Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  Sathri pressed her lips together and gazed at her for a long moment. “If I come once, that must be enough.”

  “Yes, it will. Thank you, Eldermother!”

  They talked no more of the shade that evening. Sathri resolutely turned the conversation to the coming Evennight celebration, and extracted promises from Ghithri to help with the preparations. Ghithri agreed, glad to have made a little progress in understanding what she had seen, grateful that Sathri would be with her on the morrow. They finished their supper, and together tidied the house, then Sathri kissed her on both cheeks and bade her good night.

  “Rest well, child. Do not spend the night dwelling on this.”

  Ghithri smiled. “I will rest. Thank you for the pears and bread, and the cheese.”

  “And the mead.” Sathri corked the jug and set it on a high shelf. “You are welcome. You are not to finish it tonight, mind.”

  Ghithri shook her head. “It is too much for me alone.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  Sathri touched Ghithri’s cheek, then went out to the hearthroom. Ghithri followed, picking up Sathri’s basket from the table. The fire on the welcoming hearth had dwindled to coals. Sathri bent to add a log to it.

  “Let me do that—“

  “No need. It is done.”

  New flames danced into sudden life, bright yellow and pushing back the darkness. Ghithri handed Sathri the basket.

  “Shall we meet in the public circle tomorrow morning?”

  Sathri smiled, and Ghithri knew she was thinking how long it had been since Ghithri had spent more than a moment in the public circle. “Certainly. I will see you then.”

  Ghithri watched her away, then listened to her footsteps passing down the street toward the main avenue. When she could no longer hear them, she went back into the house, put on her cloak against the evening’s chill, and took the jug of mead down from the shelf.

  Stepping outside, the cool air struck her dizzy for a moment; the wine’s effect on her balance heightened by her haste. She slowed her pace, strolling carefully rather than striding. She need not hurry, after all. Elmaran often worked or read through the night.

  On this night he was reading, she learned when he invited her to join him in his study. While he fetched down goblets for the mead, Ghithri glanced at the volumes bound in heavy cloth, ornamented by his own hand, that were stacked on the table beside his chair.

  “Your journals?”

  He pushed the books a little to one side and set the goblets beside them. “Yes. I wanted to read through my impressions of the shade I once saw, after we talked yestereven.”

  Ghithri handed him the jug, not trusting herself to pour safely near the journals. Elmaran filled both cups, set the jug on the floor beneath the table, and smiled as he savored the mead.

  “Ah. The best summer mead in Eastfæld.”

  Ghithri sat in the other chair and took a token sip. “Did you read anything you had forgotten?”

  “Details, only. I was writing to capture what I had seen, hence I described the shade’s clothing and appearance, the river, the forest, what plants were in flower.”

  “But nothing new about the shade’s actions.”

  “No. That I will never forget.”

  Ghithri turned her goblet between her fingers. “Were there starflowers blooming?”

  Elmaran tilted his head. “Yes. Why should you ask that?”

  “Because they are blooming now. Because my shade was cutting them.”

  “You think your shade and mine are connected?”

  Ghithri shrugged. “Maybe starflowers make a shade more likely to appear.”

  “Sweet spirits! I hope not. If that is so I will never bring starflowers into my house again!”

  She smiled, recalling her laughter with Sathri over lovers searching for a bed free of memories. “Elderfather, will you come to the wood with me tomorrow morning and watch my shade?”

  “Dear child, is it not time you let that go?”

  “Sathri is coming with me.”

  His eyes widened. “You persuaded Sathri to seek out a shade?”

  “Only once, she said. And I must then help her with all the Evennight fuss.”

  Elmaran chuckled and sipped his wine. Ghithri set her cup on the table—carefully—then folded her hands.

  “I think there is more to understand than what I have gathered, what I am seeing. Today I watched again and saw that the shade was greeting a lover—or I think it was a lover. The form was unclear. If the three of us watch, from different sides of the glade—”

  “You have given this a great deal of thought.”

  “I want to know. Why this shade formed, who she was if I can learn it. You might recognize her, Elmaran.”

  He put down his goblet and took the topmost journal from the stack, long fingers leafing through the pages. “I felt the same about the river shade. I never solved that question. Will you be unhappy if you learn no more?”

  “Disappointed.”

  “And then you will move on?”

  She gazed at him, wondering why he wished her to pledge herself to that. What did it matter to him if she spent her days in the forest, watching echoes of the past?

  Why, though, was she reluctant to agree? Was it because she did not know in what direction she might go?

  She picked up her goblet and took a deep swallow. Elmaran had pointed out the standing trouble in her life; she did not know how to move on. How to let go of disappointment, how to forget the hopes that had brightened her days. She had been avoiding moving on.

  Because she still wanted to hope?

  She felt a sudden threat of tears, and quickly quaffed the rest of her mead. Her head spun slightly as she put down the cup.

  “Yes.”

  Reckless promise. Perhaps for the best, though.

  Elmaran watched her, his expression pensive. He did not move to pour more wine.

  “Very well, Ghithri. I will come with you tomorrow.”

  She blinked, befuddled by the mead. “Thank you.”

  He opened the journal and handed it to her. Beside his account of what he had witnessed, the page bore a drawing of a male she did not recognize: face captured in terror, arms reaching for something unseen. The image struck dread into her heart. That was what she had come to expect of a shade, from all she had heard.

  She met Elmaran’s gaze as she handed back the volume. “She is nothing like that. She is joyful.”

  “Joyful.” Elmaran’s brows rose slightly. “A joyful shade.”

  He stood up swiftly and left the room. Ghithri scarce had time to wonder if he had remembered something when he returned with a slate tablet and chalk. He sat with the tablet in his lap and began to draw furiously.

  Having seen him in the throes of inspiration before, Ghithri kept quiet. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up beneath her, leaning back in the chair while the mead wove clouds about her thoughts.

  Perhaps she would offer to deliver Elmaran’s history to its commissioner once it was completed. A journey might do her good. Too long since she had been away from the village.

  Elmaran turned the tablet to show her what he had drawn. A swift sketch, lacking detail, but it was striking. A slender female stood with her face turned upward, hands level with her shoulders and filled with starflowers. Her eyes were closed and she looked blissful.

  “Yes . . . she is not quite like that, but the mood is right.”

  Elmaran took back the slate, turned it sideways, and began another drawing. This, when he showed it to her, looked familiar. It was his river shade, except that he was no longer terrified. He wore an expression of delight instead.

  Ghithri gazed at it, slowly smiling. “I like it. Would that you could give him this peace.”

  “The spirit is at peace, I should think. Remember, a shade has no connection to the soul. It is merely a reflection of a moment.”

  She nodded, handing back the slate. “A very intense moment.”

  “Y
es. And I am curious about your joyful shade. I have never heard of anything like it.”

  “Well, tomorrow you shall see her.”

  The sun had just risen when Ghithri reached the public circle. The morning was cool enough that she had worn her cloak. She had brought her basket as well, not from any intention of gathering onions, but because she had carried it on both occasions when she had seen the shade.

  The market was not yet open, though traders were setting up their tables. Fragrant smoke—peach wood, she thought—drew Ghithri’s attention to the public lodge, where a fire burned brightly on the welcoming hearth. Sathri lounged in the hearthroom, sipping from a steaming cup and chatting with the lodge keeper. Ghithri joined them, accepting an offer of tea though she had already broken fast.

  They were discussing Evennight preparations. Ghithri listened, having nothing to add. She would help Sathri as she had promised, though she had little heart for a festival.

  Bathani, the lodge keeper, was enthusiastic. “My rooms are all bespoken. Several traders are coming from as far as Hollirued. It will be an excellent celebration!”

  Ghithri saw Elmaran enter the public circle. Setting her empty cup on the mantel, with a fleeting smile at Bathani, she hurried out to meet him. Sathri followed shortly afterward, and together they set off into the forest.

  The path they followed led to the river, though Ghithri had not gone that far when she saw the shade. She looked at Elmaran.

  “Did you ever try to see your shade again?”

  He shook his head. “I had no wish to. It was disturbing.”

  “Rightly so.” Sathri nodded. “Did you light those candles, Ghithri?”

  “Not yet.”

  When they reached the stand of whitewood trees, Ghithri held up a hand to halt them. She set down her basket and stood gazing through the trees into the glade. Starflowers gleamed softly in the shadowed light. Glancing at the others, Ghithri slipped between the saplings.

  She felt she should not speak, so she beckoned to Sathri and Elmaran, indicating places where she thought they would have good vantage. She chose a spot for herself that was different than before, just to the side of the place where the shade had cut her phantom flowers, hoping she might see a new detail from there.

  All three settled down to wait, sitting on the grass, surrounded by starflowers. Ghithri met Sathri’s gaze and saw her raise an eyebrow. She hoped the shade would still appear, despite the presence of newcomers.

  Remembering Elmaran’s belief that emotions woke the shades, she turned her mind back to her thoughts the first time she had seen the flower-gatherer. To her surprise, she did not immediately recall what she had been thinking that first day.

  Discontent, she knew after a moment. Disappointment and sorrow. Also, she now realized, self-pity. She had yearned for what she was unlikely to have: Malikan’s return. Remembering how bitter she had felt just two days since, she was surprised to find that her anguish had lessened.

  A stab of frustration smote her. Would her inability to recapture her exact mood prevent the shade from manifesting?

  No, for she saw a glow begin to rise among the starflowers, and a wave of motion where no breeze had passed. A startled gasp from Sathri confirmed that the shade was taking form.

  Ghithri watched, nearly face-on with the shade from her new position. The female’s look of joy was contagious. Ghithri felt her heart lifting as she watched the silent dance of flower-gathering, the silent, joyful song of the shade.

  Across the glade, Elmaran’s brow was creased, as if he was trying to recall a vague memory. Ghithri returned her attention to the shade, who swept her knife so close to Ghithri’s sitting place that she startled backward.

  The shade took no notice, but continued around the glade, cutting flowers and scattering them in the grassy center. Ghithri watched the knife carefully, and when the shade turned at the approach of her lover, saw her slip the blade into a sheath at her hip.

  The lover was no clearer than before, which disappointed Ghithri. She had hoped that Elmaran or Sathri might recognize him.

  A gasp from Elmaran’s direction told her he may well have done so. Suddenly he stood, just as the shadow lover lifted the shade and carried her to the couch of starflowers. The glow in the glade brightened, then the lovers dissipated, motes of golden dust in shafts of morning sunlight that poured through the tree branches.

  Elmaran looked upset, almost as much as he had been when talking of the river shade. Ghithri feared he would turn and leave, but instead he walked to the center of the glade and slowly knelt. His hands brushed the thyme where the phantom starflowers had fallen, then rose to cover his face.

  Ghithri stood. “Elderfather?”

  He looked up at her, his expression a struggle of emotions, She did not comprehend them all. He seemed almost to look through her, as if some other shade had caught his notice and he gazed into the past.

  Sathri got to her feet. She looked at Ghithri, but said nothing.

  Elmaran’s gaze shifted to the ground before him. Slowly his bewildered frown softened. He closed his eyes and covered them briefly with one hand. When he looked up again, the phantoms seemed to have gone.

  Ghithri took a small step toward him. “Did you recognize her?”

  He swallowed. “Oh, yes.”

  He stood and walked to the side of the glade at which the lover had approached, then turned and looked back. His face was merely sad, now.

  “She is Cashari.”

  Sathri exclaimed in startlement, “Celmarin’s mother?”

  He nodded, still gazing at the grassy center of the glade. Ghithri looked from him to Sathri, then back.

  “I do not understand. I thought Celmarin was your son.”

  “He was.” Elmaran rubbed a hand across his brow. “I did not recognize this moment when you described it to me. It was the moment of Celmarin’s conception.”

  Ghithri stared, trying to fit the shade to what she knew of her elderfather. Celmarin had long since crossed into spirit, fighting in the Bitter Wars.

  “Or rather, the moment just before then. I do not understand why the vision ends where it does.”

  “So the other figure—the lover—is you?”

  Elmaran nodded, smiling sadly. Ghithri swallowed.

  “Cashari died giving birth to Celmarin, did she not?”

  “She did.” Elmaran’s voice was shaky. “She was as joyful as you saw her, though—even to the moment of her crossing. Bringing Celmarin into the world was the greatest delight of her life, so she said.”

  Sathri frowned. “How could she say such a thing to you?”

  “She meant to honor me. And I was honored, to be father to Celmarin. He lived a meaningful life.”

  Sathri crossed the glade to Elmaran’s side. “We have seen what we came to see. Let us leave here now.”

  Elmaran’s frown deepened, as if he wished to stay. Sathri stepped through the whitewood saplings and picked up Ghithri’s basket.

  “Come, Ghithri. We have much to do.”

  Ghithri went to Elmaran and touched his arm. “I am sorry to have raised these memories. I had no wish to grieve you.”

  He shook his head, smiling slightly. “I am not grieved. They are happy memories, only I do not understand . . .”

  “Why they formed a shade.”

  Elmaran’s gaze shifted to her. “And why the shade woke to your presence. I have visited here . . . often. Not recently, but long ago, I used to come here.”

  “After Cashari died?”

  “Yes. And after Celmarin died.”

  “And you never saw the shade.”

  “Never.”

  Ghithri gazed back at the glade. She heard Sathri shifting her feet, and knew her eldermother was impatient to be away.

  On impulse, Ghithri hastened across the glade. Taking her own knife from her belt, she cut an armful of starflowers and hurried back with them. She sheathed her blade and caught Elmaran’s arm, urging him to leave with her.

  S
athri greeted her with a look of disapproval. Ghithri took her basket from her eldermother and put the starflowers into it. She glanced at Elmaran as they continued onward toward the village, but his expression was distant, and she knew his thoughts were in the past.

  No one spoke until they were back at the public circle. It was nearly midday, and the market was busy. Sathri paused at the side of the circle and turned to Ghithri.

  “Come to the bakery now, and help me with the Evennight cakes.”

  “I will, as soon as I have taken these home.” Ghithri lifted her basket, setting a scent of starflowers aloft.

  Elmaran turned to her, as if roused by the fragrance. “May I have a few of them?”

  “Of course.”

  She took a handful of the blossoms from her basket and gave them to him. He raised them to his face and inhaled, closing his eyes. Ghithri’s heart twinged with sympathetic sadness, knowing she had raised memories that were painful, though bittersweet.

  He looked at her and smiled softly. “Thank you, child.”

  He kissed her brow, then walked away, passing through the market without seeing the traders or their wares. Ghithri knew an impulse to go after him, to see him safely home, but she knew he needed no escort.

  Sathri’s voice cut into her thoughts. “I am going to the bakery. You will come?”

  Ghithri nodded. “Presently.”

  She bade farewell to her eldermother and walked through the market toward the avenue that led to her street. She felt no need to hasten away, now; no wish to avoid the smiles and greetings of the traders. She let her gaze drift across the cloth and ribbons, the pottery and carved wood that were offered. With a festival approaching, traders were coming to the village from farther away than usual.

  A string of glass beads caught her eye, all in shades of blue and green. She picked it up, letting the sunlight glow through the colors.

  “Ghithri!”

  The voice sent a shock through her. She turned, the beads still dangling from her fingers, and had to clutch them to keep them from flying as she was caught in a fierce hug. She only glimpsed the smiling face, the fair eyes, but they and the voice were enough.

  “Malikan!”