Elanraigh

by S. A. Hunter

  Alba’s eyes glinted whitely, but she nodded her head, “I believe we met once before.”

  The grey wolf gaped his jaws in a good-humored fashion. His head butted Thera’s hand once more and he turned, moving swiftly to the trees. He turned at the tree line. “Sky Sister.”

  “Blessings,” sent Thera, trusting that her heart would color the inadequate sending.

  * * * *

  “I must see my aunt—I feel it is most urgent.”

  “Impossible,” replied Dama Ainise, the Salvai’s First Lady.

  The healing mistress, Rozalda, drew her thick, straight brows together. “Lady Thera, our Salvai sleeps deeply. I have given her a draught to ease her pain.”

  “Her wound…?”

  Mistress Rozalda looked back toward the Salvai’s chamber door, and her voice was low and troubled. “It is not a severe wound. It is not that which takes her strength, though she is no longer young.”

  Dama Ainise removed a filmy cloth from her sash, fluttered it open and touched it to her eyes. A sweet perfume wafted. “Rozalda! The wound is terrible! So much blood,” She pressed the cloth against her lips, her blue-veined eyelids fluttering.

  Rozalda frowned, but said nothing.

  Thera laid her hand on the healer’s arm. “I must see her myself; she might have words for me beyond your hearing.”

  As the healing mistress stared forthrightly at her, Thera flushed. Her words sounded presumptuous, even to her own ears. Who was she to claim powers here, at the Salvai’s seat?

  “I am sure if she had words for anyone, she would have spoken to me,” quavered Dama Ainise in her courtly accent, “for I have been her First Lady all these years.”

  The healing mistress’ warm hand suddenly covered Thera’s. “As the Elanraigh wills, you shall see her.” With a swirl of green robe, she turned.

  Blessings be! Thera sighed with some relief and followed in Mistress Rozalda’s wake. Dama Ainise’s light footsteps hurried behind them.

  Ever since Alba had escorted Thera into the keep, voices, barely audible, had been swirling around Thera’s head—their whispers urging her make haste to this meeting.

  They walked a long corridor slotted with latticed openings through which moonlight shone like paving stones at their feet. Mistress Rozalda indicated the Salvai’s door to Thera, and then stepped aside. Dama Ainise making as if to follow Thera, was halted by Rozalda plucking and holding her sleeve. With one heartrending glance at the Salvai’s closed door, Ainise allowed herself to be gathered into the crook of the healer’s arm.

  The torch nearby shivered, sending shadows dancing up the wall. Rozalda murmured, as if to herself, “The wind rises.” She patted the shoulder of Dama Ainise, who wept into her gauze linen.

  Thera’s hand rested on the door’s surface. Red cedar. Alive, and thrumming welcome. “The wind rises?” Something in the healing mistress’s tone held her—though the planes of Rozalda’s face were carved in shadow, Thera saw a silvery sheen on her cheek.

  Mistress Rozalda pulled the hood of her cloak forward. “Lady, there are many wounded to be seen and tended. We will leave you here, if that be your will.”

  Pressured by a sense of urgency from within the chamber, Thera nodded, and then pushed on the door, which opened easily to her touch. “I thank you, both,” she murmured. “I will stay with my aunt awhile.”

  Rozalda bowed.

  Dama Ainise’s slender fingers clenched her cloak into a tight gather of material at her neck. “Tell her we love her…” The First Lady’s lips moved as if she shaped words she could not speak. Rozalda placed a firm hand under her elbow and turned her away.

  Thera entered the tower chamber. The lattices were thrown back from the windows—one overlooking the sea, and the other facing the darkness of the Elanraigh. A restless fire gusted in the fireplace. The chamber was spare and neat. Salvai Keiris lay unmoving in the tall, canopied bed.

  Thera’s temples throbbed. She read the impression of a soul almost beating itself against the walls in its eagerness to be gone. The air was heavy with the scent of herbs and fragrant ointment. Her aunt’s left arm and shoulder were neatly bandaged and bound. Her other arm lay alongside her body on top of the immaculate cover.

  Quietly Thera pulled a small, woven-twig chair beside the bed. She gathered the Salvai’s free hand into her own, and waited.

  Settling her mind, she imagined herself sinking into a deep, quiet pond.

  In that stillness they met.

  “I always thought you disliked me,” blurted Thera, surprised again at the impression of a gentle caress. The Salvai’s ghostly image sighed, a thin breath of sound. “No!” Then, “Yes. It was envy I suffered from, child—Elanraigh forgive me my mortal blindness. Envy since I first saw you, my young, half-sister’s only child. You were such a pretty child, chasing the salamanders that basked on the sunny walls of your mother’s garden. I envied that child. You see, I knew the Elanraigh already loved you in a way it had never expressed with me. Forest-mind told me that you would be my successor—and more—a Salvai blessed with the old gifts.

  “It was difficult for me to accept. The Elanraigh freely gave you its love. Keiris continued, All I ever wanted was for the Elanraigh to love me, and I thought that by dedication, duty, and will alone I could accomplish that.”

  The pale figure in Thera’s vision looked yearningly toward the Elanraigh, then turned her face toward Thera. She continued, “I think the Elanraigh took pity on me when first I escaped here, to Elankeep. I was a woman long past receiving the Sha’Lace. Your mother, Fideiya, was only fifteen when promised to ArNarone’s heir. I had rejected suitor after suitor, ‘till my father was long past patience and swore that he would arrange for my settlement—will I, nil I.

  “It was a different bonding I craved. I always envied my older half-sister’s relationship with the Elanraigh. It is your other aunt I speak of, Dysanna. Have you heard of her? She was dead long before you were ever born and when I was just sixteen. I dreamed of being so loved by the Elanraigh. Everyone wondered that the Elanraigh would accept no new Salvai after Dysanna died. The Elanraigh mourned. As I grew I sensed the Elanraigh’s need. I persisted in my prayers and finally the Elanraigh accepted. Blessings be. It was a good arrangement, I felt useful and at peace here. Though I knew the Elanraigh grieved as the hostility between the Ttamarini and Allenholme continued.

  “Then one day, years after Dysanna’s death, some Ttamarini came to Elankeep. Dysanna’s son, Teckcharin, proposed a ritual union between us.

  “By the One Tree! A half-bred savage! He must have sensed how I despised him, and how I cursed his father for ruining Dysanna.

  “He stood silent, while their witch-woman spoke at length about a union between his folk and mine, as if such a thing could be. My sister suffered because such an alliance would not be tolerated by our people. She and the Ttamarini offers of peace were rejected out of hand. Your great-grandfather, Leif ArNarone and the Allenholme Council declared Dysanna as dead.

  “As we stood there facing one another, that surly boy and I, I asked the winds of the Elanraigh to come and destroy them for their presumption!

  “When my anger had stilled enough for me to once again sense my beloved Elanraigh, I felt only that it was both wounded and displeased by my outburst.

  “So strong was my wish to please the Elanraigh that almost, for a moment I could bow to what it envisioned. Then I imagined that manling touching me—my mind went to darkness. I could not.

  “I felt as if I smothered, and I flung the Elanraigh my refusal. The Elanraigh could have demanded my life of me, and I would have given it, but I could not do this. I do not remember what my rage and fear drove me to say to the Ttamarini’s young chief.

  “My women came and I was led away in their care. When I awoke the next day, the Ttamarini were gone.”

&
nbsp; The ghostly Salvai trembled, and the thin hands came up to cover her face.

  “That was almost twenty winters ago. I have tried my best. Though the Elanraigh and I were loyal to each other, I was never its beloved. Not like Dysanna was, not like you are. I am the withered seed,” whispered the frail voice. “Yours is the life force it waits for.”

  Thera’s brow puckered slightly as she stroked the cool hand she held. She knew there were women like her aunt Keiris who would never be life sworn, or joined with another. However, instinctively, she knew this withholding of self was disastrous in a Salvai. She considered the way she had responded to Chamakin, and felt heat rising to her skin. Yet, what if the first time she had faced another’s desire had been the bestial Memteth on the ridge. How then? She shivered.

  The Elanraigh gently nudged her attention; forest-mind’s will lay like a mentor’s hand on her shoulder. She knew what the dying Salvai needed to know, and was too proud to ask. “The Elanraigh welcomes you, aunt,” Thera sent, “as beloved sister. Be at peace. We shall all meet again at the One Tree.”

  Wind gusted through the latticed window and shadows crowded along the wall.

  Surprised, Thera heard the voice she knew as Teacher’s call softly, “Keiris.”

  The vision of Keiris turned with her pale arms reaching and thin face transfigured.

  “Dysanna!” Keiris cried in joyful recognition.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  At last her aunt had the union she craved. The Elanraigh winds blew joyously in the chamber, tossing Thera’s hair and dancing the flames. Thera released her aunt’s cold hand. “Peace to you Salvai Keiris. May the One Tree guide and bless you.”

  Wearily, Thera rose to her feet, stretched, and moved to close the shutters against the wind. Enough, she admonished, as the shutter pulled from her grasp. The winds wrapped her in a caress and then careened toward the darkness of the Elanraigh. The sudden silence pressed itself against her as she gently drew the coverlet over her aunt’s body.

  * * * *

  The Salvai’s women were waiting outside the chamber door, some wept softly.

  “We heard the wind,” Mistress Rozalda explained.

  Thera leaned against the wooden door frame, too tired to wonder. “She went to the Elanraigh. She’s with Teach– the Lady Dysanna now.”

  “Blessings be,” was the women’s ragged response. Dama Ainise sobbed and with trembling fingers, pressed her gauze scarf to her lips.

  The women clustered, as if irresolute, in front of Thera for a moment. One turned a raised brow inquiringly to the Healing Mistress. Rozalda shook her head, and with a brief gesture of her hand waved them on.

  The ladies filed into her aunt’s chamber. Thera swayed, her bones felt liquid with weariness. The Healing Mistress placed a firm arm about her. “I will show you to a room where you can rest, Lady. We will take care of Lady Keiris now.”

  * * * *

  When Thera woke, she lay a moment, taking in the details of the room where she rested. The wood furniture was of simple design, gleaming with the hand-rubbed glow of a bride’s treasured heirloom. There was a bedstead, washstand, copper mirror, trunk, and desk. An intricately carved spinning-wheel chair stood in one corner. Thick, woolly sheepskin rugs lay scattered on the smooth planking of the floor. Someone must just have been in to replenish the fire against the morning chill, for though the flames snapped cheerfully, the air in the chamber was cool.

  Thera inhaled deeply of the moist air, rich with forest scents, wafting through the one window. The chamber was homely and pleasing. All she remembered of it from last night was the bed’s welcoming softness.

  Flinging back the cover, she rose briskly. A kettle of water was simmering by the fire. Thera ladled some of the warm, herb-scented water into a ceramic washbasin. Stripping off her outer garments, she lathered herself with the fragrant soap.

  “Ssst,” Thera hissed at the pain. She lifted her hands from the stinging water and eyed the numerous cuts and abrasions.

  A Lady is known by her hands, Nan would say. Thera paused, then plunged her hands back into the warm water. I will be their Salvai, and something more. Like Teacher, and like the Ttamarini’s Maiya. A lady, yes, but also a warrior and a wise woman. She sighed. Someday, with the blessings and help of the Elanraigh. The corners of Thera’s mouth lifted a little. She could almost feel Nan’s presence, like a warmth at her back. It was a good feeling. Abruptly she sluiced away the soap and dried with the fire-warmed towel.

  A green gown, trimmed with amber at neck and cuff, had been laid out.

  “Amber!” she murmured, reverently touching the beads, “Sacred gift of ancient trees.” Biting her lip, Thera smoothed her fingers over the gown’s material; a very fine wool, sliding like silk between her fingers. She held the gown against her, and then slipped it over her head. Raising her arms to lift her hair free, she twirled in front of the polished copper mirror. The gown clung to her breast and hips, its silky length brushing her ankles delicately. Her hair was wild, not braided or groomed as Nan would have had it.

  Thera suddenly paused in her twirling; I’m someone else, someone exotic and beautiful. The woman in the mirror smiled seductively. What if Chamakin could see me now? Running her hands over her hips, she coyly turned, looking back over her shoulder at her hair hanging long and thick to the small of her back.

  In the shining copper mirror, she saw her red tunic reflected, neatly folded, on top of the cedar chest. Someone must have retrieved the Elankeep troop’s packs from where they had dropped them. She walked over and touched the garment. She felt her eyes well, an intense rush of love and homesickness. Someone had also cleaned her kidskin shirt and pants. In addition, her boots were supple and shining again.

  Thera stared. Through most of her life she had thoughtlessly accepted, just such kind of services, today she felt warmed by the quiet thoughtfulness of these unbidden attentions.

  With a small sigh, she pulled off the lovely gown, laying it aside. That elegance is for some other time and place. Instead, Thera slid the leather tunic over her head, and turned again to the mirror.

  I am changed, she observed. Reflected in the polished copper sheet, her hair was still a dark, cloudy nimbus framing her face. My face, this piercing, direct gaze, which is different. Thera blinked. I’m thinner. She leaned forward, poking at her cheekbones. My eyes seem bigger somehow and more green than before. Well, perhaps that is because my skin is darkened from the sun. Thera touched her cheekbone again. Nan would have been scolding and applying goat milk to her skin in attempt to lighten it.

  Her lips quirked ruefully. So, she thought, I’m no Cythian Beauty, that is certain. She fingered the upward sweep of her brows, like dark wings, rather than a fashionable arch. She watched her lips curve to a smile, a mouth too large to ever inspire Cythian songs of rosebud lips. “So. Well, it balances my chin.”

  She tilted that chin slightly. Chamakin admired her and wanted her. She knew that. She remembered the feel of his fingers on her skin, and the way his breath had quickened when he had touched her.

  With a shaky “Huhh” of dismissal, she made vigorous use of a hairbrush. The pain of the tangles and knots soon diminished the disturbing sensations her thoughts of Chamakin had aroused.

  She worked her hair into a single braid and then swung open the chamber door. An Elankeep guard was on duty outside her chamber.

  “Blessings.” Thera greeted her. She did not recall meeting this woman last night. “Where will I find the Sirra Alaine, or Mistress Rozalda?”

  The guard limped as she turned; her face was swollen and blue with bruising. Her hairline was shaved back on the right side, exposing a sutured gash.

  Thera’s eyes widened as she recognized her. This was the same woman whose Memteth attacker Thera had killed with the stone.

  The guard nodded stiffly, and she spoke from
one side of her swollen mouth, “The Elanraigh’s blessings on you, Lady. I will escort you to the dining hall. I believe the Sirra is still there with the Damas.”

  “I thank you.” They turned to walk. “Swordswoman…?”

  “I am Swordswoman Enid, Lady.” The guard’s gaze met Thera’s firmly, “My sword is in your service.” Thera nodded. The young swordswoman had uttered the ritual pledge with heartfelt warmth. The Swordswoman continued down the passageway. Thera followed Enid’s limping progress, her brows creased in thought. Father inspires just such looks from his soldiers, I have witnessed how his troops regard him. Thera felt a heat burning her face. These are my soldiers? If I am Salvai, it will be so.

  At the foot of a steep and narrow stair they turned toward a wider hall. Swordswoman Enid stood to the side of the arched entrance and drawing a deep breath, announced, “Lady Thera ep Chadwyn Ned’ArNarone, Heir to Allenholme.”

  Thera’s cheeks kept their glowing warmth as she entered the hall on the heels of such formality. She was further disconcerted to find the Sirra, Alba, and all but one of six Damas standing, to honor her rank.

  Only one elder Dama remained seated. Her withered-apple cheeks puffed as her head swayed inquiringly to the women on either side of her.

  “What be amiss now?” she demanded. She spoke with the loud, quavering voice of any deaf elder. The plump Dama standing beside her bent to whisper in the elder’s ear.

  “Eh? There’s what? I have not finished my tea, Ella.”

  At that moment, the elder Dama caught sight of Thera in the doorway, and clasped her hands in a childish gesture of delight. “Ah, ‘tis my Lady Dysanna come back. Blessings be!” The old Dama’s hand scrabbled on the table for her linen. She dabbed at the tears that quickly filled her eyes. Then her gaze became worried and confused. “How can this be now?”

  Thera moved forward with a nod to Sirra Alaine and the company in general, and crouched by the elder Dama’s side.