Days Of Light And Shadow (33 page)

“I thank you for the honour you do me woman, though there is no need here. This is a farmer’s land, not the king’s city.”

“Then might I trouble the farmer lord for a seat. It has been a long journey.” Not that she looked particularly tired to him.

“Of course.” He waved at the nearest servant he could see, most of them were standing at the doorway to the kitchen, staring, and a couple of them quickly scurried over to drag a bench from behind one of the great tables in the dining hall. There was no way that she was ever going to fit on a chair. They just hadn’t been built with someone like her in mind.

“My thanks boy.”

“You are of course welcome. My wife tells me that you might know something of my illness.”

“Illness boy?” Her green eyes suddenly held him. “You think it is an illness that besets you? Your wounds do not heal, your eyes bleed and your joints burn, your entire body burns at night. That is of no illness that I have ever heard of.”

“Then what is it woman?” Koran snapped at her from the side of the hall, catching them all unawares. He had obviously had enough already. It was to be expected. He was the finest physician in the town, educated in the best colleges, and a proud man. The idea that this strange woman from the fens might think his diagnosis wrong probably did not sit well with him. Especially when she was dressed in rags and covered in mud. He was a man who always took great pride in his appearance.

“The spotted elf knew. He told me the moment he arrived and looking at the boy. I can see he was correct. Why did he not share that knowledge with you?”

Spotted elf? She could only mean Herodan, though why she called him spotted he had no idea. The man had clean skin and no spots as far as he could remember.

“I don’t know old woman. Perhaps you could ask him yourself.” Koran sounded irked.

“Be gentle on my age old man. Unlike you I am in my early years yet. And what the spotted elf told me was only what should have been clear to all. He spoke of poison.”

“Poison?” The physician stared at the witch in disbelief. “The lord could not have been poisoned. He has been here under my care for all the time since his return, and no one here would poison him.”

“It was not done here. Not if what the spotted elf said is correct. The slimy toad king did it before he was even freed.” Slimy toad king? Iros knew she had to be speaking of Finell, and he had to admit he liked the description. Maybe it was one he’d remember for another day. If he had that day.

“That would be a very slow acting poison.” And not one that the physician had obviously ever encountered. “And yet it would explain a lot.” Suddenly he stopped rubbing his beard and looked up at her in wonderment.

“A soul poison?”

“So you might call it. My kind know it as witchbane. Rubbed into a man’s wounds it promises a long, slow and painful death.” Long, slow and painful. She had that right at least. Though painful didn’t perhaps go far enough. There were days when the burning in his joints was so bad that he almost yearned to be back in the dungeon being whipped instead.

“Witchbane. I have heard of this poison. From the skin of the wild spiked toad, harvested by moonlight, mixed with the blood of the dead and then cursed.” The physician turned back to him. “There is no cure my lord.” Iros had to wonder though. Was Koran telling him the bitter truth or laying some sort of charge against the hag?

“Of course there’s a cure. Now what sort of a witch would know of witchbane and not know how to treat it?” She had a point, even if Koran didn’t seem to like it. In fact he was scowling, something he normally didn’t do. But then normally people didn’t bluntly inform him that they knew something he didn’t either. Iros decided he’d better take charge before things became nasty between the two of them. Or nastier. And besides, there were things he needed to know. And he was too tired to play games.

“So there is a cure and of course a price. Please tell me of your price Trekor Aileth.”

“A price!” She stared at him quizzically, a very unnatural expression on her already unnatural face. “How very human of you boy.”

“The elves would speak of honour and debts owed. The dwarves of gold and clan. And the humans of price. But we of the fen would speak of none of that. No honour gained or debt owed. No gold gleaned and no place in a clan earned. No price.”

“What is given is given freely, if only because you stand against the toad. The spotted elf is right in one thing. We share an enemy, though you do not realise it yet.” The enemy of his enemy. That was interesting, though as Nanara’s sages warned, it did not make them friends. Only allies for a time.

“Finell stands against you as well?”

“Finell? Pah! The boy is nothing. A puppet, an angry child and no more. He serves his master, the odious Y’aris. A foul creature that knows no heart.” In that Iros was sure she was right, but it was good to hear another say it. Sophelia would not listen when he told her of his thoughts, and her brother had gently but firmly pushed his words aside, suggesting that he did not understand how things worked in their land. He knew the truth but could not hear it.

“I wondered the same when I attended the court of Leafshade. Always Y’aris stood by the high lord’s side, whispering into his ear, and too often he seemed to listen. But I did not think the bond between them so strong.”

“It is not complete yet. Finell still lives and Y’aris has not yet taken his place, though he will soon enough. That is the foul one’s plan. But even he is only a puppet. His master is darker still.”

“Who?” Maybe he should have been asking about the cure, but for the first time in far too many days or weeks he had something to speak of other than finances and fortifications, and Iros was curious.

“The dark one of course. The demon. The shadow of night. The wraith of souls. The Reaver. Y’aris serves him body and soul.”

Sophelia gasped when the witch spoke the name, and the rest of them looked no less shocked. The name she gave was too foul to be spoken aloud.

The Reaver was no true god but rather a demon of death and disease that had found his way into the world a thousand years before. At least so the priests claimed. Iros had never been too trusting of their words. Many of them he thought, were guesses, the oracles and divinations cast by priests who had consumed too many strange herbs. But as terrible as he was to the clerics and priests, for an elf the Reaver was worse.

He was the sworn enemy of their goddess Gaia the Mother. He had brought disease, pestilence, famine and darkness to their lands when he had first arrived, and death beyond death. And more than that he had brought a sort of waking death to those he captured, unleashing their still breathing husks as a soulless army upon the elves. Abominations.

No elf would ever follow the Reaver. Or at least so he had believed. But looking into the old woman’s eyes, he knew she spoke the truth. And he knew that Y’aris was evil. Now he knew how evil.

“I did not think that any of his followers still lived.” From what he had learned in school Iros knew that they had been put to the sword a thousand years before, shortly after that first terrible battle had been won. The thought was that with all of the followers gone and the temples burnt, even a hell demon would find himself powerless. But maybe even that hadn’t been enough after all.

“Evil persists, and there are always those who will take on the mantle of darkness to gain power.” In that Iros knew, she had described Y’aris perfectly. He did not know him well but he had seen that hunger in his eyes as he gazed upon the Heartwood Throne. He had witnessed the evil within him. Felt its touch.

“I think you portray him well elder.”

“And I think you need to drink my tea soonest boy.” She was staring at him strangely, and Iros could suddenly feel the warmth of tears on his cheek again. Tears of blood. He dabbed at them with the blood soaked cloth he carried in his pocket, but knew his cheeks would still be stained red until the attendants came and washed them again. She pulled a small container from her bag.

“Thank you. I will gladly taste of your tea elder.”

“What is it?” Koran jumped in again the moment he saw the container, suspicion to the fore. But did he really imagine that she had come to do him harm? When he was so close to the end anyway? What would be the point? And even if she had, how could she possibly make things any worse?

“An equal mix in three parts of blood rose, fire hazel and the leaf of the green dragon fern, gently heated, distilled through three layers of muslin to remove the bite of the dragon, dried, infused with an enchantment of health and blessed by the Mother. Does that make things any clearer?” Such as the fact that she seemed to know what she was speaking of, and even Koran had to admit it. He didn’t like it though.

“It might work.” He seemed reluctant to say it though. “With a prayer to the divine Phyllis.”

“Of course it will work. It is not the first time I have made it, and not the first time it has been needed. Between them the toad and his black hearted advisor have become quite accomplished poisoners as they have removed any number of obstacles to their dreams and there have been many in need. But I thank you for your confidence old man.” She managed another small bow, mocking him, and Koran’s face turned appropriately white. He was not a happy man. Even when she tossed the tin to him.

“Now, a pinch old man, no more, in a cup of boiling water. Drunk as tea, three times a day until the container is empty. Is that within your compass?” Sticking a knife in her face looked to be more within the physician’s compass just then, save that he didn’t carry a knife and even without the cats she would have made a fearsome opponent.

“I will do as you ask.”

“Good.” She grinned as though she’d just won a battle with the physician. Then she turned back to him. “Boy, you should go with him to the kitchen and the pots, and take these others with you. I have words to speak with your wife.”

“Elder?”

“You heard me child. Now go!” She waved imperiously at him from her bench, and the two cats still prowling around her, growled in harmony. Who he wondered, was she to give orders to him in his own house? But if what she said was true and the tea would work, then maybe he could allow her this one insolence Iros decided. Even if it only eased the fire in his joints it would be worth it.

Besides, the cats still looked hungry.

Chapter Fifty One.

After the others had left, some of them in what seemed like an unseemly rush, Sophelia was left alone with the witch, and she couldn’t help but feel nervous. Trekor Aileth was an elder. The woman had the blessing of the Mother upon her. Even she could feel that. It was like the freshness of the spring flowing from her. So much more powerful than that which she felt from the elders. And that made her a very important person, no matter of what blood.

It was a feeling that the bards had often sung of, but until then, not something that she had given credence to. But standing before her, she could not deny it. She had felt it the moment the elder had walked into the hall.

“Come sit with me daughter.” The witch waved her over, and despite it being the last thing she wanted to do, Sophelia grabbed a small chair from the side of the great hall and placed it in front of her so that they could speak face to face.

“Now daughter, we must speak of what is required of you.” The swamp witch sounded almost pleasant for the first time. Even the strange gravel sound in her throat had eased. But her words were less so.

“Required? You said the cure was given freely.”

“And so it was. Your husband must live. What is required of you is not for payment for his life. It is demanded of you because you are a child of the Mother, as are we all.”

Sophelia sighed quietly, realising the witch had the right to demand her service. Just as did any elder of the Grove. To refuse her would be unelven. Her cousin sitting upon the Heartwood Throne might never have understood that. Nor she feared would too many of the other high born. Her people had lost their way as Elwene used to tell her. But she did. She nodded her acceptance.

“A war is coming daughter. A terrible war, and not the one your husband so furiously plans for. But he is a man and men are simple creatures. He does not yet understand.” In that Sophelia almost believed the witch. More than that, she almost liked her. She sounded so like her mother when she had said the same of her father, and it was hard not to smile at the thought. And to wish that her mother was with her again.

“Then how can he prepare for it? For what he does not know?”

“He should carry on as he is. It may be of some use against the Reaver’s armies. But in the end it is he who must be prepared and you who must prepare him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do. You don’t want to admit it even to yourself, but you do understand daughter.” The witch stared straight into her eyes and there was something in the power of her stare that left Sophelia shaken to her very core. Something almost primal.

“Your marriage was a good one. The priests told me that, even as they told me of their surprise at finding it so. It only looks poor to others, largely because of the way it was arranged. And in part because you are of the high born, and the high born have forgotten much of what it is to be of the people. It is not of lineage and wealth. It is not of privilege and respect. It is of service. Service to the people, to the world and to the Mother. Iros knows this. He is this.”

“But you are both the same. Creatures of honour and sacrifice. Your husband is noble in his heart, born to fill his very role. You are the same. Do you deny me?” Of course she didn’t deny her. No elf would dare. But that didn’t mean that she had to like it.

“Please continue.” If Sophelia sounded unsure it was only because she was. And worse she was frightened to think where it was going.

“Wars are won and lost long before they ever reach the battlefield. Even men know that. But they think it is about numbers and weapons and stratagems. These things are only tools in a victory however. It is hearts and souls that must be prepared for the battle first, because from them flow courage and resolve. And what prepares a heart better than hope?”

“Hope?”

“Hope. Your husband is a symbol to the people. All the people, even the elves. His name is whispered even in the darkness as one who has suffered the most terrible evil and come through it. As one who never bowed before torture. Who defied evil. As one who lost his family and his health and yet still leads a province to greatness. As one who will sacrifice everything for the people. All people. That is a powerful symbol.”

“In sooth.” Sophelia had to acknowledge that much about Iros. Every single word was true, and perhaps if she had dared to wander from the castle to the town she might have seen that truth in the people. She had seen it in the servants. They looked up to Iros in a way that almost seemed like worship.

“And did you never wonder how he could have survived for so long in that accursed prison?” Sophelia shook her head. She actually hadn’t thought about it. But then she tried hard not to let her thoughts dwell on that place.

“He survived because he is a child of the Mother. Favoured by her even though he does not understand it. She has designs for him yet. Designs that must yet be seen.”

Sophelia bowed her head, not sure what to say. Iros did not seem like the sort that the Mother would favour. He did not even worship his own people’s gods. But she would not dare argue with an elder about such matters.

“But he is yet broken. His honour is intact. His duty stands sacrosanct. But his heart fails. His home is damaged, his people hurt, his family is gone, destroyed by the very people who tortured him and then forced him to wed. Your people. He is half a man. And though he hides it most carefully, an angry man. He treats you with the utmost respect, but he does not love you. That too the people know.”

Sophelia nodded, knowing it was so. There was no secret there.

“It must change.”

“You are saying that …” Sophelia couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“I am saying that he is your husband and you are his wife. It is a good marriage. The Mother finds it worthy. And from this day forwards you will attend to him in all the ways that a wife should attend to her husband.”

“You will bathe his wounds and help him to bed as he needs. You will eat with him and discuss the happiness that the day has brought. You will laugh at his japes and support him even in his poor decisions. You will share his bedchamber and in time there will be children. Is that clear enough daughter?” It wasn’t a question though.

“Yes.” She understood, which was why her blood had rushed from her cheeks and all she could stare at was the floor. But it wasn’t really fair. Not when she had almost found a new life for herself among these strange people. A quiet life of solitude perhaps, but at least a life.

“Why so sad little one?” The witch reached across and gently tugged at her chin, forcing her to look up at her. “You will be happy.”

“And know this. If we should win through this war ahead, both you and your husband will be a part of that. He is a symbol of hope and nobility. You are a symbol of duty and sacrifice. And together you will become a symbol of something greater still, love.”

She stood up suddenly, catching her by surprise.

“I will return this way in a few months, and when I do I expect to see that belly full daughter. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, elder.”