Greendaughter (Book 6) (2 page)

Val was of a mind to be especially pleasing, and Chyrie was glad of the peace-laws of the Forest Altars, for otherwise surely her cries would have brought enemies upon them. It was some time before they rested, panting and slick with sweat, on the passion-warmed stone.

“I was wrong,” Chyrie whispered, nuzzling Valann’s beard. “I fear even a bear might find cause for jealousy of my much-furred mate.”

(Well enough,)
Valann told her silently, not wasting breath to speak,
(for I have little mind to seek a bear for you now. You will have to be satisfied with my attentions.)

Chyrie moved a little to kiss him.

(Of those I am more than pleased—but not yet satisfied. It will be many days before I know whether your seed has put life in my womb.)

Val’s hands moved over her with renewed passion.

“Then we must take every opportunity to assure it,” he murmured against her mouth.

Suddenly he froze, his head tilting to listen as leaves rustled to the south.

(What?)
Chyrie asked quickly.

(Perhaps only an animal,)
he returned, reaching for his sword before he realized that in the safety of the altars they had left them beside their pallets.
(Still, best be safe. I have not your thought-sense. What do you—)

His thought cut off abruptly as his body was suddenly torn away from her. A huge form filled Chyrie’s vision, and for a moment her mind could make no sense of the impressions that bombarded her: a roar of fury; the scent of unwashed human flesh and poorly cured furs; the sound of Val hitting the earth, the fiery pain in his head that echoed in her own; a flurry of motion to her right as two more humans leaped from the bushes; and the welling terror in her own mind as a gigantic hand seized her throat.

There was no time to react. Chyrie struggled for breath, her nails clawing at the fingers encircling her neck; her feet sought for purchase as she simultaneously sent a silent scream for help to anyone or anything who might receive it. The human’s face, grizzled and huge, was only handspans from her own; his breath was foul, and his eyes held a gleam Chyrie instantly understood.

She had no breath to scream, but still she fought with the blind instinct of a fox caught in a trap. Blindly she lashed out with feet and hands, eliciting a yelp of pain from her captor. His free hand came up, and there was an explosion of pain in her head—

—then nothing.

Chapter Two

Slowly, with difficulty, Chyrie fought her way up from the darkness. The pain in her body—head, throat, chest, and loins—gave mute testimony of the violence done to her. Grimly she used the pain to anchor her to a world that floated and reeled drunkenly under her.

For a moment she could not sense Val, and the panic brought her to consciousness. Immediately she found his thoughts—he was nearby—and simultaneously a voice spoke in clumsy, heavily accented Olvenic.

“Be still. You’re safe.”

Chyrie’s eyes flew open. Looming above her was a human face framed in yellow hair—a human face! Suddenly came the awareness that her hands were bound in front of her, not tightly, but securely. Panic replaced thought—she struggled wildly, and would have screamed if her tortured throat had allowed anything more than a hoarse, painful croak.

“I said be still.” Strong hands came down on her shoulders, easily overcoming her weakened movements. The human was now recognizable as female, clad in leather, her blue eyes grim. “No harm will come to you. We bound you because you were—” Her huge brow furrowed. “You were lost in dreams, and we thought you would hurt yourself. Lie still and I’ll free you.”

Chyrie set her jaw and obeyed, and the human’s hands moved to the bindings at Chyrie’s wrists. Another human appeared beside her, a similarly colored male, saying something in a guttural language Chyrie could not understand. The woman nodded and replied in the same tongue.

Chyrie slithered free of the last of the thongs and bolted upright, ignoring the human’s protest and the red-hot streaks of agony that the motion brought.

(Valann!)

(Chyrie!)
Immediately he was at her side. There was a large bruise covering half his face and disappearing into his black hair, but he was alive.
(Be still, love. You are much hurt.)

Chyrie clutched desperately at him.
(Val—the humans—)

Val held her carefully
. (I do not know what they want of us. They came quickly and killed those who hurt you. They tended my head with magic and the female, a sort of healer, tended you. They bound me at first, but released me after I swore I would not flee. I feared for your life.)

The female human, now joined by two males and another female, had been watching them curiously; now she took up a wooden cup and extended it slowly.

“Drink this,” she said to Chyrie, speaking slowly. “It will ease your throat. You can see we offer you no danger.”

Chyrie sniffed the cup distrustfully. It contained only herbs she knew well, so she acquiesced when Val held the cup to her lips. The potion was bitter, but some of the pain in her throat eased as she drank.

When she had swallowed the last of the medicine, she pushed Val’s hand away and looked about her. They were at their own campsite; the deer were gone, but the packs lay where they had been left. Near the altar lay the bodies of three human males dressed in crude skins, their own hides black with blood. There was more blood splashed on the altar.

Now that she had a chance to look more closely at the humans who had captured them, Chyrie saw to her surprise that they did not all look alike, as she had expected. The female who had first spoken to her was smaller and slighter than the other three, with amazingly light yellow hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. Her features were almost delicate for a human, and although it was difficult to guess ages in humans, she seemed young.

The second human male she had seen was also yellow-haired, although the yellow of his hair was darker than that of the female, as was his skin. His features were stronger, and his dark gray eyes were keen.

The other male and female maintained their distance, so it was more difficult to see them. They were both dark brown of hair and dark of skin, more sturdily built and heavily muscled than the fair humans, and taller in stature. The woman had laughing brown eyes. The male had a beard as Valann did, and more—hair grew between his nose and upper lip, too, and over his cheeks. When he saw Chyrie looking at him, he glared back.

Besides the four humans, there were six horses—Chyrie had heard them described but had never before seen one—heavily laden with leather bags and tethered with ropes to the trees.

Chyrie coughed and spat apprehensively, but although her throat was painful her spittle was clear. She clutched Val’s hand and faced the human woman squarely.

“What do you want of us?” she rasped fearfully.

“For now only your safety,” the woman said, her eyes meeting Chyrie’s without flinching. “Later we’ll talk. I’m sorry for what happened to you. Those men were—I don’t know your word. Not of our own folk, meaning violence against us.”

“Out-kin,” Val said.

The woman nodded.

“They and others attacked us and killed four of ours six days ago,” she continued. “We killed five, and these three fled. We’ve been tracking them since then, hoping to capture them and force them to explain their presence here. I’m Rivkah. My friends are Romuel, Sharl, and Ria—Doria.” She pointed to the two males and the other female in turn. “Will you tell us your names?”

Val glanced at Chyrie and shrugged.

“I am Valann, my mate is Chyrie. We are Wilding. If you mean us no harm, let us go.”

“Your woman can’t travel yet,” Rivkah said. “I’ve exhausted my healing magic until I rest. And it’s not for me to decide. Sharl is our leader.” She nodded in the direction of the younger, fair-haired man.

“He is not
our
leader,” Chyrie said hoarsely. “He has no voice over us. Why does he not speak himself?”

“You are not Wilding,” Val retorted. “We owe you nothing.”

Rivkah frowned, then spoke to Sharl in his language. For some moments they spoke back and forth, and at last Rivkah turned back to them.

“Sharl says that you should be grateful that we helped you, when we had no need to do so,” Rivkah said. “He also says that you should remember that you gave your word you wouldn’t leave.”

“He dreams, to think my word binds me until his whim gives me back my freedom,” Val growled. “Gratitude he might have, were it all I thought he would ask. And my mate gave no word at all. Let her at least go free.”

“I tell you, she can’t be moved,” Rivkah said wearily. “Tomorrow I can use my magic again. Wait until then, at least.”

“She needs no human magic,” Valann growled, placing one hand on Chyrie’s aching head and the other on her abdomen.

Chyrie ground her teeth but made no sound as liquid fire shot through her body. She was accustomed to Val’s healing touch, but he had not had to use such power on her since she took an arrow in the shoulder during a Silvertip raid nearly three decades ago. At last the sensation faded, and with it most of her pain, although a lingering ache remained in her ribs when she breathed.

(Forgive me, love,)
Valann thought wearily, panting as he rested his head on her shoulder.
(I did not mean to hurt you. And my healing is not strong enough to mend cracks in bone.)

She stroked his hair.

(It makes no difference. Our Gifted One can treat me, and in the meantime, a tight wrapping will suffice. I can travel; how long need we linger here?)

(Let us stay the night,)
Valann told her after a moment’s thought.
(We should learn why these humans are here in the forest, where they are bound, and whether there may be others. The Eldest must know of it.)

“Is your husband a healer?” Rivkah asked, oblivious to the unspoken conversation.

Chyrie raised one eyebrow, but said, “My mate is a fine healer, second only to our Gifted One.”

“Your—mate?” Rivkah asked, stumbling over the Olvenic word. “I don’t know that word. What’s that?”

“We were mated, our spirits joined as one, when Chyrie finished her training and passed her trials of adulthood,” Valann said with a frown. “What is this word ‘husband’?”

Rivkah again exchanged words with the others, then turned back to Val.

“A husband is a woman’s permanent companion, bound by oaths between them that they’ll remain faithful to each other throughout their lifetimes, taking no other lovers until one of them dies,” she said. “Romuel is Doria’s husband. I don’t know the word for it in your language.”

“Because there is none,” Val said impatiently. “We take no such oaths, else those who are of barren seed would fare poorly indeed. Mating is a matter of spirits. What has that to do with coupling?”

Rivkah shook her head dubiously. “It’s different with our kind.”

(That gives me cheer,)
Val thought sourly.
(It would ill suit us to behave so foolishly.)

“Is Sharl your—‘husband’?” Chyrie asked curiously.

“No.” Rivkah flushed darkly, glancing briefly at him and as quickly away. “Why do you ask?”

“His scent is strong upon you.” Chyrie shrugged, amused when Rivkah blushed again.

“What do you want of us?” Val asked aloud, his eyes warning Chyrie against pursuing an apparently offensive line of questioning that might incite the humans to violence.

“Stay at least for the night,” Sharl urged. “Share our supper and speak with us, that’s all.”

Val shrugged. “For this night, then, but no more. Then nothing binds us, agreed?”

Rivkah spoke to the fair-haired Sharl, and he answered in a manner that seemed to trouble the healer. For several moments they appeared to argue; then Rivkah sighed and nodded resignedly.

“Agreed,” she said, but she sounded unhappy.

“Agreed,” Sharl repeated more firmly.

The dark-haired male and female, Rom and Doria, unloaded parcels from the horses and spread out sleeping pallets, building a fire and preparing food. Sharl paced the area nervously, peering often into the forest.

“Be at peace,” Chyrie said irritably to Sharl. “There is no one about.”

“He fears that other elves might attack us,” Rivkah explained, brewing tea. “We’re so few now.”

“None would touch him here,” Chyrie told her. “This is a place of peace. Or was,” she added, glancing at the human corpses befouling the altar. “You were ill-advised to come here.”

“This is some sort of... sanctuary?” Sharl asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Val said warily. “It is a place of worship. But not for you. No peace bond will keep the other clans from driving you forth should you remain here long, especially as you and your kind have dared shed blood here.”

“What are those markers?” Sharl asked, gesturing at something beyond the perimeter of the camp. Val helped Chyrie to her feet and they went to look, leaving Rivkah preparing the food.

“It is but a symbol to mark the boundaries of the Moon Lake clan,” Val said, shrugging. “There are none about now.”

When they returned to the fire, a haunch of plainsbeast was roasting, and Rivkah had poured mugs of wine.

“We brought our own food and drink,” Valann said, looking warily at the mug Rivkah gave him.

“You think we’d poison you?” Rivkah asked, shocked. “Why would we do that, after saving you? We’re offering you our hospitality and friendship.”

Val scowled dubiously, but the elven custom of food and fire made it inexcusable to refuse and he sipped gingerly, although he omitted the customary reply. To Rivkah’s consternation, however, Chyrie refused her cup and took Val’s.

“Mates share a cup,” Chyrie growled at the human’s expression. “It is our way.” The wine was an odd-tasting brew, less pleasant than their own, but, like Val, Chyrie could not quite bring herself to the rudeness of refusing food and fire.

Rivkah watched, troubled, as they shared the wine, and glanced once uneasily at Sharl, who shrugged.

As the meat cooked, they cut away slabs of it. For the most part, Valann and Chyrie sat like stone, half listening as the humans conversed in their guttural language. At last Val spoke.

“You wished to pass words with us,” he said dryly at last. “Do so or we will retire for the rest of the night, and at dawn we take our own path.”

Rivkah looked at the ground for a moment, then spoke quietly to Sharl. He spoke back at some length, but this time Chyrie watched the healer’s expression.

(Something is amiss,)
she told Valann
. (I sense deceit here. Be ready, if there is trouble.)

Valann’s slightly bored expression never changed, but his thoughts were edged with cold anger.

(Ah, these humans,)
his thoughts fairly growled
. (Had I not tongue-tried the wine I would indeed believe it poisoned. I am ready.)

“We hoped that the wine and food would loosen your tongues,” Sharl said. “We wanted to learn your business here, out of your clan’s territory.”

Valann scowled. “Whatever our business, it is our own to pursue and no concern of yours. Be warned that you will not loosen our tongues either by wine or by fair words cloaking deceit. Say what you will and be done.”

A frown of annoyance troubled the human’s face, quickly concealed.

“This, then,” he said at last. “We are traveling through your forest to join in the building of a great city to the south and west. It is of great importance that we reach it without delay; there is no time to pass around the forest’s border. It is my wish to hire your services to guide us through the elven places, lest the elves attack or capture us.”

Chyrie laughed. “Even were we willing to agree, human, we would be no use to you. We are Wilding, and you pass not through Wilding lands, and other clans care nothing for us, nor we for them. They would as gladly strike us down as you. And even did you pass through Wilding land, we have no special voice there to shield you from the wrath of others. That you slew other humans to my benefit would not buy you passage through our territory, and to other elves you have not even that poor excuse for favor.”

“Is there no agreement of safe conduct between the elves?” Rivkah asked. “You mentioned that this place was safe to all.”