Greendaughter (Book 6) (6 page)

Chyrie was silent, but Valann bent over the map.

“Silvertip is here,” he said, touching the skin. “Lightfoot here, Riverside here”—he glanced at Chyrie, and she gazed back, troubled—“and Wilding here.”

Dusk silently penned in the symbols at the indicated locations.

“I can only hope that other clans will help,” Rowan said. “Dusk, warn what clans we can, and we will send messages as others respond. And add to the warning to the Wilding clan the message that Valann and Chyrie are safe and well.”

“And us?” Chyrie asked. “What are we to do now?”

“For now, go and enjoy an evening with my people,” Rowan said kindly. “They see your arrival as a sign from the Mother Forest, and I am inclined to believe it is true. I promise you justice for the wrongs done to you, and I promise you safety among my people.”

“Thank you, Grandmother,” Valann said, dipping his head.

“Thank you, Grandmother,” Chyrie repeated. She let Val help her up. “And what of the humans?”

Rowan looked sternly at each of the humans in turn.

“Very well,” she said at last. “You may also go. Remember that your word is given, and there will be eyes watching you.”

Sharl rose and bowed again.

“Thank you—Grandmother.”

Valann and Chyrie glanced at each other and grimaced, but Rowan let the presumptuous claim of kinship pass.

“Go, all of you,” she said. “I have much thinking to do.”

“How WILL YOU send messages more quickly than a beast could carry them?” Valann asked Dusk as they left the hut and walked toward the bustle of elves at the central clearing.

“There are other Gifted among us,” Dusk said. “We will combine our strength to raise the very forest spirits from the roots of the Mother Forest to bear our words. They travel faster than thought, and sending the messages thus will assure the clans of our sincerity.”

“We have experimented with mages combining their power, and achieved wonderful results,” Rivkah said, her eyes lighting with interest.

“You do ample damage alone,” Valann said sourly. “The Mother Forest protect us if more like you should come.”

Rivkah winced as if struck, and was silent.

The excited murmur of the busy elves swelled into a confused babble of excited greetings and questions as Valann and Chyrie approached. Edging warily around the humans, the elves pulled Valann and Chyrie here and there, some embracing them, others just wanting to touch these oddly dressed strangers. At least twenty different elves tried to press goblets, pipes, bowls of fruit and nuts, or joints of meat into their hands; as many more draped gifts of bead, bone, or tooth-and-claw necklaces or bright garlands of flowers over their heads. Valann and Chyrie, having never received so energetic a welcome even from their own clan, were more dismayed than pleased by the excitement and were glad to retreat to a quiet corner to eat and watch Rowan’s clan celebrate. A little more hesitantly, the elves offered the humans food and wine.

“I have never seen the like,” Chyrie murmured to Valann, watching a handful of elves dance to the enthusiastic if not well-matched talent of nearly twice as many musicians. “Look—Redoak and Owl clan dancing together, and over there, Moon Lake and Inner Heart sharing cup. Do you think—can they be mates?”

“Indeed they are,” a stick-slender female elf said, sitting down beside Chyrie. She was apparently Redoak, judging by her pale skin and the fiery red braid hanging down her back. “Welcome, kinsfolk. I am Brena. There are many mates between the clans now. It is one of the reasons our clan accepted Rowan’s offer to join the clans. Many of us are barren. There had been no children born to Redoak for nearly two decades.”

“But you have hopes,” Chyrie observed, gesturing at the green band wrapping the elf’s arm.

“I have hopes.” Brena paused. “Is it true that you have two seeds growing in your womb?”

“Dusk says it is true,” Chyrie said. “I have no reason to doubt him, but I can scarce believe it.”

“I would ask—” Brena fell silent again, glancing at Valann. “We know nothing of Wilding customs, but those of us who wear the green cord tonight will dance the High Circle, and I would ask—”

Valann laughed.

“I am honored, of course, kinswoman,” he said. “Why would you hesitate to ask?”

“Customs differ between clans.” A tall male, bearing a striking resemblance to Brena, joined them, bearing a joint of roasted fowl. “We have heard it said that some clans couple only with their mates, like—” He glanced at the humans. “I am Suan, and Brena is my mate. It would be a great kindness if the mate of one touched by the Mother Forest would serve at her High Circle.”

Val turned to Chyrie. “You will be all right alone?” he asked tenderly.

 “Hardly alone.” Chyrie smiled. “Go and welcome. May you sow the seeds of many strong young ones tonight.”

 “There is not one in this village who would not honor your mate,” Suan told Val. “She will lack for nothing we can provide her.”

“Then, as I said, I am honored. But be warned, for my insatiable vixen of a mate will exhaust every man in your village if she is let.” Val grinned. He kissed Chyrie before he stood. “You should dance for them, my own spirit.” He took Brena’s hand and let her lead him out of the firelit clearing.

“Is it true that you are a beast-speaker as well?” another elf asked Chyrie. “Gifted, and bearing child—two children? Are you an emissary of the Mother Forest?”

“It is true that I am a beast-speaker,” Chyrie said patiently. “That much I know. The turn of the seasons will prove or disprove the rest. I would be well content with but one healthy child. If the Mother Forest has chosen to bless me with two, I will find it as much a marvel as do you.”

“And look here,” Suan murmured, taking her hand and tracing the vine design on her arm. “I had heard that some clans make art on their very bodies, but I had never seen such. Is there more than this?”

In answer, Chyrie stretched out her legs in the firelight and pulled up the edge of her leggings, showing how the vines had twined up the smooth amber skin.

“Val has been working his art upon me for five decades,” Chyrie said, chuckling. “What he will do when I have no more undecorated skin, I do not know. Already my back is full covered. He tried to teach me the art, but I have no skill or patience for even the simplest of designs.”

“Did Val say you danced?” Rivkah asked eagerly. “Like that?” She gestured to the hard-packed ground, where the elves—now hard-pressed for breath—were still dancing.

“Not like that,” Chyrie admitted. “Wildings dance alone. I dance a sword dance.”

“Sword dance?” Sharl asked, finally breaking his brooding silence.

“How many swords?” Suan asked.

“Eleven,” Chyrie said. “Sometimes I can dance twelve, but I am only confident with eleven.”

“Eleven,” Suan repeated, impressed. “We have no sword dancers in the village now, and the last I saw could dance only eight. Would you possibly consent to dance for us? If you feel fit, of course, after your ordeal.”

“What is a sword dance?” Sharl repeated.

“I will show you,” Chyrie said, “if I may have the loan of ten swords.”

She could have had thirty if she wanted them, as every elf near her thrust scabbards at her. While the elves in the clearing finished their dance, Chyrie selected ten blades. When the clearing was empty, Chyrie took the blades out of the scabbards and placed them carefully at angles, one sharp edge hammered firmly into the earth with a wooden mallet, the other edge gleaming upright. When all eleven swords were set to her satisfaction, Chyrie put the scabbards and mallet aside, laid her boots, tunic, and leggings over a log, and stepped back out into the clearing. A murmur passed from elf to elf as firelight glistened off her amber skin and the full extent of Valann’s work became clear.

Starting at the soles of Chyrie’s feet, two moondrop vines twined upward around her legs, branching richly around her torso, thinning only at her neck, and shoots trailed down her arms. In some places the vines bore buds or flowers; in others the moondrop berries hung full and ripe. On some prescient whim, Valann had even chosen to depict a cluster of golden berries on Chyrie’s belly, which now swelled gently.

Chyrie nodded to the musicians, who began a slow but light beat, waiting for Chyrie to set the pace. Chyrie took a deep breath, engraved the pattern of the swords into her mind, and began to dance.

Valann had taught her the sword dance, as he had taught her so much else. He had thought the swiftness and energy of the sword dance more suited to Chyrie’s nature than the more delicate and ethereal dances more commonly danced by elven women. As usual, he had been right. Like most other beast-speakers, the wild blood was strong in Chyrie, and now it flowed fierce and hot in her veins. Strong and alive she felt, young and fast and free, her feet carried on the notes of the music, on moonlight and firelight, on the current of her blood, on the very wind as she danced. Her feet flickered precisely, yet ever more quickly, between the shining blades: like all life, balanced on the sharp edge of the blade.

Now the musicians had her rhythm, and the drums beat with the hot pulsing of her heart. Firelight flickered yellow and red off her skin, freely sheened with sweat. The patterns on her skin glowed like living things, the vines seeming to flex and coil around her arms and legs, leaves reaching to cup her small breasts. She felt the wild life of the Mother Forest reaching up from the earth, reaching for her, reaching for the children in her womb, flowing through her as it did whenever she touched the mind of bird or beast. For that one breathless moment, hanging suspended in time, she
was
the Mother Forest, she was the dancing feet of the Mother Forest, she was the Mother Forest made flesh, strong and wild and ripe with new life.

But she could not hold it, desperately though she tried. The fatigue and strain of the last few days was weighing down her limbs; soon her pace would fall off and her feet become unsteady. She felt a pang of reluctance; better to go on, better to hold the moment for a few last heartbeats. But no—one could spoil the dance by clinging to it past its moment. Regretfully she fell back into her body, back to the clearing, holding out just long enough for the music to reach the proper climax, and she leaped free of the blades.

There was a moment, crouching there on the hardened earth, where the pulse pounded in her ears so loudly that she could not hear. The first sound she heard, however, was another kind of pounding—the sound of elven feet, fists, and sticks striking the earth and the logs on which they sat as the elves cheered their approbation. Chyrie grinned, waved an arm weakly in reply, and stumbled out of the firelight circle, leaving other elves to collect their swords and return hers.

Suan met her with a bucket of cool water and an absorbent skin. While other dancers began a new circle, Chyrie washed as best she could, then simply dumped the rest of the water over her head before drying off. She reached for her clothes, only to discover that while she danced, someone had replaced her torn tunic and leggings, stained with travel dirt and dried blood, with fresh garments. The leather was moonlight-soft as Wilding work, but unlike the functional Wilding garments, these were decorated with patterns of marvelously colored dyes in every rainbow shade.

“They are nothing to match your own ornamentation”—Suan grinned slyly—“but we thought it appropriate.”

“The plants to make Valann’s dyes are rare,” Chyrie said, examining the patterns. “We would never have thought of using them on clothing. And you have colors, many colors we have never seen. Val would trade much for such colors if—” Chyrie fell silent. No matter what grandiose schemes for unity Rowan might have, she knew how unlikely it was that Wildings would ever agree even to trade with Inner Hearts. But something that would please Val so much—

“Your dancing was wonderful,” Rivkah said quietly. Chyrie turned, and to her amazement, the mage sat alone on the log, her face in her hands. When she took her hands away, the human’s face was wet with tears.

“Sharl and the others—they never saw anybody dance without—without clothes,” Rivkah murmured, not meeting Chyrie’s eyes. “He—they never spent as much time with the elves near us, and even they—they’re different. So he—they wouldn’t watch. I’ve got to go now. I just wanted to tell you that—that it was beautiful.” She stood slowly, like an old woman, and walked quietly into the darkness.

“I hope you are not completely preoccupied with humans and clothing,” Suan said gently when Chyrie continued to stare after the mage. “In truth I think you are better off without either.”

Chyrie turned back.

“What are you suggesting?” Chyrie said, grinning.

“That while customs may differ among clans,” Suan said solemnly, “surely it is true throughout the forest that we would be most grievously amiss in our hospitality to allow our kinswoman to go lonely to her bed while her mate enjoys the attentions of our ripe women.”

Chapter Six

Another elf, his height and dark hair marking him as a Moon Lake, daringly traced with his fingertip the butterfly design on her forearm.

“And we would surely offend the Mother Forest should we fail to show one touched by Her blessing every ... consideration,” he said.

“I would not force so unpleasant a duty upon you,” Chyrie teased. “Mayhap I will find some elves more eager to entertain a visiting guest.”

Suan laughed.

“Were it not for my care of your swelling belly, kinswoman,
I would throw you over my shoulder and bear you away in my eagerness,” he said. “Will this suffice?” Abruptly he scooped Chyrie up in his arms, and the others hurried forward to help sweep her, shrieking with laughter, over their heads—no mean feat, given the wide difference in height between the clans.

“I am convinced,” Chyrie gasped between laughter as they bore her toward the huts. “Indeed I am.”

When Chyrie awoke it was still dark; only firelight shone through the chinks in the hut. She was weary indeed—what a day it had been!—but her mouth was as dry as autumn leaves and she very urgently needed to make water. As gently as she could, Chyrie slid free of the arms around her and crept quietly out of the hut, snatching her clothing from the pile by the door.

In the Wilding village the rule was simply to go at least five hands of paces from the nearest hut and dig a small hole to bury the waste, but in a village as large as this, surely there must be another rule. Chyrie followed her nose and found a privy pit west of the village.

She hesitated outside the village. From somewhere to the north she could faintly hear chanting and could feel the prickle of magic—Dusk and the other Gifted? Something tickled at the wild blood in her, like the touch of a beast’s thoughts. Curiously she reached out toward the strange sensation—

—and was suddenly swept away. She was soaring on a hawk’s wings, running over the ground with the swiftness of a deer’s feet, leaping from branch to branch with squirrels—

—and farther, flowing up from the roots of the trees, gathering strength, the minds of Gifted flowing together to push her outward, insubstantial of form, pulsing with warm green life, bursting out in a hundred directions like wind, like moonlight—

Chyrie hurriedly pulled back her awareness. Touching beast minds was one thing; to brush against the raw power of the forest spirits was something else altogether—something frightening.

Chyrie returned to the central clearing, remembering the large skins of wine she had seen there. The fire had burnt low, but there was one solitary figure sitting there; to Chyrie’s surprise, she recognized the slouching figure as Rivkah. Chyrie hesitated, then picked up a wineskin and joined the human on the log.

“Where are the others?” Chyrie asked, pouring two goblets of wine and handing one to the mage.

“Rom and Ria—that’s Doria—went back to the speaking hut to sleep,” Rivkah said, nodding her thanks as she accepted the goblet. “Sharl is in that one there.” She gestured. “He wanted to be alone to think, he said.”

“It is late,” Chyrie said. “Why do you not sleep?”

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” Rivkah mumbled. “It could be my last night of life.”

“Customs differ,” Chyrie said, “but although your transgression was great,
you
undoubtedly will not be killed.”

“Why should I be spared?” Rivkah asked bitterly. “I’m the most dangerous to your people.”

Chyrie glanced at her sideways.

“Because none of us, Inner Heart or Wilding, would kill a woman with child,” she said. “Does your Lord Sharl know you carry his seed?”

Rivkah flushed darkly, glanced at Chyrie, then hurriedly looked away.

“No. He doesn’t know. I was hardly sure myself yet.” She glanced at Chyrie again. “How did you know? And how do you know it’s his?”

“A woman with child has a different scent than one who is not.” Chyrie shrugged. “The man Sharl’s scent is also upon you, and you said yourself that human mates couple only one with the other. Sometimes, rarely, elven women choose to keep only to their mates during their time of ripeness. I was doing so, wishing a child of Valann’s seed.”

“Do you think—” Rivkah hesitated. “Do you think Rowan knows?”

“Any elf with a nose knows it”—Chyrie grimaced—“as surely as they know it has been many days since you last bathed.”

“And you’re pregnant with twins,” Rivkah said slowly. “They made it sound very rare.”

“Rare? Unknown,” Chyrie said. “At least I have never known such a thing to happen. Well it is known that humans litter like rabbits, but among us it is different. We are fortunate to bear at all. Many of our females never do.”

“I see.” Rivkah clenched her shaking hands. “And because we took you prisoner, because we kept you from returning to your people’s healer, you might have missed that chance.”

Chyrie shrugged.

“Having chosen one path, it is useless to speculate what might have waited at the end of another,” she said. “An arrow loosed cannot be turned back. You did what you did, and I am with child nonetheless.”

“I swear I didn’t know.” Rivkah covered her face with her hands. “The elves near us are different from your people, and they’re very private, very aloof and secluded. I barely managed, through my mentor, to find one from whom I could learn his language by magic, so I could begin teaching Sharl. I swear I had no idea of—of the magnitude of what we were doing. I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Your regret would not put seed in an empty womb,” Chyrie said sourly. “Nor would it restore life to our bodies if we had been killed violating the boundaries of other clans.”

“No. It wouldn’t.” Rivkah wiped her eyes. “But I had to tell you. Sitting here tonight, watching you dance and celebrate, just as if there were no army coming to march right over us—”

“All the more reason to dance twice as hard tonight,” Chyrie interrupted.

“I thought what Sharl was doing was right,” Rivkah said miserably. “I thought an alliance was the only hope for both humans and elves. I thought it justified—now I wonder if this whole thing hasn’t been a terrible mistake. I wonder if we’re not more danger to you than any army.”

“Rowan will decide that.” Chyrie shrugged. “She is like Valann—she thinks in many directions at once. It must have taken great courage and great wisdom to bring together four clans as she has done. She may well surprise us all with her judgment.”

“Valann would like to see all four of us dead,” Rivkah said with a sigh.

“Val is shamed that we were captured by humans, and that he allowed himself to be deceived and bespelled,” Chyrie said. “He blames himself for my misfortune.”

“And you?” Rivkah asked. “I’ve seen women kill themselves after being violated. They felt shamed for that.”

“I am shamed to have been surprised by a handful of gigantic, reeking humans making enough noise to alert every beast in the wood,” Chyrie said wryly. “That shames me indeed. But that they forced me, no. I fought as best I could, and that is all I could do. It is more shameful that I was deceived by enemies wearing the guise of friends.”

“I’m sorry,” Rivkah said again. “I hope that somehow I can make amends. If I live to do so,” she added.

“If you fear your fate, all the more reason to spend this night in the arms of your mate, rather than sitting on a log alone,” Chyrie said. “Why not tell him of the child? That joy might cheer him.”

“You don’t understand. It’s not that simple,” Rivkah said wearily. “He’s not my husband. He’s titled nobility and I’m a commoner. One day he’ll marry a noble lady.”

“What has that to do with the child you bear?” Chyrie asked, mystified.

“He’s not my husband,” Rivkah repeated. “Not my—my mate, you would say, like Rom and Ria. Among my people, it’s shameful for a woman to bear a child to a man she’s not married to. It would be an embarrassment to Sharl.”

Chyrie threw up her hands.

“Why must humans make every matter so complicated?” she demanded. “Go and couple with your man. If you die tomorrow, you have had a night of pleasure. If you live, you will have at least one pleasant memory of the forest, and you can tell him that it was the magic of the Mother Forest that put the child in your belly, and he can blame us. In any wise, tomorrow there will be talk of fighting and death. Let tonight, at least, be a night of life.”

Rivkah smiled wearily.

“You seem very wise yourself,” she said. “Thank you for listening. And for the advice.” She stood.

Chyrie raised her goblet in farewell, picked up the wineskin, and turned back to Suan’s hut.