by Pati Nagle
Had it been her words that had convinced Josæli that Siruvon would not return?
A sob escaped her. In darkness she went to the main hearth, where with shaking hands she laid a fire. It took several attempts to strike a spark to it, and she shuddered with cold and grief as she knelt on the hearthstone to blow life into the tiny flames. She remained there, watching the fire, still shaking long after its heat had penetrated her flesh.
Morning light woke her. She sat up, stiff and cold. The fire had long since gone out. She stood and looked around her home. Warmth and love seemed to flow through it. She felt undeserving of it.
She rose and left the house, not bothering to straighten her appearance. The mists would only disarrange it again. She wound her veil about her throat and walked wearily back to the Three Veils.
The conces were finished. Diranan lay beside them, his head pillowed by the blanket on which he had knelt. His tools were laid neatly in their box, which stood half-filled with water from the falling mist.
Careyni looked at each conce, running her hands over the carving. Ghivahri’s was much as she had seen it. Josæli’s bore her name carved in strong strokes, surrounded by a wreath of rosemary. Each tiny leaf was perfectly formed, incised in the rock with precision.
She went to Diranan and knelt beside him, taking his hand in hers. It was icy.
Inhaling sharply, she felt in vain for a pulse, though she knew before seeking it that he had abandoned flesh after finishing his work.
She sat for a long time gazing at his face, now relaxed and calm.
She gazed at the conces, at the falls, and at the path to the clifftop. No one had gone up to watch the North Road yesterday. The first time since Midwinter that none had watched.
Slowly Careyni stood. She would go to the North Road herself, but not yet. First there was something she must do.
She picked up Diranan’s tools and carefully poured the water from the box, letting it spill away into the pool. She was not a stone carver, but it must not be so very different than working in darkwood. She would manage.
She would carve a conce for Diranan, from one of the stones in his shop. It would not be as fine as his own work, but she would give it her best effort. When it was finished, she would bring it here to set with the other two.
And when that was done, she would take the conce that he had made for Firithan north to Fireshore, there to find the spot where he had been slain, if she could. There to seek news of Marasan and Siruvon, and to honor them with conces of her own making.
A new vocation might help to turn her thoughts from her loss.
Shades of Joy
Ghithri looked up from the wild onions she was gathering, thinking she had seen someone. The green-shadowed clearing where she worked was empty, though—silent save for the distant twitter of a bird—and she sensed no ælven khi nearby. No one was likely to follow her here. Her kindred all knew that when she went a-gathering in the forest, she wished for solitude.
Her mood was impatient, one of her reasons for coming. She had been irritable of late, and had twice hurt the feelings of others through her sharp words. She could not lay a cause to her crossness, but in the last few days it had worsened so that she could scarce bear to be among her friends and family.
Here, she had peace. In the mossy depths of the forest, no one asked her questions or demanded favors. The few creatures she saw gave her ample distance. Her kind were hunters, after all.
She collected a double handful of onions and laid them into her basket, which was nearly full. She would have to stop soon, but she might gather herbs instead, and tuck them into the corners of the basket. Or she might braid the onions, wear them across her shoulders on the way home to hang them in the pantry for drying, and fill the basket with something else.
She did not look forward to going home. Frowning as she brushed the dirt from her hands, she wondered why.
The afternoon was wearing, but it was not yet so late that she need start back to the village. The light that filtered down through the tall pines and greenleaf trees was not yet tinged with sunset. She settled herself to braiding the long, green stems of the onions, a soothing task.
Motion flickered at the edge of her vision. She turned her head toward it, but saw only the bobbing of a cluster of starflowers in the faint breeze, pale white blooms against the dark leaves of fern and vine.
Late for starflowers. They did not usually bloom much beyond midsummer. Ghithri laid aside her onion braid and moved closer to the tiny blossoms, bending her head to try to catch their scent. The sharp pungence of onion overwhelmed it.
She might cut the starflowers, take them home to grace her table. She loved having flowers in her home, but these were better here, she decided. Better in the wild, where she could return to see them every day for another moon, instead of enjoying them for only a handful of days at home. She plucked a single bloom and tucked it behind her ear, leaving the rest.
A stronger breeze made the starflowers tremble on their long stems. Ghithri glanced up, wondering if a storm might be approaching. The breeze carried no scent of rain, though. Mayhap she should start back.
The thought dragged at her spirits. Frowning, she returned to braiding onions, refusing to think about going back to the village.
A glimmer of light, off to her right, made her turn quickly. Golden-white flickering, moving through the trees. She caught her breath, and sought to sense the khi of the intruder, but could find none.
Not ælven. What, then? No forest creature carried a light.
She laid her onion braid in the basket and stood, peering toward where she had seen the light. No sign of it now.
She moved forward softly, careful to make no sound as she trod the rich, dark ground. The smell of old leaves returning to earth, of last year’s autumn, arose as she walked, filling her with memory.
Last autumn had been joyous, a time of celebration, and not only of the harvest. She had been giddy with the delight of a new love.
Malikan. His name stabbed into her thoughts, though she had tried to forget it.
Their involvement had been intense, but brief. Malikan was a trader, and had outstayed his plans to be with her, but obligation had at last dragged him away. He had left before Midwinter, promising to return though he could not say when. Seasons had passed, and Ghithri’s hope of seeing him again had faded. No message from him had come, though she had asked after him with every trade caravan that visited the village.
Except the last caravan, that had arrived a moon ago. She had not asked them, and no one in the caravan had sought her out with messages. There would be no messages, she had finally conceded.
Ghithri became aware that she was standing before a whitewood tree, its straight trunk reaching high toward the sun, green cascades of leaves hanging down beside her. Walking blindly; she was fortunate she had not walked straight into the tree.
She stepped around it, feeling a strand of leaves brush her shoulder. Somewhere near here she had seen the glimmering, but she did not see it now. She stood still, listening, reaching out with khi to gauge the tone of the forest. Small creatures watched her from branch and sheltering bush, but no others.
A breeze rustled the dangling leaves behind her, and brought a faint scent of sweetness. Inhaling deeply, Ghithri sighed with pleasure. Starflower.
She followed the scent, wanting to immerse herself in it. She caught the hems of her belled sleeves in her hands, clutching them closed around the cloth, hoping to keep any lingering smell of onions away. Passing through a thick stand of whitewood saplings, she stepped into a glade she had never seen before.
Starflowers bloomed all around its edges. In the center, a carpet of grass dotted with dark-leaved clusters of wild thyme—tiny purple flowers among the green—seemed to beckon her to lie and rest a while. A peaceful, hidden place. Perfect for dallying away an afternoon.
She stepped to the nearest drift of starflowers and knelt beside it, keeping her hands in her lap as she bent to the b
lossoms. Sweetness enfolded her, lighter than honey’s scent, and touched with a faint, sharp tang that made her think of summer and the sea.
She inhaled greedily, then sat back on her knees. As she gazed at the starflowers, a golden glow began to reflect from their white petals.
Her skin prickled as she realized the glow was all around her, filling the glade. Turning her head, she saw its source.
A female, black hair loose over the shoulders of a pale, silken tunic that brushed her bare knees, surrounded by golden light. She bent to the starflowers across from where Ghithri sat. A blade glinted and her hand swept across the stems, but when she arose with her armful of flowers, none had been cut.
Ghithri inhaled sharply. A shade?
Smiling, the female danced a step, twirling to the center of the glade. The glow floated with her, brightest wherever she moved. She laid down her phantom blossoms and darted away to gather more.
Ghithri sat motionless, afraid to breathe too deeply. She had never seen a shade. They were considered portents, usually infelicitous, though this female seemed far from unhappy.
Or could it be a spirit? An Ældar, the guardian of starflowers, perhaps? Spirits appeared even more rarely than shades, though.
Conscious of her dirty hands, Ghithri wondered if she could have done anything to offend an Ældar. Had she forgotten to offer thanks for the onions? It seemed too small a failure to merit this apparition.
The female added more flowers to those in the center of the clearing, scattering them in a long swath that looked as if it was meant for a bed. The sweet scent of the starflowers now suffused the glen, filling Ghithri’s senses, overwhelming all the other forest smells. It raised a tender ache in her bosom, and the stranger’s joyful smile pulled at her heart.
“Spirit?”
The female glanced up from her work, turning toward Ghithri. With a look of delight she ran forward.
Ghithri flinched, flinging up her hands when it seemed she would be trampled, but the spirit was not running toward her. Her gaze looked beyond, to the edge of the glade, even as she ran through the space where Ghithri sat.
Ghithri felt the whisper of a breeze, then with a shimmer the golden light dissolved into dancing motes that faded into the dappled forest shadows. Turning her head, she saw a few white petals drift to the earth and vanish. The female was gone.
Trembling a little, Ghithri looked at the center of the glade. Thyme and grass; no flowers strewn across them.
She swallowed, then slowly stood up. All around the edge of the glade, the starflowers nodded, growing thick and undisturbed. She wanted even more now to take some home, but she dared not touch them. She slipped between the saplings and hastened to collect her basket. The day was growing old, and she wanted advice.
She hastened to the village, the setting sun at her back. When she arrived, the public circle was bustling with last minute trade as the market closed down for the day. The door of the tavern stood open and a cheerful fire burned on the welcoming hearth, though the evening would be mild. The taverner, leaning in the doorway, waved and called out to her.
“Ghithri! Do you come and sing with us?”
“Not tonight.”
She waved back as she hurried across the circle and down the street, away toward the far side of the village, to the outermost ring of houses. Her elderfather lived there, and his house was a safe haven to her.
Elmaran’s door was open, and as usual the welcoming hearth held only a candle, but it signaled the same welcome as a fire. Ghithri rang the visitor’s chime, then set her basket down beside the hearth and rubbed at her dirty hands. Strands of hair had strayed from her braid; she brushed them back away from her face. She ought to have tidied herself before visiting, but perhaps Elmaran would not notice.
A quiet tread approached from within the house. The tapestry was pulled back from the inner doorway, and Elmaran looked out.
He wore his working clothes: a simple tunic and legs of fleececod, the edges of the sleeves amply stained with ink. He was a scribe, and spent his days in quiet solitude, making elegant copies of scrolls and tomes of history. Few of them were for folk in the village; his skill was such that his manuscripts were sought after throughout the realm.
Elmaran’s hair was caught away from his face in a braid that hung halfway down his back. Seeing her, he smiled with delight.
“Ghithri! Welcome, child. I have not seen you in many a day.”
“I should have visited before, I know.”
His gaze went distant for a moment and he raised his chin. “Onions?”
“Ah—yes, I have been gathering them. May I give you some?”
Ghithri picked up the short braid from her basket and offered it. Elmaran made a small bow as he accepted it.
“Thank you, child. I will give them to Sathri. Will you come in and sit a while? I have some tea made.”
Ghithri was anxious to ask him about the vision she had seen, but knew she should be courteous. “I will. Thank you, elderfather.”
She followed him through the front room, where he paused to lay the onions upon the long table that he only used for the rare occasions when he entertained, and down a hallway to his study. Its walls were filled with shelves, which in turn were filled with books and a few ornaments.
A fire had fallen to comfortable coals within the hearth. Before it stood two cozy chairs with a low table between them, on which were an ewer and cup of elegant pottery, glazed in honey-gold. Elmaran gestured to Ghithri to sit while he took a second cup down from a shelf.
“Sathri will be bringing my supper soon. You are welcome to share it.”
“I have no wish to impose on you.”
He shrugged. “It would be no imposition. She always brings more than she and I can eat.”
Sathiri kept house for Elmaran, and was one of Ghithri’s three eldermothers who lived within the village. Two of them, Sathri and another, were descendants of Elmaran; the third was Ghithri’s father’s mother. Of the three, Sathri was the nearest to Ghithri in age, and her favorite.
Elmaran handed her a cup of steaming tea. She thanked him and took a careful sip.
“How goes your work, elderfather?”
“Very well, thank you. I am nearly finished with the history of Hollirued.”
He went on to describe the illuminations he had added to the tome, based on his own drawings from a visit he had made to Hollirued, the oldest ælven city. Ghithri listened politely and sipped her tea, though she yearned to ask him about the apparition she had seen. When Elmaran paused to pour himself more tea, she set her own cup down.
“Elderfather, may I ask your advice?”
“Of course, my child.”
“Today I saw something strange in the woods.”
She described the female gathering phantom starflowers, and the glowing light that had accompanied her appearance. Elmaran listened in silence, nodding now and again. Ghithri finished her tale, picked up her cup and turned it around in her hands, then looked up.
“Can you tell me what it means? Have you ever seen anything like it?”
He tilted his head. “She vanished, and the light then ceased, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And she did not see you?”
“I—thought for a moment she had, but no. She ran right through me.”
Elmaran nodded. “It sounds to me like a shade.”
“But I thought shades were supposed to be unsettled, unhappy. She was smiling.”
Elmaran stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Usually they are the echoes of an unhappy death, it is true. Is it possible her happiness was cut short?”
Ghithri blinked, thinking back to the glade. “I do not know. I did not see her in the moment before she vanished. The last I noticed—when she was running—she seemed to have seen someone or something that pleased her.”
“Tragic, if that someone or something then caused her death.”
“You have lived here for many centuries, elderfather. Have you ev
er heard of someone dying in such circumstance?”
“No, I have not, and I think I would recall such an unexpected death. Certainly I would recall if someone from the village had caused another’s death. That has never happened, in my memory.”
Ghithri sipped her tea and found that it had cooled. She swallowed the rest, then put the cup down again.
“Can you tell me what it means?”
“If it is a shade, you mean? They usually appear in response to some disturbance.”
“You mean, by walking into the place she haunts, I woke her?”
Elmaran frowned. “It requires more than that, as I recall. The one time I saw a shade I was deeply upset. I had—well, it sounds trivial now, but I had spilled ink across a manuscript. I ruined a moon’s work in that moment, and I was furious with myself. I am convinced the shade rose because of my mood.”
“Your mood?”
Ghithri gazed at him, feeling small and dismayed. She had been in a poor temper of late, it was true. Could that be why the shade had risen?
Elmaran picked up the ewer and filled her cup. “My khi was unquiet. The shade rose in response to it.”
“Oh. What was it like?”
“The shade?” He sighed as he set down the ewer. “It was a male who had drowned in the river Morindel. I had gone to the river, not wanting to visit my rage on anyone else. I was pacing along the bank, throwing stones into the water, when the shade rose from the middle of the stream. It shocked me into stillness.”
“Were you frightened?”
“At first, but then pity overtook my fear. From his terrified expression and the way he seemed to struggle, it was plain to me that he had not wished to die. I sought to learn who he was—asked everyone in the village—but no one knew of him, and the theyn’s records held no report of such a drowning. I believe it must have happened a very long time ago.”
“Perhaps the same is true of my flower-gatherer.”
“Perhaps.”
“If you do not remember her, elderfather, I doubt anyone else will.”
