Risa, page 45
They passed the milk-white horses and Elen thought she was beginning to see the outlines of a dwelling. She had an impression of solidity to the shadows, of great size. Here and there, something glinted in the moonlight.
Then she was passing underneath a threshold that curved high overhead, and the whole world swam as if her eyes were blinded by tears. She blinked hard, and her vision cleared.
She was in a great hall. The walls around her shimmered whitely as if they were made of pearl. The roof soared overhead impossibly high, held in place by pillars of gold made in the shape of branching trees so lifelike Elen would not have been surprised to see them bearing fruit. The perfectly smooth floor was white marble shot through with veins of gold, which made it seem as if the roots of the golden roof trees ran through chalk soil. The light was brilliant and pure, and yet she saw no candles nor any hearth.
Now she could see her companions were dressed all in shades of green—bright emerald, somber olive, the green of the sea and the green of the wood. Their belts and their arm rings were indeed of gold both red and white. They gave her no time to marvel at these sights, but led her swiftly down the length of the shining, empty hall. At the end waited a white door carved with the image of an apple tree bearing both fruits and blossoms on a smooth hill. The one who had driven the chariot pushed the door open and stood aside, waiting for Elen to enter.
She felt shabby. She felt ugly, dirty and unworthy. How could she go yet farther into this pristine and golden place?
They came to you, she reminded herself. They need you.
Elen laid her hand on the white door. It was cool and perfectly smooth, without the grain of wood or stone. It swung open at her touch and she made herself walk through.
The room on the other side was much smaller, almost on a human scale. The walls were covered in tapestries that stirred and shimmered with each movement, tricking the eye into thinking the images of fabulous birds and beasts truly lived. At least, Elen thought it must be a trick of light and eye. She did not have the courage to believe otherwise.
A cluster of green-clad women ringed a huge bed piled with white pillows and coverlets. All of them had silver hair and milk-white skin. Four posts held up a golden canopy over the laboring woman who lay there, clutching her belly, her head thrown back and her face tight with her terrible strain. The white hair that streamed over her shoulders and breasts was darkened with sweat. A man, pale as the women, stood by the head of the bed and looked up as Elen entered. She saw fear plainly in the way the skin of his face stretched tight over his bones. This being was husband and father. On the bed lay the one who was wife and mother and she was in pain. Elen was the one to offer succor to them and the babe that was trying so hard to be born.
That understanding broke her paralysis. Elen strode to the bedside. The waiting ladies parted silently for her. The woman on the bed panted and looked toward Elen, but Elen doubted she saw her clearly. She was too lost in her own pain. Elen laid her hands on the woman’s exposed belly. The skin was hot as fever and slick with sweat. The woman screamed as if Elen’s touch burned her. The ladies behind closed their ranks, and Elen could feel their eyes boring into her shoulders and heard their mutters. She closed her eyes to focus on her hands, to feel the babe within. The shape of the belly was wrong somehow. The woman screamed again, and her muscles pushed and strained, and Elen bit her lip and reached within her, keeping one hand on the belly. She touched only slick warmth and she knew why the woman strained and strained and yet no babe came.
Oh, Mother Rhiannon. It’s laid wrong. With the babe like this, she could labor till she died, and she would take the babe with her.
What do I do? Elen wiped her hands nervously on her cloak. What do I do … the babe must be turned, can’t be turned while she’s straining, she’ll crush it with the straining. …
“Wine,” she snapped. “We need wine and mistletoe, mint and rosemary.” She did not bother to ask if they had any of these things. “And grease from a pig or goose, and any locks in this place, they must be thrown open. Now!” she barked the final word.
Whoever they were, whatever they may have been, they began to move. Three of the women ran out the door. Knotted cords held the bed curtains back. Elen undid the first. One of the women began on the others. Elen unknotted her own belt and unclasped her pin letting the cloak slide to the floor. Open, open, everything must be open. …
The woman in the bed screamed, loud high and hysterical. She clutched at her belly.
“Someone must hold her hands,” ordered Elen. “What am I to call her?”
“Lady,” said the white-faced man. “You may call her Lady.” He took the Lady’s hands, holding them back above the woman’s head. Her eyes looked at his, full of fear, full of pain.
“Lady.” One of the women reappeared with a cup of wine so red it might have been blood, and a bundle of herbs. Elen tore the herbs to pieces and rolled the leaves between her hands before she dropped them into the wine. Their scent filled the air, even over the odors of sweat and birth.
She carried the cup to the bed and leaned close to the woman’s ear. “Lady, listen to me!” she shouted. She must get past the pain, past the panic. “You must drink what you are given. Drink it all. We must turn the babe inside you. This will help. You must drink!”
The woman nodded and parted her lips, just a little. The woman who’d brought the cup lifted the Lady’s head. Elen poured the wine into her mouth. She coughed, and sputtered. The man—the Lord?—tightened his grip on her wrists. She swallowed. Little by little, Elen tipped in more wine, and the Lady drank between her screams. The cup was deeper than it seemed, and it took a long time to empty. But the straining and spasms eased a little.
Please let it be enough.
One of the other women had returned with a white oak bowl filled with snowy grease. Elen scooped out a great handful and slathered it onto the Lady’s belly, then began to rub it in.
She worked hard, as if she were kneading dough for bread. She squeezed and rubbed and worked and squeezed again, working against muscle, against instinct and nature. The woman screamed, she whimpered, she cried and she wailed. She strained and kicked until the Lord shouted out and two of her women went to hold her ankles down. Sweat poured down Elen’s face. Her hands grew weak, went numb, and still she worked. Sometimes she thought she felt the child move, only to have it slip back into place.
The Lady fainted, and Elen wished she could do the same. Her hands felt nothing but pain. Her arms were lead and stone hanging from her shoulders. Her feet and knees screamed to be allowed to buckle, to fall. Her lower lip was raw from her chewing it in her efforts, and her mouth was full of the tastes of blood and bile.
The babe turned.
She felt it. She felt it slide into place, and settle, and stay. She thrust her arm where she must, and her fingertips brushed the wet, warm crown.
“Wake her!” she croaked, the only noise she could make. “Wake her! She must push now!”
She expected the Lord to call out, or slap the Lady, but instead he began to sing. It was the sound of summer. It was the sound of beloved heart calling to beloved heart. Elen felt her own exhausted heart strain against her breast, longing to follow where that song led.
The Lady’s eyelids fluttered, and opened. She looked up at the Lord, and the birth pain took her again and she screamed.
“Push!” bellowed Elen. “Hold your breath and push!”
The Lady pushed, and Elen screamed, and the blood poured and the Lord sang, and all was noise and confusion and salt wet and red. …
The baby fell into Elen’s arms. It was pale beneath its coat of blood. Its hair was shocking white. It lay limp and still in Elen’s numb hands for three frantic heartbeats, but then its arms flailed, and its mouth opened and it cried. It cried for pain and hunger and cold and life. Oh, it cried so hard for life.
Elen was so dazed, she barely realized what she was doing as she bound and cut the cord. Someone handed her towels. A basin of water came from somewhere and she washed and swaddled the babe—a girl with regular limbs and strong lungs—and laid it where it longed to be, on its mother’s breast.
Hands led her away. Other hands washed her arms and face clean of blood and sweat in water that smelled of thyme and rosemary and something else she couldn’t name. She couldn’t see straight. She could barely think. Her throat burned with thirst and she ached all the way to her bones.
A soft white towel was handed to her then and she dried herself. Footsteps approached. The hands removed the basin. Someone stood before her.
I must collect myself. I must. Elen rubbed her eyes with her freshly cleaned hands.
The Lord stood before her in all his glory. Elen had just enough presence of mind to remember to look past him rather than into his deep and wild eyes.
“You have my gratitude,” he said. His voice was like music. Just the sound of it made her sway on her feet. It was as well she had been severely distracted when he had sung for his Lady. “The Lady asks you to stay. She asks you to be nurse to our child. Say yes, daughter of Adara and you will have a life such as you could never dream of.”
Those words had not faded in her hearing before she saw it all in her mind’s eye, as clear as a dream to a sleeper. The feasts, the hunts, the music and laughter, the riches and casual wonders. Love and lovers if she so pleased, and life without death, without sorrow, or trifling care.
The dream was so bright and glorious that Elen’s heart yearned toward it with physical force. It promised meat and drink and she was starved. It promised rest and warmth and she was cold and exhausted. She thought of the little, pale babe she had helped bring into the world, and how wondrous it would be to see it grow. …
But to never see Mother or Yestin again? They seemed so far away, and they would have each other, and Carys. But could she leave them with so much trouble creeping toward the walls? With the men of Camelot inside and Urien without? And what of her other dream of the hawk and the spear?
If she said yes, she would never have to find the answer for the dream she dreamed or know the bloody resolution of its riddle. She could live in bliss and peace and never know fear again.
Without Mother, without Yestin, without knowing the riddle of the horseman with the blue eyes.
She shook her head. “No, my Lord,” she said, the words grating against her parched throat. No one offered her anything to drink and even as she was she remembered not to ask. “I regret I cannot accept what you offer.”
The Lord remained silent for what seemed like an eternity, but Elen said nothing more. She wanted to lie down on the gold-veined stone and sleep. She wanted to drink the whole of the River Usk as it flowed beneath the bridge.
She wanted to go home.
“Very well,” said the Lord. “You shall be returned to your family, safe and whole, as was promised. You will be taken to the bridge, and you may cross. When you reach the other side, you will come safely to your own lands.”
There was something in his words that made Elen shiver, some hint in them of things unsaid and unseen, but her weary mind could not riddle out what it might be. The Lord gestured with his fine white hand, and the three who had brought her here came to stand before her again. This time these beautiful and noble creatures bowed with deep respect. One of them held the cloak she had let fall, and she took it from him with trembling hands. Then, with one before and two behind, they led her from the gold-and-marble hall to the waiting chariot and horses.
The moon had not moved at all.
That should have made her feel afraid, or left her to wonder, but she was too tired. Her guides helped her into the chariot. This time she stood, holding to the sides with what strength remained in her hands. The horses galloped along the straight, white road without balking or sign of tiring. The wind whipped back her hair, and the world passed in shadow beneath the motionless moon. A day passed, an hour, no time at all. At last, Elen saw the gray stone steps of the bridge, the one solid and familiar thing in this strange, moonlit world.
One of her guides unfastened the gate at the rear of the chariot and Elen stumbled toward the bridge. She remembered herself long enough to turn, and to curtsey to the three white-faced, green-eyed men who bowed solemnly in return. Then she turned her back on them and mounted the steps.
They felt strange underfoot after walking the moonlit halls. Too rough, they made her stagger, and they felt strangely warm. The memory of sunlight? The memory of life itself? She couldn’t hear the river, but she thought she could smell the clean, cold water on the wind that stirred as she moved forward. Was the darkness beginning to lift or were her tired eyes beginning to fade?
No, the darkness was lifting, pulling back and away, making room for the silver mists to rise and envelop her. She would have been afraid, but the mist did not obscure the stone. She saw the solid, graceless way in front of her. The way home, to earth and hearth and kin, and she followed it eagerly and paid no heed to anything else.
Gradually, the mist thinned and vanished, and the moonlight came back, filtered through a haze of clouds. The rain had thankfully spent itself. She descended the steps and her shoes touched the honest earth of home. The living wind blew hard now, bringing the scents of smoke and the homes of man. It was cool, but not cold. Elen swayed on her feet. She could go no farther. Not even to get home. There was not light enough to see by, even if she had strength to make the journey.
Beneath the bridge, the bank sloped gently away. The grass there was sparse, but dry of dew. It smelled of clean water, and the river murmured gently to itself. Elen took shelter beneath the stones of the Taken Bridge, wrapped her cloak around herself. Tomorrow would bring her safe home. She had been promised.
The memory of the unspoken hint in the Lord’s voice was washed away by the whisper of the river, and she fell asleep where no other sound could reach her.
Chapter Three
Elen woke with the dawn, stiff with cold and soaked with dew. Her hunger had subsided to a leaden ache, but the sound of the river in her ears woke the burning thirst in her throat. She emerged from under the bridge, blinking in the early sunlight. The morning was still, with not even the birds calling to one another.
Bleary-eyed and muzzy-headed, she made her way down the bank and scooped up great drafts of river water, drenching sleeves and cloak further in her haste to drink. It didn’t matter. She was home and safe, and everything else would be taken care of in its time.
Once she had eased her thirst, she picked her way back to the path and started up the way toward home. The sky was clear blue and the day warmed quickly. No sign of the previous night’s rain remained.
Was it only the night before? That gave Elen pause. There had been no way to tell how much time had passed in that other country. It could have been two days, or even longer. She was certainly tired enough. The fae were known for the games they played with time. How long had she been gone?
Elen picked up her pace. It cannot have been too long, she told herself. The promise they gave Mother saw to that. I was to be returned safe and to her. They could not have kept me seven years, or a hundred. …
She was running now, her feet drumming against the dry and rutted road, her heart pounding in her throat and her breath coming in gasps.
It’s all right. It’s all right. Any moment now I’ll see Taf with his cows coming to the river, or Dai with the pigs, or Carys with the buckets. They’ll tell me I left last night … it’ll be all right. …
But no one came. She had the forest track to herself. The birds still did not sing. Elen’s panic deepened. The sun was well up. The way to the bridge should have been busy.
Where are they all?
There should have been watchmen on the bridge, and there were not.
What’s happened?
Then the breeze sharpened and she smelled smoke. Not gentle hearth smoke, this was thick and acrid, the iron-and-ash taste of it filling her mouth. This was the smell of disaster.
Elen grabbed her skirt in both hands and raced up the hill, finding the shortest way by instinct rather than sight. She crashed through the encroaching bracken, swatting aside thorns and branches, never heeding how they tore her skin.
Hands yanked her off her feet, dropping her onto her back so hard her head spun and all the air left her lungs in a single rush. A filthy palm clamped itself over her mouth and another gripped her wrists. She kicked out desperately and bared her teeth, trying to bite down.
“Elen! Stop, stop, you’re safe!” hissed a raw voice.
Yestin.
His head and shoulders blocked the sky as he leaned over her, and all she saw for a moment was a blur of darkness. Then the darkness resolved itself, and she stared into her brother’s face. He was smeared with blood and mud and his eyes were wide with fear and fury.
He removed his hand and let her sit up. “What!” she cried, but she got no further before he crushed her to him in a smothering embrace.
“All the gods be praised,” he whispered hoarsely. “I thought you were dead!”
Elen pushed herself away and stared at him. “What’s happened?” Her voice was high and tight and the words came out almost as a squeak.
He stared back at her, disbelief dropping his jaw. Ash caught in the tangle of his hair. His chin was covered in stubble and sprinkled with yet more ash, as if he had rolled in a fire.
“You … you don’t know?” he croaked.
“I only returned with the dawn.”
Stark disbelief bled away, replaced by sorrow. Tears welled up in the corners of her brother’s eyes. “Oh, Elen,” he whispered. “It … I … while you were gone … Urien came back.”
The scent of smoke, the sight of blood, the sorrow on her brother’s face, all these piled on top of one another in Elen’s mind.
“Mother?” she said, high and lost like a child.
Yestin’s face hardened instantly. “They left her where she fell.”
