The Silences of Home (14 page)

“Yes,” her mother said. “And why not? He is a good, strong Alilan man, and he has loved you with a patience you do not deserve.”

“In that case,” Alea said, looking at Aldana for the last time, “he deserves someone better than me. And now he’s free to find her.”

They called her name as she ran down the wagon steps. Her siblings were waiting by the fire. One of her sisters clutched her hand, and both were sobbing, but Alea did not look at them as she fled. She heard Alder’s feet pounding close behind her for a time, but she ran faster, and soon no one followed her.

Aldron and his horse were waiting by Ralan in the Twin Daggers caravan’s horse line. Aldron was sitting with one hand raised to his horse’s face. Alea squatted before him and took his other hand.

“Can you ride?” she said. He shrugged and opened his mouth to speak, but the voice that came was not his.

“It makes no difference whether he can or can’t.” Alea rose and turned to Aliser. Five men stood behind him; she saw the separate glints of their daggers. “You can’t have imagined you’d leave the Alilan on horseback? Or that you’d stoke your sad little fire with wood hacked by Alilan daggers?”

“You can’t do this.” Alea backed up until Ralan nibbled at the cloth of her blouse. She put an arm around her horse’s neck, not looking away from Aliser’s face. “You have no right to take these things away from us.”

“Haven’t I?” More men were approaching, silently, holding torches and daggers. “He’s been cast out. You’ve chosen to go with him. Neither of you is Alilan now—so you must leave behind the things that made you so. Or I’ll force you to.”

Aldron laughed as he drew himself to his feet. “I see you required some support to make this threat. I’m flattered.”

Aliser’s eyes did not move from Alea’s. “After you walk away from this place, these men and I will join the rest of our people and ride in pursuit of the Perona army. We will face them honorably and Tell our triumph to the Goddesses. We will be forgiven.”

“Aliser.” She walked to him, slowly, willing him to keep looking at her, willing herself not to stumble. When she touched his hair—not as fiery in the darkness—he flinched, and she heard the hiss of his indrawn breath. “You’ve loved me so well, and I’ve needed this love. And though you may not believe it, I’ve loved you, in—”

“Stop,” he said between gritted teeth. “Say nothing more.”

“If the Goddesses can be forgiving,” Alea continued, feeling the tremor in her voice as if it were in the earth, “so can you. Please, Aliser—we’ve shared so many seasons, and you’re so dear to me, truly. . . .”

He blinked at her, lost, for a moment, frowning so that the freckles across the bridge of his nose seemed to flatten. Then he stepped back, away from her touch and her eyes, and said, “Go now.
Now
, Alea.”

Her horse and Aldron’s were surrounded by men. Ralan pawed at the sand and pulled his head away from the man who held him. Alea saw this, as she went to Aldron.

“Well, then, my little heartflower,” he said, and pulled her in to him.

They placed their daggers side by side on the ground, hafts out, as if giving them directly into Aliser’s hands. She glanced at her horse, so quickly that Aliser almost did not see it. He knew he should rejoice in her pain, but he felt nothing. The daggers lay on the sand, and his men stood solid as stakes around the horses, and his own horse waited to bear him into battle—but he felt nothing.

He watched Alea and the nameless man loop their arms around each other’s waists and lean their heads together. He watched them draw apart, but only a little; their hands were still touching as they began to walk. They walked along the line of horses, away from the torchlight. Soon he saw only the white of her blouse and leggings. He imagined her hair and limbs, darknesses slipping into a greater darkness, and he turned sharply and called out to his men.

As they gathered to return to the main camp, four notes sounded—a whistled fragment, nearly a melody. Aliser’s voice died mid-sentence as the notes came again, and again. He knew the almost-tune. He looked at Ralan, saw the horse toss his mane and flare his nostrils. When the last whistled notes had faded, the horse threw back his head and bellowed, his hoofs churning the air. “We’ll have to kill it, and the other too,” Aliser heard someone say, but he did not answer. “Aliser? Should we—”

“Leave me,” he said, and they did, one by one, until he was alone. They had taken all the torches, but he had no need of more than starlight for what he had to do. He picked up her dagger and turned it over in his palm three times. It would likely be sharp enough; she took care with such things.

Ralan was standing on all four hoofs now, his breath gusting from nostrils and mouth. Aliser walked up to him and laid a hand on his neck; he felt sweat and the coursing of blood beneath thick hair and skin. He drew the edge of her dagger across the place, and it was sharp enough.

Nellyn woke to sun and birdsong. He did not open his eyes right away. He lay and listened to the singing, and to the rustling of wind through dry-tipped leaves. Some of the leaves had already fallen; he felt them crackle beneath him as he stretched and rolled onto his side. He still did not open his eyes. He listened for Lanara, who always rose hours before he did, just as he always walked or sat for hours after she had fallen asleep.

“It’s right, that you’re sleeping like this,” she had said once, a few months after they had left Luhr. “You were so sick when you were trying to sleep at the same time I did. This is more . . . natural.”

Nothing will be natural again,
he had thought with a rush of pain and surprise that had subsided, bit by bit, as he breathed
. She is right. This is how I spend my nights and dawns and mornings. This is the river that carries me now.
When the journey began, it had been so difficult waiting for sleep. He had not strayed far from their wagon: too raw and frail, too alone. He had heard lynanyn and paddles in water and had known that these sounds were memories but also real now, somewhere. As they drew further and further away from Luhr, he had begun to wander more at night. He was less fearful listening to sounds that were not memories. Night creatures, wind, thunder: he listened and walked and found that his body was at home, again, in darkness.

Lanara was writing; he heard her writing stick scratching on one of the many pieces of parchment she had brought with them. He heard herb water bubbling as well, and smelled it, and he opened his eyes at last with a groan of thirst and contentment.

They followed the broad forest path while the sun edged westward. Its light fell through half-stripped branches, and Nellyn remembered other light, other places: a waterfall surrounded by jungle, a field of bare black rocks, a mountain wreathed in smoke, and spitting fire. This forest was the most peaceful place he had yet seen. The leaves shone as they turned in the breeze, and every sound seemed muffled, even that of the horse’s hoofs.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Lanara said, lifting her face to the sky. “I wouldn’t mind another few days of this.” But a short time later, trees and path ended at a plain of crackling gold.

“This is lovely too,” Nellyn said, wading into the grass. Lanara said nothing. He turned back and saw her sitting very still on the wagon’s bench, the reins slack in her hands. He turned again, following her gaze, and saw wooden walls and a tower, and smoke rising into the dark blue sky.

“This must be Galhadrell,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to reach it for another few days, but this is it—I’m sure. . . .” She looked down at him. “It’s been so long since we slept in a bed. And it’s not a very big town, not even as big as that one we stopped in when we were a week away from Luhr.”

“No,” he said, aching because he heard and saw her longing, and because she was trying so hard to be careful of him. “It looks like quite a nice size. So let’s go—it will be dark soon.”

The bed they found, in an inn so ancient it leaned, was a delight. It was high off the floor, with a straw-stuffed mattress and brown sheets worn smooth by travellers’ limbs, with flat pillows and a headboard that creaked. He had slept well in the wagon and on rock and cushions of vine or moss, but this bed lulled him even further away than sleep. He stayed in it for nearly two days and two nights. Lanara often joined him, sleeping and not sleeping. Mostly he lay alone, looking at the room as he had once looked at the clay walls of his hut. These walls were plaster, white smudged grey by the soot from the fireplace across from the bed. The floorboards were cracked and dotted with holes through which, Lanara had discovered, the dining room below could be glimpsed. She left the shutters open in the morning; he woke to sunlight and cloud-streaked blue.

He left the bed only when midnight was well past and Lanara was asleep. The town’s streets were nearly empty, those two nights. He saw shadows of cats and dogs, and even a few people; he stepped back into doorways to watch them. He was not afraid, as he had been in Luhr. He saw the animals and people, saw that they were alone and purposeful in the darkness, and was content to watch them pass.

On the third day Lanara said, “So—are you ever going to leave this room when there are people around?”

“Maybe,” he said, pulling her back down to lie beside him. She laughed as he kissed her, and dragged her fingers down his back so that he wriggled away from her.

“Because you know,” she said, twining a strand of his hair around her left forefinger, “I’ve met some very friendly people. Townspeople mostly, who come to eat here in the evening.”

Nellyn moved from his side to his back. “Oh,” he said. The sky above the roofs was grey today: no rain, but the clouds looked heavy and full.
Like other clouds I have seen
, he thought, and wished he could burrow into the blankets until he was blind.

“Come down with me. I know you like the food here, and I’m tired of carrying it up to you. Come and meet these people.”

He followed her down the stairs later, just after the rain had started. He heard it against their shutters, and against the roof when they were in the corridor—but he could not hear it at all on the stairs above the dining room. There were so many voices, and a constant clatter of plates and mugs, and the spit and crackle of the fire in the wide stone hearth. He had heard these sounds from the bedchamber, but they had been merely ripples. Lanara squeezed his hand, and they both stepped onto the next stair—and then suddenly all the noise stopped, and leaves began to fall.

Lanara let go of his hand. She raised her arm, tried to catch one of the leaves, a crimson one, which still looked smooth and bright. It reached her hand and passed through it: a leaf without substance, surrounded by a forest of others, all vivid and silent, all gone as soon as they touched the floor below. Nellyn watched them, and he heard their silence, and when the last one had vanished, he did not want to move.

“Come on!” Lanara cried, above the burst of applause and shouting that had risen. “We have to find out who did that. . . .”

She led him down to a round table. All of the people at the table were looking at the hearth—or rather, Nellyn realized, at the man who was leaning against the wall beside it. He was tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed, smiling through a rough sheen of beard.

“Who is he?” Lanara hissed to a woman who was sitting at the table. “Is he the one who made the leaves?”

The woman nodded and rose, grasping Lanara’s tunic sleeve. “Aldron!” she called, and her voice was very loud as the clapping and shouting faded. “Aldron, here’s Queenswoman Lanara, who’s never met you before. Why not show her something spectacular? I’ve seen you conjure up balls of lightning and a mass of spinning daggers. Surely you could offer her something more than a bunch of leaves?”

The man inclined his head, still smiling. “Greetings, Queenswoman Lanara,” he said. “And apologies, Pareya,” he went on, looking at the other woman, “for the leaves are all you’ll get of me tonight.”

One man at the table laughed; another glowered. Nellyn glanced from one to the other, then at a woman who had set her stool a bit apart from theirs. Her hair was as dark as Aldron’s, drawn back and knotted at the base of her neck. Her eyes were on a spoon she was turning over and over on the tabletop. She stopped moving it only when Aldron kissed the top of her head. She frowned at him as he sat down on the stool next to hers. He whispered to her and produced a slender-stemmed purple flower from beneath the table. The woman took it, though she continued to frown.

“So, Queenswoman Lanara,” Aldron said after he had taken a long drink from a silver goblet, “what brings you to this corner of nowhere? The thin mead? The leaning buildings?”

Lanara laughed. She sat down across from him and gave some answer Nellyn did not try to hear. He was still looking at the woman and her flower, and as he looked, she raised her head and saw him.

“Greetings,” she said after a moment. “I’m Alea.” She smiled and set the flower down on the table.

“And I am Nellyn,” he said, smiling back at her. “Greetings, Alea.”

My Queen, after months of fairly lonely wandering, we have met two people who are already our friends. They are of the Alilan tribe, but have been travelling on their own for over a year. The man, Aldron, says this is because the strict rules of the Alilan were limiting them, and they needed to be free for a time. I hear in his voice that this is not the true reason—or perhaps it is only part of the reason. And I see in the woman Alea’s face that there is much more to tell. Of course, I am eager to learn their story—all of it. I read about the Alilan as a child, in the Scribeslibrary. I remember what the scrolls looked like, and how I shivered when I read this new name. How I wish I could see one of these scrolls now! But I will exercise the patience I learned with the shonyn. I will talk to Aldron and Alea, and listen. I hope that I will witness another instance of Aldron’s Telling—an Alilan power, he says, that enables him to conjure up visions and make them seem real (though they are not). I will enjoy their company (Aldron in particular is warm and enthusiastic about our conversations) and our shared time in this town, which is attractive and pleasantly large. Nellyn and I will stay here as long as Aldron and Alea do. We continue to feel that our journey is benefiting us, and (as urged by you) are in no hurry to reach Fane.

I have written so many letters to you, and only a few times during our travels have I found a Queensfolk delivery post from which to send these letters back to Luhr. By the time we reach Fane, our wagon will be full of scrawled-upon parchment. We will need an entire boat to return these scribblings to you! And you will need weeks to read them.

I wish I could speak to you—you and Ladhra both. Nellyn and I have encountered wonders. At least we have Aldron and Alea, now to keep us company for a time. We will share our stories with them, and perhaps they will soon share theirs with us.

Nellyn found a stream the night after he and Lanara met the two Alilan. He was walking along streets he had not seen on his other nights here. He passed people huddled around sullen fires, and houses joined by torchlit walkways that arced high above his head. He heard a child crying, though he could not tell from where. He heard a man shouting and another answering him, and their anger made Nellyn shiver. He turned a corner, and as the voices faded he heard water.

He followed the sound to a place where the houses dwindled away and trees began. The trees were squat and gnarled. He put a hand to one of them and felt bark still moist from yesterday’s rain, and leaves, and a smoothness that was fruit. His hand froze for a moment, then traced the shape slowly. He knew already that it was nothing like lynanyn (too small, too narrow at stem and bottom), but he lingered anyway, until the water noise drew him on.

The stream was about three paces wide. When he took off his shoes and stepped into the water, he discovered that it was knee-deep and numbingly cold. He followed the stream among the trees, looking at the familiar reflections of moon and boughs and his own moving body. His foot brushed one of the small fruits (ripe, fallen), and he thought,
This is the first time in so long. We have seen rivers and lakes, but I have never touched them in this way, and here too there is fruit
. . . .

The trees ended at the town wall. Nellyn put his hands on the dead wood; he bent so that he could see the glimmer of water, which disappeared beneath the wall. There was a low door to one side of the stream. He lifted the latch and pushed the door open and ducked out onto the plain.

The tiny stream curved away, shallower with every step, and was soon swallowed by earth and grass. He turned around, feeling the grass whisper and cling, held to his legs by the water that was drying on his skin. In four paces his feet were dry, and he slid them back into his shoes.

He wandered back toward the wall and gatehouse towers, where fire flickered. He gazed for a moment at the torchlight and the stars above it. When he looked back down, he saw a woman standing outside the main gates. Her back was to him, and all he saw was dark cloth and darker hair, which fell smooth to the middle of her back. As he hesitated, she turned her head into the light.

“Alea,” he said when he was beside her. She started, and he held up a hand, almost touched her arm. “I am sorry. I thought you heard me,” he said as he looked at her wide eyes and the shaking fingers she raised to her mouth.

“I didn’t.” Her voice was steadier than her hand. “You were so quiet. Or I wasn’t listening.”

He nodded. “When I listen only to wind and earth, I also am deaf to other voices.” She turned to him, and he saw her face clearly. “Why are you sad?” he asked, though “sad” was not the whole word for her eyes and her white, stretched skin.

She did not answer for a long time. He waited, very still.

“I miss the earth when I’m in there.” She gestured behind her with one hand. “And tonight I . . . thought I might see something.” He listened to a second, longer silence. The grass sounded like his river. “Wagons,” she continued in a rush. “I thought the Alilan wagons might start arriving.”

“But they did not.”

She shook her head. “There would be fire,” she said, and he looked with her into the emptiness of the plain.

“So you are waiting. That is why you are here, in this town?”

He saw the flutter of Alea’s lashes as she closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Yes. We’ve been travelling for so long, seeing no one but each other—and for so long we’ve avoided the paths of our caravans. But this year, when autumn came to the forest, we couldn’t keep away from here. Aldron says we’ll only look from a distance, but I know he wants to be among the horses and the fires. Like I do.”

“But if you want to return to your people—” Nellyn began, and Alea said, loudly, “No! Please—you don’t understand—we can’t return.” Her words trembled into a quiet that he knew would endure beyond his waiting.
I might understand
, he thought, but he saw her sadness and her struggle and did not say this.