The Coming Storm (9 page)

It didn’t cool her fevered thoughts, which crowded back now she was alone.

High on a distant hill she caught a glimpse of some of Woodsmen she thought, riding along the edge of a wood. She wondered if Gwillim were among them but she didn’t see his familiar head. He’d taken a group of Hunters up into the east highlands, as there had been many reports of things from the borderlands coming across up there. These, though, seemed to have no urgency to them, no air of alarm. Nothing for her to worry about, then, simply the usual patrol.

Home.

She’d never thought that at any time in her life she would dread going there but she did.

Now.

It was like wading along the familiar shore of the river only to find a sharp stone awaiting unseen beneath the murky water. One false step and there would be pain. Her mother, usually a cool, calming presence, had become a shadow. There was a puzzled worry in her eyes on the rare occasions Ailith did see her. Else she stayed in her rooms or wandered through the small library off the great room like a ghost. She wouldn’t speak of what worried her and Ailith had tried. Selah looked drained and tired, as if she didn’t sleep well these days.

Nor did Ailith often of late. Odd dreams troubled her sleep, some she could remember, some she couldn’t. Often it was of lying frozen in her bed, unable to move, while something terrible stood just outside the door listening to her breathe. She feared it, that unknown presence, feared the shadow that fell on the space beneath the door, cast by the torch outside her room.

Firmly, she thrust those thoughts behind her.

She should have told Dorovan, he would’ve known whether her fears were groundless or not. She could still tell her grandmother. Not today, it was too late to go back now. It would be some days before she could arrange another visit. She thought maybe her mother might have said something but there’d been no sign of it. Her grandmother Delae, that firm, practical lady, would know whether she was being foolish or not. But she was her mother’s mother and it felt as if Ailith were betraying her parents by speaking of it.

Dorovan she could have told.

For all his friendship with her grandmother – she knew it was more than that but it was a good enough description – he wouldn’t betray her secrets unless he felt she should speak. In some ways for her he was a neutral party.

It didn’t matter, that chance was lost until the next time he came. That could easily be months. Once it had been almost a year. A short time in the long lives of Elves.

She clattered up the causeway. The gates were open as they often were during the day. The sun wasn’t too low on the horizon, it still cast a warm golden glow. A stable boy came up to take her horse, which she gave up gratefully and with a smile.

“Thank you, Gellin,” she said, softly.

“I’ll walk ‘im a bit for you, miss,” Gellin said, ducking his head.

A bellow startled them both. “Get out!”

Stunned, horrified, her package cradled in her arms, Ailith spun as Gellin flinched.

She knew that voice. It was her father’s voice. But he never shouted.

There he was, though, standing between the entryway doors. His face was red, nearly purple. She’d thought her shock couldn’t be greater than when she’d heard him shout. She was wrong. This couldn’t be her father, this red-faced furious figure in the doorway. It couldn’t.

He couldn’t be shouting at Tanith, he couldn’t.

Tanith had been chatelaine at Riverford since before Ailith had been born. In all her years Ailith had never seen her father like this, so angry. She hadn’t known him capable of it.

All around people stopped to stare, sharing her bewilderment.

Tanith backed away from the doors in the face of Geric’s fury, then finally she broke and fled, her skirts flying as she ran for the gates. Her hands were at her face and Ailith could tell she was weeping.

Past shock, Ailith was sick at heart as her father reached out for the doors on either side and drew them shut with a bang.

“Gellin, take the horse into the stables and brush him down until he’s cool. Go quietly, lad.”

Somehow, she didn’t think the storm that was her father was passed. Rather than face that uncertain wrath herself she slipped into the castle through the kitchen entrance.

The cooks all stood frozen, their eyes on the door to the castle interior. They looked frightened. The head cook looked at Ailith with a shaken expression. Ailith shook her head at the unasked question. She didn’t know either.

Swiftly, she ran up the back stairs with her precious gifts cradled in her arms. When she reached her rooms she thrust them beneath her bed where they would be safe. Why she felt they wouldn’t be safe in her own home didn’t occur to her. She only knew she had to hide them.

Relieved, she sat on her bed and then realized with fresh fear that someone stood outside the open door. Cold alarm washed through her.

It was her mother.

Arms clasped around herself, her eyes wide and staring, Selah stood at the top of the stairs and listened to the brooding, waiting silence below as Ailith did. She was more of a ghost than ever, dressed in a gauzy gray that matched her eyes, she was like a shadow. A softly held breath slowly escaped her.

Feeling the weight of eyes on her, Selah looked upon her daughter.

Her thoughts stirred sluggishly, like a too-thick stew, jumbled, with odd bits that floated to the surface. The more she tried to capture a thought, the more likely it was to slip away to disappear within the murk. Somewhere beneath it all lay a terrifying clarity, as if part of herself resisted this apathy and fought against it. That part was terrified, panicked, it struggled against this mindless passivity.

What was it she’d been thinking? She couldn’t capture it again. It was important. Then she knew but then it was gone again.

Ailith, looking at her. Her daughter. Looking at her with blue-gray eyes so much like her own but keener, sharper.

There was something important there, something she’d once known but put aside and forgotten. Like much else these days. She was tired. Ailith. She wasn’t tall like her mother or as big and solid as her father. She had his hair, those thick unruly waves. Her heart remembered a time when it would beat slower and harder in the deep rhythms of love when she looked upon either or both of them.

Ailith’s father. Selah’s husband. Geric. Once there had been something. A small trickle of fear, fear for Ailith. And grief. A desperate and terrible grief.

What was it again? What had she been thinking? The sun was getting low.

Geric.

It would be dinner soon. Something from the stew of her thoughts tried to surface but then sank below them again.

“It’s too thick. Get dressed for supper, Ailith. Brush out your hair, it looks wild.”

Selah walked away as softly as a whisper.

The incongruity of what she’d said left Ailith even more stunned. What was too thick?

Now she knew she should have talked to Dorovan. He would’ve known what to do.

She didn’t.

Instead she did what she was told. Washed the dirt and sweat away in the basin, brushed her hair out and put on fresh clothes. It was nearly time for dinner. Looking at her bed, thinking of the treasure beneath, she put one hand upon the frame.

“Please,” she whispered softly, knowing it was childish beyond belief but wanting to believe it badly, “don’t let anyone see what lies beneath but me.”

Somehow, the gesture, the heartfelt plea, made her feel better, as childish and foolish as it was. Her gifts were safe. She only had to face the threatening storm below.

That was real, not imagination.

In the short time she’d been gone things had gotten much worse. She let out a breath. Only a few hours before she could escape to her rooms once more. She understood now why her mother spent so much time behind her own doors.

Dorovan would be ashamed to see her so cowed.

With that thought in mind, she squared her shoulders and ran through one of the meditations he’d taught her. Her troubled mind eased a little. Be like Dorovan, still and calm. See and watch and the answers will come. The familiar words of the Elven mysteries whispered through her mind in Dorovan’s voice.

The table below was set for four. Tolan now sat at one of the places. One look at her father’s expression told her not to question it. Her mother drifted silently to her seat.

“Tolan is chatelaine,” Geric said, shortly, in a tone that brooked no argument. “He dines with us.”

He gave both her and her mother a warning look, he would accept no challenge on it, clearly.

Selah didn’t glance up.

With a quick glance at her mother, Ailith said nothing. What was there to say?

Taking their silence for consent, Geric banged on the table for service, something he’d never done.

The servant who brought the food served her father and Tolan first. Ailith didn’t protest but gave the boy a small smile of sympathy. His eyes softened from their fearful look a little but then he fled the room to bring more platters.

Saying nothing, Tolan only watched. His sandy eyes roamed over her and her mother, took in the room, all with a small look of satisfaction.

It was the most silent meal she’d ever eaten in that room.

Once this had been the time of day when her father and mother would talk about the events of the day, the judgments and rulings Geric had made at court, the state of the crops, news of this or that and so on. Ailith wasn’t excluded. When she’d been younger they would ask about her lessons, her escapades and friends, give her counsel if needed. As she’d gotten older they’d spoken of history, politics and diplomacy.

She’d stood at her father’s knee as his page while he ruled from the High Seat. Sometimes afterward he would ask her why she thought he’d made a particular ruling and once he’d done so while the complainants were still in the room. It was an argument more petty and childish than some of her friends would’ve had. She’d looked at him questioningly but he’d nodded at her to speak. So she’d told them so and her father said he concurred.

When she’d gotten older, she’d stood at his shoulder to observe and learn, standing as his Heir presumptive.

To her he’d always seemed fair and just. Of late, though, he hadn’t asked her to come. Many times she hadn’t known he was holding Court until the time was past or it was too late. Only to find that Tolan stood in her place. It was good, perhaps, that neither of them knew how clearly one could hear what went on in the Great Hall if you were in just the right place in her mother’s library.

It wasn’t good for her. The wisdom of Geric’s rulings had steadily become more arbitrary. Those who knew him for his true self wouldn’t have recognized this man. His Courts had become smaller, less frequent, as folks made fewer demands for fear of what might be said or done in them.

The food had no taste, it was like paste in her mouth, but Ailith didn’t blame the cook.

Tolan ate heartily.

It was a relief to finally escape the room.

Sitting on her bed, she wished she could weep but her eyes were dry. Her heart ached and she was desperately, terribly afraid. Of what, she didn’t know and couldn’t name. These changes and what they meant, what they could mean. The darkness that seemed to have fallen over this place. When she slept that night she had terrible dreams.

Darkness, a singular Darkness, flames and blood.

Colath couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever been so weary and if he was tired, what of the men, Iric and Mortan? They hadn’t the endurance of his folk. Both were thinner in only a few weeks, there were dark hollows beneath their eyes and a dullness to them. Travel bread could sustain you but it wasn’t meant to replace real food and they hadn’t seen such in nearly a week. That had consisted of the one game they had scared up, a solitary rabbit that had somehow stayed hidden in these hills. Jalila had gotten it with one shot. The rabbit hadn’t been large.

Of other game, they saw only carcasses rotting in the sun. Boggins or boggarts, who loved entrails but not much else.

They had to get away from the borderlands and soon but that was becoming more difficult with each passing day. The line between the borderlands and the rest of the Kingdoms had blurred. Narrowly missing an encounter with a firbolg, they’d also avoided an ogre and several boggins. They’d spent a day or so upon a tor, looked down the slopes from the rocks at its crown to watch as a troop of boggarts passed below them. Thankfully, they hadn’t picked up on their scent or were so intent on their own quarrels they hadn’t noticed. Without warning a trio of the boggarts had leaped upon another and torn it to shreds. When they were gone a salamander had crept out from the rocks at the base of the hill where it had been hiding and made a fine meal of what the other boggarts hadn’t finished.