see by.

  "I think so," she shouted, stuffing the last of her gear into her pack, with her tiny harp cushioned inside her clothing to keep it safe. "I don't trust him, no matter what he swore by. He'll find a way to get revenge on us. We'd better get out of here."

  "This may be his revenge!" Talaysen said grimly, packing up his own things and slinging them on his back, throwing his rain-cape over all, then pointing to the storm outside the windows. "He didn't swear not to set the weather on us. As long as he doesn't touch us directly, he hasn't violated his pledge. A storm, lightning-those aren't strictly weapons."

  She swore. "Elves," she spat. "They should be Churchmen. Or lawyers. Let's get out of here! A moving target is harder to hit!"

  Talaysen was in perfect agreement with her, apparently; he strode right out into the teeth of the storm, and she was right behind him.

  The trees didn't stop them this time; evidently the prohibition against using magic held the grasping branches off. But the storm was incredible; lightning striking continuously all about them. Rain lashed them, pounding them with hammers of water, sluicing over their rain-capes until they waded ankle-deep on the path. Talaysen insisted, shouting in her ear to be heard over the storm, that they walk down in the streambed next to the road; it was full of rushing water that soaked them to their knees, but with the rain lashing them from every angle it didn't much matter, they were wet anyway. And when lightning struck the roadway, not once, but repeatedly, she saw the sense of his orders. The streambed was deep enough that not even their heads were above the roadway. Lightning always sought the highest point; they had to make certain that point wasn't them.

  But the streambed turned away from the roadway eventually, and ran back into the trees. Now the question was: follow the road, and take their chances with the lightning, or follow the streambed and hope it led somewhere besides into the wilderness?

  Talaysen wavered; she made up his mind for him, pushing past him and following the streambed under the trees. People always built their homes beside water; with luck, they'd come across something in a day or two.

  With no luck, at least they wouldn't be turned into Bard-shaped cinders. And they could retrace their path if they had to, until they met up with the road again.

  The terrain was getting rockier; when she could see through the curtains of water, the streambed looked as if it had been carved through what looked like good, solid stone. And the banks were getting higher. If they couldn't find a house, maybe they could find a cave.

  If they couldn't find either, maybe they could just walk out the storm.

  It was awfully hard to think with rain beating her skull, and water tugging at her ankles, forcing her constantly off balance. She was so cold she couldn't remember being warm.

  The thunder and lightning raged above their heads, but none of it was getting down to the ground anymore, not even the strikes that split whole trees in half. And the very worst of it seemed to be behind them, although the rain pounded them unabated. Her head was going to be sore when they were out of this. . . .

  Maybe they were getting out of the elven-king's territory. How far could magic reach?

  She found out, as there was a sudden slackening in the rain, a moment when the lightning and thunder stopped. Both she and Talaysen looked up as one, but Rune was not looking up with hope.

  She felt only a shudder of fear. This did not have the feeling of a capitulation. It had the feeling of a summoning. The elven-king was bringing one final weapon to bear upon them.

  That was when they saw the wall of wind and water rushing down on them, walking across the trees and bending them to the earth as it came. Not like a whirlwind-like a moving waterfall, a barrier of water too solid to see through.

  Talaysen was nearer to shelter; he flung himself down in a gully carved into the side of the streambed. She looked about frantically for something big enough to hold her.

  Too late.

  The wind struck her, staggering her-she flailed her arms to keep her balance, then in a flash of lightning, saw what looked like half a tree heading straight for her-

  Pain, and blackness.

  Talaysen saw the tree limb, as thick around as he was, hit Rune and drop her like a stone into the water, pinning her in the stream beneath its weight.

  He might have cried out; it didn't matter. In the next instant he had fought through the downpour and was clawing at the thing, trying to get it off her, as the wind screamed around him and battered him with other debris. She'd been knocked over a boulder, so at least her head was out of the water-but that was all that fortune had granted her. She was unconscious; she had a pulse, but it was weak and slow.

  And he couldn't budge the limb.

  Frantic now, he forced himself to calm, to think. Half-remembered hunter's lessons sprang to mind, and he recalled shifting a dead horse off another boy's leg with the help of a lever-

  He searched until he found another piece of limb long and stout enoug
h; wedged it under the one pinning Rune, and used another boulder for a fulcrum. There should have been two people doing this-he'd had the help of the huntsman before-

  Heave. Kick a bit of flotsam under the limb to brace it. His arms screamed with pain. Heave. Another wedge of wood. His back joined the protest. Heave-

  Finally, sweating and shaking, he had it balanced above her. It wouldn't hold for long; he'd have to be fast.

  He let go of the lever, grabbed her ankle, and pulled.

  He got her out from under the limb just as it came crunching back down, smashing to splinters one of the bits of wood he'd used to brace it up.

  The wind died, and the rain was slackening, as if, with Rune's injury, the elven-king was satisfied. But the lightning continued, which now was a blessing; at least he had something to see by.

  He bent down and heaved Rune, pack and all, over his shoulders, as if she was a sack of meal. Fear made a metallic taste in his mouth, but lent him strength he didn't know he had and mercifully blanked the pain of his over-burdened, aging body.

  He looked about, frantically, for a bit of shelter, anything. Somehow he had to get her out of the rain, get her warm again. Her skin was as cold as the stones he'd pried her out of-if he couldn't get her warm, she might die-

  Lightning flickered, just as his eyes passed over what he'd thought was a dark boulder.

  Is that-

  He staggered towards it, overbalanced by the burden he carried, and by the press of the rushing water against his legs. Lightning played across the sky overhead-he got another look at the dark blot in the stream wall. No, it wasn't a boulder. And it was bigger than he thought-

  He climbed up onto the bank, peered at it in another flash of lightning-and nearly wept with relief. It was. It was a cave. A small one, but if it wasn't too shallow, it should hold them both with no difficulty. Pure luck had formed it from boulders caught in the roots of a tree so big two men couldn't have spanned the trunk with their arms.

  And a pair of bright eyes looked out of it at him.

  He didn't care. Whatever it was, it would have to share its shelter tonight. The eyes weren't far enough apart for a bear, and that was all he cared about.

  Somehow he got himself up into the cave; somehow he dragged Rune up with him. Erratic lightning showed him what it was in the cave with him; an entire family of otters. They stared at him fearlessly, but made no aggressive moves towards him. He ignored them and began pawing through the packs for something warm and dry to put on her.

  He encountered the instruments first. His lute-intact. Hers was cracked, but might be repaired later. Her penny-whistle was intact, and the tiny harp he'd given her. The bodhran drum was punctured; his larger harp needed new strings-

  All this in mental asides as he pawed through the packs, pulling out soaked clothing and discarding it to the side.

  Finally he reached the bottom of the packs. And in the very bottom, their bedding; somehow dry. Her fiddle wrapped in the middle of it, safe.

  There wasn't much time, and he didn't hesitate; every moment she stayed chilled was more of a threat. He stripped her skin-bare and bundled her into both sets of bedding. Then he stripped himself and eased in with her, wrapping her in his arms and willing the heat of his body into her.

  For a long time, nothing happened. The storm died to the same dull rain they'd coped with for the length of the Faire; the lightning faded away, leaving them in the dark. Rune breathed, but shallowly, and her body didn't warm in the least. Her breathing didn't change. She wasn't waking; she wasn't falling into normal sleep. If he couldn't get her warm-

  Lady of the Gypsies, help me! You are the queen of the forests and wilds-help us both!

  Finally he heard faint snuffling sounds, and felt the pressure of tiny feet on his leg and knee.

  The otters' curiosity had overcome their fear.

  They sniffed around the bundle of humans and blankets, poking their noses into his ear and sneezing into his face once. It would have been funny if he hadn't been sick with worry for Rune. She wasn't warming. She was hardly breathing-

  One of the otters yawned; another. Before he realized what was happening, they were curling up on him, on Rune, everywhere there was a hollow in the blankets, there was an otter curling up into a lithe-warm!-ball and flowing over the sides of the hollows.

  As they settled, he began to warm up from the heat of their six bodies. And as he warmed, so, at last, did Rune. Her breathing eased, and finally she sighed, moved a little-the otters chittered sleepily in complaint-and settled into his arms, truly asleep.

  He tried to stay awake, but in a few moments, exhaustion and warmth stole his consciousness away, and he joined her and their strange bed-companions in dreams.

  He woke once, just after dawn, when the otters stirred out of sleep and left them. But by then, they were not only warm, they were a bit too warm, and he bade the beasts a sleepy, but thankful, good-bye. One of the adults-the female, he thought-looked back at him and made a friendly chitter as if she understood him. Then she, too, was gone, leaving the cave to the humans.

  Rune woke with an ache in her head, a leg thrown over hers, and arms about her. Behind her, someone breathed into her ear.

  What happened? She closed her eyes, trying to remember. They weren't in the cottage they'd found; that much was for certain. . . .

  Then she remembered. The elves, her one-sided fight with music and magic, then the flight through the storm. After that was a blur, but she must have gotten hurt, somehow-

  She wormed one arm out of the blankets, reached up to touch the place on her head that hurt worst, and found a lump too tender to bear any pressure at all, with a bit of a gash across the middle of it.

  That was when she realized that she wasn't wearing so much as a stitch. And neither was Talaysen.

  He murmured in his sleep, and held her closer. His hands moved in half-aware patterns, fitfully caressing her breasts, her stomach. . . .

  And there was something quite warm and insistent poking her in the small of the back.

  She held very still, afraid that if she moved, he'd stop. Despite the ache in her head, her body tingled all over, and she had to fight herself to keep from squirming around in his arms and-

  Suddenly he froze, one hand on her breast, the other-somewhat lower.

  He woke up. And now he's going to go all proper on me.

  "If you stop," she said conversationally, "I am going to be very angry with you. I thought you taught me to always finish a tune you've started."

  Please, God. Please, whoever's listening. Don't let him go all formal now. . . .

  "I-I-uh-" He seemed unable to form any kind of a reply.

  "Besides," she continued, trying to think around the pain in her skull, "I've been trying to get you into this position for weeks."

  "Rune!" he yelped. "I'm your teacher! I can't-"

  "You can't what? What difference does being my Master make? You've only got one apprentice, you can't be accused of favoring me over anyone else. You haven't been trying to seduce me, I've been trying to waylay you. There's a difference." There, she thought with a certain satisfaction. That takes care of that particular argument. "It's not as if you're taking unfair advantage of your position."

  "But-the pressure-my position-"

  "I like the pressure," she replied thoughtfully, "though I'd prefer to change the position-" And she started to squirm around to face him. He choked.

  "That's not what I meant!" he said, and then it was too late; they were face-to-face, cozily wound in blankets, and he couldn't pretend he didn't understand her. She could read his expression quite clearly from here. She smiled into his eyes; he blushed.

  "I know that's not what you meant," she told him. "I just don't see any 'pressure' on me to drag you into my bed except the pressure of wanting you."

  "But-"

  "And if you're going to tell me something stupid, like you're too old for me, well you can just forget that entirely." She kissed his nose, and he
blushed even redder. "I wouldn't drink wine that was a month old, I wouldn't play a brand new fiddle, and I wouldn't hope for fruit from a sapling tree."

  "But-"

  "I also wouldn't go to an apprentice in any Craft for anything important. I'd go to a Master."

  "But-"

  She blinked at him, willing the pain in her head to go away. "You're not going to try and tell me that you've been celibate all these years, are you? If you are, then Gwyna was lying. Or you are. And much as I'd hate to accuse my Master of telling falsehoods, I'd believe Gwyna on this subject more than I'd believe you."

  His mouth moved, but no words emerged. She decided he looked silly, gasping like a fish, and saved his dignity by stopping it with a kiss.

  He disengaged just long enough to say, "I yield to your superior logic-" And then the time for talk was over, and the time for a different sort of communication finally arrived.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "You are going to marry me, aren't you?" Talaysen asked plaintively, picking his now-dry clothing off the rocks beside the stream and packing it away. There was no sign of last night's storm; even most of the debris had been washed downstream. And as if in apology, the day had turned bright and sunny around noon. Rune had caught a fish, using some of their soggy bread for bait; he'd managed to get a fire going, so they could cook it. The rest of the day they'd spent in laying out everything that had gotten wet to dry, and figuring out just how badly Rune had gotten hurt.

  She'd gotten off fairly easily, as it turned out. She had gotten a bad knock on the head, but nothing a lot of valerian couldn't help. They were now a day behind, of course, but that was better than being lightning victims, or confined in the elven-king's hall.

  Rune looked over at Talaysen's anxious face, and grinned wickedly, despite the black eye and bruises the tree limb had gifted her with. "Isn't it supposed to be me that's asking that?" she mocked. "You sound like one of the deflowered village maidens in a really awful Bardic Guild ballad."