Made for This

We fled the Gasping that terrible day, and what remnant reached the Taurain found the Greycloak’s folk riding to save who they could. Shelter we sought in the great forest past the plain, and not for the last time. Yet below those boughs is dusk perpetual, and no mortal may bear the dimming for long. When we judged the danger less we went forth to rebuild, little by little, aided by our Elder neighbors. For we are Faithful, and well they know it—and the curse did not fall upon them.

—Hravald the Second, Lord of Tavaan

Southward we struck, and though I knew Arn and I would never see home again it still cheered me to be wending that direction. The woods were thick, the snow packed and frozen enough for solid footing. Though shadows lingered between the trees, daylight was a blessing—and besides, ’twas downhill. These hills fell from high peaks of the Spur which had cradled Laeliquaende, meeting the immense wall of the Marukhennor to the north, east, and west yet distinct from those terrible crags.

Taeron and his folk had hidden next to their Enemy’s land like a dagger to his thigh.

I barely saw the trees. The mare’s gait was easy indeed, though at every step I feared the weight might prove too much and she would founder. Yet her hooves did not sink into the snow more than any of her coevals’, and come the nooning I near-fell from the saddle into Arn’s waiting arms.

She caught me as if I weighed little, and set me upon my feet. My legs buckled with the jolt, the thing in my chest twitching, but after a few moments the weakness faded somewhat and I found, carefully placing my slippers, that I could balance upon the snow-crust.

I held my breath, dreading to break through and be sent sprawling. Arn’s boots were light, but she and the Northerners left definite tracks. My prints were barely visible.

Like Aeredh’s.

I thought I would be called upon to offer seidhr-aid to the horses as I had before, but Yedras and Daerith went to each in turn, stroking their legs and speaking quietly in their ears. I was left standing useless, for Arn and the black-clad men of Naras were occupied with checking each other’s armor and equipage now that we had ridden some initial distance, buckles and weapons inspected so they would not fail at sudden later need.

Aeredh halted beside me, blinking against snowy grey daylight and producing a flask carved from soft white stone. “Sitheviel,” he said, quietly. “How… forgive me for asking, but how does it…”

How does it feel? As if I have swallowed a live coal, and it sits between my lungs.“Uncomfortable.” I had to search for the word in southron; the Old Tongue wanted to bolt free of my throat. “Heavy.” Concentration was necessary to lift the container; the summery sweetness of Elder restorative filled my mouth, slid down my throat. It assuaged the burning for a moment, but only that.

“Can we… is there aught that would aid you?” He had never sounded so anxious before, and I did not like the change. If he became tentative, how would the rest of us fare?

How would I?

I shook my head, and my fingers were clumsy upon the stopper. I looked past him, at the trees surrounding this tiny clearing. Both evergreens and the winter-naked others bore white shells, yet the wind was not so sharp as it would have been a moonturn ago. Under the metallic edge of freeze another scent lingered, the earth not quite waking but stirring in its bed, not quite yawning but hearing the clatter of another season’s work approach.

A gleam of seidhr limned every trunk, trembled upon each bough like the glow upon a living mortal or over distant summer fields. Small stealthy sounds tiptoed around us, a patter of tiny feet and the snapflutter of small wings. It was like being atop Redhill again, though the music of living things there had ridden the early edge of new-winter freeze.

I could hear almost everything, including the strong slow pulses of Elder heartbeats, the near-soundless steps of the Northerners, and Arn’s breathing soft and quick, the clink of metal as she tightened a buckle for Efain. I heard hares scratching amid the snow, foxes leaping from drift to drift, birds dodging heavy spatters shaken from branches where their larger cousins lighted or flightless tree-dwelling creatures ran upon roads far above the forest floor.

The earth was waking, atremble on the cusp of melt. My subtle selves quivered alike, and but for the sitheviel’s warmth I could have stepped free of my flesh and flown as well.

“Solveig?” A hand on my arm, strength humming through fingers careful not to squeeze too tightly. The shadowmantle’s cloth slipped slightly under his grasp; startled, I found myself returned to a snowbound glade, the activity of a nooning-halt nearing its end. Across the clearing Daerith stroked a horse’s face, murmuring in a tilted ear; a tail like a waterfall twitched as he whispered.

I could almost hear the words.

It was fishgutting distracting. I lifted my right hand, gazed at the fingers. Thin threads of weirding branched through bone and tendon, blood-channel and muscle. At least the shadowy cloth made my arm look natural and reasonable again.

“I am seeing things,” I murmured. “Hearing, too.” It took fresh effort to remember southron speech. “The weirding is very strong.”

“Lithielle wore it upon a necklace.” Aeredh’s tone was very gentle, all things considered. Some attempt had been made to trim the evidence of charring from his hair, and the disorder made him look the youth we had thought him in Dun Rithell. “But you are alkuine. I did not think… do you doubt now?”

“Did you know it would do this?” I forced my attention away from the song of small lives and restless-sleeping trees around us, my hand dropping forgotten to my side.

“I do not know precisely what it has done.”

Well, at least he did not pretend. Since he was disposed to answer a question or two, I settled on the most important. “How am I to use this thing?”

“I do not think it can be used.” He let the flask dangle from one hand, watching me closely. “Even Faevril only wore his greatest works, and the Enemy as well. If there is some power in the Jewels other than the hallowing and their beauty, I cannot say.”

I did not like the thought that their Enemy had worn something now burrowed into my very body. In fact, the thought filled me with queasy revulsion, and the weight in my chest grew sharp as if it longed to burst free, eating its way out with small sharp granary-mice nibbles.

“Sol?” Arneior was at my other side now, her spearblade bright in grey noonlight. She glared at the Elder. “Come. Time to mount again.”

Oh, gods.Another eternity atop a horse. Hot water gathered in my eyes, but there was no help for it.

Why would Aeredh do what he had done, bringing me through such danger to Taeron’s city, risking so much, when he did not even know what the curst thing was meant to accomplish in the hands of an alkuine?

Of course, it was not properly in my hands, but that was beside the point.

The urge to sink onto the snow, weep-screaming, and kick like a youngling in tantrum was only held back by the knowledge that the thing nesting in my ribs would hurt even more if I acted thus. Even as a child I had not behaved so; no daughter of Gwendelint’s would dare, especially under Albeig our housekeeper’s eye. And by four summers high I was already training with Idra.

“My lady,” Aeredh said. “The Blessed made you for this. Of that I have no doubt.”

Little comfort that was. Arn’s lip curled, and her glare deepened. “Have you not done enough?” she said, quietly but with great force. “Leave my charge be, Elder.”

He stood upon the snow, the small glowing-white flask in his hand, and watched as she shepherded me away.

Downhill the Elder horses moved, as the sun fell upon its own course. We rode past sunset, until the last scrap of light was pressed from the sky, and from the grim looks the men exchanged I could guess why. Arneior was silent and watchful, keeping her mount close to mine. The two were in step more often than not, sounding more like one beast instead of a pair.

When we halted I thought I would be called upon to light the fire, for that had been my duty during our earlier travels. Instead, Arn and I were left standing while the others attended to making camp; Aeredh kindled aelflame with flint-and-steel. Winter-lean coneys had been hunted by the men of Naras. The smell of roasting meat should have been comforting, yet it turned my stomach; instead, Daerith brought a wineskin and a small wooden goblet carved with fluid Elder designs.

“Here.” He took care to speak in southron, and his leaf-stamped boots of Laeliquaende make rested easily upon swept-clean, frozen earth. “Springwine, my lady alkuine. There is enough and to spare; take what you need.”

“Do you not wish for—” Arneior looked alarmed, but I shook my head and accepted the Elder draught instead. The Northerners appeared, took a few bites, and disappeared into the darkness by pairs, melding into latewinter night. By the time I had finished my second measure of springwine fir boughs had been taken, shaken free of snow, and piled to provide a blanket-draped bed for us, and such was her exhaustion my shieldmaid fell asleep near-immediately, still in her boots, her spear easily to hand.

I had managed to find a reclining position that did not overly disturb the thing I carried, and stared at the small circle of tree-choked sky I could see. The clouds were pale and thick, yet I could distinguish tiny struggling points among them, like candleflames in distant windows upon a summer evening.

Except the flames were silver, not the warm gold of beeswax or tallow. Watching them helped, as did Arn’s steady warmth.

But not enough.

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