Elanraigh

by S. A. Hunter

  “Yes. Almost home now.” She breathed deeply. “Do you smell the air?”

  “It is the same good, sweet air I have smelled all along, Salvai.” Thera lifted her brows expectantly, so Alaine shrugged and rose in her stirrups, taking several deep breaths. She sat back, meeting Thera’s look. “Perhaps a touch more of the salt water tang here, than at Elankeep. And something else—”

  “Yes,” Thera beamed, “cailia bloom and salt tang. Home.” She heeled Mulberry up the rising trail.

  Emerging into the clearing at the top of Lorn a’Lea, they were challenged, “Halt! Who travels in ArNarone domain?”

  Thera nearly blurted a happy greeting on hearing the familiar voice, but Sirra Alaine was already responding. “Lady Thera, Heir of Allenholme and Salvai to the Elanraigh, and her escort.”

  “Captain Lydia!” Thera couldn’t wait, she swung off Mulberry and tossing back the hood of her cloak ran forward. “I’ve come home.”

  “Blessing be,” choked Lydia, grasping Thera by the upper arms. “The Elanraigh has just granted your father’s dearest wish.” She took in Thera’s appearance, met Thera’s eyes with a small nod. “I see, Lady,” she said softly, “that you command your own now. These be the Elankeep soldiers by their gear.”

  Thera nodded, “Their service honors me. Captain Lydia, this is Sirra Alaine and First Sword Alba.”

  As Lydia returned the soldiers’ salutes, her glance over them was lively and interested. She jerked her chin over her shoulder, “We have a small watch-fire in the hollow, and some hot tea. It will be full dark soon. Do come and warm yourselves and then I will escort you in.”

  She called to one of the two figures silhouetted against the fire’s light, “Kirten! Come tend to these horses while our Lady Thera refreshes herself.”

  * * * *

  Captain Lydia joined Thera where she stood, hands wrapped around the warm mug of tea, watching sky and sea lit with the sun’s last fire. Lydia glanced at her, then spoke quietly, “It harrowed our souls to hear of the danger you’d passed through on the Coast Trail, Lady.” Thera glanced up, blinking at Lydia’s profile, mauve-shadowed against the dying light. “We sang the Lament for Innic, Jon, and your Nan.” Lydia, sighed, “We’ve sung the Lament too often. A great deal has happened while you have been at Elankeep, Lady. But,” she smiled at Thera, “that will be your father’s tale to tell first.”

  “Some of it I know, Lydia—from father’s letter.”

  Lydia laughed. “Aye. He doesn’t like the writing of them—though he was ever eager to receive yours, be sure.”

  Thera spoke into her tea mug before taking a small sip. “The Ttamarini—are they still here?”

  “Oh, aye.” Lydia glanced at her, then away. “We’ve all come to honor them as allies and friends. They stay to celebrate the victory over the Memteth. Your father has invited the Ttamarini Heir to remain as a guest, if he wishes. The Memteth are gone …”

  “Pardon?” asked Thera, feeling distracted.

  “The Memteth. Gone. No sign of them for days now. The Elanraigh speaks …?

  “The Elanraigh does not feel them anywhere near,” Thera murmured. Father invited Chamak to stay on?

  “Ah,” Lydia nodded. “That is good news. Lady Fideiya thought the Elanraigh might be sending you home. She said that the last two days an eagle has circled the keep, calling. Lady Fideiya said it made her feel you were somehow near. Eagles are good omen to our folk these days.”

  Thera and Lydia fell silent a moment. Captain Lydia watched the Elankeep soldiers as they talked among themselves. “They look like fine companions,” she remarked. Then she laughed, “I can’t wait to see Harle’s face!”

  “Horsemaster Harle?”

  “Aye. The only way he came finally to accept me was when he convinced himself I must be an exception, a freak of nature.” She shook her head and gestured at the Elankeep troop. “All these fine women soldiers will quite overset him.

  “Well. If you are ready, Lady, I will have the great pleasure of escorting you home.”

  * * * *

  Thera saw her father and mother standing with Captain Dougall and the Heart’s Own at the South Gate. Kirten had indeed hurried ahead with word of her arrival. Torchlight and shadows alternately washed over the Allenholme party in the chill night wind—her father’s red-gold hair, glitter of mail and jeweled badges, all swimming before her eyes.

  A small sob broke from her and Thera was off her horse and in her mother’s embrace—scent of sealily and calla. Her mother’s small, chilled fingers touched her face, tilting her head to the light. “Oh, my dear one,” she murmured.

  “Thera!” growled Leon, and her father’s arms surrounded them both.

  * * * *

  Morning sun burnished the copper bowls on Thera’s cedar chest and freshly picked blue hyacinth released their scent. Slowly, lovingly, Thera drank in the familiar sight of her own room. Yet, it was all somehow different now.

  Last night she had been bundled quickly toward her parents retiring room, her mother ordering refreshments brought. “My troop, father,” Thera had protested against her father’s propelling arm.

  “You are weary. Maxim will see to them.”

  “I am not that weary, sir. I will order them settled.”

  Leon paused, dropping his arm from her shoulder. He regarded her with approval. “Well, daughter, that is well spoken.”

  Thera turned. “Sirra Maxim, kindly escort Sirra Alaine and the soldiers of Elankeep to the east wing.” Thera glanced at her father. “I would have them quartered with the Heart’s Own, sir.” Leon nodded.

  Sirra Maxim and Sirra Alaine saluted. After conferring briefly, Alaine signaled the troop, and they followed Maxim toward the east wing.

  In her parents’ retiring room, tucked into a large chair and sipping mulled wine, Thera listened to her father tell the tale of events since she had been gone from Allenholme. As he told of the Memteth assault on the Cythian warship and the battle at Lorn a’Lea, Thera felt the strangeness of hearing the story told from such a different perspective than her own. His account of the bitter fight with the Memteth giant was told in a bright-eyed, vigorous tone of reminiscence. When he spoke of the eagle coming to his aid, he said, “It was as if the very spirit of the Elanraigh formed itself into that shape and fought at our side. I cannot explain it, or adequately describe it.”

  Thera mused, Well. That is close enough to the truth of it.

  Leon’s face darkened. “The Memteth have ravaged up and down our coast. Many good people have died—villagers and townsfolk alike. When I was a half-day’s ride to the north, engaged against a Memteth raid on Brachna village, a small party of raiders managed to set fire to our ships, right here at Allenholme. We lost half the fishing fleet before the flames were beaten.” Leon sat with chin resting on fist, staring at the crackling fire. Thera eyed the pulse throbbing at her father’s temple. She flinched as a blackened log tumbled to the hearthstones.

  Leon stirred, and continued, “Mika ep Narin ordered the burning ships cut loose,” Leon’s breath came harsh as he spoke. “There was nothing else he could do. No one could get near the raging inferno those vessels were by then.” Her father paused, breathing heavily, then continued. “Some youths—children, truth be said, sons and daughter of mariners—knowing what the ships meant to their fathers, defied their Guild Master and fought the flames. They perished, every one. Their fathers netted their charred remains from the sea.”

  Fideiya’s hands clenched on the needlework she held, her eyes starkly fixed on Leon. Seeing her stricken gaze, Leon sighed. He reached over, placing his hand on hers, “Surely the Elanraigh took those brave young souls straight to its heart.”

  Thera felt stunned. She knew so many of the young fisher folk. Bright faces gathered in a dusty circle, playing spin crystal games. “Thera, I challen
ge you for the blue quartz!” And there was Thera, as begrimed as the rest, sitting in the dust, at least until Nan caught her. “Blues are worth two whites—let me see your bet, Adon.” The echoes of their shouts and laughter rang in Thera’s memory.

  Again patting Fideiya’s hand, Leon got up from his chair. He crouched before Thera, and reached his hand to touch her hair. “I am a soldier and I have seen death in many forms. It is a terrible thing for a parent to have to bury a child. Your mother and I give thanks that the Elanraigh has brought you safely home.” Planting a quick kiss on both their heads, Leon left the room.

  Blessings be, Thera agreed, that the troubles are at last truly over.

  Chapter Forty

  Thera leaned at her window, drinking in familiar sounds and smells. I have slept late—the sun is well above the tree line.

  High and distant, Eiryana whistled.

  “Blessings, dear one!” Thera sent.

  Eiryana’s mind-touch caressed Thera. “We have been waiting to greet you,” she chided.

  “We”?

  A wind stormed past her, “It is I, Therra!” It swirled chaotically through her chamber, tossing petals from the overblown flowers and fluttering loose the ties of her nightgown in a teasing fashion before exiting the chamber.

  “Sussara!” Thera laughed and retied her lacings, “Blessings of the day, Little Mischief.”

  “I’m going to help Eiryana Sky Weaver to fish this morning.”

  “Oh my,” sent Thera to Eiryana with a rueful smile.

  Eiryana’s mind-voice was warm with affection, “I have learned from my sky-sister to have a fondness for this little one.”

  Thera laughed her agreement and stood enjoying their rapport until Eiryana became focused on the waves below her.

  A melodious trill captured Thera’s attention from Eiryana’s fading presence. Peering over the window’s edge, Thera saw Tenatik, the Ttamarini horsemaster, seated cross-legged on the grass by the stable path. Placing a small reed flute to his lips he blew a low, murmurous sound, followed by a rapid glissando of notes.

  Sussara twined affectionately around the musician. “Therra, listen. It sounds like wind through grass and birds in the morning.”

  “Yes, little one. Tenatik is gifted, for that is just how it sounds.”

  Booted footsteps crunched along the path and voices came into her hearing, “…five mares in foal. Blessings be.” Oak Heart’s rough voice drifted up. Dougall responded something, too softly for Thera to hear, and someone shouted a laugh in response.

  “Ah,” Thera leaned further outward, “Oak Heart, Dougall, Sirra Alaine, and—Chamak! “Sensations as ambiguous as frost burn, heat and cold, flashed over her. Chamak, for it was he she had heard laughing, called to Tenatik.

  “Ten’, did you tire of waiting for us that you torment the birds so?”

  “His arm is bandaged still,” Thera inventoried Chamak’s appearance, “Father didn’t say exactly what his injuries were. He sounds well, even happy,” she smiled—a smile that froze—“has he forgotten about me?”

  Tenatik rose to his feet, a grin deepened the crevices bracketing his mouth. He wiped the flute, placed it in his belt, and saluted. “Anything, oh son-of-a-great-chieftain, to forestall you raising up the game-scaring croak you claim is a singing voice.” Chamak and Sirra Alaine paused beside Tenatik, their voices lowered again, but Chamak’s gestures suggested introductions being made. As Tenatik began speaking with Alaine, Chamakin turned, looking up toward Thera’s window.

  Thera flung herself back inside, her heart thudding a panicked rhythm. What is the matter with me? Thera wondered. I want to see him, to look in his eyes and know if he still feels the same way about me. So why do I hide from him?

  She paced, halting in front of her polished bronze mirror—because I want to be ready when I meet him again, Thera acknowledged. She smoothed her nightdress to her, turning this way and that, trying to see herself as Chamak would see her. Thera smiled, the mirror reflecting the flash of whiteness. Humming Tenatik’s lilting tune, she twirled, moving her body with rising joy.

  * * * *

  Thera vigorously worked her brush over Mulberry’s hide. She muttered to the mare, “So. Where are they? I’m sure I heard Tenatik offer to show Alaine the stable, and Chamak followed them.” Her lips quirked wryly as she straightened, flexing her back. “Here I rushed to the stable as quickly as may be, expecting to conquer my lover once and for all, and no one is here.” The mare whufflled at her shoulder. “Except you, dear one, of course,” Thera glanced over the mare’s haunch, “and one small stable boy.”

  She dipped her hand into a sack of carrots and retrieved one for the mare. “Here, greedy child.” Thera glanced up, heart tripping, at the sound of multiple footsteps approaching.

  Is it—oh. Thera recognized the Cythians, accompanied by one of her father’s guards as escort.

  She quickly wiped her hand on her grooming cloth. The Cythian Heir, Ambrauld, stopped, squinting slightly in the brightness outside the stable. His companion, the Besteri mage, swung his head in Thera’s direction.

  “Lady Thera,” the guard saluted, “I was to escort Lord Ambrauld to join Duke Leon and his party. I thought they were at the stables.”

  So did I. “I believe they must have been here earlier, Guardsman Bran.”

  Before the guard could speak further, the Cythian Heir approached her, his handsome face lit with a delighted smile. “Finally! Well met Lady Thera.” He stared at her face a long moment, brows lifting and eyes wide, then his gaze roamed over her in a manner Thera found utterly embarrassing. Her face grew hot. As he reached for her hand, Thera quickly dropped the grooming rag to the straw. Catching sight of the grimy stains on her fingers, she flushed again as he gently pressed his lips to her fingertips. After suffering a brief awkwardness, she suddenly laughed.

  “I am sorry, my Lord,” she apologized quickly seeing the look of surprise on his face. Shaking her head, she delicately withdrew her hand. “Somehow the stable does not seem the place for such courtly courtesies. I should have met you in my father’s Great Hall with all appropriate ceremony.” She smiled winningly and the Cythian Heir beamed down at her.

  “Your ingenuousness disarms me, Lady.”

  His accent is definitely of the south—very refined. How he stares!

  Thera, in turn, quickly appraised this young Lord. He is as tall as Chamakin, she thought, though heavier muscled. Then, Thera judged, he is some years older. His eyes are a paler blue than father’s—almost colorless. Thera continued to read him, as his eyes glinted with amusement. He is amused at the little female who sizes him up like a combatant on the battlefield. There is arrogance in the set of that jaw. Perhaps that is not surprising, Thera conceded, considering his noble rank and physical appearance. Yes, his looks agree with what I read of him. He is not a man used to being thwarted, in anything. There is implacability in him.

  The guard cleared his throat and offered, “Perhaps my Duke took the Ttamarini Heir and his party to view the hunting birds—their pen is by the Northwest Gate, Lord Ambrauld. We might find them there.”

  “Be at ease, man,” snapped Ambrauld, his eyes fixed on Thera. He gestured toward the dark shadow at his shoulder. “Lady Thera, allow me to introduce Willestar, a mage of the Besteri, who serves as Councilor to my father’s house.”

  Thera was not prepared for the intensity of the dark regard that lingered insolently long on her face before the tall man bent gracefully.

  “My Lady Thera, I am your servant.”

  Thera nodded stiffly as the mage rose to his full height again. The Besteri’s full red lips pursed, his heavy-lidded eyes glinted as he again stared. “My pardon, Lady, but I must ask—I sense something of gift in you. Is it the Old Teachings? Who would have taught you this? he mused, The Ttamarini’s Maiya might have the skill, perhaps. />
  The mage did not move closer, his hands were tucked within his sleeves, yet Thera felt as if chill, spectral fingers brushed her forehead. Instinctively her spirit flung itself to the place within that was hers alone. The Besteri’s mind-touch never reached her, passing like a wind in the high trees of her mind-place. The Besteri looked surprised. His moist lips pressed together, his eyes darkling and arrested. Then he smiled, and withdrawing his hands from his robe, he gestured—a slow opening of his hands to her view.

  Surrender or apology? I cannot read this man. Thera felt shaken.

  Ambrauld’s voice broke the tension between Thera and the mage. The Cythian’s eyes were on Thera’s horse. “Ahh, Willestar, look at this! She is yours, obviously, Lady Thera. A beauty.”

  Thera, distracted, stared as if she had not heard him. When I read people through my gift, does it feel so to them? No. No one ever looks disturbed—perhaps only if one reads another who is also gifted?

  She could barely forebear rubbing at the spot on her forehead where the Besteri had reached with his magic to read her. So invasive! He reached for it as casually as opening his wardrobe door.

  Mulberry bumped her from behind. “Oh.” The strange chill departed at the mare’s touch and she belatedly answered the Cythian Heir. “Yes,” Thera stroked the mare’s withers, “she was a gift from my father.”

  Ambrauld reached for the mare. Mulberry danced sideways, arching her neck and flattening her ears.

  “Sir. She doesn’t take to strangers,” Thera warned, pressing her hand against Ambrauld’s arm.

  “Here,” offered Willestar, and, muttering a quick string of words under his breath, he strode forward, grasping the mare’s halter. He raised his hand.

  Thera tensed, about to intervene, but Ambrauld had gripped her elbow. “Do not fear. He will not harm her, Lady. Watch, you will see. It is a marvel how he can handle animals.”