Elthwen yawned and opened her eyes to the predawn twilight. Such a dream! It seemed as real as anything she’d ever experienced. The flutter of delicate wings yet tingled over her skin with the recollection. She pressed a hand to her chest and warmth spread under her touch, surprising her with its presence. The corrath.
Thenyd means Truth….
But what is Truth? She wondered, wishing she had had the presence of mind to ask the Enjari when she was in their midst. Why would they present to her a corrath named “Truth”?
That she was Elthwen, daughter of Wolthar and Lysienthe, grand-daughter to Nochlan was true. She was also Elthwen in disguise and under a ghalthrach’s aura, a lad by all appearances calling himself Elthric. That, too, was a form of truth. A falsehood to others, perhaps even a deception. But truth, nonetheless. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. It was all far too confusing to ponder for someone upon awakening following an extraordinary event.
She sat up on her pallet on the dewy forest ground. Gamba was already awake and tending to the embers of last night’s fire. He crouched over the stone-ringed pit, his back to her as the flames sprang to life, Glaer’s pale orange glow washing over their little circle.
“It was no dream,” she said softly, and then raised her voice to be heard over the birds’ morning song and the sound of rushing water close by. “How did I get back?” Truly she had no recollection.
Her grandfather turned abruptly, as if startled. “Ah,” he said, a smile crinkling his eyes and mouth. “You’re awake.” He pushed himself up stiffly and brushed his hands together, sending a cloud of dust into the shafts of pale light angling through the trees. “Did you sleep well?”
“I think I did.”
“You were sleeping soundly when the Enjari returned you. I tucked you in, and you made nary a sound and didn’t stir the rest of the night.”
She eyed him with care. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
He rubbed at his pate. “About what, Ellath?”
“Don’t you want to know what the Enjari—?”
He waved away her question before the words were out of her mouth. “I know the rules. And I can see quite plainly that their gift…whatever it was…has already done you much good.” He tilted his head to one side. “I imagine you are feeling refreshed.”
“Yes, I am.” It was as if all her troubles had been taken away. A new lightness suffused her, mind and body. She pushed aside her blanket and folded up the pallet. “In fact I feel quite well.” She eyed him in the brightening morning, sunlight slanting through branches. “And you, Gamba? Was your sleep restful?”
He rolled his neck and stretched his back with a crackling sound. “A little worse for wear, but such is to be expected at my age after…” He quickly counted on his fingers, but gave up just as fast. “…so many days and nights of travel. I’m not as young as I once was. But I did sleep well.”
She thought back to his drooping frame following his calling of the elements to halt the knights’ attack on the Skaddock. A fearful thing it was to behold, a feat of power and magic. How deeply had it weakened him? Of course, he would never let on; she’d have to keep a closer eye on her grandfather lest the symptoms worsen. “I hope you won’t find the need to do battle again any time soon.”
“It is not my intention.” He winked at her. “Come, Ellath. We must break our fast and move on. There are many miles to cross before this day is over.”
Her stomach growled. “What is there to eat?” She strode to the fire and held her hands over the leaping tongues of flame to warm them.
Gamba shrugged. “Not much, I fear.” He hunkered before the fire and began removing the few remaining items in his haversack, examining each cursorily before laying it on a flat stone at the edge of the pit. “A bit of cheese…quite moldy. A crust of bread…very dry. And…ah!” He glanced at her with a wry smile. “Two lovely pullet eggs!”
Like a magician summoning an illusion, he produced the brown-shelled eggs, one between the thumb and forefinger of each hand.
Mirroring his grin, she dropped beside him and drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around her knees. “I thought you said ghalthrachs don’t conjure.”
“Did I say that?” His voice was evasive. “I recall saying nothing of the sort.”
“You said—”
“Material pleasures, Ellath. I don’t conjure material pleasures. Necessities, on the other hand…are another matter entirely.” He set the eggs carefully on the stone with the bread and cheese, and then pulled something else from his sack. “Here.” He laid a small earthenware pot on the ground by her feet. “Go fetch us some water.”
“Where did this…?” She didn’t need to finish her question. Perhaps the invoking of wind and lightning bolts had weakened him physically, but he seemed to have rediscovered his more mundane powers.
On her way to the stream, she stopped to bid Banarel a good day and ran a hand over his neck as he chewed contentedly on the tall grass at the edge of the wood. He acknowledged her with a nicker and a shake of his white head. She knelt by the stream and set the pot by her side on the soft, damp earth. A veil of mist hung over the rushing water, bands of brightening morning swirling and dancing as if in response to the birds’ morning chatter.
A smile flickered over her lips as she plunged cupped hands in the chilly water and splashed her face. How like the days of her childhood, when she and Gamba roamed the forest near her father’s citadel, often sleeping on the ground, making do with the wild berries and roots they were able to forage for their meals. Just like this.
Back then she never gave a thought to missing her bed or a meal, or worrying over her father’s kingly concerns. Her mother condoned their “larking.” She’d mollify her father, explaining that such activities were often prescribed for young girls in training at Morolath Island. More than once, she’d come home to find her parents in animated discussion…so much so that they barely noticed her return. She’d have filled her basket with simples and collections of lichens and mosses, leaves and flowers, ferns, and funguses. Later, under the wavering flame of a smelly oil lamp, she would study them with her grandfather in his hut within the fortress walls, copying them meticulously into the book he’d given her, with descriptions and receipts for decoctions and infusions.
She dried off with her sleeve. Then she dipped the vessel into the stream and started back to the encampment, the pot balanced on her shoulder.
The low angle of the brightening morning caught the hooded man from behind as he approached from the east. Astride a dark destrier, he appeared in the half-light, his outline aglow, a small horse, likewise in darkness and rimmed with light, trailing behind. Her heart lurched. Fear seized her limbs. Visions of Myrwethen—her throat a gaping wound, her flesh a ghastly gray—stuck in her mind. It was all she could do to maintain a hold on the brimming pot. Gamba had risen; staff in hand. Glaer flashed red; her pulsing radiance and hiss of warning halted the intruder’s approach just beyond the corrath’s perimeter.
Elthwen clutched at the crystal under her tunic. Reminders of the Enjari’s tinkling laughter filled her with calm. She sucked in a breath and, setting her jaw, strode back to the encampment.
“State your purpose,” her grandfather called out in a booming voice. “Are you friend or foe?”
The morning intensified through the budding branches.
“I am but a soldier returning to my home in the west and mean you no harm.” The man’s voice had a pleasing tone, deep and comforting. “This horse wandered into our camp last night.” He tugged on the smaller animal’s reins and it ambled out of the shadows, coming to an easy stop at his side.
“It’s Aremel!”
Gamba squinted into the sunrise. “Are you certain?”
She set the pot by the fire and regarded the horse. Yes, it was Urlan’s horse, the pack with their provisions firmly secured, along with its saddle. Turning her gaze on the hooded man astride the large warhorse, she noted in his dress and manner none of the crudeness of the Nortlunde ruffians under Othreld’s command. Even in the pale light, the faded golden gryphon—Aldain’s insignia—emblazoned on his surcoat under an open cloak assuaged the last of her doubts. As if sensing himself under her scrutiny, he pulled back the hood, revealing himself to be a young man with a pleasant face, clean-shaven, and dark close-cropped hair.
“Yes, there is no question in my mind.”
“So….” Gamba raised his staff, sending Glaer’s pulsing light over the soldier’s face. “You’ve been to Isenia, eh?”
“I have,” he said, averting his face from the beam’s sudden brightness and raising a hand to shield his eyes, “and I’m eager to put it behind me.”
“You may approach, soldier,” he said, waving the man forward. “May we offer you refreshment?” He hobbled back to the fire and planted his staff. “We were about to break our fast.”
* * *
The young soldier introduced himself as the captain of a force of West Lothrians that had passed through Virna Berin, and with a smile he added as he dismounted, “We call ourselves ‛the Army of the Unified Clans.’”
Gamba indicated that Elthwen relieve the captain of the two horses. She led them to where Banarel stood watching, head up and alert, tail swishing, as if in anticipation of a reunion with an old friend. The white horse greeted Aremel with a whinny and stomped the ground with a hoof, while Elthwen secured the other two close by, her senses alert to the men’s conversation while marveling at the size of the captain’s black destrier.
“Unified?” Gamba said with raised brows.
The captain laughed. “In name only, perhaps, but with a common enemy to defer their petty squabbles with each other…at least until their return home…we are somewhat unified. They fought bravely to a man.”
Elthwen returned to the fire and placed the water vessel to heat over the coals. “Did you fight alongside Prince Kierath on the Cliffs of Penergal?” She made a point to deepen her voice and keep her face averted as she banked embers around the pot with a sturdy stick. But she could contain neither her sudden uneasiness at the mention of his name nor the desire to hear more about her betrothed.
Deep in his thoughts, the captain strode to the fire pit and stood beside Gamba. “Aye,” he said softly after a moment. “I scaled the rock. I was there on the cliffs.” The lengthening silence did much to indicate his reluctance to speak further on the matter. Elthwen’s pulses raced.
Gamba motioned the young man to sit, which he did on the cold ground, and stretched out his long legs. “How did you find us?” His voice was laced with suspicion. “We made a point to avoid the main road and established paths.”
“I admit I was at a loss for hours, until I smelled your fire.” A crooked smile turned up the corner of the captain’s mouth.
With a groan, her grandfather lowered himself onto the large, flat rock that served as his seat by the stone-ringed pit. “Word has it that a band of Nortlunde assassins travels this way out of Virna Berin. We thought to avoid them.”
“Yes, I’m aware of those jackals. A wise decision, not following the River Road. That they should pass through these woods is perplexing. Their preferred mode of travel is by ship.”
Elthwen glanced up from the fire and would have spoken of Loknar and his henchmen, of Myrwethen’s murder, and her brother’s disappearance; but at the stern glance Gamba shot in her direction, she chased those concerns from her mind. “Would you care for something to drink, Captain?” She sent her grandfather an impatient look. “It’s a special concoction guaranteed to take off the morning chill.”
“Indeed!” Gamba concurred. “An old receipt passed down for generations. For warming one’s insides, it is unsurpassed, and it provides other benefits…” He scratched at his head. “…which evade me at present.”
“My grandfather swears by its restorative properties, but I have yet to experience them. Even so, I can’t say it is unpleasant tasting.”
The captain leaned back on his hands. “Yes, thank you, I will sample a bit of your infusion.”
Gamba shot her a dark glance as he fumbled in his pack. “Have a care you use only the prescribed amounts, boy, or we’ll not be able to wake the captain for the better part of the day.” He tossed her a bag containing the ingredients then arranged the eggs close to the embers.
She peeled open the package and poured a measure into her hand, which she dumped into the water vessel.
Gamba harrumphed as he pulled three small drinking horns from the haversack and set them on the stone beside the cheese and bread.
Although he accepted the drink, the captain refused to partake of their meal. Perhaps he was not hungry or, more likely, he had taken noted their meager fare and took pity on them. At any rate, he appeared well-fed and, despite the poor condition of his clothes, which were worn but clean, he was well-groomed and smelled of soap.
Between bites of his morning meal, Gamba inquired of the war in Isenia to the south just ended and the young man’s travels since leaving the Old City. The captain responded politely. No, he had not encountered the deserter knights from Tinogeth or the Skaddock hunting band.
“…a terrible mess …” Gamba was saying, but she heard nothing else.
Intensely unnerved by the young man’s presence across the fire pit, she picked at her meal, spending more time than necessary peeling the shell from her roasted egg, breaking her chunk of dry bread into bits a bird would find too small. His scent twined around her senses—the hint of spicy jilicum-laced soap and horse and man. From time to time, she peeked up at him from under her eyelashes to catch a glimpse of his deep brown eyes and seductive mouth. His voice, soft and cheerful, filled the void following Gamba’s questions. In her mind the conversation had quickly dissolved into nothing more than a hum of sound, not unlike the chatter of birds and wind in the trees. He held himself with an easy grace, even as he stretched out his legs before the remnants of their fire, leaning back on his long-fingered hands, his face open and candid.
Although faded, the insignia on his frayed tunic appeared finely fashioned, with small, neat, intricate stitches of gold thread. She imagined a woman, young and beautiful—highborn, no doubt—devoting hour upon hour to the task. Her cheeks warmed. Why she should care was a thought she had no business pondering, and yet she found it troubling, intriguing. Did he have a wife he left behind when he went off to fight the Nortlunders in Isenia, a lady love who awaited his return, embroidering handkerchiefs and tunics for him during the lonely time spent wondering and worrying over his welfare? Not that he was overly handsome. The features of his face were ordinary but well-formed, his skin free of imperfections.
But his lips…. The way they formed the words he spoke, the manner in which they turned up into a ready smile, revealing nearly perfect white teeth, was too riveting to ignore.
She had never been kissed by a man. Many a night while lying in her room on her pallet listening to Ildra’s sleeping respirations, she thought back on an evening’s meal and the men, old and young, who had shared the bounty of her father’s board with the unspoken intent of presenting themselves for her consideration. Of course none had met her father’s stringent requirements or her mother’s conditions as a suitor for their daughter’s hand. And she, while feigning disinterest, arranging and rearranging her food as she did now, invariably found a way to peruse the suppliants without their knowing. Only late into the night did she allow herself to revisit their faces in her mind. Only then did she imagine how a kiss from one or another would feel and taste upon her lips. But not one had a mouth as alluring as the young captain. A kiss from him would be most—
“…what have you to say about that…er…Elthric?” Her grandfather’s voice startled her from her musing.
Blinking up at Gamba, she stared blankly, her face burning.
“The captain has invited us to join his convoy west.”
The young man set down his horn cup and casually brushed ashes from his tunic. “We’ll escort you and your grandfather as far as Elyndrus. It’s on our way and no trouble.” He turned his fathomless dark eyes on her.
“I suppose…” Pausing to lower her voice half an octave, she glanced at the captain and then turned her gaze on her hands absently crumbling the last of her crust of bread. “I suppose that is a good thing.”
* * *
They took the River Road west, the captain riding side-by-side with Gamba, who regaled the young man with tales of his ghalthraching days. She trailed behind, her thoughts in a muddle, heart suffering palpitations, her gaze set on the straightness of his back, his broad shoulders, the litheness of his body atop the large warhorse. And no, he said in answer to Gamba’s query—as if her grandfather had read her mind—the captain had no female attachments. His cousin had embroidered the gryphon on his tunic. His laughter was like music.
That was all she needed to hear. All else became a muddle.
Dear Nirmanath, Mother of all Things, she said to herself, I fear I am falling in love with the wrong man…and he thinks I’m a lad. Elthwen sought comfort in Thenyd’s warmth under her tunic. Another odd ‘truth,’ that must unravel itself in time.
With the passage of morning, the skies turned gray and threatening, intermittent raindrops alternating with a dense, stagnant haze. By the time they reached the camp of the so-called Army of the Unified Clans, evening had fallen. Lightning flashed in the distance.