Trinian

by Elizabeth Russell

  Garrity released her and stepped back, unseeing, blinking hard, trying to reign in his scattered thoughts. “Which means that Trinian gained it back.”

  “I know. We scarcely ever hoped for such a thing; but it seems he will not retain it for much longer. And, Garrity, there is more.” She paused here, doubting her own sanity, wondering how she dared say it aloud. She took a deep breath. “The god is sending his men through Drakans.”

  If she had suddenly sprouted a bird’s head from her shoulder, he could not have looked at her with more astonishment. “Drakans does not exist. It is only in tales that old men tell to pass the time.”

  She swallowed and persisted. “They said that was their route.”

  “Even if it does exist, all the tales agree that it is impossible to find the entrance in life. Surely that is not what they said.”

  Her stomach flipped and shoulders tightened, but she refused the urge to lash out in defense of herself. “All I know is what I heard, and that is what they said.”

  Garrity paced the ground, his head bent and brooding, and Lavendier sat down on the chopping block. As she watched him move back and forth before her, she thought of all the tales she had ever heard about the eerie underworld of Drakans; a haunting land of shadow and pale light, with specters and muses roaming aimlessly, and voices filling the inner ear with beguiling, fatal sounds. It was, according to legend, the pathway between life and death, and if the enemy could utilize this passage, then he must have control over the dead as well as the living.

  Her breath quickened, and she clenched her fists. Her homeland and brothers, the great power reared against them, and her extreme helplessness in this place, which suddenly seemed to her too large and too flauntingly beautiful, overwhelmed her. It was no longer a haven of peaceful tranquility; it was a den of smug security. It was a place that never changed even if everything else became ugly and vile, and it was too much for her.

  “We have to do something,” she broke out, but suddenly, Viol ran up to them, out of breath, to say that Adlena had gone into labor.

  * * *

  There were no complications – to Lavendier’s unspeakable relief, who found herself severely taxed by the experience. Every little finger, toe, and nose was healthy, pudgy, perfect, and round, and Adlena held close to her a beautiful baby girl. Viol called her a little lily, and Adlena christened her Lillian.

  When, towards morning, all the bustle surrounding the birth had fallen into quiet, Garrity returned with Jacian, holding the prince, asleep, in his arms.

  Lavendier had come outside the stone house, around which they had hung their cloaks, to catch some air and wash her hands in the early light of dawn. She bent over the stone basin, scrubbing hard, and Garrity watched her uncertainly, and then made a sound in his throat to get her attention. When she looked up, startled, she suddenly laughed aloud; laughed so hard she could not breathe, and he smiled at her as she wiped tears from her eyes. He asked, in a reverent whisper, if all was well.

  “All is very well,” she said. “Come with me and you will see for yourself.”

  Garrity woke the young prince, and going in, Adlena handed him her daughter and said, “Meet the man who is responsible for preserving your life, my darling. To him you will always owe allegiance.” He took the infant in his arms, effortlessly, and not at all as though it were the first infant he had ever held, though he had never, in his twenty-five years, encountered a baby so young. In fact, Jacian was his first experience with a child.

  94

  To Love Is to Belong

  Lavendier, awakening later that day when the sun was halfway through the sky, rose with a heavy resolution to find Garrity.

  She came across him beside the lake where he was holding Lillian, well-wrapped in his cloak, while Adlena slept.

  “How is she?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

  “Sleeping,” he smiled.

  She sat beside him and in an uncharacteristic gesture, laid her head on his shoulder and studied the infant in his arms, and he did not seem to notice. Sitting side by side, gazing across the lake, the former characteristically and the latter uncharacteristically silent, Lavendier prepared herself to say what she had come to say, but suddenly, however, it was he who startled her by beginning a conversation.

  “Now that I see a baby so close – it makes me want something. Something more than what I have wanted before. I think… I want a chance to see life through my own children’s eyes. I have never felt so before.” At this strange and open speech, Lavendier’s heart leapt and beat hard in her breast. She did not answer, and he continued. “Every time she opens her eyes, she is seeing something for the first time: seeing something new, that we take for granted. Everything she sees is a miracle to her, and she is a miracle to us. I am more afraid and more courageous all at once.” He gazed hard at the little girl. Her head was covered with a soft dark fuzz, and her face was pink and soft.

  Lavendier wanted him to say more, to include her in his dreams, to say he wanted to have children with her, to live his life with her when they returned home, and her heart was too full to tell him of her resolution. But perhaps he was not even thinking such things. She was a selfish princess, he was a demi-god. She was his friend, his charge, his responsibility, and perhaps a part of him still dismissed her as petty and manipulative.

  “Garrity,” she began, sitting up now, and trembling, “You must send me.”

  Garrity raised his head, not understanding.

  “To Drian. I have to go to Drian and warn them.” His face darkened, with anger or fear, she could not tell, and she plunged ahead with her explanation. “My life has importance if, and only if, there is a kingdom. And even then, the kingdom will get on without me. You have no other men to send, and you cannot leave the others now. And I know that it must be me.”

  His face was contorting in pain, rage, or disbelief, she could not tell, and he opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly, Lillian began to cry. Garrity rose quickly, brought her to Adlena, and then hurried back, now with a relieved look on his face.

  “It matters not anyway,” he said. “You would never get to Drian in time to warn them.”

  “I have thought of that,” she said, “and I believe Habas will have a way. I cannot tell you why, but I believe it. I have certainty. I can at least go as far as his oasis, and seek his help.”

  He was bowed down now, as if a yoke were laid on his shoulders, and he fell to the ground. His firm voice broke and he moaned, “How can I let you go?”

  This tongue-tied her, and awkwardly, she shifted her feet, unsure what to say. “You want to complete your mission,” she ventured at last, “I understand. You feel my leaving would, somehow, lessen the success of our journey. I know. You want to protect me – but you have to let me go.” She paused, and then asked, “Do you trust me?”

  Against the deep, stirring emotions that tormented him – emotions he had ignored and never acknowledged to himself, that he had feared and rejected and buried deep in his heart – her question pierced him. He only looked up at her with tears in his eyes; to which she looked compassionately back, and said quietly, “Thank you.”

  * * *

  “Come with me.” Locked hand in hand, Viol and Lavendier clung to each other. “I want you to come.”

  Viol wanted to go. This drifting sister, who always ignored her when she was young, was now more dear and precious than her own life. A separation from her was now as painful as the one, months ago, with Afias, and all over again, she felt alone; but she looked over her shoulder to Adlena and Cila, to Lillian and Jacian. They were helpless, frail, and weak, and she was capable, nurturing, and strong. “I cannot leave them,” she said. “They need me, and I belong to them.”

  “Yes!” Viol jumped at the suddenness of her sister’s cry. Lavendier’s face lit up with sudden understanding – the expression in her eyes as loud as her voice. “That’s just it, isn’t it? I belong to Drian, and you belong here. Garrity belongs to all of you. We belong
with who we love. Love makes us belong.”

  Viol giggled. “I don’t think you made your point strongly enough. Say ‘belong’ one more time.”

  “But I’m right, am I not?”

  “Of course you are. Love makes us responsible for others, especially if they need us.”

  Lavendier watched Cila’s slow, languid movements as she responded half-heartedly to Jacian’s prattling conversation, and Adlena’s brave face as she nursed Lillian and feared for the safety of her husband and family. She realized she had a responsibility to these frail sisters, even as she left them, perhaps forever, and she squeezed Viol’s hands. “Take care of them, darling. Keep them safe for me.” Then Lavendier looked to where Garrity was standing apart, waiting for the sisters to finish their adieus, his head low as he scuffed the turf with his boot, and as Viol embraced Lavendier one last time, she promised, “I will. All of them.”

  Lavendier embraced Adlena, Cila, and Jacian, kissed Lillian, and at last stood before Garrity. He cleared his throat. “Here,” he said gruffly, thrusting something into her hands. “Take this, and do not read it until you are over the mountain.”

  It was a letter, which she put tenderly in her pocket. “We will see each other soon.”

  He swallowed hard, and cleared his throat, but found nothing to say. She leaned forward, looking up into his downcast eyes. “Trust me,” she said at last. “I have conviction.”

  He cleared his throat again, and said suddenly, “Here, give me that letter back. You should not read that.” He was reaching out his hand, and she leapt back.

  “Oh, no!” she cried. “You gave it to me, and there’s no way you’re getting it back!”

  A laugh burst from him in spite of himself. “No, but really… you shouldn’t…”

  “Really nothing! Goodbye all, I love you! I’ll see you soon!” With that, she skipped off at a run to the mountain.

  95

  Melcant

  She set out on foot. Getting over the mountains would take one day, and the journey to Habas’s another. On the morning of the second day, when she finally reached the bottom of the mountain, she stopped and pulled out the letter. She tore the seal and read it hungrily, and realized, by the second paragraph, why he had tried to take it back.

  My dearest Laven,

  I don’t know the laws that pertain to the marriage of a Princess of Drian, especially for the eldest daughter, for whom I imagine there are special protocols, but if they allow a captain of the army to seek her hand, I will put mine forth when we return.

  But my heart fails me at writing those words, for I do not possess conviction that I will return to Drian. From the moment you said you would leave, I have felt a dark cloud growing, and I truly think one of us will meet death before we see each other again. I do not have the ability to predict the future, but the certainty of it weighs on me. It is for that reason alone that I did not want you to leave, and it is a selfish one. You have already faced death, and that moment was the worst of my life. If one of us must die, I pray it is myself. But when I die, I will do so with regret, because it will mean never seeing you again.

  I send you with my deepest love,

  Garrity

  Her heart leapt to her throat, then sank, then leapt again as she read, jerking about inside her like a restless, caged bird, seeking to break away and soar with glorious joy. He loved her, though he had clouded it with dire predictions. But he loved her, and losing her was the worst thing he could imagine. And she knew he could imagine many terrible things. But he thought that he or she was going to die. She put the thought from her mind, and hoped he believed it no longer, and her words had convinced him otherwise. She held tight to her hope that they would see each other again - they would.

  The goddess Hope blazed like a fiery emblem in the breast of Lavendier, her guiding star at the commencement of her most demanding journey yet, and she knew, with this light of conviction, that Habas would send her to Trinian; with magical conveyance, magical messenger, or winged bird, he would have a way to warn her brother.

  She was not prepared, then, to find the desert, where the hermitage ought to have been, utterly empty. Except for the sun, which filled the oasis with palpable, touchable heat waves; except for the sand, which rolled and blew in eddies through her hair; and except for the little pond and patch of grass around it, the desert was desolate, and Habas was gone.

  Lavendier fell beside the water and stirred it with her finger. “Am I mad? Surely this is where I slept, in a beautiful stone house, with a large stone courtyard, and a cool bedroom with a bathtub. Am I mad now, or before?”

  “Neither, fair lady.” She started up and glanced about – but there was no one. “My master is gone,” the voice continued. “When he faced the gods without a thought for his own life, his journey was complete. His abode, his body, and his soul were lifted bodily from this place.” A shimmer gleamed above the sand, and a wavering animal seemed to be approaching Lavendier. “But my stall and the oasis remained, invisible to the demons, to wait for you.” From out of the shimmer materialized, full and solid, a breathtakingly beautiful white horse, high-stepping over the scorching sand as if it were only a cool dirt road.

  Awe-struck, Lavendier marveled at the contour of its body, the size of it, the beauty. It was larger than most horses, like a thick horse that would carry a fully-clad knight, but it was dainty in spite of its girth. Its coat shone with perfection, as if it carried its own light… and from its mouth issued words.

  “We have little time,” he said after a moment, wherein she only stood and stared in wonder, “you have an important mission, and I must bear you for it.”

  “I can ride you? You are like the king of horses. You are too noble to bear me.”

  “All the time you stayed with Habas, you did not meet me, because I am too noble. For hundreds of years, only Habas spoke with me, because I am too noble. When his home disappeared, I was left behind – because I am too simple. We are only here for the service of others – and my service is now come upon me. This is a task no other horse could complete, so I, the noblest of horses, alone in the world, lonely in my abilities, shaped through magic and solitude, must bear you to civilization.”

  96

  They Ride with the Wind on their Heels

  Melcant, for that was his name, bore her with the speed of the wind over the vast distance of the Desert, Karaka, and Mestraff. From place to place the world flew by with a roar in her ears, and sometimes she remembered a place from before, and sometimes her steed took strange paths. When they had reached the edge of the desert, he had coiled his legs for a spring, and with a mighty sail, he leaped into the air and did not land until the brown, drizzling, depressing mud was behind them. His dainty legs never touched it, and he continued on his way through the stony, leafy courses of Mestraff.

  The mighty horse wore a saddle of seamless leather, beautifully crafted and pre-laden with bedding, provisions, and accessories to see them through their journey, so that they need not stop for any reason.

  When the first evening fell, they were halfway through Mestraff, and Melcant’s pace slowed to navigate in the dark. He did not sleep, but just by trotting a bit slower, he received refreshment, and when the sun rose high in the sky again, he galloped for hours.

  When the sun mounted to its zenith on the second day, Melcant pulled up beneath the overreaching leaves of a birch tree. Its shade was cool after the oppressive force of the sun. He panted, his great white sides heaving and white with lather, and drank from a rivulet flowing past the buckling roots.

  He shook his long white head to fling the hair from his eyes. “Come, my princess, awake!” he turned and nuzzled her where she lay draped across his neck, having fallen asleep over an hour before. “Awake,” he said again, and she stirred. Then startled, she sat up.

  “Did I sleep? Oh, Melcant, I am so sorry. I cannot believe I retained my seat!”

  “You will never fall so long as you are on my back. And I am glad that you
slept. Greater trials await you in Drian.”

  “But you must be exhausted.”

  “I am still strong enough. But you should eat before we resume.”

  “Alright. How far are we?” she asked as she alighted.

  “We are nearly to the Rordan.”

  She gasped. “Already?” With the months it had taken for their caravan to travel through the Mestraff woods still fresh in her memory, she was in awe. Silently, she pulled open the travel bags, and found cheese, sausage, bread, and dried meat and fruit. It was much richer than the meager fare she had packed for herself, and she ate gratefully.

  His words about coming trials sank into her mind, and she asked, “Can you see the future?”

  “No. I only know what I was told by the goddess Hope when I was left behind from my master.”

  “Hope?”

  “Yes. She came to me and hid me from Power while he fought my master.”

  “What happened to your master?”

  “Four gods came against him, asking for you and your family. They were cruel, evil gods – I have never seen anything like it. But he would not betray you. He fought them, and when they pressed forward to utterly destroy him, they met empty air, for he had at last been released from his prison. He, and my other companions in the barn, disappeared.”

  His voice was heavy with sorrow, and his ears drooped as he pulled up grass and chewed it slowly.

  “Oh, Melcant, I am sorry,” Lavendier went to nuzzle against his nose, “I did not mean to awaken your sorrow.”

  “Habas taught me to speak and think. It was his magic that awoke my slumbering mind. He was both a father and a friend.” He lifted his head, and though, as a horse, he could not smile in the traditional manner, still his eyes lightened at her. “But now, I think, I have a new friend.”