Wild Blood (Book 7) (7 page)

To Val’s relief, Dusk was clear-headed and cheerful when they woke him. The four of them had to carry the packs a good distance on their backs, but once they had left the smell of roast venison behind them, Dusk was able to summon graceful spiral-horned deer to bear them back to Inner Heart.

For Val, the ride was something of a triumphal procession; he had ridden out of the village a boy and was returning a man. While he was gone, the elves of Inner Heart would have prepared a symbolic feast of memory, as if for a death, to acknowledge Val’s return to the Mother Forest. Many elves, Val knew, feared (he prayed to the Mother Forest that none had actually
hoped)
that because of Val’s youth and his human blood the feast would be more than merely symbolic. His friends in Inner Heart, he knew, had been praying and offering to the Mother Forest for his safe return and would be deeply relieved that he lived; some, however, would find his very return a new source of worry.

And one of the clan’s women would be preparing, too, to come to Val in his new hut and teach him the ways of man and woman. Ordinarily it would fall to a man’s oldest sister to choose his teacher, or, if he had no older sister, his mother. It was very like Rowan that she would not usurp the role of Chyrie, Val’s true mother, but it was not unfitting that Lahti, his dearest friend, would, as Rowan had joked, act as his older sister. And yet there was a little bitterness to the joke, for he would have chosen Lahti above any woman in the village, but until she passed from childhood, like a real sister she was forbidden to him.

Riding the deer until they were near the village, it took only part of the day to reach Inner Heart, something which faintly surprised Val. He felt he’d journeyed far from home, perhaps not in distance, but in spirit, so that it seemed strange to return so quickly. Strange, too, that Inner Heart would appear no different from when he’d left it, the huts and fire pits exactly where they’d been before, the elves going about their everyday tasks as always. Well, that wasn’t exactly true; somewhere in the village there’d be his new hut. But Inner Heart could never have changed as much as he felt
he
had in the last few days.

The lookouts raised glad cries when they saw Rowan, Dusk, Val, and Lahti, and they were met at the edge of the village by a crowd of laughing elves waiting to embrace Val and hang garlands of leaves and flowers around his neck, to sweep him off his feet and carry him, laughing helplessly, to the speaking hut.

It took a little time for the elders to assemble. There always seemed to be so many of them, enough to make Rowan’s large speaking hut—in Val’s lifetime they’d made the hut larger twice—seem crowded. Rowan said it wasn’t that there were so many elders; it was that there were fewer young adults since the invasion. The oldest elves, together with the sick, fertile or pregnant women, and children, had been sent to the human city to shelter and had survived the invasion, while so many of the younger warriors had fought and died in the forest, that sometimes it seemed that half the clan were elders.

The fire was lit in the speaking hut and food was brought—cold food from the memory feast last night while Val had made his strange journey, although Val knew that even now they’d be preparing a new feast to celebrate his return —and Val spoke quietly of his passage dream. He felt a brief pang as he spoke of his mother. He had never seen her with his own eyes; no elf, to his knowledge, had seen Chyrie since she had brought him to Inner Heart and abandoned him there. Some thought that Chyrie had returned to the Mother Forest in body as well as spirit. Valann didn’t really want to speak of her; he wanted to keep her his secret, his very own vision, if a vision was all she’d been. But if that was the vision the Mother Forest had sent him, the elders had a right to know it.

One by one, the elders nodded as he spoke. When he finished, Janan, a Redoak almost as old as Rowan, spoke at last.

“Your mother’s spirit guided you to the Mother Forest,” she said slowly, “and the fire guided you away. What can it mean? Is it that your elven blood will bring you to us, and your human blood lead you away?”

“We can hardly interpret a passage dream in such a way,” Rowan protested. “Each of us must find our way to the Mother Forest at passage, and each of us must find our way back again. You might as easily suggest that his elven blood leads him into death and his human blood back toward life. What is plain is that he made the journey and returned as he must.”

Janan was silent for a moment, and Val understood the glances that several of the elders exchanged. They were thinking of fire and human blood and High Circles. Then Janan stood and walked to Valann, tall like most Redoaks so that she met his eyes squarely.

“When my clan joined with Inner Heart,” she said, “there had been no children born to Redoak for two decades. We feared there would never be more. The Inner Hearts and Moon Lakes and Owl Clans were strange to our eyes, very different than us, but we danced in their High Circles and some of our women were filled again with life, and my daughters have children with the black hair of Inner Heart and children with the pale eyes of Owl Clan.” She embraced Valann a little stiffly. “If the Mother Forest acknowledges you one of us, I can do no less.”

One by one, other elders rose to give him their embrace. Val knew there were some who left silently without the proper acknowledgment, but he could not manage to care. More than anything, he simply wanted this awkward moment to end so he could have a little time alone.

When the other elders had left, it was Rowan, as Eldest of the clan, who led Val to the edge of the village and showed him the new hut that had been built on the ground for him, Moon Lake fashion, as Val had never favored the hanging bowers preferred by most of the Inner Hearts. Val’s belongings, the carvings he had made and the hides he had prepared, his weapons and clothing, had been moved into the hut, and by tradition a fire had been laid but not lit. A skin of wine and a single small cake had been placed by the fire pit so that Val could, as an adult, offer food and fire to the Eldest of the clan. When Val would have drawn out the rock he used to strike sparks from his dagger, however, Rowan laid her hand over his.

“Every member of this clan,” she said gently, “has the duty—and the right—to use his Gifts in the service of his clan.” She smiled. “And you were never very deft with stone and steel in any wise.”

A great tension vanished somewhere in Val, and he laughed with his adopted mother, focusing carefully on the tinder until it burst into flame. How they had all cried out and fled from the hut, Val no less frightened than the rest, the first time when his untrained Gift had caused a cold fire to blaze up so furiously that it had burnt off most of the thatched roof! How wonderful, too, that now he could laugh at the memory.

Rowan stayed only long enough to share the small cake and a sip of wine, as tradition required; then she left Val to himself to gather his thoughts, lowering the tent flap behind her as she left. By custom, other clan members would leave gifts outside the door during the night, small tokens to make his new hut more comfortable—warm furs, carved wood bowls, pottery vessels, and the like—but they wouldn’t disturb him unless he raised the tent flap, signifying that visitors would be welcome, or called out to invite them into his hut.

Val lay down by the fire, his mind too full of the day’s events to let his weary body relax, and listened to the shuffle of feet and the soft murmur of voices as objects were laid on the ground outside his tent. Nothing forbade him from admitting visitors, although custom excluded children from his first night as an adult, but Val left the door flap closed and remained silent. Feeling unaccountably shy and awkward in his new status after all the ritual and formality, Val was glad enough to sit quietly in his hut, though he would have welcomed Lahti’s merry company to distract him.

Through the smoke hole Val saw the sky darken as the sun set. He could smell the odors of the feast his entire clan was sharing, and his stomach rumbled. Yes, there was the smell of roasting boar among the other appetizing aromas. If he’d only cross the short distance of clearing to the fire pit, someone would have saved him the boar’s heart and other choice portions, as tradition demanded. He stayed where he was.

The moon was rising. Soon a woman would come to his tent to give him the greatest gift of adulthood, his initiation into the delights of coupling. But who had Lahti chosen? Mira, the young tracker who so often accompanied Val and Lahti on their hunts, less than a year out of childhood herself? Ilea, who had initiated more young men than any woman in the clan, and who loved to boast of it? Might Lahti, thinking of the arguments among the elders, have made an uncharacteristically circumspect choice and selected a woman known to be barren, or past her childbearing time?

Light footsteps approached, then hesitated outside, and a slender hand lifted the edge of his door flap. Val’s heart pounded, and he was amazed to feel his hands trembling as he recognized Doeanna, Lahti’s mother’s mate’s younger sister. The Owl Clan woman was as tall as Lahti, but reed-slender and pale where Lahti was wiry-muscled and dark. Doeanna’s long pale braid was beaded and coiled on her head, as befitted her age and stature, but her large, dark eyes with their perpetual wondering expression gave her a sort of childlike air. She carried a large platter of food, which she placed quietly by the fire before she turned to speak to him.

“Lahti asked me to come to you,” she said, her voice as always a soft murmur. “I was honored to accept. Does her choice please you?”

“Very much,” Val admitted, ashamed of the quiver in his own voice. Of all the women in the village who might have come to his tent on this night, he would never have expected Doeanna. She was a dancer of exquisite skill and had borne two children; at least six men had asked her to be their mate, but Doeanna was a solitary creature and content to live alone. Despite her love of solitude, however, rumors of Doeanna’s skill in the furs were such that Val had no doubt that Doeanna never lacked companionship when she wished it.

“Here is roast fowl, venison stewed with fresh herbs, some of the boar you killed, acorn meal cakes and honey, and the season’s first berries, and Sun Flower Nectar in celebration,” Doeanna murmured. “Surely you are hungry after your fast and the other rigors of your passage.”

“Uh—” Val swallowed hard. Only moments before, his stomach had been grumbling its hunger; now he was sure he couldn’t swallow a bite of the finest food the Heartwood could offer.

“Ah, you hunger indeed, but not for food,” Doeanna said softly, smiling. Her large, dark eyes shone softly in the firelight. “So impatient, as the young always are, so ready to bolt down their wine before they can truly savor the full richness of its flavor. Well enough, sweet Valann. There will be many hours tonight to teach you patience.”

She tied the side cords of the door flap to the door frame so the flap could not be lifted, then turned back to him, drawing her tunic over her head. Warm firelight flickered over her willow-slender, moon-pale body as she knelt beside him on the furs.

Val thought fleetingly of Lahti, smiled nervously, and reached for the lacing of his tunic.

Chapter Three—Ria

Lush green plains rolled by the wagons. For a few days Ria had seen fields thick with green-gold grain or planted in rows of vegetables as they passed through Cielman’s outlying farmland. Often there were peasants working in the fields. Gradually, as they moved farther south and west, the farms became fewer and the fields gave way to these endless grassy plains.

Ria, however, was not bored despite the seeming monotony of the scenery around them. No matter how similar the view each day from her place on the wagon seat, it was a different view from the one she’d seen every day of her life from the walls of Emaril’s keep. When the jolting of the wagon tired her, Ria ran beside it or climbed up behind one of the guards on their horses, or rode the patient draft horses pulling the wagons. Sometimes as she ran through the grass, she’d stop to chase butterflies or watch small snakes and become so engrossed that one of the guards would have to ride back to reclaim her. Lady Rivkah, however, did not chide her; Ria wondered whether her foster mother found it less trouble to let her do as she pleased than to try to keep her in the wagon, or whether her newfound liberty was merely because she was supposedly the bride-to-be of the future High Lord of Allanmere. Whatever the reason, Ria was fully prepared to enjoy it.

Ria found the plains endlessly fascinating. Small animals she’d never seen lived in the tall grass, and colorful butterflies and rainbow-hued flowers dappled the green-gold plains. Every night when they stopped to camp, Ria had new prizes to show her foster parents and the utterly disinterested Cyril. She pestered the guards, cook, and mages to show her which of the roots, berries, mushrooms, and young green plants of the plains were good to eat, and every night she’d present sacks full to the cook, together with a dozen other plants and two dozen questions. Lord Sharl joked that she’d see them all poisoned, but Ria could tell he was proud of her cleverness.

She and Cyril, however, found some common ground in a new pastime—hunting. Both had been taught the bow, but there had been little game in the settled lands near Emaril’s keep, and they were not allowed to join the occasional hunting parties that ranged far from the keep. Now, however, there was an endless variety of game of all sizes available, and Ria and Cyril were permitted to ride with the guards to hunt the evening’s meat.

Ria found her first hunt an unforgettable experience. She’d never killed so much as a mouse in her life and wondered whether she’d be able to do it at all; the first time the guards surprised a small herd of plains deer, however, a sort of hungry joy filled her, and her arrow flew to its mark before she knew she’d shot it. She’d felt a brief pang of regret when she’d seen her kill lying before her—it was such a beautiful creature, so graceful and harmless in life—but the smell of its blood woke that strange hungry joy again. When she cut her arrow free, she’d been unable to resist the impulse to raise a small strip of the bloody raw flesh to her lips, and the taste had made her tremble. She’d quickly cleaned her knife and her arrow and turned away when Cyril arrived, knowing he’d never understand the fierce excitement Ria was certain must show on her face. Somehow she knew that whatever pleasure Cyril got out of hunting, it wasn’t the same.

Hunting, however, quickly became a competitive game. Ria could not match the range of Cyril’s longer bow, but Cyril admitted that he could not best Ria’s deadly accuracy, nor her keen vision, which could spot the plains deer almost invisible in a thicket. Lady Rivkah abashedly admitted that she’d never mastered the bow, but she and Lord Sharl sometimes joined the hunt simply for the joy of riding and relief from the jolting wagon seats.

Ria did not mind the roughness of their night camps. It was exciting to sleep in the open, a treat to wake to wind and birdsong instead of the clatter of pots from the kitchen. It tickled her pride to know that when they sat down to eat in the evening, she’d been the one to supply some of the meat and fresh vegetables they ate. When it rained, Lady Rivkah or one of the other mages cast a spell to keep water off them, and Ria was almost disappointed at how comfortable their camps were. It was delightful, too, to have no tiresome lessons, although Cyril had taken to hunkering over maps and scrolls with Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah in the evenings, talking about crops and shipping and other equally dull subjects. Ria, meanwhile, was happy to spend her evenings avoiding her foster parents and Cyril altogether, sitting unobtrusively in the shadows near the servants and guards’ fires and listening to the gossip, learning all the bawdy and “unsuitable” songs that Lady Rivkah had always tried to keep her from hearing.

The trade road itself was a source of occasional interest. This far south of Cielman it was hardly even a road, by Ria’s observation, just a dusty and well-rutted dirt track, but Cyril told her it was one of the most heavily traveled trade routes between the north and the southern cities this far west. It ran near to Allanmere, very near, which was how Lord Sharl had taken the idea to build a trade city in that particular spot.

Sometimes they passed riders on the trade roads, messengers carrying their tidings north or pilgrims journeying to northern temples. Once they met a merchant caravan—it would stop in Cielman, in fact, as part of its trade route—and although it was only late afternoon, the merchants and Lord Sharl agreed to make camp for the night. That was a jolly night; Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah and Cyril sat up most of the night talking with the merchants, discussing trade routes and the possibility of including Allanmere as a new stop between north and south, but Ria befriended some of the children in the merchant caravan and spent the night listening to the stories of their travels and nibbling sweets they’d brought from faraway cities. By morning, Ria had traded her silk scarf with the gold embroidery, plus the matching slippers, for a chirrit pup from the litter of one of the children’s pets. As soon as she’d seen the fuzzy, tumbling pups, as curious and full of energy as Ria herself, Ria had known she had to have one; Lady Rivkah had told her that Chyrie, Ria’s mother, had had a chirrit, so of course Ria should have one, too.

Lady Rivkah, however, was less delighted with Ria’s new acquisition the next morning.

“Oh, Ria, don’t you think we’re going to have enough trouble in the new city without pets to watch out for?” she asked, dismayed when she saw the strange little creature peering out of Ria’s pocket.

“He won’t be any trouble,” Ria said defensively. “They told me how to take care of him. I’ll feed him and keep him out of the way.”

Surprisingly, it was Lord Sharl who came to Ria’s rescue, picking the little animal out of her pocket and stroking its large, tufted ears gently, chuckling as the chirrit clasped his finger in its tiny, hand-like paws and chirp-whirred with contentment at the attention.

“I suppose a little thing like this can’t eat all that much, and he could hardly be more bother than you are by yourself, Ria,” he said with a smile. “What did you trade for him?”

“Well—” Ria squirmed. “My red scarf.”

Lord Sharl gazed at her sternly, but his eyes twinkled suspiciously. “And?”

“And the slippers,” Ria admitted.

Lady Rivkah groaned, and Lord Sharl snorted with laughter.

“That scarf and those slippers must’ve been worth a good twenty-five Suns, maybe more,” he said, shaking his head, “and that chirrit pup wasn’t worth more than six or seven, even to a mage needing a familiar. You’ll have to learn better bargaining than that as the High Lady of a large trade city. Well, it was your first lesson, and a poor bargain’s no crime. Let the child be, Rivkah. She’s been lonely enough these years, and she’ll be lonelier still as the High Lady of a half-empty city still being rebuilt.”

“Well, you were lucky,” Cyril commented in an undertone, settling down beside Ria in the wagon.

“I know,” Ria said happily. Poor bargain or no, she couldn’t have been more pleased. Now she’d never have to wear the irritating scarf or slippers again. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

“I mean you’re lucky Father’s talks with the merchants went so well last night,” Cyril chuckled. “If he hadn’t been in such a good mood this morning, you’d probably have gotten punished instead. At least you could’ve traded for something useful instead of an animal only a mage might need. They had some hunting hound pups that looked to be a good bloodline.”

“Then you should have traded for one, instead of spending your evening sitting by the fire,” Ria retorted without rancor. Cyril was only jealous, she was sure, that Ria had managed to acquire such a marvelous little creature.

The chirrit pup was so young that Ria carried it in the front of her tunic despite Cyril’s joke that it was long past time she had
something
there. He was an odd-looking little creature with round, wondering eyes, large tufted ears, and remarkably hand-like paws. His fluffy squirrel-like tail was amazingly dexterous and strong, able to wind firmly around Ria’s upper arm or, unfortunately, her throat to keep himself steady on her shoulder. He seemed to eat just about anything Ria would—meat, fruit, tubers, bread, cheese, sweets—and even Lady Rivkah was amused by the way he ate, clasping morsels of food securely in his little paws as he sat and nibbled, his bright, intelligent-looking eyes darting around as if to ascertain whether anyone nearby might have something more appetizing to offer. Soon even the roughest guard was saving choice tidbits for Ria’s pet.

The plains rolled on until Ria lost count of the days. Occasionally there were small fords to cross—branches of the Brightwater River, Lord Sharl said, signs that they were getting closer to Allanmere. Ria was disappointed that the caravan rarely stopped at these fords; she’d never seen a body of water larger than small streams, and she was fairly aching to tear off her clothes and jump into the cool water.

One night, however, to Ria’s delight they camped by one of these small branches. Ria lay in her bedroll listening to the water chuckle over the rocks until she could bear it no more; then she slipped quietly out of the tent. The guards walked slowly around the camp; it was a surprisingly simple matter to stand quietly against one of the wagons, think herself small and unnoticeable, and then dart off into the tall grass when the guard was safely past. When she had worked her way downstream out of earshot, however, she was surprised to see that someone had arrived at the idea of a midnight swim before she had; she was even more surprised to recognize the shadowy figure pulling the tunic up over its head as none other than Lady Rivkah.

Ria thought she’d moved silently, but she must have made some sound, for Lady Rivkah turned and peered up into the darkness.

“Ria? Is that you?” The High Lady kept her voice very soft. She beckoned almost furtively.

“Uh-huh.” Ria sighed and scrambled down to join her foster mother. “I’m sorry I sneaked away. I just—”

To Ria’s amazement, Lady Rivkah smiled and dropped the tunic over a bush.

“I know,” she said. “I felt the same way. Hang your clothes up and come on.”

The water was almost too cold for swimming, but Ria and Lady Rivkah waded in the shallows and scrubbed their skin with the soap Lady Rivkah had brought, splashing each other in the moonlight and giggling as quietly as they could. When they grew too chilly, they shiveringly pulled on their clothes and sat on one of the boulders edging the stream.

“You know,” Lady Rivkah said quietly, “you’re not the only one who sometimes feels trapped and dreams about just breaking loose in some way.”

Ria glanced sideways at her foster mother. Lady Rivkah seemed the very image of a perfect High Lady—disciplined, self-contained, competent. But she could remember from childhood a different image—Lady Rivkah in old patched leathers, staging mock swordfights with Ria and Cyril using sticks for swords, having snowball fights in the winter, building mud castles in the soft plowed earth after a rain. Where had that woman gone over the years?

“Once when Sharl and I were riding through the forest with your mother,” Lady Rivkah said, “it was raining hard. Very hard. Chyrie and her mate Valann wouldn’t let me cast a rainproofing spell for them to ride under, and I worried about her becoming chilled and sick—she was pregnant with you then. But before I knew what was happening she’d jumped down to the ground, pulled her clothes off, and was pelting off down the trail as fast as she could go.” Lady Rivkah chuckled. “When Sharl and I caught up with her—on our horses, mind—she’d run herself out and was on her knees in the mud
howling,
I do believe. At first I was horrified, and embarrassed, but for a moment—just a moment, mind—I saw that look in her eyes and I wanted to be there howling with her in the rain. Her mate said it was the wild blood in her. The same wild blood that runs through your veins, Ria.”

Lady Rivkah shook her head.

“But don’t ever believe, Ria, that only you—or only elves—ever feel that wild blood. No matter what you think, we all want to run in the rain and howl sometimes. Now let’s get back to camp.”

Ria thought about Lady Rivkah’s words in the next few days. She could certainly sympathize if Lady Rivkah felt caged and trapped as Ria herself did; however, that didn’t change the fact that Lady Rivkah had chosen her cage and Ria had not. Moreover, why should Lady Rivkah, if she understood Ria’s need for freedom, be so eager to cage Ria ever more tightly? No, Ria thought with some pity that Lady Rivkah had left her howling days behind her with the snowballs and mud castles. With any luck, however, Ria hoped, hers were only beginning.

Ria could scarcely believe her eyes when abruptly the forest loomed before them, cool and green and huge. There had been no forests near Emaril’s keep or near Cielman, and Ria could never have imagined the immensity, the ancient grandeur of it, even in her wistful dreams. Nor could she have anticipated her sudden certainty that this was something more than a simple stand of foliage—this was in its own way a living being of sorts, an entire little world. Even more startling was the sense of homecoming as soon as Ria saw it, the sudden yearning to rush headlong into its leafy arms and drown herself in its shadowy depths. Her breath came short and she trembled, clenching her fists in anger as much as longing. So close and yet so unreachable. The guards would stop her before she got more than a few steps away.