Frey (3 page)

I went to the hall and poured some water from
the pitcher into the basin. I rarely looked in the mirror, usually
just a quick glance, but I had to clean the blood from my face and
straighten the nest of hair on my head. A flash caught my eye and
for a moment I thought the pendant was reflecting light from
somewhere in the dark hallway, but I dismissed it because my brain
was still muddled from sleep. When I examined it closer, I saw I'd
gotten blood on it from my hand so I rinsed it as well. I lingered
there, clutching it tight in my hand. It was a comfort to hold, it
seemed to warm something deep within me. I vowed to keep it on as I
shook off a thought from the dream coming back to me and headed for
the door.

It was a gloomy day and I didn’t miss having
to squint away the bright sunlight. It was early too, so I decided
to take the long way to town. I meandered through the fields
thinking of all that had passed in the last days. I reached a patch
of weeds that reminded me of Evelyn's taunting and felt a spasm in
the pit of my stomach at the thought of her choking. And then I
remembered growing the weeds in the garden. I was suddenly in a
rush to get to Junnie’s.

I rapped our special knock, and in a
heartbeat, Junnie was opening the door. “Morning, Freylina. Early
start today?”

My voice was determined. “Yes, I want to
practice growing.”

She glanced quickly at the
pendant against my chest. She was silent for a moment as she looked
into my eyes, almost searching.
Probably
worried I was sad or missing my mother
.
“No, not today," she said. "It seems I have business with the
council this morning.” Her mouth turned down in a tight grimace at
the thought.

“
Oh.” Okay, not like I
didn’t have plenty to do, I’d just head to the library and try to
find the missing pages to the northern clan documents. “Well, I’ll
see you then.” I smiled at her and headed around back again to cut
through the village.

I took my time to allow her to make her way
to the council building. As I scuffed my feet along the path, I
heard angry whispers and glanced up to find their source. Virden
Day was leaning toward a dark figure, wearing a harsh face and
pointing out fingers on his other hand. Counting reasons for his
argument? The figure turned his head as if scanning for an
audience. He found one–me. As his eyes hit mine, I felt I should
look away but something kept me as I was. It was him again,
Chevelle Vattier.

I swallowed hard and forced my feet to
continue walking, though this time trying not to drag. I followed
the path as it wound closer to them, knowing it would eventually
split, heading to the gate or to the library. I hadn’t decided how
to make my escape when he turned back toward Virden and spoke
something low, cutting the conversation off completely. Virden shot
me one quick look, apparently irritated at me for interrupting the
discussion, and stormed into his tree.

Chevelle remained standing
where he was, his back to me. I had to decide, library or gate.
Walk within feet of him going to the library to
research
him or run home and hide. My
stomach churned. It was ridiculous. I took a deep breath and kept
walking, approaching the split.

He turned to me, scarcely a few feet away.
“Good morning.” He nodded at me as he spoke, his voice as smooth as
velvet.

Close your mouth, close your
mouth!
I snapped my slack jaw shut at the
same moment I realized I had unconsciously angled my body toward
him when he spoke.
Damn it! Okay, you can
recover this; just keep going in this direction like you were on
your way to town, because you
were
on your way to town
.

I tried to respond to his
greeting but felt choked and instead only nodded back, my mouth
tight as I endeavored to grin with a now clenched jaw.
Ugh
.

I kept going up the path, not daring to look
back in case he was behind me. I was convinced he was, he wouldn’t
be taking the back way to Junnie’s as I had come, and he wouldn’t
be leaving the village without a pack; he was likely going to a
council meeting. Yes, he was certainly right behind me, following
me into town. Abruptly, the simple act of walking became impossibly
complex.

Somehow, I made it to the library without
tripping or looking back, though I was nearly overcome with the
temptation to turn at the door to see him one more time.

I found a dark, empty corner on the third
level and finally relaxed onto a seat, leaning against the inside
wall of the old tree. After a few minutes, I decided to attempt to
locate the missing pages by magic. I had, after all, succeeded in
growing only days ago. I concentrated as hard as I could and,
though nothing flitted out of the shelves and onto my desk, I had a
strong feeling I knew where the documents were. It also could have
been because I knew where they had fallen from the day before.

Whatever the reason, I made my way over and
took a few volumes and scrolls back to my secluded table. I was
able to find several documents on the northern clans and even one
of the missing pages of names–L. I had spread them out on the table
and was studiously examining them when a shadow crossed my desk. I
realized someone was standing there and distractedly glanced up to
see who. My instinct to breathe deserted me; it was Chevelle
Vattier.

Chapter Three

Black Roots

Chevelle stood there,
staring down at me, as I leaned halfway across the table of
documents about the northern clans.
Researching him
. I tried not to betray
myself by glancing down at the papers, but the only other place to
look was into his eyes and it felt like that was all I'd found
myself doing since I’d first seen him. He didn’t look away. Had he
read the documents before I knew he was there? We were frozen for
what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t read his expression,
couldn’t guess how I should explain, nor could I think of a cover.
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

He finally broke the silence. “Freya.” He’d
used one of Junnie’s pet names for me, I couldn’t believe how much
I liked that.

He reached his hand out to
me. “I am Chevelle Vattier.” I nodded a slow, stuttered nod. He
wasn’t smiling, his face unreadable. “I am an old friend of Junnie.
I saw her at council this morning. She was disappointed she has
been too occupied by clan business of late to guide you.” I was
still leaning over the table, unmoved since the beginning of our
encounter. He continued, “I offered to help her. To help
you
.”

He was going to help me with my studies? I
melted, sliding back down into my chair. He was still holding his
hand out to me. My back was literally against the wall, and as he
took a step forward I became wholly aware of how small and isolated
the library space I had chosen was. He turned the outstretched hand
palm up indicating the stool beside me as if that had been his
intention all along, instead of a handshake.

“
May I?”

I nodded once and he slid
onto the stool, facing me, not the table spread with
documents.
Had I still not spoken?
His eyes moved down to the pendant against my
chest and then quickly back to my face, as if he had committed an
indiscretion.

We sat there for a few more
moments, looking into each other's eyes, and I could think of
nothing to say. Well, I could think of nothing
appropriate
to say. When he finally
spoke again, I realized his offer of help wasn’t a request. “Let’s
begin with histories.” He flicked the middle finger of his left
hand and a large white book flew from a shelf, opened, and steadied
between us as if on a table.

“
Chevelle?”

He smiled. It was only one word, but he
understood. I was asking if I could address him in the common
dialog, not the official titles and formalities of the council he
may have been used to. He tilted his head toward me in a compliant
nod.

We sat so for hours. He pulled books between
us and returned them to the shelves, never once glancing to the
papers on the table beside us referencing the northern clans.
Nothing we studied touched on the histories of those clans. Nothing
of his histories, nothing of mine. But conversation had become easy
as soon as I had spoken the first word; as soon as I had said his
name and he'd smiled in return.

I found myself leaning toward him as he
spoke; he had a pleasant voice and a most interesting dialect. He
wove through the histories as if they were grand stories instead of
useless facts, and I became enthralled. It felt as if we were alone
there in the quiet corner of the third level, the occasional murmur
below and whisper of flipping pages the only other sound in the dim
setting. A small knothole made a window in the wall across from me
and some light from the cloudy day occasionally came through,
putting Chevelle’s face in shade. I had been right; his eyes
appeared nearly black in the shadows.

I leaned forward, listening to him as a small
gray bird landed on the lip of the knothole.

“
Cheep.”

Not many animals feared the elves, it even
seemed curious as to what we were doing.

“
Cheep cheep.”

Ugh that’s
annoying
. I focused back on Chevelle’s
story.

“
Chee, cheep
cheep.”

I gritted my teeth, trying
to block out the irritating sound.
Stupid
bird
. It broke into a sharp melody that
seemed to pierce my ears.
Grrr
…

Thud.

I jerked upright. My ears
were still ringing from the harsh song, but the bird lay dead on
the floor below the window. Chevelle started to turn to find the
source of the noise and, before I realized what I was doing, I
flicked my right hand and the bird flopped behind a shelf out of
sight. When Chevelle turned back to me, I stared right into his
eyes as if I had not seen or heard a thing, wondering why he wasn’t
still explaining the histories of Grah. He glanced past me… or
maybe at the crown of my head. Was he avoiding my eyes? My
lying
eyes?

I was too worried about being caught to feel
guilty about the bird.

After a moment, he continued the lesson, but
his demeanor was different. He watched the book and, occasionally,
when his eyes were on my face, they flitted back up and out of
focus, just above me. But he did not look directly into my eyes as
before.

When he reached the end of the book, it
returned to its home on the shelf and he stood, placing his hand on
the top of my head. It was only a brief touch, but electricity
surged though me. A flash of confused frustration passed over his
face before being quickly replaced by a serene, unreadable
expression. He looked into my eyes one last time. The top of my
head still tingled from the contact. “Enough for today.” He nodded
and turned, almost gliding away.

I sat motionless as I watched him go, and
remained so for some time after.

When I finally rose to
leave, I stashed a few more of the northern clan documents under my
shirt. My head was swirling with all that had happened, not simply
my new tutor but the
magic
. On my way out I walked past the
shelf that hid the body of the now dead bird. I’d never been able
to move objects but it seemed I had done it without thinking. It
reminded me of the thistle at Junnie’s, and I felt a sudden urgency
to see her.

Junnie’s door was partially open when I
reached her house, so I peeked my head in and called for her. No
answer. I decided to try the back room.

As I walked through, I
passed an ornate mirror on the wall and noticed something odd about
my reflection. I guessed I was probably simply flushed but I
stopped to get a closer look. There
was
something about my complexion;
must have been the combination of worry and excitement. But what
was really off was just above my face. I leaned toward the mirror
and reached my hands up as if to check.

The first quarter inch of my hair was dark,
almost black. I pulled the part in a different area and then again;
the base of my hair was dark over my entire scalp. My hands began
to tremble when I could come up with no explanation for the change.
Abruptly, the rush to find Junnie was paramount.

I went to the study but it was empty. I let
out a shaky, exasperated breath and glanced around, noticing an
unusual thistle on the table. It was thriving, but unplanted. I
examined it closer. It was rather large, and though the blooms
looked healthy, the exposed roots were black, seemingly rotted. How
could the plant survive without soil or with decayed roots? I
scanned the table. It was the only plant aside from Junnie’s potted
ivies and flowers hanging as they always had.

I reached out to touch a
leaf and it crumbled. There were some seeds and bulbs lying where
the ashes fell, and I recognized the scene. It was the thistle I
had grown.
The garden
.

I rushed out, leaving the door open as I had
found it. I hurried from the village, trying to remember where the
abandoned garden was located. I was almost running now, under the
gray skies. It wasn’t hard to find because of its new size but if I
hadn’t been half expecting, half fearing the excessive growth, I
might not have recognized it. Each of the strains I had grown the
day Evie choked was flourishing. Noxious weeds were taking over the
meadow.