by Deborah Hale
After a moment, Maura dropped to her knees and began to wash her tunic, with loud splashing and vigorous slaps against a large, smooth rock that helped to vent her frustration. When she had finally pummeled the poor garment as hard as she dared, she hung it over a tree branch to dry.
Then she wriggled out of her undergown and shift. Though she knew Rath could see no more than a faint shadow wrapped in shadows, she found herself bashful of the subtle sounds made by her clothes parting from her body.
The memory of his words—I think it is unwise to tempt myself with more than a glimpse of what I cannot have—whispered through her thoughts, heated her flesh in a way the mild night air could not cool.
She eased herself into the wet, concealing embrace of the pool. Slowly the warmth of the water and quiet of the night seeped into her, untying some of the knots in her flesh, soaking her clean... in body at least.
Untying the bit of ribbon that bound her hair, she unplaited it then tilted her head back to wash it. The majestic beauty of the night sky caught and held her gaze, as though she was seeing it for the first time.
“The stars are brilliant tonight,” she whispered to herself, almost forgetting Rath’s presence. “How the eye of the Steed sparkles! I can almost believe he will put on a great spurt of speed to bear his master after the Black Beast of Ursind.”
Ahead of the Steed with its swirling mane of tiny stars lurked a dark, starless void that reminded Maura of an open mouth, ravenous to consume every spark of light from the sky.
“I know the names of the stars.” Rath’s voice reached out of the shadows from the other side of the pool. “And how they move through the sky as the year passes. But you make it sound as if they tell stories.”
“So they do.” As Maura’s gaze wandered the night sky, all the star tales Langbard had told her rekindled in her memory, and with them a bittersweet sense of closeness to him. “The Steed bears Lord Velorken, who holds the Sword aloft.”
She pointed toward the long straight shaft of bright stars that pointed the way north.
“And I suppose,” said Rath, “The Hound runs at his heels while the Hawk wheels above, ready to stoop and strike?”
“Just so.”
“And who is this Lord Velorken?” Rath’s voice took on warmer, more relaxed tone, for which Maura was grateful.
This unsettling attraction would always be there between them, like a stew simmering on a low fire, giving off a mouthwatering aroma. It needed only a breath of wind to stir the flames and make it bubble away, threatening to boil over.
“When the world was new,” Maura savored the words that began so many of the old stories, “and the Children of the North and the Children of the South were all one kin, the Black Beast of Ursind tunneled beneath the earth, throwing up these mountains. It shook the ground in its rage, spewing out fire and death. The ancient writings say it was the Beast who poisoned metals and gems with death magic.
“Velorken was Lord of the Greatkin. He climbed the Mountain of Snows and there beseeched the Giver to destroy the Beast and deliver the world from its evil. When he woke the next morning, Velorken found a magical horse, twice the normal size, that could outrun the wind and leap so high it seemed to fly without wings.
“Beside the magical steed, Velorken also found a blade of such sharpness and power it could cleave rocks with the lightest stroke. A hawk with eyes so keen, it could see all the way from the shores of Westborne to the Vestan Islands. And a hound with a nose so sharp it could track a fish down a stream.”
“A good thing the hounds that tracked us in Betchwood that day were not blessed with such noses!” Rath gave an exaggerated shudder.
Maura reached for her cloak and used the hem of it to rub her hair dry. “Armed with his magical gifts, Velorken harried the Black Beast out from under the mountains, then pursued it from Tarsh to the Waste and back again. As you can imagine, they left havoc in their wake. At last, Lord Velorken entreated the Giver to have mercy on his people. He said he would chase the Beast as long and as far as need be, if only he could be given a hunting place where they would do no one any harm.”
“So the Giver put them in the night sky?” Rath’s voice rumbled with amused disbelief.
“Is it so very hard for you to accept?” Perhaps it was, given the kind of life he had led. “I sprinkled a few feather cuttings and said some words, then no one could see you—not even yourself. What little power I have is lent me by the Giver. Even if a feather did nothing more than help to keep a bird aloft and make it invisible to predators, would that not still be a marvel?”
Rath’s only reply was a vague grumble of agreement.
“Langbard taught me the world is full of wonders.” Like warm water welling up out of the ground. “But people take them for granted because they are familiar and commonplace.”
“What else did Langbard say?”
Maura thought for a moment. Then she remembered something Langbard had told her about the story of Velorken. Something that might make sense to a man like Rath.
“He said the star tales might only be that. Tales—fancies of things that never happened.”
“Aha!”
“Save your aha, Rath Talward. He also said that the most unlikely tale may still contain a great truth.”
“That sounds a proper riddle.”
“But it is not, really. Think about the story of Velorken. He asked the Giver to do something for him, but instead the Giver provided him with the tools to do it for himself.”
Had the Giver provided her with the tools to fulfil her quest? Was Rath Talward one of those? Might his doubt be a whetstone on which she was meant to sharpen her faith? Her desire for him a test of her fidelity and worthiness?
“And when he was willing to sacrifice himself for his people, the Giver made that possible.” As she spoke those words, Maura’s voice grew quiet and anxious.
Would she be called to give her life or something she valued almost as much in order to deliver Embria from the Han? And if she were, would she find the courage to do it?
Chapter Two
WHEN THEY SET out early the next morning, Rath sensed Maura’s reluctance to leave behind the small haven of safety and comfort they had found.
He could hardly blame her. Since leaving Windleford their journey had been little different from his accustomed life of hardship and danger. He tried to imagine how much of a shock it must have come to Maura, after her sheltered years as ward of a powerful wizard. And the worst might be yet to come.
“We can stay another day, if you care to,” he offered. “It would not hurt either of us to rest a bit before we go on. You might find more supplies for your sash.”
He would not mind lingering here, tasting a sense of peace that was sweet, yet piquant. His outlaw wariness warned him to distrust the ease and contentment he found here. But the convictions by which he had lived for so long were beginning to chafe, like the outgrown clothes he had worn as a child.
Maura looked around the spot, so peaceful and green. “Remember what you said last night, about thinking it unwise to tempt yourself with more than a glimpse of what you cannot have?”
“Aye, what of it?” Rath’s face stung. Could he be blushing for the first time in twenty-eight years?
“I dare not tempt myself with any more time here.” The wistful look on Maura’s face made Rath ache. “Otherwise, I may never be able to make myself leave.”
But she was leaving a place of serenity she clearly craved, to venture into unknown danger on a quest of which she must have doubts. Perhaps the blood of that Velorken fellow ran in her veins, if such a man had ever truly lived. For she had all his resolve and courage.
More perhaps, for he had been a powerful lord, and she scarcely more than a girl. She had no rock-cleaving sword, only the snippets of plant and animal matter in her sash. No steed who could outrun the wind, only a sturdy mare, twice stolen, which would soon be of little use. No keen-sensed hound or hawk to guide her, only...
&n
bsp; Was he meant to be what the hawk and hound had been to Lord Velorken? The notion of being used by some great invisible power in which he did not believe gave Rath a cold, clammy feeling. Yet something about the image of the hawk drew him. Proud, predatory bird, fierce and solitary.
“Besides.” Maura pulled a rueful face. “We must reach Everwood by Solsticetide. You know the way. Can we afford to linger here if we are to reach the Hitherland in time?”
Rath did the reckoning in his head. Part of him wanted to lie and claim they had plenty of time. Urge her to do what part of her clearly longed to. Every additional hour they spent here would make it easier for him to dissuade her from her well-meant fool’s errand.
“No.” He forced the word through clenched teeth. “We had better make haste.”
If she had the courage to undertake this task, he could not bring himself to undermine her. Instead he would see her through to the end, comfort her in her disappointment and hope she would turn to him afterward.
Climbing into the saddle, he hoisted Maura up behind him. Then, willing himself not to glance back, he pointed the mare southward and jogged the reins.
For a time they rode through the high country, both lost in their thoughts. More than ever, Rath was conscious of Maura seated behind him, clinging to his waist, sometimes resting her head against his back.
Ever since he had grown canny enough and powerful enough to attract followers, he had resented their intrusion on his solitude, their demands upon his skills and loyalty. With Maura it was different—perhaps because, in some odd way, she was his leader, not his follower. Yet he welcomed her reliance upon him.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “We have a few more long days’ rides ahead of us. Would you care to tell me another one of your tales to pass the time?”
Her green eyes twinkled like starlight on a dewy leaf. “And give you a chance to laugh at my folly in believing such tales?”
The twinkle faded, replaced by a look of disappointment that made him cringe with shame. “I might laugh if the tale is amusing. Otherwise, no cheek, I promise.”
“You mean it?”
“Upon my life.” Rath nodded. “You see, I have traveled this country from Southmark to the Hitherland, but hearing your tale last night made me feel like I’ve been stumbling around half-blind all that time. Where did Bror’s Bridge get its name? Who was the Oracle of Margyle?”
“Who is the Oracle of Margyle?” Maura corrected him. “As far as I know, she lives yet.”
She paused for a moment, perhaps weighing his sincerity. “Would you like to hear about the Choice of Velorken’s Children? It is not very amusing I’m afraid. It tells about how the Great Kin were sundered into Kin of Han and the Kin of Embri. If you do not know it, then you are more than half blind to what ails our land, now.”
“It sounds like a gripping tale.” Her words had set the back of Rath’s neck prickling. “Let’s hear it.”
Maura’s voice took on the compelling cadence unique to storytellers. “After Lord Velorken chased the Black Beast into the heavens, the Giver sought to reward his children with a wish. They could have knowledge of the special powers of things that grow upon the earth, or knowledge of the special powers of those things from deep within the earth.”
Despite his resolve not to interrupt, Rath could not keep silent. “But they could not agree, could they?”
“No, they could not.” Maura sounded grieved by the ancient breech. “Have you heard this story before?”
“Part of it, perhaps,” Rath admitted. “Long ago, from Gan. After she died and I was left on my own, I tried to forget everything she had told me about the Elderways.”
He’d had too many other things to occupy his mind, just to survive. Old, outlandish stories had felt like so much useless gear he must abandon to travel light. Now he wondered if he had maimed a part of himself by losing that connection to the past?
Maura picked up the thread of her story. “As you said, they could not agree. Han wished for mastery of metals and gems; Embri wished to be mistress of growing things. Some of their kin supported Han, others Embri, until it seemed they would wreak more destruction upon each other than the Black Beast had done. The Giver was grieved by their strife.”
As Maura told the tale, Rath felt the miles and the hours slipping away. And a lost piece of himself restored.
During the next several days of hard riding, the land became more rugged with every passing mile. And Rath’s hunger for Maura’s stories seemed to grow with each fresh one she told him. She could feel something stirring and growing within him. It pleased her to be able to repay him in some small way for the great service he was doing her.
How many other of their country folk might harbor the same nameless craving to know of the past from whence they had come and the vast intricate tapestry of which they were a part?
On the fourth day, they stopped at a small trading post in a secluded valley. There, Rath bartered their horse for stout walking sticks and packs heavy with supplies for the next part of their journey.
While he haggled with the trader for a few more strips of smoked Southmark beef that looked like they should be worn rather than eaten, Maura slipped outside to feed the mare a carrot and say goodbye.
“You have borne us well for many miles.” She stroked the horse’s neck while it chewed on the carrot. “I hope you will find a better life here than the one you left behind in Aldwood.”
The horse whinnied and shook its mane.
“Rath says we cannot take you with us, for the way is too rough and too barren for you to graze.” Maura wished she knew beastspeech to reassure the creature. “And I would not wish to take you with us into Westborne for fear we might have to part with you there.”
A few moments later, Rath emerged from the trading post looking well pleased with himself. “We have a few more hours of daylight and this time of day is best for traveling through the Waste. I reckon we should be on our way.”
He helped Maura shoulder her pack. “Are you sure that is not too heavy I could take some more gear into mine.”
“Never!” Maura strove to keep her breath from sounding labored. And they had not started walking yet! “If you stuff another pound of supplies into that pack, you will tumble backward and never be able to get up again. I can manage.”
“You are certain?” Rath did not sound convinced. “Our packs will lighten as we go. Though not too quickly, I hope.”
He turned to the horse and gave it an affectionate smack on the rump. “Farewell, old girl. Do not let Croll work you too hard. I told him he will answer to me one day if he does.”
For what was left of that day, Maura missed the horse dearly and often found herself wishing they had been able to ride it farther. She and Rath walked almost until sunset, by which time she could scarcely put one foot in front of the other. When she thought of how swiftly the horse could have brought them that same distance, she repented ever complaining of a sore backside.
With a groan she sank onto a large flat rock. “Can we spare a little of our lard supply for me to make a liniment?”
Rath shrugged out of his pack. “Is your back sore?”
Maura gave a weary nod. “I suppose a second warm spring would be too much to ask of the Giver?”
He helped her remove her pack. “If I had the power of your Giver, I would conjure you one on the spot.” He gave a rueful shrug. “But I have not, and I do not know of any more around here. We will have to make do with liniment, I fear. I will gladly furnish the lard, if you can make enough for us both.”
While Maura compounded the balm, Rath gathered sticks for a fire from some stunted bushes near their campsite.
“Why do you bother with a fire?” Maura glanced up from bruising a mixture of moonmallow and cheeseweed. “We ate well at the trading post. A drink and some dried fruit will do me for supper. This far south, it cannot get very cold at night.”
“This is neither for heat nor for cooking.” Rath laid a bed of
kindling over which he arranged some midsized sticks. “Many wild creatures live here on the fringe of the Waste. Some have a taste for human flesh.”
As if summoned by his warning, something howled off in the distance.
Maura glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see a lank wolf or barren cat skulking behind a nearby bush. “As soon as I have made the balm, I will help you gather more wood.”
“Do not fret.” Rath struck his flint and soon had a small but steady blaze going. “We have enough to last until morning.”
Maura set down the wooden bowl in which she had compounded the liniment. The pungent scent of cheeseweed wafted on the still evening air. “I would like to be certain we have plenty.”
She managed to gather a few good sized sticks before all the stooping and lifting became too much for her. Then she hobbled back to the fire like an old granddame with winterache.
“Could you boil some water for a tea, too?” she asked Rath.
“A good thought.” He rummaged in his pack for the kettle. “While I am gone to fetch the water, you can undress.”
“Undress?” The word came out of Maura in a high squeak. Then she realized what he’d meant. “Oh, for the liniment.”
Rath shot her a grin that held something of his old impudence. “It will not do much good rubbed through your clothes, will it?”
“I... suppose not.”
Once he was out of sight, Maura puzzled a way to bare her back without baring a great deal more besides. Rath had made no secret that he found her desirable, yet he had behaved toward her in a most honorable way. She trusted he would not try to take by force what she could not give him freely.
But what if her resolve wavered and she surrendered to her desire for him? Rath did not believe in the Waiting King. He would have no reason to refuse anything she offered. Maura did not want to do anything to further tempt either of them.
When Rath returned, she was sitting near the fire, her shift pulled down around her hips, and her tunic modestly held in front of her. Her thick braid of hair hung down over her shoulder so as not to get in the way.