There were altars along the way, notably at Oakmere, but Elva decided to wait until they were back at the fort before she approached the local gods about defending the domain against the Ice King.
She had traveled for eighteen years with her mam before she had met Mabry, and she had talked with the gods the length and breadth of the nine southern domains in that time. She had learned a great deal which was hard to describe to anyone else—although perhaps Sealdaughter would understand—but one thing she did know was that the gods were truly local and, at the same time connected to the next world and to each other.
The altars were at the heart of their power, and she suspected that they allowed the gods in different places to be connected; to know what each knew. But not to care about what each cared about. Although wherever she went the gods recognized her and welcomed her, it was not the same with other humans. The gods at the fort knew of Mabry, but did not yearn toward him as the ones in Hidden Valley did, eager for the images of beauty his mind created.
So she thought that it was better to ask at the fort altar, where the gods were personally connected to the people she would be trying to protect. More likely to help. She hoped.
Entering the Valuers’ Plantation was reassuring, like coming home from a foreign country into familiar lands. Lamb, the Council leader, was back from Palisade and welcomed her kindly even though she’d been roused from her bed. She listened to Sealmother’s plan gravely, then took Elva to a guest cottage and left her and Bass to rest while she spread the news.
At dawn, Elva made her way to the black rock altar. Dawn light was harsh but not so strong that it caused her too much pain, and although she didn’t usually go to the dawn ritual, at the moment she felt the need for the familiar touch of the gods’ minds.
The altar was surrounded with worried faces, but they were glad to see her. Elva prayed with them and the gods were there, right enough, so she reassured the Valuers about that, and it was like any dawn ritual, except that afterward the gods didn’t leave, but streamed toward the young man, Thyme, who had brought her food on her last visit. He stood shyly at the back, alone. Elva wasn’t sure if he was aware of the gods, but they certainly loved him, and she smiled at him as she went back to the cottage, too tired to talk to him right now. He looked confused to be singled out, and she felt maternal toward him. Mabry always laughed at her for that: “You’d mother the whole world if you could,” he teased, and it was true enough, she sometimes thought. This boy looked as if he could do with some mothering.
In the later morning, after a nap, it was cloudy enough for Elva to go outside, as long as she wore a hat to shield her eyes from glare. With not much surprise, she found Thyme sitting on a log down by the mill stream drawing with a stick of charcoal on the back of a smooth board. The curve of water and the turbulence where the millrace met the main stream were taking shape under his hand. She had seen Mabry work like this, silent and concentrated on the wood he carved, but this boy reminded her more of Ash, the Prowman, as he had stood in front of them one night, reciting poems with such power that she had seemed to hear and feel and even smell everything he described.
“Thyme,” she said. He jumped and turned, an expression of alarm vanishing when he saw who it was.
She sat down beside him on the cool wood and smiled reassuringly. He was only about the same age as her youngest, Gorse, about fifteen, maybe, and still mightily shy of strangers.
“I have a question for you,” she said. “Do the gods speak to you?”
He flushed, and ducked his head.
“My da says prayin’s women’s work,” he muttered, in a thick northern accent. “He reckons gods don’t do no one no good, it’s hard work gets results.”
Wonderful.
“And I suppose he doesn’t approve of your drawing, either?” Elva asked.
He shrugged, that one-shouldered shrug young ones use to agree without committing themselves to words.
“Your da is right, in some ways,” she said. He hadn’t expected that; his head came up in astonishment. “The gods won’t help those who don’t work; and they don’t really care all that much about individual humans unless those humans are special, somehow.” She paused, let the silence deepen. “As you are special.” He blinked with shy pleasure. “You speak to the gods, don’t you, Thyme?”
He nodded, his head going back down again, half-ashamed and half-excited.
“Excellent,” she said briskly. “We are going to need you.”
He sat up and brushed the unruly yellow hair from his eyes. “Why?” This time his voice was high and unguarded, like the boy he was.
“It will get colder, and colder still, and at some point we will have to fight, to hold Ice at bay. I will be the center of the fight, at the fort, but we will all have to work together. The gods here will tell you when the time comes, and what you have to do, but you must be ready to do it, no matter what your da says—or everyone here might die.”
His eyes were huge.
“But—”
“I’ve spoken to the council here; they know what to expect. You’ll have support.”
That scared him almost as much as it reassured him. Elva smiled and patted his arm, put on her best mam’s voice.
“Don’t worry, lad, we’ll be fine. Just don’t go too far afield. Make sure you’re where you can hear the gods.”
He nodded, struck dumb by the responsibility. Sometimes, Elva thought, your life changes in a few moments, who you are shifts completely, and that had just happened to him. “The gods trust you,” she said softly, “and so do I.”
As she left he stared blankly at his drawing, and then, as though compelled, began to sketch in the small curves of primroses on the bank. Emblems of spring. Of coming warmth. She hoped, for his sake, that the flowers would survive Ice.