by S. A. Hunter
Leon’s brow rumpled as he pondered the greeting. Surely Teckcharin had used the Ttamarini word for kinswoman of high birth. His glance caught Shamic’s. The old soldier, he saw, had flushed hotly. Leon, himself, was not inclined to take offence. It was obvious the Ttamarini chief meant only to convey respect to the life sworn of his ally.
Oak Heart noticed the old Dream-Speaker was staring at Thera. Indeed, so now were all three Ttamarini.
These Ttamarini are all so intense in everything they do, Leon thought. He observed that his daughter did not quail under the regard of such powerful personalities. Though slightly flushed, she returned their measuring with a searching look of her own.
“My only child and Heir,” rumbled Leon in introduction, “Thera ep’Chadwyn Ned’ArNarone.”
To the Oak Heart’s surprise, Lord Teckcharin gently took both Thera’s hands in his own, and stood quiet a moment before folding her hands over his heart in a greeting similar to that he’d given Lady Fideiya. The words he murmured to her were lost to Leon, though he saw his daughter smile in return.
Thera’s voice rang sweetly clear, “My Lord Teckcharin, I know your heart. Goddess bless.”
The Dream-speaker turned in surprise to Leon. “Where did this enoiten child learn of our ways?”
Leon’s brow rumpled again as he ruffled through his memory of Ttamarini speech. Enoita, he believed, described both an igniting beauty of soul, as a lit candle will shine through fine porcelain, and one who acts in harmony with all things.
Leon did not immediately answer as he was frowningly observing the young Chamakin’s reaction to his daughter; the youth was obviously struck by her beauty. The Oak Heart felt alarm.
“My daughter, though well grown, is but a child yet,” he spoke ostensibly to the Dream-speaker, but intending Lord Teckcharin and his son to take heed, “and has seen only fourteen summers.”
“My Lord,” interposed Fideiya, “Thera will celebrate her woman’s rites in a quarter moon.” With an enigmatic glance over her shoulder at the Oak Heart, Fideiya led Lord Teckcharin and his Heir to meet the waiting dignitaries.
Leon gaped after his life sworn. “By the Sacred Hollow,” he murmured, “the girl is as tall as her mother.” He felt a presence, the Dream-speaker, Ishtarik, still stood beside him.
“When in the Goddess’s hand, Lord ArNarone,” she said, “a blossom may unfold out of season.” Her blind eyes rested on Leon with a certain pity.
Chapter Seven
The great hall was a sea of voices. Sound washed like waves—rising, falling, occasionally lapping around the sharp rock of a shouted laugh, or clank of goblets clashing in yet another toast.
Thera’s face warmed as she remembered Chief Teckcharin’s words and gestures from this morning on the steps. ‘Your beauty is great, as foretold,’ he had murmured, and placed her hands against his chest. Such intimate touching fanned the heat in Thera’s face again, although she read that this contact, this touching and gesturing with the hands, was as important to their way of speech as voice was to her folk.
Thera had smiled uncertainly and searched his eyes to see if he teased her, the way adults will patronize youth. No. She saw that this was a man to whom falsehood would be foreign.
She had not received many compliments from men. Her father, to be sure, called her ‘his pretty lass.’ Shamic had said she resembled the Lady Dysanna, who had been wise and beautiful.
Thera had read that Teckcharin saw strength of character and spirit in her, and this pleased him as much as her appearance.
The Ttamarini had bent closer, his long hair swinging with the movement. “You are but a young Maiya, yet,” Thera had not known that word, “Maiya,” he repeated in explanation, “in service of the Goddess. As is our Maiya, Ishtarik. Know this, young one, my warriors will strive to save this land.” He had pressed her hand between his warm, calloused palms. “It has been foreseen that no real victory over the darkness that comes will happen without compliance to the ways of the Goddess.”
Thera pondered his words. Chief Teckcharin’s command of our language is good, Thera thought, though he speaks it with a formal ceremoniousness. Past the Ttamarini chief’s shoulder stood a young man watching her with a strange, stern intensity. She felt her face and ears burn, and suddenly it was difficult to read the people around her. These strangers expected something of her, and she felt buffeted by the forces they exerted on her.
As if sensing her turmoil, the Maiya reached her hand to briefly touch Thera’s face. “Do not worry so, Chaunika,” she said with a smile, “for it has also been foretold, that all you will need to do is heed your heart.”
With the touch of the Maiya’s hand, Thera’s swirling thoughts settled. She suddenly felt rooted and acutely aware—of her skin on her bones, the beat of her heart, the moistness of her eyes, the impact of sound on ears, and heat of the fire on her skin. Never had she felt so intensely alive, except perhaps once—when she had lived briefly in hawk form. Before her eyes formed a vision, Ttamarini, root and sinew of the One Tree, Allenholme, leaf and branch. Both are loved by the Elanraigh and the Goddess.
Following an instinct born of that moment, Thera placed her hand on the Ttamarini’s chest and ritually replied, “My Lord Teckcharin, I know your heart. Goddess bless us all.”
* * * *
The feast grew raucous and loud, dinning in her ears. Even the Harbor Master who had been so pompous in his welcoming speech was now blowing froth off his beer into the laughing face of a burly stave smith. She glanced at her father, who was engrossed in his conversation with Lord Teckcharin, Captain Dougall, and Sirra Maxin. Their animated discussion involved much drawing of lines on the table planks with wine-dipped fingers.
Thera could not help but be aware that each time she turned her head to her right, in her father’s direction, the young Ttamarini, Chamakin, would fix his attention on her.
For a while, the Ttamarini Maiya, Ishtarik, had been seated on Thera’s left, and Thera found herself able to direct some shy courtesies there. The elder woman radiated warmth that Thera felt very attracted to. It felt natural to tell the dream-speaker about the family of kirshrews she had rescued who now made a comfortable nest in her bedchamber cedar chest, and of her care of the negligent Mouseripper’s kittens. She had even confided how much she loved sea hawks, though that mystic joining she did not feel ready to share. The old woman had listened to all. In fact, Thera felt herself being held in the bright light of the Maiya’s inward vision.
Thera had, at first, found the Maiya’s blind eyes disconcerting, but the face with its strong, weathered features was vital and animate. The Maiya’s energies pulsed warmly about her and Thera leaned with pleasure into their nimbus.
Dream-speaker Ishtarik ate sparingly, soon rising to leave. Placing a dry kiss on Thera’s brow, she whispered into her ear. “When you fly as an eagle, child, then will you be fully fledged.”
The Maiya left with her escort to return to the Ttamarini encampment. Thera, bemused, lapsed back into her awkward silence.
So much poetic speech and imagery, mused Thera, yet I wonder if she knows how close to the actual truth she came with that particular image. Thera hugged the memory of her hawk flight to her.
I can’t eat. This surprised her, for usually her appetite was hearty. Thera eyed the trencher before her—tender roast fowl with crisp golden skin and cooked grains with mealy nuts. Her mouth watered, but her stomach clenched. Tentatively she took a bite of crusty warm bread, chewed determinedly and swallowed with what she was sure must be an audible sound.
Finally, Thera glanced sideways at Chamakin. He ate slowly, chewing with deliberation. His face was flushed with bright color along the high cheekbones. Her eyes slid along the table to where her companion’s arm rested. His arm was long, and smooth muscled, the hand broad with tapered fingers, calloused much like any warrior’s. His bo
dy, clothed in artfully decorated leather garments, was lean and his chest showing through the lacings of his shirt was hairless with the skin shining smooth over the ridges of his muscles.
Most Allenholme men were built tall like her father, with heavy muscles and broad-shoulders. Oak Heart’s arms and chest were covered in fine red-gold hair. Chamakin had no beard to detract from the firm clean lines of his mouth and jaw.
Suddenly the hand she had been observing clenched upon itself tightly, and then slowly released as if by a needed act of will. Chamakin cleared his throat.
“The weapons displayed on the far wall,” he said and gestured toward them. “They are the preferred weapons of your people?”
Thera glanced at his face. Is he speaking to me, she wondered? His voice was deep, without the hoarseness that edged her father’s voice.
At least his face had at last relaxed somewhat from its usual expression of sternness. Thera very carefully placed her two-pronged fork beside her trencher.
“Um. The two very long swords were my great-grandfather Leif’s weapons. It takes a strong man using both hands to wield them. The cross-bows—I don’t know who they belonged to. My father prefers the long bow. He says a powerful bowman can discharge six arrows to the cross-bow’s one. However, it takes strong men to keep up that kind of fire. Sirra Maxim has charge of our archers and they train and practice constantly.
“As for swords, my father uses a shorter sword than Great Grandfather’s, one that he can wield one-handed and use a shield with.”
“The Ttamarini also,” affirmed Chamakin with a slow nod, “our sword is shorter again, and curved. They are called Kyphim and each warrior’s is forged for them at a time agreed upon as auspicious by the Maiya and the adult warrior who sponsors him or her on their Oathday.” Chamakin’s hands gestured in a relaxed manner now and a smile warmed his eyes.
Finally Thera could observe Chamak as she wished. She was fascinated by his elongate grey eyes, thickly fringed with dark lashes. He is very handsome, if exotic in appearance, and so different to any Allenholme youth.
She realized she had become distracted from what he had been saying to her about the Ttamarini swords…Kyphim?
“…their making is an art known only to the clan’s Kyphimitat, the forgers of steel. The making of each warrior’s Kyphim is part of a rite that will bring life to the blade with the strength and protection of that warrior’s spirit guardians.”
Thera nodded, “Our custom is similar,” she said, “A soldier will proudly inherit a sword handed down from generation to generation. We believe that such a sword will acquire characteristics of its own, almost as if they absorb some of the spirit of each person wielding them.”
Thera lowered her voice and Chamakin leaned closer. “When I was young, I once came alone to this Great Hall and tried to lift my Great-Grandfather’s sword from the wall.” Thera gestured to the broadsword.
“As soon as I put my hand to its hilt, I felt that I should not. Then, then I saw a vision. Before me stood an elder warrior, with a grey-brindled beard and the emerald broach my father now wears was on his cloak. He too wore a red cloak over mail and surcoat, and his voice when he spoke, was similar to my father’s. The vision spoke to me. He said that so unwieldy a weapon was not for me, and that when the time came, ‘I would be my own weapon.’”
Thera’s voice was subdued. “And then he raised his hand as if in blessing and was gone.
“I do not lie,” she said, rearing back, for Chamakin’s expression was again grave.
“That I do know, Chaunika. It is just, the young of my people often have such visions when their bodies and spirits prepare to make the passage into manhood or womanhood. My people revere these visions, and they are always of importance to the life path of that person.”
Thera gazed at Chamak a long moment. How is it that we understand each other so well?Aware she must be conspicuously staring, Thera broke the silence. “You speak our language so well. How is that?”
Chamakin toyed with his knife a moment. “My father has always spoken your tongue, and he taught me. Our Maiya also speaks the language of the coast, and some few of our warriors.”
“How ashamed I am that we are so remiss, although my father does speak some Ttamarini. I’ll try to make up for my ignorance by learning quickly.”
She read instantly that she pleased him with her willingness to learn the Ttamarini language.
Flustered, Thera blurted, “How long ago was your Oath Day?”
A slight austerity smoothed Chamakin’s face. “I have been a warrior of the clan since last summer.”
He is eighteen years, then, Thera realized.
“I am fourteen,” said Thera, squaring her shoulders. Her eyes met Chamakin’s squarely. “I shall celebrate my woman’s day very soon.”
Chamakin laughed, and his gaze warmed her. “Chaunika, you are already formidable.”
Thera knew many things in that moment, that she was deeply admired and that he had an almost overpowering desire to touch her, but he leashed the wanting. She fled from this reading. The emotions it stirred in her were as chaotic as they were compelling. Some of the sensations she felt were reminiscent of her experience as a hunting hawk, tautness and anticipation, fluttering just under her skin.
Thera craved quiet and time to think upon all that had happened today. Held in place, she gazed at Chamak. “I leave to go to Elankeep soon. My mother wishes it.”
The smooth calm of his features is deceptive, Thera thought, for his eyes burn and flicker with his emotions.
“Please excuse me,” she murmured, rising suddenly. A young page in her father’s service rushed forward to move her chair back for her. As Chamakin also stood in courtesy, a page rushed forward to his service also.
Thera curtsied quickly. “I have much to do to prepare for my journey tomorrow,” and she fled the Great Hall, the heat of Chamakin’s gaze scorching her back.
Chapter Eight
Slamming the door to her chamber behind her, Thera paused, then ran to her window. The soothing night air, full of the scent and feel of the Elanraigh, fingered her brow.
Coyotes raised their voices to the moon rising pale over the serrated edge of the dark foothills. Closer at hand she heard a laughing exchange between two soldiers on guard duty, their voices echoed off the courtyard walls before their booted steps dwindled into the dark.
She turned and her gaze travelled over her chamber. The grey stone walls were enlivened with brightly woven tapestries. Some had been bequeathed to her by her grandmother, others, portraying the trees and animals of the Elanraigh that Thera so loved, had been worked by Fideiya. There were the carved wooden horses from Shamic and the jewel-colored bed throws knitted by Nan. Bright copper bowls were full of the spring flowers that she had gathered herself. She loved the way they would shine like gleaming pools of color in the sunlight.
Thera realized it might be long before she slept here again.
Her travel trunk was closed and belted, ready to be carried away in the morning.
The clutch of kirshrews lay mewling on a knitted blanket at the foot of her bed. Their white fur gleamed iridescent in the moonlight. Thera sat with them a while, her fingers absently stroking their silky pelts. Their small trilling sounds soothed her. The kirshrews’ pink tongues lapped at her fingers and tiny-fingered paws kneaded in gentle contentment at her palm.
“I’ve neglected you,” she murmured, “I must find you a new home now, because Nan and I leave early tomorrow.” She looked around, then reached for a woven basket from her dresser. Thera dumped the contents, various hair ribbons and ornaments, onto her bed and gently placed each kirshrew inside the basket.
She glanced out her chamber door. No one was visible in the hallway, but Thera remembered there was a guard at the top of the main stairway. Moving swiftly, but quietly, she turn
ed off the corridor and down the servants’ stairway.
Thera was certain it would be hours yet before Nan sought her cot in her room. She had seen Nan and Innic seated together, their hands clasped. Nan’s fair skin had been rosy with happiness. Thera smiled to recall how Innic’s moustaches fairly bristled with pride. With all her heart Thera wished them well, and sincerely hoped they may make a night of it. It seemed likely they would at least stay to hear the balladeer, and he would sing as long as there were those who wished to listen.
When finally she reached the ground floor, she cautiously opened the outside door. The cookhouse was still brightly lit. Dark figures flit between it and the Great Hall. No one looked her way.
Crooning under her breath to the kirshrews, Thera darted along the walls where shadows hung. She decided to relocate the kirshrews near the top of the bluff that overlooked Lorn a’Lea Beach, to the south of the keep. The problem would be getting past the sentry who would certainly be patrolling the southwest gate.
The granite wall gleamed in the bright moonlight as Thera warily made her way toward the gate opening. Holding herself still and listening past her heartbeat, she heard the rhythmic scrunch of gravel as the sentry paced. A moment’s distraction would be all she needed to pass through the gate and into the shadows cast by the tall sitka trees.
“A small distraction,” she sent her plea to the Elanraigh. She searched, not really knowing whether the Elanraigh would hinder or help in this case. The Elanraigh seemed, usually, to pursue only its own obscure purposes. Thera had noticed, however, that where she was concerned, it did frequently act just like another parent. The Elanraigh might not approve of her night excursion either.
“For the little kirshrews’ sake,” she sent. “They need a home.”
