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I choked upon it the first few times, my body refusing even so healthful a potion. But Aeredh patiently held the flask to my lips, and finally I was able to drink. Melting ice streamed from my mantle as well as Arn’s; we dripped upon the floor as if the river had returned. One of the point-helmed Elder had some skill as a healer; he bent to aid Eol, who had been laid upon a beautifully carven stone bench near a table crowded with implements, jars, and other things.
We had surprised them at a meal, perhaps. I could not tell.
I was placed upon a graceful wooden chair near the fireside, myseidhr-bag a sodden lump in my lap, Arneior lowering herself with a sigh onto a stool set nearby. She had no difficulty drinking and indeed took down quite a few flagons of Elder winterwine, each draught returning a bit more of her strength. She was pale, her freckles glaring no less than her dark eyes, and kept her spear closed in a hard grip. Any Elder who approached as if to take it from her met with a level look and the unheard sound of brushing feathers as the Wingéd Ones shone in her gaze.
It is always best not to try a shieldmaid’s temper.
Aeredh argued politely with Floringaeld and his lieutenant for what seemed an age. Finally, the Elder attempting to aid Eol gave orders for him to be propped up, and another small whitestone flask was produced. Efain massaged his captain’s throat to help the drink go down, and the healer Gaercis announced the heir of Naras was in no danger of dying.
“Strong, this one,” he added. “What made the wound? His kind should heal more swiftly.”
“A nagàth’s blade, broken in the flesh.” Daerith produced the shard from the lich’s sword for examination, and when the tale of it drawn free was told in swift words many of the Elder looked solemnly at Arneior and me.
Aeredh’s hand had healed, of course, but there were still thin white lines upon his palm and fingers where Arn’s spearblade had bit. “My own fault,” he admitted, mildly enough. “’Tis dangerous to touch a miracle while it is wrought, and the shieldmaiden is the ladyalkuine’s sworn protection.”
Arneior’s spear-haft bumped my knee. I was occupied in staying upright, but our gazes met.
My voice scraped like the bottom of a cask during a hard winter. “Are you…”
“Well enough,” she husked in return. “Youlook draggled and half-dead. What say they?”
There was no need to pretend incomprehension now. “Eol will live.” A great hot feeling poured through me as I gave voice to the news. I had, finally and at long last during our journey, succeeded at something. Or at least I had not failed completely, though the creditno doubt belonged more to the care of the Elder after my treatment of the wound, or to whatever restorative they had dosed him with. “And they are impressed by your temper.”
“As every man should be.” Her grin was a shadow of itself, but a scalding passed through me.
It was pure relief. My fingers and toes burned with fresh blood, the pain slightly ameliorated by the red drink. I was beginning to believe we had survived, and might not even be frost-kissed upon some numb extremity or another.
The vision of burned, shattered Dun Rithell rose before me again. I gripped the chair-arms, wishing I had enough strength to send one of my subtle selves flying to truly see. I hoped we would be left alone someplace warm and quiet to rest so I could perhaps dream of my mother; I was selfish enough to wish for comfort, though dreaming of others is to reassurethemupon waking.
Some further discussion waxed and waned; I simply sat where I was, breathing as deeply as possible. There were noorukharor liches trying to murder us, no monsters threatening life and sanity both, there was no snow or ice or wailing wind, and the light, while blue, was also powerful and clear like moonglow upon Tarnarya’s white hood.
I am no stranger to the cold paleness of winter, but at that moment I longed never to see ice again.
Finally, it was decided. Aeredh, Daerith, and scarred Efain—for it seemed ill to the Elder to decide the fate of Secondborn without at least one present to hear doom pronounced, and Eol was in no fit condition to attend royalty—were to be taken to this king Taeron, and the rest of us would be held awaiting the result of that meeting.
I might have insisted upon accompanying Efain, for I was the ally to the house of Naras, was I not? But I was too weary, the world a moving tapestry hung before my senseless, blinking gaze. There was some small excitement when a Guard of the Passage loomed nearby and gestured, as if to take Arn’s spear.
“Cease,” I heard myself say in the Old Tongue, sounding much like my mother when tired of her children’s wrangling. “She needs it, for she is sworn to my defense. And you are all men.”
“I had half forgotten you speak our tongue,” Soren said, and thoughhe had unbuckled his sword-belt, he had not yet placed the blade in an Elder’s keeping. “She speaks truth, my lord Aeredh, though it may well pain our pride.”
A short silence followed, during which Aeredh gazed steadily at Floringaeld, Arn stiffened, and the feather-brushing of the Wingéd lingered close about us both. I would not have put it past my shieldmaid to brawl, even in her condition. And I would have aided her all I could—which was not much from a chair, true.
Yet I would have tried.
Floringaeld studied us both for a long moment. “Leave the women their single weapon, then. It does no harm—though if you seek to strike one of my guards, Flame-hair, it will go ill for you.”
“Not half so ill as for any who seek to injure my Solveig.” Though she slumped upon a stool, one hand grasping her spear and the other clasped about a silver Elder goblet, Arneior managed to look near-regal. “Are you finished talking every matter to death, my lords? Myvolvaneeds rest; we do not complain of hospitable poverty, but ill greetings by great lords well able to care for travelers is another matter entirely.”
“Sharp tongues have the women of the South.” The corners of Floringaeld’s mouth twitched upward.
Aeredh laughed, and though the sound was weary, it was also full of grudging amusement. “That is a truth indeed.” Faint smiles were evident upon the wolves of Naras, and even the Elder of our group who would not accompany Aeredh handed over their weapons without demur.
Waterstone
Who can tell from whence doom springs? Did it have its source in the Crownless’s burdened return, or earlier with the son of Hrasimir? Did it come from the arrival of Maedroth, or of the sojourn of his mother with Ganaetir the Silent? Further back the woe may be traced, to the Enemy’s great theft, or to his betrayal of the Allmother before the world was made. Who, then, shall we blame? Even the Wise cannot say.
—Naciel Silverfoot
