by Pati Nagle
Luruthin peered over her shoulder. “Is it the Bitterfield road?”
“It must be.” Vanorin traced a finger along a wavering line below the road. “That is the Varindel. There are no other roads going west.”
“How far to Bitterfield? Will we reach it today?”
“We should.” Eliani glanced at Vanorin, ready for his denial, but he made none. She looked at her cousin and grinned. “We shall ride until we do.”
They mounted and started westward, delighted at having a road instead of making their way through wilderness. It was smaller than the trade roads, more like the mountain road they had traveled through Alpinon, but plainly in use.
A green canopy rose high overhead, lit with the soft glow of muted sunlight. Vines climbed the sinuous trunks of darkwoods, thick with crimson and yellow flowers that emitted a heavy, sweet scent. A bird somewhere gave a long falling cry.
Eliani looked up but could tell nothing of the sun’s position save that it was somewhere to the west. This forest was strange; she felt closed in, cut off from the clear sky. She had been in deep forests in her own realm, but this was different. She knew an urge to climb one of the darkwoods just to catch a glimpse of the sun.
Before long the road widened, and the space beneath the trees grew more open, with here and there an empty place where once a darkwood had stood. She could feel where a tree’s khi was missing, which was a strange sensation. It was as if the forest sensed its absence.
The khi of these darkwoods was different from that of any other trees she had known. She was not certain she liked it.
Sunlight slanted through a gap in the canopy ahead, golden with the lateness of the day. Eliani urged her horse forward, hoping it was Bitterfield and not merely a cleared space in the forest. When the dark walls of houses came into view, she looked at Luruthin and smiled.
Bitterfield was the second village to be built here. The first, Fairfield, had been the first ælven settlement ever attacked in force by kobalen raiders. It had happened centuries upon centuries ago, long before the Bitter Wars. The kobalen had devastated the village, but the survivors had chosen to rebuild. The next time raiders had come, Bitterfield had fought back, thus beginning the ælven’s acquaintance with warfare.
Eliani thought on that sadly. Warfare was not in harmony with the creed, yet it seemed they could not escape it. Why the kobalen continued to make war against the ælven when they lost so much by it was beyond her.
Bitterfield had turned its back to the darkwood forest. Houses shouldered close together, leaving no space for raiders to run between, and the road narrowed as it led into the village, passing between stone posts that could be blocked and defended in time of attack. It seemed cold and unfriendly, unlike any ælven settlement Eliani had seen.
As they passed the outer ring of houses, she saw that the front of each house, facing inward to the village, had windows and adornments and a spacious garden. A second circle of houses faced the outermost, and a third, smaller circle had its back to the second. Within the third ring was the village’s public circle. By the time they reached it, they had attracted the attention of the citizens.
The folk of Bitterfield looked like Greenglens mostly, though sometimes the fair hair was curly and many of the brown eyes were light in color, not the deep dark brown Eliani knew. A few looked like Steppegards, and one or two had the black hair of Ælvanens. They watched her and her companions in curious silence from doors and windows or looking up from working in their gardens.
Eliani dismounted at the edge of the public circle, thinking it odd that none of the citizens approached. In Highstone, visitors were surrounded the moment they stepped into the circle, if not before.
A quarter of the way around the circle, a door opened and a male stepped out of one of the larger houses, his long pale hair loose about his shoulders. He wore a light tunic and legs of unadorned gray and soft shoes instead of boots. His eyes were a golden brown that made Eliani think of honey cakes crisp from the oven. Her stomach growled.
The male came toward them, opening his hands in greeting. “I am Dejhonan. I am theyn here.”
Eliani nodded and made a slight bow. “I am Eliani of Felisanin, from Highstone in Alpinon, and this is Luruthin, my cousin, who is theyn of Clerestone. We came to visit our kindred.”
Dejhonan’s brows rose in surprise. “You have kin in Bitterfield?”
“My father’s sister, Davhri.”
“Davhri … of course. Felisanin—yes, I should have realized.”
“She dwells here, does she not?”
“She dwells here, yes.” Dejhonan nodded, though his smile was somewhat troubled. His gaze passed over the rest of the party. “You are not all kin to Davhri.”
“No, these are my … companions. This is Vanorin, who hails from Glenhallow.”
Dejhonan clasped arms with Vanorin. “You have come a long way.”
“Yes.”
A brief silence followed, as if Dejhonan waited for elaboration. When none was forthcoming, he looked at Eliani.
“May I offer you and your cousin refreshment before you seek Davhri? My house is just there.”
“Thank you, but I am anxious to see her. She is not ill, I hope?”
Dejhonan hesitated before answering. “No. She is not ill. Your companions might like to refresh themselves in the public lodge while you visit her.”
He nodded toward the largest building on the circle, and Eliani realized with a start that it was the only house in Bitterfield whose doors stood fully open. All the others had their doors only slightly ajar, the opposite of the custom in both Highstone and Glenhallow, where anyone was welcome in the hearthroom of any house.
“Yes, we would like that, and we should make arrangements with the lodge keeper for our accommodation.”
Eliani nodded. “Thank you, Vanorin.”
He and the escort started toward the lodge, taking Eliani and Luruthin’s horses with them. Eliani turned to Dejhonan, smiling.
“Will you take us to Davhri’s house?”
“She lives in the outer ring.”
He led them across the circle to one of two other paths that gave onto it. The citizens, seeing them in Dejhonan’s company, appeared to lose interest and returned to their pursuits.
Dejhonan led them to the outer row and turned up the narrow street that ran between the facing gardens. Each of them was filled with flowers and herbs, some with kitchen plots, some with vines or waxy-leaved trees heavy with the golden orbs of sunfruit.
The garden before the house to which Dejhonan led them was withered. Eliani saw a kiln there, though it seemed long disused. She recognized some of the flowering plants and shrubs, including a goldenberry bush that seemed yet to cling to life.
Dejhonan led them down the path to the door, which was closed. He knocked on it.
“Davhri. It is Dejhonan. You have visitors from Alpinon.”
They waited in silence. No sound came from within. After a few moments Dejhonan knocked again.
“Davhri.”
“What happened?”
Dejhonan turned to Eliani with apologetic eyes. “Her partner is missing.”
“Missing? Inóran?”
Eliani saw him in memory, the tall, fair-haired smiling one who had stolen Davhri away. She had detested him as a child.
“Yes.” Dejhonan spoke quietly, sadly. “He went to Ghlanhras in the spring and has not returned.”
“Has no one sought news of him? Has no one else seen him in Ghlanhras?”
Dejhonan gazed at her, his face grave. “We have little traffic with Ghlanhras.”
Eliani was about to ask why, but a sound from within the house drew her attention. “Davhri?”
Slow, shuffling footsteps were approaching. Dejhonan took a step back.
The door opened a handspan, and a female peered out. She was clad in a loose gray robe that seemed too large for her. Her brown hair was disheveled, pulled in many wisps from its braid, and her face was lined with worry.
The green eyes were dull beneath frowning brows.
Eliani caught her breath, for despite these ravages the face was still known to her, so like her father’s. “Davhri?”
The eyes focused on her, frowning in bewilderment. “I know you.”
Eliani felt tears starting and frowned to keep them back. “Yes. Yes, it is Eliani.”
“Eliani. My brother’s child.” Davhri’s brows lifted, and a glint of life came into her face. “All grown now.”
“Yes.” Eliani laughed, happy that Davhri knew her, nervous at her unkempt state. “Do you remember Luruthin? Our cousin?”
Luruthin stepped forward, smiling. Davhri opened the door a little wider and stood in it gazing thoughtfully at him, then nodded.
“Yes, I remember you both. Has it been so long? You were a child when I left Highstone.”
“I have just reached my majority.”
Dejhonan stepped forward. “They have traveled a long way to see you, Davhri. Shall I send Mishri to make a fire and some tea?”
Davhri looked at him and stood a little straighter. “That is most kind of you, Dejhonan. Thank you.”
Eliani turned to him. “Yes, thank you.”
He nodded, stepping back and glancing from Luruthin to Eliani. “Welcome to Bitterfield. Come to my house when you leave here, if you will.”
Eliani watched him walk away, then turned back to Davhri. For a moment they gazed at each other. Luruthin gave a soft cough.
“May we come in?”
“Of course. Yes, come in.” Davhri opened the door wide.
The hearthroom was small and dark, the welcoming hearth cold, swept clean though a little ash lingered in its corners. Davhri pulled aside a curtain and stepped into the house, beckoning Eliani to follow. She traded a glance with Luruthin, who drew the outer door closed, leaving it a little ajar.
The house lay in darkness, filled with grief. Feeling stifled, Eliani went to one of the curtained windows.
“May I open this?”
“Oh. If you wish.”
Eliani pushed back the drape, letting the late-afternoon sunlight into a room that was clean, almost barren, as if abandoned. A table and four chairs, two more chairs by the empty hearth. Shelves bearing plates and cookware, a few scrolls, and one or two ornaments that had not been moved in some time. Two handfasting ribbons hung above the curtained doorway to the hearthroom, glinting softly.
Apart from this, the house looked as if no one lived there. Eliani grimaced, thinking that though Davhri might dwell here, she was not living much.
Davhri’s face had gone dull again, losing the little energy their arrival had brought it. She seemed to be fading before Eliani’s eyes. Determined to fight that, Eliani pulled her father’s letter from her tunic.
“My father sends you this, along with his fondest love.”
She pressed the letter into Davhri’s hands. Davhri stared down at it for a moment, then looked up at Eliani. Her face broke into a smile, the first since their arrival.
“Thank you, child! How is Felisan?”
“He is well. Very well. Will you not read it?”
“Yes.” Davhri glanced vaguely around the room, then gestured to the table. “Will you sit?”
“Thank you.”
Eliani and Luruthin sat on one side of the table. Davhri laid the letter down before a chair across from them. All her movements were slow, deliberate. Eliani wondered if she was actually ill. She watched Davhri sit and pull the letter toward her, turn it over and over in her hands, and finally break the seal. As she read it, a smile grew upon her face, and her eyes lit with laughter.
“Ah, Felisan.” She chuckled as she folded the page. “He has not changed, I see.”
“Very little. He misses you. We all miss you in Highstone. I have hoped that you were happy in Bitterfield.”
Davhri’s eyes rose to meet her gaze. “Well, and so I have been. Very happy.”
The tinkle of tiny bells came from the hearthroom, followed by a voice calling, “Davhri? It is Mishri.”
Before Davhri could move or answer, the curtain was drawn aside and a young female of no more than forty summers came in. She was like enough to Dejhonan in color and feature that Eliani suspected they were close kin. She wore a tunic and legs of soft gray—everyone in Bitterfield seemed to wear gray—and carried a small covered basket, which she set on the end of the table.
“Good day to you, gentles.” She smiled at Eliani and Luruthin. “Pay me no mind.”
She turned to the hearth, collected a kettle from its hook and an empty copper wood bin, and carried them outside. Though she had said little, the room seemed to fall quiet with her departure.
“Such a kind child. She comes to visit me often and helps me with household chores. It is very good of her. I fear I have little heart for any sort of work of late.”
Eliani stretched a hand across the table to her. Davhri clasped it lightly, her fingers cold and strangely small. Davhri had always seemed so strong to her, so vital.
Davhri was a potter, and those fingers had shaped many a beautiful vessel. Her home in Highstone had always been filled with gleaming pots, vases, and bowls and her shelves cluttered with jars of special earth for glazes and scrolls of designs. Glancing around this barren room, Eliani saw one piece of Davhri’s making, a wish jar, high on the shelves. No other sign of her work was present.
“Davhri? Tell us about Inóran.”
Davhri met Eliani’s gaze, and her lips curved in a small, sad smile. “He is gone.”
Luruthin stirred, resting his hands on the table. “Dejhonan told us he went to Ghlanhras.”
“Three seasons ago.” Davhri shook her head slowly, the smile fading. “I do not think he will return.”
Eliani frowned. “Why did he go there?”
“He went to trade in Woodrun and sent word from there that he was going on to Ghlanhras. He was hoping to trade for glass, for new windows for my workroom.” Her gaze dropped to her hands, which she spread upon the tabletop, withdrawing from Eliani’s gentle grasp. “I did not mind it as it is, but he said there should be more light to set off the glazes.”
“Why has no one gone to find him?”
Davhri still stared at her hands. She pressed them into the table, fingers splayed, straining against the wood.
“No one cares to go to Ghlanhras.”
“But if Inóran is missing—”
“No one wants to go there. I would have gone, but I am afraid. Some say the city is cursed.”
Eliani sat back, somewhat alarmed. She exchanged a glance with Luruthin.
“Ghlanhras is Fireshore’s greatest city.”
“Was.” Davhri nodded. “It was.”
Eliani leaned closer, keeping her voice gentle. “Cursed in what way?”
Davhri raised sad eyes to look at her. “Dark khi. Ill fortune festers there. Some say it is a legacy of the Bitter Wars. The trade caravans will no longer go there. They go no farther than Woodrun.”
“Pashani did not mention that.”
Eliani glanced at Luruthin. “She may not have known.”
“Do you know Governor Pashani?” Davhri looked from one to the other. “Did you visit her in the Steppes?”
“She was at the Ælven Council lately held in Glenhallow.”
Davhri blinked. “I did not know there was to be a Council.”
“Word of it never reached Fireshore, apparently. That is one of the reasons we are here.”
Mishri returned at that moment, carrying the bin, which was now full of firewood with the heavy kettle wobbling on top. She put the wood down by the hearth, hung the kettle on its hook, and set about making a fire. Eliani thought it best to shift the conversation away from her errand in Fireshore for the moment, so she asked Davhri the first question that came into her thoughts.
“I saw the goldenberry bush in your garden. Is that from the cutting you took from Highstone?”
“Yes. I fear I have neglected it of late.”
“It is
still alive, though. I was not certain you would get one to grow here.”
“Inóran cosseted it along. It really does not like the summer heat.”
An awkward silence fell. Luruthin made an attempt to fill it.
“This village is unlike any I have seen. So compact. Is it difficult to clear space in the forest?”
“Somewhat difficult.” Davhri nodded. “But the village’s design is more toward defense against kobalen. They still come over the mountains now and again.”
“Have you had much trouble with them of late?”
“No more than usual. I would say less these last few years.”
Eliani shifted in her chair, glancing toward the window, where the daylight was fading. Outside, the wasted garden seemed forlorn. She saw one pale yellow berry hanging from the feeble bush Davhri had planted and longed suddenly for Highstone.
A sharp snap from the hearth drew her attention. Mishri’s fire had kindled and was sending cheerful light into the room. The logs were some kind of greenleaf, Eliani noted by their bark and pale wood. Darkwood was far too valuable to burn, nor was it the best firewood, she and her party had learned in the last few days. It was reluctant to catch, though once lit, it burned long and steadily.
Mishri came to the table and began taking things from her basket: a small box, two sunfruits, little jars, a loaf that smelled fresh from the oven. Eliani’s mouth began instantly to water. She had not tasted soft bread since Althill or sunfruit since the summer.
Davhri bestirred herself. “Tell me about Highstone. How is Lady Heléri?”
Eliani smiled. “She is well. She sends you her blessing.”
They talked of family and friends. Eliani chose all the happiest news to give Davhri, who seemed to revive somewhat with remembering her old kindred and clan.
When the kettle boiled, Mishri made tea and served it to them with a platter of bread, sliced sunfruit, and berry preserves. The tea ewer and cups matched, all a pale gray with glints of gleaming copper in the glaze, and Eliani knew from their quality that Davhri had made them. She wrapped both hands around her cup and inhaled the fragrant tea, a blend of tealeaf, sweet grass, and a floral scent she did not recognize.