Tirruhn’s ear twitched at the sound their boots made in the gravel, and the warrior turned a surprisingly gentle look on them. He seemed happy to see them, and walked over without a hint of the tension Iyana would have expected and that Ceth returned.
“Morning,” Tirruhn said, nodding at Iyana first and then Ceth. Ceth looked to her, and Iyana laughed at the innocence of the expression. His face colored some, the wind-smoothed skin taking on a plum hue.
“Morning.” Iyana returned the greeting between breaths, and Tirruhn arched an eyebrow.
“Have I said something funny?”
“No,” Iyana said, wiping a tear from her eye. “No, no. Apologies, Tirruhn. That was your name, yes?”
Tirruhn nodded.
“It’s just,” she shook her head, taking him in along with their surroundings, “it’s all so … ordinary.”
Tirruhn frowned, but did not seem to understand what she meant enough to judge whether she offered insult, compliment or something in between.
“The alien realm of the Faey,” she tried to explain. “And yet, life here seems so much the same as it is in our villages. In our towns, and beside our hearths and fires.”
Now Tirruhn smiled, seeming to understand.
“You are young,” he said, making Iyana think he was far older than he looked. She spared a glance behind, but the children had abandoned them at Tirruhn’s approach. “No matter the differences between tribes, they pale in comparison to what binds us, in my experience.” He turned his eyes to Ceth, who stood unmoving.
Another pair rounded the same bend he had. They were dressed similarly, and one carried a bow while the other seemed to bear a sling, along with two poles slung across her back that Iyana had seen Nathen take with him on his woodland hunts. The fiery female they had met two nights before, Shek, was nowhere to be seen, and Iyana wondered if she was still attached to Beast, their steady black charger.
Tirruhn made somewhat stiff introductions and looked up. Iyana followed the direction of his gaze, marveling at the way the black branches at the borders of the small town reached in toward the center. It was like an upside-down well of brilliant blue, but Iyana knew it wasn’t nearly as bright as it should be, given the time of year. Where Ceth came from, that might not matter so much, the Dark Kind being little more than shadows in stories to he and his folk. But to all in the Valley, they were something much more. Had been for a generation.
“Light doesn’t last, these days,” Tirruhn said, his voice going from light to grave. “We need to get all the game we can.”
They nodded their goodbyes, a little less stiff than their greetings, and Iyana and Ceth watched Tirruhn and his small company of hunters move off toward the border of inky black trunks.
They continued around the bend and nearly collided with Luna, who was moving with some haste in their direction.
“Ah,” the Faeykin said, out of breath. “There you are.” She was adjusting a loose-fitting shirt that exposed the ribs on either side so that it appeared to Iyana as little more than a blanket. It was green and cinched at the waist with a yellow braid over clay-colored pants. It was a strange and noticeable mix of drab and gaudy, and it clashed with her silver-white hair.
Luna didn’t seem to take offense at their staring, and even smiled at Ceth, seeming to appreciate his attention.
“Ready, then?” she asked, expectant. Iyana looked from her to Ceth, unsure what she had expected.
“Kenta—”
“Is indisposed,” Luna said. She tossed Iyana a wink that made her blush scarlet. “Safe to say, he’s quite forgotten the rhythm of our coupling.”
There it was, plainly spoken and without a shred of shame or modesty.
“No harm in letting the man take a bit of rest,” Luna continued. “After all, there’s not much he can offer that you’re searching for.”
Iyana noticed that whatever tension might have existed during last night’s conversation had blown out. Either Kenta had had something to do with it, or Luna wasn’t about to argue the politics of Sages with someone as young as Iyana or as foreign as Ceth.
“To that end,” she said, appraising the Northman, “where shall I take you on this day?”
Ceth opened his mouth to speak, but no answer was forthcoming.
“I think he’ll be coming with us,” Iyana offered.
“With you, you mean,” Luna said.
“Y-yes,” Iyana said. “Or—” Ceth looked between them, anxious. “Would that be a problem? I must confess, I don’t even know who we’re seeing.”
“We’re seeing someone who’s less likely to give you answers than me and,” Luna sighed dramatically, “admittedly more likely to point you in the direction of the right ones. And no.” She smiled at Ceth. “It won’t be a problem to have your fearless protector along. That is, if he doesn’t mind the smell.” She turned on her heel and motioned them to follow. “Come, then. We want to catch him before he leaves without us.”
“Where—”
Luna tilted her head and tapped her temple. “Not a where in the sense you’re thinking, Iyana. Come, now. Use what the Faey Mother gave you. That is why you’ve come.”
Even her reprimands were offered without a shred of venom or bitterness. All told, Iyana quite liked her. She thought Ninyeva would have. Thought she might have, and that Luna could have been among any number of reasons a part of her teacher had always regretted her decision to leave the Eastern Woods and return to her leaning tower at the lake.
They passed over the green space where they had burned Sen the day before. Iyana felt her heart begin to race as they walked very near to the charred grass where his pyre had burned. Instead of avoiding it, she examined the place and even walked a little closer. There were flowers growing in the debris that she hadn’t noticed in the field the day before. They were white, mostly, but the way the ash and char stained them made them appear purple and gray. She smiled.
They passed another row of homes set up on their short stilts. They sat nestled in the darker shadows of the encircling wall of trunks. Iyana could see that here, the gaps between trees were choked with creepers that bore all the fur that could be found among the Deepwoods to the west, where Kole and Linn had played as children. These homes seemed more readily in use than those to the south, where Iyana and Ceth had been staying. The stone chimneys issued their plumes of white smoke, all of it smelling fresh, a mix of pine and maple sap.
Behind the homes was a structure that stretched the definition. It wasn’t propped up on pegs above the sodden, dew-soaked ground, but rather seemed to grow out of the field—a leaning, haphazard collection of bundles, mounds and thatch sheets interrupted intermittently with clay pipes and crusted vents that let out twisting trails of vapor. There was yellow straw sticking at every angle, and the front door was not so much a door as a section of crisscrossed sticks that leaned against it without a thought to warmth or security.
“Go on.”
Iyana only realized she and Ceth had been standing uneasily before that door when Luna set to prodding them forward. “I’ve never seen him bite.” She sniffed. “Citrus. Never grew into the smell, but can’t say it hurts with the traveling.”
“You’re not coming in?” Iyana asked.
“An excellent guess,” Luna said, “and correct, as well.” She offered them a bow and moved off, heading back in the direction they’d come. Iyana heard her hailing another as she reached the row of homes at their back. She looked at Ceth, who hadn’t taken his eyes from the door.
“Shall we?”
“Yes,” a reedy voice called from inside. “And with a pinch more haste than you seem interested in calling at present, if you can spare it.”
Now it was Ceth’s turn to look at her. Iyana blew out a sigh, only realizing how woefully underprepared she was for … whatever it was she was about to experience as she opened the light, f
ragile door and ushered herself inside.
She should have known better, given their experiences of the Faey realm thus far, but Iyana still couldn’t help but be surprised and somewhat disappointed in what she found on the other side.
Ceth pushed in behind her, stooping longer than he needed to as she stepped aside to make room for him. It was more roomy inside the ramshackle structure than it appeared from outside. The walls were rough and crusted with a mix of lattice and straw that might have been smoothed over with some sort of mud—perhaps clay. The ceiling was rounded and oblong, with various openings acting as chimneys. Some were struck through with the thin red pipes she had seen from outside while others were wide as mixing bowls that seemed less intentional and more a result of falling—or perhaps rising—debris.
The man busying himself over the fire toward the back of the short hall was the same elder they had seen wending his aching way around Sen’s prone, lifeless form the night before. He seemed more full of life now, pacing a well-worn path into the dried scrub underfoot as he added various dashes of dried plants and brighter bulbs into the copper cauldron that spat over the glowing coals. The fireplace didn’t seem safe to Iyana, with too much that could go up around it. It was cramped and appeared not to have been cleaned in ages, and the pristine robes the man had been wearing at the ceremony had been replaced by any other farmer or craftsman’s clothes. She blinked at pants that were stained by so many colors she couldn’t have guessed as to their original hue. Seeing him wipe a bit of orange paste onto the pockets, she knew the task would prove beyond most.
“Hello,” she said.
He frowned as he looked back at them. “Yes,” he said. “Hello.” He said it at first with a flat tone, and then, seeing their uncertain expressions, he smiled and nodded at a semicircle of wooden chairs that had been set out among the grass and too-small rope rugs that littered the place.
Iyana took a seat in the center, feeling like a child as she waited for her instructor. Somewhat to her surprise, Ceth sat as well, sighing as if in relief. As Iyana’s ire grew at being kept in silence by a man she did not know and for reasons she couldn’t begin to guess at, Ceth seemed glad not to have discovered some enemy in their midst, as if there might just as well have been an ancient, bloody-toothed Sage waiting in the tumbled hodgepodge of leaning straw as a strange old man with pointed ears and hair that had gone more gray than white. When he glanced their way, mashing a dark green stem into a lighter paste, she saw that his eyes had lost none of the vibrancy of youth. If anything, they were brighter than any she had yet seen.
Round and round his gnarled hand and knotted wrist went, until the worn pestle ceased its scraping. He pursed his lips tightly as Iyana fixed a cold stare on him and then switched to Ceth, as if a brilliant new thought had occurred.
He veritably sprang across the space between them, making both Iyana and Ceth flinch as he plopped the stone bowl into her lap. She had to scramble to keep it from falling with a crack onto the hard ground. The old man began rummaging in the corner to the left of the crackling fireplace and its slow-spinning copper pot, which hung suspended on the end of a rose-colored chain, and moved a threadbare covering, disturbing all manner of dried leaves, dusty old clay cups and a fair number of skittering insects in his search.
“Aha.”
It was an exclamation of victory, and when he turned from the corner, Iyana expected either to see some great treasure, or else some hideous concoction or feral beast clutched in his crazed hands. Instead, it was a bundle of wood. Twisted roots that seemed engorged with fluid, all brown bark streaked with blue. He moved eagerly toward Ceth, who eyed him steadily, unconcerned. The old man deposited the bundle on his lap and made a snapping motion with his hands, which he wiped before returning to his place by the back wall and smoking cauldron.
Ceth glanced at Iyana, who was too stunned to offer anything other than a half-hearted shrug. The Northman looked at the bundle in his lap and cast about, reaching for the handle of a small hand axe.
“Tsk!”
He froze as the old Faeykin’s eyes and jabbing finger found him. He shook his head and Ceth twitched his hand back from the handle of the axe, frowning. The old man made the snapping gesture once more. He did it very slowly, eyebrows arched, as if he were demonstrating the most herculean, complex of tasks to the world’s mightiest simpleton. Ceth was not impressed, but Iyana was glad to see that he offered no complaint as he lifted one of the thick roots in his hands and began to strain.
She had seen this man shatter stones with his blows, but his face reddened as the task of breaking a simple root in half—and one dried with age—proved beyond him. The old Faeykin had already gone back to his task, whatever that was, and Iyana saw Ceth glance in his direction before closing his eyes in a long blink. She heard it before she saw it—that low, steady buzzing that preceded the shimmering armored covering that enveloped his hands like the clearest water. He raised the root again and now it snapped with ease, the center breaking in a spiral and exposing the dried ends of what looked to be dozens of smaller spindles within.
The sound drew the attention of the elder, who smiled in satisfaction and pointed impatiently at the others. Iyana saw Ceth wrinkling his nose and frowned in confusion before the sharp odor stung her nose and nearly caused her to drop the stone bowl she had forgotten she still clutched between her legs. It smelled like a mix of fruit and cinnamon, and it might have been pleasant if it weren’t so intense.
When the smell reached the Faeykin, he paused in the midst of his ministrations over the bubbling pot, breathing it in like the most welcome perfume. He turned around as Ceth cracked another and when he saw Iyana, his eyes flashed with a startling brightness as he took in the bowl in her lap.
He shook his head, retaking the space between them. He gathered the bowl and pestle once more into his hands and set to mashing with slow, grating deliberateness. Iyana felt guilty despite herself.
“What is your name?” Iyana asked as he moved to lean against the back wall next to the fireplace. She had grown tired of whatever game the old man was playing.
“Ah,” he said. “You do speak.” And suddenly, the strange, scattered façade he had worn disappeared as if it had never existed at all. Even his voice had changed. Gone was the reedy, stilted staccato. In its place was a calm, reasoned tone. He watched Iyana, eyes switching between hers.
“Speak.” Iyana’s mouth hung open. It took her some time to recover. Another snap broke the stretching silence as Ceth left them to it, unconcerned with their exchange. “Of course I speak. Why wouldn’t I speak?”
“You hadn’t,” the old man said, the picture of ease. He was already making Iyana feel particularly foolish. “Not until just now.” He pointed at her as if the evidence were damning.
“I …” She paused, looked to Ceth, found herself growing angry with his lack of support, and then looked back at the old man. She recovered some of her decorum and breathed out a sigh as he watched her, measuring her. “I am sorry,” she said, too slowly to be as polite as she should have been. His look flattened.
“About the poultice?” He shrugged. “Water beneath the roots. After all, why shouldn’t I do everything? It’s only your mixture I’ve been preparing for the better part of the week.”
“My mixture?” Iyana asked, ignoring the way his thoughts seemed to skip over hers as she eyed the copper cauldron.
“Yes.” Again, he said it as if it were obvious. He set the stone bowl down on one of the unused chairs between her and Ceth and reached for the scraps of root and detritus the Landkist had piled in his lap. Ceth almost seemed reluctant to give them up, not wanting any greater part of their exchange. He handed them over and the old man nodded his thanks before tossing the scraps onto the fire with a clumsy maneuver that sent up sparks.
“What is that?” Iyana asked the questions as they came, unable to fixate on one with the old man’s chaotic act
ivity. “A part of the mixture?”
“No,” he said. He turned and sucked air in through his nose, filling his thin chest as he smiled at them. “I simply enjoy the smell, and my hands are less durable than they once were.” He seemed less interested in her for the moment as he was with Ceth, who regarded him with a far less interested expression.
“One of the Skyr,” he said, shaking his head. It was strange to Iyana, seeing one so presumably old rendered so utterly impressed by a man Iyana had grown as used to as any of her other friends or companions. “Landkist the world over,” the Faeykin continued, “and yet, the stories of the Skyr have ever been my favorite. How high can you soar, my friend?”
Ceth swallowed, his expression shifting. He didn’t seem to want to answer and Iyana found her annoyance with the old man redoubling. And then his expression softened.
“Ah,” he said. “I see. There are few of you now, in this cycle.” Iyana didn’t know what he meant. “You have no teachers.”
“He can soar to the height of a small mountain,” Iyana said. The old man’s eyes found hers. He glanced toward Ceth as if for affirmation. “I have seen it.”
“And his hands,” he said. “I have heard of the hardiness of the Skyr, but never something like the armor I saw you produce.” Ceth’s gray eyes flicked toward Iyana for a moment. “I am a friend, my boy,” the man said. “My girl.” He seemed kinder, now—not that he hadn’t been before—but Iyana felt utterly unbalanced. “It is an impressive trick, to make armor out of the world’s pull.”
“The world’s pull …” Ceth said it as if it were foreign.
“Weight,” the man said. He picked up the green-stained pestle from the stone bowl, lifted it in two fingers above his head and let it fall. “Tell me you knew that was how your gifts—”
“I know how my gifts work,” Ceth said evenly.
“The world’s pull.” The Faeykin tapped a bare foot on the dried grass. He winked. “A fine use for it,” he said. “I dare say there isn’t a weapon known to man that could pierce you in your full might. I dare say there isn’t a make of armor could stop one of those fists. A fine use, if a bit crude.”
The Frostfire Sage Page 49
