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LONG WEEKS PASSED FOR Adriselle, despite travelling on Astocath’s horse to the village down in the valley at the earliest opportunity. She found that her host had spoken true. She could barely speak a word of the local language, and in time, such visits stopped as they became more depressing than hopeful—or helpful. An early morning sickness had come to her, which soon spread to the afternoons as well. During these days she experienced no repeat of Astocath’s union, and with the passage of time, she wondered if it had been but a vivid dream. The act had been so illusory. Yet the event was evident; she had been awake even though where she could only guess. Her memory of that strange night with Astocath melted away as if it had been a wine-induced fantasy.
She often considered the idea of finding another wizard who might help Mordrak, but she had no idea of their whereabouts, and Astocath was unhelpful, saying only to give him time. Furthermore, she was in a flux what to do, for her pregnancy would mean Tabor would not take her, but worse, no one of any worth would. She dreaded bearing the brunt of Mordrak’s fury. Perhaps she could have her child here, leave him with a nurse and pick up her life as if nothing had happened. And that was not all; given the circumstances of the conception, she began to believe the child she carried was some sort of a changeling. What sort of life could either of them, mother and fatherless child, expect? It had been fun playing the role of a commoner whilst Mordrak was away, but that was all it was: a game and nothing real. Certainly, there hadn’t been an issue of life and death. Here she was nothing, and to give the child away to a peasant would leave him or her a nothing. The two of them would be nothing. There was no future here. ‘What would Mordrak expect of me?’ she asked herself. ‘What would Mordrak expect of me?’
It had become Adriselle’s habit to catnap during the day, hidden away from Astocath behind the hencoops, so she would give him no cause to suspect her condition. The truth was, she was afraid of Astocath knowing and rejecting her. Astocath did not chase her for company, and when they spent time together, they were purely platonic. She felt unclean, not trusting him with the news. He had a strange presence about him too, which made her feel uncomfortable. Though she had little choice, she felt compelled to remain with him at the tower. She had nowhere to run. She knew she had to decide on what she wanted, and do it, and do it soon. She had only so much time before she ran out of choices.
One afternoon, she awoke to the sounds of heated voices and saw Astocath dwarfed by over a dozen travel-weary knights. Fully clad in their armour, they looked larger than even their horses. Her heart was in her throat with the question of whether they had come for her. Had they come to seek her on Mordrak’s behalf?
Disappointed, she did not recognise their coats-of-arms and so doubted they had come for her. Why would Mordrak hire local knights and not come himself?
Restlessly controlling his mount, the leader railed the mage, waving his helmet about in the air, which in its way it gave an appearance of a dangerous mood. She could not understand the language, but Astocath seemed to hold back his anger in return, and after saying his piece, he finally turned his back upon them to stride resolute to his tower. She believed he could kill the lot of them if anyone dared raise a sword against him now.
Adriselle watched the knights quickly disappear, leaving their curses behind them. Surely they had come for her, and Astocath was holding her hostage! Her mind screamed.
She found him in his shadowed lounge that lay beyond the kitchen. He rarely came here. The two of them when sharing time together usually sat on the tor outside. He slouched in his wooden armchair grimly smoking a billowing pipe of tabban-weed. He had already poured himself a goblet of wine.
“What’s happening, Astocath?” she asked firmly, as she kerbed her anger.
“Everything and nothing, dear.” Suddenly he slapped the arms of his chair, stood and laid his pipe heavily on the small table by the chair. Then, with a sweep of his hand, he picked up his wine goblet and gulped from it. He looked at her and picked up his pipe again, waving it at her, the smoke looking ridiculous as it trailed behind.
“Sit down.” His head was turned down, his face looking at his lap. “I suppose you heard that entire fracas?”
Adriselle said nothing as she took a chair. So this was it, she supposed. Mordrak had sent an envoy to seek her.
“Well, I don’t suppose you understood.” The mage looked down at his feet. “I’ve been robbed.”
“Robbed?” She realised she was more desperate to escape to her old life than she had permitted herself believe. Robbed? Then that was no envoy, and Mordrak probably had not the slightest idea of where she was, let alone what had become of her.
“Those knights were angry because two of their number got killed bringing me some equipment. It wasn’t considered to be a dangerous job, so ...” His tone became sarcastic and filled with irony. “So they didn’t all bother to escort the merchants—which I had paid them all to do.” Astocath looked irritated “They think wizards can turn rust to gold. Well, it wouldn’t be worth the candle if we did. Anyway, now I’ve got to find out who robbed me.” He waved his hand and clarified, “Whoever attacked the merchants.”
“But now that means I’m going to be here even longer. If you ... if you ...” Adriselle choked back her misgivings. Then it occurred to her, “You said you wouldn’t journey to Escavia normally. And you brought me here soon enough. You can easily take me back! This is not my home!”
Astocath raised his eyebrows as he blushed, full of sympathy for her. “My dear! I found you easily enough because I was already linked to Ifhrd. The tension was like a siren to guide me. The ether is not an easy journey to make at the best of times—even that was dangerous enough. Be good and stay a while longer. Please?”
“Oh! You just want me a doxy here! I don’t know why you can’t help me return home. What about Jorlon, can’t he help?”
“Jorlon? Jorlon ...?Jorlon...?” It was as if he was trying to place the name.
“You’re disgusting! Ifhrd’s friend, or apprentice, you say.”
“Yes, of course.” Astocath waved a hand as if an aside. Nevertheless his voice quavered and he pleaded, “He still hasn’t used a phylactery to contact me. Without it, I can’t communicate with him. He probably doesn’t see any reason to. He probably knows nothing about it!”
“What do you mean?” she shouted.
“It’s... it’s something to connect wizard communions. Something Ifhrd and I used in our game, to connect to one another.”
“Game! But Mordrak will be tearing his hair out!” she shouted again. She would stake her life that he would be.
Astocath waved at her with his hand. “Anyway, Jorlon’s only an apprentice. He might not yet know how to use such a thing.”
“Only an apprentice! So what! He seemed powerful enough to me.” Adriselle felt diminutive. It left a sour taste in her mouth. After all, Jorlon had certainly brushed their minds with sleep and confusion as that brute, Ethrail, carried them away to their prison. Any self-respecting mage should be capable of that, but surely not a ‘mere’ apprentice?
She felt alone, bereft and impotent and inadequate, hanging around this strange wizard’s tower which was in a land she did not know. She resided in a world she knew nothing of, yet wanted to understand, preferably from a distance. What was it wizards could and could not do? To know would certainly give her an edge. She feared this benefactor had no real regard for her. Upon learning of her unhappy state, he might cast her out as if she were less than a cheap peasant. Yet she felt an uncharacteristic compulsion towards him. Suddenly it was obvious: she wanted him to want her.
Unaware of her conflicting emotions, Astocath spoke on: “Were he a wizard in his own right, he might not know much about it, even so. Different magi have different powers. There is so much to master and learn, dear, and we cannot wish for things to come true as faeries are said to do—they are equally incapable.”
Adriselle scowled. “What if I believe you intend to keep me here at your leisure? I’m no less a prisoner than I was in Ifhrd’s hands, or Jorlon’s.” An idea struck her. “Jorlon will need a trainer if he’s just an apprentice.”
Astocath grimaced, and she was aware she had made the business sound like horse trials, which pleased her. He set his eyes upon her, casting a stern look. “That is not so. That is, I’m not contriving things to cause you to stay for longer than you'd like. Jorlon’s another matter entirely, dear.” His voice was edgy and quenched her desire to berate him for ‘my-dearing’ her all the time. She was beginning to feel sick and faint; sweat prickled upon her brow.
“Are you all right, dear?” the mage asked with gentle concern.
Adriselle stood and clutched the hem of her new dress. She felt she should—she felt she shouldn’t. “I thought wizards couldn’t ... couldn’t ...” Resolved, she lifted her dress unashamedly above her thighs, above the loin-cloth about her navel; her belly revealed, clearly it was swollen.
Astocath paused mid-breath. He looked uncertain as to whether he should turn away, avert his eyes, run away or comfort her. “Whose do you believe him to be? A boy it is.” His voice wavered:—excitement?
A faint memory of the chanting spirits whispered in her mind, “Come to us for a chosen son!”
She didn’t care about the sex, or if Astocath could not be certain either. Fear of the troglodyte came to mind. “Yours.” She felt despicable adding, “I think,” as if she were a lusty harlot. She didn’t mean to infer she had been with others; it was simply that anything could have happened in that spirit world.
She quickly allowed the hem to fall back down below her knees. “Most wizards are unable to ... to ... I thought wizards were unable ...” Adriselle felt a desire to sob, but she knew she would be sick if she allowed herself to, and it would be weakness. But the thought of being an unmarried noblewoman with a child brought her great fear. Mordrak was surely to put her away in a temple for fertility rites. She would be a shameful embarrassment to her family.
Astocath turned to the window without meeting her gaze. Adriselle stared at him and slowly realised the wizard’s hair was not grey as she had assumed, but a dark silver. She wondered after his ears that sometimes appeared through his stringy silver-grey hair. They were not nearly as rounded as her own, nor as any man’s she had seen. They were, after all, different to most people. Then it dawned on her that he was some sort of elf, surely?
She quashed the thought of something worse, like perhaps a goblin, and ran from the room. She fled the tower, rushed into the courtyard scattering the hens that flapped away for their lives. Tears streamed down her face. She was certain she would choke if she retched. All she wanted to do was to run, and yet there was nowhere to go, and she dared not stand still and vomit. The thought of standing still and leaning forward to discharge her stomach, even for a moment, brought a fear of Astocath’s hand upon her shoulder. All this in her imagination; now she wanted the arms of Mordrak. Yet surely she would vomit, Adriselle feared, if she did not stop. She ran where her legs took her.
She ran blindly towards the tor and over the tor. Frantically, she scrambled down the steep basin sides. As she fled, she slipped and slid. She cut herself against briars and brambles; bruised her feet against the sturdy rocks, unshod as her feet were, her low-cut boots ruined. Finally, she lost all sense of balance, and tumbled and tumbled. She rolled to the floor of the basin where she lay quite stunned and quite still.
Bruised and cut, shaking with terror, still desiring to retch, her stomach convulsed. A fear of losing her child under these horrible circumstances made her sickness all the worse, and her belly felt as if molten rods of steel burnt against her insides. She could feel the child kicking within. Adriselle picked herself up from her knees and brushed off the dirt from her dress. She carefully studied the cuts upon her legs and the rips upon her dress. She was appalled at her appearance now. If she had ever looked like an urchin, she looked like one now. Added to this, she had never had cause to flee from a personal conflict before, and she was a little appalled at herself that she hadn’t stood her ground. Every muscle groaned at her shifting weight. She took stock of her circumstances and spat to clear her mouth. Now, she told herself, as she approached the forest, it would be wiser to return to the tower. But her mind was made up. She would not return this night. She would show him.
She breathed in deeply, calming her nerves. The forest in the basin was near, and though Astocath said it was safe, who knew what beasts or manner of people were there? Mordrak said forests always had their dangers.
From these woodlands, a river ran eastward. The mid-afternoon sun glowed white in the blue sky, reasonably warm. The breeze was cold, a mark of the days that were becoming colder with each passing night.
She cursed the mage. “He must have specifically timed this. He must have—he surely must have!” She was not going to give vent to a stream of frustrated tears. Clenching her fists tightly, stretching her arms to their full length at her sides, she wished vehemently that she had just lost the wretched child. Why she cared for this brat’s doubtful life was beyond her.
Her grief turned to anxiety in a moment as she heard a strange voice calling. She had not reached the forest, but ahead of her was a clump of trees.
“Hallo?” It was an old but fair voice, pleasantly pitched, female.
Adriselle sighed. It was not much use; these people used the same greeting as her tongue. The different language would still be its usual barrier. She squinted towards the trees from where the voice came.
“Hallo?” It came again.
A bent figure emerged from behind some trees and stood beckoning with a wave of a stick.
Adriselle slowly approached the elderly woman who was dressed in a thick, grey woollen dress, typical attire for a peasant. Her back was bent, and the black shawl about her shoulders greatly reinforced the image of a rickety witch. This peasant, though, had an endearing smile, and she spoke kindly, although Adriselle could not make sense of her words.
“Adriselle,” she introduced herself slowly. There was a fragrance upon this woman. She began to feel calm. “From Escavia.” The actual kingdom from whence she came would not be famous enough for the woman’s ears.
“Escavia? Oooh ... Adriselle?” The woman nodded. “Hadd,” she said with a hand above her sagging breasts.
“Hallo Hadd,” Adriselle said softly with a smile. Then she flinched as the woman reached out to feel her stomach. Hadd promptly made a rude gesture to indicate a boy should be expected. Adriselle frowned. “Who are you?”
With a wave of her roughly hewn stick, which Adriselle thought for a moment was meant to strike her, the crone motioned Adriselle to follow her. Home probably, Adriselle mused, thinking of the room she had rented in Noanoak. Deciding amenability to be the better part of valour, and very glad the direction was not toward the wizard’s tower, she allowed herself to be led away by this strange woman.
They passed through an open part of the forest, skirting many thickets. In time they came to a wooden cabin where a tethered goat grazed by a lean-to shed. Hadd beckoned Adriselle to her door. Smoke rose from the chimney, and the warmth within was a gentle greeting on this cooling day. Adriselle’s misgivings allayed, she stepped into the kitchen area that smelled of cooking meat and the herbs that hung from the rafters. A little aside from the doorway, a table with four chairs stood against the only window.
After carefully hanging her stick upon the wall, Hadd kindly bade Adriselle sit. She ladled some hot drinks from a small, black pot that stood over the fire next to a larger pot that was also steaming.
Adriselle began to warily drink the brew from a glazed but unpainted clay mug. She recognised the drink to be thyme tea and enjoyed every sip of it. Upsetting her was the language barrier; she knew, as she always had, this stumblingblock would force her back to Astocath, though she had learned a few key phrases. Adriselle tried not to allow herself to become too comfortable, homely as this abode was. She could not escape Astocath.
She remembered her experimental joy again when, as an adventure, she lived in the city. Her room had been by far a hovel compared to this humble wooden cottage. Yet it had been amazing how many scoundrels had tried to find their way with her. Out here would be different.
She was sure Hadd did not live on her own, though for some reason, it was hard to imagine a husband caring for her. She supposed this woman sought seclusion from the world for her uncomeliness, for she might well be left at the mercy of the ignorant peasants of the village who would be suspicious of her appearance, suspecting her a witch. Adriselle herself feared this woman slightly. Were she able to communicate clearly, she wondered how Hadd would consider her strange arrival to this land. The people here had their own ways close to the ways of home, yet they were far away across the sea. She pondered that the whole world must be much the same. Anywhere she went, strange tongues would limit her, but people were people the world over.
The woman sat opposite Adriselle, and raising her mug to her mouth, she smiled and drank deeply. “Aaah,” she sighed with relief, smiled again and nodded to Adriselle as if to ask for approval.
Adriselle smiled in return, although she felt nervous. “Good.” She nodded.
“Good? Aaah! Good! Yai, yai.”
“Yai.”
The woman laughed, and nodding her head, she said again, “Yai, yai.” Shaking her head, she said, “Noi, noi.”
“Noi,” repeated Adriselle. She raised her mug. “Good, yai?”
“Ah! Good—gotten. Yai, gotten.”
“Yai, gotten.” How Adriselle wished Astocath had taught her some more of the language. Always too busy, he had made his excuses, and his servant, who lived in the village, would not attempt to speak to her. She only ever looked blankly at Adriselle as if it were she who was fey and not her master. Adriselle realised she would be welcome to return, and so she might plan a return to Escavia with the aid of this woman’s learning. Perhaps she could stay here, she thought, as she looked around in appreciation of the place. “Astocath gotten, yai?” she asked meekly.
“Pah.” Hadd waved her hand and gently rested her wrist on the table before her. Then she waved it again. “Yai, noi. Eerh.” She seemed to sigh with a mixture of reluctant acceptance and exaggeration to make her point. Adriselle had the impression the woman knew well of Astocath.
Hadd wrinkled her nose. She pointed to the herbs, and made gestures to suggest she collected them. “Astocath,” she said, and slowly spoke words Adriselle could understand to mean she collected and prepared the herbs for him. Some she kept for herself. Then Hadd was on her feet again and brought over bread, cheese and a knife. She sliced and cut a huge amount off and lay it on a plate. She pushed it all before Adriselle.
Adriselle smiled a little uncertainly, moved by the kindness. “Astocath lives on nothing but vellum bugs.”
“Eh?”
Adriselle continued to smile, but a little grimly.
The woman said something and gesticulated. Adriselle could not understand. Then Hadd shuffled to the door and opened it wide. Leaning against the doorway, she shouted out, “Noon!”
Adriselle understood. She was calling a husband or son. It was hard to comprehend that this woman ever could have had a lover, though she clearly possessed a heart that was very kind indeed.
But apprehensive of who was actually being called, the time seemed longer than the reality before a man announced his presence. He stood upon the threshold, filling the entire doorway with his solid build. His voice boomed from a barrel-like chest, and he laid his axe by the door. His arms and legs had the girth of the trees he probably cut. His wild, grey, bushy beard stood out at every conceivable (and inconceivable) angle, and through it he demanded dinner. His light grey eyes darted to Adriselle, who remained seated at the coarse wooden table.
Thinking of goblins returning home to cooked people, she cringed, disarmed by his overwhelming presence.
Hadd turned from her pots, and waving her spoon about in the air, she spoke to him. Adriselle caught her name and ‘Escavia’ in the flurry of words. Noon threw in ‘hums’ and ‘aaahs’, and sat opposite Adriselle. “Hallo,” he said to her.
“Hallo,” Adriselle replied quietly and tentatively.
Hadd said something more and Noon touched his brow. Adriselle smiled in surprise. Similar tokens of respect were common to her back home.
“Adriselle?” Uttering her name in a loud voice, he leaned forward.
“Noon?”
“Yai.”
Adriselle supposed he was trying to say that Hadd was his wife, who now brought over plates piled high with stew and heaps of vegetables. Opening a box, she took out a spoon for each of them. Then Hadd brought over bread and slapped the carving knife before him.
Noon poured them ale that went well with the flavour of the stew. All through the meal he stared at her, not lustfully, but more in a sort of bewilderment at the best way to communicate. Finally, it was even too much for Hadd, and she rebuked him with a cuff across his ear.
Dinner was finished and with a loud belch of satisfaction, Noon slapped his stomach and leaned back in his chair. Adriselle doubted it could support much more of his weight. Taking his leave, he went into another room aside of the kitchen and lit a pipe. Adriselle could smell the taint of tabban-weed. She returned a reassuring smile to Hadd and wondered if she should slink back to Astocath, however welcome she felt here.
The light was fading and Hadd, lighting candles in the kitchen, told Adriselle what she was doing to teach her a few words. Noon called her in, and Hadd beckoned Adriselle follow. The room in which he sat was cluttered with bunches of herbs upon the floor and four chairs around a small table. Adriselle was surprised to see books upon it. Then the obvious dawned: it seemed Hadd was repairing the binding to them; they were certainly Astocath’s.
Adriselle gestured to ask Hadd if she could stay.
“Noi,” she said sadly, and motioned that she must return to Astocath.
Adriselle gave a look of mixed feelings, but nodded in acceptance that it was for the best. Noon was to return Adriselle to Astocath, which he was happy to do, and Hadd reassured her of a warm welcome with a hug if she chose to visit again.
***
SHE FOUND ASTOCATH in the same room where she had left him. He might have been here all day, although she doubted it.
“So, you’re back. Want some wine, dear?”
“Thank you.”
Then he tentatively asked where she had been as he poured a silver goblet half-full of rich red wine.
“To Noon and Hadd,” she replied, taking the exquisite cup and examining it. A far cry from old clay, she thought wryly.
“I’ve been attempting to commune with Jorlon,” he said.
Her heart leaped. “Oh?” She did not feel entirely reassured that it was because he cared so much for her situation. Astocath must have felt obliged to do as much, and the timing was clearly not of his choosing.
“You can be sure everything is in order.”
She sensed Astocath’s disappointment. “Oh,” she replied flatly.
“Are you disappointed?” he asked, looking at her as though inspecting her eyes.
Adriselle said nothing for a few moments but looked into the rich red wine. “I don’t understand what you mean.” She believed his power held sway over her. She drank the wine; it was elderberry and as rich as the colour was dark scarlet. “Disappointed about what?”
“I mean, if you were to stay. It is—er—the child is ours. However, I want you to go to the elves.”
“What you want?” she said fiercely. “What about what I want for once?”
“I am thinking of you.” He sounded as if she was brow-beating him.
“Elves? They were rejected years ago because of their manipulation and self-importance!”
“They will look after you. Trust me.” He seemed to plead. “I’ll help you—and you need me too.”
“You want me for yourself, don’t you?” She sounded deliberately accusative.
“A long life to you,” he said, raising his glass and drinking some of the wine.
“What’s going on?” she asked as he lowered his goblet.
“There’s a powerful force over parts of Escavia and over those who interfere with, or direct, or influence the affairs of King Tell.”
“Over us, you mean.”
“Us as well. Will you believe me when I say I haven’t enchanted you?” Astocath looked flushed.
“It is difficult to believe you. Do you swear to me?”
“Will you stay with my friends?” He evaded her question.
“They’re your people?”
“They are ... at least partly. Please, say you will. Not many of mankind are offered the same opportunity, and none regret it when they accept. But whatever, tomorrow I shall see to it that you get a new dress.”
“Then you’ll come for me? But will I just be a prisoner of the elves? Their forest is almost eternal. I could never find my own way. What makes you so sure I want you, anyway? And that’s it, isn’t it? You want me—and you are planning on helping King Tell, aren’t you?”
“Possibly. But calm down, one question at a time!”
“You must!” He was irascible. He must surely be hiding something to so avoid explaining anything. “Will you please? And I do belong at home ...” Home. After all this, she would feel like a stranger to that place and those people. She missed her friends and the wisdom of the chamberlain, Muldon, but even so, they now seemed like another race of people entirely.
Her heart pounded as if it were a bellows heating her loins. She noted he had not called her my dear, and she was forgetting about her condition. How could her family accept her now?
“I’ll find out what to do about Tell. Otherwise, with regard to your home, we shall have to see what you want for the best, won’t we, my dear? After all, the situation isn’t simple at all, is it? And I have not—truly I have not manipulated events to this end. And, and ... well, I do care about you.” There was a slight smile to his face, but the frown on his forehead had a certain grim look about it. The appearance was kind and possibly understanding.
The fire burned cheerily in the grate. Adriselle appraised Astocath, ignoring the shadows across his face caused by the flickers of light cutting through the darkness. He didn’t understand the world of tin-pot knights, but then she wondered if she wanted that life, as an unwanted single mother? These were her haunting worries about the reality which she could not otherwise avoid.
She looked down at her dress, ragged from the hard run she had made earlier. It made her look like a gypsy. She mused she might appear as a gypsy queen, as she had caught the sun from the summer days. For a moment, just for a moment, it was a glamorous thought. She imagined their lives, wandering separate from society and free, hated or distrusted as they were. Did she dare throw away her privileges to escape the shackles of society herself? She would be with wizards and distant from social stigma—that was her bare alternative. And here, in front of her, was a man or someone who, in truth, wanted her. Perhaps she could have the freedom she yearned for here with this mage. In her heart and in her loins, she realised she at least wanted something of him if she could. She had a certain freedom too, as he demanded nothing from her except a hope perhaps of her friendship.
She looked up and gasped as Astocath stood in front of her and kissed her upon the cheek. She found she had cast her arms about him, and they embraced one another. Then after some while, he slipped her dress from her shoulders. Astocath had wooed her again, and his body looked surprisingly young. Yet she saw little of him as once again she felt herself swept away, but not to that twilight void. Rather they soared above fluffed white clouds within warm blue skies.