Aloren

by E D Ebeling

  “The girl must go.” Her face was red, her hair falling from its knot, and I stood very still behind my human. “This, sir, is a gross dereliction of duty. I sincerely apologize. I didn’t guess at first, I had no idea, but she is most certainly a halfwit.”

  “My good woman,” said the human. “My good woman! I fear our conversation would slow to a trickle if the girl left. She’s more fluent in the common speech than even you.”

  So I stayed, though my cheeks grew red with Marna’s slaps, my legs swayed for exhaustion, and she personally tasted the stuff I poured into the cistern.

  Not brave enough to ask their names, we called the envoys Hoary, Skinny, Stocky, and Silent, and laughed over their peculiarities. Emry found them so peculiar she hid like a frightened rabbit whenever they came into the common room. Like most mountain folk, she believed humans exhaled noxious fumes and shot fire from their golden eyes. She’d claw her way up a support and sit in the eaves listening to the gems Wille and a handful of other boys extracted from more talkative Hoary and Skinny, and wouldn’t come closer until Padlimaird Crescentnet started catcalling.

  At first she was content to stick her tongue out. Then one day she grew bolder and dragged a stool over to the table where she could glare more comfortably at him. Marna was off in the village easing a birth, and the envoys were discussing the tangled state of the peerage in Lorila.

  I leaned over the table I was scouring to listen, but Paddy soon drowned them out:

  “You’re too titchy to know jackshit,” he said to Emry. “You don’t even know where Lorila is.”

  “I do,” said Emry. “It’s on the other side of the hills.”

  “There’s a lake you’d have to swim across first. Can you even swim, slop-for-brains?”

  Emry looked round, and lowering her voice, said, “I can write.”

  Indeed, astonishing herself and me, Emry was progressing in leaps with her writing. We had to wipe paragraphs from the dust in front of the beech stump.

  Paddy scoffed. “Then why hain’t your head cracked like your mam’s?”

  “Writing don’t do that,” Emry said. “Mammy was reading.”

  “Reading what, exactly?”

  “A book…about Lorila. She came from there.”

  Emry upset her stool and ran up the stairs. I looked after, wiping sand from my elbows. She had a book?

  There came a righteous thumping from the staircase. Pulling it from under her arm, Emry showed us her small, moldy, water-stained wreck of a book. Judging by the straw sticking out of the binding it was accustomed to being jammed into her mattress.

  She slammed it on the table, spilling a few mugs and slopping up the cover. She flipped it open near the middle and clumsily read an excerpt:

  “Sunny today. It’s hard to keep the boy from getting burned without smothering him in linen. He’s a good babe, though––a blessing, because she hasn’t much patience with crying, but I’m beginning to fear his silence means illness. Illness or not, she insists on pressing eastward, and I believe she is making towards…” Emry stumbled over a word, and I slid beside her, pretending to scrub, looking at the messy writing.

  “Virnraya,” I whispered into her ear. She said it aloud.

  “There, see? See what I just wrote?”

  Scouring tables hadn’t put me in a friendly mood. “Stop acting like a goose with its head stuck up its butt.”

  “Really,” said Floy, who was picking at the crumbs beneath the table.

  I kept on, getting louder: “Your mother wrote the book and you’ve just read it––there’s no difference––and your mother’s head never cracked, just like yours isn’t going to, unless someone sticks a firecracker in your ear, or you drive yourself crazy, which is far more likely.”

  Of the tongues I’d tied around the table, old Hoary’s was first to recover. He pulled an eyeglass from his cloak. “Let me have a look.” He wiped the leather with his sleeve, and opened it to a different page.

  I leaned over his shoulder. “Need translating, sir?”

  He frowned at me. “I understand Rileldine, little gaireld-dun, but you’re welcome to join me at my studies.”

  “Well, if that ain’t the stupidest thing,” said Wille, and he began chatting in Rielde with the human next to him. I hadn’t noticed the journal was in Rielde, or Rileldine, as he called it. The Elde languages are very closely related, more dialects than anything, particularly for the border folk.

  But I was upset by something else–– “Tree-girl? Floy, he just called me a little tree-girl.”

  “You are one, aren’t you?” Floy flew to my shoulder and hid herself in my hair. I sat next to the envoy and soon forgot what a nitwit he was; the pages were were full of intriguing passages, such as:

  ‘She’s desperate to reach Virnraya, and I think I know why. I think I know more than I ought, though most of it’s guesswork. She took me on later, but I know she did it. There’s guilt in her eyes, and it increases ten-fold when she holds, even looks at the boy. She’s anxious. Everyone in Merstig, Neridona, the whole country, believes the Ravyina and her boy were torn apart by beasts. Except the Ravyir. He won’t believe it. They think he’s gone in the head, but he knows.’

  Or, ‘The Ravyir is searching for us. She’s frightened. I can tell by her horrible pinched face. Not as frightened as I am of her––that she’ll mark me out as dangerous, think this journal is more than medicinal simples, find someone who knows Rielde.

  ‘We’ve reached Dirlan, and the duke received us––I don’t know why. I’ve never seen the ocean before and neither has baby, so I stood him on the wall and he laughed. We’ve decided it’s too big for us.

  ‘I wonder what she has in mind. She can’t want him dead. She could have done it a long time before, and I’m still here.’

  Hoary read on, unfazed. He didn’t seem to understand.

  ***

  The next day it rained torrents, and I locked the journal, Emry (who couldn’t bear to be separated from her mother’s book), Floy, a candle, and myself into the larder for a private discussion.

  “He was the king’s son,” I said, “of Lorila––the one eaten by wild animals! But he wasn’t really, because someone took him away. That’s who she’s talking about, the lost king’s son.”

  “Doubt it,” said Floy. “And who cares, anyway?”

  “It’s your country.”

  “Norembry’s my country.”

  “Come on, Floy, don’t you remember anything?”

  “I was a year old. The baby’s dead, long dead––and good riddance. Royals are batshit crazy.”

  “I’m royal.”

  “Case in point.”

  “Where’s your sense of intrigue?”

  “Lost it along with my arms and legs.”

  “Emry,” I said aloud. “Did you know your mother was a prince’s wetnurse?”

  “I’m a prince?” said Emry.

  “No. Stupid hill.” Water leaked from the ceiling onto my head. “Going to get everything moldy.”

  “And we’ve no proof,” twaddled Floy. “No proof she’s telling the truth, or the boy was royal––”

  I ignored her––she was only a pot girl, after all, and I began flipping through the book. I felt a lump in the bottom of the spine.

  I tore the moldy leather, dug into it with my finger, felt something. I pulled out a piece of silver. Floy tangled herself in burlap.

  It was a dragonfly broach, wide as my little finger. The wings had clusters of strange circles, like characters from a beautiful language. Two diamonds shone on the tips of its wings, and its abdomen was hollow, wrapped around by delicate, angular legs. The head was stamped with a tiny pickaxe. It glittered in the candlelight.

  “Ooh, might’nt I hold it?” said Emry.

  “Emry.” We jumped at Marna’s voice. “Emry, what is it you feel you must hold before giving the dog his scraps? Is Aloren in there?”

  “Does Marna know?” I whispered. “About the book?”

&n
bsp; “Hurry out. He’s nipping my ankles.”

  “No, no, she doesn’t,” said Emry. She obviously wanted to keep it that way.

  I blew the candle out and put a sack of potatoes over the book, and we piled out with the broach hidden in my hand. “We were playing at being princes,” Emry told her aunt.

  “What I wouldn’t give to be a prince.” Marna shoved the puppy away and peered into the larder. “I want that hole stuffed up.”

  “It’s pouring.” I held the silver tighter.

  “I wouldn’t care if it was raining stars, miss high-airs. I won’t hold with moldy potatoes.”

  I hid the broach under a stone in the kitchen, and ran outside to patch the hole.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, Floy and I found a telling passage.

  “Here,” I said, “she mentions it here:

  ‘We’ve just met with Dravadha Broteldu. He’s why we’re in Virnraya, I think. Baby has a Dravadha broach pinning his wraps together. And she must’ve gave Dravadha a commission a good month back; when we arrived he’d something already made for her, some bit of jewelry that fits right into the broach.’

  “There’s a pickaxe on it, remember?” I said to Floy. “That’s Dravadha’s emblem.”

  “He forges his silver with magic,” said Floy.

  “I know.”

  “Well, is there anything magical about that broach?”

  “Maybe. How’m I supposed to know?”

  I flipped to a section nearer the back. ‘I was terrified. Sore tired of being scared. I hadn’t any choice. If I’d stayed longer it would have been obvious I’m with child. It knocks against my heart to abandon that child for my own.

  ‘I stole the broach. But that’s nothing to stealing a baby. And what else could I have done, going all the way to the tip of the Daynens? I shall try not to pawn it unless starvation proves the only other road. I am almost doing her a favor––the boy has no longer a means of identification. She still has the other piece, the specially made piece, and it was more important, I believe, to her at least––’

  That was enough for me. I took the broach up to Hoary’s room and thrust the thing under his nose. He’d just returned from his walk. He was sitting in a chair next to the hearth, cloak flung over the fire screen.

  “It’s true,” I said. “Animals never killed the crown prince of Lorila. You could find him and fix Lorila, then come back here with a great many soldiers and Aclunese fire artillery.”

  “What is it?” He took it from me and held it up to his failing eyes.

  “A Dravadha broach.”

  He sat up straighter. “Dear me.”

  “It was lodged in the book.” I showed him the tear in the spine, and read him the passage.

  He sat back, folded his hands in front of him. “I thought that book was nonsense.”

  “But the broach––”

  “Oh, yes, it belonged to someone very important, I’m sure.”

  He was awfully hard-nosed, but I kept going: “You’d have to look for the other piece of it, to find the boy.”

  “We don’t know what we’re looking for. Wait.” He squinted at the wings. “There’s something written here. In Simargh.” He held the thing up to the window.

  The Simargh were said to be marvelous winged beings made all of light. “Can you read it?” I said. “What’s it say?” He held up his hand for silence.

  It took him a time to decipher; even with his eyeglass the filigree was miniscule. “I carry between colors.” He smiled. “Maybe it was made to carry something.”

  “What’s it really say?” I said, sliding my hand around the back of the chair. I felt I wasn’t hearing it in full, as if Rielde were a defective language.

  “Nain e gaev pirnon mireir.”

  The last bit caught my ear. I whispered it softly a couple of times. “Pirnon mireir.”

  My intonation went down and up. A musical phrase ran through my head, neatly fitted with words: The ice aster throws high her gossamer skirts on the brow of the Pirnon Mireir.

  Eight

  Halfway out the door I turned and asked, “What’s the Pirnon Mireir, Hoar—Master Envoy?”

  “Between? Colors? I don’t know of any such thing. You’re better suited asking a Simargh.”

  “Mordan,” I exclaimed aloud. “Where’s that know-all tell-all idiot when you need him?” Without building up his fire I threw myself down the stairs to tell Floy.

  Floy was as excited as I, but did a better job containing it. “Be patient,” she said. “We’ve a week left to our new moon.”

  Hoary drew a detailed sketch of the broach––he was quite a good draftsman––and gave it back to Emry and me to hide, saying he didn’t need something so valuable on the road.

  He become fascinated with Emry’s mother’s journal. One morning he made the mistake of helping Emry with her reading when Marna was in rather than out. The ground had frosted in the night and I’d gone down to the cellar to check the crocks.

  When I came back up Hoary and Marna were yelling. Emry sat hunched on the bench, looking as though she’d like to sink into the floor. “You know what became of her mother?” said Marna. “Unwed, with child. Ill to her death.”

  I stepped back into the kitchen and watched from the doorway.

  “You think learning her letters killed her?” Hoary shut the journal with a clap. “Patently ridiculous, madam.”

  “Discontent killed her. She could’ve been happy, but she had to know things.”

  “My good woman, certainly you know things, too. You delivered a baby just last week.”

  “That’s different.” She folded her arms. “I’m still here, aren’t I? How long have you been teaching her?”

  “I? You’ve blamed the wrong man. Probably taught herself.”

  I ran my sweaty palms down my skirts, waiting for Emry to spill. She only looked at the floor, face red as a beetroot. I could have kissed her.

  “Then who does that thing belong to?” Marna pointed to the journal with a trembling finger.

  “Emry,” said Padlimaird Crescentnet, who’d just come in the front door. He’d a keen nose for arguments. “It was your sister’s book, Mrs. Nydderwaic. And Emry’s been busy reading it for all of six years. Maybe seven.”

  Marna saw me in the doorway. Immediately, and as an indication the envoys had worn out their welcome, she ordered me gather up their belongings and dump them in the street.

  There was a snap in the air, and the aspens shook gold from their branches as the Benmar humans walked south down the road with their winter cloaks at hand. Emry’s mother’s journal went with them.

  “Floy.” I looked after the travelers until the trees swallowed them. “If it weren’t for Marna d’you think they might have stayed and helped?”

  “If it weren’t for Marna they wouldn’t have spent a day here,” said Floy from my shoulder, thinking of the palendries.

  “That ale,” I said. “Probably keeps the whole village happy and stupid with it.”

  ***

  I felt wretched. As though my silence instead of Marna’s noise had chased the envoys toward Lorila. Emry felt worse. After her paddling she didn’t want anything more to do with her mother’s journal, and so four days later, during the new moon, she slipped the Dravadha broach into my apron pocket and ratted on me for stealing.

  She was hanging about the kitchen that evening, asking how she might learn to un-read. After she left the room for bed, I stood over the cistern, wiping a dish. Marna came up behind and ripped the broach from my pocket.

  “Aghast,” she said in a hushed voice. “What’s this? Came it from them human devils?”

  She rapped me with her knuckles; the broach stuck out from her fingers and tore into my arm.

  “A thief!” She glowered over me, and I held my bleeding arm, watching her fists. “I suppose it’s my own fault listening to that human dotard, but it’s time the girl got her comeuppance. Well?” She flew at me and I ducked beneath a chop-blo
ck. “What’s her excuse?”

  “Someone else did it.” My stomach squeezed and I tasted bile.

  She threw her head back and snorted. “How much more have you got in your pillowcase?”

  I don’t have a pillow, you old toad. I was sweating and dizzy. The word would spread––I’d be drummed from the village with a missing hand––and a great deal of help that would be for the weaving of tunics! I didn’t understand the justice of it; I’d done everything in my power to please her, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the door.

  Wille shot through it. He ran into the wall, knocking down a shelf of earthenware.

  He shook dust out of his hair and said to Marna, “The village is being raided, ma’am. They say inns are a prime target, so you may want to clear out.” He looked at me. I was trembling uncontrollably. “What’s wrong with her?”

  But Marna was already upstairs, and judging from the noise, hiding her valuables.

  Wille patted me on the head. He ran into the common room shouting, “Brigands! Brigands!”

  Floy flew through the door and slammed into a sack of flour. I pulled her upright, and she cried, “Run! Get moving, they’re almost here.”

  The message sank in. I skidded out the door, the sparrow banging into my neck. I ran hard down the hill, fleabane and yarrow slicing into my legs. The sun sank behind blowing clouds, and I made toward the cowshed to collect my saddlebag.

  I saw them at the bottom of the hill, mowing down the fences, drumming through the pumpkins. A cold wind blew and my skin pricked––I remembered the flaming arrows, the smoke. I’d never seen men like these, with chests bare and shining with torchlight, and hair like cobwebs.

  “Reyna,” sang Floy. They rode closer––I saw the flash of teeth and eyes.

  The ground groaned; I ran behind a heap of thatching bracken next to the cowshed. Someone threw a torch and the bracken caught fire. It seared a hole through my skirts. I rubbed it out in the dirt and crept into the shed.