After about an hour, Jerome stepped forward and deftly ended the party. Everyone stood, as well as they could manage, for the Verdeau anthem, and then the entire head table was ushered out of the room, followed by the musicians.
“No more wine, no more music. They’ll all clear out soon enough,” Jerome assured his wife. He turned to his assembled guests. “Good night, everyone. Those of you who are here for business as well as pleasure, we meet at nine bells in the Council Chamber.”
Most people headed for the stairs, but Tristan held the two Elves back. “The musicians will play a little more for us in the salon. Would you like to come?”
Of course they would. Tristan disappeared for a moment and returned with Rosalie in tow, a short, dark-haired young woman with huge brown eyes. Dominic stayed as well: “Mother made me come as a chaperone, to make sure Tristan doesn’t disgrace himself!”
GABRIELLE HAD PLACED herself behind Danaïs, Féolan noticed. She was watching her patient walk. He dropped back himself and tried to observe Danaïs with a healer’s eyes. There was a stiffness to his gait but no obvious limp, which seemed pretty good for such a recent injury and after a long day. Féolan glanced at Gabrielle, who nodded—it was pretty good.
Gabrielle gave the musicians a warm welcome; Tristan, for his part, wasted no time in pouring them a round of wine. Then he threw himself on a settee and pulled Rosalie down beside him. When the others were settled, the musicians began an instrumental piece that was unlike anything Féolan had yet heard at the taverns and inns where he had stayed. It began quietly, just the whistle and mandola delicately intertwined. Gradually the other instruments joined in, trading melody and countermelody in a complex weaving until finally all five came together in a single, stirring voice. Féolan realized that he had far underestimated the troupe’s skill.
Gabrielle, he could tell, found a sweet, simple happiness in the music. Her shining eyes were glued to the troupe as they played on, an old ballad about a sea battle, then a pretty country love song. Then the leader motioned to Tristan. “Lord Tristan, come up and sing with your sister. Does your famous duet have anything new for us?”
Tristan stepped forward, motioning to Gabrielle. “Nothing new, this time. We’ve been unaccountably busy, I’m afraid. But we’ll gladly subject you to the same old thing, won’t we Gabi?”
Gabrielle hesitated, but when Dominic pleaded, “Come on, Gabrielle, I haven’t heard you sing in so long,” she gave a quick nod and stood up. Glancing at Féolan, she colored a little, and he realized with chagrin that she would feel freer without him there.
It didn’t matter. Once she began, all embarrassment seemed to drop away. She and Tristan sang “Tables Turned,” a rollicking off-color song about a husband who has been untrue during his long travels. Trading verses full of lame excuses and double entendres, Gabrielle and Tristan sang it with exaggerated broad humor. Rosalie, who had never heard it before, collapsed in laughter at Gabrielle’s “last word”:
I’ve ridden up, I’ve ridden down
Deep vale and highest hill
I’ve ridden farther even than thee
So travel where you will.
WITH A SWEEPING BOW, Tristan returned to his seat, but the harpist said, “Stay, Lady Gabrielle, and sing something pretty. Sing that shipwreck song.”
Féolan expected some brave account of a lost crew. What he heard, instead, was a woman’s lament for her love, drowned at sea and washed up on a foreign shore among strangers. The melody was simple and lovely, the lyrics poignant with understated grief:
Pity the hearts
The wild waves part ...
For my love is far, far away.
But it was Gabrielle’s voice that made the hairs on his neck stand on end: lower than an Elvish voice, it had nearly the same liquid clarity, with a rich emotional resonance he had not heard among his own people. Never melodramatic, Gabrielle’s singing nonetheless evoked fear and loneliness, love and courage. Féolan thought he could listen to her forever.
As Gabrielle stepped down, someone asked the Elves for a song. They stopped at one, knowing that most people have a limited appetite for lyrics in a foreign tongue. Not much later, Dominic rose. “I’m charged with keeping Tristan and myself clearheaded for tomorrow’s meetings,” he said. “I think we’d better call it a night.”
Working their way up the stairs—Danaïs’ leg was complaining now, and they fell behind the others—the two Elves marveled once again at Gabrielle’s mysterious talents. “We have misjudged them, the Humans, based only on the few we have met,” suggested Féolan. “I did not think to find a healer’s hands among them, nor for that matter such fine musicianship. I did not expect them to vary so, one from another.”
“Aye, perhaps,” said Danaïs. “But you could meet the whole city, I warrant, and that maid would still stand out like the brightest star in the sky.”
Féolan nodded his agreement, but he did not go on to confess the fear that kept him awake until dawn: that against all wisdom, he had fallen in love with a Human.
CHAPTER 7
“HOW soon will I be ready to travel?”
Gabrielle had just finished checking Danaïs’ leg. She had expected the question, of course; Danaïs spoke often of his family, and it was clear that he was eager to get back to them. But she hadn’t expected the question to give her a painful knot in her throat. It was hard to think of saying good-bye.
She swallowed, found her voice and hoped it would come out steady. “Very soon, I’d say, especially if you’re willing to take it slow at first. But you should ride your horse a few times before you go, maybe a couple of short rides around the grounds today, building up to a good long ramble. It’s a whole different use of your leg muscles.”
And so it was that, two days later, they headed on horseback into the hills for a picnic lunch. Tristan had managed to join Gabrielle and the Elves, and, though it was not said aloud, everyone knew it was their farewell ride.
Gabrielle was grateful for Tristan’s presence; his buoyant spirits kept her own sadness at bay. He mimicked the Elves’ reinless riding and nearly fell off his horse when it suddenly began to trot. He taught Féolan and Danaïs a popular drinking song, and they climbed up the trail serenading the wildlife in four-part harmony. They spread out a blanket on a sunny, open hillside and while Danaïs eased out the cricks in his leg, Gabrielle set out the meal: cold chicken, fresh bread, tiny new cucumbers and carrots, the summer’s first raspberries and oatmeal cake.
“Nothing to drink?” demanded Tristan.
“Sorry, I forgot.” Gabrielle tried hard to look penitent. She watched Tristan’s face fall before she added, “Of course you could check the saddlebags ... “ He returned from Cloud triumphant, a bottle of ale in one hand and apple cider in the other.
The food and drink slowly disappeared, and the noon sun beat down on their heads. In the drowsy heat, the buzzing of the first cicadas rose in its loud drone and fell away. First Tristan, then Danaïs, lay back, tipped their hats over their faces and slept.
Gabrielle had had good reason to suggest this particular hillside. She motioned to Féolan. “Over there, where the woods begin, I found mandragora last year. I’m going to check if it’s still growing there.”
“I’ll help you,” said Féolan quickly, scrambling to his feet. “Mandragora ... is that the plant with the big shiny leaf and the root that looks like a little man?”
“That’s the one.”
“Mandrakas. I’ve heard it’s a poison.”
“It is. It’s very dangerous to use. I hate it. But it’s the only thing I know that will make a person sleep insensibly. If there’s a war ...” Féolan saw what she was picturing: amputations, burns, disembowelments. There was no need to say more.
“Should we tell someone we’re going?” he said, as much to change the subject as anything else.
“Tris will figure it out,” she said with a smile. “I have a habit of doing this.”
After some casting around, Ga
brielle found the mandragora patch just a short distance into the wood. They loosened the plants with the little digging tools she had brought, careful not to break, bruise or even rub against any part, and laid them on the double thickness of muslin Gabrielle had spread on the ground. When they were finished, she would wrap the plants securely before packing them into her bag.
“Danaïs is almost recovered,” said Gabrielle. “You’ll be leaving soon.” A painfully obvious statement, addressed to the uprooted mandragora plants laid out beside her. She didn’t know why she had even said it. Her face hot with embarrassment and suppressed sadness, she kept her eyes glued to her work.
“Yes,” Féolan replied. He loosened the last threads holding his plant. Tugged it free. Leaned over and laid it on the muslin, his shoulder nearly touching hers. Took a breath. “I’ve been meaning to ask you ... “ He paused again. “Gabrielle, I was wondering ... Would you consider coming back with us for a time? I know our healers would want to learn about your abilities and would be glad to share their knowledge with you. And I could bring you home well before winter.”
This was unexpected. “Oh, I’ve never met another ... It’s a tempting thought,” she confessed. And it was. After so many years of feeling her way alone, to meet someone who understood this type of healing, who could teach her ... She felt a stir of excitement, the call of her work. It was a wonderful opportunity. And yet she had hoped for something different, hadn’t she? Something more personal. She hid her disappointment.
“I will think on it, Féolan. Thank-you for inviting me.”
“Gabrielle.”
She felt Féolan’s intensity, glanced up and met his eyes. Luminous gray, like rain, like an ocean shot with sunshine. He held her gaze.
“I have my own reasons for asking you to return with me. My heart is strongly drawn to you. If it is not a fool’s hope that you share my feelings, I would love the chance to know you better.”
His fingers curled around her hand and lifted it. His lips brushed her knuckles.
She did not know that her whole body leaned toward that kiss. She only knew that she was suddenly in his arms, that to be held by him was like water in the desert. His hands were in her hair, his breath against her cheek. Then he kissed her, and she learned that the poets were right, after all.
It was a long time before he drew back. “I don’t know much about the love customs of Humans,” Féolan admitted, “but my diplomat’s training is warning me to slow down.”
Gabrielle nestled into the curve of his arm as they sat together. She was too full of her own happiness to notice the troubled undertone in Féolan’s mood. He rested his cheek against her hair, tightened his arms around her and sighed.
“Of all the dangers I thought to face in my travels among the Humans, falling in love was not one of them,” he confessed. It seemed a joke, but his voice was serious.
“Why danger?” Gabrielle asked. “Is it forbidden among your people?” Was there some anatomic difference that would cause difficulty? she wondered uneasily. Apart from the ears, she hadn’t noticed anything remarkable about Danaïs.
“No, not forbidden. Discouraged, rather. There are old stories and songs about love between Humans and Elves, of course. Mostly cautionary tales.”
“But why?” she asked again, turning her head to peer into his face.
“Well,” he said. He didn’t like to talk about it, that much was clear. “Because, you know, of the difference in life spans.”
“I don’t know, Féolan,” she flared. “I don’t know anything about your people. Tell me.”
He swallowed. “I’m sorry, Gabrielle. I thought you would know. I guess I forgot how long it’s been that Elves have kept apart from men.”
He spoke gently now. “You see, we live a lot longer than you do. So an Elf who falls in love with a Human is doomed to lose her.”
“How much longer?” she asked bluntly. “How long will you live?”
“Five, maybe six hundred years.”
Gabrielle’s face went blank. “Five ... ,” she whispered. A roaring in her head made it impossible to think. Then the horror of it rose in her as she saw the inevitable course of lives so hopelessly mismatched. She thought she might be sick. A kind of rage swept through her. She struggled to her feet.
“Five hundred years!” she shouted. “Are you mad? How can you speak to me of love? To touch me like that!” She turned and ran.
Blundering through thick brush, thinking only to be safely out of earshot, Gabrielle finally sank against a huge, gray, beech trunk. Only now, in her bitterness, did she know how deeply she had wanted this man.
She had been given a last chance at love, only to have it shrivel and die in her hand. Drawing up her knees, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed.
“GABRIELLE.”
Feolan sat silently beside her, as though trying to gain the trust of a wounded animal. She had only gradually become aware of him, and she was too worn out to send him away. She just stayed there, curled into her own arms, pretending he wasn’t there. He hadn’t moved either, not until her tears had run dry.
Now he had spoken, and there was no more pretending. She lifted weary, red-rimmed eyes to his. “Féolan, please.”
“Gabi, I’m so sorry to have hurt you.” He had never called her that. No one but Tristan had ever called her that. “But I don’t understand. I know this is a shock, but is it so impossible?”
“Of course it’s impossible.”
“But why? I mean, why for you? We could still have a lifetime together—one of your lifetimes. How is that different from what you would have with another Human?”
Gabrielle stared at him. He didn’t see it. She had told him to spell things out for her. Now she would have to do the same.
“Féolan, think about it. I will not be like I am now until the day I die. I am twenty-seven years old. In thirty years I’ll be gray and stiff in the joints. For the last twenty years of my life I’ll be a wrinkled, bent, frail old woman, and you will be in the full flush of youth. You won’t be my lover—you’ll be my nursemaid.”
Féolan bowed his head. He sat in silence for a long while, and when he looked up, he did not hide the wetness on his cheeks.
“Yet would I walk with you to the end, if you would have me.” Mother goddess, help me, thought Gabrielle wildly. A fist clenched her heart.
“No, Féolan,” she finally managed. “It would turn to bitterness. Better to stop now.” It came to her that these might be their last private words, and she reached for the strength to speak her heart.
“But I would take back my angry words. When I am old and on my deathbed, I will remember that once a shining Elf-lord loved me, and that will bring me joy.”
Féolan hitched a deep breath, nodded, wiped his face with the back of his hand. He tried to smile. “The others will be wondering if we’ve been attacked by a boar.”
“Will you make some excuse for me? I need to be alone for a while. I’ll make my own way back.”
Féolan reached out and took a lock of her hair between his fingers. Sliding his hand down its length, he brought it to his lips and kissed it. Then he was gone.
CHAPTER 8
GABRIELLE spent the next two days as far away from Féolan as she could. The sight of him filled her with such longing, she simply did not know how to be in the same room. Gone from the castle by dawn, she spent long hours in the hut where she dried and prepared herbal remedies or working in the Chênier clinic with Marcus. Nights she lay awake, fighting her heart.
Now she stood at the castle gate with her family, ready to bid their guests farewell. She squared her shoulders, grasping at the shreds of her composure and knew it would fail her.
Danaïs had kissed Solange, thanked Jerome gravely and bear-hugged her brother. Now he came to Gabrielle, soft brown eyes filled with gentleness.
“You will be in our hearts always.”
Tears welled up and she could do nothing to stop them. Danaïs opened his cloak and enfol
ded her, pulling her close. An unlooked-for sense of strength and peace stole into her. A gift, from him to her. In her need, she did not wonder or question but simply accepted. In a while she stood and gave him a shaky smile.
“There, beautiful healer. One small thing can I do for thee.” Danaïs touched his breast and turned to his horse.
Féolan. He stood before her, eyes dark with sorrow. I cannot hold you, Gabrielle thought, willing him to understand. I cannot hold you, or I will never let you go. Féolan put his hand to his heart and then held out his palm. Her hand reached out to meet his and in that gesture were all the words neither one could say. Féolan reached into his pouch, pulled out a folded parchment and tucked it into her hand. “If you ever need me,” he whispered, and kissed her lightly on the brow.
Gabrielle stood watching the riders until they were out of sight. The tears flowed unheeded down her face as the urgent beat of her heart pleaded with her to follow, now, before it was too late. With a last brief appearance on the farthest rise in the road, the tiny figures vanished.
CHAPTER 9
HARVEST time came and went; the leaves changed color and began to fall—and the scouts did not return. Instead there came, on a brisk October day that promised night-frost, an envoy from La Maronne.
Jerome had bid his scouts stop first at Castle Drolet in Gaudette and deliver a message to the king, knowing that any invasion would surely advance through one of the passes in Maronnais territory. The reply the envoy bore was brief but encouraging:
Greetings Verdeau,
Having received your news of impending Greffaire attack, we thank you for this warning. Though skeptical of your source, we sent scouts to join your own in seeking confirmation. Their continued absence is ominous, if not conclusive. La Maronne musters for defense.
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