White Pagan, page 49
part #6 of Kestrel Harper Saga Series
“You could kill them.”
For a moment she looked aghast until she realized he was not serious. Not so far-fetched of a notion, she thought grimly. For those on the path towards death, was it not kinder to help them avoid an agonizing end? At what point did a patient go from hope to incurable?
She had yet to learn that truth.
“Enough will die as it is. Bhryell is small; we cannot afford more.”
“If k’Ádhá favors us, fewer will die than the last time.” Nearly half of the village’s population had succumbed to the plague that had swept the Sovereignties nearly seventy-five years ago. As slowly as Elyri populations grew, Bhryell was just beginning to recover from that loss. Another devastating period like that would leave Bhryell nearly abandoned. “I am going to bed. Will you join me?” He got up and offered his hand.
She shook her head. “Not yet. I want to sit here for a bit.”
“Alright.” He kissed her again, knowing she would doze in the chair instead of coming upstairs. He would not blame her if she did.
***
“You must tell him. He deserves to know.”
“Know what?” It was the only part of the conversation Kavan overheard as he returned to the ghís kelyhag where people gathered for the evening meal. The custom of shared meals was meant to strengthen the community. Children wrestled and played, weaving among the adults as they ran. People stood or sat in clusters, conversing in animated voices as they collected around the fire pits. A sheep turned on a spit, one of the animals that, along with fish and waterfowl, was a staple of their diet, especially during winter months when there was no growing to be done. This repast was intended for Raebhá’s benefit. Those Kavan saw were not malnourished or suffering. There was no want for food, shelter, or clothing even in the clutches of winter. No want for daily needs. The villagers took care of their own, a custom his people had grown away from outside of the náós walls.
It made Kavan again feel pleased about the inclusion of his staff at mealtimes, about including them in other aspects of his life. Not lesser. Only different. It reminded him of the pious society in Gorbesh.
That in turn reminded him of Myreth.
Raebhá opened her mouth, her expression one of awkward discomfort, but Iólán clasped Kavan’s shoulders as people here did in greeting, and smiled. Kavan had been supplied clean clothing in the local fashion, with soft undergarments to protect his skin from scratchy woolen overclothes. There had been hot water in a bowl to bathe and an empty home in which to rest, but he had been unable to remain still, uncomfortable in a place he did not feel welcome. Iólán’s greeting eased that disquiet only enough to counterbalance the feeling created by Raebhá’s countenance.
“kydhé Cliáth, you appear rested.”
“I am.” Time spent off of the sea had done much for his state of mind and his physical comfort.
“Good. There’s someone in Curnydhá who will be overjoyed to meet you but not if we take abuse in your care. He’s spoken often of you, but I didn’t believe his tales. None of us did until…”
“kydhé, come. Sit at my side.”
Bhregdh’s interruption disallowed the continuation of Iólán’s excited ramblings, but Raebhá’s relief did not go unnoticed. Assuming he was the one meant to be told something, it was easy to believe the interrupted discussion concerned Raebhá’s husband. Despite Iólán’s assertion that Ombhrís’ fate was unknown, perhaps there were details Iólán thought best not to speak in front of the márbhyndhánis and the kydhé. It would explain Raebhá’s mortification at Kavan’s arrival and her subsequent relief for Bhregdh’s interruption.
Perhaps what he overheard had not involved him. Not a man prone to gossip, Kavan felt awkward for the inadvertent eavesdropping. Having entered the ghís kelyhag to see Raebhá dressed in a loose, pale green gown similar in style to the one she had worn when he found her, though adorned with long sleeves that covered both shoulders, no longer covered in layers of trousers, skins, and furs, the sight robbed Kavan of breath and reason and rekindled the fire within.
It was as if he had forgotten how beautiful she was.
The fabric, thick enough to be practical in the cold evening air, hung from her fur-capped shoulders, loose and flowing about her as she shifted, jostled by the others moving around them. While many of the women in the room wore their hair coiled or plaited or in intricate braids, Raebhá’s crimson trusses hung loosely around her shoulders and neck. He wanted to twist his fingers in her hair, hold her with kisses meant to bind them forever, a desire that pulled him towards her and her brother, relieved to find her well and safe after being separated for the better part of the day. That was when he heard Iólán speak.
He decided to let the matter rest and not think of it again.
Seated on a wooden bench worn smooth with age and use, hewn from rough timber and carved with animals and vines, Bhregdh on one side and Iólán on the other, between him and Raebhá, Kavan ignored his disappointment by directing his attention to the people around him as a large wooden bowl with a ladle began to pass around the room. Having spent the day roaming streets paved with wooden planks, flat stones, or hewn rocks pressed into the muddy soil, he had quickly recognized a level of fear and distrust that he had not sensed in Ghené. Words spoken earlier, that he was elyryhánag, had possibly been the one to abduct Raebhá and kill her husband for some nefarious plan, that he might have the ability to harm those here, had spread quickly in a town where anything new rarely occurred.
He felt little regret for the veiled threats, determined as he was, that no one would intimidate, besmirch, or harm Raebhá. Only children approached him, their fascination with his white skin and silver-white hair enough to prompt them to overcome their shyness. Each was scolded and shooed indoors where others watched through peeped shutters. People stopped what they were doing, mending boats and nets and farming implements, taking advantage of the increasing daylight in preparation for the shortness of spring and summer, to warily watch him pass.
Kavan did his best to stave off dismay and settle for the joy the sun provided, looking forward to evening and seeing Raebhá again.
Now she was here, her focus directed elsewhere, replaced by the attention of every other who had avoided him throughout the day. They stared until he looked at them and then they quickly looked away, embarrassed, perhaps, or else afraid that he might bewitch them, that whatever powers he possess would be used against them for their impolite attention.
Bhregdh’s welcome might sway them, but it competed with the scowling, judgmental stares of the márbhyndhánis. Those men and women, Kavan sensed, would become a problem if he remained in Maras for more than a day or two.
Bhregdh made no formal introduction, allowing their seats of distinction beside him at the table to suggest the importance of his guests. When the wooden bowl reached them, Raebhá filled her cup and Iólán did likewise. Before it reached Kavan, his nose crinkled at the scent, recognizing the pungent sting of fermentation, the stain of years of liquid that had seeped into the wooden bowl. Though spiced with something akin to cinnamon that gave it a different aroma than he was familiar with, it bore the underlying sweetness of the alcohol carried with them at sea.
zerphánál was made of maple and as maple was undoubtedly rarer in the far north, it explained the reluctance of their previous hosts and the sailors to share such a precious commodity, explained why they took no offense at his refusal when it was offered before.
Here, the weather was different, the forest thicker and more diverse, suggesting warming in the year that allowed for the collection of larger quantities of sap and an increased plenty of zerphánál. There was no reluctance to share here, and as with the meal, communal sharing was expected, even with their guests.
As Bhregdh waited for Kavan to fill his cup, Kavan’s eyes scanned the room, testing the expectation of others. He knew the effects of alcohol on Elyri metabolism first hand. These people were as he was, Elyri in blood no matter how ancient that bond, yet suffered no ill from consumption. Unless he wanted to explain himself, their offer to share was not one to be slighted.
Without trying it, how could he know if the effects would be the same?
Maybe some early teaching of Faith had forbidden the drinking of alcohol. Perhaps the outcasts had acquired a genetic intolerance or the strength of Teren spirits had proven more potent than what these people offered him, making the choice not to drink a matter of protection and survival.
Kavan decided not to offend his hosts. There would be no harm in filling his cup once and not drinking, or sipping with the hope that it would not incapacitate or kill him. Raebhá believed it safe, accepted the offering freely, so surely it was harmless.
She might not wish to talk to him but he would not believe she wanted him poisoned.
Families shared bread and potato dishes. The beast roasting in the center of the room, perfuming the air with savory juices, was carved by two older men who passed the meat as the zerphánál had been passed, starting on Bhregdh’s left, moving clockwise, until it ended with Kavan. The zerphánál circled again once refilled from a barrel in the corner furthest from the main door. After weeks of sea rations, the smell of salt fish and little else, the meal smelled divine, eliciting a rumble of anticipation from his empty stomach. Some parts of the animal were kept aside for soups, broths, sausages, and mash made of meat and tubers. The rest was devoured with relish as Kavan listened to the dialogues around him.
No one, however, spoke to him. Not Bhregdh, who engaged with his wife and three sons on his other side, and not Raebhá who was sullenly silent and spoke little beyond nods and single word replies to her brother’s questions and commentary of those around them. The man with long plaited hair the same color as Raebhá’s was a wealth of information about Maras, able to identify everyone by name, community function, and the relationships between them. In his months living here, coupled with any previous travel he had made to the region, Iólán knew many things of import and was happy to share what he knew, happy to have his sister with him and not dead as he had feared. Kavan wondered if he wanted Raebhá to remain in Maras with him rather than seeing her return to Curnydhá. He wondered if she was considering that option.
Maybe that was what Iólán believed she should tell him.
The zerphánál and food platters circled the room several more times and were in the midst of another pass. Not all partook of the repeated offerings but many did, leaving Kavan to wonder at the amount of libation being consumed. In Elyriá, meals were small, sparsely eaten and savored. Watching now, though the portions taken were small enough to avoid the appearance of gluttony, so many platters and bowls passing around allowed ample opportunity for overindulgence. Perhaps, he thought as he reached for the cup he had not yet sampled, these people took advantage of banquets for guests to supplement more meager, thriftier day-to-day fair from stores meant to last the long bitter winter.
Someone raising their cup to a friend, a relative, a blessing given, a word of thanks interrupted the flow of conversation at random intervals. More than once a voice would erupt into song and most often the entire company would join. Kavan did not know their songs. Despite the progress made with understanding differences between High Elyri and what he dubbed Old Elyri, there were times when he could not make out the words quickly enough to translate them. Sometimes it was as if the folk songs came from a language older still, something as foreign-sounding on the tongues of those using it as High Elyri was on most of those Kavan knew. Judging by the faces of the villagers, Kavan did not think even they knew what they sang. He was eager, as the night wore on, to find written examples of these songs, this other language, so that he could study them and trace back their origins and meanings.
“You should sing,” Iólán said against Kavan’s ear as the feasting dragged on. “Raebhá says you are phehonís?”
“I did not bring my harp.” His impulsive reply made little sense or difference. The harp was inside of his pack, hidden from sight when they arrived. It was not the harp Iólán asked for, however, but for the instrument Kavan carried with him at all times.
“You are a harper?” Iólán looked at his sister as if scolding her for that omission but he continued to smile. “I can send someone for it? From my sister’s praise, however,” he put his arm around Raebhá affectionately, “you need no instrument to support you as some do.” His grin grew wider as he rolled his eyes in the direction of three men currently singing in unison who shared very little musical talent between them. The melody was garbled by their out-of-tune belting, their discordant but enthusiastic voices burying any actual song beneath their laughter and volume.
Looking past Iólán won Kavan a shy, affectionate smile before Raebhá looked away. Her expression confused him, contradicting her mood and behavior over the last three weeks, unsettling Kavan’s nerves and stomach so that the sip he took from the cup in his hand was larger than intended. The sweet bitterness burned his throat but not as strongly as the wine he had once consumed, and though it warmed his belly, it did not create the sick, fiery knot he expected. His surprise and bewilderment made his hand tremble and he quickly set the nearly empty cup down before the remaining contents spilled and drew attention to his nervousness.
“No.” He would feel most at ease with a harp in his hands but he did not trust anyone but Raebhá to dig through his pack and bring it. He would rather sing without it, despite the familiar uncertainty of possible rejection gnawing at his throat. “I do not need it.”
“We could do with something new from someone with talent.”
“You should reserve judgment,” Kavan cautioned softly. He never compared himself to other musicians. The only time he had compared another to himself, that young man had horrifically lost his life. Kavan’s gifts were as peculiar to him as was his appearance, but that did not make him better than anyone else, even if his popularity throughout the Sovereignties suggested otherwise.
The off-key trio, arms around one another’s shoulders, finished their song and collapsed onto their bench in a fit of laughter to the applause of others. Kavan drained the zerphánál as if it would give him strength, dabbed the corners of his mouth with his fingers since there were no cloths on which to clean ones’ hands or mouth, and got to his feet, his decision to sing made and executed in the same moment. He felt the exchange of glances behind him between Iólán and Bhregdh, felt the prickle of a room full of eyes turning towards him, the suspicious daggers of the márbhyndhánis’ gazes, and then, as though reluctant to look at him, the soothing caress of Raebhá’s gaze.
With a song in mind, intending to share the version of ‘Blue Bird of Gallínphel’ he knew to see what reaction he would get, he closed his eyes, opened his mouth…
But what came forth was something different, unintended, words in High Elyri born from his longing for home and those he felt were lost to him, Raebhá included.
íth Llaethlágárá zugdhu
íth hes áti tyrethár
phálóár hne Kóráhm’s krus
bhain scenyhur chellé k’phaelás dhedláó
só hes a mál áni
bhain áti kisaer
átaelás aiónag elzenár
hwoncáró áti aelás náir
He kept his eyes closed as he sang, kept his thoughts closed with every skill he possessed so that efforts made to bypass his shields and probe his thoughts were met with an unbreachable wall. Most would miss the meanings of his words, the language just different enough to make some of the phrases seem nonsensical, the places and names unfamiliar. But Raebhá would know, would hear what he said and meant and felt beneath the uttered words. The gentle wash of lonely melancholy that rippled throughout the ghís kelyhag exposed the melody’s meaning when his androgynous voice dipped low towards despair and soared with unfulfilled longing. Those were emotions that all save the very young could identify with, emotions he knew from experience his audience felt with him.
He did not need to see the wiping of eyes or hear the sniffling to know they felt it. He felt their reactions as strongly as his own.
“dhédók agk káyl,” Iólán murmured, one hand clutching Raebhá’s as he sought words to express the emotion ripping through him. Her head was bowed, her face hidden by her loose hair, as she picked through the food on her plate with trembling fingers. The distress in her aura bled around the edges of the predominantly awed melancholy of nearly everyone else, causing Kavan to stand again.
Bowing to Bhregdh, he clasped his shoulder in the ritual address he had watched others use. “Might I retire, kydhé?” he asked in a voice threatening to break beneath the assault of external emotion.
Bhregdh stood too, and though he reached for the bard’s shoulders, he ended up clasping the pale man to him, unashamed to press his face against the taller man’s chest.
“If it had been known that the return of the Cliáthan bloodline would be heralded by one such as you, this day would be welcomed instead of feared,” he choked, ashamed of any pain he might have caused. If he was concerned about the glowering glares of the márbhyndhánis across the room, he neither acknowledged nor addressed it. “Rest, kydhé…and know that you are welcome here. I guarantee and assure your safety and Maras’ hospitality.”
He released Kavan with a gentle backward push to indicate the bard was free to retire. With most in the room still feasting, although now with subdued fervor as they watched him, Kavan went out into the stillness beneath the starry sky where he could breathe. It was not far enough to escape their emotions, but it was enough to ease the immediate discomfort they caused.
The night was clear, the snow no longer falling, and the light of the stars and moon reflected off the inky sea. Leaving the dhó dónáré in favor of the shore, he climbed a rocky outcropping where the waves crashed on the stone, where the ghís kelyhag seemed far away.
