Greendaughter (Book 6)

by Anne Logston

  “Kicking your beasts with those metal prongs,” Val said. “She is a beast-speaker, and their pains hurt her. Cease that now.”

  Sharl scowled darkly, but the geas forced him to stop. The horse immediately slowed to a walk.

  “You didn’t complain before we ran into those Moon Lakes,” the lord demanded.

  “We used her ability to send messages,” Val told him. “She had to keep it secret, lest your mage cast some additional magic to prevent our one hope of rescue.”

  “These horses,” Sharl said between gritted teeth, “are accustomed to spurs. How do you propose I get any speed out of them without it? You see yourself that they slowed the minute I stopped.”

  “Do you treat your people thus, beating and ordering them without giving reason?” Chyrie said exasperatedly. “Well, it is known that a stag will come to you more eagerly for an apple than an arrow. That is why beast-speakers were given to their clans by the Mother Forest.”

  She touched one horse after the other, enjoying the unfamiliar feel of their minds; it took her a moment to understand them, but they, like flocking birds, were accustomed to receiving direction from a leader, and immediately responded to her urging to quicken their pace. Sharl yelped in startlement as his mount leaped forward, setting a pace as quick as the quality of the trail and the horse’s endurance could reasonably maintain.

  “That’s a remarkable gift,” Rivkah said to Chyrie, dropping back to ride as nearly beside them as the narrow trail would allow. “So that’s what Rowan and Dusk meant when they were talking about beast-speakers, and when he gave you the hawk. They do what you say, is that it?”

  “They do as I tell them if they are so minded.” Chyrie shrugged. “It is much as if you approached a stranger and asked a boon of him—you must give good reason, and perhaps offer something in return.”

  “But if you feel their pain,” Rivkah said slowly, “how do you hunt? And aren’t there animals dying all around you every minute in a forest like this?”

  “She does not hunt, nor do any hunt in her presence,” Val said, folding his arms protectively around Chyrie. “That is the price of her gift. The many small pains and deaths around her, those are like the sound of crickets at night—from hearing them so often, one learns to ignore them.”

  “That is a part of it,” Chyrie said. “The greater pains I learn to close out in reflex, as you would close your eyes if I thrust my fingers at them. But it is no more pleasant for me to keep my mind closed tight than for you to keep your eyes so closed always. I am accustomed to receiving signs, warnings, tidings from the small lives around me.”

  Thunder crashed again, and a few early spatters of rain trickled down through the leaves. The bird songs changed as the small life of the forest found shelter where it could. Rivkah raised her hand and started to chant, but then stopped, glancing ruefully at Val and Chyrie.

  “Not us,” Val said sternly. “We will have no more of your magic.”

  Rivkah nodded and resumed her chant, riding a little forward so that her gesture included the humans and the packhorse but not Val and Chyrie. As the rainfall increased, Chyrie could see the effect of the woman’s magic—the bright clay decorating their horse dripped and ran off, but the humans and their horses remained dry, although the horses slowed as the trail quickly grew muddy. Chyrie wondered at them; it was convenient to keep the supplies dry, but Chyrie welcomed the freshness of the warm rain running down her hot face.

  Then she chuckled, recognizing in herself one of the mild fevers that often accompanied elven pregnancy; probably the others found the cooling rain much less pleasant than she did.

  The brighthawk screamed above her, and suddenly Chyrie felt herself sharing its eyes, annoyed by the irritating drip of rain on their feathers, their sharp eyes seeking through the brush for small animals fleeing the rain back to their dens, powerful wings beating the air as they gained height, hot blood running fierce as they sighted a rabbit below. Together they dove—

  Chyrie broke free just before the hawk reached its prey, quickly shutting herself off from the rabbit’s death. Sometimes she could follow through, burying herself in the fierce hunger and joy of the hunter, but today, with new life in her womb, she did not want to feel anything die.

  As if in answer, there was a slight stirring in her belly, the faintest flutter of movement under Val’s hand where he held her. Val froze for a moment, then his incredulous joy filled her mind as the hawk’s hunger had.

  The trees, the animals, the thirsty soil, all welcomed the rain like a lover, and suddenly Chyrie felt a part of it all—the new seeds, brimming with life, awaiting only the caress of the rain to make them push up toward the sun; the animals, many of them swelling with life even as she did, or only now calling their mates to couple with them in dens, or nests, or under the warm spring rain; life pulsing warmly up from the earth through the trees until they could not contain their joy and blossoms burst forth at the end of their branches, shouting the glory of the Mother Forest.

  Chyrie slid out of Val’s grasp and, a little clumsily, dropped to the ground, wanting to feel all that life pulsing under her feet. She trotted alongside the horses for a while until the wild blood surged up through her and would not be contained, and then she ran ahead recklessly, leaping over the roots that crossed the path, her toes squelching through the rich mud, slipping and sliding in the wetter spots.

  Her clothing grew sodden and she ripped it off, flinging it carelessly into the brush at the side of the trail. She ran until the breath wheezed loudly through her lungs and pain stitched up her side, trying to keep pace with the fierce throb of her heart, until her body could no longer keep up with the pull of the wild blood to run faster, faster, until she took flight herself. Frustrated, she dropped to her knees on the trail and howled, a free, joyous sound, and the wind howled back at her as a bolt of lightning flashed so brightly that each leaf shone.

  Thunder drowned out the sound of the hoofbeats behind her until the riders nearly overran her. The horses slid wildly in the mud or veered into the brush beside the trail, and Val slid from his horse, laughing.

  “What in the world?” Sharl demanded, his face crimson with rage and embarrassment.

  “Has my vixen exhausted her wild blood for a time?” He chuckled. He threw her sodden clothing over the packhorse’s load and pulled a thick fur from the pack.

  “Come,” he said gently. “You will be chilled, and that is not healthful for a woman with child.”

  Chyrie was shaking violently, more with excitement than cold, but she let Val help her back onto the horse’s back, climb back up behind her, and wrap both of them in the fur as Sharl angrily motioned them forward again.

  The horse was warm under her and Val behind her, and the skin, good elven tanning, easily shed the rain. The storm rumbled on fiercer than ever, but inside the fur, warmth drove out the storm.

  Valann slid his hands over her rain-slicked skin.

  (They think you are mad,) he thought, nuzzling the back of her neck. (They all think you have gone as mad as a fox with the foaming-mouth sickness.)

  (Perhaps I am,) Chyrie thought back amusedly, snuggling closer to him. (What do you think?)

  Val chuckled again, and Chyrie caught a flashing vision of how he had seen her—naked and dripping with mud and rain, her sodden hair hanging wildly in her face, a wild beast’s expression in her eyes.

  (I think I would have liked to couple with you there in the dirt like a wolf and his bitch,) he thought hotly, gently nipping the back of her neck. (And did I not fear the chill of the rain on you after you had run so hard, I would have done it, even while that human Sharl glared down at us and shouted his curses at our delay. I would do it now, would we not tumble off the back of this fleshy mountain like two over amorous squirrels off a branch.)

  Chyrie chuckled at the thought, although under Val’s caresses she grew warmer than the protection of the fur could account for.

  (Even our impatient human lord must stop for the n
ight,) she thought back. She giggled as his fingers found a ticklish spot under her ribs. (Then, if you wish, I will dump a skin of water over my head and roll in the dirt with you.)

  “If you will roll in the furs with me, that will suffice,” Val said warmly. “And if the storm does not slacken soon, we will have to stop in any wise.”

  The storm did not slacken; instead, it grew worse, but Sharl pressed on until it became apparent that they would soon be unable to see the road. Even then Sharl wanted to continue, but when they found a likely campsite by the roadside, even Rivkah sided with Val, and Sharl reluctantly gave in.

  The camp had obviously been used before, probably by Gray Rock patrols; the stone-lined firepit was useless in the rain, but the cleared areas had grown over with moss, a surface much preferable to the muddy ground. Sharl, Rivkah, Romuel, and Doria set up waxed tents in the clearing of the same odd woven fiber that they wore, but Val and Chyrie moved back farther into the forest and chose some high bushes under which to place their waxed-hide tent, both for privacy and additional protection from the rain and wind.

  There was no hope of a hot supper, but the elves at Inner Heart had stuffed their packs with fresh and dried fruits and tubers, spiced dried meat, clay pots of honey, wrapped packets of sap-sugar, and journey cakes of ground meat and fat, dried fruit and crushed nuts. The humans huddled miserably in their tents, shouting at each other over the storm, but Val found their clay firepot and scavenged enough dry bark and wood under trees for a small fire to light the tent and heat spiced wine.

  By the light of their small fire, Val took out his dye pots and the new pots that the Inner Hearts had given him, and he exclaimed delightedly as he tested one new color after another.

  “These shades will double the number of colors I have,” Val said, experimentally blending two powders with some fat and testing a smear against his skin. “There will be no color in the forest I cannot make.”

  “And what will you do with those magnificent colors?” Chyrie laughed. “There remains little enough skin you have not already covered with designs.”

  “There is room for several more butterflies,” Val mused, eyeing Chyrie’s naked body appreciatively. “Some flowers here”—touching a spot on her hip—“and here, and berries here, I think. But first I will go back and enhance the colors on the old designs.”

  Chyrie stretched luxuriantly on the thick fur they had spread on the ground.

  “Can you think of nothing better to use on me than your needles?” she asked teasingly.

  Valann smiled and covered his pots.

  “A difficult choice,” he said. “But for tonight, my new colors can wait.”

  The storm broke during the night and the sun shone brilliantly on the wet leaves, a thousand new seeds springing into leaf and flower wherever the warm rays touched, and small new mushrooms popping up in the shady spots as if by magic. Val and Chyrie, unlike Sharl, were delighted that the muddy trail caused a necessarily slow pace; there was much to see, and in any event, they were much less eager to leave the forest than the humans. Sharl fumed and Rivkah worried, but Val and Chyrie ran beside the horses much of the time, sometimes stopping to harvest tender new greens for the pot or to nibble as they ran.

  The weather held clear for two days and nights, and when they passed through Gray Rock, Swiftfoot, and Spotted Fawn lands without mishap, Sharl’s foul mood lifted somewhat. Sometimes the humans would sing road songs, which Val and Chyrie enjoyed immensely, although the humans (with the exception of Doria, who turned out to have a lovely voice) sang with more enthusiasm and volume than skill. Val and Chyrie refused to share the humans’ food and wine at night, but after the first night they did share the wild potherbs, seasonings, roots, and mushrooms they had collected as they traveled, and they would sit at the humans’ fire for a little conversation before retiring to their own invariably secluded camp.

  The third night out from the Inner Heart village, they stopped for the night on Longear land. Before they had more than half unloaded the horses, several of the Longears themselves appeared, hovering shyly at the fringes of the clearing and peering over the bushes, the long, sharply pointed ears for which they had been named twitching excitedly.

  It took several minutes of persuasion from Val and Chyrie before the dark-skinned, wiry Longears would venture out from their hiding places and approach, but they clustered around Chyrie eagerly, hesitantly touching her belly with a certain reverence. They had brought gifts of fresh game, but would not place it over the fire until the humans had backed well away. Even then, they would not share the food, but crouched just outside the firelit ring, their eyes reflecting the flames, and murmured quietly among themselves.

  “Speak, Longears,” Val urged, holding out a wineskin. “What tidings can you give us?”

  They ignored the skin of wine, and spoke so softly that Val and Chyrie could not tell which elf was speaking.

  “You must not stop on Blue-eyes land,” one murmured.

  “They have vowed to kill the humans and take Valann and Chyrie as hostages,” another said fearfully.

  “They want no alliance of the elven clans.”

  “They say they will suffer more than any if elf allies with human.”

  “They are likely correct,” one admitted. “The land bordering the western edge is theirs.”

  “And humans must pass their land to reach the elven clans.”

  “And the reverse is true, too.”

  “They fear all this passing back and forth will frighten away their game.” There they stopped, as if waiting for Valann and Chyrie to refute their statements.

  “If a human army assaults the forest,” Valann said slowly, “every clan in the forest will be disturbed, and all border clans most of all. It is true that some of the game will flee deeper into the forest, for the inner lands will be the least disturbed unless the humans actually penetrate the borders. But it is also true that if the border clans are left without aid and their game moves inward, so too will they move inward, raiding the other clans for food.”

  “Rowan of Inner Heart proposes an alliance,” one of the Longears whispered.

  “Such a thing is unheard of.”

  “Kin are kin, and out-kin are out-kin.”

  “But if the Mother Forest has sent us a sign, we must listen to Her counsel.”

  They looked expectantly at Chyrie, and Chyrie turned, troubled, to Valann.

  “Rowan is a wise Matriarch,” Valann told them. “She sees much that we, younger and less wise, do not, and we go to further her plans as she bid us. But Valann and Chyrie speak only for Valann and Chyrie. We do not speak for the Mother Forest, or even for Wilding. Our Eldest is also old, and he is also wise, and I think he will not agree with Rowan. There are many ways of seeing. We cannot advise Longear how to act.”

  “Whether Blue-eyes allies with Inner Heart or the humans, or they do not,” Chyrie added, “they will still suffer if an army reaches the human city of Allanmere, for the invading humans will doubtless raid the forest for food and timber. And then Blue-eyes’ game will flee in any wise, and Blue-eyes will then raid Longear land in turn. That is the way of things.”

  “We are not strong. If we anger Blue-eyes and they attack us, we will fall.”

  “If we ally with Inner Heart, what help will we receive against Blue-eyes? Inner Heart is far away, and Blue-eyes is close.”

  “We have angered Blue-eyes already, by letting you pass through our lands.”

  (They not only have long ears as rabbits do, but the same cowardice,) Valann thought disgustedly. Aloud, he said, “Longear must decide what they will do. If kin is kin and out-kin is out-kin, then why should Longear concern themselves with Blue-eyes’ wishes? Decide for yourselves what is right and what is not. That is why the Mother Forest gave you minds to think.”

  The Longears whispered together for a long time. At last one of them, an older male with a long white scar running down his face, inched forward, his large brown eyes cast downward.
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  “Valann and Chyrie have been touched by the Mother Forest,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “They follow the bidding of Rowan of Inner Heart. The Mother Forest would not have blessed them if they were walking the wrong trail. Valann and Chyrie must therefore be doing the will of the Mother Forest. Longear will do the same.”

  Not waiting for an answer, the Longears melted back into the brush as quietly as they had come.

  “Why not just tell them to kill us and be done with it?” Sharl scowled. “You seem determined not to help us.”

  “We owe you nothing,” Chyrie said distractedly. She turned to Valann. “But I like it not, that other clans see us as messengers of the Mother Forest, showing them that they should obey Rowan.”

  “I don’t doubt Rowan is hoping for that,” Rivkah said. “She’s a clever leader. I’m sure she planned that other clans see you as an example.”

  “And what are your thoughts about the Blue-eyes?” Val asked, removing his dye pots from their pack. Chyrie obligingly pulled off her tunic.

  “We’ll use Rivkah’s magic to conceal us, just as we did coming into the forest,” Sharl said, looking anywhere but at Chyrie. “If it hadn’t drained her so thoroughly to heal Valann and—well—”

  “And to bespell us,” Val said sourly. “You may as well say it.”

  “Well, yes, and that,” Sharl admitted, “she could have been concealing us after we picked up the two of you, and we could have got through the forest without all this trouble.”

  Val started to retort, but merely frowned and shook his head, and began a new vine branch just under Chyrie’s left shoulder.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?” Romuel asked, and Chyrie almost jumped; to the best of her memory, it was the first time that the burly warrior had addressed her or Val directly. But then, it had only been a few days that she could have understood him if he had.

  “The sting of a bee or the prick of a firethorn is more painful,” Chyrie said. “I have largely grown accustomed to it over the years.”