Morlis had gotten the two injured and all of the younger children into the cart.
With a nod, she turned to the man she’d spoken to first.
“Your name?”
Tugging his forelock in respect, he said, “Pell, Lady.”
“Pell. Who among the women is best with the children?”
“Yana,” the man said and a young woman turned at the sound of her name, holding her thin cloak closed around her head with one hand.
“Morlis,” Delae said, “Give everyone on the cart a swallow of the wine to warm them and then leave it with those who remain to keep them warm. Leave the draft horses here. Take Yana up with you - get her, the children and the injured back to the homestead. Have Petra put them in the east wing rooms. If we aren’t back by daylight, return then.”
She wouldn’t risk him coming back alone in this weather. If they didn’t get the wagon righted and on its way whoever survived the storm this night would get a ride back to the homestead in the morning. Already the cold was numbing Delae’s fingers and toes. Young Yana shivered badly.
The man nodded.
“Everyone else,” Delae said, “get back among the trees. We’re going to try to right the wagon.”
The little cart with its passengers trundled off, taking with it the dim light cast by its lanterns.
The remaining women and the older children took what little shelter they could beneath the trees. The remaining two men held the torches.
Delae turned back to the overturned wagon.
Dan and Pell waited, Tad behind them looking confused, Pell’s face already pale and set, knowing what needed to be done.
Clearly, she couldn’t ask it of him, either, and she would much prefer to do the deed herself, so it would be done as quickly as well and as painlessly as possible.
“Dan, Pell,” she said, “secure the draft horses to the rails of the wagon so they can pull as we lift but wait until I signal I’m ready. Tad, help them by holding the horses.”
She went to her knees beside the head of the thrashing chestnut horse, wary of its kicking forelegs; its tossing head hampered by the tangled traces and laid her hand on its cheek, looking into the one eye she could see. The white there clearly showed its fear. For a moment it stilled, distracted by her touch. Her heart went out to it as she stroked its rough hide and she drew her belt knife.
That was how Dorovan first saw her, kneeling in the mud by the overturned wagon. To his Elven-sight her brilliant hair was a bright splash of red against the light dusting of snow on the ground as she bent her head. Brightness sparkled on her cheeks as she touched the frightened, tangled horse gently.
Tears. Something his folk did not know.
Nearby three men secured draft horses to the upraised side of the wagon while a group of men, women and a young boy stood beneath the dubious shelter of the trees.
It wasn’t his business; it was a thing of men. He knew he should pass by, unseen in the darkness, his Elven-sight rendering everything to him as clear as day- unlike that of the men and women here.
He was cold as well - chilled to the bone - tired, heartsick and far from home.
It had been a long journey from Lothliann in the north, where he’d gone to render aid against the Borderlands creatures, through the Rift and the lands Men called Raven’s Nest. They’d lost one of their Hunters to the goblins and his people grieved the loss along with Melis’s soul-bond.
As he himself did, his heart heavy. Even without a soul-bond of his own, through the empathy his people shared he knew a fraction of what it was to suffer such a loss. His heart ached for Melis. She would go on to the Summerlands soon, he knew. And then his people would lose not one, but two.
To his vision it was clear the small party was unlikely to right the heavy wagon, not with what they had to work with, but it was also quite clear they would try. There was nothing else for it.
It was also clear what the woman on the ground was about to do, however much she clearly dreaded it and however necessary it was… If he didn’t intervene. With the storm it was also likely they would all freeze and die out here if they didn’t succeed.
Dorovan had had enough of death.
Taking a breath, Delae set the blade to the horse’s throat. She didn’t think she could successfully put it through the eye and thus into the brain - nor could she bear to do so, but she could cut its throat if she was quick. The thought of it made her want to weep, but she steeled herself to do what must be done.
A strong, long-fingered hand settled over her own, stilling it.
Startled, she turned her head to look.
Shock and amazement at who stood there held her rooted to the spot.
Not who though, as much as what.
She wasn’t certain in that moment or any moment afterward which held her more immobile - that an Elf had appeared at her side - that he was an Elf, that he was the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen, as most Elves were, or the seemingly bottomless depth of the kindness in his silvery gray eyes. Or the grief and sorrow hidden in the depths - moving like shadows in the flickering light of the torch.
His features were perfect, strong - his smooth skin was reddened a little with the cold beneath the hood of his cloak, his long straight hair streamed loose in the wind.
It was as if she was held spellbound and yet she knew she wasn’t. Elven magic didn’t work that way.
Rarely did her folk see Elves here in the outlands and never one alone given the danger from her own kind - although she certainly knew of that aloof and beautiful race. Everyone did - as they knew of the Dwarves who dwelled deep in the earth in their Caverns.
What was he doing out in this storm so far from an Enclave? There was none close that she knew of and the storm would slow even his Elven-bred horse, standing patiently nearby. She hadn’t even heard its approach.
Empathic as he was, beneath the thick scarf covering her bright hair, Dorovan could see a woman of warmth and of spirit, of infinite tenderness, her blue eyes filled with both grief at what she was about to do, the determination and duty that was required to do it and wonder to see him there beside her. His kind and hers rarely interacted.
“Do not,” he said, gently. “I can hold him still, if you can but unbuckle the harness.”
Dorovan often worked with the horses in Talaena Enclave and the horses of men were much less headstrong than those, so keeping the animal still was only a matter of empathy with it - of sinking his awareness into that of the animal trembling beneath his hands.
It was on Delae for a moment to ask if he was certain, but he was Elf - of course he was. If he said it, he was. There was that about Elves that they didn’t lie - it going so against their Honor.
Then he laid his strong, long-fingered hands on the horse, one on the horse’s strong neck, the other covering its eye, murmuring soft words as he did and it stilled completely.
“Dan, Pell, Tad, help me,” she said, softly, not wanting to disturb the Elf’s concentration.
Both seemed as dumbstruck by the presence of the Elf as she’d been - staring at him in amazement.
“Dan, Pell,” she called, more sharply, before tugging her gloves from her nearly frozen fingers to work the straps free of the buckles. “Tad.”
That broke their suspension and they rushed to help her, Tad goggling owlishly at the Elf.
Still it took all of Dan and Tad’s muscle to lift and Delae’s and Pell’s efforts to get the harness unfastened from beneath the horse. Then it was free and she turned to the Elf.
As lightly as a feather, the woman touched Dorovan on the shoulder, letting him know he could release his control of the horse.
It surprised him she would know his people didn’t like to be touched by anyone other than other Elves, but even that brief touch told him much about her - including the knowledge that she possessed an empathy he’d thought uncommon among the people of men. Still, he couldn’t help but be grateful for it and for her consideration.
He lo
oked up into her blue eyes and nodded, stepping back carefully, drawing her back with him with a touch to her shoulder as the horse thrashed to its feet.
Quickly he reached out to grasp the frightened animal by its halter.
“Pell,” Delae called. “Come help us get the horse harnessed. Have one of the women hold it.”
The other man nodded while Dan took the reins of the other horses.
Delae looked at the Elf hesitantly. “I can’t ask you for more than you’ve done…”
With a grave nod, Dorovan said, “But I can offer it.”
The gratitude in her eyes was thanks enough.
“I’m Delae,” she offered.
“Dorovan,” he said.
She smiled, her blue eyes warming, turning her beautiful.
Borrowing the traces from wagon, he set them on his own Charis, who shook himself at the feel of the leather on him before settling. The Elven-bred stallion knew his duty here; it didn’t need to be said. Dorovan attached the traces to the sturdiest rails on the side of the wagon. Before they could move it, they must first right it.
Even so, it wouldn’t be an easy task. It would take all of his strength and more to achieve it.
“Do you want to do this?” Delae asked.
He shook his head. “They are your people.”
Relieved, Delae turned briskly to the others.
This just might be possible.
“Dan,” she called, “get the horses moving forward, slow and steady. Pull them back as soon as the wagon starts to break free of the mud, as soon as it starts to go. Pell, Tad, I’ll need you with myself and Dorovan.”
The four of them bent to the wagon, dug their fingers into the thick mud to find the edge of the wagon bed. She only hoped the rails above would hold as the Elven-bred pulled against them.
Her gaze turned to the Elf beside her.
Somehow, it didn’t surprise Dorovan to find Delae crouched down beside him and them in the mud to lend what strength she had to lifting the massive wagon. He could only admire her – one who wouldn’t spare herself.
“Now,” she shouted and the man Dan called to the draft horses, shaking the reins to get them pulling.
Charis needed no instruction, throwing his great weight against the traces.
At the side of the wagon, Delae, Dorovan, Tad and Pell heaved.
There was a pause and then they felt it begin to move, to shift. With a wet, sucking sound, it pulled free.
All of them leaped back as Delae shouted, “Stop!”
The wagon tilted free of the mud, paused for a moment teetering on its side and then it fell back to all four wheels with a crash, a rail broken, a little the worse for wear, but whole enough to get the remainder of the travelers back to the homestead.
Delae shivered with the cold and turned to Dorovan.
“Our thanks,” she said, softly. “I can offer you hospitality, shelter and food for your help, if nothing else, but also as my duty as landowner. It won’t be Elven fare, but it will be hot and there’ll be a warm bed.”
It was the least she could do.
For a moment Dorovan hesitated - despite the wind cutting through his clothing, the cold, and his heaviness of spirit. It was a long way yet to Talaena, though, and the respite from the storm would be more than welcome.
“I can guarantee you privacy and peace,” she said, very gently, reaching out to touch his hand with just her fingertips, no more. “No one should be out in a storm such as this, Dorovan. The food will be plain but good and warm. There will be a hot bath, a bed for you and a stall for your horse with plenty of oats.”
The gesture touched him. Her blue eyes were calm, steady. The offer was a kind and honest one.
It was no more or less than any Elven Enclave would offer and he was far from home. In gratitude, Dorovan inclined his head.
Chapter Two
It was late into the night by the time they reached the homestead but torches now burned at the entrance to the courtyard and in every holder but those on the west side of the quadrangle - welcoming beacons in the thickening storm. Delae was relieved to see them, even more to feel the thick walls of the quadrangle cut the fierce and bitter winds so she didn’t have to hold on just to stay on Besra’s back.
Such as it was, it was home.
Morlis hurried out to greet them with Petra and Hallis on his heels.
All three paused to see the Elf in their midst but a stern look and a sharp, “Oats for Dorovan’s horse, Morlis, please. How fare our guests - Petra, Hallis?” broke their hesitation.
With a glance askance at Dorovan, Morlis hurried to help untack the horses.
Charis followed at the man’s heels happily enough at the promise of oats, judging by the flick of his ears.
“They do well enough, lady,” Petra said, with curious glances at the strange figure in their midst, “the man is recovering his senses but I’ve only allowed him watered wine with a care for his head. The little one’s arm is set. There’s food in the kitchen.”
“Will you help the others to their quarters?” Delae said. “Hallis, will you get the water heated for baths?”
“Already done, Delae,” he said. “And the fire is stirred up in all the hearths.”
She smiled. “Thank you. Wonderful. Would you go then and prepare the guest room in the main hall for Dorovan, please?”
Bobbing his head – startled at the request – he hurried away.
Dorovan was grateful, too, to be out of the blowing wind and even more so when he stepped into the warmth of the great room in Delae’s wake. The thought of a bath was sheer delight. He would do much to feel clean.
It was all a surprise to him, to find such hospitality here among men - kindness and warmth among a people not much known for it.
A fire burned in the huge hearth, while a single brazier of candles cast flickering light over the threadbare carpets and well-worn benches around the fire. Fresh rushes had been scattered over the floor. A plain but serviceable tapestry loom occupied another wall. It was a simple room, but clean and well-tended.
“Have a seat by the fire, Dorovan,” Delae said softly, “leave your wet cloak on the stand beside it to dry. I’ll only be a minute.”
She was already doing so herself, drawing the wet heavy scarf away from her hair. The color of flame, it was brilliant amidst the dull colors of the room.
He followed suit as she stripped away layer after layer until she was dressed only in a simple tunic and trews such as the men among her folk wore - her bare feet startlingly white and appearing oddly vulnerable on the well-scrubbed wooden floors as she padded quietly away.
There is little of decoration here, he noted, warming his hands by the fire.
Herbs grew in small pots in the high narrow windows that faced south, to gain the most sun. They smelled fresh and were brilliantly green against the shutters.
A tapestry hung on one wall, the stitches small and neat, depicting a little vale filled with little white wildflowers, the ones men called fairy rings, while another tapestry waited in the loom.
It was beautiful work, lovingly and patiently done.
Touching it, he knew instantly who had stitched it - who had created such beauty and allowed himself a smile here where no one could see. It was like her - a touch of brightness in the gloom of winter in the outerlands.
He sensed her presence coming down the hall and turned.
“Your room is ready,” she said, “and a bath awaits.”
Delae was grateful Dorovan couldn’t know she’d hauled the great copper bath there with Hallis’s aid and filled it, not being able to bring herself to ask Hallis to do it. She’d set him instead to filling her own bath, knowing it would be nearly tepid by the time he finished. The buckets were heavy. It was her duty to see to her guest anyway.
The room she showed Dorovan to was clean, as plain and unadorned as the rest. The ticking in the mattress was hay, but covered in thick wool and then in linen sheets so well used they were supple, cle
an and smelling lightly of lavender. A thick comforter topped it, offering warmth.
Steam rose from the waters of the bath where it sat close to the fire, and from a small kettle of stew set in the coals within the small hearth.
“Be welcome to my home, Dorovan,” Delae said, gently. “If you need anything, you have only to call. Else, no one here will bother you.”
He looked at her and inclined his head. “My thanks, Lady Delae,” giving her honor and title such as men did, not his own folk.
A small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth as she sighed ruefully. “I am no Lady, Dorovan - although the folk here call me so, and certainly not to you. Delae is enough. And the thanks are to you for your aid. Well I know - we wouldn’t have succeeded without you.”
It pained him - the certain knowledge in her blue eyes, shadowing them as she closed the door behind her.
She’d known she was likely to die there and yet she’d stayed, saving those she could with no sure chance at saving herself amidst the fury of the storm, yet still she would’ve tried and kept trying despite the odds. Here in this woman was one of the race of man who understood Honor as his own folk did.
For a moment he simply stood there, looking at the door through which she’d passed.
It felt good to bathe and then to take up the bowl of stew, a pleasant change from dry travel bread.
As she’d said, the food was simple but good - there was fresh bread beneath a cloth on the tray by the fire. It was all very welcome.
She’d also put herbs and lavender in the bath to sweeten the water, and oil to soothe the skin. With a grateful sigh, he stripped and sank into the heated waters - letting his head fall back against the smoothed oak of the tub, his eyes closing. He hadn’t thought to find anything like to this before he reached his Enclave.
For a time he drifted in thought, the memory of the days past returning to haunt him.
He ached for the one they’d lost - for Melis and her pain at the loss of her soul-bond - he who’d been half her soul.
If Dorovan had had his own soul-bond she would’ve been there to offer comfort and to be comforted in turn but that balm to his soul hadn’t yet been afforded him.
Not Magic Enough and Setting Boundaries Boxed Set (The Coming Storm) Page 2
