by Anne Logston
(The rest can wait,) she thought. (Go to Doria.)
Val scowled but obeyed; the human woman was hardly breathing now, and Val shook his head.
“She is wounded in her vitals,” he said. “If I cut for the arrow it will kill her. I can stop the poison and the bleeding and give her a little strength, but I have not enough power left to do more.”
He pressed his hands carefully around the arrow; sensitized to his healing as she was, Chyrie could almost see the power flow out of him. Doria arched upward, gave a last sigh, and was still. Romuel stared blankly, unbelievingly, as the rain poured into Doria’s unseeing eyes, until Valann gently closed them. The warrior sat quietly in the mud beside his wife, holding her hand, until Rivkah gently drew him away.
When Valann turned away, his hands were shaking with exhaustion and his face was gray.
“I did what I could,” he panted, almost falling as he crawled back to Chyrie. “But the arrow was lodged in her vitals and the poison had gone to her heart.”
“If you had gone to her first—” Sharl began hotly, but Rivkah laid her hand on his arm.
“Help me with Sharl,” she said to Romuel. “There’s nothing more to do for Doria. They’re bringing a cart now.”
Drained as he was, Val received no help from the humans standing by and watching as he made a pad of absorbent leather and dressed Chyrie’s wound. By the time he was done, the humans had carefully pulled the spear out of Sharl’s shoulder and were helping him to a cart filled with hay, harnessed to four horses.
“I cannot wrap your wound tightly because of your belly,” Val said regretfully, “nor stitch it here in the mud and rain, and it must yet be cleaned more thoroughly. Why did you stop me before it was healed?”
In answer, Chyrie took his hand and pressed it against the now prominent bulge of her belly.
“I did not know what harm it might do them,” she murmured. “I felt as if I might split open, they grew so quickly. I will heal, as generations of Wildings have healed, and there was no need to risk them.”
That Valann could accept, and he retrieved one of their waxed-hide cloaks to give Chyrie some shelter from the rain.
Sharl was carefully helped into the cart first, and Doria, now wrapped in a blanket, was also lifted in, but only Rivkah came back to help the exhausted Valann lift Chyrie onto the damp straw.
Valann and Chyrie had begun to appreciate the speed with which a horse could travel and still carry a rider; however, they had never ridden in a cart over a road before and found the bumpy ride less impressive. The jolting speed caused Chyrie to grind her teeth—only Wilding discipline kept her from crying out—but neither she nor Valann suggested that the cart be slowed; at the moment Chyrie wanted nothing in the world more than to get out of the rain, and Sharl had not yet had his poisoned wound tended. Despite her pain, Chyrie addressed a moment of prayer to the Mother Forest—first for her unborn children, and then for Doria’s spirit, that it might pass safely to the roots of the Mother Forest and there dwell in peace.
At last the jolting ride stopped, and Chyrie saw the huge stone building that she had seen through the brighthawk’s eyes. From the air she had, she realized, gotten no true idea of the immense size of the structure. The entire number of Rowan’s people would have occupied only a small part of it, and Chyrie could see that it, like the wall, was still incomplete, judging from the tumbled stone and half-built rooms occasionally illuminated by the lightning.
An astonishing number of humans poured out of the huge open door of the stone building. Someone had apparently ridden ahead from the gates, because several of the humans had brought out litters. They hurriedly lifted Sharl onto a litter while Romuel lifted Doria’s still form onto another, but hesitated until Rivkah glared at them sternly; then they gingerly helped Chyrie and the utterly exhausted Valann onto a litter together at Valann’s fierce insistence.
Even from her supine position, Chyrie could see and wonder at the winding stone halls and stairways, lit by torches set into sconces along the walls. The stone was still rough and new.
A door opened and they were carried into a huge room. A fire was burning in a place recessed into one wall, and thick furs were strewn over the stone floor. A few windows showed that the storm outside continued unabated.
“What is this place?” Valann asked wearily. “In all this huge stone mountain is there no place where my mate and I can rest?”
“This will be your room,” Rivkah said, appearing beside them. “I came to see you settled in. Sharl—” she hesitated. “Doesn’t need me right now.” She turned to the other humans. “You can go.”
The other humans set the litter down quickly and fled with amazing speed. Valann struggled to a sitting position, motioning to Chyrie to remain where she was.
“How many others stay here?” Valann asked warily, looking around.
“In the keep? About a hundred when I left,” Rivkah said. “Now, I don’t know. Some who were living at the keep have built their own houses, probably, but more have come.”
“No. In this place,” Valann said, gesturing around him.
“This room?” Rivkah looked surprised. “This is your room, for you and Chyrie. Nobody else will stay here but you. Come on, I’ll help you to the bed, and then I’ll bring Chyrie. One of our healers will be here soon, as soon as they know Sharl is in no danger and Romuel—well, they’ll give him a sleeping potion. I’ll stay until the healer comes.”
“No.” Val stood slowly, shaking his head. “Leave us be. Only see that our packs are brought. I have medicines in them.”
Rivkah sighed wearily.
“They’re there,” she said, pointing to a corner where the leather sacks rested. “May I at least carry Chyrie to bed for you? You’re very tired, and if you drop her, she could start bleeding again.” Val looked inclined to deny her request, but Chyrie shook her head at him and he reluctantly stood back.
Chyrie would not have recognized the bed as a bed; she had never seen a sleeping place raised up on a heavy wooden frame, surrounded by heavy hangings. The bed itself was larger by far than the last woven-switch camp they had had. She gasped, too, when Rivkah put her down on it—the thing was unexpectedly soft, and she sank down deep into it.
“If you’re sure I can’t bring one of Sharl’s mages—” Rivkah said tentatively.
“You can leave us be,” Val said firmly.
“All right. I’ll come back in the morning, then. Romuel will need a friend to talk to.” Rivkah hesitated by the door, as if she would say something else, then simply stepped out.
“Leave it, love, for tonight,” Chyrie said as Val walked shakily to retrieve their packs.
“I will not,” Val returned. “Your wound is not clean, and I will see it bound at least, lest you make it bleed anew.”
Chyrie sighed; she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep, but she submitted to Val’s ministrations and let him gently work off her wet clothes and toss them with his in a corner.
Despite their weariness, however, they could not sleep. The noise of the storm and the pain in Chyrie’s hip distracted them both, and the unfamiliarity of the soft bed and the stone walls around them made it even more difficult. At last they shared a skin of wine, piled the furs into a thick heap on the floor, and settled there before the fire. At last the wine and the warmth lulled them to sleep.
“I hope you’re not going to sleep on the floor as long as you’re here.”
Rivkah’s voice startled them both awake. Val immediately leaped to his feet, sword in hand; Chyrie started to do the same, then cried out involuntarily as the movement caused a flare of pain in her hip.
Rivkah stood smiling a little, not only at Val’s actions, but because the two maids who had come with her had stood gaping for a brief moment at Valann’s and Chyrie’s nudity, then fled with crimson faces. Rivkah looked very different this morning, still tired and sad, but much cleaner, and her grimy traveling tunic and trousers had been replaced by a gown of rich bl
ue that complemented her fair skin and hair.
“Would you like to come down to breakfast,” Rivkah asked, “or shall I have something sent up?”
“We will go,” Val said, looking at Chyrie, “if you will allow me to finish healing you.”
“But—” Chyrie began to protest.
“With the poison gone, there is no need for me to hurry,” Val said patiently. “Dusk said that it was very strong healing that affected the unborn. I will heal you slowly and with great care, so that it does not reach your womb.”
“Very well, then,” Chyrie agreed.
True to his word, Valann did heal her slowly and carefully. He was growing in his ability, Chyrie realized, just as she had never thought that she could jump between so many animal minds as she had in the forest. Then she felt a pang of guilt. If his healing had improved so in the course of a few days frequent use, he might likely have become a Gifted One in their clan—had not her beast-speaking sensitivity driven them to live apart.
“We found you some clean clothing,” Rivkah said awkwardly. “I’m afraid all we had that might fit is, well, children’s clothing, for us. But the maids will look at your old clothes and see what we can have made.”
Chyrie scrambled over eagerly, wincing a little as her newly healed muscles twinged, to examine the garments. They were made of woven fiber as the humans wore, and Chyrie marveled at the unfamiliar texture. There did seem to be a rather large stack of garments, however, some white, some colored; several of the tunics, seemed unusually long.
“Those are gowns,” Rivkah told her, indicating her own gown. “Women wear them.”
(How does anyone run and hunt in such a garment?) Val marveled privately.
Chyrie formed a very amusing mental picture of the idea and chuckled, then cast the gowns aside.
“I think not,” she said. “Tunic and trousers will suffice, and better accommodate my belly as well.”
Rivkah hesitated, but said nothing as Valann and Chyrie sorted through the garments for size, at last finding suitable sets and donning them.
“How light they are,” Chyrie marveled.
“Well, you’re only actually wearing half.” Rivkah grinned rather embarrassedly. “We wear undergarments under our clothing—that’s the white ones.” She jumped backward in amazement as Valann nonchalantly lifted the hem of her skirt to look underneath.
“Surely you want some food now,” she suggested.
“I could eat three deer, a wild pig, and five rabbits,” Val said, “and then come back for more.”
“And I could eat twice as much,” Chyrie groaned. “These small wolves in my belly demand a full share and more.”
This time Val and Chyrie took more of an interest in the twistings and turnings of the keep. The stone labyrinth might have daunted most newcomers, but they had developed an almost unfailing sense of direction and memory for trails.
“How fares the man Romuel?” Chyrie asked as they walked.
Rivkah was silent for a moment.
“He and Doria had been married—mated, if you will—for many years,” she said. “He’s—he’s very angry right now, angry at Valann and at all elves. It’s best if you avoid him for a time. Anger is his way of putting grief aside for now.”
“I do not hold any human in kind regard,” Valann said slowly, “but I wished no harm to the woman. I would have saved her if I could, but to choose between healing her and my mate, and my mate with child—”
“I understand,” Rivkah sighed. “And I know how important children are to your people. Even Sharl understands—well, somewhat. But Romuel loved Doria very much, and he has no great love for any elf now. It’s no different from the way you felt, Valann, about us. It’s unfortunate. Most of the people who were there last night have no fondness for the elves, either, and they’ll talk. It’s not going to help matters. Well, there’s nothing to be done about it for now. Come, here’s the hall.”
Valann and Chyrie had thought their quarters were enormous, but the size of the main hall stunned them to silence. The huge hall rated two fireplaces, one at each end, and was brightly lit by hanging groupings of candles. The heavily carven table that ran the length of the hall was so long and wide that Chyrie suppressed an urge to jump atop it and run down its length. Sharl sat alone at the far end of the hall, but a huge repast had been laid.
Sharl nodded at Valann and Chyrie and glanced briefly, coldly at Rivkah, then gestured at the food.
“Be welcome,” he said shortly.
It was a poor invitation by elven standards, but Valann and Chyrie were too hungry either to be suspicious of the food or to stand on ceremony. The chairs were so low that, seated, the elves’ eyes barely peeped over the top of the table; however, when Sharl, exasperated, motioned to a servant to bring cushions, Valann and Chyrie simply climbed onto the tabletop and, despite Sharl’s glare, seated themselves there. They looked curiously at the plates and forks, but had no idea what to do with them; in the elven manner, they helped themselves from the platters as they liked and shared a mug of wine.
Chyrie discovered that the humans’ bread was much different from the rather tough and chewy rounds of stone-baked nut flour bread that the elves used to scoop up soft or liquid foods. This stuff was shaped in rounds and flat-bottomed cylinders, and was exquisitely crispy outside, meltingly soft inside. Another wonder was cheese, soft and white in bowls or golden in wheels, melted by the fire and scraped onto a plate to smear onto the wonderful bread or crumbled and biting to nibble with the fruit.
(This wine is abysmal,) Valann thought sourly, even as he reached for more. (It tastes as if it was trod out with unwashed feet.)
(Given the general state of cleanliness among the humans I have seen and their apparent aversion to water,) Chyrie thought wryly, (I would not doubt it. And the mead is far too harsh. But this foamy urine-colored liquid is good, though I was doubtful to taste it at first. Say nothing. Sharl, too, is angry at us.)
“We need communication between the city and Rowan,”
Sharl mused, “as to how many soldiers and weapons, and of what kinds, each of us has, and what other resources each of us has and requires. I think the best way to do that is for the two of you to see the keep and the city and relay information to Rowan, but I can’t spare the time to take you myself. I have to supervise labor on the wall and other fortifications, and deal with the shipments coming into the city.”
“I’ll show them the keep and the city,” Rivkah offered.
“It’s probably not wise for them to wander around alone, with the way the people—” She glanced uneasily at Valann and Chyrie. “Well, until the mage companies arrive from the west, I could—”
“Do that, then,” Sharl said shortly, turning back to his food.
Rivkah flushed miserably and turned to her own plate, only picking at the food.
(Why is he angry with Rivkah?) Val asked Chyrie.
(Humans are impossible creatures,) Chyrie told him. (Sharl is angry because Rivkah is with child and they are not formally mated. There is more, something to do with Sharl being the Eldest in Allanmere, but I did not understand Rivkah’s explanation. Perhaps their Eldests are not permitted to mate.)
(That does not explain why he would treat Rivkah unkindly,) Val protested, reaching for more cold roasted fowl.
(Why do you treat her unkindly?) Chyrie countered. (Of the four humans who wronged us, only she honestly seems to wish to make amends.)
Valann scowled and made no reply. Chyrie smiled to herself and took another round of the wonderful bread.
“How many live in your city now?” Valann asked Sharl.
“At last counting, some four thousand,” Sharl said. “But more are coming quickly—warriors and mages from the west, and soon there will likely be refugees from the north, fleeing ahead of the army. I expect six thousand or more in the city by the time any sizable force arrives.”
“Six thousand,” Val marveled. “Likely there are scarce more than that in the Heartwood, an
d we have dwelt there for many centuries.”
“I expect Allanmere to one day grow to ten times its population,” Sharl said proudly. “With its location on the river, it should one day be a great trade city.”
Val glanced sidelong at Chyrie.
(With trade roads to be built through our forest, no doubt,) Chyrie thought. (Our people will likely have some comment to make on that matter.)
(Now they number no more than we,) Val cautioned. (Now their leader is geas-bound to us. Now we can easily say no. One day, when a different Eldest leads them, when they are ten times our number, our no may mean nothing to them.)
(Then Sharl, in his attempt to make this alliance, is aiding our cause in disclosing his numbers and armament,) Chyrie mused. (It is well for us to have this information and to assess the skill of his warriors, to tell our own Eldest as well as Rowan.)
“How many of your folk are able to fight?” Val asked Sharl.
“Now? Less than a thousand with any skill,” Sharl said. “There are likely two thousand more who can pick up a weapon and try—farmers, craftsmen, and the like. The rest are women, children and the old. They can sometimes be useful in a battle, carrying arrows to the warriors, tending the wounded, and so on, but that’s about all.”
“Do your women have no skill to fight?” Val asked, surprised. “The woman Doria carried a sword.”
“Romuel and Doria came from Keralon, a city to the west, several years ago,” Sharl said. “There are more women who choose to train as warriors in the western lands. The custom is growing here, but more slowly. I know it’s different among the elves.”
“We are all taught to fight,” Val said. “Most particularly our women, for those who ripen and those who are with child are most precious to us, and if the weapons of their clan cannot protect them, then still their own skill may save them. Only the very youngest of our children and the physically feeble do not fight, and all but infants are able to assist the warriors as you said. If there are six thousand elves in the Heartwood—and I cannot say whether there are more or less than that—there are but a handful who cannot use either weapons or Gifts, or both, to defend themselves, although of course some are more skilled than others.”