Finally, again nodding, he placed his hands together in a motion of confidence, of conclusion.
“The Others do not fight to survive.” Preinon said. “They do not fight to protect their families or to gather food for them. They fight because they are told that they are closer to the spirits than we are, and they believe it to be so. They fight because they believe they are stronger than the People, and so they believe the People must be punished for our weakness. The Others are filled with their own words, and will never hear ours.”
A strange argument, Adria thought, but it will make some sense to them. How do you explain the religion of the Sisterhood? How do you explain an invisible unnamed god for whom legions of men will raise swords and spears? How to explain such blind faith and will to violence? They would burn their own villages, out of such blindness...
And the young warrior seemed to understand, now — if not the words themselves, then the wisdom they signified. Preinon had been born among the Aeman and could speak their tongue. He had chosen to become an Aesidhe and could count himself among the greatest of their Hunters, foremost among the Runners. He knew both worlds well, and the Aesidhe who knew him understood his word on such matters to be Truth.
“It is true,” many around the circle, young and old, responded to his words, and the disagreement was ended.
When the final scout spoke, his news seemed to most of the gathering to be of less consequence than even the barest speculation of war. He brought word from the city of Windberth, the capital and heart of the Kingdom of Heiland, though it lay against the Werdstan Mountains of the far north.
“The Others hold a celebration for the son of their chief Hunter,” the young Aesidhe spoke. “He has been given his name as a Hunter and is being sent as a messenger to a great nation to the East. He will travel across the ocean to search for missing friends.”
Adria’s eyes flitted to Preinon, who was some distance away. He was watching her as well — to gauge her reaction to the news. She wished at first that he had spoken to her of this before the council.
Others took their turns discussing this news as they did any other trivial news of the king’s diplomatic affairs — for, of course, this news was not meant for them. One Aesidhe made a morbid jest, even, about the coming of age of a Hunter of the Others being a matter of traveling to another nation to kill their People and take their land.
But as trivial as it seemed to most of the Aesidhe gathered, it was by no means trivial to Adria, to her uncle, or to the girl who lay asleep in her lap. But few of those who even knew that the scout referred to her father and her brother could have guessed the full meaning of the news. Her eyes went from Preinon’s to those of Mateko, who had sat a little distant from her tonight, unusually.
If only I had known before the council, I could have spoken with him alone...
But Preinon had not taken her aside. They walked among the Aesidhe now, where a matter of family was a matter for all.
Adria looked around the circle, most of them her elder, deciding when and how to speak. After scanning those assembled twice in silence, she met Preinon’s eyes again. He nodded to her, very slowly and evenly, a subtle sign of understanding and encouragement. The last of the scouts had finished, and no one else spoke. Adria took up Náme in her arms, careful not to wake her, and rose to her feet.
“I speak my turn.” There was stillness and complete silence, every waking eye turned to her. Only an Aesidhe with grave or urgent news rose to speak. Adria had rarely done so before, and the attention of so many of them took the breath from her for a moment. She was glad that they were Aesidhe — that she could take as long as she needed to gather her thoughts, and they would only appreciate her words better for it.
Many around her were strangers, or nearly so. But the Runners were there, and many of the Shema Ihaloa Táya whom she had come to know. But when she spoke, she spoke as if all the Aesidhe were there, every tribe she had known, every refugee she had seen to safer camps — those she had suffered for and with.
“I am Lozheskisiyama, and I am Pukshonisla, and I am Adria Idonea. I know you all as my family, and I would never leave my family without a deep reason, but this time has come. It is known to many among you that I have another family, but even this understanding is not enough to explain why I must go. The deep reason is that I… once made a promise to a brother, a promise that I must now choose to fulfill.”
She paused, and heads nodded, and voices rose in agreement, “It is true.” The Aesidhe knew the value of a promise, far more than any Aeman Adria had ever known. She had learned this value from them, and it was this understanding which left her no choice.
They would have me do nothing else, nothing less, she had realized, long before this particular night and this particular news — for she had long known it would come, even when she hoped it wouldn’t — hoped it would somehow pass her by.
But it had been a foolish hope.
To stay now would be a betrayal of both families, a betrayal of both of my lives. But the conflict would remain there, nonetheless, and the sense of betrayal. She was not simply leaving the Aesidhe. She was leaving them for their enemy.
But she said none of this aloud — there was no need or reason. Instead, she met the eyes of the Runners gathered there, one by one, beginning with Mateko and ending with Preinon.
“I made a promise without understanding its depth,” she whispered, just above the sound of the fire, and with real regret, “And now I must... go... home.”
There was nothing more for her to say, though her words seemed far too simple for the feelings that had made them. She sat again, lowering Náme once more into her lap — picking up the golden-haired doll from where it had fallen and enfolding it within the girl’s arms again.
Many spoke after her, with words of encouragement, in thankfulness for her service, but also in sadness. Most of these Aesidhe had seen many things in their lifetime, and suffered much change and death, but were nonetheless still saddened in simple parting from a friend, a sister, a child of the People.
Their words were chosen to strengthen her resolve rather than to question it, and when the final thanks to the spirits were given, and the council retired, Adria felt heavy and airy at once, at last believing she knew the reason for her recent distraction.
It was no ghost in the Wild that brought her careless memories. It was spring, after all, but not just any — it was the spring of her brother’s sixteenth year.
The Prince of Heiland had come of age.
Adria’s very first memories were dim and scattered, but all seemed to center upon her father. In this, they were not unlike those of many she knew — the images and feelings her maid servant held of and for her own father, who had died when she was very young… Preinon’s distant and vague description of his father, called by some a merchant, and by others a pirate… and Mateko’s rare shared remembrances of the tragedy of his early life, a terror of fire and blood and water.
Though from a similar time as Mateko’s, Adria’s first memory was not seated in the tragedy of those days, but rather seen through the haze of her years of privilege, the daughter of the man whose hidden tragedies had made him and his children princes of Heiland.
She remembered walking hand in hand with her brother, what seemed an impossible distance, always upwards, behind their crowned and violet-robed father and a woman who might have been their mother, or might have been Matron Taber of the Sisterhood, or might have been no one at all.
There were crowds, and horses with armored men, and cheers and trumpeting, and flower petals raining down upon and around them. Adria had tried her best to step around them, but they became as thick as a carpet — or might even have been the carpet of the citadel.
She could not remember any before, but could remember the cold and newness of her room, or a room she shared with Hafgrim, and the bed and blankets they certainly shared for warmth. They both might
have been crying, sick for some now-unremembered home.
They had been inseparable then — that much Adria remembered for certain — and were almost of an age. “Perhaps we are twins,” Hafgrim used to say, though somehow Adria knew that they were not. They were so different, and became more distant and separate as they grew, though much of this had been forced upon them by separate apartments and separate education.
“What are your first memories, Náme?” Adria asked the sleeping girl in her lap, who could not have understood her anyway — and if she had, would not have answered. She had spoken so little since her rescue. “What joys remain, what sunlight buried under blood and ashes?”
Your parents’ death… Adria thought sadly. I suppose that will take its place foremost among your memories. She caressed the girl’s cheek and hair, half hoping she would wake up, and whispering in Aesidhe, “I’ll be gone when you awaken, Náme, but perhaps I will live among your first memories, as well, in a little sunlight.”
Mateko had gone to his watch, with only an awkward sign of farewell across the distance. For all she knew to say to him, it was probably as well, although her stomach already fluttered with the feeling of missing him — missing all of them.
Though many had left the council, some had remained to play music or speak informally, and Adria had stayed among them, relishing the last of her time among the Aesidhe as best she could. But her memories and her anxiety fought for her attention, and she found it difficult to enjoy the voices of the elders, the light of the fire, and the even breath and warmth of the child upon her lap.
“We could build a bridge between our towers, and sneak across at night, when Anna and Kaye are asleep, and then sneak back before morning,” Hafgrim had once plotted, with all the deviousness of a four- or five-year-old boy, as they ate their dinner together.
Adria had been less enthusiastic for the plan. Her nursemaid Kaye had begun sometimes to bring her own daughter to spend the day with Adria, so Adria was somewhat more contented with their new situation. Still, she missed Hafgrim now that they had separate rooms, and she was wise enough not to hurt his feelings regardless, so she urged him to his plan.
“Shall we make it of wood or of stone?” Adria wondered.
“Stone, of course,” Hafgrim insisted. “Everything here is made of stone.”
Adria nodded. “That’s what makes it so cold. There aren’t enough blankets and rugs in Heiland to keep it warm up here.”
The wind rattled the shutters just then, wood slapping stone.
“Ghosts…” Hafgrim said, trying to scare her. “Your tower’s cold and haunted.”
Adria made a face, but then straightened as Kaye entered from the bedchamber.
“What are you two muttering about?” she asked, kneeling to stoke the fire.
They exchanged a glance, and then Hafgrim announced, “Well, it seems there are ghosts at the window.”
“Yes,” Adria agreed, in her most nonchalant voice. “Shall we invite them in, Nana? There’s plenty of food.”
Kaye sighed as she rose, shaking her head somberly as she walked over to the window. “Nae, nae…” she chided. “They’re just bored while waiting for their ravens to take them. Invite one in for supper and you’ll soon have all the ghosts in Heiland hanging about begging for a hot meal.”
Adria and Hafgrim laughed as Kaye banged on the shutters with her fist and shouted, “Off with you, scoundrels… we’ll not have you lot cluttering up the towers of the young lord and lady...”
Something snapped in the fire, sending up sparks, and Adria jolted from her memory. Spirit Helpers, she thought, watching the bits of fire wander up and off and into darkness. She looked around the circle of Aesidhe. Almost no one was left at the council, having wandered off, one by one or two by two, to their own tents for much-needed rest.
Imani, one of a few who often served as Náme’s mother, and had been Adria’s first friend among the Aesidhe, wandered into the circle of firelight and over to Adria, likely having heard of her leaving by then.
“You should be asleep, Imani,” Adria chided. “What will your husband think?”
Imani smiled. “I like to make him jealous,” she said. “He pays better attention this way.”
Adria shook her head and returned the smile as she rose and held Náme out between them. Each of them opened her mouth to say something, and then both closed them again, and laughed. Instead of a farewell, they exchanged the child between them.
“Keep her well,” Adria said. “And… will you please keep my ceremonial things for me, as well? I… cannot take them on this journey.”
Imani nodded and smiled sadly at both requests, then added, “You should take your First Arrow.”
She nodded. “This I will.”
Imani looked down at Náme then, but said to Adria, “You are the mother of her spirit, Lilene. You must return, and name her as a woman when it is time.”
“If my body cannot reach her I will send my Spirit to hers,” Adria answered, and they embraced each other, and the child between them, and Imani wandered off again, arms full of child and eyes full of tears.
Adria looked across the fire to find Preinon was still sitting, now considering her again. He smiled solemnly and nodded.
It is time, Adria thought, and she rose and stretched and put the ghosts of her memories back in their places again.
Those She Would Choose
Preinon joined Adria as she left the Shíme Okshowaniya, and they walked to the Runners’ encampment together. When camped along with one of the tribes, the Runners always set their own tents and bedrolls a little distant, out of respect for the tribe’s sovereignty, and also to give them a vantage of protection should enemies befall them.
It was a steep walk, almost a climb, but Adria no longer tired as quickly as she once had. She had been an active child when she lived at Windberth, but nothing could have prepared her for the strenuous life of the tribal Aesidhe, much less the Runners, who had certainly not been named inappropriately.
With his height, Preinon had to lean significantly, not only for balance, but also to avoid low-hanging limbs. Adria enjoyed the benefit of her smaller stature, a sometimes welcome difference, though she still stood taller than nearly all the Aesidhe women she had met.
There was a silence between them again as they walked — not the shame of the evening before, but of simple sadness. Adria wanted to break this silence, but could not seem to find proper words, Aesidhe or Aeman.
“Will you leave tonight or tomorrow?” Preinon said at last, after they had taken many careful steps.
“I will start tonight,” she sighed. “Time will be short, and I slept well last night.”
“It is a long journey,” he nodded. “But you have made it before. And it will be easier this time, with three years of Aesidhe and Hunter training.”
“Easier in body, perhaps, but not in spirit,” she shook her head. “Perhaps he will already have left. Perhaps whatever has happened will already be resolved. It is a bad season for me to leave.”
Preinon said nothing then. There was little point in encouraging or discouraging her, and either would be unfair. They had spoken of it all before, and had known they could not choose the season of her leaving, good or bad.
And there would be no good season that she could foresee. Each year she would grow to love the Aesidhe and her uncle more. Each year she would learn more from them and become more valuable as a Runner. Each year her presence among them would grow more dangerous as well, if her father or Taber decided she should return home — or should be named a traitor.
“They would not do such a thing,” Preinon had assured her, not long after her arrival. “You are too valuable to them.”
“As a political asset, you mean,” she scowled, but her tone held a little humor. “Ah, the glorious future of the Aeman princess, destined to vindicate some allianc
e or other through strategic marriage to a foreign lordling.”
Preinon smiled. “And you thought they taught you the languages of Somana and Kelmantium so you could work as a scribe for the Sisterhood?”
At that time, the notion of her return had seemed a fantasy, her life among the Aesidhe the reality — though they both knew the idea would resurface one day, with far less levity.
“They named you a traitor,” Adria said. “And I have joined you among the enemy.”
He did not like to speak of this, but did. “I was a Duke, the second most landed noble in Heiland. I was the brother of a king, and could have proved a threat should I produce heirs which could rival his. I might have made a claim upon the throne myself, given time and motive. As soon as I… proved unsympathetic to the Sisterhood’s agenda, I was named among the enemy. By joining that enemy, I proved myself one, and vindicated their belief.
“But it is not the same with you, Princess. You are your father’s child, not a rival. You are not landed, and not male. You might prove an embarrassment, but they would never frame you as a threat.”
Adria nodded. “The wayward princess, deluded by childish fantasies of ghosts in the woods, wanders off on a misadventure.”
Even as she said it, she realized she had done exactly that. A little embarrassed at the thought, she continued the argument hastily.
“It’s still dangerous for me to be here,” she reasoned. “They might claim I was kidnapped, or at least prevented from returning, and use this as an excuse for outright war against the Aesidhe.”
“They need no such excuse,” he said. “And there is no political reason for them to declare open hostilities. They would gain no advantage. It is better for them to make war slowly, to pace the destruction of the Aesidhe, so that there are enough Aeman to claim the lands that are taken, and so that more Knights can be brought to the cause. When this threat is gone, they will need another — and will likely have to cross borders to find it. That is too much of a risk… too much expense until Heiland is stronger. Your father’s kingdom is still young, as well as the Matriarch’s church. You are safe here, for the time being.”
Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 Page 5