Fire-heart (Tales of Alterra, the World that Is)

by C S Marks

  Gaelen lifted the fire-cloak, letting the fabric run through her fingers like liquid silk. “This feels alive in my hands,” she said. “It is light, yet heavier than it would appear to be, almost like…like metal.”

  “And so it is” said Bint Raed, “at least in part. Fire will not touch it, and it will turn the harsh sun aside. It will even turn a blade or a dart, provided they have not much power behind them. Look now, and see.” She drew forth a blade, draping the fire-cloak across Gaelen’s thigh, and pressed the sharp blade down. The fabric locked together under the pressure of the blade, and would not allow it to penetrate.

  Gaelen was fascinated. “So, this is almost a form of very light armor,” she said, continually running her fingers over it, watching how it caught the light and sent it back in flickering rays of orange, scarlet, and gold.

  “After a fashion, yes,” said Bint Raed, “although it will not turn a well-directed blade or arrow. But neither will armor protect you from the sun, or from fire. This will turn both flame and smoke. Such a garment is worth a king’s ransom, and I am pleased that you will wear it, and not Al-Muniqui. He was not worthy of it, which is why I have been reluctant to finish it. Now I am rewarded, for it will have an excellent home. Please accept it, and keep it close at hand. One day it will save your life, of that I am certain.”

  “You say it’s not finished…it looks finished to me,” said Gaelen.

  “It would have needed a few more inches to really fit one as tall as Al-Muniqui. For you, it’s fine!”

  Gaelen flushed, unsure of how to react to Bint Raed’s generosity. “But why have you chosen me for it? Why not give it to Nelwyn, with whom your friendship is close? Why not to Rogond, who is of your race? I do not understand.”

  Bint Raed smiled. “I have my reasons. Just accept my gift and be glad. You are a fire-spirit, Gaelen; I have read this in your eyes. Nelwyn is a water-spirit, and is not as suited to the fire-cloak. It called to the one who will wear it best. In doing so, you will be able to endure terrible hardship. You might even save the Company from death one day. Will you now accept my gift, little Fire-heart?”

  “What terrible hardship? What death? ” asked Gaelen, her eyes wide.

  “You ask too many questions,” said Bint Raed. “Will you accept my gift, or no? I give it not lightly, but I do give it willingly. Do you accept?”

  Gaelen looked down at the fabulous cloak, knowing that she could not refuse it. It had called to her, just as Bint Raed had observed, and if she needed it to save the lives of her friends, she had no choice. “I accept with thanks, though I say it with some trepidation, for your dire foreshadowing has unsettled me. I will keep it safe, and wear it only when needed.”

  “That is wise, for many will covet it,” said Bint Raed. “You will be a fearsome vision clad in such a garment, mounted on your fiery horse, shooting deadly arrows at people. They will cover their faces from dread at the sight of you!” She smiled at Gaelen in the darkness.

  Gaelen smiled, though she already thought herself quite fearsome, with or without a fire-cloak. “I would like to show it to my friends before I tuck it away…do you think that would be all right?”

  “Of course. It won’t hurt that they know you have it,” said Bint Raed. “But then you should put it away until the need arises.”

  Gaelen nodded at Bint Raed, folding the beautiful cloak carefully before tucking it away. It did not want to be folded, slipping this way and that, but she finally subdued it. “The fabric has a mind of its own,” observed Bint Raed. “If you think it is difficult to fold, you cannot imagine the effort it takes to create! It fights you every step of the way. Some days I would struggle just to weave a single row, and there are many hundreds of rows in the hood alone. Take good care of your gift.”

  “I will,” said Gaelen respectfully. She knew that Bint Raed was right, for she had seen her own fiery aura, as well as Nelwyn’s gentle, liquid blue-white one. Bint Raed had declared Nelwyn to be a water-spirit—how was it that she held such insight? Gaelen did not know.

  “Come on, you two, and prepare to feast well tonight! Your catch is nearly ready,” called Fima. “I have been informed that no one may eat until all are present, and I’m hungry, so let’s not delay.”

  Gaelen bowed, taking Bint Raed’s right hand and touching it to her forehead in acknowledgment of her indebtedness. Bint Raed smiled and returned the bow, and then rose and moved to the fireside, where even now a wonderful meal of roasted hare (with a side of roasted lizard) was being served to all.

  In the morning, when the sun glinted red-gold upon the sand, Gaelen drew forth the fire-cloak, gasping as she beheld its brilliance for the first time in daylight. She needed to introduce this fabulous garment properly to her friends, and so she called to Finan, donned the cloak, grabbed her bow and quiver, and swung aboard.

  She cantered up to Rogond, Hallagond, Fima, and Estle, who were putting out the campfire after breakfast. She gave a war-cry and halted her fierce battle-mount, who stood briefly but dramatically on his hind legs. Then she sent a shaft into the sand at the feet of Rogond who, though he knew she was playing, still took a step back from her. She was a sight that might have given pause to the fabled warriors of old.

  “See what Bint Raed, the unrivaled artisan, has seen fit to give to me! Is it not the most fabulous cloak ever?” Gaelen, who almost never adorned herself, was feeling quite impressive and radiant in that moment.

  Estle, who made it her business to be unimpressed with Gaelen, smirked and snorted. “Yes, it is certainly fabulous. Especially if you want to be an obvious target for your enemies, or if you wish to frequent certain shady districts of portside towns and sell your favors there!” She turned from Gaelen and went to secure her pack, walking briskly past Nelwyn and Galador, who had heard Gaelen’s war-cry and had come to investigate.

  Gaelen refused to be chastened, but turned Finan about on his haunches so that all her friends could see the cloak to full effect. “Bint Raed has told me that this cloak took ten years to make, and that it will turn fire and smoke aside. She has also said that we may one day have need of it. I shall not wear it again until that day, but I wanted to show you.” She slid down from her mount and removed the cloak, unfastening the golden clasp, which was made in the shape of a winged dragon.

  She placed it carefully in her small leather bag. It stowed in a very small space, but it was heavier than it appeared, so she tied it to Finan’s harness. She had acquired a light leather pad covered with a red-and-gold-tasseled tapestry, secured with a girth, a breastplate in front, and a strap that ran around Finan’s tail behind. It could not be properly called a saddle, as there was neither a tree nor stirrups, but it provided a place to secure her belongings, and it protected her from the sweat of the animal. Soft and well fitted, it would not gall Finan if kept clean.

  She turned him back around to face her friends, who appeared to be most suitably impressed. Hallagond, in particular, seemed almost stunned. He stood with his mouth open, his eyes distant, lost in his own thoughts.

  “Hallagond, you may as well close your mouth before you trap something winged and bad-tasting,” said Gaelen. “As experienced a man of the world as you are…have you not seen an Elf wearing a fire-cloak before?” She laughed good-naturedly at him, though her smile faded when she saw that his expression did not change.

  The Company traveled ever to the southwest, moving slowly toward the sea. Bint Raed and Hallagond had guided them well, but as they drew farther from the lands he knew, Hallagond deferred more to Bint Raed. They didn’t really seem to know where or why they traveled, they just moved between one water source and the next.

  They experienced the wrath of the desert sands as a windstorm overtook the oasis where they were sheltering. Thankfully, they were not in the open desert, for such a storm might have finished them—Hallagond had seen wind-driven sand strip the skin from a man’s body. He did take advantage, however, by hanging Fima’s steel pots out in the wind. With no water availab
le to clean them they had become dirty and blackened, but when the storm passed they had been polished to a clean, bright finish.

  Due to his constant efforts at being helpful, everyone’s attitude toward Hallagond had mellowed with time. However, there were tensions evident elsewhere. Estle did not get along especially well with any of the Elves, particularly Gaelen, and took every opportunity to cast sarcasm at her, thinking her prideful without cause and annoying without equal. Gaelen refused to be baited, ignoring what was said of her, which only confirmed Estle’s assessment of her arrogance.

  Estle had grown up a woman in what was definitely a man’s world, and her life had been hard. She had battled always for respect, and now she demanded it. In truth, if Estle had been able to think clearly about why she scorned Gaelen so, she would have realized the truth of it. Hallagond had grown to like Gaelen, and often sought her company. She was capable, and in possession of many abilities, and her youth and strength would not fade. Estle had seen Hallagond cast admiring looks at Gaelen as she rode or practiced with her weapons. The Elves’ lack of physical hardship was infuriating, and Estle knew that they were well aware of their superiority to men in this regard. Gaelen probably thought herself too good for the likes of Hallagond, despite her evident affection for Rogond. Estle was determined to remain unimpressed with Rogond also, for he comported himself more as an Elf than a man, at least the men in her experience. His manners were far too refined, and he was far too clean.

  Although Estle did not yet fully admit to herself that she still desired Hallagond as more than friend, she resented his attentions to Gaelen, and would not rest until she had forced the Elf to acknowledge her scorn.

  That day finally came. The Company had encountered a merchant caravan and were availing themselves of supplies. The merchants were only too happy to sell their wares, and they had some interesting goods from trade cities on the far southern coast. Their descriptions of those strange lands made Gaelen long to visit them and see the wonders for herself. She looked over at her cousin Nelwyn. “They say there are great forests there…trees as tall as hills, where no light reaches the floor. How I would long to see such a sight again.”

  Nelwyn nodded and turned away, her eyes filled with tears. This journey through desert wastes had been hard on her, for she was a child of the forest and always would be. She would never be truly at peace anywhere else.

  Gaelen placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. One day we will leave this forsaken waste behind, and return to our green country. You will feel the rain upon your face again.” Nelwyn nodded, a single tear flowing down her face as she thought of that day. It could not come soon enough.

  Estle overheard Gaelen’s comment, and rounded on her. “And precisely which forsaken waste are you referring to? It could not possibly be my beautiful desert, my home, where I was born and raised. Even you would not be so ignorant and rude as to suggest such a thing, although I can fully understand why neither of you would be happy here. Why don’t you go back to the forest right now, so that you can live easily in lands where water falls every day from the sky, and food literally drops into your hand? These lands are too hard for you! Go home.”

  Nelwyn turned to face Estle, who saw her tears for the first time. “You know nothing of me or of my home, woman of Tal-fásath!” She turned and left them to be alone with her sorrow.

  Gaelen’s eyes glittered as she faced Estle. “You would not last long in the Darkmere. There are enemies in the northlands that you cannot even imagine! Here, it seems the only things you need fear are those of your own kind. That is one difference between your lands and mine.”

  “Ah. Well, we could test that opinion, couldn’t we? I’m not afraid of you, Gaelen Taldin! You would not have survived in the Ravani without our aid. Admit it. You and your friends would have died long ago if not for the generosity of Ravani-folk.”

  “That is true, yet I have yet to see much generosity in certain of them,” said Gaelen. “Although, with one notable exception, the women-folk have been worth knowing. For the most part they realize that respect cannot be demanded, and must be earned.”

  “Yet I will demand it, for I have earned it,” said Estle with a slight curl of her lip. “And I will not suffer your scorn of my race, you who understand so little of the ways of men. You profess to love Rogond, yet he is more alike to Elves than to real men. For example, I have never seen him cast his eyes upon another woman, and that is most unnatural in a real man. It makes me wonder whether he is of a normal masculine disposition in that regard.” Estle glanced sidelong at Gaelen, and her eyes glittered maliciously. “I have seen him look with greater admiration upon Galador!”

  Estle knew this would ruffle Gaelen, and so it did. “You are making it ever harder to earn my respect,” she said, throwing back her powerful shoulders and drawing herself up to her full height. She was not as tall as Estle, but her demeanor more than made up for it.

  “You think I care at all?” Estle replied. “At last I see and hear the truth from you, and my thoughts concerning you are confirmed. I will not vie for respect from one so arrogant. Go home, that you may live again like a bird among the tree-tops, preening your beautiful feathers and telling yourself each day of your superiority. Fly away home now, and leave these hard lands—and hard men—to those who understand them.”

  Gaelen, who was not used to tolerating any disrespect of either Rogond or herself, felt hot blood rising in her face. She hated Estle in that moment. She flexed her fingers, wishing that they held a weapon so that she might take the infuriating smile from the woman’s face.

  Estle, who felt more than capable of dealing with an angry Wood-elf, sensed her advantage, and pressed it harder. “You want some of me? Come, then, and take it!”

  The confrontation might have turned into a battle had not Hallagond chosen that moment to intervene. “What’s this, then?” he asked, stepping between the two combative females. “What has so upset you that it’s worth fighting over? Well, whatever it is, it ends now, for both of you. We cannot afford such displays of female temperament. Make friends, or…or I shall be forced to sing until you do.” Hallagond was like to Rogond in singing ability—he lacked any vestige of it.

  “Ah. I see that you are still glaring at each other, and have not yet become friends. Well, you have brought this on yourselves…I am no longer responsible.” He threw his head back and, to the dismay of all in hearing, began a tuneless bellowing that might have been mistaken for cries of pain.

  “Stop it, Al-amand. We cannot be friends, but we will not come to blows. Let that be enough for you...please!” begged Estle, wincing as Hallagond hit another horrible quavering note.

  “Sorry, not good enough. Shake hands and part as friends, or the singing continues.”

  Gaelen looked over at Estle. “I suppose I cannot really shoot him, can I?”

  Hallagond merely threw his head back and sang louder. Everyone in the caravan was now staring at him with a pained expression.

  “Oh, very well, be silent, already!” growled Estle, extending her hand to Gaelen, who took it in a grip that was crushingly firm. Estle returned it in kind; neither would give the slightest hint of discomfort as they strove to turn the other’s hand to jelly. Each spoke in a tongue they knew the other would not be understood—Gaelen in Elvish, Estle in Ravani.

  “This is not ended, you prissy, dainty, prudish, worthless excuse for an Elf. I would not shed a tear if you were to leave and return to your precious trees right now! Stay away from Al-amand if you know what’s good for you.”

  “It’s taking all my self-control to hold back from breaking your fingers, you weakling! You had better watch what you say of my beloved, or else keep watch over your shoulder. And by the way, you are unclean and your smell offends me.”

  These things were said with smiling faces, but Hallagond, who understood the words, became silent. These two were far from being friends, but this was the best he could ask right now. Besides, if he did not sto
p caterwauling soon, the men of the caravan might shoot him to save themselves.

  One thing was certain—Estle was unhappy with his friendly attentions to Gaelen. He smiled inwardly. So that’s how it is, is it, he thought to himself, after Estle and Gaelen had exchanged black looks, broken contact, and departed. Hallagond had long admired and liked Estle, and he knew that she enjoyed his company, but now it seemed that there might be something more growing in her heart. He would wait and see, and pay no more extra attention to Gaelen for the time being.

  The Company followed the caravan to the next oasis, a journey that took nearly five days. Rogond noticed that Hallagond seemed unusually quiet and somber; typically he was of a much more cavalier demeanor, with a ready smile and a bright, if occasionally wicked, sense of humor. Now he appeared to be lost in serious thought. Estle tried to distract him, but he was preoccupied, and paid her little heed.

  On the evening of the third day, Rogond moved to his side. “Something troubles you, my brother,” he said. “It has done so for some time, and I am becoming concerned. What has turned your mood so grim?”

  “It doesn’t concern you.”

  “Any matter that troubles you concerns me,” said Rogond in a calm but earnest voice. “Talk to me, brother, and unburden yourself. This mood came on you when you first beheld Gaelen’s fire-cloak. Why has such a thing dismayed you?”

  Hallagond drew a deep breath. In truth, this matter did concern not only Rogond, but all in the Company. He could no longer keep it to himself.

  “It was not merely the sight of the fire-cloak, but the sight of Gaelen wearing the fire-cloak that unsettled me. Many months ago, I dreamed of a horror so real that it terrified me, yet when I awoke I could remember none of it. It has been coming back slowly, bit by bit. The sight of your face brought some of it back, for you were a part of my dream. Gaelen was there as well, and she was wearing the fire-cloak. There was a terrible battle, and…and a Great City. A dreadful host assailed it, all clad in red and black. Their hands were stained with the blood of innocents, and Darkness went before them. That was frightening enough, but there was something more. I cannot now fully remember it, but it was horrible…some fierce black warrior with strange, golden hair. It was immense, and nothing could stand against it. It spoke, but I cannot recall what it said.” Hallagond looked over at Rogond to see that his brother’s sun-browned face had gone quite pale. “This has meaning to you, doesn’t it?” he asked in a low voice.