by Lisa Rector
Well, Meuric certainly had a talent for rousing the little people. Catrin gave him that much credit. If he weren’t here, would the Eilian be having such a jolly adventure?
At night before settling down, the Eilian told stories. This was Catrin’s favorite part, listening to the soothing, low voices of the Eilian, who rambled on into the night. Dewydd regaled them with their first tale—of how the Eilian came into existence.
“A group of explorers, mind ya, set off for an adventure. They started out to be regular folk. Tall as twenty hands,” he said.
Catrin laughed. Twenty of their hands? This would be a tall tale.
“They wandered far and wide.”
Each of their adventures was another story, Catrin was told.
“Well, one day the fine men and women stumbled upon a marshy bog. The mud was thick, but bein’ the stouthearted type, they continued on until they found themselves chest deep in the muck and stuck fast.”
Heads nodded all around and muttered, “Stuck fast, they were. Undoubtedly.”
Dewydd waved his hand to hush them. “The more wrigglin’ they did, the more the mud sucked them in, with not a soul around to aid them.”
Meuric’s slate blue eyes caught Catrin’s. He was eating up every single one of Dewydd’s words. Was he doing this to soften her toward him by showing his interest in their lives? Catrin pushed her bottom lip out.
“Well, in the midst of the bog dwelt the flower fey. Two inches tall if not three!” Dewydd exclaimed. “They heard the cries of the men and women and came to their rescue. But the fey were tricksters. They hovered over the heads of the group, wagglin’ their fingers at the explorers for gettin’ into this fine predicament. Finally, a bitty, blue-feathered one said they’d save the sorry lot. Each of the fey kissed them on the nose, and the explorers soon found themselves asleep.
“When they came to, they were on the other side of the bog, but the tricksters had done their mischief. Each one the fey had kissed shrank to half of his or her size, no bigger than a spring calf. The Eilian cursed the fey and vowed never to go into the bog again, so they continued east toward the risin’ sun until they came to the coast. They changed their names to Eilian, meanin’ a moment of time, because that one moment had changed them forever.”
So that was how they became the little people. Catrin had no idea their heritage spanned so far. The Eilian hadn’t talked about life before the trees, but they weren’t the greatest record keepers. With word of mouth, the truth was too easy to stretch. That must have been why her little friends in East Eilian hadn’t shared the story before, either this, or Emlyn had been neglectful.
“Do you know Emlyn and Hadyn of East Eilian?” Catrin asked.
Dewydd stopped mumbling something about the accursed fey. “East Eilian? Never heard of it. I know of no Emlyn or Hadyn. Now an Elen, Eleri, Eluned—”
Catrin blushed. “Never mind. My mistake.”
“—Halwn, Halwyn, Harri…”
Catrin dropped her head in her hands, but not before she noticed Meuric’s wide eyes. His face was not the least bit amused.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NO WORRIES
The fifth morning, a rugged Eilian called out in his husky voice, “Land ho!”
A morning fog had rolled in, promising somber rain. Meuric shuddered. He couldn’t take much more of the biting weather. He missed his roasting homeland of bubbling lowlands and mountains crowned with reeking smokestacks. Fissures released a steady flow of heat, from underground rivers of lava, all over Morvith. Most days the smell of sulfur lingered on the air.
The crew rowed enthusiastically up the coast and into the mouth of a swift river. Meuric wondered how the little people would have managed because the river’s current was tiresome even for him.
A small dock, where Dewydd said they had embarked on their journey, came into sight. Bundled in several layers of clothes, Eilian within the village were cutting or hauling firewood, pulling laundry off the line, or carrying baskets of fish. Children raced around, heedless of duty.
Meuric stiffened. Though the Eilian prepared for the impending weather, their attitude suggested urgency, as if no mere rainstorm were coming.
Villagers spotted the vessel, and several dropped their labors and ran for the landing. Others called out, alerting less observant folk to the return of the daring men.
With the grand reception, the dock became so crowded that Meuric thought the whole structure might break off to be swept away in the river.
The skies broke open as a man on the dock grabbed the rope and secured the boat. Meuric heard exclamations of all sorts. “Thought ya drowned at sea.” “Didn’t think we’d ever see ya again.” “Fine weather we’re havin’.” “Gaw, look at ya—ya must be famished.” “Who’re these strange folk ya have wit’ ya. Pulled ’em from the sea, did ya?”
Catrin climbed onto the dock. The rain plastered everything in sight. The little people moved in on her and nudged her until she moved along toward the village. Meuric followed, enduring equal amounts of poking and a bit of pinching as well. He glanced behind, and a few miniature girls giggled at him.
At last they came to a modest cottage. Meuric ducked his head under the low entry, and a roaring fire greeted him. Catrin insisted she didn’t need heat, but a little lady pushed her near the fire until she gave up. Meuric sat on the floor beside her, relieved to be out of the cold. Catrin’s red nose and cherry cheeks made her look like a half-drowned mountain cat.
“Is this how they always are?” Meuric asked.
“Yes.” Catrin shook her head and squeezed the excess water from her hair. Meuric already saw the light inside her flare and speed the drying process.
He shivered. At this point he was more than jealous of Catrin’s power. Catrin hadn’t complained about the cold on the ship because she didn’t feel it. The little people exclaimed how nippy the air was, but Meuric had kept quiet, showing a brave face. Diving into the volcanic mountain Uffern and facing the wrath of his former master would be more welcome than the freezing cold that burrowed into his bones.
Judging from the bare trees along the shore and the chill in the air, Meuric figured it was late winter, which was alarming in itself. They had left the battle in late summer. How had he moved through the ether to a place where winter prevailed? Meuric wondered if Catrin was adding two and two. A leaded feeling thumped his stomach.
Meuric rubbed his hands together and held them out to the fire. He wouldn’t ask for Catrin’s help, but he wanted to shed his wet layers, roll up naked in fur bedding, and hibernate until spring.
He doubted the Eilian had clothes in his size.
Catrin sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless. This is the last time.” She grabbed his wrist, and Meuric tensed.
Heat traveled up his arm, and to his amazement, it didn’t hurt him. I couldn’t have grown accustomed to the light already. His tension eased as the warmth coursed freely through his body. By the dragons’ might, it feels good. Meuric attempted to hide how much pleasure he received from the contact, but he was sinking into a deliriously relaxed state.
Meuric didn’t know just how cold he’d been. He groaned mentally, but added a frown for effect so Catrin wouldn’t guess his state of mind.
When he was dry, clothes and all, Catrin let go. Her grip left finger marks on his flesh, or had she burned the prints there? Meuric turned away and stifled a grin but forced a grimace before turning back to her.
“Woman, could you be any gentler?” He rubbed his wrist, feigning true hurt. Meuric was having difficulty figuring out who to utter his oaths to since he swore off loyalty to the Masters. By the fires of Uffern, I hope Catrin didn’t catch my true emotion. The last thing he wanted was for her to gloat in his face about how helpless and pathetic he was.
A little lady thrust steaming mugs of herbs into their hands. Catrin took a sip, and her face screwed up.
“That bad?” Meuric whispered.
“Bitter,” she choked.
> Meuric took a careful sip. Bitter was certainly one way to describe the brew. The hot liquid slid into his empty stomach and lay there, heavy, like a bad foretoken.
He cleared his throat. “So, have I grown on you yet?” He raised his eyebrows and flashed her a devious smile.
Catrin snorted. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
***
Meuric learned they had been ushered into Dewydd’s hut. The glassless windows were blocked up with wood and cloth. Candles on knobby sticks provided meager light, but the majority of the illumination came from the fire glow. Meuric wondered how someone lived all winter like this—in a claustrophobic tomb.
Dewydd’s wife, Betrys, worked at a squat table, chopping carrots, turnips, and other root vegetables for a stew. Two Eilian children, possibly ages three and five, hovered at her side. The eldest snatched a carrot and shoved it into his mouth before Betrys flicked his fingers away.
“Go on. Find somethin’ to amuse ya selves.” She nudged them with her elbows. “Our guests won’t bite.” They moved away from their mother with bowed heads.
Something to amuse themselves. How?
Dewydd had excused himself to take care of some business, and Catrin gazed at the hut with forlorn eyes. Meuric wanted desperately to move around, but the hut’s roof had to be only five feet high. Too low for pacing, but sitting and waiting for the rain to stop was not in his plans for the day. He should have gone with Dewydd and taken a survey of the surrounding village.
Meuric made up his mind to go to the door and brave the cold when Dewydd entered with a bang. The wind roiled in with the rain’s torrent. Dewydd huffed and puffed, shaking the water from his cloak. He crossed the room to the hearth and hung his cloak from a peg on the mantle. He reached toward the fire and wiggled his fingers.
“T’is rain will turn to snow before nightfall,” Dewydd said.
Catrin groaned, and Meuric saw her head drop to her knees as she pulled her legs tighter to her chest.
Dewydd continued talking, taking no heed of Catrin’s distress. “We returned from our travels in time to hunker down for a few days. We’ll be safe and comfortable. Our supplies are well stocked.”
Meuric spoke up. “We don’t wish to be a burden—”
“Hush.” Betrys spoke from the other side of the room. “No burden, no worries.”
“Even so…” Meuric beckoned the little man closer. He lowered his voice so Catrin wouldn’t hear. “The lady’s in distress. Our current plight is difficult to understand. We are not, what you call, friends. If I stayed in another hut, some of her discomfort might be relieved. I don’t think being within the same confines for the next day or two would suit.”
“Oh, is that so…?” Dewydd nodded slowly with understanding. “I detected a trivial amount of discord on the boat. I suppose I know of another family who’d be willin’ to take ya in.”
“I plan to leave as soon as possible. As for the lady, I’m not sure. Once the storm passes, I imagine we’ll set out.”
“Set out for where and wit’ what? We pulled ya like fish from the water wit’ nary a scale to ya flesh. Ya plan on freezin’ to death once ya leave these walls? Ya’re in a thin shirt wit’ leather pants that rain’ll freeze and plaster to ya leg hairs.”
“I would have…” Meuric trailed off. Dewydd was absolutely right. He’d die. He had nothing to his name.
“Give us a week. We’ve fine seamstresses in the village. They can sew ya up fine woolen garb and a nice heavy cloak that’ll keep the chill away. We’ll provide ya with provisions. No rush, no hurry.”
“We could in no way repay your courtesy.”
“Ya’ll find a way, noble sir.”
Meuric frowned at the endearment. These people didn’t know what kind of man he was. If they knew of the battles he’d fought and the brutality in his dreams at night, they’d kick him out of the village with no scale to his name and wish for his death. His true nature had no place in this village of such naïve and peaceful folk.
“By the Creator! I forgot; ya have no shoes! Ya aren’t going anywhere.” Dewydd’s voice had risen loud enough for Catrin to hear. He addressed Meuric while notifying his wife with the same breath. “I’ll fetch the cobbler. He’ll measure ya feet and make ya such boots as ya never imagined. Lined with fur they are, keep ya feet right warm. Stay here. I shall go out again and fetch the seamstresses as well. They’ll knit ya several fine pairs of stockings whilst ya sleep.”
Catrin piped up. “Stay here? Were you going somewhere? Planning to abandon me? Meuric, you’re staying right where I can see you. Don’t even think of whisking away to your sister. You want me out of the way so Rhianu can latch her claws on to Einion!”
Her rigid body trembled, and her eyes shimmered. Her fingers pierced her flesh where they gripped her knees. Meuric had misjudged her state of discomfort and guilt swept over him.
“Dragon’s fire! Catrin, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I didn’t bring you here to keep you away from Einion.” She was developing delusions. Five days at sea were five days too much.
“It’s true, milady,” Dewydd said. “He wanted to give ya some space. Calm yourself. No worries. As I said, we’re just discussing plans to get ya both back on your feet, shod wit’ shoes and wearin’ winter clothes.”
Catrin stared mindlessly into the fire. Did he detect a slight rocking? He wanted to avoid a crazed woman at all costs.
How could he diffuse this? Meuric worried any bit of compassion could be misconstrued—every friendly gesture or word held with contempt. What had he ever done to her? Nothing—directly. So Einion might be dead. They all might be dead. Even Rhianu.
Sympathy niggled at Meuric’s heart, and an image of Catrin sobbing on the boat raked him. He couldn’t bear it—a woman’s tears. That’s why he cajoled the Eilian into catching fish. Just to give Catrin a moment of happiness.
It had been worth the trouble.
Meuric scooted closer to Catrin, ignoring her recoil. He spoke softly, imagining he was soothing a half-starved pup who’d grown feral.
“Catrin, I swear to you; I’ll not leave your sight, if this is your wish. I give you my word. I never break an oath. Upon my honor, I’ll do this for you, even if you desire my death and think I’m a loathsome scoundrel.”
Her face glowed orange in the firelight, and Catrin’s eyes rounded as she locked them on Meuric. Mistrust swam in her countenance. He forced every benevolent and trustworthy desire into his mind because he knew what she was doing. His mother could do this—read into another’s soul to search for truth. Catrin might sense every foul deed he’d ever done, but she’d know he didn’t lie with his oath. Though detestable, he was a principled man. He let her look for as long as she desired, not caring if she felt the bad along with the good. If she trusted him, they could march forward, and he could tell her the truth—what his intuition screamed at him about their predicament.
I will let you feel me.
He waited, watching her eyes dance with firelight. Meuric didn’t blink. He didn’t twitch a muscle. His mouth pinched into a line.
With her flawless, petite features, Catrin was different from his wives, Mara or Arya. Their sumptuous olive skin, chocolate eyes, and strong nose and jaw flashed into his mind. I ache for you. His face didn’t change, but his anguish built when he thought about them.
Curses! Catrin might sense too much—the very fear that tore at his heart. He might have been willing to let her understand how wicked he was, but the brokenness and despair he felt because of how he failed the two woman he loved… He was unprepared for Catrin to learn this. Do not see. Oh, please don’t know how I failed them.
His fingers itched, and he was about to turn away when Catrin dropped her gaze. His last feelings must have convinced her.
What did you see? He bowed his head. Shame filled him.
“Very well,” she whispered. “Upon your honor.”
He blinked, taking in Catrin’s nose and her chin, anything but her eyes. No
w you know—I’m nothing but an empty shell.
***
After a fine dinner of the stew that Betrys had prepared, a troop of people arrived. Three little ladies, with long measuring tapes, pins sticking through their aprons, and shears gleaming from their pockets, poked and prodded Meuric. He stood with his upper back pressed against the ceiling when they measured his trousers. He knelt and held his arms out while the ladies measured across his shoulders and down the length of his back. Once again they told him to “straighten,” and the seamstresses carefully measured his height with two tapes, following the curve of his shoulders since he hunched over.
Catrin sat on a three-legged stool, and the tiniest of Eilian Meuric had yet to see measured her feet. The man curved the tape over the top of her foot, taking measurements at various widths, and under the bottom of her foot. He tickled her toes as he measured each one, and a stifled giggle escaped Catrin’s lips, which were actually curled into a smile. The cobbler’s attentions were a tad excessive, but it lifted Catrin’s spirits, so Meuric didn’t hold this against him. While playfully pinching her calves, the shoemaker measured every few inches.
Meuric ogled her graceful limbs as the little man ran a length of tape up her calf to her knee. Catrin’s delight and squirming made Meuric want to laugh.
He felt a nip under his ribs and heard a soft tsk from one of the ladies measuring him. Meuric lowered his gaze.
She whispered. “I see ya eyes on the pretty lady. Such beauty. Hard ta keep a head on straight wit’ her near. See the way Iefan is teasing her. Ridiculous. Ya keep ya head straight on ya shoulders. Ya want a hard-working woman, not one filled wit’ fluff.”
