"You should rest now," I said. "Come get into bed."
For a few moments more, Merin didn't move. Then she stood up and turned toward the window.
"I used to believe that if she had stayed just one more night, I could have let her go," she said. "Now I know better. Your mother was wise to leave me when she did. Once we had joined together under the moon, I would never have let her go."
Merin untied the ribbon that fastened the bodice of her gown. She shrugged her shoulders, and the gown fell to the floor around her feet. Her small breasts were as shapely as a maiden's. It was plain to see that her slender waist and narrow hips had never cradled a child. As I watched her standing in the moonlight, untouched by time, her terrible beauty a sign that life had never used her, a wave of sadness swept over me.
Merin shivered in the night air. Her sleeping gown lay folded on her pillow. I took it to her and slipped it over her head. Then I turned down the bedclothes for her and helped her into bed.
"Don't leave me," she whispered.
I sat down on the edge of the bed beside her.
She took my hand. "You'll tell her, won't you?"
"Someday you'll tell her yourself."
"Promise," she demanded.
"I'll tell her."
Merin gave me a shy smile. "I used to make her tell me all the time. I lived in fear that she would stop loving me. I used to make her tell me, over and over again. She never seemed to mind, but she must have found it tiresome. It was different, though, when I saw her this time. This time it didn't matter whether she loved me back or not. I only wanted her to hold still for a little while, and not to mind that I loved her."
Merin closed her eyes. After a few minutes I thought she had fallen asleep. When I started to get up, to go to my own bed, her fingers tightened around mine.
"She took me by surprise this time," she whispered. "You were away at the frontier. I told her you weren't expected back anytime soon. I thought she would go home, but she decided to wait a while. She waited more than a week. She didn't seem at all impatient.
"It was wonderful to have her here. She had been changed so little by the years. She still delighted in doing the things we used to do together. We took long walks around the countryside. I've never been fond of walking, but while I was with her, I didn't mind it. Every day she was here, I woke with a light heart. I could almost believe that the years of loneliness had been no more than a cruel dream. She stayed just long enough to bring it all back to me."
I thought that might be what my mother had intended, but I didn't presume to say so to Merin.
Merin's eyes grew sad. "What an unkind thing for her to do."
"But you said she made you happy."
"She did," said Merin. "I had forgotten what happiness felt like. I wish I'd never remembered."
Merin's brow furrowed with pain. Her eyes met mine for a moment. Then she looked past my shoulder, into the dark. "Something always interferes. Our heart's desire comes within our grasp for just a moment, only to be snatched away again."
Merin's gaze was fixed on something in the shadows. I remembered what Namet had said about Merin's demons. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder. What demons lurked here still?
Now I understood that it was my mother's visit that sent Merin on her journey of the heart. Merin had opened the door to some dark and secret place, and all her demons had flown out of it at once. Many she had come to terms with, but there were others she had yet to face.
Merin reached up and with her fingertips lightly touched my brow. For a moment her palm cradled my cheek. Then her fingers fluttered across my temple and down the side of my face.
"Love's wings," she murmured.
Her gentle touch made me smile, and her words warmed my heart.
"Love is a bird of prey," she said. "While her feathers caress your face, her talons tear at your heart."
When I woke at dawn, I was lying across the foot of Merin's bed. Merin was still asleep. I got up carefully so as not to wake her and managed to slip out the door without making the hinges creak.
I had intended to go to the companions' loft, but when I passed the hallway that led to the warriors' rooms, I thought of Maara. I had no fear for her. I knew that Namet would have kept her safe. Nevertheless, something drew me down the hallway to her room. Outside her door I stopped to listen. I heard no voices. Thinking she must be asleep, I turned to go, but my feet refused to move until I had looked in, to make sure she was still there.
When I lifted the curtain, I saw Namet, sleeping sitting up at the head of Maara's bed. Maara lay beside her, her head nestled against Namet's side, her arm lying across Namet's lap.
I should have let the curtain fall. I should have found nothing disturbing in the sight of them together. Instead I stood looking at Maara, at the exposed curve of her neck and shoulder, and at Namet's fingers, tangled in her hair. For a moment all I felt was jealousy, that she could show herself to Namet in a way she had never shown herself to me.
Namet opened her eyes and looked at me. Slowly she brought one finger to her lips. I nodded and closed the curtain. Then I tiptoed back to the companions' loft.
50. The Spiral Path
The bright, warm days of spring had their effect on Merin, making her more cheerful and less apt to brood about the past. I still sat with her for hours every day, and I was growing restless with inactivity. Maara and I would go outside the earthworks in the evening to watch the sunset, and sometimes we would take a short walk along the riverbank. I wished I had an excuse to go out with her into the countryside, as we used to do.
One morning I found Namet and Maara in the kitchen, packing food into a basket.
"We're going to the council stones," said Namet. "Would you like to come along?"
I had not yet looked in on Merin. "Can you wait a few minutes? I'll ask the Lady if she can spare me today."
"Of course," Namet replied.
Merin saw my eagerness to go.
"I'm doing very well," she said. "Go and enjoy the day."
I had forgotten what a strenuous hike it was. My legs would be sore in the morning, but it was delightful to be out of doors. Namet led us a little out of our way, taking a shady path through a wood where birdsong filled the air. From time to time Namet stopped to listen. I was glad to have a chance to catch my breath.
Namet regarded me with amusement. "Tamras is panting so loudly I can hardly hear the birds," she said.
I felt the blood rush to my face, and I wiped my brow with my sleeve, to hide my embarrassment.
"You have no reason to be ashamed," said Namet kindly. "Your care of Merin has taken up your time. Now that she's so much better, your warrior should reassert her claim to you. It's time you resumed your training."
I was grateful to Namet for saying so. I had found it difficult to ask Maara to spend time with me. As her apprentice I had gone to her as a matter of course, but after I became Merin's healer, Maara let go of me. I was surprised to realize that I resented her for it.
"Tomorrow morning we could go hunting," Maara suggested.
My resentment vanished.
Now that I knew where to find the council stones, I wouldn't have bothered treading the spiral path, but Namet insisted.
"Just because you know the way doesn't excuse you from approaching the place properly," said Namet.
"Properly?"
"One cannot approach a mystery directly," she said.
Perhaps the council stones were something more than a place to picnic.
"Let Maara lead us this time," I said.
Namet nodded, and Maara studied the ground until she found the way. This time the path felt different. The first time I walked it, I was paying close attention, watching for the small stones that marked the winding path. Now, following in Maara's footsteps, I had nothing to think about, and my mind wandered. Disconnected thoughts came into my head, but before I could take hold of them, they faded and were gone.
We ate our lunch in silence. I had thought that we might take advantage of the opportunity to talk over our situation, but neither Namet nor Maara seemed to be concerned about anything but enjoyment of the present moment.
The people of Merin's house were more at ease. The lovely weather calmed our fears about the harvest. In any case, there was nothing we could do now but wait and see. The news from the frontier was good. The northerners had found our warriors more formidable than they expected and had taken to raiding farther west, among tribes little known to us. Even so, our warriors weren't yet confident enough to come home.
Best of all Merin grew stronger every day. When the time came for her to match her strength against Vintel's, I was certain she would prove as capable as ever. Then my adoption could be spoken of.
In the meantime it seemed like borrowing trouble to talk of all the bad things that might happen. I lay back in the grass and listened to the songs of insects and the sighing of the breeze. When I dozed a little, images came into my mind of something that had happened when I was a child.
My mother used to take me out among our sheep when I was barely tall enough to see over their backs. They frightened me, and I would cry and reach out my arms to her, begging to be carried. As I grew, my mother more often left me to find my own way.
One day we came across a lamb lying in the grass asleep. I sat down beside it and stroked its wool, soft as thistledown and warm with sunshine. I laid my head down on its wooly back, and there I fell asleep. I woke not knowing where I was and cried out for my mother. She didn't answer me. I got to my feet and looked for her. She wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere.
People were sitting on the hillside not far away. Perhaps they knew where she was. I made my way toward them through the jostling sheep. When I reached them, there was my mother, sitting and talking with the others. I was so relieved to see her that I ran into her arms. As I sat in her lap and listened to the grown-up talk I didn't understand, I realized that she had been there all along. She had been there, and I hadn't seen her.
For the first time I understood that she was someone else, someone who was not a part of me. With the memory of that moment long ago vivid in my mind, I woke among the council stones.
That evening Maara went to see the Lady, to speak with her about my training.
"Your warrior is right," Merin told me, when I went to bid her good night. "I have taken advantage of your kind heart. It's time I let you go."
The next morning my warrior took me hunting. I wanted to do well. I wanted it so much that my arrows refused to find their target until doing well no longer mattered. Then I was able to bring down a fine, fat bird. We made a fire on the riverbank and set the bird on a spit to roast. It was still early morning. Tendrils of mist uncoiled themselves over the surface of the water, and dewdrops beaded Maara's hair. I smiled to myself with happiness.
Maara caught me watching her and raised her eyebrows in a silent question.
"I've missed this," I told her.
It was not what I had meant to say. I had meant to say that I had missed her, but at the last moment, shyness stopped me.
Maara grinned back at me. "You may change your mind before this day is over. You have a lot of catching up to do."
51. The Harvest
The summer was so uneventful that it was easy to forget the dangers that lurked just out of sight. Our warriors remained at the frontier. Although they saw very little of the northerners, Vintel continued to make a show of guarding our borders.
Midsummer's day came and went. Most of those who had completed their time of service to the Lady stayed on. The warriors she had sent for from Arnet's house had formed their own band, independent of Vintel. While everyone assumed that they too were guarding our frontier, sometimes Maara and I saw them camped not far from Merin's house, up in the hills.
We tended to stay close to home. When we did go out into the countryside, we stayed away no longer than overnight. My concern for Merin kept me near her, and both Maara and I felt safer in Merin's house.
Every day I practiced with the bow. Maara taught me how to make new arrows. We split shafts from billets of hazelwood, shaved them down with draw-knives, and smoothed them with sand from the river. We made flint arrowheads and fletching of goose feather. While we worked, Maara told me about battles she had heard of or witnessed herself. Before I had gone into battle, her accounts would have meant no more to me than all the other battle stories I'd ever heard. Now that I had experienced the battlefield myself, I listened with greater understanding.
One day Maara took me to the practice ground, where in more peaceful times the apprentices would have been sparring with one another. She handed me one of the wicker shields and waited until I had a good grip on it. Then she took up a wooden sword and without warning brought it down hard on my shield. The shock of the blow went up my arm to the shoulder and hot pain followed it.
"Fighting with swords is a trial of strength," she said. "Those who lack strength must make up for it with cleverness."
My arm still hurt, and I was too angry to pay attention to what she was saying. She ignored my anger.
"When the blow falls, don't try to stop it with the shield," she said. "Turn it aside. So."
Slowly she brought her sword down again, to show me. When the blow was about to land, she reached out with her other hand and tipped my shield, so that the sword glanced off it.
"Try again," she said.
She brought her sword down, a little harder. I turned the blow aside.
"Good," she said.
We practiced until I became bored and my mind wandered. The flat of her sword stung my thigh.
"Pay attention," she said.
Tears came to my eyes.
"I want your body to remember," she said. "Do you remember this?" She ran her hand down her thigh, over the scar she bore from the wound that almost killed her. "I was distracted for a moment, wondering where the others were. Before I knew it, the damage was done. I want your body to remember the sting of the blade, and to fear it."
For the next few weeks, we sparred a little every day, but Maara never put a wooden sword into my hand. Pain had made me cautious, and as I had no sword to strike back with, I concentrated on keeping her sword away from me.
"When will you teach me how to use a sword?" I asked her at last.
"Not for a while yet," she replied.
"Why not?"
"When people fight with swords, what are they trying to accomplish?"
The answer seemed so obvious to me that I knew it must be a trick question.
"Each one is trying to kill the other?" I replied cautiously.
As I expected, Maara shook her head. "Each one is trying to keep from being killed. Each one is trying to keep from being hurt. As long as you remain unhurt, you can keep on fighting, or you can run away. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you must fight with your sword, the most important thing will be to keep yourself in one piece."
She was teaching me, not how to win, but how to survive. While I was thinking that over, she lifted her sword. Without my having to think about it, my arm raised the shield to counter it, but while my attention was on her sword, she gave me a powerful shove with her shoulder, and I went down. In a moment the point of her sword was at my throat.
"Next we'll work on balance," she said.
Maara made a slight motion of her head toward one of the upstairs windows that overlooked the practice ground.
"Don't look now," she said, "but someone is watching us."
Of course I looked. Before I could make out who it was, the watcher stepped back into the shadows.
"Merin takes great pride in you," said Maara.
It could have been anyone. It could have been Namet or Tamar or one of the servants, but I believed Maara was right. When I asked the Lady that evening if she had been watching us, she didn't deny it.
"Why did you hide?" I asked her. "I wouldn't have minded."
"I
didn't want you to think that I intended to interfere," she said, "although I do find her teaching methods unusual."
"She's teaching me how not to get myself killed," I said.
Merin nodded. "Very wise of her."
Harvest time came at last. Because of the late planting, little of the grain had ripened, but if the good weather held for another few weeks, we might not go hungry that winter. Just as we had begun to hope that we would be left in peace to bring in the harvest, the raids began again, and fear returned to Merin's house.
Reports reached us from the frontier of constant fighting. No sooner had our warriors driven one band of northerners away than more came to challenge them. While some of the raiders confronted our warriors, the others slipped past them and attacked our farms. They paid in blood for what they took. Our warriors bled too. The raids continued until all the grain had been brought in. Then the northerners went home.
It was a poor harvest, and the northerners had made off with a large share of it, but if we were careful, we would have enough, and we were grateful. That year at the harvest festival, when the Lady burned the Mother-sheaf, it felt more like a sacrifice than a celebration. In good years we offered the Mother a share of our bounty, because she was the source of it. This year I wondered if someone would starve to death who might have lived but for the sheaf of grain we'd given back.
On the last day of the harvest festival, Vintel and her warriors returned from the frontier. That evening Sparrow and I slipped away from the celebration and went down to sit by the river. Her safe return was the only thing I felt like celebrating.
When I first saw her, her appearance shocked me. Her face was gaunt, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
"What was it like?" I asked her.
"Relentless," she replied.
"You look exhausted."
She nodded. "I could sleep away the winter."
I felt guilty that I hadn't done my part. "I wish I'd been there."
"Me too," she said. "I've missed you."
Gently, almost shyly, she took my hand.
"I've missed you too," I said. "And I've been afraid for you."
A Journey of the Heart Page 23