by Anne Logston
(What an odd thing,) Chyrie thought, frowning. (Why should they not doubt him now, simply because he will mate Rivkah?)
(Because now he has a mate and child to protect,) Valann told her. (They see that he risks as much as they. A man alone may spend his life cheaply if he is foolhardy. You know that nothing fights more fiercely than a beast defending the young in its den.)
Because of the mass of people going before it, the carriage took longer to reach the keep and could not get through the crowd at the gate. The carriage driver shrugged and tied the horses at the wall, resigned.
“Now we will miss their mating,” Chyrie said disgustedly, “although we are in some part responsible for it. I cannot push through that crowd of humans, nor see over their towering heads.”
“Then we will find another way,” Valann said. “This wall was made to keep out large-footed humans, not nimble tree-climbing elves, and we can descend from one of the towers and go around the crowd.”
Valann was right; doffing their boots, the elves found ample fingerholds and toeholds on the stone block wall, and despite its height soon reached the top. Sharl and Rivkah were already on the steps of the keep with a strangely robed human male, presumably the priest, but the ceremony had not proceeded, as Sharl and Rivkah looked worriedly around them. At last Rivkah spotted the elves atop the wall and pointed, laughing.
“There you are!” Sharl shouted. “Come down and stand with us!”
Valann nudged Chyrie, pointing to the hay-filled wagon sitting just inside the wall not far away. Chyrie nodded delightedly, and they ran across the walkway to the appropriate spot. Valann leaped first, shouting with laughter as he bounced on the loose hay; then Chyrie followed, gasping with joy as, for once, she flew in her own body. The hay smelled sweet and fresh, but it was scratchy and managed to insinuate itself into her hair and clothing, and Chyrie brushed vainly at herself as Val pulled her around the crowd to Sharl and Rivkah’s side.
The human ceremony made little sense to the elves; while they understood the words the priest used, the usage itself was confusing. It was certainly like no mating ceremony Chyrie or Valann had ever seen.
(They speak much of lands and duties,) Chyrie thought, scowling. (Why do they say nothing of the joys of mating, the binding of spirits? Are they such grim folk that for them there is no pleasure in mating, only purpose?)
(It cannot be so joyless as all that,) Val returned, (or they would never mate. You can see that they are happy from their faces. Later you can ask Rivkah what pleasures are found in mating for the human folk. I wish only to get out of this press of humans. They smell unclean, and they look at us as we look at out-kin patrols, despite Sharl’s words.)
Sharl repeated his promises after the priest, then Rivkah. Chyrie turned to gaze at Valann, clasping his hand.
(Two hearts that beat as one,) she thought, remembering the day of their mating, the smell of the sweet oils that had been rubbed into her skin and the flowers strewn about them. (Two bodies, one spirit.)
(We are the seedlings of the Mother Forest,) Val replied. (Warm fain, rich soil, and ripe seed; the blessings of the Mother Forest on our mating.)
(May our children be many as the leaves of the tree,) Chyrie thought, grinning as she touched her belly. (May the sun shine bright upon them.)
The priest had finished his long list of stern reminders to Sharl and Rivkah of the many duties and responsibilities associated with their mating. He intoned some final blessing, and the people began to cheer and shout, startling Valann and Chyrie very much. Masses of humans rushed forward to embrace Sharl and Rivkah, and Val and Chyrie hurriedly retreated around them and inside the door of the keep, peering out cautiously around the sturdy wooden doors.
“I, too, do not enjoy such crowded gatherings,” a light voice said, startling them even more. They turned to confront a gray-haired human male, short and slight, a few wrinkles around his eyes and mouth betraying his age.
“Forgive me,” the man said, breaking into a sunny smile. “I am Loren, a friend of Rivkah’s.”
“Her teacher?” Chyrie eyed the man with new respect, seeing nothing to distinguish him from other humans. “We are honored ….Grandfather,” she said a little hesitantly. The human word did not carry quite the same connotations as its elven equivalent. “I am Chyrie, and my mate is Valann.”
“And I’m Loren. Oh, I said that already, didn’t I?” He grinned even more widely. “Rivkah promised to introduce me to the two of you, but things as they stand, I thought I’d leave her be and simply introduce myself, and ask if you might care to dine with me this evening. I imagine the happy bride and groom will be—ah—dining privately, and likely supping in their quarters as well.”
“The first night we were mated”—Val chuckled—“we forgot to eat entirely.”
“For two days,” Chyrie added.
Loren laughed delightedly.
“You are so wonderfully different from the elves near Cielman,” he said. “Come, let us leave this joyful crowd to themselves.”
“Only a moment,” Val said. “We must wish them well.”
It meant another difficult push through the crowd, but Val and Chyrie finally managed to make their way back to Sharl and Rivkah.
“May your joy go deep as the roots of the Mother Forest,”
Val said, nodding to Sharl and Rivkah.
“May your children be many as the leaves of Her trees,” Chyrie finished. She pulled Rivkah down for a hug. “My heart sings for you,” she whispered into the human woman’s ear.
Loren was still waiting for them, and he escorted them back up to his own quarters. Unlike Val and Chyrie’s spacious room, his quarters were divided into three rooms: a sitting room, a sleeping room, and a sort of study. Servants appeared, laying a hearty supper in the sitting room, and Loren fussed over the meal until Val and Chyrie felt amusedly at ease with him.
“I would have come south with Rivkah and Lord Sharl,” Loren chattered, “but they were traveling fast, and an old crow like me would only have slowed them down. Besides, when you reach my age, you want to travel a little more comfortably. And of course there were the other mages to bring, too. So tell me,” he said, switching to heavily accented and rather clumsy Olvenic, “have my studies proved worthwhile?”
“I believe the elves you have met speak a slightly different tongue than we, Grandfather,” Valann said diplomatically. “Perhaps it would be wisest for us to converse in the human tongue for your convenience.”
“How very kind of you.” Loren beamed at them. “You know, I’m really quite sorry the elves hereabouts aren’t on better terms with the city. It’s a terrible pity. There was an elven village only a few leagues from Cielman, but they were so very aloof, you know, we never saw them except through our merchants, and even they weren’t allowed into the city itself; they had to set up stalls outside the walls and do their trade there. Hardly profitable. I was so hoping the elves here would be more friendly. I wanted so very much to learn about elven magic, you know. And now I hear that the humans and elves hereabouts don’t get along at all. But you’re rather different from the northern elves, you know,” he continued thoughtfully. “Rather—if you don’t mind my saying—smaller, really.”
“We are Wilding,” Valann told him. “Wildings are small in stature. Many other clans are taller, much taller, and colored differently. There will be elves from many clans coming here soon.”
“Wilding. How interesting, how very interesting.” Loren smiled. “And I don’t suppose either of you are mages, or Rivkah would have told me.”
Valann and Chyrie exchanged glances.
“We have few ‘mages’ as the humans mean,” Chyrie said slowly. “Valann is a healer and I am a beast-speaker, and those are gifts given to few elves, but there are many such gifts. Our Gifted Ones are those who have been given many such gifts, or whose gifts are exceptionally strong. I have seen Gifted Ones who are likely what you would consider ‘mages,’ but I think they are somewhat different. I
cannot explain it, I fear.”
“Do you suppose any of these elven mages might come to the city?” Loren asked wistfully.
“I do not doubt it,” Valann said. “Many clans will be sending females with child to the city. I know that the Gifted One of the Dawn’s Edges, a healer, will arrive soon, and surely there will be others.”
“How wonderful, how very wonderful,” Loren said delightedly. “But tell me, my lovely Chyrie, whatever is a ‘beast-speaker’?”
“The Mother Forest has blessed me with the ability to touch the minds of Her creatures,” Chyrie said. “It is an especially useful gift for sending messages over long distances. Even the youngest-minded beast can carry a message in thought to another beast-speaker, and follow simple commands if they choose to do so.”
“How marvelous!” Loren exclaimed. “And can you do that with any animal you like?”
Chyrie raised her eyebrows.
“If there are beasts I cannot touch, I do not know,” she said. “I have never met such a creature.”
“Well, let’s see, shall we?” Loren peeped into his pockets as if searching for something. “Weeka? Where are you hiding, Weeka, my pet? Come out, little one, and say hello to my new friends. Aha, there you are!”
The tiny creature he withdrew fit comfortably into his hand, and Chyrie and Valann leaned forward curiously. The creature had a golden-furred body rather like a squirrel’s, but its front and rear paws, if they could properly be called such, more resembled tiny hands. Its furry tail also resembled that of a squirrel, but curled dexterously around Loren’s wrist. Its head was rounder than a squirrel’s, and set rather differently on its neck, and its eyes were large and bright; somewhat large, mobile ears, tipped with furry tufts, twitched nervously as the little creature hugged Loren’s fingers tightly.
“Come, Weeka, don’t be shy,” Loren chided. “They won’t eat you; they’ve already had their dinner, and one little chirrit is too small to make a decent meal anyway.”
Weeka chattered nervously, a high-pitched chuckling sound, but hopped off Loren’s hand and edged a few fingerlengths closer to the elves, eyeing them dubiously.
“Can you speak to my little one?” Loren asked Chyrie eagerly. “She’s my familiar, and chirrits are rather intelligent anyway for their size.”
Chyrie frowned a little worriedly—she had never seen such a beast in her life—but reached very gently for the creature’s thoughts. Both she and the chirrit jumped a little, startled, as Chyrie touched a mind more sophisticated than she had ever sensed in a beast—more like sharing silent speech with a clever child, Chyrie realized, than touching an animal.
“Chrrrrrreeee!” the little creature gurgled, leaping forward. Before Chyrie could react, it had scampered up her arm and into her hair, its handlike paws wound tightly into her short curls and its tail tickling her neck while it leaned over her forehead to peer down into her face.
“Did—did it speak?” Val asked incredulously, reaching to help Chyrie as, laughing helplessly, she tried to disentangle the chirrit from her hair. “Did it say my mate’s name?”
“Indeed she did speak, didn’t you, Weeka, my little one?” Loren laughed. “Come down, Weeka, come down at once, I say! Oh, dear, when she’s this excited, sometimes she makes droppings right where she is. Behave, mischievous little monster!”
Chattering affrontedly, Weeka allowed Valann to coax her down out of Chyrie’s hair, but settled herself adamantly next to Chyrie on the table, giving Loren a very “So there !” sounding chirp as she did so.
“Trying to make me jealous, eh, my pet?” Loren said, shaking his finger at the chirrit. “But I couldn’t be more delighted. Oh, what a pity, what a pity I can’t just walk right into the forest and meet all these wonderful folk,” he mourned.
Val grinned wryly.
“Had you been the first of humankind met by our folk,” he said, “likely we would have permitted it. It is an unfortunate truth that most humans have brought swords to our forest, not smiles. But how did you come to bring with you such a curious creature?”
“Weeka is my familiar,” Loren said. “I can hear her thoughts, a little, and she can hear mine, and sometimes I can see what she sees. It’s a special spell, very difficult, where a mage puts some of his magic into his familiar. Weeka was a gift to me from a friend, a mage who lives far to the west. But do tell me, however did you meet Rivkah? She’s always been my very finest pupil. I knew she’d do something wonderful one day.”
This time Chyrie and Valann exchanged glances more soberly·
“She and Sharl came upon us when we were being attacked by barbarian humans,” Chyrie said slowly. “They fought bravely to help us, and Rivkah healed my mate. We came to the city with her to speak for our people, and she has made us welcome.”
(Well spoken, if incompletely,) Val thought ruefully. (But we will keep our peace as Rowan bade us.)
“A fight and a rescue! How wonderful,” Loren exclaimed. “And now the lord wants an alliance. Very sensible. I’m glad Rivkah’s finally gotten him to marry her. He might have done it long ago if his father hadn’t gone on so about marriage alliances. I said, ‘Marry the girl, and nobility be damned’—didn’t I, Weeka?—but no, young folk these days can’t see what’s right there in front of their noses—”
A polite mental nudge distracted Chyrie from Loren’s ramblings, and she recognized Dusk’s touch through the brighthawk.
“Please excuse us,” Chyrie interrupted, standing and pulling Valann with her. She patted her rounded belly. “These days I seem to seek the privy every hour.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” Loren said hurriedly. “But come and see me again soon, or perhaps I’ll come see you, or Rivkah and I might come—”
Chyrie hurried out, pulling Val with her.
“Is something wrong?” Val asked as they climbed the stairs to the watchtower.
“I think not,” Chyrie said. “But Loren is a kindly man, and he would have wanted to come, and I did not like to refuse him.”
As it was only midafternoon, they could actually see the brighthawk, a mere dark speck in the distant sky.
“Does Dusk have news?” Valann asked.
Chyrie touched the brighthawk’s mind and shook her head.
“No, I think he only wished my attention,” she said. “A moment.”
She settled herself comfortably with Valann in their seat on the wall and looked out through the brighthawk’s eyes, immediately seeing why Dusk had called to her; the brighthawk flew over a small group of elves, mostly children and women, some of the latter swollen with pregnancy. Most carried packs, while others dragged travois laden with sacks and bundles.
“It is the Brightwaters,” Chyrie murmured to Valann. “Dusk wished to alert me to their arrival, so we could see them kindly met at the gates.”
Val said nothing, and Chyrie pulled back her awareness to look at him. He was staring at the brighthawk, and the expression on his face reminded Chyrie of the aching hunger she had felt, looking at the forest through the stone slits of the wall.
Daringly, for she had never attempted such a feat before, she reached for Valann’s thoughts and the brighthawk’s at the same time. For a moment her perceptions fragmented into a host of confused images, and her mind seemed to stretch between her mate and the brighthawk, like a bowstring pulled too tightly, almost at the breaking point, but then Valann was with her, astonished and a little frightened, as they soared together far above the ground. Gradually Chyrie grew more comfortable with the unfamiliar sensation of touching two minds at once, and discovered in Val’s presence a kind of anchoring, giving her an unaccustomed feeling of security and strength.
She nudged the brighthawk higher, and they climbed together, powerful wings beating the air, until the elves below them were mere ants moving on the ground.
(Oh, love, never could I have dreamed this,) Val sang in her mind. (By the Mother Forest, how can I hold such joy?)
(You are my strength,) Chyrie replied,
urging the brighthawk for one last upward push. (Let me be your wings.)
Suddenly she released the brighthawk and it dove, screaming its pleasure, wings folding tightly against its body. The wind whistled by them and the earth spun below, reeling drunkenly closer and closer, as the elves looked up in amazement—
—then their wings caught air and they curved sharply, only just missing the top of the first elf’s head, arching back into the sky. The brighthawk silently but strongly protested this unaccustomed recklessness, and Chyrie, strained by the feat, had no strength to argue; reluctantly, she abandoned the brighthawk’s mind and pulled Valann back with her to the watchtower.
They sat panting raggedly against the stone, both of them sheened with sweat, until Valann mutely folded Chyrie into his arms and squeezed the breath out of her, and Chyrie could feel his tears wetting her cheek.
(There are no words to thank you for such a moment,) Val thought, too shaken to speak. (Oh, love, how can you bear to return from such a flight? My soul cries for joy, and my blood burns—)
His grip became even stronger, and his mouth took hers almost savagely. For a moment Chyrie reveled in his ferocity, the fire in her matching his; then a moment of sanity was hers and she pushed him away hard, almost stunning him as his head smacked against the stone blocks. Brief anger flashed through his eyes, and he snarled and reached for her again, but Chyrie scrambled backward, reaching for his thoughts, at the same time trying to calm the fierce heat in herself.
(Valann, you are not a beast,) she thought firmly. (It is the wild blood you feel. You must not let it rule you. I will couple with you and gladly, but you must calm yourself, or you will hurt our children. Do you understand?)