by Anne Logston
Valann sighed. His bad luck that Lahti was wise as well as gifted beyond her years—if only her body was equally precocious!
“Perhaps Dusk will have a new vision that will set a different course,” Valann said hopefully. It was, in fact, his greatest hope—that perhaps Dusk’s vision would show at least that now was not the time, that his sister’s arrival and any possible disasters to follow were far distant in the future. Or perhaps a vision might show that Rowan and Dusk were to accompany him to the human city—or better yet, two or three dozen elves armed with the stoutest spears and sharpest arrows.
“Rowan hates it when Dusk takes potions to bring his visions,” Lahti said soberly. “She fears his spirit will go out to the Mother Forest and never wholly return again, like—” She stopped abruptly.
“Like my mother,” Valann said grimly. “I know the stories. But I think—” He remembered Chyrie’s eyes, the warmth of her rough fingertips against his face. “I think the stories are only guesses. I think no one quite knows the entirety of what has become of my mother’s spirit—or what my mother’s spirit has become. And after my passage journey, I think—”
“Oh, Valann, you mustn’t speak of—” Lahti began disapprovingly.
Valann smiled and touched Lahti’s lips to silence her.
“I think that Dusk’s spirit is in no danger, unless it’s the danger of his own desire,” he finished. “Just as a beast-speaker faces the danger of becoming too much a part of the beast he touches, Dusk’s spirit dares a seductive flight when he seeks his visions. But he’s made that journey and returned many times. Dusk’s love for Rowan and for his people roots him well in our world. We all return to the Mother Forest in the end, in any event, and while that journey may be a joyous one, with great wonders at the end”—Valann smiled—“the great oak, rooted deep in the earth, doesn’t fall before its time, and Dusk knows that even better than we.”
“Nor does the tree bear fruit before its time,” Lahti sighed. She tore off a leg of the brush fowl and nibbled at the rich meat. “When we have eaten, shall I ask Doeanna if she will come to you?”
Valann chuckled.
“Doeanna devoted four of her nights to my instruction,” he said. “I think that was as much of her solitude as she was willing to sacrifice to any one man.”
Lahti nodded.
“It’s always wise for a young man new to adulthood to avoid fastening his affections unhealthily on a single female,” she agreed soberly, although her eyes twinkled slyly. “Perhaps I should ask Badea or Kynda instead. And Flea’s been waiting for you to ask her. Her pride will suffer a terrible blow if she has to ask you.”
“Ah, pardon me, ‘elder sister,’” Valann said with mock sternness. “I’m no longer new from my passage and am quite capable of choosing my own partners, thank you. And tonight I choose to choose no one, but to eat my baked brush fowl in peace and sleep—quite alone, thank you. Perhaps the Mother Forest will send me a vision tonight.” He smiled at Lahti. “Unless you’d like to stay with me. You always slept with me in the child-pack, and now I miss your presence.”
Lahti smiled back, but there was a little sadness in her eyes, too.
“I miss your warmth in the night, and the feel of your heart beating, and even the annoying sound your breath makes through your nose while you sleep,” she acknowledged. “But it would be cruel to lie here, you a man and me a child. Better we both find someone else to warm us in the night.” She smiled again, mischievously. “And if you’ve learned a great deal from Doeanna, perhaps on the night after my passage journey, you’ll be the one to come to me in the night and teach me the dance that men and women dance together in the furs. But tonight I’ve promised Tava that I’ll play my pipes at her High Circle.” She ducked her head almost apologetically as she spoke.
Valann understood the gesture, as he understood why Lahti did not ask whether Valann would be dancing the dance with Tava. He had not been asked to join Tava’s High Circle, as he had not been asked to join Senie’s four days ago, or Ranata and Dawn’s last week. At one of the clan fire pits, Dawn, the green ribbon of fertility proudly tied around her upper arm, had started to approach Valann, but Ranata beside her had shook her head warningly. Dawn had turned away, giving Valann one last look with the same apology in her eyes that he now saw in Lahti’s. Dawn had come to his hut two nights later, bringing moondrop wine and caresses even more intoxicating than the potent liquor, but her touch couldn’t heal the wound in his heart, and her cries of pleasure could not eradicate from Valann’s memory the silence in the clearing as others near the fire had looked away, too.
Lahti was right; he should go to the clan fire pits and find a lover to warm his furs tonight. There were many women who would gladly and without reservation share pleasure with him; Doeanna had even told him that first night that some were jealous that she’d been the one chosen. Dawn had confessed that she’d been curious to know how his hairy skin would feel against hers. There were probably some women of the clan, too, Valann had to admit, who would joyfully take him to their furs even when they ripened, as ready to accept a child of his seed as of any other man of the clan. There were others, too, even more puzzling, who sought him out because he was the son of Chyrie, himself touched by the Mother Forest and destined for great things. It was unreasonable to expect to be chosen for every High Circle danced in the clan; few men were. But the exclusion still stung, and Valann knew that many women in the village would even rather remain childless than to bear children tainted with Valann’s part-human blood.
Valann drifted restlessly around the inside of his hut, touching the decorations, comforted by their familiarity. Each fur hanging on the wall or strewn on the floor, each carving, each cluster of feathers carried a story, some humorous, some sad, some embarrassing. Even the gifts he’d been given after his passage held special meaning, small reminders of the love of his kinfolk. Being surrounded by these talismans of his childhood, each imbued, so Dusk told him, with a small portion of Valann’s spirit, gave Val a sense of himself, a sense of being here and now, a sense of belonging in this place and time. Yes, like any adult of the clan, he was growing roots, roots that bound him to this world, this place, that drew nourishment from deep in the forest and fed him life. Just as he fed, in his own way, every life that touched his own, as leaves from the tree fell to rot on the soil and fed other trees, as its limbs gave shelter to squirrels and birds, as its branches brushed and twined with those around it. And if perhaps he was not as fully a part of this place as some of the others around him, still he was enough a part of the forest to put down his roots here and grow with these people—his people. And the years to come would only bind him to them, and them to him, ever more firmly.
And did that not make him their tool in a sense, as they were all tools of the Mother Forest in a sense also, just as his hand or his eyes were a part of him and therefore his tools? And was not that very kinship his obligation, and the reverse, too? And had not Chyrie, even the very act of his birth, placed upon him certain obligations, too? But if he was obligated, was it not to the Mother Forest, rather than to the interpretations of what Rowan thought best for them all? And if he disagreed with Rowan, how was he to know, then, what to do? You must follow the voice of your own spirit, Rowan had said.
Dusk’s vision—that Valann would meet his sister. That much Valann could agree with wholeheartedly. Once he’d had the chance to see how a lifetime among humans had molded his sister, he could better assess in his own mind what association with these humans might do to his people—and perhaps, a small voice within him said, learn something of the human blood that ran in his own veins.
And more, too: He’d never admit it, even to Lahti, but a great curiosity burned in him to see this human city and the wonders there. Imagine a whole city of dwellings built from stone! Imagine stones piled upon stones far higher than his head to form a great wall surrounding the city! He’d heard the stories told by the women who’d sheltered in the city during the battle,
and he could scarcely believe what they’d told him—cakes of bread as light and soft as feathers; pools of hot water that bubbled without boiling, drawn up by magic from deep within the earth; clothing made not from leather, but spun from threads like a spider’s silk; and best of all, metal so common that everyone could have a new knife whenever they liked, arrows were metal-tipped, and even cooking pots were made of it!
All right, then. Best done before he began to doubt again. Valann quickly packed the few belongings he would need for the trail—his best bow, his sword and dagger, flints, fishhooks and leather cord, light sleeping skins, and a few supplies. He had just tied a waxed skin around the pack when he heard a scratching on his door flap. Hurriedly he pushed the pack into the shadows in case the visitor was Lahti; to Valann’s surprise, however, it was Fox, Dusk’s cousin and sometimes assistant, who leaned his head in but did not enter.
“Rowan sent me for you,” he said quickly. “She asks if you would come to her hut.”
Surprised, Valann hurried after Fox, who, to Valann’s amazement, did not enter that hut either, only indicating to Valann to go in.
Rowan’s hut was almost dark, lit only by a single scented fat lamp. Dusk was sitting before the lamp, staring raptly into its flame, with Rowan anxiously beside him. Rowan glanced up at Valann and hurriedly beckoned him over.
“Come and listen,” she said. “He speaks of your sister.” Dusk turned toward Valann, but Val could see that the Gifted One’s eyes looked upon some point beyond him.
“She is near,” he said. “She stands on a narrow line between one world and another. You will meet her on that line. She is the light burning against the darkness of the great storm to come, but you are the spark that will light the lamp. She is our hope for today, and you will be the one to give her the hope for tomorrow. Strong walls are but half the answer; strong roots must be their anchor.”
“Tell us where she walks,” Rowan said quietly but insistently. “Tell us where Val must meet her and how he will reach her safely.”
“They came from the north, but they have passed the eastern edge already,” Dusk said. Then his brow furrowed and he shook his head, as if losing the vision.
“Has she passed the south?” Rowan asked gently. “Where does she walk, Dusk?”
“She walks—she walks—” To Val’s alarm, Dusk began to shake. Great droplets of sweat broke out on his skin and rolled down his face. “She—sh-sh-sh—” Dusk’s voice trailed off in a stuttering gurgle, and he tumbled stiffly backward to the furs.
Immediately Rowan seized the Gifted One’s hands, swiftly binding them with a strip of leather. Val was already carefully prying apart Dusk’s clenched jaws to force a piece of wood between his teeth. Dusk had bitten his tongue and the inside of his mouth severely on occasion when he’d been similarly afflicted, and Rowan and Val had long since learned how to deal with his strange ailment. It took both of them to capture and bind Dusk’s jerking legs, but when that was done, there was nothing to do but leave the Gifted One on soft furs, far from the lamp, until he was well again.
Ordinarily Rowan would have given Dusk a sleeping powder that the Gifted One kept prepared for such occasions, but now Rowan hesitated. Val knew why; dreaming potions had such a profound effect on Dusk that to give him another mixture of any kind would be dangerous. Rowan and Val exchanged worried glances, Val praying silently but fervently that the Mother Forest would once more return his father-by-love’s spirit.
At last Dusk’s jerking motions stopped and he slumped quietly to the furs. Rowan moistened a soft skin to wipe the sweat and drool from his face, removing the wood from his mouth; more slowly, Val unwound the bindings from Dusk’s wrists and ankles, leaving the strips ready to hand. It wasn’t unknown for the Gifted One to suffer a second attack of his shaking illness immediately after the first.
It was some moments before Dusk wearily opened his eyes, but Val thanked the Mother Forest to see that the Gifted One’s eyes were clear and knowing again. Dusk turned his head to face Val.
“I saw your sister,” he murmured, still panting for breath.
“I heard you,” Val said quickly. “Rest yourself.”
Dusk shook his head.
“I remember,” he said. “She was in danger. Great danger.”
“Did you see where she was?” Rowan probed gently.
Dusk frowned, then sighed and shook his head again in frustration.
“I don’t know,” he said tiredly. “My thoughts turned south, and I saw violence and danger, but I did not see her. I think you should wait, Valann. She will come to you, I think.”
“From the south? Past the Blue-eyes who would kill any who set toe-tip on their lands, elf or human alike?” Val retorted. “She would need to walk unseen, indeed! No. I won’t wait.” He turned to Dusk. “Lahti must not come after me. Not into Blue-eyes’ lands. When you’ve rested and recovered, will you tell her I’ve gone east?”
Dusk smiled, his tired eyes twinkling a little.
“I’ll speak to her now,” he said. “Hurry and go. A deer will be waiting at the southern edge of the village.”
“You mustn’t exert yourself further,” Rowan protested, but Dusk waved a hand weakly, dismissing her concern.
“We’ve asked Valann to take a terrible risk,” he said, struggling up to a sitting position. “I’d be ashamed to deny him that small assistance. Go, Valann.”
Valann hurried, skirting the edge of the village to return to his hut so that Lahti would not see him. He quickly poured water over his hut fire, making sure that the last embers were dead before he shouldered his pack. No time for further preparations; what he’d packed already would have to suffice. Then there was the short, careful journey back around the edge of the village again to make his way south where, true to Dusk’s word, a large stag grazed peacefully, unalarmed by Val’s approach. The stag was a bit more skittish as Val carefully strapped his pack to its back—Val did, after all, smell of fire and cooked meat— but it allowed Val to mount and headed rapidly south with no urging from its rider. Val settled himself as best he could far back on the stag’s back to avoid the hard ridge of its spine and resigned himself to a long and uncomfortable night. He’d have to get as far as he could on the stag; when he stopped to camp it would undoubtedly wander off, and he had no way to summon another.
As long as he was riding, he moved swiftly enough to risk using one of the common roads that led from different sections of the Heartwood toward the Forest Altars. He could easily be seen by patrols as he passed through their territories on the common road, but it was doubtful that they would offer him harm as long as he stayed on the road. Many clans, while not openly allied with Inner Heart, knew that Val was Rowan’s son-by-love and would likely permit him to pass through their lands with no hostility despite his human appearance. Even hostile clans would probably not bother with a lone elf—even an odd-looking one—on the common road, passing swiftly through their territories and offering no obvious threat. It was when he left the road that he’d be in danger.
Valann rode until the sky was beginning to lighten and he was so weary he thought he’d fall off the stag’s back. Valann let the tired stag go its own way; he himself had barely enough energy to find a suitably hidden spot for his sleeping furs and make certain that his shelter was not visible from the outside. He crawled wearily between his furs and was quickly asleep. Like any hunter in a dangerous territory, he slept well but lightly, his ears straining for any sound of danger, half-rousing periodically to sniff the air for any strange scents.
When Val finally roused, it was well past midday and quite warm, and he was dripping with sweat between his sleeping furs. Val took a cold meal from his preserved supplies and stayed where he was in the thicket. If he was, as he suspected, in Golden Flower territory, he would be wisest to wait for the cover of darkness before he continued on. The Golden Flowers were no friends to Inner Heart, but fortunately they were one of the few elven clans who lacked good night sight. Once he passed th
rough Golden Flower lands, however, and reached Swiftfoot territory, he would be wiser to travel by day; the Swiftfoots were so nocturnal that few would be about during the daylight hours.
Val had finished his meal of dried meat and was rolling up his sleeping skins when an oh-so-faint rustling in the bushes made him freeze where he was, all senses alert. There was a faint scent, familiar and yet strange—there! Val’s nose wrinkled at the unmistakable scent. What in the Mother Forest would a ripe female be doing wandering the woods alone? Surely no Golden Flower would be fool enough to—
“Valann?” The voice was familiar, and now Val realized why the scent had confused him so.
“Lahti!” Val groaned with dismay as two small hands parted the bushes and a familiar face peered through the leaves.
“There you are,” Lahti said relievedly, scrambling through the brush to sit down beside him. “I almost lost your trail after you left the common road.” She paused. “Well, you need not overwhelm me with your welcome, nor with congratulations on my skill at following your trail,” she said sarcastically. “But you might at least offer me a sip of your wine, as I rode all night and a good part of the day catching up with you.”
“How could you—” Val shook his head confusedly. Now that she was near, the scent of her ripeness was almost overwhelming. Then his eyes widened and he seized her shoulders, staring at the green band circling her arm. “Lahti! You ripened! But when—”
“Oh, no, no,” Lahti said hurriedly, her cheeks flushing. “Dusk gave me the ribbon and made a scent for me so that I would be safe from harm while traveling through hostile territories.”