WayFarer (4 page)

“I will. Why do you go about unguarded?”

A rueful expression flitted over Elcon’s face. “I’m afraid I slipped away from Weilton.”

“Shae often freed herself thus from the restraints of others.”

Elcon returned Kai’s smile. “We are siblings.”

“And both of you were delivered into my care.” Kai frowned. “I can do no more now for Shae, but I should this day relieve Weilton from duty to you.”

“I mean to let you rest first, Kai. You are weary and laden with sorrow.”

Kai averted his eyes. “It comforts me to pray.”

Elcon measured Kai with a look. “You do not ask why I seek the allerstaed.”

“You will tell me if you wish.”

“I’ve come to pray, too. It occurs to me…I ask myself…. Have I done the right thing in confining Emmerich?” Elcon reached out, and his fingers circled the prayer railing. “I reacted rashly, perhaps.”

Kai waited for Elcon to speak again.

“Things have changed with the Elder nation. It’s no longer easy to know friend from foe. “I must keep the Alliance of Faeraven safe.”

Kai joined Elcon at the railing. “I would lay my life down to help you do so, Lof Shraen.” He drew breath and considered his next words with care. “But I doubt success will come if we spurn prophecy.”

Elcon bore the force of Kai’s words. “Do you really think he is Shraen Brael?”

“I do.”

Elcon released the prayer rail to pace before the altar, picking up speed and volume as he went. “But it makes no sense. Why send an Elder to the Kindren? And would Lof Yuel
give a mere youth the responsibility to guide many?” He halted before Kai. “Well?”

Kai lifted an eyebrow. “Has not the High One given a mere youth the wisdom to rule Faeraven?”

Elcon’s eyes widened, and he clutched the prayer railing again. “I wonder, Kai. Sometimes I wonder about that.” He knelt and bent his head.

Kai watched Elcon for a time, and then joined him at the railing. His mind clamored, but Kai shuttered his thoughts and listened. Echoes of voices, long stilled, reverberated through time to reach him, a line of rhythm
here
and a snatch of melody
there
, as of the pulse of life beating. He caught a shadow of movement. Shae came to him, then, for he heard her step, felt her phantom touch. He stood with Elcon and left her there at the altar.

3

Courtship

Aewen plucked another handful of plaintain leaves from beside the stream and let them slide from her palm into her satchel. She would make a poultice to draw the poisons from young Caedmon’s wound. A bird trilled from a broadberry bush as wind touched Aewen’s face and fingered her hair. Its icy breath lingered in the shadows, despite the midday heat penetrating the forest.

She gathered another handful of leaves and paused when a fat, shiny fish slithered by in the stream, parting the water with its back in shallow places. She smiled. Perth would like a chance at the fish, she knew, but other duties engaged her oldest brother. Perth and Conn, the next oldest, journeyed this day to Lancert to trade a matched pair of high-stepping Anusians for a fine destrier Conn had his eye on. He would train hard through the winter in preparation for Darksea’s spring tournament. Rumor already spread far and wide that the winner of the jousting competition might ask for the hand of Vanora, daughter of Devlon, King of Darksea.

Aewen picked her way across the stream on the backs of flat stones, but one rocked underfoot. To save herself a fall, she stepped into the swirling water. On dry ground once more, she sat on a fallen log and wrung out her skirts. When she pulled off her elk-leather shoe and tipped it over, water ran out to puddle on the muddy loam underfoot. She put her shoe back on, wincing as she walked, for it squelched.

She followed a path that traced the course of the stream before striking out for a sunlit patch. Forest shadows fell away behind her, and heat beat down on her head as the path meandered through fields cleared for grazing beasts. Here and there stumps of felled trees remained, attracting bramble vines and ivy to their rotting wood. She passed through fields where sedges and grasses with feathered seed heads tangled with dagger weeds, thistles, and wild roses. Familiar with the sting of thorns and burrs, she kept her skirts and hands away from the edges of the path. The wind picked up in the open, sweeping through to ripple the grasses in long waves.

She sighted the thatched cottage belonging to Willowa, set back from the path and half-hidden beneath a draetenn tree brought thence by Willowa’s grandfather in the days when the Kindren still ventured into the Darkwood of Syllid Braechnen far away and to the east of Elderland. Draetenns did not grow in Westerland by choice, but this one seemed happy enough to drape itself over the dwelling huddled under its care.

With just time enough to check on Caedmon and apply a poultice, Aewen turned aside from the path. His mother would welcome both her company and help with the task of curtailing a lively toddler. Camryn, Willowa’s huntsman husband, spent long days afield and could not often relieve her burden.

Willowa bent over a huge iron kettle in the yard, which she stirred with a stick as clouds of steam boiled about her. She tugged at a dirty scarf from which tendrils of dark hair escaped and lifted a dirty face to call to little Caedmon, who chased a squabbling fowl. The bird ran before the child, screeching its terror. Caedmon’s eyes shone with glee as his fat hands reached for the object of his desire, but he did not pursue with his usual energy.

Willowa set the stick aside and moved toward her son.
“Caed!”

At the note of tired desperation in Willowa’s voice, Aewen quickened her pace. Willowa snatched up her son, clucking at him. Aewen reached the pot and picked up the stick. Willowa nodded to her. “Careful there. Don’t get spattered. I’m rendering fat.”

Aewen stirred the pale, bubbling liquid. “How fares Caedmon?”

Willowa gave a weak smile and kissed the top of her son’s head. “Well enough, as you see, although his burns trouble him at night. Poor child. I can’t forget his screams when he fell at the edge of the fire. “

“I’m glad I was gathering herbs nearby.”

“Thank you for cleansing his wounds. It was more than I could bear.”

Aewen pushed away the memory of the young child writhing in agony. “He seems better today. I’ve a new poultice to make for him.”

Willowa offered the child to Aewen. He held tight to his mother but when he looked into Aewen’s face gave a happy chirp. Chubby arms encircled her neck and a soft cheek pressed hers. The boy’s weight shifted, and she pressed a hand into the soft curls at his nape. Starting for the cottage, she left Willowa to tend her duties at the rendering pot in peace.

Aewen blinked in the dark interior of the cottage and paused to let her eyes adjust. She untangled Caedmon’s fingers from the long, dark curls which escaped her plait, wincing as he tore out several strands. She set him on his feet, prepared to chase after him while she made the poultice, but Caedmon propped against the wooden bench at the small trestle table and watched her. She unwrapped the bandages and discovered his wounds looked worse. Small wonder he fretted at night. She cleaned his burns and applied the poultice and fresh bandages, persisting despite his horrific cries.

Willowa looked in. “Is all well?”

“I’ve just finished. I can go and stir while you comfort him.”

She released Caedmon, and he ran to his mother’s arms. Aewen walked into the yard and took up the stick again, drawing comfort from the simple task before her. She smiled at the sudden mental image of herself—Aewen, Princess of Westerland—standing in wet skirts with hair unkempt while stirring a kettle of fat in a cottage yard. Over time, in the course of ministering to the poor, she’d been called upon to do many such tasks.

Thoughts of home reminded Aewen of duty. Already the sun had descended halfway to the horizon, and she had a fair distance to walk before reaching home. She didn’t fear the forest by day, but night brought predators down from the hills. The dagger sheathed at her waist would not serve against a shaycat or bruin. Besides, she’d be missed at table if she did not return in time. Her parents allowed her to comfort the poor, just so long as she did nothing to draw attention to her activities.

When she ducked into the cottage to say goodbye, she found Caedmon asleep in his mother’s arms. Willowa laid him in a hand-hewn cradle and followed her outside.

“Thank you for your help.”

Aewen gestured toward the cottage. “It’s well he sleeps.”

“He seems…less than himself since the accident.”

“Let him rest as much as he will. I’ll check back tomorrow, if I may.” Aewen set her feet once more on the path. She backtracked through field and forest, and at the fork, took the turning for Cobbleford. The path slanted upward and narrowed, going through a stand of kabas that creaked and swayed in a growing wind. The scent of water hung heavy in the air. No doubt a storm would buffet the landscape in the night, if not sooner. A feeling of unease followed her, and she wished she hadn’t lingered at Willowa’s.

At last she reached the bridge over the Cobble River, but she slid on its slick planks and clutched the handrail to stop herself from falling. Below her the river churned and spewed foam. Lightning flared across the sky, thunder boomed, and rain drove into her face. Panting a little, she proceeded with more caution across the bridge and stepped with relief onto the long bar of rounded rocks from which Cobbleford derived its name.

The garrison had not yet secured the gatehouse against the night. She shouted to the watchguard, ran through the open gates, and followed the covered corridor that skirted the bailey to slam into the keep through a side door. She leaned against it, blinking as her eyes adjusted. She’d made it home before dark, although with little time to spare.

Aewen stepped from the puddle of water forming at her feet and crept to the side stairway, her shoes squelching across the dressed ironstone of the floor. As she made her way up the stair she met no one, which was just as well in her present state. The door to her outer chamber gave beneath her hand, swinging inward with such rapidity she almost fell.

“I see the storm caught you.”

She recovered her balance and peered up at her mother.

Inydde, Queen of Westerland, clad in a garment of blue silk and with her black hair dressed and gleaming, held an expression of bemused exasperation.

Aewen sighed. “It did.”

Inydde frowned at her. “Come then and change before you catch your death of cold. I have news for you, but I’ll wait until your maid tends you to give it.”

She swept past her mother and into the outer chamber where Murial awaited her, drying cloths in hand. Her maid, long familiar with Aewen’s comings and goings, never met her unprepared.

Murial handed her the cloths and bent to the hearth where flames embraced a steaming iron kettle. Her knees creaked, and she groaned a little as she lifted the heavy kettle and filled a brass ewer. The sideways look she gave Aewen would normally have held a twinkle, but today her wrinkled face could not be more somber. Aewen followed into her inner chamber without further delay.

Her servant made her presentable and Aewen returned to her outer chamber, more dry than wet now and much improved. Inydde waited for her in the outer chamber, having moved to the white-and-gilt bench nearest the fire. Aewen joined her, moving close to the fire’s warmth. Inydde patted the cushion embroidered in colorful silk flowers. Aewen sat, perching on the cushion’s edge with her back straight, and waited for her mother to speak.

Inydde smiled. “You look quite another matter now. If I did not know you as the same drowned waif who entered your door, I’d not credit it.”

Aewen lifted the corners of her lips in what she hoped passed for a smile.

Inydde took a breath. “You are beautiful, daughter, and of an age to marry.”

Aewen fastened her gaze on the sapphire brooch pinned to her mother’s bodice. How the gemstones gleamed and threw back the firelight.

“As you know, King Devlon of Darksea honors us with his presence. He and his son, Prince Raefe, come to us on a
special errand
.”

The silence stretched so long Aewen wrenched her gaze from the brooch and looked instead at the sapphire of her mother’s eyes.

The hint of a smile curved Inydde’s lips. “King Devlon has asked for your hand in marriage on behalf of his son, Raefe.”

Aewen could not have spoken even if she had summoned the wit. She stared at the hands twined together in her lap. Her knuckles showed white.

“Your father has accepted on your behalf. You will wed after the harvest feast, but before winter when transportation of guests would bring difficulties.”

“I—but that is so soon.”

Inydde stood. “True enough. We’ll need to hurry our preparations, but we’ll make them just the same. Come to table now and meet your bridegroom.”

Air sucked out of the room. Aewen made a small sound and put out a hand to catch hold of anything that would prevent her from sliding into the pit of darkness rising to claim her.

****

“Aewen, awaken.”
The whisper came out of the darkness, sounding, in its nearness, somehow louder than the ragings of the storm outside the castle.

She pulled upright and put a hand to her head. “Wh—what?”

“It’s me, Caerla.” A gentle push guided her back into her pillow. “Lie still. You’ve had a shock, and no wonder. How do you feel?”

Aewen’s brows drew together, but then realization dawned. She must have fainted. Memory returned in full then, and she sat up again. “Caerla! Such news Mother brought me.”

“I heard.”

Why did her sister speak in so flat a voice? “I can scarce take it in. It all happened so fast.
I must think.
At least I’ve escaped meeting him for tonight.”

“I’m cold. Move over.”

She obliged Caerla and felt the depression as the feather-filled tick took her sister’s weight. Caerla’s cold body pressed against her side, stealing her warmth so that they both shivered. She didn’t really mind. They would warm again soon enough. Caerla would forsake her own bed this night to curl beside her, as she had done since childhood.