Silver May Tarnish

by Andre Norton

  My father seemed to relax at that assurance. He spoke formally then. “If it seems well to you, wise Ithia, then I agree. Let Meive, my daughter, be apprenticed to you. Will you speak to the Lord Lanson?”

  “I have done so. He said if you agreed, it should be so.” I was dancing from foot to foot with excitement.

  “Da? Ithia said I don’t have to leave yet. I can stay here.”

  My father looked at the wise woman questioningly.

  Ithia laughed. “That is so. I think Meive young yet to leave and live with me. Keep her with you two further Winters. Once she is twelve let her join me in my home, which will one day be hers.” She spoke lightly, yet even as she said the last words a shadow seemed to pass across her face. But I was too happy to let that shadow dampen my spirits. I would learn, and in time I would be the Wise Woman of the Bees for Honeycoombe. I would have my own home, standing and respect from even the Lord’s family. It was enough for any ten-year-old. How should I have forseen what would be my fate?

  For two years I was happy. I worked hard yet it did not seem like work to me. To reach out with heart and mind. To share the life of the hive. All of that was a wonder to me. Most of our hives contained the small stingless bees of our ancient heritage. But a year before Ithia bespoke me, she had gone on a journey. From that she had returned with two new queens. They were larger, blacker, and fierce.

  These she had given the two new hives, and when they bred we had different bees within those hives. They were not so large as the queens, but they were dangerous. They could sting well, and far more importantly for Honeycoombe, they worked further into the Fall, began earlier in Spring. I watched them one day and marveled at their industry.

  “Ithia, where did the new bees come from?”

  The wise woman hesitated, then she answered me. “From a place two days walk from here.” She moved away around the hives, looking to see that none were nearby. “Meive, this is a thing of the bees. You may not speak of it to any. Do you understand?”

  I was proud to be trusted. “I swear. May the bees hear my oath.”

  Ithia sat on an out-thrust of rock. “Very well. You know I walk often beyond the dale. I search for better pastures for the winged-ones. For different flowers which will enrich their honey for us. I was traveling for that reason ten years ago. In a secret place I found that something called me to come further. I obeyed.”

  I listened, my eyes widening as Ithia described her adventure. A place of the Old Ones. Yet linked to Ithia by bonds she could not mistake.

  “And you were given the queens?”

  “Not given. That which dwells there asked if they were willing. They came at their own desire. They remain at their pleasure. They are their own gift.”

  “It was a great gift,” I said, my eyes glowing at an idea. “Should we not return to tell the one who dwells there of how her children do?”

  Ithia smiled. “I have done so each year since you joined me.”

  “Oh.” That, I thought, explained Ithia’s absences. I had noticed that in past years after the hives were moved into the hills for Spring, Ithia had been gone some days. “Will you take me there next time?”

  “Not yet.” Ithia stood and smiled down at me. “But I think it is time that you joined me here in my cottage. How will that please you?”

  I beamed. “Very well, Ithia. I can bring my things over now. Da will help. Is there anything special I should bring?”

  “Whatever of yours you wish to have in the cottage, child. Go now and tell your father. He may wish you to spend another night or two.”

  My father did. I found that was because he and my mother wished to have a special dinner for me. I was set at the head of the table, a toast was drunk to me, and my favorite foods were laid before us. I would be sad to leave my family, but my younger sisters Jenna and Saria were delighted. They would have more room now. My older brother, Welwyn, pretended to be pleased, too. There would be fewer sisters to plague him, he growled. But it was he who pressed a last gift into my hands when he and my father left me with Ithia.

  I opened the small parcel and gaped. Ithia studied the gift. “So, your brother has a talent of his own.” I could only turn my gift over admiringly and agree with that. From somewhere Welwyn had found a root. I know not how much like to its ending its first shape may have been, but now it was a queen of the winged-ones. Every line was perfect and in her head were set tiny black gems as eyes.

  So fine was it that almost I expected her to fly free and join the hives. She perched on a small stump of another wood which spread at the base to stand firm. It was a marvelous piece of work and I would treasure it. I carried it inside to place on the shelf my father had nailed beside my bed. There was just room beside my candlestick. Ithia was brisk.

  “It is a wonderful gift, but now we have work to do.” Before I could start remembering that I was apart from my family, she swept me into such a frenzy of cleaning and polishing that I went to bed and slept dreamlessly in exhaustion. After that the pattern of my days set slowly. I was happy, and it seemed that Ithia was well pleased with my work for I did indeed learn eagerly.

  That year she left for the place of the Old Ones to give thanks. Although I pleaded to come with her I would be remaining behind, but to soothe my disappointment, Ithia made me a map showing the path. I knew the first portion, it led to the furthest bee-pastures where we sometimes shifted the hives at High Summer. In certain years rare flowers grew there which produced honey that had abilities other than food and ordinary healing.

  The honey from those years Ithia would distill to an essence which was a reviving cordial. There was so little it was never sold, but kept instead for our own people. It saved more than one, but from prudence none spoke of it. Should such a cordial become widely known Honeycoombe could be a target for greedy men, and of those there were always more than enough since the land was no longer at peace. We knew there had been war in the land, but our home was overlooked since it was small and lay hidden deep in the vast sweep of the uplands.

  We lay to the South of the older, more populous dales; South and West with only the final hills between us and the great Waste. A narrow trail swept out in a loop to pass the gates of ourselves and Merrowdale. Yet, while few passed and fewer stopped, we were content. Ithia’s small stone house stood at the far end of the village. The road from Merrowdale ran along the slope above. On it one day, as Spring was almost upon us, I saw people walking.

  I peered about for Ithia. I did not like what I saw and she was my refuge, the answerer of my questions. I was too late. She was already striding towards the road and those who came limping along it. I followed. By the time I reached her others of the village were there and gossip ran in a buzz of whispering like the hum of angry bees. Well might there be anger. Those who came were the tattered remnants of Merrowdale, fallen not to the invaders but to a large band of our own. Once some lord’s soldiers, now they were half-mad and masterless men. Of prosperous Merrowdale only the dozen or so who stood before us had escaped. I saw the Lord Lanson himself listening in silence at the edge of the crowd.

  A tall old woman leaned on her staff, shivering in the chill air. Her face was bitter, her mouth twisted in pain and grief.

  “I am Merith Eralsdaughter. They came in the early morning. They laid in wait, and once many within the keep were out and about they began their killing. With the keep doors open they entered and killed all within, then they raged through the village. The master-at-arms survived to rally the men for a little. But those who came killed without sense or mercy as rabid beasts kill.”

  Her tall figure bent a little, as if cradling pain. “We were weak. Our lord and his sons took all those able-bodied men to the last battle. He and his sons did not return. Only a handful of his men came home and they were each left crippled in some way. Our lord’s lady ruled us well, our master-at-arms was her cousin. He and his few men died trying to save her and those in the keep.”

  Lord Lanson spoke without accusation.
“How then came you and those alive from that slaughter?”

  She straightened a little. “I was up with a sick ewe. I saw what would come to us and took up supplies in a bag. Then I left. In cover on the hills I waited to aid those who survived—if any did. I know a little of herbs and healcraft. Better to aid the wounded than add one old fool to the slaughter.”

  Ithia took her hands then. “Be welcome, sister. What you did was wise. And these?” Her gesture encompassed those tattered figures which slumped on the ground, blood staining their clothing here and there.

  “They are from the village. Hann was our baker. He, too, was awake early. The woman is his wife, the girl and the boy here theirs.” I judged the girl to be almost fourteen, the boy perhaps a year younger. The woman looked up at Merith’s words, her eyes blank. She wailed softly. Merith spoke. “Her oldest daughter was maid to the lady of the keep. Although we waited in hiding, the girl did not win free to join us.” Merith resumed the count. “Tral and his sister, Trela, were caring for a sick cow. They escaped unharmed, also bringing out their mother from the house. The other four are men whom we met on the road. They come from Hastdale. That, too, has fallen, or so they have told us.”

  About us I saw faces agape in horror. Always the war had seemed so far away. But we knew Merrowdale our neighbor. Hastdale, almost a week’s journey to the North, and with which we occasionally traded, had also fallen? Would we be next? Merith was still talking.

  “My mother was nurse to Lord Malrion’s mother, we were children together and friends. He talked frankly to me of the things he learned. The war is ended. The invaders flee. But many dales were destroyed. Too many soldiers have lost lord and home and hope. They ravage now like hunger-maddened weasels. If they have nothing, not even hope left to them, then that, too, they shall deny to those of us who still possess something.”

  “What sought these ones in Merrowdale?” That was my father.

  “What such men always seek: loot, women, mounts to replace those lost.” She bowed her head. “They came in strength to our dale: many less will leave.” Her head came up in pride. “Our people fought. They were not taken like rabbits which scream and cower beneath the weasel’s fangs. Blood-price they had for their going.” She slumped again, staying on her feet with difficulty. Ithia lent her shoulder.

  “Come. Best you have food, drink, and a bed.” Her eyes sought Lord Lanson. He nodded, leaving these decisions to Ithia.

  “The village will take you in. Let any family who can host one of these come forward. Merith, you shall guest with me and my apprentice. I think Lord Lanson will have other work. In the morning you shall speak with him as he wishes.” Recalled to himself, our keep lord nodded again to Ithia and hastened away. I joined my teacher and added a younger shoulder to Merith’s support.

  I was just turned thirteen. We had celebrated my name day barely ten days gone. All my life had been without sorrow. I found the tale more exciting than fearful. Besides, Honeycoombe was apart. Only those who knew where it lay would find it. And none from here had ridden to the war. Lord Lanson had no soldiers. At need the men of the village armed to follow him, but he kept no men permanently under arms save Jerin. I grinned at the thought.

  Jerin had been arms-master to both Lord Lanson and his father, the Lord Lanrale. Jerin was a spare upright old man who now taught weapons-work to the lads of our village. But he was old. Nonetheless, it was Jerin who came striding to our house soon after dusk. He would have spoken privately with Merith and Ithia, but Ithia insisted I share their discussion.

  “She is a child.”

  “Would you say so if she were male? She is thirteen and sensible. And if the killers come, will they say she is a child, harm her not?” Ithia’s voice was tart.

  Jerin grunted. “Well enough. Let her listen.”

  So listen I did. At first I could not believe what he said, but the women nodded and agreed. We were to make up travel bags. A watch would be set on the main road. If those we feared were seen the alarm would be given and all would flee into the hills. My own father was even now taking the three pack-ponies owned by the village into the uplands. They would bide in the hut on Foral Ridge. The killers would not have them and if we must flee we would have the ponies to aid our escape.

  Ithia spoke then. “All this is wise. Spring comes swiftly now. I will bespeak the bees. If the weather holds we can move them from the village. The lower uplands hold more than one sheltered place where they will be ready to work. And if those you fear come, we will have no time to move hives.”

  “Do as you see fit, Wise One.” Jerin gave agreement. He paused at the door then before he left. “Let you all carry knives. If at the last there is no other choice, see that they are keen of point.”

  I did not know then what he meant, but later Ithia told me. I gaped at her. Slay myself? How? I had never thought to do such a thing. I had no idea where or how to strike. She showed me patiently until I knew the blow. I understood something else then; that this was no longer excitement fit for a child. I think in those moments, as I learned how to kill myself, that I also aged. Ithia eyed me closely.

  “I have a great task for you, craft-daughter.” I waited. “You shall go with the bees to the uplands when we move them. I have in mind the furthest pastures, where there is a cave. A small stream runs nearby. You know the place?” I nodded. “Good. You shall take a supply of the Winter-syrup. If the weather chills again you can feed the hives.” She smiled gently. “Take with you your Queen which Welwyn made you. I shall see you have all else.”

  That she did, loading one pony with bedding, food, the Winter-syrup, and other small comforts. We left the next day. Behind us trudged the ponies, the other two loaded with the carefully lashed hives, which hummed with anticipation. The hives were light enough so that behind them the two also pulled long, hive-laden sledges. We would return the next day for the remaining hives. We did that and spent the day setting out the hives so that their inhabitants’ flight-lines should be free of strife. The cave was small but deep. With Ithia’s preparations it would be warm and comfortable for me. I felt buoyed up by a sense of importance.

  She left me early the morning after that. Before she did so she took me in her arms and hugged me warmly. Then she tilted my chin up with one hand and stared into my eyes as if impressing what she would say upon my mind. “I trust you with our wing-friends, Meive. You are kin to them. In a time of need they will rise to protect you.” She turned to stare out across the swathes of white and purple beelove just beginning to bloom in the early Spring warmth.

  “I love you, child. Your family loves you. Remain here, guard the bees as they will guard you. Do not return unless one of us comes to fetch you. Your mother has said she will visit you every three days and bring food. If one day she does not come, you have supplies. Wait another three days before you return and walk with great caution. It may be ill has befallen. It will help no one if you fall into danger with us.” She left then, long walking staff swinging in one sunbrowned hand.

  Now I think that she had some fore-warning. But little of that gift was hers. She saw only that death reached out for Honeycoombe, yet not when or how it should come. When it did not come at once, those of my home were lulled into believing that they could be safe. Thrice my mother made the journey to my cave with food. The third time she arrived before midday and shared my noonday meal. I sat her down with ceremony, offering water from the tiny spring, and honey-cakes made on a fire-heated stone. She gave formal thanks with a smile. Then she sobered.

  “I came early this time, Meive. I would tell you of something you should know.”

  “Why I can bespeak the bees?”

  “Yes. Your father does not know. But my grandmother told me before she died.” My mother sighed and looked out across the sweet-scented beelove. “Our line lived in Merrowdale at that time. When my grandmother’s mother was young she was betrothed to a man she loved and who loved her. The wedding was but a week away. But betrothed, too, was the lord’s
daughter and many had already arrived for her wedding. Amongst them was one lord’s son of a line at which all looked sideways. It was whispered their blood had mingled with those Old Ones still here when the dales were settled.” My mother looked at me.

  “You are old enough to know of such things. My grandmother’s mother was in the high field caring for the sheep when he found her there. He used her as a woman and left her weeping. She fled to her lord’s lady and demanded justice. The Lord of Merrowdale was greatly angered by the tale and justice he gave. He could not slay the man for fear of blood-feud. And besides, he rode with other kin who might have fought such a decision. But he stripped him of all that evil man possessed and drove him forth from the dale. Then he gave the plunder to she whom the lad had outraged.”

  “And her betrothed?”

  “He loved her, blaming her not. He held to the bond. But they took what they had and followed their lord’s younger son here to Honeycoombe. With what they had been given they purchased the building of a home. His coin and gems purchased them a cow for milk, and other things. And in time my grandmother was born.”

  “She had the gift?”

  “So she told it to me. But she, too, wed a man she loved and laid aside her gift, such an ability being one which can be set aside at will. I had none. But she warned me that often the gift passed by a generation. That my daughter might have some measure of it. In that it seems she was right.”

  I nodded, thinking. My father loved my mother well. But he feared the Old Ones. Even the tales of them he would not hear. To know that my mother’s blood had come through such a thing would have distressed him greatly, even perhaps driven him from her. I met her eyes.