Elanraigh

by S. A. Hunter

  She smiled, however, looking back at her reflection over one shoulder. Oak Heart had obviously made effort to please her particular taste, conventions aside, for this was not the standard riding dress of a noble lady. It was styled Ttamarini fashion, a soft cream colored kid-leather shirt with hood, and leather pantaloons. Over this she wore a long tunic of rowanberry colored wool. The tunic was trimmed in black jet, and slit high on the sides for ease in riding. On the tunic breast, worked in black and amber, was the face of a wolf. On the tunic back was an eagle in flight. Thera lightly, thoughtfully, traced her fingers over the wolf pattern.

  She looked up as Rubra exclaimed over the riding boots, “Oh, my lady, here. Just feel the softness of them!”

  They were finely worked boots, also cream colored leather. Rubra helped her pull them on. They fit her feet perfectly and rose to just below the knee. She cinched her waist with a wide black leather belt. It was a Lady’s belt, not a weapons harness, but there was a ring to hold a dagger sheath.

  Rubra quietly let herself out, as Thera continued to preen in front of the copper mirror.

  Startled and embarrassed, Thera suddenly became aware of her mother standing in the doorway.

  “May I enter, daughter?” Fideiya asked.

  Thera was surprised at her mother’s formality. Then she flushed as she realized her mother was treating her as an adult, to whom that courteous inquiry would be due.

  “P-please. Blessings.” Thera stammered.

  Fideiya carried something wrapped in fine cloth.

  “It is your Woman’s Blade, my dear one,” Fideiya said, presenting Thera with an emerald-jeweled dagger. “For your coming of age birthday. Did you think I would forget?”

  Thera reverently reached her hands toward this emblem of both her new womanhood and her noble birth. The Sha’lace. Her hand clenched above the flashing hilt.

  “It is not actually my birthday until the sun twice more blesses the Elanraigh.”

  Normally, Thera and her mother would make a pilgrimage to Elankeep at this time. This was a journey of only two days, when the Elanraigh roads were open, now they faced at least five days travel. There they would properly celebrate Thera’s coming into womanhood. She would have been presented to the Salvai and the Salvai would ceremoniously Name her to the Elanraigh.

  Thera had thought her womanhood day would be forgotten in the furor of recent events, and her eyes welled in surprise and gratitude.

  Fideiya hugged Thera, “You have proved yourself a woman, these last days. Both your father and I agree in this.” Fideiya tilted her daughter’s chin, “Be only safe, my dear, and your father’s burden will be eased.”

  * * * *

  Thera went down to the courtyard to join her small caravan. The rain seemed more a heavy mist now, and fog huddled in the folds and hollows of the landscape.

  Her entourage would be small; a pony for Nan, a pack mule, the two soldier’s mounts, and Thera’s own mare, Mulberry. Swordsman Innic was head to head with the House Steward and Sirra Maxin, no doubt discussing the requirements for their journey. Young Swordsman Jon was checking Mulberry’s hooves.

  She glanced about the crowded courtyard for her father and then heard his rough edged voice calling to Captain Dougall. He looks tired, Thera observed. I’m sure he has not slept this night either.

  At that moment a horse and rider clattered onto the granite-paved apron by the South Gate entrance. The rider called his name to the guardsmen at the gate, with no abating of his headlong pace. The horse was darkened with sweat. The horseman, Arnott, slid to the ground before his mount had stopped. Harle ran forward to catch the reins, his startled admonition about manners and protocol unheeded, as the young rider ran to where Oak Heart stood alert.

  He quickly saluted and gasped out, “My Lord! It’s a me...message from Cythia. It came by ca..carrier bird to the lookout posted at Spitting Rock Point.” Arnott shoved his sweat- dampened hair from his eyes, his gaze fixed on his Duke.

  “Thank you, Arnott,” replied Oak Heart calmly as he took the missive and examined the direction written on the sealed note. Frowning over the florid script, he glanced up at the variously eager or anxious company gathered around him. His brow arched, “Messages from Cythia are rare, I grant.” he drawled.

  The Heart’s Own traded chagrined smiles.

  Young Arnott blurted, “But my Lord, it may be about the Memteth!”

  Chief Leon smiled, “It may be, or it may be a notice from Duke Lammert Perrod that they urgently require bluefish roe for Virdenmas Festival.”

  Seeing Arnott’s crestfallen countenance, Oak Heart clapped the young rider on the shoulder. “The vagaries of the Cythian royal house aside, you did well Arnott, for the direction is to bring this to my attention immediately. Now go warm yourself in the barrack hall.” Chief Leon nodded to the house steward, “Steward Valan will see you well fed.”

  “Thank you, m-my Lord. If you please, I will see D-Drummer cared for first.”

  Horsemaster Harle beckoned a stable boy to take Arnott’s mount in hand. “Do your Lord’s bidding, Arnott,” his voice was gruff as his gaze skewered the stable hand. “We’ve idle men enough standing about who can care for the beast.” Harle pointedly handed over the reins to the flushing stable boy, then strode over to the group surrounding Chief Leon.

  “Arnott’s a good lad, my Lord,” said Harle surveying Oak Heart’s expression.

  “I do agree,” affirmed Oak Heart, unaware he was frowning at the missive in his hand.

  Arnott was led away by the amiably chatting Steward Valan. The Heart’s Own, with Thera close by, waited expectantly as Chief Leon finally broke the seal and read the missive.

  “Is it dire news, my Lord?” asked Lydia finally.

  Oak Heart handed the message to Lydia and Dougall to read. For the benefit of the others he summarized its contents, “A troop of Cythian guards found the remains of the South Bole caravan two days ago, by the bank of the Spinfisher River. It is, unquestionably, the work of Memteth raiders.” The Heart’s Own shifted and murmured. Captain Dougall muttered a curse.

  “Our Ducal neighbor also, ‘regrets that he cannot send troops to aide us, as the Elanraigh forest roads are storm torn and impassable and the Coast Trail is impossible for troop movement. His ships will be needed to protect Cythia and his own royal person.’”

  Oak Heart cocked an eyebrow as he regarded his captains. “He bids us be wary, as some of his informants have told him that the Ttamarini also seem to be on the move.” Oak Heart’s own wry expression was reflected in more than one face as they envisioned the effete Cythian Duke fearing Memteth raiders on his western doorstep and Ttamarini riders possibly moving south. The Cythian Duke reportedly feared the ‘strange magic’s’ of the Ttamarini almost more than the legendary ferocity of the Memteth.

  “Ha!” exploded Shamic. “It be a wonder he does not demand that we send our troops down the coast trail to assist in the defense of his precious self.”

  “No doubt he would, except he undoubtedly thinks that Allenholme is all that stands between him and the approaching Ttamarini hordes.”

  The assembled warriors laughed heartily, but Shamic shook his head, his voice and expression sour. “Huh. I’m thinking we’ve acquired better allies than Cythia could provide.”

  “Yes. Blessings to the Elanraigh on that account. But…,” Chief Leon scrubbed at the back of his neck, “it seems I must send a message to Cythia’s Duke and inform him of our new relationship with the Ttamarini. I can only imagine the consternation …”

  Thera moved forward to take her leave of her father. The Heart’s Own parted to let her through, as many hands patted her shoulders with rough congeniality.

  Thera was very conscious of the Sha’Lace, hanging in its scabbard at her side, and the flattering berry colored tunic that emphasized her woman’s s
hape. She was elated, yet anxious to look accustomed to her woman’s honors.

  Captain Lydia was flushed with empathic pride. She had tutored Thera in the rudimentary use of dagger for defense. Though arms play had never proven to be a gift of Thera’s, she had struggled to learn adequate skill to please Lydia. A broad grin flashed white in Lydia’s suntanned features.

  Captain Dougall’s eyes sparkled.

  Shamic frowned.

  Her father’s bright blue gaze travelled the length of her, not missing the treasured Sha’Lace. He advanced to take her hands in his, then raised each and kissed it in turn. “Truly, truly,” he spoke the father’s ritual words to all, “I am a proud man today, who is the father of a woman both lovely and learned.”

  They turned, her father’s arm hugging her to his side as he walked her toward the waiting horses, and the Heart’s Own crowded around them.

  Harle massaged his chin thoughtfully. “How will they travel, Sir, if the Elanraigh be closing all roads.”

  “Well, Thera? Shall we tell Harle what the Elanraigh told you?” asked Oak Heart.

  “The Elanraigh will provide passage for this small party, Horsemaster. We will travel the fringes of the forest, near the coast, yet close to the safety of the Elanraigh.”

  Harle’s brows shot upward. “Oh. Aye.” He nodded and cleared his throat.

  Soon all were murmuring advice and admonitions, “…careful of the log bridge over Thunder Gorge…dangerous if wet…wary of fog…” and so on. But as they all spoke, Thera read the love and concern for her in their words. As she said her farewells, her father patted her shoulder and moved away to join Innic and Maxin where they conferred about the pending journey.

  Thera still believed she should stay, but she was aware of, if still annoyed by, their vulnerability where she was concerned. She had to stiffen her resolve to be strong at this parting, as the general outpouring of their love nearly overwhelmed her.

  Lady Fideiya came out with Nan. Her smile trembled at the corners as she embraced Thera again.

  Her eyes swept over her daughter. “How exotic you look, my dear one.” Her fingers smoothed the softness of the leather hood. “No one does leathers or bead work like the Ttamarini. He would have given them to you as a betrothal gift, you know. But your father forbade it—told him you were too young to be life sworn yet.” Fideiya observed Thera’s shocked expression. She tweaked Thera’s chin. “You must have seen how the Ttamarini admired you, my own. I have told your father that he must be prepared to receive many such offers for you. Someday you will be presented at the Cythian court and…”

  “Mother, I beg you,” Thera’s hands twisted upon themselves, “tell me, Chamakin spoke to father, and it was he who gave me these leathers?”

  “Why, yes. As I have just said. However, your father told him you were too young, and made him promise not to approach you until such time as he has given consent for you to be courted.

  “The youth, I must say, made no promises, but he considered your father’s words very gravely. Then he offered the leathers to your father once again and asked that they be given to you only as a gift from one chieftain’s Heir to another’s. ‘The patterns are traditional,’ he said, ‘the spirit animals represented are protective.’ He also told your father that the beaded tunic once belonged to a lady of his family, known for her…what was the word,” Fideiya’s brow creased, “ah, yes…Enoita.”

  Fideiya placed an arm around her daughter’s waist and steered her toward the waiting caravan.

  Thera felt dazed, her ears were hot and roaring. She became aware her mother was still speaking.

  “…so different from us, my dear. Admirable, noble, but have many strange ways about them, and you must remember that we were at war with them in grandfather Leif’s time. Some of their ways are not compatible with ours.”

  Fideiya hugged Thera to her side and pressed a kiss to her temple. “It worries me that you have seen so little of the world as yet.”

  She slanted a glance at her daughter’s face. “My own, if he truly cares for you, he will wait as your father asks.”

  Almost before she knew it, Shamic threw her to her saddle, with a pat on the knee and a gruff admonition, “Keep well, lass, you be the heart of many of us you know.” He then cast an angry look around him, finally focusing on Swordsman Innic. “Do you be waiting for the tide to turn before you lead them out? You navigate by the stars then, is it?”

  Swordsman Innic knew well enough what spurred the old Armsmaster’s temper. The old man’s doting love of the Lady Thera was legendary in the keep. He saluted the retired Master at Arms, and then patted Nan’s hand reassuringly, for she had startled at Shamic’s angry voice. Innic swung himself into the saddle.

  They rode out, with the keep’s folk calling farewells after them. Swordsman Innic in the lead, followed by Thera, Nan, and at the last, Jon leading the stolid mule.

  In the quiet first hour of their travel, Thera’s thoughts returned to Chamakin, and what he’d said last night, ‘…had things happened the way they should have in our grandparents’ time …’

  She sent a query to the Elanraigh, “What is it Chamakin knows of our history and was told not to tell me?”

  As moments passed, Thera worried she would receive no answer. “No more secrets,” she pleaded.

  It was Teacher who finally responded, “What were you taught of those times, Thera? How do you think the Great Peace was finally established between the people of Allenholme and Ttamarini?”

  “Blessings be. The Great Peace between Allenholme and Ttamarini was established when my great-grandfather, Leif ArNarone, was Duke, and my grandfather, Branch, was Heir. Peace was negotiated because it was agreed to be fruitless to continue to raid and pillage each other and the merchant caravans.” What she said was almost rote repetition. Thera had also had more prosaic teachers than the Elanraigh.

  No…!” After a moment, Teacher continued, “It was Salvai Dysanna and Chamakin’s grandfather, Lord Chemotin, who ended the fifteen year war. Their union, their love, was to have healed the land and brought peace.

  “Allenholme’s ruling house suppressed widespread knowledge of their union. To the folk, they announced Dysanna was dead. Her line of lineage was broken and her name was struck from the Royal House records.

  “Lady Dysanna was exiled to Ttamarini lands. The Elanraigh mourned the stubbornness of Allenholme’s Duke and Council, who publicly celebrated the treaty, and took credit for the Great Peace. Lord Chemotin was killed five years after, when his hunting party came upon a Memteth raider ship at the mouth of the Fleetride River. Lady Dysanna saw him buried with honors, gave her infant son into the care of the Maiya, and then walked into the Elanraigh, never to be seen again.”

  * * * *

  It was mid-morning halt before Thera roused from her reflections. Chamakin, she knew, would wait for her.

  Chapter Twelve

  The driftwood fire crackled, redolent of seaweed and salt. Thera leaned back comfortably. Long, rolling waves washed ashore—the expended fury of a storm far out to sea.

  The sun had set as they finished their meal and now crimson cirrus clouds swept across the darkening sky, reflecting their hue in the ocean. A cozy air of contentment wrapped the small group from Allenholme.

  The first day of travel, the Coast Trail took them through the forest edge, always within sound of the crashing surf. Though it rained all day, they were sheltered under the rainforest canopy. The second day, the trail descended steeply through banks of blooming yellow gorsgrass to the ocean shelf where the sea wind refreshed them and they tread crackling seaweed underfoot.

  When taking halts, Thera insisted on helping Jon with the animals. He was frustratingly diffident and full of platitudes as to what noble ladies did and did not do. His patronizing ways grated at her nerves and she couldn’t help comparing his
insufferable attitude to Chamak’s easy acceptance of her abilities.

  Sighing, and minding Lady Fideiya’s constant admonition to be always gracious with the folk, she continued to help with steadfast, cheerful insistence. As Thera displayed a great degree of competency in handling even the fractious mule, Jon finally fell silent. How different, though, Thera thought, than when working side by side with Captain Lydia or Sirra Shamic. Jon acts as if he is indulging a precocious child.

  Thera humphed as she slid Mulberry’s saddle off the mare’s sweating back and laid it over a log. Huh. Well, she may be constrained by her mother’s training, but she could imagine the results if a young cub of a swordsman ever dared to condescend to Captain Lydia or Swordswoman Nerla.

  Ha! Thera chortled to herself.

  She swiped at her horse’s sweaty hide with a coarse cloth. Mulberry grunted and rolled her eyes at Thera. She laughed again and patted the glossy shoulder.

  Nan and Innic had set up the cook-pots and Jon the canvas shelters. Thera was thoroughly enjoying her second bowl of the savory stew Nan had put together. Steward Valan had seen that they had a plentiful supply of dried meat and tubers. Nan, it seems, had thought to pack her own cache of dried herbs.

  Innic settled back against a log with a contented sigh. His heavy brow over deep-set eyes was relaxed in an amiable expression of pleasure. Thera watched as Innic reached into his pocket and withdrew a pipe, and then reached into a finely tooled leather pouch dangling from his belt. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic. Tamping down the aromatic leaves into the pipe, he lit them with a taper from the fire and drew in deep breaths that sucked at his cheeks. The sweet smoke drifted past Thera and she sniffed experimentally, her nose wrinkling.

  Innic’s eye brightened as he watched Nan bending over the fire. “Ahh. Come here my little pigeon and sit by me.” He patted the ground beside him.

  Thera smiled, delighted. Little pigeon! Yet it suits Nan so well.