Valor of the Healer (27 page)

Fair brows rose, and with a soft sigh, Alarrah leaned back against the tree behind them both. “It was a very long time ago, when the Anreulag drove us into Dolmerrath. I was much younger then, and my power was very new. We lost many of our people in those days, but by the grace of the Mother of Stars, I was able to make sure Gerren wasn’t one of them.”

“I don’t know when that was,” Faanshi admitted, and then blushed at her own words. “Or what the Anreulag did. I must sound like a child.”

“You’ve been a slave. Human masters never teach slaves of our blood anything of our people—it’s no mark against you.”

“But I should know these things. I should know more than any child. Why does the Anreulag hate elves and magic so? Is She a goddess? Like Djashtet, or your Mother of Stars?”

Alarrah’s gaze lifted to those stars, fastening upon the spray of light they cast across the sky, and the lamp of the moon that hung amongst them all. She was silent for a few moments before she finally answered. “I wish I could tell you why the Anreulag hates us; none of us know. For one who is supposed to be the Voice of the Gods, She’s never been heard to speak much. When She walks the land, it’s always because the Church has unleashed Her. It’s they, not She, who preach against us.”

Faanshi shivered and wrapped her arms about herself. “That makes it sound as if She isn’t a goddess at all.”

“The humans claim they don’t count the Anreulag among their gods,” Alarrah said. “Yet there seems to be little difference. I’ve heard of villages that give the Anreulag more honor than their Four Gods, and She might as well be a goddess to the Hawks. None of us alive in Dolmerrath remember what it was like before Her coming. The oldest of us are barely old enough to remember when we still had a country in the east, over two hundred years ago, and tales of the Anreulag go back even farther than that.”

“I didn’t know the elves had a country, either.” Faanshi scrubbed a hand across her eyes. How much more was there to discover had never been part of her confined and narrow world? “So much I’ve never known.”

“Adalonia would like everyone to forget that, I think. But they destroyed our land, and oh yes, as long as there are elves alive, we’ll remember.” To this, the she-elf smirked. “They conquered Nirrivy when they conquered us, and many humans of Nirrivan blood remember, too.”

“So much war. They fought with Tantiulo too. My mother and
okinya
came to this land as part of a settlement of peace.”

Glancing sidelong at her, Alarrah nodded grimly. “Yes. Jannyn and Tembriel were made to fight for the Duke of Shalridan in that war, and saw him put their parents to death when they didn’t kill enough Tantiu soldiers in the Anreulag’s name.”

“Then we’ve all four lost parents to him. He is a breaker of
ridahs
, and should face Djashtet’s justice.” Faanshi scowled and wrestled for further words. Though she held solid faith that the Lady of Time guided Her children’s lives, she’d never heard her
okinya
Ulima speak of Djashtet as others spoke of the Anreulag. Surely it was wrong that Djashtet didn’t walk upon the earth as the Voice of the Four Gods did? “I never knew that a goddess could be...real. Like us.”

Her gaze stark, Alarrah said, “That’s the question—what the Anreulag truly is, goddess, elven, or human, or something beyond us all. There have always been tales of holy beings that walk the land, but this one...She’s been seen far too often and Her power all too often felt for Her to be anything but real. Some of us have begun to wonder if She’s more real than the Mother of Stars Herself. Blood has been shed over it, blood our people can’t afford to lose.”

Our
people
. Those words caught Faanshi. Sharp and bright, they lodged somewhere within her chest, as if she’d swallowed a shard of shining glass. It took her several moments before she could ask, “Have you ever seen Her?”

“Once.” The she-elf’s voice was the barest whisper now, and for the first time, Faanshi saw her unearthly features blanch with fear. “When we were driven into Dolmerrath, eighty years ago. I was there when Gerren’s father was killed, and Gerren almost killed with him. And when Oriolle sacrificed herself to save us all.”

“Oriolle?”

Alarrah closed her eyes, and when she opened them again they gleamed with a trace of tears. “The last of our great mages. My first teacher, before Kirinil taught me to shield. My friend.”

“I’m sorry,” Faanshi said. An awkward sadness stole over her, for she’d never heard someone speak of the loss of someone dear. She hesitated; then, because Alarrah had held her while she cried, she reached out and gave her a tentative hug. When Alarrah returned it, Faanshi squeezed her with a bit more assurance. “I’m glad you were able to heal
akreshi
Gerren, though. He seems kind.”

“Thank you,” Alarrah said softly. “He is. And you have a good heart, to offer comfort when you yourself are frightened.”

“I’m more so after last night. But if I must find Kestar to make this thing between us stop, if it means I might face the Anreulag...”

“I think it might.”

“Then it’s good to know I don’t have to do it alone. When this is done—if you would—will you tell me of our father?”

“Of course I will,
valannè
. I promise.”

Faanshi considered. “If that’s the word for cousin, what’s the word for sister?”

“
Enorrè
,” Alarrah replied, and all at once she smiled. She took Faanshi’s hand with a strong and bracing grip, which buoyed her heart. It felt like the gesture of an equal, perhaps even of a friend. From a daughter of her father, it was a promising start.

It didn’t dispel her fear. But it made it just a little easier to bear.

Chapter Twenty-One

From the moment her son left Vaarsen Hall, Lady Ganniwer knew someone would come in search of him. Two mornings after Kestar’s departure, word came that a large mounted party was on its way. Doggedly she arrayed herself in her most imposing gown, issued orders to greet the arrivals with courtesy, and awaited their leaders in her parlor. Three men came to meet her, and two were no surprise: Shaymis Enverly, priest of Camden, and Celoren Valleford, Kestar’s own patrol partner, who avoided her eyes as he edged into the room. But the third man, the Duke of Shalridan, was unexpected and unwelcome indeed.

Up till this day she’d known him only as the scion of the House that held sway over much of the western third of the realm, the provinces that had once been the land of Nirrivy. Ironhanded overseers and the patrols of the Hawks kept his dozens of elven slaves in check throughout his scattered estates. His kin had profited handsomely by the coming of the Adalons into Nirrivy—and Ganniwer, Nirrivan by blood, wedded to a Nirrivan Hawk, had never trusted House Kilmerredes for coming to power by betraying its own land.

Yet, by her son’s testimony, she’d sorely underestimated the man. No law of realm or Church would condemn him for executing his bride’s elven lover, and few would challenge him for enslaving their bastard child. Ganniwer was one of those few. If Holvirr Kilmerredes could without conscience imprison and abuse an innocent girl, then she had one word for him. Monster.

Ganniwer rose to greet the arrivals and, for the sake of her son, buried her revulsion behind a gracious mask. “Welcome to Vaarsen Hall, Your Grace, Father Enverly, Sir Valleford. Please take your ease and permit me to send to the kitchen for food and drink. And will you all join me for dinner this evening? It isn’t every day that we receive such august visitors.”

Celoren looked ill at the thought of food, but Enverly said smoothly, “Thank you, my lady, you’re most generous. Though, gods and the Blessed Anreulag willing, we won’t need to impose upon you long enough for one meal, much less two.”

“Indeed,” rumbled the duke. He didn’t sit, but instead stood with feet planted wide, facing Ganniwer’s own chair. His face bore the same gracious mask as hers. “We wouldn’t dream of intruding upon you for any longer than necessary.”

“Nonsense.” The baroness stepped to the doorway to gesture to a servant just without. “So many men and horses in your party—you surely need refreshment and supplies. I won’t have it said that Vaarsen Hall can’t provide for its liege.”

Kilmerredes’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment she thought he might refuse. If he did all was lost. She had only the proprieties of rank, meager weapons indeed, to keep a party of nearly a dozen armed men from going anywhere it wanted to go.

Then he inclined his head. “But of course. We’re not so hard-pressed for time that we can’t pause to replenish our mounts and ourselves.”

Relief surged through Ganniwer, but she tamped it down as she sent the servant off to set the orders she’d already left with the kitchens into motion. Turning back to the duke, she said, “You bring honor to my hall, Your Grace. We’ll be most pleased to provide you with anything you may need.”

“Excellent.” He smiled, charmingly, without blunting the keenness of his gaze in the slightest. “Would you favor us with a tour of your fine home, Lady Vaarsen?”

“A...tour, my lord?”

“If you please. I’m afraid Father Enverly must forgo such exertion, but I’m most anxious to see how your people fare.”

“The duke is most solicitous,” Enverly murmured in sepulchral tones. “I’ve suffered a recent wound, I fear, and he bids me bestir myself no more than absolutely necessary.”

“But if you’re indisposed, Father, we couldn’t possibly—”

Waving them toward the door, the priest gave Ganniwer a kindly smile she trusted no more than the duke’s. “Take His Grace and Sir Valleford out into the sunshine, my lady. I’ll be quite content to remain in this pleasant little room and conserve my strength. Perhaps I’ll meditate.”

“I could entertain Father Enverly,” Celoren blurted, speaking for the first time. “I know this hall almost as well as one born to it. I’d be happy to enlighten him on its history.”

Ganniwer didn’t miss the pleading look he shot her, or the opportunity in his offer. “That’s true. Sir Valleford has often stayed here with my son between patrols.”

“I require Sir Valleford with me.” The duke’s tone was light, but steel glinted in his gaze.

There was a trap here. Ganniwer sensed it, smelled it, but gods help her, she saw no way to evade it. For Kestar, then, she’d strive to keep it from closing as long as she could. Pulling composure about her like a cloak, gesturing the other two men toward the corridor, she mustered her most cordial smile. “Then if Father Enverly will excuse us, I’d be delighted to guide you both about the house and grounds.”

“I’ll do very well right here,” promised the priest. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Kilmerredes fell into step at Ganniwer’s side, with the reluctant Celoren following behind. The duke slid him a sidelong glance and remarked, “Speaking of your son, Lady Vaarsen, I’m surprised he’s not on hand. We’d expected to find him here.”

“You’ve just missed him. He was here but a day and a half hence, and didn’t tarry long. He told me he was pursuing important Hawk business.”

“Indeed.” The duke’s bland countenance revealed nothing, and that alarmed her more than any overt wrath. So did the fleeting predatory curl to his mouth, which vanished the moment she looked at him directly. “How very intriguing.”

* * *

When he was certain that Lady Vaarsen had taken the duke and young Valleford safely away, Enverly summoned a servant to the parlor. She was a tractable little thing, impressed by his vestments and sympathetic to his wound. He barely had to bestir himself to get her to guide him to the kitchens—for, as he solemnly informed her, if the Hall saw fit to prepare the duke a welcome meal, it behooved him to bless their efforts.

The kitchen staff was just as deferential, and eager to join him in a prayer. Afterward he beckoned to the head cook and confided, “If it wouldn’t be ill-mannered, I’d be happy to offer a few words of advice on His Grace’s preferences at table. I’ve dined with him on many occasions.”

Elation lit the cook’s plain features. “I’ll welcome any hints you can give, Father. We’ll feed the duke proper.”

He had his doubts, but the cook hung on every word of his suggestions: lightly seared beef and rich red wine, dark bread and strong cheese, apples baked in cinnamon and brandy. The woman shouted orders that redirected the bustle in progress around them, and with approval not entirely feigned, Enverly told her, “You keep an efficient kitchen, good lady. That you achieve this so soon after providing for this Hall’s heir is doubly commendable.”

The cook waved a hand in modest dismissal. “Ah, posh, Father, we only packed a small bag of vittles to send Lord Kestar on his way. I could’ve done that in my sleep.”

“Of course,” Enverly said, hiding all traces of satisfaction from his voice, and sketching the sign of the Star across her. “May the bountiful Mother bless this meal from your hands, and all meals to come.
Ani
a
bhota
Anreulag
,
arach
shae
.”

“
Arach
shae
. Thank you, Father.”

“You’re most welcome. Now let me remove myself so that I won’t delay your work any longer.” Enverly bowed, turned as if to leave, and then turned back. “But if you would, before I go, could you direct me to the stables? I need to apprise your head groom of a problem with His Grace’s horse.”

* * *

“You’ve got good eyes, Father,” said the lean, swarthy man who ran Vaarsen Hall’s stables. He crouched next to Maelstrom, the duke’s restive black stallion, inspecting each big hoof. “It hasn’t hurt him yet, but the shoe on his right rear foot’s loose. He probably would’ve lost it if he’d gone much farther past here.”

Enverly wasn’t surprised. He’d surreptitiously monitored that loose horseshoe ever since their party had passed the last village. Nor had he troubled the duke, for the horse had shown no sign of real trouble—and he could use it now to their advantage. “I trust it won’t be an issue to secure it?”

“Replace it, more like. But we can do it, aye. Had to use some of our horseshoes, but we’ve still some spares.”

“New shoes for a mount for Lord Vaarsen?” Enverly asked, and at the groom’s raised brows he appended, “Lady Vaarsen mentioned to His Grace that her son was recently here.”

The groom hesitated, and then went on, seeming to conclude he was on safe conversational ground, “Had to give him a new horse, aye. Sweet little mare, sturdy. She’ll carry m’lord Kestar to where he needs to get.”

“Where would that be?”

“I expect you know more about that than I do, Father. Church matters and all. But I’ve got shoes enough for this lad.” The groom set the stallion’s foot down and straightened, looking the creature over admiringly before turning to face his visitor. “He’ll be ready for whenever His Grace needs to ride out again.”

“Have him and the rest of our mounts ready to leave at first light tomorrow, and that’ll suffice.”

“It’ll be done, Father.”

“Splendid. I’ll leave you to your duties then, sir.” Enverly turned to depart, deliberately veering too close to a slop bucket one of the younger grooms had left unattended—and one glancing impact from his foot sent the bucket’s contents splashing all over his lower leg. The noise brought the head groom running in mortification. Hard on his heels was his errant helper, red-faced with shame. His stammered apologies piped up amidst the groom’s furious scolding like a puppy’s yelps punctuating the deeper barks of a much larger dog. Before either of them could get very far with their outbursts, however, Enverly threw up his hands, palms out.

“Now, now, no true harm done,” he said, smiling despite the pungent slime coating the leg of his trousers. The stable boy beamed in worshipful gratitude. “If you’ll run and ask your launderer to meet me in the chamber Her Ladyship set aside for me, my son, I’m sure we can cleanse away any sign this little mishap ever occurred.”

* * *

Vaarsen Hall’s launderer was a round-faced, fussy man who prattled over the damage the slop bucket had done to Enverly’s trousers and to the bottom edge of his robe. “My word, Father, so clumsy of the boy to leave that out where anyone could stumble over it,” he fretted, folding the soiled garment up into a discreet bundle. “I’ll get this cleaned for you at once.”

Enverly, who’d changed clothes while waiting for this officious little fellow to attend him, allowed himself an indulgent curl of his mouth. “We’re all fallible in the eyes of the gods. And I’m sure the lad meant no harm. As long as you can return the garments to me in a timely fashion—”

The launderer looked affronted. “Of course I can, Father. Her Ladyship would not have engaged me otherwise!”

“Certainly not. I’d merely thought that Lord Vaarsen’s visit must surely have brought you extra work.”

“That was two days ago, sir.” Holding the bundle of Enverly’s garments a few fastidious inches away from him, the launderer added, “At any rate, Lord Vaarsen was hardly a burden. He required no more than a change of his old clothing before he set out again. He didn’t even take his uniform, though naturally I made certain it was cleaned and mended for him. If you’ll excuse me, Father, I’ll set about this task too.”

As soon as he’d gone, Enverly asked the guardsman lurking behind the door, “I trust you caught all the salient details, Captain Follingsen?”

“Every word, Father.”

“Who do you have looking after His Grace while he tours with Lady Vaarsen?”

“Taarklig and Olefsen, sir. They’re to trade off at two.” Follingsen paused. “Sir Valleford is with him, of course.”

“Take Olefsen off, Valleford will stand in for him. Tell Taarklig that his shift with His Grace is to be extended. Send Olefsen and the others out to follow each road out of this estate, stop at every house and speak to every farmer, milkmaid or child in an apple tree they can find. Someone will have seen our Lord Vaarsen in old clothes, on a mare with new shoes. Have them find that someone. They have until nightfall.”

* * *

Celoren loved Kestar like a brother, held Kestar’s mother in high esteem and had always thought Vaarsen Hall was everything his partner might wish in a future inheritance. Yet as he trailed in Holvirr Kilmerredes’s wake, listening to Lady Ganniwer expound upon everything from the age of the planks in the hardwood floors to the dyes, fibers and weave of every curtain and tapestry in the Hall, he learned from its mistress far more than he’d ever wished to know of the place. With each new discourse, his nerves stretched so tightly that he thought they might snap at any moment.

What was she doing? Why was the duke tolerating it? Kilmerredes seemed to drink in her every word, offering cogent questions to sustain her discourse whenever it faltered. His facade of guileless interest revealed nothing of the purpose of their presence, not even when Ganniwer delicately wove that very question into her conversation.

“Might I persuade you and your party to spend the night at the Hall? With so many men to manage, it would take much to put you on the road to Shalridan at a late hour.”

“Shalridan isn’t our destination,” was the duke’s genial reply. “Permit me to admire the craftsmanship of these panels. Who was the artisan who made them?”

It made Celoren sick with agitation. He had no reason to distrust Father Enverly’s claim; with his own eyes, after all, he’d seen Kestar trigger their amulets. The priest’s dire suggestion that awakening elf-blood had unhinged his partner—had perhaps caused his unnatural fixation on Kilmerredes’s slave girl—was logical. But gods in their heaven, it felt wrong. Training compelled him to assist Enverly in bringing Kestar to the Order’s justice, yet all his instincts shrieked for him to warn Ganniwer, to charge out of the Hall and ride to Kestar’s aid. Yet Enverly’s word carried more weight than his, and two of the duke’s guardsmen were following them. If he tried to leave, he was certain the guardsmen would block his path.