by Angus Wells
Swallows darted above them and the sun shone bright. It lit the stone walls with golden radiance, and set the fields to glistening with multiple shades of green. The air was warm and heady against her face as she urged the gelding to a faster pace that Laurens matched. He only followed, though, so that she took them down through the fields and farmlands toward the forest that somehow seemed to call to her.
He came alongside then and said, “Is it wise to go in there?”
She shrugged off his warning hand and galloped to the edge of the woods.
They stood decked in sunlight, leafy and enticing, and she rode toward them as Laurens followed after.
She crossed the bracken and brambles that edged the main timber and rode through the skirting of lesser trees into the forest proper. Saplings gave way to older timber, ancient oaks spreading massive limbs over the trail she followed, which she supposed was some hunter’s path such as Cullyn might use, or a deer trail. But it was spaced with ash and beech, so that all the time the colors changed and shifted, and the ferns that grew tall whispered, and she could imagine how the Durrym turned her own folk around. She felt suddenly afraid.
She halted her horse and looked about, and was grateful to hear the pounding of hooves behind her. Laurens came ducking under a low-hung branch to join her.
“It’s a strange place, no?”
She nodded.
“A fey place,” he said.
“But folk live here.”
“Not many.”
“There’s that one we met—Cullyn.”
“The forester.” Laurens ducked his head in agreement. “There’s folk say he’s fey.”
“He seemed friendly enough to me.”
“He was. But even so …” Laurens shrugged. “It’s said the fey folk are often friendly—so as to deceive.”
“How many do you know?”
Laurens shrugged again. “Two, perhaps. There’s Eben …”
“Who is?” Abra demanded as the husky voice fell silent.
“A man who lives alone,” Laurens answered. “Has your father not told you?”
Abra shook her head.
“Then perhaps I should not. It’s not much spoken of.”
“Why not?”
Laurens grinned. “He’s an odd fellow. I’ve met him a time or two. He lives with animals—foxes and dogs and cats, owls and badgers. Folk say he was birthed by the Durrym. Conceived in a raid, when some fey warrior had his mother. And she a widow then, so Eben was both Kandarian and Durrym. I think the Church took him for a while, but then he … escaped? And came to live alone in the forest.” Laurens shrugged. “I’ve only met him a time or two, but he’s likable. Who knows, perhaps you’ll meet him. These are, after all, strange lands.”
Abra shook her head and urged her horse deeper into the woods. Laurens followed after.
They came to a clearing where a spring bubbled up from between rocks and roots, and drizzled away down a narrow freshet that disappeared under folds of bracken and overhanging ferns. Abra had not realized how long they’d ridden until she dismounted and looked up to find the sun directly above her head. She let her horse drink and then herself, and looked at Laurens and said, “I’m hungry.”
“As well I thought before, then.” Grinning, he reached into his saddlebags to bring out bread and cheese, a few apples. “Soldier’s habit, eh?”
Abra laughed, nodding, and took what he offered. She began to eat, thinking that for all his bluff and grizzled appearance, Laurens was a considerate man.
It was pleasant here, and it seemed to her that if the seduction of the woodland was Durrym magic, then that magic was benign. Light filtered down through the branches above and sparkled on the spring, which gurgled merrily, as if in accord with the gentle swaying of the ferns. Birds sang overhead, and insects buzzed through the lazy air, which was warm and soft, and rendered her sleepy.
“I think,” she declared, “that I shall nap a while.” She felt tired after her restless night, and the warm air and the buzzing of the insects urged her to sleep. Indeed, the forest felt somnolent, as if all its sounds and patterns urged her to stretch out and close her eyes.
Laurens nodded and settled against the bole of a massive oak. “I’ll keep watch,” he said.
Abra stretched out on the springy grass and soon fell asleep.
She wondered if she dreamed then, for it seemed that a soft voice whispered in her ear. It was not so different from the rustling of the leaves, or the lazy chatter of the insects, or the chuckling of the spring as it gurgled over the rocks. It was a comforting voice, and it called to her, urging that she rise and meet the speaker.
It was so insistent that she rose—not sure if that were reality or dream—and walked toward the beckoning voice. She thought that she looked back and saw Laurens snoring against the oak. He held his sheathed sword in his arms, like a mother held her child, but he did not stir, and her feet seemed to make no sound on the forest sward as she followed the call.
I must be dreaming, she thought.
And then an entirely realistic voice, which at the same time was no more than the rustling of leaves, said, “No. I called you.”
Abra started, knowing that she was now awake, and some distance from Laurens. She set a hand on the hilt of her belt knife and stared around.
“Are you afraid of me? You shouldn’t be.”
A face appeared, upside down, hanging from the branches of an oak. It was a handsome face, tanned brown as an autumn nut, surrounded by long brown hair, with startling eyes that glistened amusement to match the smile on the wide mouth. She drew her knife and opened her lips to shout for Laurens’s help.
And bit off her cry as the face reversed itself, the owner swinging down from the confines of the tree to land lithely before her. He was still smiling as he bowed elegantly and said, “Welcome to the forest, my lady Abra.”
“You know my name?” She held the dagger extended.
He smiled—the gods knew, but his teeth were white—and said, “Cullyn told me. You are Abra, daughter of Bartram, who commands the stone place.”
“Cullyn?” She remembered the young forester. “What does he know of me? And who are you?”
“My name is Lofantyl.” This was accompanied by another extravagant bow. “I am the younger son of Isydrian, who is Vashinu of Kash’ma Hall, the southernmost of all Coim’na Drhu’s holdings.”
“You’re a Durrym!” Abra held her knife firmer.
“Indeed, I am,” Lofantyl agreed. “But I offer you no harm. In fact—”
“Then why did you lure me away?” Abra gestured at the path she’d tracked through the bracken, and raised her blade.
Lofantyl smiled. “Because I wished to talk with you.”
His smile could dazzle. It was seductive, so Abra held her blade as she’d been taught, thumb to quillon so that the cut would go deep into the belly.
“You should not fear me,” Lofantyl said. “I mean you no harm. I’ve seen you out riding, and …” He paused, his smile faltering for a moment. “I fell in love with you.”
“What?” Abra stared at him, surprise overcoming fear. “You’re mad.”
“With love. I’ve watched you, and …” An eloquent shrug.
“But you don’t know me.” She shook her head, baffled and flattered and somewhat frightened. She wondered if he were mad, or played some game with her. Surely he’d used magic to speak into her dreams and bring her here, with Laurens sound asleep behind. So what might he plan? To carry her off, perhaps? Away into the fey lands, a captive? She held her blade ready.
“I’ve seen you,” he said, “and I know.”
She was barely aware that she lowered the knife; only of those deep brown eyes staring into hers.
“I know,” he repeated. “I love you.”
This was, Abra thought, insane. She stood in a forest glade speaking with a Durrym who declared his love for her. Worse, she listened to him and—the thought amazed her—believed him. There was an intensity in his gaze that con
vinced her; such sincerity in his voice that she could not deny it. Save all Kandarian lore spoke of the Durrym’s seductions—how they’d lure human folk across the Alagordar to the fey lands beyond. She wondered if this handsome fellow intended to carry her off.
“How do you know Cullyn?” she asked, thinking to buy herself time.
“I’ve watched him, too,” Lofantyl replied. “He’s near as close to the land as Eben.”
“Eben?” Abra was utterly confused.
“I’ve met him a few times,” Lofantyl returned. “He lives even lonelier than Cullyn.” He gestured vaguely to the north. “I know little about him, save my father says he was birthed of Durrym stock and yours.”
“And you are only fey?”
Lofantyl laughed aloud at that. “Does it worry you so much? Is it not more important that I love you?”
“You don’t even know me,” Abra repeated.
“I know I love you. Come with me to my father’s hall.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You break my heart,” he returned gallantly. “But I shall win yours.”
“How?” she asked. “Shall you court me? Shall you present yourself in my father’s hall and ask for my hand?”
“Cullyn said you’d likely execute me,” he answered. “So, no, not a formal courtship. But perhaps I’ll come to you in secret. Would you like that?”
Abra thought of Wyllym and their arranged betrothal, and the fascination of a clandestine affair intrigued her. Was this madman truly prepared to risk his life for his declared love?
“My father or any of his men would slay you on sight.”
“They’d not see me,” Lofantyl returned confidently. “We could meet here, or I could come to your chambers.”
“In the keep?” She stared at him, wondering if he boasted.
“I’d attempt it,” he said. “For you.”
“And how should you know which are my chambers?”
“Leave out a sign—a ribbon, or some such—and if I see it, I’ll come to you.” He bowed again. “With your permission, of course.”
Intrigued and flattered, Abra nodded.
“Then I shall,” Lofantyl promised.
“How?” she asked.
He chuckled and said, “I shall find the ways, now you’ve agreed.”
He stepped closer and set his hands on her shoulders, and she smelled leaf mold and earth, and the sap of growing leaves and buds. She allowed him to kiss her, and felt her head spin. She clutched him and felt alive and frightened, all at the same time.
And then it was over, and he stepped back and said, “I shall come for you.”
And he was gone, like a shadow disappearing into the forest, and she was left confused, the taste of nutmeg and cloves in her mouth.
She stood a while, tasting him on her lips. She was aware of her heart pounding quickly, unsure of whether she felt flattered or frightened, and then went back to where Laurens still slumbered against the oak. She wondered if this was some manifestation of Durrym magic. Had Lofantyl entrapped her; cast some spell over Laurens? She was not sure. She only knew that she had met a Durrym who declared his love and promised to come to her—although she could not envisage how that might be, or how he could survive the attempt. But it was as fascinating as a fairy tale, and every bit as unlikely. And he was surely far more exciting than Wyllym. She stared at the slumbering master-at-arms and thought that she should wake him—warn him of the Durrym and flee the forest. But … she could not forget that kiss, or his face, or the honesty she sensed in him.
Or was that only Durrym magic? Did he look to seduce her to some secret end? To find a way into her father’s castle, perhaps, so that he could bring others and they take the keep? Yet he had seemed entirely honest. There was about him some sense of integrity she’d known only in her father, or perhaps in the forester, Cullyn. It was not a thing she could properly define, only sense.
So she decided to say nothing, and await the outcome.
She shook Laurens awake, and sprang back as he came to his feet with his sword in hand.
She was startled by his energy. He was on his feet with the blade up in defense, sunlight sparkling off the steel, the point angling at her belly, so swift she’d barely time to avoid the stroke.
“Laurens!” she shouted.
He lowered the blade, his face reddening as he recognized her.
“Forgive me.” He sheathed the sword and ducked his head. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“You did.” Abra waved a hand at the surrounding forest. “Who’d not, here?”
“And you?” Laurens asked.
“I slept, too,” she said. And lied, “I only just awoke.”
“We’d best return,” he said, yawning.
“Yes, I suppose we should.” Abra could still taste Lofantyl’s kiss. “I expect they’ll be wondering where we’ve been.”
She waited as Laurens brought up their horses, and let him help her mount, then rode back to the keep, where she said nothing at all about her strange meeting.
CULLYN WAS PREPARING his supper when he heard Fey snort and the grubbing pigs squeal a warning. He left the stew to simmer and picked up the Durrym knife as he went to the door and flung it open. The sun was setting behind the forest and the eastern sky was already dark, albeit pocked with stars and the bright shape of the risen moon, so that all his little yard was dappled with light and dancing shadows.
From across the clearing before the cottage he heard a voice.
“You took my gift, then?”
“Lofantyl?”
“Who else?”
The Durrym came out of the shadows and Cullyn wished he might blend so well with the woodland. He watched as Lofantyl walked through the pigs—which no longer squealed—and went to where Fey stood watching. The Durrym stroked the stallion’s glossy nose and Fey ducked his head, as if in obeisance.
“You’ve a fine horse.” Lofantyl came to the door. “Where did you find him?”
“I bought him,” Cullyn said. “Not long ago.”
“Bought?” asked Lofantyl.
“Yes. I take deer from the forest and trade them—I earned some money, and—”
“Money?”
“Traded it for the horse. You don’t have money in Coim’na Drhu?”
“No.” Lofantyl shook his head. “Are you going to invite me into your home?”
Cullyn hesitated. This Durrym had already entered uninvited. But then again, he had left the gift of the knife; and Cullyn could not help liking him.
He stepped aside, gesturing that Lofantyl enter. “Have you eaten?”
Lofantyl shook his head.
“Then eat with me.”
“Thank you.” The Durrym stepped inside the cottage, staring around as if it were all new and marvelous to him. “That smells good.”
Cullyn went to the stewpot. Lofantyl settled on a chair. “So tell me, what is money?”
“Coin,” Cullyn said, thinking hard. “We decide that a deer is worth so much; a parcel of salt, so much; a loaf of bread, so much. We then decide that each thing is worth a certain amount of money, and trade in coin.”
“Why not just trade?” Lofantyl asked. “A deer for so much salt and bread, and so on?”
“Is that how you live?” Cullyn returned.
“Don’t you?” Lofantyl replied.
And Cullyn shrugged. “I suppose so; but I’m—”
“Different?” Lofantyl grinned. “Like me, eh? Have you anything to drink?”
“Yes,” Cullyn said, answering the first question. “It seems that folk believe I talk too much with fey folk.”
“As my people believe of me. Now answer my other question.”
“What question?” Cullyn stared at the Durrym, wondering if Lofantyl joked with him or tormented him.
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“I’ve water.” Cullyn remembered his hangover. “Or tea.”
“Nothing stronger?”
“A j
ar or two of honey wine.”
“We make that,” Lofantyl said. “Where is it?”
Cullyn pointed at his shelves and the Durrym fetched a jar. Filled two cups and settled in as if with an old friend.
“I … encountered Abra today,” he said. “I pledged my troth. I trust that shall not make us enemies.”
“Why should it?” For a moment Cullyn’s mind returned memories of Elvira and the smug merchant, and glimpses of Abra. “But how shall you pursue that affair?” He set plates on the table and spooned stew into them.
“With great difficulty,” Lofantyl said. And then, “This is very good.”
“Thank you. But why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’d not have enemies here, and I think of you as a friend. Like Eben: a Garm who has some sympathy for we Durrym.”
“Eben?” Cullyn said. “I thought he was only a legend.”
“No.” Lofantyl shook his head. “He’s alive. I’ve no idea how old he is, but he lives. I was telling Abra about him—he dwells north of here. Alone even more than you.”
Cullyn wondered for a moment how anyone could live more alone than he. Elvira had rejected him, and Abra was beyond his grasp—and, if Lofantyl spoke true, thinking of a Durrym lover.
“It would be interesting to speak with him,” he said.
“Eben doesn’t speak with many folk,” Lofantyl answered. “Neither your kind nor mine. But that’s beside the point.”
“So what is the point?” Cullyn asked.
“That you help me see Abra,” the Durrym said. “That we not become enemies because of this. Shall you agree?”
Cullyn thought a while. There seemed no point to pursuing Abra. She was, after all, daughter of the keep. Whatever he felt for her, likely her father would reject him. Just as Elvira had rejected him. She’d found a better lover, with more to give her than a penniless forester could hope to muster, and wouldn’t Abra do the same? He spooned up stew and wondered why he discussed this with Lofantyl. The Durrym was, after all, a traditional enemy; save he could not think of the fellow sitting across his table as an enemy.
“I don’t know,” he said cautiously.
“But I love her,” Lofantyl declared. “You must help me.”
“But …”Cullyn sought the words “You’re Durrym. You’re our enemy.”