Ascalla's Daughter

by M. C. Elam

  “I’ve no explanation. But since the day Amberton refused an alliance based on my betrothal to his daughter, I’ve tried to rid my conscience of it.”

  “Because you thought you failed Grandfather.”

  “With his dying breath he told me so. He believed he lost face because I failed to lift my bow and slay the stag. He blamed me for the massacre at Baline, a whole village cursed because I loved Selene.”

  Hawk looked at the portrait of his grandfather on the far wall. “Why do you keep that blasted thing?” He turned back to his father. “Why didn’t he avenge Baline? Why didn’t he call in his tokens and ride on Lawrenzia. He’d allied with Andors by then. He had Shadall and the strength of Ascalla’s own warriors. What did he need with Amberton Merrill?”

  “I begged for that chance but he denied me. He refused to sanction the campaign. He convinced me I’d make a mess of it without him, and he was too old and sick by then to even sit a horse.”

  King Ian’s tired eyes rested on Hawk. The rift between them had narrowed, but each side still festered. He knew he must choose each word with care, but the air in the room felt heavy, and a tight band squeezed his chest. His head drooped, and the effort to hold it up exhausted him. The whole place smelled of piss and potions and candle wax. He gagged on his own spit and started to cough again. A drum pounded a b-bump rhythm inside his head that stopped and started with each shallow breath. The room grew darker, the air more stagnant. Pain shot from the tips of his fingers along the length of his arm and shoulder. He felt it move into his neck and imagined it bursting through the top of his head. No wind to make a cough yet the trapped beast in his chest struggled to claw free. He sucked in a breath and managed to break loose another thick mess. Who was this king, this high warrior of Ascalla, so deftly betrayed by his body that he drowned in his own worthless spit? Who was this man, abandoned, left to fight a demon he couldn’t see? Not Ian Hawkins, not he. A warrior with strong arms held him. A young warrior, Ian Edward Hawkins, fifth in the line Wryth had said and he’d know. Old friend Wryth ignored his rages and stood by him. Old friend Wryth called him Talon the way Elandra had and knew the burden on his soul. Now Ian Edward Hawkins, the fifth, his son, his boy, Hawk, held him pounding, pounding, pounding with a cupped hand across the whole expanse of his back until his breath came easier, and he expelled the last of the viscous fluid. His strong, handsome son wiped the drool from his chin and wept.

  ***

  Hawk slept in fitful bursts, waking to check his father, dozing and waking again. The healers returned, claiming their cures held promise, but he drove them away and called for Wryth. Together they bathed and clothed King Ian in a fresh dressing gown. Hawk stripped the bed daily and ordered the stained sheets and mattress burned. He sent for new ones and had them piled in the corridor along with fresh sheets. He granted entry to no one but Wryth. Three times a day they made his bed with clean linen that smelled of fresh lavender. Hawk coaxed his father to take a few spoonfuls of rich broth whenever he roused. Hawk, sweet son of Ascalla, who dared to love without consent, who chose wiser than a king the woman he desired, found his knees beside his father’s bed to pray for divine miracles.

  “He’s dying, Wryth.” Deep furrows etched Hawks face. “He’s dying.”

  “His journey here nears the end, Hawk.”

  “Father? Does your chest pain you?”

  Ian Hawkins roused enough to shake his head and motion Hawk nearer. His words came in a labored whisper. “I’ve been wrong, my son, so wrong. Lady Evangeline bears the heart of Ascalla. Guard her well and love her.”

  His pained expression relaxed. The crippled bones in his hands eased and seemed to straighten. The inflamed knuckles lost their harsh angry redness, and the swelling disappeared. Hawk thought they must not pain him so much. Wryth smoothed warm fragrant oil over both hands, and Hawk clasped the nearest one in both of his own. The oil made the skin feel light and elastic, youthful almost.

  Ian’s labored breathing grew more shallow.

  “Father?”

  ***

  He heard his son’s voice coming to him from a long way and opened his eyes. So much concern riddled that young face. A fine leader he’d make with empathy and compassion no stranger to his valiant heart.

  Ian Hawkins sat on the side of the bed. Hawk and Wryth must stay behind. Today’s campaign was for him alone. He smiled down on his son and patted the gentle hands that held his own until a squire came to tell him all lay ready. The High Warrior of Ascalla left that somber room and sought the open courtyard. He mounted his powder-gray stallion, Rollo. The wind came through the trees tinged with the spicy fragrance and song of the pines. He rode through morning fog along the Ruby and drank in the sight of Puttyroot and pucker-leafed Cranefly, still green against the snow. A mass of Old Man’s Beard hugged a tree trunk. He watched the wind catch dried blossom heads and spread their seeds over the forest floor. New life, he thought, and took comfort that death did not mean the end of all he loved. By midday, he had left Falmora far behind. Pandera came to walk beside the stallion. Heavy forest soon choked the trail, and new ground replaced the familiar. Ian Hawkins eased to the ground, surprised that no pain plagued his crooked legs. They were in fact not at all crooked anymore. Rollo nickered but quieted at his touch. Fifteen years the stallion served him, devoted and true. Time to set him free. Surprised that his fingers loosened the girth without a single twinge, Ian removed the saddle and slipped the bit from Rollo’s soft mouth.

  “Go as you choose old friend. I love you well.” The horse lowered its head and pushed against his chest. “Now, now none of that. All good friends must part for a time.” They stood close together, and Ian didn’t rush the break between them. When it came, Rollo lifted his head, scented the air, and turned toward Falmora.

  Time receded in Pandera’s forest, and every step gave Ian Hawkins back his youth. Pandera paused to eye her handiwork. Her rumbling purr gladdened his heart. Trial and sorrow left and he walked the forest as a boy through an endless Spring. The long days of his early life when he wanted nothing of rule and order returned. Days when his ambition lay not in politics and alliances but in cataloging forest flowers, naming them and describing their growth patterns, a practice upon which his father sat in haughty disregard. He wished he had thought to give his flower journal to Hawk. His dreams lived in the pages of that journal. Beside drawings of wild iris he’d set poems to his wife. Amid pages of golden rod and harp lily, columbine and wild ginger, mayflowers and the wild violets his lady loved so much, lived his jubilant excitement on the day Hawk was born, ‘My Son Came Today.’ There too, his deepest sorrow, ‘My Lady Sleeps.’ Perhaps the boy would find it and know him at last. If Hawk read the words he’d scrawled the day Marcus brought Granny Stone and the foundling, ‘Her Eyes Mirror Ascalla,’ would the boy know he meant Evangeline? He hoped so. How had he turned so far around? His disgrace, but the boy knew. Thank the gods, the boy chose rightly from the start. Like the magic he’d ignored, the boy saw and believed. Why hadn’t he believed? What a fool he’d been. A pity not to see his grandchild. A pity and a sorrow. Perhaps the Earth Mother, her name came to him now, yes, long forgotten but there for him now, Anutaya. Perhaps if she forgave his arrogance, she’d let him see one day.

  The trees ahead thinned. They’d reached the edge of Pandera’s realm and looked over a lush green meadow. Pandera pushed her head under his hand, and he stroked her soft fur. Her rumbling purr grew softer, and she stayed beside him until the stag appeared on the crest of a far hill. Ian Hawkins walked on alone, walked out of Ascalla, walked toward the stag. He knew his journey had just begun.

  20 - High Warrior Knight

  In the predawn hours, while most of Baline slept, a lone rider halted his exhausted horse outside the inn. A muddy crust covered his trail leathers to the knee. He slumped against the heavy oak door, fearful of succumbing to fatigue before he delivered the message he had carried from Falmora. Inside, a large raven that perched in the rafters above the com
mon room heard the thud and fluttered down toward an old man who sat beside the fire. It lit on the back of his chair and pecked at the folds of his cloak.

  “Awk gronka, gronka.”

  “Quiet, Benjamin, I heard him.” Melendarius reached for Lunarey and pointed it toward the bolted shutters across the room. The crossbar lifted, and the shutters opened enough to accommodate the raven. “Get thee to the stable, and fetch Marcus.”

  “Parrrupp, Marcus.” In a flurry of wings, Benjamin lit on the sill then disappeared.

  ***

  Evangeline knew that riding away from the village where no one might observe them was a smart idea. Melendarius was a cautious man, and heeding his warning about keeping away from prying eyes when she opened the portal to Falmora for Marcus and Klea made sense. Strangers passed through Baline these days, and a few took rooms at the inn. They came through the mountain pass, the only route between Lawrenzia and Ascalla. In search of a safe haven from that dismal land, they seemed glad to find the inn and friendly faces. Still Melendarius suspected spies might travel among them and warned her not to venture about alone or display any of her newly learned abilities. He took extra care to keep her practice sessions secret.

  Evangeline had mastered the ways of the Mother quickly, but her strength hadn’t reached full potential, and she didn’t know how to use it for protection. He hadn’t talked to her about the black side of her art or mentioned she might one day need to cast a death blow. How could he think to ruin the romance she found in the power of her own mind. Healing ailments and bringing sweet dreams to the village children marked her days. He knew she wanted to heal the split lip Marcus concealed beneath his mask. He warned that failure might leave Marcus worse off than before.

  No one living deserved the effort she intended more than Marcus. He had observed the gruff love and simple loyalty the knight lavished on the girl from the moment he carried her from the mountain. Still, Melendarius advised her to wait, keep her magic secret a while longer. Little good it did him. She had started talking about healing Marcus almost immediately. What good was healing magic without a way to change his ghastly three lips into two? Melendarius agreed, but he’d lost the ability to mend deformity the day he transferred Chinera’s soul into the white wolf. He passed the principles on to her, but could not teach her the centering techniques necessary. But Evangeline believed and believing transformed her to another level. He had no doubt she’d bring it off. She loved Marcus with a child’s fierce devotion. Melendarius knew that as she breathed, so too must she bestow the finest healing she knew upon the man who had never failed her. How could he not applaud such loyalty? Stubborn little vixen, he shook his head. An excellent student of the Mother but, whores britches, what willful determination. Now that Hawk had sent the messenger with news of King Ian’s death she was adamant that Marcus be whole before he left Baline.

  “Before you go, I must give you something, dear Marcus.” She climbed down from Tommy’s back. “Walk a ways with me.”

  “Milady?”

  “Please, I won’t keep you long.”

  “Alone, Milady?”

  “Aye. Just the two of us.” She looked around him at Melendarius half expecting him to make an effort toward dissuading her, but he made a fist of his right hand and knocked it against his chest pledging support.

  Evangeline stepped into the shadow of the trees and Marcus followed. She led him along a windy path through low hanging branches that parted and then closed behind them obscuring Klea and Melendarius. They walked only a short distance through the trees, but nothing looked familiar to him. Evangeline ducked her head and disappeared among the leaves.

  “Milady Evangeline, where you be?” he called.

  “Here, Marcus, in the thicket.”

  Anxious for her safety, he pulled a pine bough aside and revealed a small clearing. She stood inside sheltered by dense forest growth.

  “Did you know that my mother put me here the day Baline burned? My mother and her sisters, all of the women in my family served the Mother. I have chosen the healers path and the Mother has opened my mind to her gifts.”

  “Proud I be for you telling me, Lady Evangeline.”

  “I plan more than the telling of secrets about healing magic, Marcus. Come inside the thicket.”

  He squeezed through the heavy growth. A twig caught the edge of the mask that covered his mouth and pulled it askew. When he moved to set it right, she stopped him, touched his bristly cheek, his chin, his mouth. When her open palm settled over the wet slit that oozed endless strings of saliva, a tortured cry escaped him and he recoiled.

  “Hush now. Be still,” she whispered. He quieted like an obedient child. “I’ll not see you into Falmora wearing a mask. Close your eyes. The light I call can take your sight.” Her ability had grown more powerful each day. Every trial refined her skill. The ways came to her with exceptional clarity and she felt ready.

  He reached for her hand. Her slender wrist his prisoner and pulled it from his mouth. “It be a dirty hole,” he whispered. “Not for the likes of you, Lady Evan.”

  “Marcus, dear Marcus, it is a plague you have suffered your whole life, but nothing about your mouth is dirty. Now let go of my wrist and quiet your soul.” She began to sing to him, the sweet refrain that came from the Mother. The hand that held her wrist relaxed and fell to his side.

  Marcus never spoke to her about his mouth, but she knew the agony he lived to hide. She settled her hand once more. His rapid, moisture laden, breath dampened her palm. She closed her eyes and centered her concentration.

  “Sweet Mother, Anutaya, do not let me falter. For one who has suffered long in silence without complaint, I must not lose my way. Send your magic through me to this good and true man.”

  A heavy silence followed and then Anutaya answered with an explosion of light that spiraled from the dark sky and entered the black pearl of Ascalla. Evangeline welcomed Anutaya’s truth and called the light through her own body. She traced the edges of Marcus’s saliva-drenched mouth. Her free hand tightened around the throbbing, white-hot brilliance pulsating inside the pearl and thrust her arm skyward. The pearl sizzled inside her hand. Blisters rose to mark her palm. The fluid inside them boiled, burst and ran along her arm. Flames slid over her wrist and melted together until the heat of ten thousand candles surged through her hand, her arms, her chest. The fire changed to a golden light that fell like a shower of raindrops around her body. It caught in her hair and lifted each strand like a halo around her head. It found the folds of her clothing, shimmered and danced inside her chemise until it spread to the hand that covered the seeping slit that was the mouth of Marcus Cailin.

  How she commanded the healing light remained a secret she shared with the Mother. No magic came without penalty. With equal good came equal harm. Evangeline knew the governing laws. Melendarius had taught her well. She acknowledged her role and closed her mind to the searing pain until the wet slit fused and a mere hairline seam remained where a gaping hole had lived for more than forty years.

  Once complete the pearl fell back against her skin, dark and smoky once more. She took her hand from Marcus’s mouth and bit the soft inside of her cheeks to keep from calling out. Marcus must not see the burns. When he and Klea left, she’d make prayers to Anutaya and ask the Mother’s blessing on the healing. The burns would disappear. She sensed Melendarius behind them and knew he prayed on her behalf. Sweet old man she loved him well.

  “Milady.” Marcus touched his mouth. For the first time in his life, he spoke without the hissing lisp. Every word was clear and no dribble of spit washed his bottom lip. “Milady, Evangeline. I be whole. I be a whole man.”

  She did cry then, cried at the happiness she’d brought him. He reached for her with his big burly arms and swung her around. Her heart brimmed with pleasure when he hugged her.

  “I be overstepping, milady.” He set her on the ground and took a knee.

  “My truest friend, never could you overstep. With you, I am the li
ttle girl you saved from the cold. Come now, stand and hug me once more.” She embraced him.

  “Not enough gold, milady. Not near enough in all of Ascalla for what you did today.”

  “You give me something better than gold, Marcus.”

  Evangeline led him back through the trees to the place where they had left Melendarius and Klea. A few steps, no more, but just before he saw Klea, his vision blurred. He wiped one meaty fist across his eyes. When he looked again, he saw Klea salute Evan.

  “Milady, a pure wonder. None be more worthy,” Klea told her.

  For the first time in his life no mask hid Marcus’s smile.

  “What a truly handsome man you are.” She whispered more to herself than to him, but he heard, and the smile broadened. His gaze lingered on her gentle features.

  “He’ll be asking after you, milady. What words do I give him?”

  She knew he meant Hawk, and her eyes grew moist. “Tell him that I am well and happy. Tell him I wish good things for him, for Ascalla, for his betrothed.”

  “Naught of the babe.”

  “No, Marcus. Promise me, and you too, Klea. Promise you won’t tell him that I shine.” She smiled at her own use of Marcus’s favorite phrase describing the coming child. “And Marcus, if he needs you in the days ahead, take the oath once more, and command the Ascallan Guard.”

  “I’ll send young Timmons on his way in a few days when the horse mends,” Melendarius called. He stood beside Evan.

  Marcus nodded and mounted Baron. “Be safe wee Evan.”

  She lifted the pearl to open the portal, and they disappeared.

  ***

  No one saw two horsemen enter the clearing. No one noticed because the little cottage at the edge of Pandera’s Forest stood empty. Marcus, dressed in farmers garb, took a linen mask from inside his shirt and covered his mouth. He understood the anxious plea Melendarius had sent. Perhaps one day he’d put the mask aside when Ascalla stood strong, and he no longer needed to hide Evangeline’s extraordinary gifts. But today when the old moon hid its face and the new was not yet born, two riders approached Falmora from the East to beg audience with young King Hawk. He and Klea did not come as knights of the realm. They returned as loyal men of Ascalla honor bound to serve the land. They traveled straight into Falmora and everyone they passed called out welcome. Just inside the city, they stopped to take rooms at Levon’s Tavern. A woman saw them enter and drew two tankards from the keg behind the bar.