“The deer is dead. It will not be wasted,” Kalek said gently, coaxing the boy to give up the burden he carried.
Easing the animal into his arms, Kalek briefly bowed his head, honoring the animal’s spirit and sacrifice. Then he passed through the stable doors, the boy at his heels.
Marnej shrank back toward the doors, rubbing his neck where the animal had rested, waiting patiently for the butcher to finish sharpening the tools at hand.
When axe and cleavers were finally set down, Kalek cleared his throat. “Tuá.”
At her name, the nieddaš turned around. She glanced from Kalek to the deer and then to the doors where Marnej stood, his arms folded in front of him.
She stepped forward, placing her hand on the arrow in the deer’s side. She closed her eyes and mumbled something which Marnej couldn’t make out.
“It is unfortunate,” Kalek said when the nieddaš opened her eyes, “But it is done.”
“Indeed,” Tuá said, her voice surprisingly gentle, Marnej thought, for one who butchered animals.
The nieddaš peered around Kalek’s broad shoulders. Despite his desire to stay hidden, Marnej came forward to stand beside the healer. He’d never been a coward. He wouldn’t start now. If this nieddaš wished to condemn him, then so be it. He would withstand the judgment and all others to come.
“A pity,” she said, caressing the deer’s long, slender neck. “Still. As you say, it is done.”
“I will handle the matter,” Kalek said with authority.
“And I will handle this matter,” Tuá said with equal authority.
At a loss, Marnej hesitated when Kalek turned on his heels to leave. He stood in front of the nieddaš, wanting to say something—to explain. But he couldn’t find the words, other than to say he was sorry. Tuá, looked at him, her axe in her hand. She acknowledged his apology, then motioned for him to leave. Marnej walked back out into the paddock, but glanced back to where Tuá worked, rendering the animal with focused intensity. He had hunted and killed animals for food and had never given it any thought. Now he worried that he would never be able to hunt again. How was he supposed to know which animals he could hunt? Kalek had pointed out he didn’t have the patience to listen to plants. But maybe he didn’t have the ability to listen to the animals either. As they entered the main sanctuary near the kitchens, Marnej offered up a silent apology to the animal, and to the gods if they listened.
“Marnej,” Kalek said, startling him.
“I think, for the moment, it would be best if you returned to the apothecary. At least until I have spoken with the Noaidi.”
“I should explain myself,” Marnej said, feeling he was too old and had lived too long without a father to have someone protect him from his own actions.
“In time,” Kalek said. “But for now, let me do what should have been done for you much earlier. In return, you can make sure that Dárja followed my instructions, because I sense you are gaining her respect.”
Marnej snorted, then realized the healer had been trying to raise his spirits.
“I’ll go and check on her,” he said. “But I won’t be telling her that.”
“I don’t think there is much any of us can tell Dárja,” Kalek said, and Marnej detected an undercurrent of concern beneath the casual statement.
Before he could turn in the general direction of the apothecary, Kalek added, “And, Marnej, give some thought to what I said earlier. You deserve a path of your own.”
Marnej watched the healer disappear around a corner, unease descending upon him once again.
He had railed against the gods and everyone else who stood in his way. But now that Kalek said he deserved his own path, he began to wonder if he truly merited it. He wasn’t blameless in his actions, and he’d carried hatred in his heart for so long that he doubted he would find desire there. Still, walking along the corridor, Marnej reflected on Kalek’s instruction.
What is my heart’s desire? he quietly mused.
A muffled grunt of disgust escaped his lips.
I have no idea what that means, he admitted to himself.
He’d been trained to be a Piijkij, and he’d done what was expected of him. But now Kalek wanted him to come up with a calling of his own. Well, I won’t be a hunter, he thought grimly, then shuddered, reliving the scream he’d heard in his mind.
“Have you no other purpose than to wander like the witless?” A sharp voice rang out ahead of him.
Marnej looked up to see with sinking recognition, the imposing nieddaš who’d spat at him his first day among the Immortals. Okta called her Úlla, and he’d seen her on occasion, but she hadn’t come near him since that first day. The expression she presently wore wasn’t much friendlier than their first encounter. Marnej wished he could avoid her, but he couldn’t turn around without seeming weak. Determined to ignore her, he started walking again, prepared to take whatever she offered in stride.
As she neared, Marnej kept his gaze forward, but he couldn’t help but see her scowl. The dark smudges on her cheeks made her look like a wild creature. When he passed her without incident he exhaled, relieved.
“Witless and spineless,” Úlla laughed.
Marnej continued walking.
“You are no better than your father,” she called after him.
Without thinking, Marnej turned and took a lunging step toward the nieddaš.
“Say what you will about me, but don’t compare me to him. You know nothing of the matter!” Marnej’s voice boomed in the empty passageway.
Úlla stood her ground, her broad shoulders rolled back, her fists at her side.
“You are just another mouth to feed,” she hissed.
Marnej stood eye-to-eye with the nieddaš. “What would you have me do? You, who has opinions on everything. Tell me. What should I do?”
Úlla drew her head back, opening the space between them. “You can leave. Crawl back into the darkness that spawned your kind.”
Marnej came in close again, taking in the hard curves around her mouth, the etched line between her brows. He laughed at her. “And give you satisfaction? No. I think not.”
He stepped back, his pulse racing, but feeling in control finally. “I’m happy to live here peacefully. In fact, I believe I’ll become a smith like you. After all, I’m skilled with weapons. Who better to craft them?”
Úlla glowered at him, but said nothing. Then she turned and strode away. Marnej chuckled, first at himself for being worried to cross paths with that spiteful nieddaš and then at the idea of taking on the trade of a smith. But the longer he considered it, the more it made sense. He had some experience with the forge, and being skilled with weapons made him a good judge of quality. Plus, it would give him great pleasure to make Úlla squirm. Marnej’s step lightened as he continued on his way down the corridor to the apothecary. Maybe it wasn’t his heart’s desire, but it was a path.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I WILL LEAVE YOU TWO so you may work,” Okta said, reaching for his thick brown cloak that hung on the peg.
Kalek looked up, stricken. “Where are you going? I thought you would help us with today’s lessons.”
The ancient healer smiled broadly. “I am going to gather the last of the herbs before the hard frost comes. You are more than capable of conducting the lessons, Kalek.”
Kalek glanced furtively at Dárja, certain he had seen doubt in her eyes.
“Perhaps, I should gather the herbs and you conduct the lesson,” he said, beginning to untie his apron.
Okta waved the suggestion off and put on his cloak. “It is time for you to take on an apprentice, and who better than Dárja?”
Kalek stared at Okta, willing him to return. But his mentor did not even look back before slipping out into the garden.
“We should begin with simple mixtures,” Kalek finally said through the lump in his throat. His voice sounded like a croak, but he pressed on determined to regain his dignity.
“If we start with a simple mixtur
e, then you can be of assistance as your training progresses.” Coming to stand beside Dárja, he asked. “What will we need for the coming dark season?”
“Mixtures to soothe fevers, coughs, and chills,” she readily supplied.
For one brief moment, Kalek gaped at her, then recovered himself enough to close his mouth.
Dárja shrugged off her readiness. “I grew up here, or don’t you remember?”
Try as he might, Kalek could not keep a serious face. He crossed his arms, then leaned back, opting for levity over the rote droning of a master to a pupil. “What else did you observe?”
Dárja’s ears reddened, their tips like bright toadstools peeking through her dark mop of hair.
“Well, I remember you can use honey to sooth a raw throat,” she said, drawing out her response. “And it can be used to keep a wound clean,” she added, picking up speed. “You can also mix honey and uulo and heal a cough.” Dárja paused, casting her eyes upward, as if to recall far-off memories.
Kalek waited patiently. When it became clear she was at a loss, he said. “Good. You picked an excellent place to start. Let us look at uulo. Could you recognize the plant if you needed to?”
Dárja shook her head.
“In spring we will examine the plant, listen to its song, and watch it change through the seasons,” he said, reaching up to untie a bundle of dried branches. “For now, you should know it can grow to waist height and spread in a wide patch. The leaves are deep green and oval, about the length of your small finger.” He plucked a dried leaf from the bunch, holding it out to Dárja, who placed it in her palm.
Kalek went on, “One side is smooth and the other has a wooly coat. Even dried you can feel the difference.”
Dárja ran the tip of her finger carefully over one side of the leaf and then the other.
“The flowers begin opening in Geassemánnu, when the days grow long. They bear five petals.” Kalek put the bundle of herbs on the work bench in front of Dárja. “Tell me what you remember about uulo.”
Dárja repeated Kalek’s description with only a trace of youthful haste.
“Good,” he said. “What parts would you use?”
“The leaves,” she fired back.
“Yes. For what purpose?”
“You made a tea for me when I had a cough!”
Kalek nodded. “Excellent. You are right. But the beauty of this plant, like so many that support our lives, is that it has many roles.”
He listed the three main uses, then finished with a rhyme apprentices learned when they began. “Root, leaf, and flower. All share their power.”
Dárja nodded, repeating, “Root. Leaf. Flower. All share their power.”
Kalek hid his smile by turning to a row of baskets behind him. He pulled two down, placing them in front of Dárja. Then he laid out the smooth weight stones he carried in his pocket.
“Measure two stone’s worth of each. One is uulo. The other is bearberry. Grind them together and place them to simmer in the pot above the fire. I want you to note the changes at each stage. Smell the scent as they join together.”
Kalek stepped back to watch Dárja as she began her tasks. He was reminded of Aillun. He marveled at Dárja’s easy movements. One motion flowed into the next, without fumbling, without hesitation, until she stood before the fire stirring the herbs into the simmering water. So like Aillun, he thought, his heart aching at the resemblance.
“Kalek, how long have you studied with Okta?” Dárja asked, inhaling the rising steam.
“Half my life it seems,” he said.
“Did you always want to be a healer?”
“No. When I returned from my Origin, I thought I wanted to train with the Taistelijan.”
Dárja looked over her shoulder at him.
“Do not look so surprised,” he laughed. “It was not that strange an idea, you know.”
“Sorry. It’s not that you aren’t suited to be a Taistelijan,” she said. “It’s just, I never thought you were interested in it.” Dárja trailed off, a blush blooming on her cheeks.
As Kalek watched her resume stirring, he silently marked the strange ways of the gods. He had been the one to train with the Taistelijan, but Dárja had been the one to fight. Images of the battle sprang back to life. And not for the first time, Kalek acknowledged that had he fought, it was likely he would not have survived. But Dárja had survived. He regarded her. It was as if Kalek saw her broad shoulders and well-defined muscles for the first time. Yet, he did not want to let go of the sweet mánná who had run behind his legs, giggling, believing she was hidden from both him and Irjan.
“You know, you were incredibly brave,” he said, the enormity of Dárja’s deeds sinking in. “I don’t think I ever told you that when you returned to us. I was too concerned, too willing to see you as our mánná.”
Dárja continued to face the simmer pot, stirring and breathing in the aromas.
With her back to him, it made it easier for Kalek to continue.
“Earlier, you reminded me of your oktoeadni. Your movements are so like Aillun’s,” he said unable to restrain his astonishment.
“And also like Irjan’s,” he added in a rush. “But, you are unique unto yourself. You have a gift.”
Dárja bobbed her head once, as she continued to stir in slow even loops.
“I think you should continue to train with Marnej,” Kalek said finally.
This time Dárja whirled around. Concern clouded her dark eyes. “You don’t want me to work with you?”
Kalek could not help but let out a deep resonating laugh. “Oh no,” he said. “Your work here is required. But, in addition to your studies with me, I wish you to practice your sword work and archery with Marnej.”
Dárja’s expression darkened.
Kalek felt the pressing weight of yet another misstep. “What?”
She shook her head.
Kalek stepped back, equal parts his own hesitancy and a need to appraise his student. “If you do not share what troubles you, I cannot help you find a way forward.”
Guessing what might be troubling her, he said with great care, “I know it is not the same as practicing with the Taistelijan, but of the few who remain, none now train.”
“Even if they did train, they wouldn’t accept me,” Dárja finished his words.
“No,” Kalek said. “I believe they would accept you. But there is so much loss in their hearts they cannot see a future.”
“That’s not what concerns me,” Dárja said, her attention on the herbs as she stirred.
“Irjan.” The name escaped Kalek’s lips before he could stop, and he wanted to kick himself for his blindness.
Dárja nodded, turning to face him. Her expression was drawn but her mouth trembled with emotion.
Kalek stepped forward and gathered her into his arms. “I know your heart hurts. I cannot say when or if the pain will recede. But I do know that your bieba would want you to continue—to show us all your depth of spirit. You honor Irjan by honoring what he taught you. And, you can give Marnej a piece of his father he has never had.”
Kalek held Dárja at arm’s length to look at her. “You are the best of us all.”
He leaned in, then kissed the top of her head. “Now, go back to your herbs and tell me what you observe.”
Dárja wiped her eyes and roughly ran her sleeve under her nose. She smile shyly as she picked up the ladle. “They smell sweet,” she said, “like when fresh flowers are thrown on the bonfire of Longest Day.”
“Good,” Kalek said, taking down a pair of jars. He retrieved one of the weight stones and measured out the two different herbs. “You want to remove the simmer-pot from the fire just as the scent of fresh flowers turns bitter.”
Kalek stole a glance at his young apprentice. My apprentice, he repeated to himself, feeling a twinge of misgiving. To be a good mentor, Kalek knew he had to rise above his feelings: his feelings for Aillun, for Irjan, for Dárja. But he was not sure he could do that. As he leaned
against the work table and watched Dárja. He saw no part of him in her. Yet, he could not shake Irjan’s insistence that Kalek was Dárja’s father, in the way Irjan had been Marnej’s father. Kalek repeated the word silently. It was a simple sounding Olmmoš word, but it had taken Kalek seventeen seasons of snow to say it.
I am her father, he thought, overcome by conflicting emotions and a daunting sense of responsibility.
The door to the apothecary swung open, banging against the wall. Both Dárja and Kalek jumped.
“She is insufferable!” Marnej groused, slamming closed the door as though it offered offense.
Marnej then proceeded to stomp through the quiet of the room as if he meant to crush everything in his wake. “Insufferable,” he repeated, throwing himself into a chair.
The chair creaked under his weight.
“Who?” Dárja asked, her attention drawn back to the fire.
“Úlla!” Marnej said, his head in his hands.
Kalek laughed, as he sat down beside Marnej.
“In-suff-er-able,” Marnej dragged out the word in exasperation, then leaned back in the chair, splaying his legs out in front of him. He looked at Kalek. “Would you believe, my task today was to chop wood for the fire?”
When Kalek shrugged, Marnej sat bolt upright. “All day. Any time I asked a question, she pointed to the axe. Any time I rested, she called for more wood. I chopped and carried and stacked wood. There is enough wood for the furnace now to last until she’s old and grey, but she always wanted more.”
“She won’t get old and grey,” Dárja pointed out, stopping her stirring.
Marnej glanced over, annoyed. “You get my point. She thinks she can order me about because her hair is golden and her eyes are green and rare. Well, I’ve seen that before.”
“She can order you about because she’s the metalsmith,” Dárja said.
Before Marnej could register his outrage, Kalek interrupted, “Dárja, take the herbs off the fire now or they will be ruined.”
Dárja twisted back to the fire. She reached for the handle on the simmering pot of herbs, then shrieked, holding her hand to her body. Kalek jumped from his seat, pulling her to the water barrel. He plunged her hand into its cold depths, then looked up at Marnej.
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