The River's Gift

by Mercedes Lackey

  In a body, they all paraded into the fields, singing to the Corn Maiden, for they had come to bring her in.

  With great ceremony, Lord Kaelin and Toby, the chief reaper, took careful hold of the last sheaf and bent to cut the stalks off as near to the ground as they could. When the sheaf was cut, they handed it to Toby's wife and Ariella, who swiftly bound it up and made it into a humanlike shape. With bits of outworn clothing they gowned the Corn Maiden, and Ariella crowned the doll with her own wreath.

  Then they passed the Corn Maiden to the rest, who bore her in triumph to the groaning trestle-tables arranged in front of the Manor, as the last rays of the sun gilded the tops of the trees.

  They set the Corn Maiden in the place of honor above the feast as men lit the great torches of pitch and straw that had been set about the tables, and the folk of the Manor took places on the seats of log that had been set around the makeshift tables.

  An ox had been roasted whole for this feast, nor was that all; the kitchen staff had outdone themselves, with every other tasty dish that could be imagined. There was enough to stuff everyone to capacity and still have leftovers to share out.

  Ariella's only regret was that Merod could not be here; she imagined how his eyes would sparkle at the fun and how he would toss his head and perhaps even join in the dancing.

  The air hummed with laughter and talk, the torchlight shone on happy faces, and once the edge was off her hunger, Ariella nibbled and watched, taking it all in.

  She glanced to the side to see how Lady Magda fared. Even that Lady had lost some of her haughty reserve, unbending enough to smile and joke with the Abbot at her other side.

  The small army of Manor-folk decimated the piles of food. As the stars came out and circled overhead, the ox was reduced to a skeleton, the mounds of vegetables melted away like snow in the spring, the bread developed gaping holes and the pies and cakes eroded to pitiful remnants of their former glorious selves. Now it was time for the traditional toasts, and Lord Kaelin stood up, tankard in hand, to begin them.

  Something icy, foreboding and grim seized Ariella's heart, and she swiftly turned her gaze from the expectant faces below her to her father's countenance.

  As that cold hand gripped her soul and froze her where she sat, she saw, as if in a nightmare, her father open his lips—try to speak—a puzzled look came into his eyes—he blinked in shock and surprise—and toppled over, crashing into the table before him. Ariella screamed and leapt for him, arms outstretched as her chair fell over backwards.

  Pandemonium. Men shouted, women screamed or wailed, children began crying. Some rushed for the high table, some to get water, some shouted confused instructions. Ariella frantically turned her father over, crying out his name—but the icy hand that held her heart was the chill and unforgiving hand of death, and she knew he could no longer hear her.

  Someone pulled her away, more people held her, keeping her from her father's side. She screamed and wept, fighting them, trying to get back to his side, thinking surely there must be something she could do, yet knowing there was nothing to be done.

  Then the moment of shock passed and the grief came, and her legs gave out beneath her. Hands held her up, the Abbot's, the steward's; there was nothing in her heart and mind but loss, nothing in her soul but grief, nothing in her world but tears. She collapsed, her throat closing, her body knotted about itself, her hands reaching for something she could never grasp. Animal moans of grief spilled from her, and she shook as though with fever.

  They led her away, knotted and tangled in her terrible grief, unable to see, to think, to feel anything now but a vast and lonely emptiness.

  They took her to her room, coaxed her to drink something—something bitter, but not so bitter as the tears that burned her eyes and scorched her cheeks.

  She fell from tears into darkness and knew nothing more for a day and a night.

  The next days passed as in a nightmare from which there was no waking. Ariella wept until her eyes were sore and swollen, and still there were tears left over. The Abbot murmured words meant to comfort that she did not hear, Lady Magda plied her with platitudes she ignored. She tried to go to the forest more than once, but those watching her prevented her, and she didn't have the strength to fight them. Finally the Abbot brought the Infirmarian, and there was more of the bitter drink, and her days faded into a haze of drug and tears.

  She walked through a dim world of shadows and sorrow. On a day gone chill and gray, Lord Kaelin was buried. Overnight, it seemed, all the light and joy had gone out of the universe, the trees turned to leafless skeletons, the sky to endless slate-colored clouds, and the wind bit with teeth of ice. People came and went, strangers she didn't know. They sat her down in her father's study, then discussed her fate as if she wasn't there.

  "She fades more with every day," Lady Magda whispered to her maid on the morning of yet another dreary day, as both of them cast furtive glances out of the corners of their eyes to where Ariella sat, listlessly, in the window-seat.

  "Things will change when he comes," the pert maid replied with a knowing wink. Ariella rubbed her eyes and wondered dimly who "he" was. There had been a great deal of talk about some man she had never heard of. The Abbot had explained it to her, they said. Something about Swan Manor . . . that as a woman she could not inherit, but that . . . something . . . had been arranged with her nearest male relative, a cousin. She licked her lips and stared out the window at the leafless trees tossing their skeletal branches in the wind, clawing the sky with bone-thin fingers. She only hoped that her cousin, whoever he was, would make these people leave her in peace. She only wanted to mourn and to see Merod. She longed for Merod with a need that was near to starvation. Merod would know what to say, how to help her ease her loss, how to make her see beyond all this sorrow.

  "Here, child, let me tidy you," Lady Magda was saying, and Ariella let herself be drawn from the window- seat, let them comb and braid her hair, put it in a silver net, and arrange a fine veil over it. Just as they finished primping her as if she was a giant doll, one of the servants appeared in the door of her room.

  "He's here, Lady Magda!" the girl said excitedly. "He's waiting in the great hall!"

  Still fussing with the veil, Lady Magda drew Ariella to her feet and pulled her along by the hand. "Come, child, it's time to meet your cousin. Let's have no more sulks, but only smiles."

  Smiles? What did she have to smile about? But Magda wouldn't hear a word she said, so she didn't even try to contradict the old biddy; she simply let herself be drawn along in Magda's bustling wake to the great hall, where candles flickered uneasily in the drafts, and the room seemed suddenly too small to contain all the huge and armored men who crowded into it. Strange, dark faces beneath coifs of chain turned to stare at them as they entered at the door.

  "Here she is!" Magda sang out. "Here's your little maid, Lord Lyon!"

  Before Ariella could wonder who Lord Lyon was, the sea of tall, grimly dark men parted, and a single golden figure strode out of their midst.

  He alone of all of them was bare-headed, and his hair was as brilliantly sun-hued as the grain at harvest. His chainmail armor had been washed with gold, and it glittered in the candlelight. Over it he wore a surcoat of brilliant scarlet, with a seated lion embroidered proudly on the front. He was taller by half a head than the men around him, with piercing black eyes, a jutting chin, and a firm mouth, which just now was smiling as he held out both hands towards her.

  "Lady Ariella! We meet at long last!" he boomed in an overwhelmingly loud and deep voice as he seized both her hands in his, hands which engulfed hers completely. "They told me you were the image of your blessed mother, and they spoke truth! Truly the Wild Swan of Swan Manor is the loveliest maiden in all the world!"

  Everything about him was—much too large, too overpowering. Ariella stared at him in confusion, trying to make some sense out of what he said. He bent to kiss her hands and she looked down at the top of his head with its sun-gold curls cascad
ing down the back of his neck, wanting to pull her hands away from his proprietary, too- firm grip and not daring to. He looked up, and caught her gazing at him; she glanced away in confusion, feeling heat mount in her cheeks as he straightened again, towering above her.

  "Ah, shy, sweeting? No matter. A little shyness is a proper thing in a maiden." He turned his head and looked past her at Lady Magda. "I have no cause to regret our fathers' pact, cousin Magda. Your lady is all the prize that rumor claimed her to be. I shall be glad and proud to be the man who tamed the Wild Swan."

  Pact?Prize? Ariella finally reclaimed her hands and twisted them together as she tried to make something of the perplexing words. What pact? Was there—she tried to recall—something that the Abbot had said?

  The man was still speaking, although Ariella had lost the first few words. ". . . be on our way," he said to Lady Magda. "Immediately. We have much to do."

  "Oh, surely you'll stay a fortnight at least," Lady Magda protested. "The child has only just buried her poor father! And surely you'll wish to look over the Manor!"

  There was steel beneath the man's voice, and his brows creased together in a faint frown. "I fear that is hardly possible," he replied. "I have my own lands to see to, after all, and I must assemble a gathering of guests and witnesses before the snow flies to make our pact binding. My steward will take care of everything necessary here— you, of course, will remain as chatelaine to see to the domestic affairs. I trust that the Lady's gear is packed and ready to be taken?"

  "Well, y-y-yes," Lady Magda stammered. A single wave of his hand dismissed any other words she might say. "Then get your Lady's cloak, have her litter prepared, and we will be off!" he said imperiously. "My steward will take charge here for me, and he will take the room that was Lady Ariella's. Obey his orders as you would mine, for he will be reporting directly to me. We have far to travel before night comes upon us!"

  Pact? Ariella thought with growing dismay.Steward? She looked about her for help, but there was no one she knew nearby. She was completely surrounded by tall, dark-visaged men in armor whose slate-gray surcoats swallowed up the light of the room. Before she knew what she was about, Lord Lyon had swept her cloak about her shoulders and fastened it at her chin, then gathered her up in one muscular arm and half-carried her out of the great hall, through the front door, and into the cold wind outside.

  The horse-litter that Lady Magda used stood ready just outside the door, two sturdy mules bearing its weight, and Lord Lyon picked up Ariella as easily as a baby chick and deposited her inside, shutting the curtains on her protests. Tangled in her skirts and cloak, still dizzy with the Infirmier's bitter potion, she tried to disentangle herself in the chill darkness of the horse-litter, but before she could even get one foot free, the mules moved forward with a lurch that sent her crashing into the cushions. "Wait!" she called, struggling with cloak, furs, and cushions. "What does all of this mean? I don't want to leave! Stop!"

  But no one paid her any attention—in fact, she wasn't certain anyone heard her, and soon the mules were moving at a pace that sent the litter swaying and jostling, so that she could hardly get a full breath.

  She had never traveled by litter, and between her drug-hazed mind and the lurching of the litter, it was all she could do to keep herself from being knocked senseless, much less escape from the stuffy, cold, cramped little box. Where was she going? Where was this man taking her? And most important of all, why?

  Her head had cleared a little, but in place of the dazed and dizzy feeling, a headache had begun just behind her eyes. It was quite dark when the mules finally stopped moving, firelight flickered in the gap between the curtains, and a hand clad in a thick leather gauntlet shoved the curtains aside. "We've made camp, my Lady," said a brusque and unfamiliar male voice. "I fear that a tent is the best we can offer you."

  She peeked out of the litter cautiously as the man extended a hand to help her down out of it. They were in the midst of an unfamiliar wilderness of huge pine trees that moaned and sighed in the cold wind, swaying back and forth as if they were about to pull up their roots and dance. The litter had halted beside a roaring fire, with a small tent on the opposite side. Behind her, she heard the sounds of horses stamping and chewing; before her, men laid out bedrolls beside the fire on the bare ground, while one skewered rabbits on a spit, preparing to prop them over the flames. She tried not to look, swallowing hard.

  Lord Lyon strode out of the shadows and brushed aside his henchman's hand, putting both hands on her waist and lifting her down out of the litter. "A rough welcome, my Lady, but you'll have a better at Lyon Castle," he proclaimed as if to a multitude, gesturing at the fire and the tent. "I am sorry that your woman wasn't fit for such a harsh journey, but you'll have maids a-plenty waiting for you at home, and I'm sure you can fend for yourself for a few days."

  "Home?" she managed. "I was home! Why am I here? Where are you taking me?"

  He looked down at her with a patronizing smile. "You are coming with me, sweeting. Surely your Abbot explained it all to you, did he not?"

  She put a hand to her aching forehead and blinked, trying to think through the growing pain and the sick feeling in her stomach. "I—I'm not sure. They gave me something to drink—things were very confused. I remember—the Abbot did talk to me, but I can't recall what he said—"

  "And in your grief, you were not thinking of anything else, of course," he said soothingly, still with that superior smile. "Well, it is simple, Lady Ariella. Your father held Swan Manor without a son to inherit from him. As a woman, you cannot inherit any property. You have your dower-portion, of course, but no property. Had you wedded while your father was still alive, Swan Manor would have gone to your first-born son, with your husband holding it in trust for him, but since you were still a maid—" He shrugged. "As your nearest male kin, I was to inherit the Manor if your father died before you were wed, but neither your father nor mine cared to think of you going to the charity of the Church or making some hasty and imprudent alliance in that case, so they made a pact that if you had not found a husband by the time your father died, and I had not found a wife, then I would wed you, thus keeping Swan Manor in your bloodline and saving you from being displaced. It was all arranged a very long time ago, and your father probably never wanted you to bother your pretty head about it."

  Simple?Simple? She stared at him, her head and heart pounding together, too utterly appalled and shocked to say a single word.

  "I must admit that I was quite well pleased to find my bride to be so comely," he continued with an expression she could only think of as a smug smirk. "I find myself with a very fine bargain, and I am sure you are hardly displeased with the sight of your intended husband!" His grin widened and he puffed out his chest a bit, and some of his men laughed out loud. "As to where we are going, we travel to my own estate, where we will be properly wedded in the sight of witnesses and kindred." His expression turned a touch threatening. "I will have this done properly. I would not have it rumored that your hand and land should have gone elsewhere, that our kinship is too close for matrimony, or that our union is no true marriage. There will be no reason to protest that this union is invalid."

  By this time he had led her, step by step, to the door of the tent. Now he pulled the flap aside and held it open for her. "And now I will leave you to your well-guarded and well-deserved rest, my Lady. I am sure so delicate a maid as you must be fatigued by the journey. One of my men will bring you something to eat, and you may sleep when you will, knowing that we guard you as we would any precious object."

  A slight nudge sent her stumbling into the tent, and he dropped the flap shut behind her, leaving her in a canvas shelter illuminated only by the firelight filtering through the fabric. With a little moan of pain and incredulity, she sank down on the pile of bedding at her feet, drained of strength and will.

  She woke in the morning, certain it had all been a terrible nightmare, only to find that the nightmare had not passed with the coming of daylight
. She opened her eyes to find herself staring at a canvas roof, head aching, bundled in blankets that smelled of smoke and horses. Around the tent outside, men tramped about, making thumping and clattering noises; she heard shouting, harnesses jingling, and horses stamping and neighing. Her head throbbed abominably, but her mind was clearer now.

  Too clear, perhaps, for she could see no way to escape from this trap. She did not know where she was, she could hardly run off on foot into a strange forest with no weapons and no provisions. It was unlikely that with so many alert men about, she would be able to steal a horse and escape, and even if she could, where would she go? She didn't even know what direction to travel to return to Swan Manor, and if she did find her way home, Lord Lyon would only come to take her again. She could run off to the forest and hope that she could elude him there—but she shrank from the idea of all those armored men with their iron and steel rampaging about near her Faerie friends.

  Before her thoughts went any further, the tent-flap was pulled aside and Lord Lyon shoved a round of cold bread and a cold rabbit-quarter at her without any kind of greeting or warning. She took it reflexively and stared at him with stinging eyes.

  "Break your fast, Lady Ariella, and let us be up and away!" he said so loudly that she winced. "We have far to go, and the sooner we are upon the journey, the sooner we will reach home!"

  "Aye, soonest wedded and soonest bedded," called one of his men, and another guffawed as Ariella held the hastily proffered food with one hand, stood up, and shook herself free of the bedclothes. She had gone to sleep fully dressed, so there was little for her to do to "make ready"—but no sooner had she stood free of the blankets than one of the men bustled into the tent and bundled up her erstwhile sleeping-place, carrying it off to stow in a pack somewhere. She clutched the bread and meat, trying not to cry, wondering what to do next, and the tent began to teeter above her as other men pulled up its stakes. She hastily got out of the way, only to find herself seized by the waist and swinging through the air as Lord Lyon hoisted her into her litter again.