Elanraigh

by S. A. Hunter

Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was late morning when Thera awoke to find Egrit, heavy-eyed, but smiling, as she supported Alba to drink from a water gourd.

  Egrit’s voice was triumphant. “The poison has been drawn, Lady. Swordswoman Alba will mend.”

  Thera kicked off her coverlet and stood behind Egrit as she continued to offer Alba sips of water. Thera’s fingers bit into Egrit’s shoulder. “She is truly well?”

  “Weak and disoriented, but she will be herself before long.”

  Alba’s eyes opened a slit and she mumbled around the lip of the water gourd.

  “Alba,” Thera squeezed Alba’s hand and leaned closer, “how do you feel?”

  “Jus’ tired. Next watch ‘s mine.”

  The swordswoman’s eyes drooped shut again. Thera straightened and exchanged a wry look with Egrit. Alba’s disorientation would pass. Thera knew enough healer’s lore to rejoice at the return of healthy color to Alba’s flesh.

  Sirra Alaine was summoned. The Sirra’s worn look lightened as she stood by the bed and observed Alba’s improved appearance. Thera saw the Sirra’s rough hand twitch slightly, then move to gently lift the sweat-dampened hair at Alba’s temples.

  Alba’s eyes opened; her gaze clearer than before. She saw Alaine and a lopsided grin crooked Alba’s mouth. “Huh. Feels like an old lizard chewed me up ‘n spat me out.”

  “Hnnh.” Alaine snorted. Her autumn-leaf eyes shone.

  All that morning there was a steady flow of visitors as Alba’s companions came off-duty, until Thera observed the slump shouldered weariness in Egrit’s posture.

  “Enough!” She gathered all eyes with a stern look. “Time to be off, all of you. If you but look, you will see that both patient and healer are in need of their rest.” Thera had to chew down a smile at their chagrined expressions. The small troop began to shuffle past her to the infirmary door.

  “Elanraigh bless, Lady,” whispered Rhul from the doorway. Alba had spent much of the afternoon telling an elaborate and flattering tale of Thera’s battle with the lizard creature to all her visitors. It had made her sound like a hero of old. Thera snorted to herself, and yet she had been so afraid she could barely hold her spear. Rhul’s blessing was charged with warmth. Thera flushed.

  Rhul’s gaze swung over toward Egrit. “Elanraigh bless, Healer,” she said with a respectful nod.

  A chorus of good-natured blessing-be’s echoed in the hall as Rhul, loudly shushing for quiet, pulled the door too.

  Egrit, Thera thought, observing her maid’s glowing pleasure that matched her own, truth be known, has earned her way into the swordswomen’s hearts.

  “Rhul,” called Thera after the closing door, “ask Dama Ella if she will come to take over Alba’s care while Egrit rests.”

  Rhul’s dark head briefly reappeared to nod assent, “Yes, Salvai.”

  As Egrit passed her, Thera pressed her shoulder. “This is true healer’s work you’ve done here, Egrit.”

  “It was you that found the vine, Lady.”

  The corner of Thera’s mouth drew down. “Well, I was prodded, driven, by the Elanraigh to pick the plant it placed before my eyes. By all means, praise me if you will.” Thera shook the shoulder she grasped. “It was you, Egrit, who knew what to do, not I.”

  Two days later healing mistress Rozalda returned. She swept into the infirmary room, escorted by Rhul and Lotta.

  “What is this I hear of you feigning illness in my absence, Alba?” She shared a quick smile with Thera, before turning her penetrating gaze onto the patient.

  Alba barked a laugh, then sobered. “It seems the Elanraigh choose to teach me to value that which I took for granted, mistress.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Rozalda, laying her hand against Alba’s cheek.

  Even Thera could judge by Alba’s appearance that the swordswoman was no longer fevered. Thera suspected the Healer’s gesture was more affection than assessment.

  Now Rozalda held her hand, palm downward, a finger’s breadth above Alba’s leg where it lay propped on a rolled sheepskin, and closed her eyes. Her hand hovered over Alba’s wound. Then Rozalda’s eyelids quivered and Thera saw her meditative expression alter to a frown.

  Her voice was abrupt. “When is this dressing to be changed?”

  Egrit blanched. Her gaze flickered, and then steadied. “Mistress, I change the dressing and wash the wound every watch.”

  Rozalda turned to Egrit and her frown cleared. “Egrit. My dear child,” she said, her voice softened, “I have heard from all of the very excellent care you give our swordswoman here. But this!” she gestured at the bandaged leg, “This has been a most foul wound, I wish to see how it heals for myself and…”

  Alba interjected, “Mistress. Surely it be time I was up and about.” Alba propped herself up on her elbows. “I be right tired of laying abed,” she grumbled.

  Rozalda pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “It is early days yet, Alba.”

  Alba looked aggrieved.

  Rozalda’s heavy brows lifted. “Now then,” she said, “I will first see for myself how the wound heals,” she paused. “Perhaps next watch you may move to the chair by the fire for part of the day. We will find you some quiet, useful task.”

  She nodded at the brightening of Alba’s expression, and gestured for Thera and Egrit to walk to her worktable with her.

  Egrit looked disturbed.

  Rozalda crooked a brow at the maid as she moved behind her worktable. “What troubles you, child?”

  “Mistress,” Egrit hesitated, then continued in a firmer voice, “is it not early yet for the swordswoman to be up?”

  “My dear, I have found through long experience that when they start clamoring for their tasks or activities, I am best to give it them—be it shelling peas for cook, winding wool for Dama Brytha, or whetting a blade for their own use.” She laughed a little, “Many’s the time I’ve seen hands drop to laps and heads roll back on the chair as sleep overtakes them in the midst of what they are doing.” She twinkled at Egrit from under her heavy brows, “Whereas, if I had confined them to bed, they’d have rolled and fretted and not had the healing sleep they needed.

  “Now,” she said briskly, “where is this vine that our Salvai found? Ah.” She gently plucked the leaf Egrit offered from her apron pocket, and held it against the light.

  “Blessings be!” she exclaimed. She rubbed the dry leaf between her fingers.

  Carefully laying the leaf down, she used both hands to lift a heavy volume down from her shelves. Rozalda lightly ran her fingers down the tissue thin pages.

  As Thera, Egrit, and Rozalda became engrossed in the old book of healers’ lore, Rhul and Lotta moved across the room to sit on the edge of Alba’s bed. The swordswomen shared some story with Alba. Thera warmed to hear Alba laugh.

  Finally Mistress Rozalda closed the volume. Her fingers rested on the tooled leather cover. “Well,” she mused, then looked up at Thera and Egrit, “it is lichenstrife.”

  A silence fell on the entire group.

  “Lichen…what, mistress?” called Alba from her bed.

  “A very rare plant. It has not been seen in this generation....it is written here,” she smoothed the book’s cover, “that there is nothing known to match its healing properties. The Elanraigh seems to grow it only when it is most needed.

  “The last lichenstrife ever found in the Elanraigh was when lady Dysanna was Salvai at Elankeep, more than forty-five years ago.

  “Indeed, there was much need of it in those times. It was when your great-grandfather was Duke at Allenholme, Lady Thera. There were constant territorial disputes between Allenholme and Ttamarini in those days.”

  The healing mistress held Thera’s gaze. “It is said that the Ttamarini chieftain, Chemotin, mortally wounded, was brought by his men to Elanke
ep. The tale is that the Ttamarini were cut-off from their own healers. They claimed they were guided by a spirit animal to bring their wounded chief here, to the heart of the Elanraigh.

  “Lady Dysanna hunted for and found lichenstrife growing near her tree cave.”

  All the swordswomen present were familiar with the story, but Thera heard Rhul mutter, “Bless me if I can understand how a Salvai can wish to meditate near a place she knows will someday be her tomb.

  “Ow. Sorry,” Rhul amended as Lotta kicked her shin. “I didn’t mean to interrupt the story, mistress. Good story.”

  Thera searched her own feelings. No. She felt that the hemlock tree cave would always be a sanctuary to her, now, and whenever her last day should come. The Elanraigh thrummed comfortingly at the base of her skull.

  Even as she gazed unseeingly at her toes, Thera thought she felt the healing mistress’ glance.

  “Well,” Rozalda continued softly, “a Salvai must know the darkness where grows a tree’s roots, as well as the sunlight where grow branch and leaf.”

  Lotta prompted. “Um. So, after Salvai Dysanna found the lichenstrife, mistress?”

  “Ah. Well. The lichenstrife healed the Ttamarini chieftain’s wound. While he was convalescing here at Elankeep, Lady Dysanna journeyed to Allenholme. She appealed to her Duke, Leif ArNarone, Thera’s great-grandfather, to hear Chief Chemotin’s peace proposal.”

  “But my great grandfather would not listen,” said Thera grimly.

  Rozalda leveled a steady look at Thera. She spoke slowly, “The Salvai was never said to condemn Allenholme’s royal house—her story ends with Allenholme’s refusal to treat with the Ttamarini. Soon after, Lady Dysanna herself, was dead. Perhaps elder Dama Brytha could tell you more.”

  “Ha,” snorted Lotta. “That old soul cannot remember what happened yesterday!”

  “True,” replied Rozalda glancing up at Lotta. She returned her attention to Thera, “but she remembers forty-five years ago, very well indeed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The elder Dama’s chamber was pleasantly warm. It was located behind cook’s work room, and just now, was fragrant with the scent of fresh baked bread. Thera, seated in the window niche, heard her stomach growl.

  She lightly pushed open the window shutters. Bushes of anise grew below the window and as the morning sun warmed the yellow flowers, its sweet tang rose to delight her senses.

  The elder Dama’s voice broke into the comfortable silence that had fallen between them.

  “That you, Ella?” she called out to the door.

  Thera smiled in response to the conspiratorial twinkle in the old woman’s eye.

  Dama Ella appeared in the chamber doorway. “Oh.” Ella twisted her apron in her hands, her cheeks slightly flushed. “I see you have a guest today, Dama Brytha.” She made a courtesy in Thera’s direction.

  “Aye,” The old woman drawled the word, and returned her gaze to her knitting. “You needn’t be bothering to listen at my door, Ella. I’ll know if you do.”

  Affront stiffened Dama Ella’s features. Thera bit her lip and turned her face to the garden view. For a moment the only sound in the room was the small tick of Brytha’s needles.

  “Well!” Ella puffed indignantly. “I only wished to be sure you fared well. And…and to see if there be aught you wanted. Well…,” she said again, “I’ll be about my work then.”

  Ella pointedly drew the door closed and soon pans were heard clattering. Brytha continued to rock in her chair, her knotted fingers manipulating wool and needles.

  Then, as if there had been no lull or interruption in their conversation, the old Dama continued.

  “Aye, child. Of course I remember my Dysanna.” The old woman’s voice became fierce. “So full of life and vitality she was.” Her hands rested a moment and she smiled. “And a beauty she was too.”

  Her mouth pushed outward in a wrinkled pout. “Not at all like that poor thing that was Salvai here these last few years.” After a moment Dama Brytha dutifully added, “May Elanraigh bless her and keep her soul in peace.

  “Ah, but how fiercely the Elanraigh loved Dysanna. Often, often she would disappear into the forest for, oh, long periods of time. Bless me, how I fretted those times. When she came back she would be a-tangle with leaf and twigs in her hair. If I chide her, she would look at me, amazed.

  “‘Bry,’ she would say so gently, ‘how could I ever come to harm in the Elanraigh’s care.’

  “Many’s the night I’d find her gone from her bed. She would be on the north tower, her hair all blowing about her, leaning into the wind as if she caressed it with her body.”

  “‘Feel how soft the wind is, Bry!’ she would say to me.”

  Dama Brytha chortled a little, “And me, bitten to the bone with the chill of it.”

  The knitting collapsed into a colorful mound. “She was like a wild thing of the forest herself, come to think.”

  Her voice quavered with anger. “I heard what Lady Keiris said when she came, years ago, to be Salvai here. I heard what she said of my Dysanna—Ainise couldn’t wait to tell me.” Dama Brytha’s swollen fingers twisted, “She said that my Dysanna was as close to wanton as a high born lady can be.”

  Brytha’s cheeks were flushed as she regarded Thera fixedly. Her tiny knotted hands bounced on her lap. “Wanton! My beautiful Dysanna! There were others, too who saw her as abandoned, something too strange and wild. But I never did. Dysanna was such as Keiris could never hope to be, and Keiris knew it.”

  The elder Dama sniffed and resumed her knitting. “The Elanraigh never loved Keiris, not as it did Dysanna—not as it does you, dear.” The look she bent on Thera was warm and approving.

  “You see, I was not especially well-born myself, as most First Ladies are. However, Lady Dysanna took a shine to me when she was still at her maiden home, and I was sent as a housekeeper’s assistant there. So maybe I don’t see things quite the way the others do. There were those here at Elankeep who thought they were better suited to be the Salvai’s First Lady than me,” she rolled her eyes toward the cook room. “That Ella was one.”

  The old Dama folded her lips and shook her head. “The things Ella said during those early years, mocking my ordinary speech or plain ways. This for instance,” she lifted the knitting in a small gesture. “‘Fishwives knit,’ Ella said to me, ‘Ladies do needlework.’”

  Thera offered, “I hate needlework.”

  Dama Brytha smiled. “Well, there are those here now who are glad enough of the leggings and vests I knit.”

  “There were some here who said I should never have let her be so wild. But she was ever in the Elanraigh’s care more than mine. Then my lady went away with the Ttamarini Chief.” Again tears welled in the elder Dama’s eyes, “Oh, if you could have seen them together you would not have doubted it was right. I have no gift, but any could see, who chose, that the Elanraigh loved them both and wished for their union. The winds blew sweet those spring days they were here together. How happy she was, until word came from Allenholme.

  “They would not countenance such an alliance. Dysanna was declared dead—severed—root and branch.” The old lady paused in her rocking, “She bid us farewell that very day. I wished to go into exile with her. Indeed I begged to go. She would have none of it.

  “In the days, months, then years that followed, I climbed to the north tower each night, even though my legs were no longer young.” She shivered slightly. “I don’t know what I hoped, I have told you I have no gift, perhaps just to hear or sense her upon the wind.

  “One night, as I neared the trap door, I could feel the wind colder than ever before whistling through its planks. The door was snatched from my hand just as the very breath seemed dragged from my chest by its fierceness. Why I did not return immediately the way I had come, I do not know. I believe now tha
t some part of me knew Dysanna was near. It was a struggle even to reach the wall, and when I looked out at the black trees it was to see their branches tossing wildly with a sound like a stormy sea. It was then the Elanraigh spoke to me for the first and only time—to tell me Dysanna had died.”

  Tear-blinded, Dama Brytha reached a frail hand to Thera. They touched a moment, then Dama Brytha reached up her cuff for a plain, immaculate linen, and dabbed at her eyes. “Did you know any of this, dear?”

  “Salvai Keiris had told me some of it, in her own way.” Thera chewed her lip, considering, then added, “And some of the story was told me by a Ttamarini who says he is Lady Dysanna’s grandson.” Thera patted the old lady’s hand. “She lives in him, and she lives in the Elanraigh.”

  Dama Brytha sighed. It was not an unhappy sound. “Aye. I’ve felt her there. I’ll join her soon.” The elder Dama’s gaze was a clear and bright blue as it travelled over Thera’s features. “Do you know how like her you are, daughter?”

  Thera nodded, too full of emotions to speak.

  At that moment, there was a brisk tap at the door and Dama Ella entered with a tray of tea and scones. She bustled about the little room, arranging a linen cloth on a small table.

  Brytha puckered her mouth and withdrawing her hand from Thera, resumed her knitting.

  Thera repressed a smile. Dama Ella could not help but be aware that the ancient lady very deliberately ignored her.

  “Here,” Thera offered, “let me take the tray, I will serve Dama Brytha and myself.”

  Ella cast a reproachful look at Dama Brytha’s averted face, “To be sure, my lady, I did not mean to interrupt. Healing mistress said she should eat small and regular, I was but thinking of her needs.”

  Dama Brytha finally looked up, “You were snooping, as always. I know.”

  Ella gasped. “Oh! How could you think…!”

  Thera soothed Ella out the door, and returned to pour tea for the eldest Dama. The old lady seemed weary now and her thoughts wandered. She did not speak any more of Dysanna. Finally she nodded, asleep in her chair.