Chapter Thirty-Three
The Farmstead in the Black Hills
Halithe just couldn’t stop; her sobs kept coming, deep and helpless until she could barely breathe.
Strong arms were wrapped around her and there was a soft humming in her ear. She pressed her burning face to cool silk and let it all out, the anger, the frustration, the tears.
Finally, she could gasp in a full breath, finally she calmed, and found herself seated on the bench, leaning into Ritathan.
He was the one holding her. She was soaking wet and miserable, her eyes hot and scratchy.
She rubbed at them to try to ease the discomfort and discovered Roth, on one knee in front of her, no more than an arm’s length away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his weathered face filled with dismay. “You took a stance, and had a fair grip, and I thought you knew—” he caught himself. “I made a mistake, Leeda.”
“So did I,” Ritathan’s voice was a rumble in her ear. “I should have warned you both, not just sat here, like a smug idiot.”
“With a bucket of water,” Roth said.
“With a bucket of water.” Halithe felt Ritathan’s chest heave as he sighed. “I knew there was a possibility but did not anticipate anything so…dramatic.” He hugged Halithe. “Flaming sword,” he said quietly in her ear. “So original.”
Halithe choked back a laugh, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
Roth sat back on his heels with a wry smile. “It was impressive,” he said, then gave her a mock stare. “But useless without skill with your fiery blade.”
Halithe nodded, feeling tears well up again as she hid her face in Ritathan’s robes.
“No one saw,” Ritathan said softly. “And the less talk about this, the better.”
“Agreed,” Roth said. “I’ll just clear the ashes.” Halithe heard his boot against the gravel as he rose to his feet. “We can figure out the rest later.”
Halithe felt Ritathan nod.
She sighed then, feeling numb and drained. Ritathan’s arms were warm; they sat in silence as Roth walked away.
“He scared you,” Ritathan whispered. “You defended yourself.”
Halithe nodded against his chest. “I wanted to hurt him,” she whispered, horrified at the memory. “I was so angry…”
“With Roth?” Ritathan asked.
“No.” She weakly shook her head. “With—I don’t know.” She rubbed her nose with her sleeve.
Ritathan hummed and didn’t say anything. Just waited.
“I think he was just the poor bastard standing in front of me,” Halithe admitted.
“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Ritathan said.
The words burst out of her. “It’s just that, it’s all so confusing. I don’t know what I want, I don’t know what that was and I don’t know what to do and everyone is so nice, and—”
“Breathe,” Ritathan said.
“Everywhere else I feel judged and here I feel—” Halithe closed her eyes, struggling to find the words. “Wanted.” She bit her lip. “Accepted.”
Ritathan tightened his arms around her and she sighed, relaxing into his warmth.
“When you first appeared at the door of my chambers, demanding to be taught,” Ritathan started, “I figured that it would be a passing interest. That you would take a few lessons and then gradually lose interest, as so many do.
“You persisted.” He chuckled. “And I thought, ah, maybe you would be a true apprentice to me. Part of my legacy.” He paused.
“Now,” he tightened his arms again, “now, I want for you what you want, Leeda.
Whatever that might be. I want you to see the possibilities and reach for them.
You have a chance here, and time, with no fear, no judgement, no expectations from anyone. Including me.
“I find I do not want a fake Ritathan or a stifled Leeda. I want an authentic Halithe, strong and confident and true to herself.”
Halithe raised her head to look at him. “Even if I don’t become a mage?”
“Even so,” Ritathan said as he hugged her again. “It’s all right to be confused and scared. You are far too young to have these answers.”
“You did,” Halithe sat up. “You knew what you wanted.”
“Did I?” Ritathan snorted. “Maybe I was blinded by the power I sought.” He pulled back and looked her in the eye. “Better?”
She nodded, suddenly realizing that their clothes were dry. The bucket at Ritathan’s feet was full again. She looked at him.
“I told the water to return to the bucket,” he said. “Neat trick, yes?” He danced his eyebrows at her.
Halithe laughed as Roth returned to the courtyard, two wooden swords in hand. He stood before them, giving Halithe a careful look. “I thought maybe we should start with the basics,” he said. “How to defend yourself.” He coughed. “Without flames.”
Halithe hesitated, looked at Ritathan.
“I think you should,” he said. “Emotional control is important and it comes in part from facing your fears. Rage is all well and good, but it blinds you when you need to see clearly.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Besides, I have no desire to string onions.”
Roth extended the wooden sword toward her, hilt out.
Halithe took a deep breath and took it in one hand.
“Okay,” Roth said. “The first thing is your stance,” he said, moving to stand beside her. “Dominant foot toward your opponent, the other at an angle, knees bent, butt tucked in. Remember,” he added. “Bent knees are safe knees.”
To Halithe’s joy, the days and weeks flowed past with ease. She was proud of her work, all of it. The ease of the chores, being part of a…family, it made her…happy.
Even history lessons.
One day, when the rain and wind kept them all indoors, Orval had Rosalind come to the class. She arrived carrying a thick roll of fabric in both hands.
“This is the oldest tapestry we know of,” she said as she rolled it out on the large table where the maps were usually displayed. “It wasn’t hung in the Palace, due to its age, and well, the subject matter.”
The picture was of a golden airion fighting a black wyvern, each circling the other, going at with tooth and claw. It was clear the wyvern was getting the worst of it, with many wounds oozing bright red blood.
“The colors are so bright,” Dayva breathed as she leaned over it.
“It’s simply woven,” Rosalind said, “but the knotwork on the edges is intricate and rare. I’m fairly sure it’s horse hair.” She gestured toward the bottom. “See here?”
Halithe studied the images of tents and horses grazing in long grasses. “There are no buildings,” she said.
“Which is part of what leads us to think that this tapestry is very old and might pre-date the Golden Age,” Orval said.
He leaned against the table; his leg was probably aching and his limp was definitely more pronounced on cold, wet days like this.
“It raises so many questions,” he said as he gently touched the airion’s bright gold head.
Aramal’s voice floated up through the window. “Lads, if you be done, I could use some help in the forge.”
At Orval’s nod, the boys took off.
“How could something that old last so long?” Dayva asked.
“Because someone cared to preserve it,” Rosalind said softly.
That didn’t seem likely. Halithe frowned, opened her mage sense, then bit her lip.
She waited until Dayva left before catching Rosalind’s eye. “I think Papa should see this.”
“Why? Rosalind asked.
“Because it’s glowing.”
“Well, well, well,” Ritathan stared at the tapestry, arms folded over his chest. He was wearing his grey tunic and brown trous, having put his silk robes away. But he didn’t look any less intimidating.
They’d waited until after the evening meal, when Dayva and the rest had left for their homes.
Rosalind was staring at him anxiously. “It never occurred to me that it might be magical. Although that might explain the vivid colors.”
“Hmm,” Ritathan said. “It could be a form of preservation.” He brushed his fingers over the woven threads. “But that seems unlikely that it would be just that.” He shrugged. “It’s a lot of effort to just protect a cloth, no matter how lovely. More interesting is that it’s still potent.”
“What does that mean?” Halithe asked.
“Our skills are used to shape the world,” he said. “But once shaped, the power leaves just traces of its use and those fade rather quickly.”
“A candle snuffed out wouldn’t glow?” Halithe asked.
“How would you know?” Her Papa raised an eyebrow. “Have you looked?”
Halithe blushed.
“But yes, exactly.” Ritathan turned back to Rosalind. “This is not a secret I can pry open. Nor do I think it was meant for us.” He shrugged. “Roll it back up and keep it safe.”
“It’s not dangerous?” Rosalind asked.
“It hasn’t killed anyone yet, so I doubt it.” He shook his head to reassure her. “No, I sense no threat.” He tilted his head. “Why have I never seen this before?”
“It wasn’t displayed in the Palace,” Rosalind started to roll it. “I feared that hanging might hurt it, and well, once King Xywellan wanted to reconcile with the Wyverns, he thought—”
“A bright picture of one being torn to shreds might make the wrong statement.” Ritathan nodded. “What of the others?”
“They are in storage here. A locked spare room. Perhaps you should check them?” Rosalind asked.
“Yes,” Ritathan said. “Now.”
“I’ll get the key.” Rosalind hurried out the door.
It took but a moment to scan the pile of rolled tapestries. Rosalind offered to roll them out, but her Papa shook his head. “No,” he said. “There’s nothing here to see.” He turned away. “We’ll help you roll up that one and then you should lock it back up.”
Rosalind nodded and left the room.
Ritathan stared down at the pile.
“Do you think that maybe, it’s tied to the Blood somehow?” Halithe asked softly.
“A very good question,” Ritathan said. “To which I have no answer. But you said that the Lord High Baron touched it, yes?” At Halithe’s nod, he smiled. “A puzzle, then. Perhaps you will solve it one day.” He mock frowned at her. “After you have learned to put the water back in the bowl.”
Halithe sighed.