The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

Padraig encountered a herd of sheep guarded by a watchful dog just before midday. The large black dog watched him with such suspicion that Padraig waited until he’d rounded a bend in the road before he dismounted to eat a bit of lunch.

  He’d have to reach a farmstead or tavern soon as his tuck bag was nearly empty. The thought caused him to grimace, already wishing that he didn’t have to give up some favorite elven foods. Naught for it, of course! He’d come home with a mission and no choice but to complete it, come what may.

  He approached the first farmstead a bit after the meal. He topped a rise and looked down at the compound set behind tall stone walls. The chimney stood cold, but the thatch looked sound on the roof and he could hear chickens. He winced as at least a couple of dogs launched themselves against the wooden gate to announce his presence. He tried the latch, relieved it was bolted from the inside.

  A wise farmer, then! Padraig thought. Sensible, given that they’re alone out here.

  Just as he noted the stones of the walls were dressed with a finery he wouldn’t have expected from a farmer a face appeared at the opening at the top of the gate. Those blue eyes could only belong to a pretty lass.

  “Hallo?” she greeted. “Are you wanting somewhat?”

  “I’m a traveler on the roads,” Padraig replied, slowly, his mouth unpracticed with Celtman speak after a lapse of years. “I’m hoping to buy some bread and per --- mayhap water my stock.”

  “Traveler?”

  “Herbman. I’ve been foraging in the eastern mountains.”

  The blue eyes judged him coolly. Padraig waited. Naught more would convince the farmwife to let him in or send him away.

  “You be at Sion’s steading, herbman. I be Sion’s wife, Marya.”

  “Padraig of Denygal.”

  The eyes continued to weigh him. He waited again. This time the wait wasn’t too long. The latch rattled and the gate swung outward.

  “You don’t look like a daemon anyway,” Marya said, holding the gate open wide. Her smirk indicated she wasn’t much afraid of daemons. The dogs slunk off as if shamed by their rudeness. They were the same large breed, one a buckskin and the other black, as their fellow guarding the sheep. “I baked bread last night and we’ve some dried apples left from the winter.”

  “Four coppers for two days’ worth?”

  “Five and I’ll throw in a bit of jerked meat.”

  “Done.” He released his tuck bag from a saddle hook and handed it over.

  “Stock trough’s over there. The barrel’s by the door.”

  Padraig watched her walk away, noting that she just topped his shoulder and had blond hair tucked up under a headscarf. Her skirts hitched up into her kirtle in improvised breecs, she still carried the pitchfork she’d used for mucking the stables. She disappeared into the house, pausing long enough to scrape her bare feet off on a stone outside the door. She took the pitchfork with her.

  That one’s wise in the ways of men, Padraig admired.

  Padraig allowed Joy and the grey pony, Earnest, to make their way to the trough while he approached the barrel with his water skins. He drank long from the clear, cool water before washing his face and wetting his hair, careful not to let the waste water trickle back into the barrel.

  That midden heap should be farther away.

  Typical of a farm, every bit of soil in the yard turned to vegetables except for the composting pile, the walkways, and small spaces before the door and round the well. Padraig noted with surprise that the same stone built the cottage as the fence; he recognized the type -- had seen it oft in the basements of Dun Cenconyn, but never outdoors.

  Pale pearly pink, almost luminous, it was not a common stone, dressed and in some places carved. Farmers would not have labored so hard on the esthetics of a cottage, much less a defense wall. The steading must have been built, as Dun Cenconyn, on the ruins of an elven city. There were a few scattered throughout the basketlands. He’d never known any humans willing to use the lumina stone; most considered it haunted, if not evil.

  “Admiring our witch stone?” Marya asked, coming up behind him on silent bare feet. Padraig managed not to startle, though his heart thumped once. She held out his tuck bag. She’d left the pitch fork by the door.

  “It’s indeed lovely. Did Sion do the dressing himself?”

  “Nay, nay, but the fields about here are filled with the stuff. Big blocks like that. Some say the Fey did leave it behind them when they moved on to the fairy realm ... or, more like, the mountains.”

  “Aye? Do you see the Kin hereabouts?” Padraig asked, establishing immediately that they both knew the elves to be real.

  “Nay, they don’t come here anymore. Traveled to the Cenconyn faire long ago and we saw some. Beautiful people. Sion and I’ve been here five years and we’ve seen none.”

  “Then why the defense wall?”

  “Tis a long way from the village and my Sion does worry about the troubles elsewhere, that those who are desperate may come someday. So far we’ve only seen the nobleborn, come each fall to the hunting track into the mountains. Still Sion built the walls. He used the stone because there’s so much of it throughout the valley and, though there are some that call it witchstone, why throw away what is both beautiful and functional when you have need of it?”

  Padraig nodded, impressed by her practicality. Sion needn’t have put the vines and stylized flowers where they’d be visually pleasing either.

  “Do they stop here?” She cocked an eyebrow at him in question. “The nobles?” He hoped for some gossip.

  “Aye, to eat my bread and use our water without so much as a copper or a thank you very much.”

  Padraig laughed at her humored indignation, which won a full-mouthed grin from his hostess. She showed good teeth.

  “The noble-born often show little care for those who fill their bellies and cellars,” he agreed. “I’m a bit turned about coming from the mountains. Where exactly is Sion’s steading?”

  “Faren, County Werglidd. The village of Nalyn be about a half-day’s journey west by horseback. Dun Werglidd is mayhap one day’s journey farther. Lord Jarvys is rig there.”

  Padraig remembered County Werglidd within the Dublyner rigdon of Faren.

  “How far is Dun Trevyllan?”

  “Good four days by wagon. Mayhap two, two and half days on horseback.”

  “How are the roads?”

  “The villagers in Nalyn have been repairing the road from the village to Dun Werglidd. I’ve heard that there’s a proper road from Trevyllan to Clarcom. I suppose Cunyr wants his taxes more quickly.”

  “Cunyr is still vyngretrix then?”

  “Aye. His heir, Bryan, be about 15 summers, I think.”

  The way Marya spoke she might just have been passing on information or she might hope for Cunyr’s passing. Perhaps she hoped he wouldn’t pass soon. After all, a cur like Cunyr was apt to whelp cruel pups. The elves said the hand that rocks the cradle held a stronger influence.

  “Who is rig at Dun Trevyllan now? Still Beryl?”

  “Nay, but Beryl did die in a hunting accident last fall. We got the news of Lord Geran’s ascension just at snowfall. I suppose we’ll be seeing what sort of overlord he’ll be round Lughnasa.”

  Padraig knew Geran and decided to risk a bit, though truly the risk seemed small.

  “My master in herbs and I wintered in Dun Trevyllan several years gone. A good teacher, Geran’s father. I think his son’ll act honorably toward those who support him.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye. At least Geran never cheated at dice and he didn’t quibble when he lost.”

  Padraig smiled inwardly at the lad he’d been back then, using his gift at guessing dice to win against the brash young lord. Geran might have suspected him of cheating, but he’d always paid his losings and he’d not used his position to call Padraig to justice.

  “How long were you in the mountains?” Marya asked.

  There was somewhat so open about her question that P
adraig felt drawn by her human attractiveness. Her wide blue eyes set in a pretty face with a pert nose and a warm smile could make a man forget that she stank of the stables; Padraig reminded himself you couldn’t muck out without smelling of muck. A tendril of blond hair had worked its way loose from her headscarf and it showed clean. The golden hair brought a response of longing from deep inside him.

  He reminded himself sharply that he was not the sort of man who trifled with married women, but bitter truth presented itself. Sin is sin and you’ve flown close to its flame your first contact back with humans. I repent Lord! As soon as he thought that a small gust of wind wafted her scent to him. She stank of the stables and his desire stepped back into the shadows.

  “I’d best be going if it’s a half-day’s ride to the village,” he said. “Tis a lovely steading, Marya.” He’d never know quite why he asked, but he did. Maybe it was to deny what he’d felt only a moment before. “Are your children with Sion, then, out tending the fields?”

  She hesitated for a moment.

  “Nay and you did say you were an herbman, didn’t you? You’ve been in the eastern mountains. Among the Fey, aye?”

  “I won’t deny that I studied some of their lore, aye.”

  “I’ve heard that they’ve different sort of lore than we do, ways of healing our herbmen don’t know.”

  “Some such, aye.”

  Marya hesitated again, considering some sad thought, then spoke quietly, but in a rush, as if she wanted to get the words away and have her answer before somewhat stopped her.

  “Sion and I married five years ago. There’s no children and I was wondering, well, if there’s somewhat .... The herbman that travels through the village now and again said there’s naught, but he did suggest the Fey might have a cure or two, then made it into a joke, like.”

  Padraig’s heart went out to her. Although farm wives weren’t likely set aside for barren, their husbands and the townspeople were sometimes less than kind.

  “Sion wants children then?” he inquired.

  “We both do. We even danced round the Beltane tree again last year to see if somewhat would happen, but naught.”

  Padraig understood this to mean that they had normal sexual relations. He opened his Sight to have a look at her, pretending that he considered his words carefully. It took only a moment to see that she was in perfect health. All the colors of a healthy young woman were present.

  “I have some herbs that might help, but I have to ask some – some questions.”

  “Aye.”

  He queried about delicate matters like her monthly courses and whether her husband had ever had mumps. His healing Sight told him that Marya wasn’t the problem. He couldn’t Heal what wasn’t broken. He asked God for permission to Heal Sion, but he wasn’t sure of the response, did not feel anything that would tell him if God had granted the healing.

  “I’ve some herbs I’ll give you. Hold a bit.”

  He found what he was looking for in one of the pony’s panniers and he quickly spooned somewhat out into two bags, one for each type of herb. Padraig swallowed hard at what he was doing. The red raspberry leaves were common enough, but the palmetto was a swamp plant and not so easily come by. Ah, well, he wasn’t returning to the kingdom to make his fortune.

  “The red cloth is for you and the blue cloth is for Sion. Make a tea of it every morning until it’s all used up. I can’t promise it will work, mind you. These things are often vexing. But, it does work sometimes.”

  “Thank you,” Marya said, taking the bags and clasping them to her kirtle like a suspected treasure. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Naught. Pleased that I may help you.”

  He caught Joy’s halter and led the stock toward the gate. Marya followed, kicking back the dogs who had come to say goodbye as if Padraig were an old friend.

  “If we bear a child, we’ll name the boy after you.”

  “Only if it pleases Sion,” Padraig insisted.

  “If it works, your name will please him well. What name do you favor for a girl?”

  Padraig didn’t have to ponder the question.

  “Ryanna,” he replied. He swung up into the saddle, nodded once to Marya and rode off down the road. He’d not gone far before he realized that he felt totally at peace with the encounter. He glanced back over his shoulder to view the farmstead one last time, and found himself staring in awe.

  There had indeed been an elven city here in the long ago and its memory still lingered for them that are sensitive to such things. Though by no means a gifted seer, there was elven blood in his veins and he saw what there remained – the echo of the city.

  Built of pale lumina stone that caught the sunlight and made it shimmer, the city rose in delicate spires and graceful towers throughout the valley where Sion’s steading now rested. Broad avenues divided blocks of buildings, all in rectangles and squares, shaded by graceful trees. The stream flowing just east of Sion’s steading was bridged by a graceful span of stone and there was not a defense wall to be seen.

  Padraig blinked and the vision faded. He’d seen what had been there to be seen, almost as a beacon of light against the darkness. He’d come west with a mission and he must never forget that. Rescuing the basketlands was important not only for the society of men that now lived there but, for some unfathomable reason, for the Kin who had long ago fled those precincts.

  Founding Year (FY) 1028

  Blue Iris Holt – Spring Present

  The community of Kin Padraig had departed from sheltered in the high mountains to the northeast of Faren. At one time, this elfholt had been a dwarven mine, but the dwarves had given it to the elves when the mine played out and now a thriving community of Kin called the caves home.

  The beautiful half-elf Morynsionryanna sat beside a large stone basin, trailing an idle finger through the water to keep the visions active. In an ethereal window, Ryanna saw a tired-looking Padraig saddling the sorrel mare in a copse of trees somewhere in Dublyn. She didn’t know how she could know that for certain, but she did know, beyond just the guess that he would still be in Dublyn. He looked hale enough and she supposed that after living in the holt for so many years, sleeping upon the ground would take some getting used to, thus explaining the shadows around his eyes. She wished that she could reach out to him and touch his mind. He could reply to a touch, though he was not able to scry in his own right. Alas, she’d been forbidden by Gly and to disobey would mean to lose these sessions where she might view Padraig. This was better than no contact at all, so she restrained her more rebellious tendencies.

  Truly this must be love, she thought. I never acted this way with Gil. I’ve scried often enough for him, but not with longing.

  The thought of Gil shifted the images in the basin to a faraway city that Ryanna knew she’d never visited. Dark haired people with almond-shaped dark eyes walked immaculate streets of the finest tile before white-washed buildings of a style she did not recognize. Their clothes were of the finest Orental silk. What she did not understand was why thoughts of Gil always brought her to this faraway foreign city. For five years she’d felt naught that would convince her that her husband was still among the breathing, yet thoughts of him always brought her visions of the Orental city. Had he perished there? She’d never heard that mage work could hone in on the last knowings of a departed soul, so perhaps it came from some human part of her abilities. Certainly no elf had ever claimed it as possible and none of her tutors could help her decipher its meaning.

  As sometimes happened with her, her vision shifted, so that she now saw a Morikan caravan stopped in the desert, where a dark, turbaned trader haggled with a stout dwarf over some goods – nay, over human slaves. Not dwarfs then, but trolls. The dwarvish cousins were easily confused on first sight, but their ways had diverged in the millennia since their rift. From one of the little cottages on the back of a wagon, a woman completely covered in a veil watched the transaction. Ryanna supposed the desert-dwellers felt no compunction o
ver keeping slaves since they kept their mates in virtual slavery.

  Her irritation at that thought caused the visions to collapse completely. Ryanna paddled in the water for a moment more, hoping to return a vision of Padraig, but it was no good. Sighing, she sat up and looked around the Hall of the Wise. The large rock basin that she sat beside was filled by an artfully worked waterfall that fell in courses down the wall, yet somehow the surface was always reflective enough for scrying, tempting her to remain and continue her activities. The morning meal scented the air with warm yeast as acolytes, apprentices and the Wise descended from their chambers to the Hall. Her time of indulgence had passed. Time to embrace the day. In time, Gly would allow her more freedom, but only if she earned it. There’d be time enough for indulgences later.

  As a farewell to her self-indulgence, she trailed a finger through the water one last time, though without any power behind it. She expected to see nothing beyond the ordinary sparkles of lantern light thrown off moving water, but a window opened unexpectedly in the depths of the pool. She leaned forward, curious, expecting to see Padraig once more, but espying instead a dark room lit by a steady low light that shimmered off scales of green and gold. While she contemplated the possible nature of those scales, a large brow ridge hove into sight. The head turned, dipping into a pool of darkness and then rose so that Ryanna could see the enormous eye with a vertically slit pupil surrounded by multi-faceted golden iris. Ryanna realized with a jolt that the eye saw her and in that moment, she lost the vision.

  “Running a bit long on your scrying, yes?” a voice asked.

  Flustered, Ryanna looked up at her tutor in wisdom. Gly, like all full elves, was a tall slender man of undetermined years. His hair was a pale color, just a bit lighter than straw and his vertically slit eyes were violet. His ears were furled like sea-shells and rose in sharp peaks.

  “I think I just scried a dragon,” Ryanna gasped. Being a half-elf, Ryanna looked human. Her eyes were remarkable only in being beautiful and brilliant green and her ears were rounded.

  Gly raised an eyebrow, but after a moment, a smile transformed his slender face.