by S. A. Hunter
Superimposing itself over the Elanraigh’s rumblings came Teacher’s voice, “ I tell you, she is yet too young. It is not time.”
“My beloved Entities”. With a mental groan, Thera sent, “Not now. Please.”
Both voices immediately lapsed back. They were left alone, and with a sigh, Thera willed herself to sink back into that sweet turmoil she had been experiencing. Chamak’s skin smelled of the fresh night wind, with a slight scent of smoke from the leathers he wore.
Suddenly Chamak drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and with both hands gently held her away.
Astonished, Thera stared at him. She struggled to read his expression in the darkness.
A muscle pulsed at the corner of his jaw, and the hand he raised to stroke her cheek trembled. Yet he said, “The time is not yet, myia.”
This was not Thera’s opinion at all, nor, apparently, was it the Elanraigh’s. Can Chamak hear at all? Ah, but there is yet so much for us to learn of each other. Thera rubbed her forehead head against Chamak’s vest, welcoming the scratching of its beadwork against her skin.
“What then,” she whispered.
“If it is your wish, Chaunika myia, I will ask your father to consent to our union, and we will ‘Become of One Heart’.”
“Life sworn, we call it,” Thera whispered.
Chamak’s warm hand both stroked and pressed her head against him. As she continued silent, he pressed his lips against her hair. Chamak sighed, and continued, his voice resonating in his chest. “We believe the soul chooses but one companion, myia.
“Does Maiya Ishtarik have a life sworn? Asked Thera. “Tell me of her life sworn, who was he?”
“Lehatin. He was a tall man of great girth, and our clan’s storyteller. He loved life. He loved all the Ttamarini people. Lehatin could talk even the most quarrelsome into seeing reason, without resentment. He knew all the children by their names. You will see our Maiya smile when she speaks of Lehatin, and I’ve heard her say she loved him so because he would make her laugh. She mourns for him still.”
Chamak paused so long, Thera thought he had finished speaking. Eventually he finally continued, “A wolf mates for life. I have met my soul companion, my myia. I will look no further. If you do not feel as I do, Chaunika, tell me…”
Thera sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. She felt sure she did love, yet she was troubled. “Oh…my father…he will never…”
Thera flushed. What does father really think of the Ttamarini, aside from this recent alliance to fight the Memteth. What would my people say to the Allenholme Heir cleaving to a Ttamarini. Are the old hostilities truly put aside?
Thera continued, “You see, I have the gift, there is no one else. I must train to be the next Salvai.”
Chamakin’s voice was urgent and eager. “I knew it—I felt it within you! Chaunika, this land needs us…” He gestured toward the forest.
Thera’s neck hairs prickled as the Elanraigh voices sounded, sweet and sudden, an arpeggio of crystalline notes. Doesn’t Chamak hear the Elanraigh? His expression doesn’t alter.
“…not to be hidden away in a wilderness shrine, but to be leaders and teachers. To build a strong land by teaching our people to be Enoita with the land.” His expression was earnest as he looked into her face. “I do not mean to anger you about the beliefs of your people, myia, but do you truly believe retreating into meditation and prayer is what is needed now? Is that what the Goddess wants of you?”
“The Elanraigh? Nooo,” replied Thera slowly, “I have reason to believe the Elanraigh would approve our bonding.”
Chamak stood to pace the narrow confines of the crevasse. “A cloistered Salvai,” his lip curled, “What perversion is that? It has not always been that way, Chaunika. It need not be that way.” He smacked his fist into his palm, his lips compressed. He turned to her and sighed, “this is not my story to reveal to you—the Maiya forbids—but had things happened the way they should have in our grandparents’ time, we would now be a united people and Allenholme today would be filled with hearing, seeing folk, instead of …” Chamak groped for a suitable word, “…blind-hearted merchants and fisher folk.” His voice was scathing.
Thera’s tone was icy, “Truly you do not know the folk of Allenholme, Ttamarini.”
“I wish to know only one resident of Allenholme,” he replied soothingly. “Chaunika, you know I am right. In your heart you know. We are Enoitun, you and I.”
Thera felt as if she had swallowed a vile brew as his bitter words against her people curdled within her. What story? What secrets? She turned from Chamakin and began to climb the small path, back to her father’s house.
Chapter Ten
Thera reached the giant sitka tree by the Southwest Gate. She walked stiff-legged with anger, her footsteps jarring her spine as if she were a landlubber walking a storm tossed deck. She was very aware that Chamakin was a few paces behind her. She glanced back. He watched her, his expression was concerned, but he did not attempt to speak. So. She paused to get her breath and collect herself. Dawn bloomed red over the High Ranges. The sun would soon bless the Elanraigh.
As Chamakin caught up to her, she heard a clamor of agitated voices at the West Harbor Gate.
“What is it?” demanded Chamak, his body tense and alert.
“Shhh...” Thera placed her hand on his arm. She strained to hear. “Something …” Thera picked up her skirts and ran down the road, Chamak running easily beside her.
As she rounded the corner of the southwest wall Thera was caught up in a small crowd of folk, mostly mariners by the look of them, all gesturing and speaking at once to the guards on duty.
Thera pushed her way forward. She addressed a man-at-arms, authority in her voice. “Guard, what has happened?”
“My Lady,” he saluted and gestured with his pike toward the keep, “I’ve sent a recruit for my Lord.” He gestured to the crowd gathered before him, “It seems the fisher folk have found something he should see.”
Thera swirled around and scanned the faces waiting for her father. “You, guildsman, will you tell me what you’ve found?”
The old fisherman turned his liquid gaze on Thera. The hollows of his features were mauve hued in the predawn light, “Oh Lady,” he shook his white head, cap in hand, “they’ve found the Grace O’Gull, she that’s been missing at sea four days now.”
At that moment her father and his party, accompanied by footmen bearing torches, approached the gate at rapid pace. Chief Teckcharin strode beside Oak Heart.
“What’s amiss, Colis?” her father demanded of someone in the crowd.
The young mariner spoke up, “My Lord, a fishing vessel that went missing some days ago has been found. Guild master Mika epNarin said there is that which you must see and asks that you come to the harbor, my Lord.”
Her father’s brow rose, but without further word he gestured for the mariners to lead on. His gaze travelled the crowd, resting on Thera and Chamakin. Thera held herself erect and met Oak Heart’s eyes with a demand in hers. “Do not treat me as a child,” she sent, even though she knew her father was unable to hear sendings. Anger still throbbed in her. “Secrets and more secrets. They treat me as a child.”
His lips parted as if to speak, but even as Thera read his intention to send her inside, he clamped his lips and his jaw tightened.
He glanced from Thera to Chamakin, who was standing at her shoulder, and his expression briefly conveyed some pain that Thera was unable to read. Then he curtly nodded. Thera and Chamakin joined the company as Oak Heart turned to stride the stone paved road.
* * * *
Lord Teckcharin was contemplative as he glanced at the averted face of his son, and the rod stiff posture of Thera’s back as she swung after her father. Chamakin followed Thera, placing himself at her left shoulder. Everything about his son declared his c
hoice had been made.
The Ttamarini Chief’s mouth curled in a small smile as he fell in behind the young ones. He murmured an ancient Ttamarini saying that was both blessing and reminder, “The Goddess’ voice is the wind that both hollows the rock and sways the grass.”
* * * *
The road was steep, and at its foot was the harbor. Thera could see a cluster of folk gathered on the wharf. The torches they held cast eerie shadows over the water and roared in the wind as the people stood silent, waiting for Oak Heart’s party to approach. One man, the grizzled Guild master Mika, Thera remembered, stepped forward.
The sun began to lighten the sky over the amethyst-hued mountains behind them as they reached the wharf. The small birds of the Elanraigh raised their voices in clamorous greeting, yet Thera felt a dreadful oppression bearing down upon her.
It was then she saw what was left of the Grace O’Gull, the most graceful fishing ketch in the fleet.
The Grace O’Gull listed in the water, her decks charred, the wood slashed and breached. Gruesome dark stains spattered the pilothouse and deck alike. Thera’s gaze moved to the four canvas covered bodies lying on the wharf. One of the still forms was that of a huge man. Tears filled her eyes. This could only be Master Petrack’s kindly nephew, Bren.
Her childhood friend, Bren, had been a gentle giant even as a lad of twelve years. In her company he had become less shy and awkward, and she had learned from him about the sea and its creatures. Bren had sailed her up and down Kenna beach. Together they had laughed at the playful antics of sleek-coated sea-pups, and Bren had fed them fish from his uncle’s catch. Thera and he had ridden the wind in that small swift boat, and raced the tide accompanied by singing opal-finns.
Oak Heart, Lord Teckcharin, and Captain Dougall were examining the markings on the ruined vessel. Her father’s face was mottled with anger. “Where was she found,” he demanded of Guild master Mika.
Mika’s voice was strangled and hoarse, “My crew and I found them, my Lord, aground off Ripsail Island.”
There were many exclamations at this. In the vast archipelago of islands off Allenholme’s shore, Ripsail Island was only one day’s sail to the northwest. Duke Leon chopped his hand abruptly for silence, his gaze adjured those around him, and then centered once again on the Guild master.
Mika epNarin swiped angrily at his eyes with the back of a chapped fist. “They might have had some warning, my Lord—perhaps the ship herself had time to warn Petrack. They made a strong defense by the look of things.” Mika’s throat convulsed, “There is too much blood to be theirs alone. I think they did not give up their lives easily.”
“Any weapons left behind?” asked Dougall.
“Nay, Captain. Not much but some arrowheads embedded here and there. The Memteth must have gathered up all that fell.”
Oak Heart had dropped to his knee beside the shrouded crewmen. Gently he lifted back the canvas from their upper bodies. His features stiffened. Hissing imprecations through gritted teeth, he flung the canvas back, fully exposing the still forms.
A gasp and murmur rose out of the small crowd of mariners and soldiers there. Some women folk, clustered together, cried out at the sight of the crew’s mutilated bodies with bloody runes carved on each man’s forehead and chest. Captain Petrack’s eyes were gone, and gaping, bloody sockets were all that remained. Thera felt her consciousness retreating as if to distance her from what she witnessed. Though furious with her weakness she couldn’t help swaying, and she felt Chamakin’s hand in the small of her back, unobtrusively supporting her.
“Aye, my Lord,” Mika almost sobbed, “they fought hard enough to mightily upset the filthy ‘Teth, it seems.”
Chief Leon carefully replaced the sheet. “Did you see any sign of Memteth ships as you returned, Guild master?”
“Nay, my Lord. Blessings Be.”
“Dougall, I want word sent to all those on lookout, especially the coastal watches. Guild master, how many vessels are still out?”
“Only one crew, my Lord. They were spotted off Kenna North and flagged to return home. They will be here before noon.”
“That is well, then,” murmured Oak Heart. “Guild master, what do you want done with the Grace O’Gull crew? They will have any honors we can provide.”
Mika shook his head. As Guild master, he was aware of each mariner’s death-rite wishes. “All, captain and crew, wished only the Lament and their ashes scattered on the sea.”
“We shall launch the Grace O’Gull then, a final time, with the ebb tide,” said Oak Heart.
Mika bleakly nodded his agreement, and mariners and soldiers worked silently together placing the bodies of the crew back onto the deck of Grace O’Gull.
Thera was startled to suddenly realize Guild Master Mika EpNarin was standing before her.
“Lady, will you free the spirit of the wood with blessing and thanks.” His voice grated out the request and grief flooded the smoky grey of his eyes.
“What Mika asks of me, is the office of a Salvai. Here? In front of all? Will the Elanraigh permit?” Her chin came up. “Well, the Salvai is in a fortress far away. I, Thera, am here. I will do what I can,” she sent. The Elanraigh thrummed its approval along her nerves. She was hardly aware of the small crowd parting for her as she moved forward down the wharf, to lay her hand gently on the prow of Grace O’Gull.
A sad and gentle resonance vibrated under her hand. Grace O’Gull had been created from a yellow cedar. The tree had gifted itself to Petrack’s grandfather with blessings of the Elanraigh. It had been shaped by the elder Petrack’s skilled hands and they had sailed together for thirty years before she passed to the next Petrack’s care.
Thera felt herself seeming to sink into the wood, oblivious to everything except comforting the elemental. The Elanraigh elemental, utterly grieved and wounded, surged to meet her. Thera offered what comfort she could. “We share your grief, wounded one. May you find solace and peace with your own kind. Blessings.” Gently, the grieving elemental embraced her there, where they met in spirit. Then, turning, it yearned to the Elanraigh. Thera gasped at the force with which it was drawn through her. After a moment, she lifted her hand from the bow and examined it. Strange. She felt sure her flesh had joined with the very substance of the wood.
Becoming aware again of the gathered folk, of the dawn wind on her face, she gusted a shuddering sigh. “It is free,” she said quietly.
The Guild Master bowed profoundly to her, and each mariner also, as they passed by to form an honor guard about the dead. The women kin first and then folk of the town filed by to make their respects to the dead. A young lad in apprentice garb raised his sweet tenor voice in the Lament, “Elan-rai-aigh Bless-s. Beneath the sea may they rest.” Other voices joined in.” May their voices sing to us on the waves …”
Thera’s throat felt too tight to utter sound.
Still singing, the mariners made ready to tow the Grace O’Gull and her crew to sea one last time. They scattered oil about her deck.
Thera’s eyes swam. She had no wish to witness the burning. She wondered if it would be expected.
One of the elder wives left the cluster of women where they stood and hobbled toward Thera. She bobbed her head in a courtesy. Her rheumy eyes searched Thera’s features, “It be good to have you back with us, Lady,” she whispered under the song. She reached her gnarled hand toward Thera’s face.
A young woman ran forward, curtsied to Thera and drew the old woman away. “Beg your pardon, my Lady. Old Gram gets confused some nowadays, lives in the past she does.”
Thera watched after them a moment. The elder woman’s voice carried back to her. “It be the Lady Dysanna, Nora, come back to us. The forest will sing to us again.”
Thera felt a frisson lift the hairs of her neck. She glanced at Chamak. He returned her look somberly.
O
ak Heart came up to her, his face both proud and sad as he offered her his arm. The party from the keep walked back up the hill, some wrapped in their silence, some in song. Behind her the pipes skirled their notes to the lightening sky.
Chapter Eleven
Two sturdy porters left Thera’s chamber carrying her trunk. Thera scraped a fingernail back and forth across the rough stone ledge of her window. Gloomily she observed the final preparations underway for her departure to Elankeep. She felt as dismal as the morning’s overcast skies. A few fat plops of rain spattered the sill and she flared her nostrils at the scent of dusty stone dampened with the first rain in six days.
She thought she might feel better if she could talk to Chamakin, but he had apparently returned to the Ttamarini encampment with his father. She didn’t want to stay angry with him, but his disdain of her folk seemed destined to flaw their relationship.
Thera turned and paced the room. Her hands scrubbed at her scalp. What is wrong with me! She sprawled into a nest-chair in a graceless manner she knew Nan would deplore. Well, perhaps I’m being unfair. Most likely Chamakin will make an effort to see me before I leave. It must be the events of this morning and the overcast sky which oppress me so.
Thera had tried to sleep after returning from the harbor with her father, but the ravaged faces of the murdered crew haunted those restless hours.
Someone scratched at her chamber door.
“Enter,” said Thera, hurriedly sitting up and arranging herself. Oh. It’s only Rubra. The maid carried a leather satchel.
“My Lady,” whispered the girl in her soft voice, her cheeks flushing, “This is a gift for you. His Lordship commanded me to bring it to you.”
* * * *
Thera stood before the polished copper mirror and studied herself in the new riding costume. Guilt Gift. My father knows I do not wish to leave.