A Feather on the Breath of Ellulianaen
Page 9
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The following night when the men came to the tavern after their work in the mines it was locked and battened. Hinfane opened the small window in the centre of the door, and staring out with her fingers upon the wooden windowsill, said, “Go home, all of you! Those who live in the tavern can come in to their rooms, but the rest of youse, go home! I am not opening today!”
Some of the miners’ faces screwed up and they began shouting, “Ah! Stupid woman! Wench! Give us our mead! Serve us, witch! Give us drink!”
But Zhallad was standing near the front of the crowd. He turned around, waved the men to calm, and said, “Men, leave her be. You know Hinfane – she has our best interest at heart. When has she wronged any one of us?” He pushed his way through to the very front of the crowd, waving at them to go away and came up to the door, until his face was all she could see. Hinfane said, “I am certain it is one of the men who spend their nights in the tavern. I am certain of it, Zhallad. If I could but remember the detail that is nagging at my mind...”
Zhallad shook his handsome head and whispered softly and tenderly, “Come now, Hinfane, you fear something that cannot be – surely you can see that an elf could not possibly be one of us? Name one man in this place who’s unmarked by age or illness or injury. Elves never bear scars, injuries, or tattoos, and I have never known such a beaten, scarred, battered bunch as this lot.” Then he turned and shouted at the men, “Leave, all of you! Go home and batten your doors! How do you know she isn’t right? She’s no Huch’s wife! When has Hinfane ever been wrong about anyone or anything? Give us a moment to talk! Get lost! Leave us alone! Give Hinfane some room!” But the men did not wander off, they simply walked off and stood at the edge of a rough circle some twenty yards away, milling about restlessly, watching to see if Hinfane changed her mind under the calming influence of Zhallad.
Zhallad put his hand on her fingers, making them tingle, as she rested them on the little windowsill, and he said, “Hinfane, you are grieving the loss of your husband and foolish imaginings fill your head in the night-time, for there is no one beside you to talk you out of them. I know what it is like. Since I lost Werata I find my thoughts travelling into strange, awful places in the small hours, while sleep flees from my grasp. This accursed country does it to you – the endless distances and the great massiveness of the mountains around us – the brightness of the nights in summer and the darkness of the days in winter – the terrible silences and the thunderous skies – make you think of things… Hinfane, you’re just worrying. Open the tavern, the men need their mead.”
If it was anyone else Hinfane would have shrugged his hand off and snapped at him, but Zhallad knew what grief was like, and the tenderness and gentleness of his speech touched a peculiar place in her heart. There was a kindness in him that was an even more appealing quality than his handsomeness.
She unbattened the tavern door and the men came in quietly and gratefully to drink their mead.
And that was how the rumour began to spread that Hinfane’s wits had been addled by grief, so after that there was no chance they would heed anything she might say, so even if she could work out which one of the men the elf-mage was, she wouldn’t have even tried to tell them. Sometimes, afterwards, she wondered if that was the right decision.