by Anne Logston
(It makes no sense,) Chyrie thought puzzledly. (We are no kin of theirs, yet we are treated as such. The humans are bound, but we, equally trespassers, are left free and our weapons returned to us. And four clans joined to become one? If Moon Lake or Inner Heart had captured Redoak or Owl clan, yes—the latter are but small clans. But this is clearly no such simple taking of territories.)
(Perhaps it is some trick,) Valann suggested. (Perhaps the clans fear human or Wilding invasion and wish us to believe their numbers larger to make them appear a more formidable foe.)
That made sense, Wilding sense, and Chyrie was, as always, impressed by Valann’s wisdom. She leaned back against his chest comfortably. Despite the pain in her ribs, the humans’ geas still upon them, and now their capture by an enemy, she felt safer than she had since they had arrived at the altars.
As would be the case with any sensibly cautious clan, there was no visible trail to mark the way to the Inner Heart village, and the horses were plainly not made for travel through the tangled growth of the forest. Their journey, already slowed by the painful pace of human and horse and punctuated by yelps and what Chyrie presumed to be curses by the blindfolded and stumbling humans, was further delayed while the elves at the rear of the group concealed the traces of their passage. Just as Chyrie thought wryly that she would have made better time, injured as she was, on foot, they emerged into a clearing and Inner Heart was abruptly before them.
Chyrie gasped, and Valann involuntarily tightened his arms around her, drawing a second gasp, of pain this time. The village was easily five times the size of the Wilding camp—and unlike the Wilding camp, which changed with the season, the amount of game available, and the supply of forage, this was obviously a permanent village. Some round huts had been built cradled between the branches of the trees as the Wilding clan did, but others were of a kind Chyrie and Valann had never seen—built on the ground in a sort of thick cone shape, point up to shed rain.
The elves who had run ahead had had plenty of time to alert the village, and apparently had done so, for it seemed to Valann and Chyrie that every elf in the forest must have been gathered in the clearing. Some of them were hastily stoking firepits or preparing food, and others were carrying wine, nuts, and vegetables out from storage, but most simply stood and stared.
Valann slid off the horse, instinctively reaching for his sword before he remembered they were fairly Rowan’s prisoners. Rowan stepped up, laying one long hand on his shoulder soothingly.
“These are our kinsfolk and guests, Valann and Chyrie of the Wilding clan,” she said. “They have brought us four human prisoners and tidings from the north. Valann and Chyrie, share our food and fire, and be made welcome among us.”
“We are honored to share your food and fire,” Valann answered. “May joy and friendship be our contribution.”
“We bring these gifts for the Eldest, in thanks for the honor of our welcome,” Chyrie added, producing the bracelets and the necklace, which she held out to Rowan.
“I accept your gifts,” Rowan said, sliding the bracelets onto her wrist and tying the necklace around her neck.
A murmur ran through the elves, but they relaxed somewhat, some dispersing to help with the preparation of food, others coming forward to help lead humans or horses to some unknown destination.
“While my kinsfolk prepare the food, come to my speaking hut,” Rowan said, guiding them away from the central clearing. “Our Gifted One can tend your hurts, Chyrie, and there are questions to be answered.”
“Speaking hut?” Chyrie asked.
“When our clans joined, we built it for private meetings of more elves than one person’s hut would hold,” Rowan said, gesturing to a large cone-shaped hut, from which a few small wisps of smoke drifted from a small hole at the tip of the cone.
Private meetings? Chyrie wondered, although she said nothing. Wilding clan meetings were held around the central fire with all kin, as was proper. Who could be excluded from any business of the clan?
“You have not named the price of our release,” Valann reminded her.
“I will consider it,” Rowan said, “when all the truths are told.”
(All the truths?) Chyrie thought to Valann. (Truth is truth, and lies are lies.)
(Not at all,) Valann thought back, squeezing her hand reassuringly. (If I kill a doe, I say that is good, because we will eat well for many days, and that is true. But the stag would not agree, for his mate is gone, and that would be true, too.)
Two elves were standing guard outside the door of the hut, conversing with a third. The third elf was obviously no guard; judging from the ornate dyed patterns and beaded decorations of his tunic and the various feathers braided into his black hair, this elf was obviously someone of importance.
“Valann and Chyrie, I make known to you Dusk, our Gifted One,” Rowan said. “Dusk, Valann and Chyrie are our Wilding kin, brought here by the human prisoners. Has the hut been readied?”
When the Gifted One spoke, his voice was as warm as his rich brown skin.
“The speaking spell has been cast, and food and wine laid ready.” He glanced at Chyrie, his large eyes sparkling green. “So this is the beast-speaker. A thousand small minds have whispered your name to me. Come into the hut and I will tend your hurts, although I understand that your mate is a healer himself. Doubtless there is little enough damage left to mend.”
When they stepped into the hut, it was surprisingly bright, although the cone had no windows. A small fire had been built at the center in a pit lined with stones, and furs were strewn around it for seating. Small clay fat-lamps hung from the walls as well, explaining the hut’s surprising brightness. Platters of meat and fruit, and skins of wine, were laid by the fire.
The humans were seated around the fire. Their blindfolds had been removed, as had Rivkah’s gag, but their hands were still bound. They watched the approaching elves—Sharl indignantly, Rivkah anxiously, Romuel and Doria warily.
Rowan faced Sharl squarely.
“As I said before, I am Rowan, Eldest of this clan. What is your name, and do you speak for these others?”
Sharl struggled to his feet, awkward because of his bound hands. “I am Sharl, son of Loran of Cielman and High Lord of Allanmere. My companions are the Lady Rivkah, a mage in my employ, and Doria and Romuel, my guards, and yes, I speak on their behalf, although Rivkah is more fluent in your language than I.”
“Do you understand that you and your people are fairly our prisoners, captured trespassing upon our territory?” Rowan asked him.
“I understand, but I must explain that—” Sharl began.
“No.” Rowan cut him off sharply. “There will be a time for explanations. Answer me simply. Do you understand that it was our right to take you prisoner, and that we have fairly done so?”
Sharl sighed.
“Yes, I understand that.”
“Then if you, as leader over these three others, give your word that none of you will attempt violence or escape, nor will your mage cast any magic, we will free your hands and treat you with the courtesy due those who share food and fire until my judgment has been rendered,” Rowan said. “Will you give such word?”
“Do I have a choice?” Sharl asked wryly.
“Of course you do,” Rowan said evenly. “You can choose to remain bound and treated as an enemy, if that is what you prefer.”
Sharl sighed again.
“I give you my word as High Lord of Allanmere, on behalf of myself and my companions,” he said.
Rowan nodded, and Dusk drew a knife and cut the thongs binding the humans’ wrists.
“You are welcome to share our food and fire,” Dusk said, sheathing his knife, and Chyrie and Valann glanced at each other. His phrasing was of the lesser offer of food and fire, given to prisoners, rather than the full welcome given to guests and kin that had been made to Val and Chyrie. The subtle distinction, however, was apparently wasted on the humans, for Sharl and Rivkah glanced puzzledly at each other e
ven as they rubbed the circulation back into their hands.
Val and Chyrie sat down, the jar making Chyrie gasp and press a hand to her ribs. Immediately Dusk turned back to her.
“Forgive me,” he said. “You should not have had to wait.”
“It is possible she is with child,” Val told him. “She ripened only days ago, and there has not been time for her scent to change again. Is it too soon to know?”
“I will see.” Dusk flattened one hand against Chyrie’s belly. Chyrie was impressed; Dusk had obviously honed his power much more finely than Val, for she felt nothing but a slight tingling warmth from his touch. He sat back and eyed her puzzledly.
“You say you ripened only days ago?” he said slowly.
“No more than five days.” Chyrie nodded. “I am certain of that.” She hesitated. “Is something awry? The truth is that I was assaulted by humans, and Val and I feared—”
“And when was this?” Dusk interrupted.
“But two nights past,” Val said.
Dusk touched Chyrie’s belly again, frowning, then turned to Val.
“Was she injured in her childbearing parts such that you used healing magic upon or near them?” Dusk asked.
“It was the greatest healing I have ever attempted,” Val admitted.
“Then that is the explanation,” Dusk mused to himself. He turned back to Chyrie.
“You are indeed with child,” he said. “I was puzzled twofold. First, the life within you is too strong for a seed planted but five days before. It is as if the seed were planted months past, which was not possible if you only just ripened. But I have seen it happen that when very strong healing magic was used upon recently impregnated females, both animal and elf, that the seed of life was hastened toward fruition. We try to avoid such hastening because little is known of the consequences. You may expect to feel movement very soon, and birth in perhaps six to seven moons, not twelve.”
“You said you were puzzled twofold,” Val said quickly. “Is something amiss with the child?”
“Naught but the fact that there are two sparks of life, not one,” Dusk said, shrugging.
There was a moment of complete silence.
“Two?” Rowan asked in a very, very quiet voice. “She is carrying two?”
“Another Gifted One can confirm it, but I am certain,” Dusk said, shrugging again. “Both are healthy and strong, as far as can be told now. I have never seen the like. It is surely a gift from the Mother Forest.”
“Surely you have been sent to us for a great purpose,” Rowan murmured.
“We were not sent for any purpose of yours or of the humans,” Val said adamantly. “Surely you must see that Chyrie must be returned to our people for protection. She and the lives she bears are too precious for any other course.”
“Certainly nothing must endanger seed touched by the Mother Forest,” Rowan agreed absently. “I will consider this. Be assured, Valann, that no harm will come to you or your mate so long as one of us stands to defend you. Dusk, finish tending her, and then there must be talk.”
Again Chyrie was impressed at Dusk’s skill, for she felt nothing more than the easing of her pain as her ribs healed under his touch. When he had finished, he stepped to the side of the hut and touched one of the curving wooden supports. A line of pale light shot up the wood and spread to the other supports, flowering out until the entire interior of the hut glowed softly. Dusk returned to the furs beside the fire and sat down next to Rowan.
“This hut contains us within a spell of true speaking,” Rowan said. “No lies may be spoken within it by any of us. Take food and drink as you will, and I will hear Valann and Chyrie speak first.”
“There is little to tell,” Val said, shrugging. “But a few days ago we were on wide patrol for the Wildings, and saw Silvertip camping on the edge of our boundaries.” He quickly told of Chyrie’s impending ripening, their decision to travel to the altars, the attack by the humans, and the rescue by Sharl and his companions. “I can think of nothing else of any significance, unless you wish the details of our coupling.”
“Any coupling that could produce two lives at once might well be worth learning”—Dusk laughed—“but we will spare the privacy of your memory. Let us hear the humans speak now.”
Sharl was silent for a long time. At last he poured himself a goblet of wine and spoke.
“I am the youngest son of five of the House of Loran,” he said. “It became plain to me that I could remain in my father’s house as a hanger-on, living on my title and the inheritances of my brothers, or I could start anew and build a House of my own. I did not think it would be difficult. There were many rich lands to the southeast, and many peasants who would be more than happy to migrate to them in exchange for plots of land and the expectation of a profitable and thriving trade city. I chose the land and my settlers with equal care, traveling often to other holdings to seek out the restless, the discontented, those living in places where all the good land was already taken and the trade roads overburdened. The Brightwater River, I said, would be our trade road and our protection, and water for our crops. Quickly the settlers came to claim the lands they would hold under me, and the beginnings of a city began to rise above the land.
“But there were other difficulties,” Sharl continued. “Farmers were mine for the asking, as were some craftsmen who would come on a venture, but that was all. I lacked merchants, more craftsmen, troops—and more than that, I needed money and materials. Nobility were harder to entice away from their comfortable homes. The forest surrounding our new home was tenanted by elves who harried and hunted any who entered the forest for wood or game. Those elves showed no interest in treating or even speaking with us—they were far more interested in peppering our hides with arrows.
“I decided to return to my family holding and seek assistance from my brothers in the form of money, boats, troops to protect my people, and mages for hire,” Sharl said. “I received”—he paused briefly—“promises of such aid. I was returning to Allanmere with my guard, when north of the forest we were attacked by a large group of fur-clad barbarians with crude weaponry. In the battle we lost most of my guard—you see before you what remains—and only three of our attackers survived. We pursued them into the forest, hoping to question them, but when we found them they were near to killing Valann and Chyrie, and we killed them instead.”
When he was silent, Rowan scowled.
“That is but the beginning of the tale,” she said. “Continue.”
“We nursed the elves,” Sharl said slowly. “We realized that we were already deep in the forest and were likely to be set upon. We attempted to persuade Valann and Chyrie to guide us through the forest, believing that in their company, other elves would be less likely to kill us. They refused. We tried several times to persuade them, and still they refused. I at last told my mage, Rivkah, to lay a geas on them to restrain them to our company, and she did so. She did it most reluctantly and entirely under my instruction; I wish that known. I alone am entirely responsible for the actions of my people, and I think that—”
“What you think is of no importance,” Rowan said. Her gaze at Sharl was as hard as steel. “What I think is that you have told me nothing.”
“You said yourself that your spell assured the truth,” Sharl protested.
“What you have told me is worthless,” Rowan said coldly. “You do not endear yourself to me with half-truths, and you do not spare yourself punishment by hiding behind silence.
“That these fur-clad men ambushed you I believe,” Rowan said slowly. “But that you found them important enough to follow into the forest when you already knew, as you said, you would receive no kindly welcome there, that I question. That having already incurred elven wrath by trespassing on their lands, you decided to further enrage them by bespelling two elves and display them through the territories of numerous other clans, that I question. Those acts have the sound of desperation.”
Sharl said nothing.
&nb
sp; “The humans who attacked you fled into the forest,” Rowan mused. “Perhaps they did not know the danger in that course. But you knew. You knew they would not come out the way they went in, because you were there. You knew that they might be killed in the forest, or they might emerge to the southwest, where your new city is, and where they would be captured. And while they wandered in the forest, walking in circles or being killed, you could quickly and easily take the road around the forest and reach your city in safety. No. You came into the forest for a specific purpose. Tell me that purpose.”
Sharl was silent.
“Your offenses are many already,” Rowan warned. “If I judge you upon what facts we have already observed your death is certain. If you would have a chance for life, speak now.”
“You would let them live?” Valann demanded angrily. “They have captured and enspelled us, risked our lives, and worst of all interfered with our endeavors to conceive a child. How can you even consider sparing them?”
“I did not say I would spare them,” Rowan said calmly. “I said only I would hear them and consider their words, and I shall do so. Well? Will you speak, or will you die?”
Sharl was silent again for some moments. At last he sighed.
“Very well,” he said. “I have nothing more to lose.
“What I told you of my past is true,” he said, “and complete enough. However, my true reason for returning to Cielman, for the reasons I gave, was further prompted by a summons sent by messenger bird from my father and brothers. When I returned they said that there were rumors of war in the north, of displaced peasants fleeing southward ahead of a massive army of barbarians moving slowly but steadily south and west and leaving a trail of utter destruction behind them. Small groups, possibly scouts for such an army, had apparently bypassed many of the larger cities and towns and fared even farther south.