I was amazed watching Gronwon and Wind raise the buildings. They blessed wands of rowan on the altar, then used their wands to trace walls around the altar, open on one side to face the camp, large enough to hold a group of people praying and making offerings or all five priests going about on their duties. When they finished marking the space, the altar was taken down piece by piece with the help of as many strong backs as could be mustered.
"This altar is sacred, blessed by the Goddess," Malina told me as we watched. "It has an aura. It will have to be re-assembled back inside when the temple is raised. I was hoping Gron would raise a new altar, but he likes this one. He likes old things like that. He will raise a partial altar to complement this one, though."
Gronwon and Wind walked over their lines, tracing them with their footsteps. They began to sing in a language unknown to me, mysterious words that resonated deep inside all of us. When they finished tracing their lines, they stepped back, raising their hands, and the ground began to rumble. Solid stone shot up from the ground, mostly a pale tan color, but with speckles of other rocks – agate and mica, quartz and many others, even glitters of pyrite – forming the walls marked out by the two priests. When the walls were of a good height, the song changed, and the walls curved in toward each other to form an arching roof. This process took several days, as night fell after the roof was formed the altar was hauled back in and put back together against the back wall.
The next morning Gronwon sat inside the temple and sang a more complicated song. Wind sat nearby, listening intently, learning the ways this was done. Gronwon called up stone tables on either side of the altar, and long, low, solid benches against the other two walls, taking his time and being precise. He stopped frequently to drink, fresh water brought to him by Malina. This part of the construction was done by mid-afternoon.
A great cheer arose from those of us watching as the temple was finished and the priests blessed it.
By singing a different song, Gronwon tunneled into the ground to make two wells, one at each end of camp, over the next week. While Gronwon rested after each well, Wind called up a low wall around the deep holes, to keep children from accidentally falling in. Others assembled the pieces of wood and rope to hold a bucket for dipping into the well under the priests' watchful eyes.
After the wells, Gronwon and Wind made a basin pool to form the communal bath, with space for a sluice gate at the side of the basin facing the river, and a runoff spout down to the river.
While the two priests worked, others built as quickly as they could a wattle and daub bath-house and a long, low building to be used as an armory so all the weapons and armor being found by Wyclif and his group could be stored properly.
Those survivors who had been woodcrafters before – those responsible for our comfortable beds and most of the furniture in the camp - built racks for weapons and armor. Selas lent his sparse approval, a nod and the phrase, "Good enough".
Chairs and stools were brought in or made and placed around the table in the great hall, now nearly one hundred people could share our meals. My companions and I sat at the connecting part of the U, the open part of the U was used by the cooks and servers so they wouldn't have to reach over any of the diners. The refugees took turns with no bickering. Like any human being, most of them could find something to bicker about even in the face of our hideous adversity, but they kept it to a minimum in most things, and carefully shared my time among themselves with a studious avoidance of argument.
Declan and his council of elders still handled most of the day to day running of the village, settling disputes and organizing the workers. He also spent part of every day training, though Declan was skilled with his sword, he felt it important to keep his skills sharp. His mornings were for training, and the afternoons he gave to managing our village. The Reckonwood camp was a good deal larger than Berowalt, but as much a proportion as that smaller than Declan's home city of Hartleton. As the constable of Hartleton, Declan knew well how to maintain a peaceful order, and anything he could not solve was brought before me, as the representative of the Goddess. I myself was advised by Selas and by the priests, and I was happy for it, never having any duty like this before.
Our camp, now a village, began to feel like a real refuge. In place of lean-tos and tents, wattle and daub buildings were being put together, the flexible sticks needed to form the wattles being found each morning at the edge of the clearing. Piles of straw for the daub were found farther away from the camp, and checked often in the mornings since some being in the forest seemed to see fit to bring more every few days. The children were put to work happily trampling the daub mixture to mix it properly, and the small houses went up quickly, though we did not have time or material to whitewash them with lime.
A group of nine refugees found their way to our camp, they'd been hiding out in caves in the north eastern mountains all this time, fighting off the dark creatures who lived there. One of the refugees was a child of twelve, already hardened and skilled with a weapon. His name was Ethan, and he demanded to be allowed to join my honor guard. Selas barked at him, "You can take your turn when you're rested and fed, and not before. I'll not having some whippet fall asleep or faint from hunger on watch! And use the bath-house, for Fimm's sake! The Chosen would choke on your stench!" Listening, I rolled my eyes. Ethan saluted and ran off, clearly pleased at being shouted at the same as the adults.
Wyclif led several more forays out of the wood to fill our armory, with Wyntan and Daltorn accompanying Wyclif's group. The brothers relished the work, though by any standards it was usually a tame adventure. On the final foray,there was trouble.
They arrived back in the village with only half the weapons they'd hoped for, carrying one man on a shield. The badly injured man had been struck with three arrows. Daltorn had taken an arrow in his upper back, but hadn't noticed until after the fight had ended and someone had pointed it out to him. Many of the group had battle injuries of some type. While Fiona and her helpers saw to the injured in a newly constructed sick ward built of wattle and daub off of the priest's home, Wyntan and Wyclif met with Selas, Declan, Nefen, Samar and me in our tent.
"It was ambush," Wyclif said. "They hit us when we left Westling. Black painted soldiers."
"Scouts," Wyntan said. "Eight of them, nearly as surprised to see us as we were to see them. We fought them, and killed seven. One escaped. We hid out for half a day, then snuck back to the wood, doing our best to keep from leading that weasel back here. I saw no sign of him. We didn't want to tip Lady Ada's hand to Iceblade."
Selas gave a short nod, turning to Wyclif.
"Were you followed?"
"No, sir, General Selas, we weren't. I know it."
"The Lady's safety rests on your word, Wyclif. The enemy seeks her, will stop at nothing to have her in his grasp." Selas gave Wyclif a hard stare.
I shivered, feeling that longing rising in me again, missing Tirk's voice, his face, his presence. Hastily I stood and moved to face out one of the tent windows, letting the cool evening air wash over my flushed face. Behind me I heard Wyclif answer.
"We weren't followed. Only a thief better'n me could have followed us without me seeing 'im."
"If you say it, I believe it," Selas said. "No one knows being followed like a thief." I could tell Selas was speculating on the possibility that the survivor was a thief, better than Wyclif. My general was unwilling to let his guard down.
"How did our men hold up in battle?" Declan asked.
"They did well," Wyntan said quietly. "They showed no fear, but were not stupid in their courage." Selas grunted.
I heard the door curtain swish, then Malina's voice.
"Everyone's bandaged. Fiona expects them all to heal just fine, and is ready to send most of them back to their own shelters. She's keeping Thomas with us until she feels he's safe to move."
I turned back to the room. "I'll go see them before they go back to their own shelters," I said.
I went to the sick ward,
still only partially finished, the wattle open on the southern end. Thomas, the man who'd been struck by three arrows, was laying on a cot near a hearth with a smoke bay. The others were standing, receiving some final instructions from Fiona. Ceilan was drawing the blankets that served as curtains more tightly against the places where the daub had not yet been applied.
Daltorn came to stand beside me, the other wounded faced me. "I've heard how well all of you did from Wyclif and Wyntan. I'm proud of you. You're fine soldiers," I said, expressing clear pride in my voice. "You fought your first real battle as the Goddess' soldiers against Iceblade with courage and wisdom. You protected this village and me as well. Thank you." They beamed back at me, sore, dirty, and proud. Daltorn kneeled and I kissed his forehead, the others followed suit to receive the same small reward.
After those well enough to leave had done so, I pulled up a stool and sat by Thomas. Fiona, drying her hands on her robes, stood behind me. The injured man lay completely still, eyes closed, his breathing restful and even. He seemed somewhere beyond sleep, but not yet dead.
"He's sleeping, but only because I gave him a potion. I didn't want him causing trouble when I removed the arrowheads. He needed stitching too. Barring infection, he'll be healthy, though he'll always be somewhat weak in the left arm from the arrow that struck his shoulder there."
I didn't ask if he was in pain, I knew he was, knew they all bore some pain now. If I could, I'd take it from them. So I kissed his forehead as if he were a child, and stood to leave.
"If there's any way I can help, Fiona, do not hesitate to wake me," I told her.
"Staying out of the way is good," she said. She smiled, showing toothless gums. "It's getting late. I'm an old woman who needs sleep. Shoo."
I smiled tiredly back at her, and obeyed.
I could hear Selas and the others still talking in the meeting room, but I walked past the door, leaving the meeting behind. As I walked down the stairs, my honor guard hurried to follow. The three of us found our way to the stream, just down from the bathing house, where Malina was purifying the day's bathwater to release into the stream. Gronwon and Wind had created the bath itself, a wide, shallow stone basin with an opening at one end, stopped by a sluice gate quickly added by the craftspeople when Gronwon and Wind had finished. The bath-house building itself had been erected over this basin, with benches brought in for holding clothes while people bathed. The water was generally tepid at best, but still better than the icy creek water. Every morning people would come and fill the basin with creek water they'd heated at their own fires, and it would be refreshed with more warm water if needed throughout the day.
This evening, we watched in silence as Malina did her work, listening to her sing her prayer in the ancient language. Gronwon told me her song was about the Goddess touching the first waters, separating the brine from the fresh so there was sweet water safe for her first children to drink. As the song finished, the water in the basin glowed for a few seconds. Malina pulled her wand out of the water and nodded at her two strapping young helpers, who opened the sluice gates, allowing the water to return from the bath to its home in the creek. She saw me standing there and waved off her helpers, coming to talk with me.
"The Chosen is watching the water purifying. Such a mundane task," she said.
"Perhaps. But beautiful nonetheless," I said.
"And here I am, she who led a temple, purifying bathwater while a field worker leads an army in the Goddess' name. Life is strange," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. I could make out her uncomfortable flush even in the darkness.
"Yes," I said simply. I could read her dislike of me, and decided it didn't matter. As long as we worked together properly, there was no reason for it to matter at all. There was a time when I wanted everyone to like me, when I felt if someone didn't like me, it was because of some internal lack within myself. Looking down the passage of time, of this last year, I could see that many were simply apathetic, they had their own lives and their own problems, and my loneliness in my little cottage with the loft was not their concern. My heart was peaceful with the thought that Malina just did not like me, and I could not make her. Whatever she had expected when she found her way to the Wood, I was not it. Her good regard was not anything I could spare time or energy to worry over. And this was a blessing, a certain freedom, not to care if a priestess I had no affection for didn't like me. The thought caused me to smile at her, and she gave me a forced smile in return.
The fact of my smile forcing her to do the same only made me smile wider.
"Good night, Priestess Malina. Rest well."
"The same to you, Chosen," she said, strained, and gave a sort of half bow. She never called me by my name.
After she left us, I turned to my guards. One was Ethan, and I gave him a genuine smile. "It is getting chilly. How would you two like to grab some tea for yourselves on the way back to the hall? I'll turn in for the night and you two can take it easy."
"We can't take tea on duty," Ethan said. "General Selas would tan me. We're to use our waterskins if we need to."
"Alas," I said. "You're a fine guard, Ethan. And you too," I told the other, a gaunt man with a large, thin nose and straw-colored hair.
"Mark, Lady Ada," he said, with a quick bow. "Mark of Luckham." I smiled at him.
"Mark. The general has remarked to me that he finds all of the guard to be adequate at their duties, which is good praise from him." I laughed and they smiled back at me, almost seeming unwilling to laugh at anything General Selas said.
We headed back to the tent. I went to my room, closing the curtain door and the curtains at the windows, my guards stood watch outside the door of the tent on either side. My blue dress and tabard were laying across my bed, I moved them onto the chest. Renata had asked if I'd like the women to take turns acting as lady's maids, but I couldn't get comfortable with someone helping me dress and undress, braid my hair, and pull on my boots every day. She sent someone up every day anyway, and the woman who came cleaned up my room and laid out my clothes. The selection was comfortably small, just my two dresses and tabards or, if I would be wearing my armor, one of my two sets of tunics and leggings. Selas put me to training on the training field every other day. He felt it did the others good to see the Chosen would fight beside them, and knew how to hold her own weapon. The biggest obstacle he found in this regard was no one wanted to hit Galiena's Chosen, even in mock battle. Most of the time I trained with Selas himself or with one of my original companions, who had no qualms about really testing me, knowing I could defend myself one way or another.
The simple dresses and tabards had changed. The women would take them for laundering, and when they came back, there would be new bits of embroidery on them, until the tabards were completely covered. The dresses bore fruits and flowers, bears and rabbits along the hems. The handiwork was exquisite, and I knew the stitchers had put their hearts into it.
There were wine and a goblet on the table near my bed. I changed into the long underwear I used as pajamas and poured myself a drink of wine. For long, quiet moments I contemplated my small room. My bedside table was covered with the small carvings of animals, soft fur rugs shrouded my floor. Two small wall hangings, one of the Goddess and one of me made by the children, hung near my bed. My new curtains were brightly colored, blue, green and yellow, and my door was now a long purple cloth, as carefully embroidered as the tabards. The little well-loved doll sat on the trunk in a place of honor. This was a cheerful and friendly room, and here was I, all alone in it, longing for Tirk. Even as one of my men lay seriously injured by Iceblade's soldiers in the sick ward across the meeting clearing, I longed for the instigator of that harm.
I lay down and closed my eyes. He didn't know where I was, and he couldn't find me or call me to him. Good. It was good, no matter how much I hungered to see him. Because of how much I hungered to see him.
Thomas healed slowly, and he was moved into the men's room to give the women back their privacy.
There was a point when Fiona feared his wounds were becoming infected, causing the slow healing, but she came to the conclusion that Thomas simply suffered from what she called "slow blood". She gave him medicines to speed up the flow of his blood and make it stronger, and he began to heal much better. It wasn't long after that before he could move about, though carefully. He moved back to his shelter about a week after that.
He was determined to fight. Selas inspected him sternly as Thomas held a weapon in his left hand and a shield in his right. He defended himself passably against Samar's mild testing, and Selas nodded. "You can fight, but know with your weak arm, you're likely as not sword-meat." Thomas nodded gravely, tilting his head back to show he had no fear of whatever end he might make.
In this busy time arrived two people dressed exclusively in dark grey; dark jerkins and pants of suede, high boots of stiff grey leather, long-sleeved shirts with leather cord wrapped around the sleeves to hold them tight against the arm. They stood in absolute if tired silence waiting for me to meet with them, Selas took them directly to the meeting table in our tent. When he told me that, I dropped what I was doing and went to meet with them, anybody Selas found important enough to require a private meeting was likely important enough to get immediate attention.
Iceblade Page 18