A Journey of the Heart (27 page)

Sparrow stared at me. "Are you accusing Vintel of treachery?"

"No," I said. "So far she's done nothing treacherous. I believe she bides her time. She waits, to see if Merin will recover, to see if I will prove strong enough to claim the place that Merin offers me. Vintel's best chance is to allow events to take their course, until they present her with an opportunity."

Sparrow stared at me as if I were a stranger. Suddenly I was afraid. Had I spoken too openly? Had I trusted her too much?

"Please," I said. "Say nothing to Vintel about this."

I saw that once again I'd hurt her feelings.

"Don't worry," she said. "I won't betray your trust."

"Forgive me. I had to ask."

She nodded.

"You said things here are different. They are. The Lady is unwell. The harvest is in doubt. The fighting on our borders never stops. People are afraid, and Vintel is their shield."

"I can't believe she would betray the Lady," Sparrow whispered.

"Vintel may believe that the Lady will never again be strong enough to lead. Or that she may die." I touched the ground, to keep my words from coming true. "If she did, who would the council choose to lead us?"

There was no need for Sparrow to answer me.

"Be careful," I told her.

Sparrow turned and sat down again beside me. The night was mild, and the river made a pleasant chuckling sound as it flowed around the tumbled rocks by the shore. I remembered better times, when Sparrow and I had sat shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, innocent of intrigue and treachery, safe and free of care.

I took her hand. Her fingers curled tight around mine. When I turned to look at her, I saw that her face was wet with tears.

"You be careful too," she whispered.

Before dawn the next morning Sparrow left with Vintel for the frontier. Although it was the first day of the spring festival, Vintel refused to stay home for the holiday. Only a handful of warriors and their companions remained in Merin's house. This year the country people would have to celebrate without us.

When I went into the kitchen to brew some tea for Merin, I felt Gnith's eyes. More often than not when I went to the kitchen in the mornings, Gnith was sleeping. This morning I felt her waiting for me. Her eyes followed me as I made the tea and set it to steep. I went to greet her.

"Has Tamras come for her blessing?" she said.

I shook my head and sat down beside her on the hearth. "I've come to wish you good morning."

Gnith looked disappointed. "Has Tamras nothing left to wish for?"

"I have much to wish for," I told her. "I wish for an end to these troubled times. I wish for a good harvest, for us and for our enemies too, so that they will leave us alone. I wish the Lady's body well and her heart whole."

"Is that all?"

It seemed like a great deal to me.

"It would be more than enough," I said.

Gnith peered up at me. "Does Tamras want nothing for herself?"

I remembered how lonely I had been the year before and that Gnith had known what I wanted before I knew enough to ask for it.

"What should I want?" I asked her.

She shrugged. "Last year, was it what you wanted?"

I thought of Sparrow, who ever since had shielded me from loneliness.

"Yes and no," I told her.

Gnith chuckled. "Tamras speaks in riddles like an old woman. Did she think I wouldn't understand her?" She took my hand. "There is time for love, Tamras, even in times of trouble."

This time I had an answer for her.

"I have made time for love," I said.

Gnith waited to hear more.

"The Lady," I said.

"Merin?"

"She loves my mother still. Even after so many years."

I thought I might have taken Gnith by surprise. Was it possible for anything to take Gnith by surprise? Her next words told me otherwise.

"You've taken it upon yourself to guard her heart," she said.

I nodded.

"Guard it well today."

I had already thought of that. Namet, I knew, would stay close to Maara, and I meant to sit up with Merin, to keep her safe from the power of the night.

"Guard your own heart too," said Gnith.

At midmorning it began to rain. The Lady came downstairs for breakfast, but as soon as the meal was over, she complained of headache and went back to bed.

A few of the companions went down to the river. Despite the rain the country people were gathering there. Merin's house would provide the feast, and the bonfire had been laid on the meeting ground outside the earthworks.

While Merin rested, I sat with Maara in her room. A tune, played on a single pipe, drifted in the window. The sky was dark with angry clouds, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Maara was restless. She rummaged in the chest by her bed, trying to find something that needed doing -- a shirt to mend or a scrap of leather to work into a scabbard piece.

"Are you all right?" I asked her.

"Fine," she said. She gave up her search and went to the window to look out at the troubled sky.

"I need to stay with the Lady tonight," I told her.

She gave no indication that she'd heard me.

"Will you be all right?"

No answer.

"Maara?"

She turned to me. "What?"

"I'm sitting up with Merin tonight."

"You told me that already."

Her strange mood was making me uneasy. "If you sit down, I'll tell you a story."

She smiled. It was the first time I'd seen her smile all day.

"All right," she said.

In ancient days, when only women were warriors, lived three sisters and their mother in a village in the hill country. The oldest sister hunted game in the woodlands and fished the streams for salmon. The middle sister herded sheep, traveling afar in search of pasture. The youngest sister stayed at home, tending her garden and caring for her aged mother.

In the wintertime the whole family sat around the hearth and listened to the two older sisters tell of their adventures. The hunter told of taming wolves to serve her in the hunt and of tracking the wild boar deep into the heart of the forest, where the hunter might find herself the hunted. The shepherd told of following her sheep up steep mountainsides, guarding them from wild beasts, sleeping in the open in all weather. The youngest said little. She listened to her sisters' tales and kept them in her heart.

One morning in springtime, when the two older sisters were away, as they so often were, from home, the youngest sister was tending her garden when she heard her mother calling her. She went into the cottage and, finding her mother unwell, helped her into bed.

"My child," her mother said, "this is my dying day, and I have little to leave with you but my advice. Let the old women tend my death. You belong to life. Go out and weave a wreath of hawthorn for your hair and join the dancing this spring night."

That afternoon the old woman died, and her neighbors came to the cottage to prepare her for burial. The youngest daughter did as her mother had told her. She set her grief aside and wove a hawthorn wreath, and that fine spring night she went out into the hills, where the bonfires burned.

Too shy to step into the circle of firelight, the young girl stood alone in the dark, while the young men, enchanted by the promise of her beauty, tried to draw her out of the shadows. She turned them all away, until her eyes fell upon a young man she had never seen before. Around him shone a golden light. The moment her glance touched him, he came to her and drew her into the dance. That night he lay with her on the hillside and loved her, and in his arms she slept.

At dawn the girl awoke alone. She went home to find her sisters there. She told them of the young man and said that she meant to have him for her husband.

"That was no ordinary man," her oldest sister warned her. "You'll be lucky if you don't give birth to a monster. If it's a husband you want, there are plenty of fine young men right here in this village. Choose one of them."

"What do you want with a husband at all?" said the middle sister. "A husband is a nuisance."

But the girl would not let her sisters change her mind, and that night she went again out into the hills. As they had done the night before, the young men courted her. She saw none of them, until her own young man appeared. She danced with him in the firelight and lay with him on the hillside. This time she was determined to stay awake until the dawn, but as soon as she laid her head upon his chest, the sound of his heartbeat lulled her into sleep, and in the morning, he was gone.

When she went home, once again her sisters tried to make her see sense and take a young man from the village, but she refused to listen, and that night she went again to join the dancing.

Everything happened as before. Her young man came to her, danced with her, lay with her on the hillside, but this time she had the presence of mind to speak to him.

"Will you leave me in the morning?" she asked him.

"If you would keep me," he replied, "you must follow me."

"How will I know where to find you?"

"Let your heart lead you," he told her, and before she could ask him anything more, he embraced her, and she slept.

In the morning, the young girl again awoke alone. She remembered her young man's words, but she had no idea how to follow him or where to look for him. She knew she would no longer find him waiting for her on the hillside, so that night she slept in her own bed. All through the night, her young man came to her in dreams so sweet that she awoke feeling more bereft than she had felt awakening alone on the hillside after a night of love.

For days she wandered the hills in search of him, but she found the whole world empty, and at last she gave up her search and stayed at home. Whenever a traveler came to her door, she asked for news of her young man. None could tell her anything about him. Whenever a young man came to court her, she asked him the same question. None remembered seeing her young man at all.

She forgot to tend her garden. Briars grew up around the doorway and thistles choked the path, and no one came to see her anymore. Her dreams made her love the night and hate the dawn. Only hope carried her from one day to the next. Her beauty faded. Her sisters chided her and worried over her, but she seemed not to hear them. She lived in a dream of love that was strange to everyone around her, and more and more they left her alone.

A year and a day went by. Then one night she heard her beloved's voice. Not knowing if she woke or slept, she rose from her bed and walked out into the night. The moon was dark, and soon she lost her way, but she kept on, and for a much longer time than nighttime should have lasted, she walked in darkness.

When dawn came at last, dark clouds filled the sky. The girl walked in a twilight world until she came to a forest, dense with ancient trees and tangled thickets, where she could find no path. In despair she sank to the ground and began to cry. When she had cried all her tears, she dried her eyes and thought of her sister, the hunter, who had pursued the wild boar into the heart of the forest.

"My sister loves to hunt wild things in the wood," she thought to herself, "and she never let a thicket hold her back. No more will I."

She slipped between two trees and stumbled through the thicket, where she came across a path that wound between the trees. She followed it until she was too tired to go on. She found a nest among the brambles, where once a family of deer had made its bed. There she lay down and slept. She awoke in darkness to the howling of wolves and the fearful beating of her own heart. Terrified, she cowered in her bramble bed till morning.

At first light she wandered deeper into the forest. Its canopy shut out the sky. Her eyes forgot the light of day. She drank from streams, bitter with the taste of rotting leaves. She ate what wild food she could find and slept where animals had sheltered. The path she followed turned and twisted, leading her in circles. Whenever she felt she could not go on, she thought of her beloved and found within her heart the courage to take one more step.

After a timeless time, the air grew light around her. She emerged from the forest to find herself standing at the foot of the tallest mountain she could imagine. In despair she sank to the ground and began to cry. When she had cried all her tears, she dried her eyes and thought of her sister, the shepherd, whose flocks had led her over mountains as tall as this one.

"My sister loves to follow her sheep into the wild places," she thought to herself, "and she never let a mountain stand in her way. No more will I."

She began to climb. She climbed and climbed until her legs were trembling and her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and still she didn't stop. She climbed until the clouds drifted beneath her and the sun shone down on her from a clear sky of brilliant blue. The air was cold, and the mountain wore an icy mantle. In peril of falling, still she climbed, until she reached the top. Far above the treetops, far above the clouds, far above the darkness that awaited her below, she stood enraptured in the light, with the whole world spread out before her. She might have stood there until time ended, if she had not remembered her beloved. Turning from the light and from the wonders that dazzled her eyes, she began her descent.

After a timeless time, she stood on the far side of the mountain, only to find before her a river so wide and turbulent that she couldn't see what might await her on the far shore. The water tumbled down from icy places in the mountains, running fast and cold, with a roar louder than anything she'd ever heard. It would be death to try to cross it. In despair she sank to the ground and began to cry. When she had cried all her tears, she dried her eyes and remembered the words of her beloved.

"If I must cross this river to find my love," she thought to herself, "my own heart must lead me, for there is no one to teach me how to cross."

She stood up and leapt into the water. She let the river carry her. The icy water numbed her. The tumbling water dragged her down. Black water closed over her head, taking her into a dark and silent place, a place so cold she lost all feeling in her body and all power to move her limbs. Then, deep within her heart, love began to burn. Its fire warmed her body and surrounded her with light. The river treated her more gently. It bore her up and carried her until it laid her down on its far shore.