Fell (The Sight 2) (23 page)

Alina was deeply impressed with Lescu’s strange words. No man had ever talked to her like this before, except perhaps a voice she had lost touch with long ago. That man with dark red hair. She suddenly had a memory of a voice, calm and encouraging, and it seemed to say,
I’ll always protect you, Alina
.

“If you truly wish the warrior’s way,” said the blacksmith.

“I do,” said Alina WovenWord gravely.

“Then we have work to do, my girl.”

THE WARRIOR SMITH WAS TRUE TO HIS WORD, and Alina Sculcuvant did learn to balance on one leg, if not for an hour, then for a very long time indeed. It hurt badly at first, but with time she grew stronger, and as supple as a mountain goat, and felt something inside her strengthening too, not only in her heart but in her whole being and spirit.

Alina learnt to climb trees and run fearlessly across the narrowest of ledges. She learnt to take a fall, and defend against hurt by fighting the fear tightening in her body and telling her mind to let go of it. She learnt the art of breathing deeply as she moved, and of deepening the way she swallowed at the air, so that her breaths were not shallow and uncontrolled as they had been, but calm and purposeful, giving her strength. Alina wished now that Fell could see her.

She hadn’t cut her hair yet, for she had liked how she looked in the water, and a few days after Lescu had agreed to teach her, they had learnt from a tinker that the soldiers of the Order of the Griffin who had been looking for a girl had ridden east. As Alina trained, she bound her hair back in a ponytail instead.

It was only after these many lessons in the open that Lescu took her to the forge one day. From a hook by the door, next to a long bow and a quiver of arrows she had often seen there, hung a leather jerkin. He asked Alina to buckle it on, and then put leather guards on her arms. At last, he gave the young woman one of the swords he had forged for Stefan’s armies.

So, the man and the beautiful young woman, with her red hair bound back on her head, began to work at sword fighting. Although it was happy, playful training, in their strokes and thrusts, in their blocks and parries, Alina realised that this was far more than play. It was like animals, who in their youthful gambols, are learning to grow and testing their strength. Like the wolf cubs by the river.

Alina often thought of Fell. In the days and weeks that had passed in the blacksmith’s home, she had heard Fell’s call many times. The lone black wolf had been seen by the neighbouring villagers too, as he hunted for the Guardian, but although they had sent trappers to catch him in the night, Alina knew from the vanishing food at the end of her pebble trail that he was still free.

She was deeply relieved, but the more she had looked out from the window of her little room, and thought of the journey she had to make with Fell when the spring came, the gloomier it made her. She thought of what she had seen in the water, and if it had been a premonition of the future. If so, the end of her journey was a miserable prison.

But the fact was that Alina had never been so happy in her life. Lescu was teaching her new things every day, yet without any of the horrible bullying she had suffered at Malduk’s hands, and not long into her training with a sword, he had stopped her one morning and nodded his head approvingly.

“You’ve a skill that I’ve seen in few men,” he whispered.

Alina felt her heart fill with pride, and learnt in that moment that one of the surest antidotes to all the fears and anguishes of the complex heart is achievement.

But it wasn’t only the training that was making her happy. It was Catalin. As she worked about the tidy little farm, and they competed in their storytelling, Catalin was so attentive to her that it sometimes even made Alina a little embarrassed. They often walked together in the snows, when Catalin wasn’t off on his own in the mountains, or wandered down to the stream with Gwell, to break the ice and fetch water, and their bond was growing every day. They could sense it in each other’s awakening bodies and opening hearts.

Lescu could see it too, and it only made him pleased, for he knew the loneliness his son had felt growing up without his mother. As the young storyteller watched Alina train, he was sometimes pleased by how she seemed to be coming out of herself, and how fine and strong she looked too, as she swung bravely at Lescu with a sword. As bold as Vasilissa the beautiful.

Yet something sad and resentful also came into his thoughtful, blue green eyes. Catalin would shake his head then and sigh bitterly, and often when they practised he would suddenly turn and stride off angrily towards the house. One day Alina chased after him, and undoing her hair and letting it fall freely about her shoulders, she asked Catalin what was wrong.

“Nothing,” the lad answered sullenly.

“Please tell me, Catalin. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Catalin was shaking, and he rounded on her furiously.

“It’s you, Alina. You’re what’s wrong. What do you think you’re doing, behaving like a man and a soldier?”

Alina reddened.

“Don’t snap at me like that.”

“It’s just not right. Father always says that soldiers bring such trouble to the world.”

“Your father’s teaching me to defend myself, Catalin.”

“Teaching you something he refuses to teach me,” said Catalin indignantly. “And for what? To learn how to be killed?”

“No, Catalin. I hope not, anyway. But I’ve got to go on a journey. You don’t.”

Catalin was staring into Alina’s lovely hazel eyes, and he saw there was pain in them.

“Does it really matter what happened, Alina?” he said passionately. “Why does everyone think of the past? If I thought of the past all the time, and Mother’s death, I’d be sad every day. You’re here with us now, aren’t you?”

Alina nodded slowly. “But I have a right to know, don’t I? Especially if Vladeran is my father. To know if I have a high destiny.”

“And you’ve a right to be happy too.”

Alina looked back at the handsome young man and felt a great tenderness for him.

“I suppose I do.”

“Then stay with us, Alina. Father looks on you now as the daughter he never had. And I …”

Catalin blushed, despite himself, and dropped his eyes.

“Oh, Alina, please don’t go out there. You can live here, and when the spring comes again you can help us turn the land and plant for the summer. All there is out there is fighting and sorrow and death.”

Alina looked away. What Catalin was saying was so tempting, that in that moment she almost wanted to give up her quest altogether. She suddenly realised too that, although she desperately longed for a family and missed the presence of loving parents, something could come to replace them that was just as important—friends.

Alina felt a rush of gratitude to the friends who had helped her already. To Catalin and Lescu. To Ivan and Mia. To Fell. It was the thought of Fell that made her think of her journey again.

“But, Catalin, can I really be happy here without finding out who I am?”

“Don’t you see?” cried Catalin furiously. “This noble lord—perhaps your father—tried to murder you, for whatever reason, and if he finds out you’re alive, he’ll try again. I think you’re mad.”

Catalin was about to break away, but Alina stopped him.

“Don’t be angry,” she said softly, “not like I’ve been. Not like Baba Yaga.”

Catalin looked back at her, and though he shook his head, he smiled. “Think about staying at least,” he said.

“I will, I promise.”

Alina did think about it, deep and hard, and the more she sat with Lescu and Catalin at the table, eating their food and talking and laughing with them, working at the men’s side, or telling great stories with Catalin, the more the prospect of journeying across the mountains to face what danger she knew not, loomed like a black cloud in her mind, or like Baba Yaga chasing Vasilissa through the wood.

She felt herself almost ready for the journey now, or as ready as she would ever be, yet it was one which, when she sat with quietness and calm and looked out at the beautiful forests around Lescu’s home, she no longer wanted to make. And with this thought, she felt she was betraying Fell, and perhaps even the wild itself. Betraying nature.

Not once since Alina’s training began did Lescu try to argue with her about the future. And one day, when he barred Alina from the forge, the girl realised that Lescu was making something.

For three days and three nights the blacksmith worked, in a blaze of fiery light, hammering away, and still when it seemed to be finished Lescu kept whatever it was he had made a secret. He continued to train Alina too, but made it clear, in everything he said and did, that she was welcome to stay.

So by the time the long, bitter winter finally turned, by the time the snows began to melt and water rushed down from the mountains to swell the rushing streams, by the time the young crocuses began to push their heads from the sleeping earth and stretch their tender leaves to the friendly sunlight, Alina’s fifteen-year-old heart was almost set on staying with her friends forever.

The melting snows opened the valley like a flower and brought travellers and villagers thronging to market nearby. One brilliant morning Catalin and Alina set off to buy provisions, telling each other spring tales, and they were soon caught up in the sheer glory of the day.

The handsome youngsters were in a delighted mood, glorying in the warm sunshine and the silky air, the smell of flowers and each other’s company, without a care in the world. Alina looked so pretty that Catalin wanted to kiss her, and they kept flirting with each other as they walked. For a while they sat on a tree stump, watching a shepherd with his flock, as the brilliant sun pressed through drifting clouds.

The young people wandered on, but as they came down the narrow track that led to the fair, they paused and Alina pulled up the hood on the coat Lescu had lent her. There was a man on a cart, surrounded by a noisy throng.

“It’s true, I tell you,” he was insisting angrily. “The road to the South’s open again, and I heard it myself.”

“Go on with you,” shouted an old woman in the crowd. “You’re just trying to earn coin with your silly fables.”

“It’s no fable,” said the man angrily. “They saw him on the mountaintop, as real as day. A boy and a lone black wolf.”

Alina felt a chill, as if winter had just returned. A single stranger had pressed through the throng nearby, also in a hood, and he was listening intently, as the crowd murmured.

“I heard the rumour,” shouted another man, “but I’d heard it was a girl.”

Alina was suddenly tugging at Catalin’s arm.

“Come on, Catalin, let’s get back. This is silly nonsense.”

“Wait, Alina.”

“And I saw a black wolf ferreting around the farms and homesteads,” said another woman. “It seemed to be looking for something, and I’ve often heard it howl.”

“It’s witchcraft,” said a frightened voice, “the devil’s work.”

“They say the changeling’s a murderer,” insisted the man on the cart, “and that his wolf tore out a man’s throat. A shepherd called Malduk.”

Catalin turned to look at his friend in horror. They were talking about Alina. And a wolf.

“Don’t listen, Catalin,” said Alina desperately, as she tried to pull him away again and blushed deeply. “It’s just a stupid story, nothing more.”

Catalin was searching her eyes intently though.

“Don’t be silly, Catalin,” said Alina. “You can’t believe it, can you? A black wolf.”

The young man’s blue green eyes flickered with confusion.

“No, no, I suppose not.”

“It’s like Baba Yaga’s house, Catalin, or the lies Malduk and Ranna made up about me,” said Alina, and Catalin suddenly remembered that by her own report this pretty young woman had killed a man—Malduk. “But it means that they’re still hunting for me, Catalin. We must tell your father.”

As they hurried back to the farm, they did not notice the hooded figure watching them intently, or how hurriedly he mounted his horse and rode away. Nor did they see the vicious scar on his right cheek.

That afternoon, as Catalin told his father what they had heard, and Alina insisted furiously that it was mere fairy tales, as false as Baba Yaga or all that had followed her, Lescu listened gravely. When it was finished, the blacksmith asked Catalin to chop some wood behind the house, then took Alina outside onto the porch.

“Now then, FalseTale,” he grunted, as they stood outside, “why don’t you tell me the truth at last? No more stories, eh?”

Gwell, who was lying on the porch, whimpered quietly and licked his paws.

“The truth? What do you mean, Lescu, I always—”

“Damn you, Sculcuvant!” cried Lescu furiously. “Don’t you trust me even now? Can’t you trust anyone? I know it’s true. It’s why Gwell snarled at you when you first arrived, because you smelt of wolf.”

“I …”

“It’s how you made it over the mountains. It was with you in that ice cave, wasn’t it? I’ve often seen you gazing out into the forest and known that something waits out there, but not witches. I saw you that night, leaving the house, after I spoke of traps, and food has often gone missing. I found a strange trail of stones in the forest.”

Alina blushed and bowed her head shamefully. She hadn’t realised that clever Lescu had noticed her thefts, as he noticed everything on the farm.

“I’m not angry for the theft of food,” said the blacksmith, more softly, “not if your intention was good. Tell me then, Alina, at last. You’re not a killer at all.”

So the rest of it came out. The true story of Alina’s meeting with the black wolf, of the miracle of their communication and of the strange events of their journey. When it was finished, Lescu nodded soberly, but not without fear in his eyes for the strange young woman.