Féolan’s father had been warm and welcoming when they had met. Did he think her an unsuitable match? Inferior, perhaps, with her Human blood. Gabirielle flushed with humiliation. “Gabrielle.” Féolan’s voice drew her back to him. “He has a point, though I did not wish to hear it at the time. I am the only Elf you have really known. Through me you discovered a kinship
of mind—a kinship different from what you have found among Humans.”
“Yes, I guess that’s true. But Féolan, I’m sorry, I’m not getting the point. That was a wonderful discovery for me. You make it sound like a misfortune.” She
was
getting the point, though. She wasn’t following the thread that led there, but she could see where it ended. He had doubts about their marriage. Though she flinched away from the pain of that thought, it was unavoidable. His voice went on, and there was no escaping his words, either.
“The thing is this.” Another sigh. Like it was his pain, not hers. Gabrielle was glad to feel that flicker of resentment. It strengthened her. “Gabrielle, you haven’t had a chance to get to know other Elves. Other male Elves. Perhaps you love me, or believe you love me, simply because I am Elvish. Not because I am truly the best match for your heart. Perhaps, if you had time to live among us for a while, you would find”—another hitch in his breath—”find that another would offer you more.”
She had heard words like this before, hadn’t she? Oh yes. More than one suitor, when she first came of age, had extricated himself with some variation on the theme of “I am not good enough for you.” She had seen through their polite words, known they were just face-saving excuses—and she had played along graciously, for none had captured her heart. But to hear such a thing from Féolan... She couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t stand to see the message she feared they would hold. His voice sounded far away, so loud did the blood pound in her ears, behind her eyes. She had thought she understood this man. Thought they understood each other. Well, she would have the dignity of truth, if nothing else.
“If you no longer wish to marry me,” she said, her voice flat
and hard with the effort to disguise the hurt, “it would be better to say it outright.”
She heard his groan, felt the alarmed tumult of his emotions, but she pulled away from them, too wrapped up with her own.
“Gabrielle, please.” The voice soft, pleading. “Feel the truth of what I am about to say to you. You know how to do this. Look as deep into me as you can; you will know if my feelings betray my words.” His fingertips brushed her hand, a gossamer touch, gone before she could pull away, the connection there, nonetheless. “Please.” His voice broke, and she marveled at the rawness of it. Reluctantly, she raised her eyes and was shocked by the naked need in his face.
“Will you listen?”
Gabrielle was confused again, doubting herself. Everything she had seen of this man—and they had been through much together—spoke of his commitment to her. He deserved a full hearing. She nodded, closed her eyes and tried to still her own turmoil enough to sense his presence. His words dropped directly into her mind.
“There is nothing I have ever wanted as desperately as I want to wed you. And I will love you to my life’s end, whether you choose me or no.”
And she felt it. Gods of the air, it was impossible not to: it flooded over her warm and bright and golden as the midsummer sun. Love so deep she could drown in it. Desire like hunger. And under all, barely contained fear. Fear of losing her.
Her eyes flew open, wet now with tears. She reached for him, and he wrapped her hands with both of his and pressed his face against them, and she would gladly have carried on from there except she still didn’t know what was going on.
“Then what is this about? Féolan, if you do want to marry me then why are you—?”
“It’s your happiness I’m worried about, Gabrielle, not mine. I just think if we wait a while, you’ll have a chance to live among us and get to know more of us—”
Finally, she understood. And, giddy as she was with relief and that blast of adoration, it struck her as funny.
“How many?”
“What?” Now Féolan was confused.
“How many Elvish men do I have to meet before I am sure?”
“Well it’s not really...”
“All of them? Would your father have me meet and assess the merits of all of them, like a cook shopping for mushrooms at the market? Check all the stalls until I find the firmest, whitest, biggest ones?”
“No, of course not, it’s just —”
“Twenty then? Three? Féolan, don’t you see this is silly? I don’t want anyone else. I already love you.”
He looked at her, miserable. Tried again. “I don’t want to take advantage of you, Gabrielle, just because Fate thrust me in your path. That’s all.”
She became serious. “Féolan, the very fact that you appeared in my path is part of what makes you right for me. You’ve walked among Humans. You understand something about their lives. About my life. Because no matter where I live or who I am with, half of me will always be Human.”
He smiled. “The impetuous stubborn half. The half that makes you run into the wilderness after lost friends and heal hostile creatures and live like there is no tomorrow.”
“Sometimes there
is
no tomorrow, even for Elves,” she observed
softly. “Féolan, I almost died up there in the mountains. I was so close I was beyond returning. And you called me back. Any Elf, maybe, could have sent his thought after me. But I could only have followed you. Because of the love that is between us. What other proof could I need?”
He was holding her now, so tight it pained her wound but not for anything would she have him stop. Then he laughed.
“I had to force myself to have this conversation, and it was even worse than I feared it would be. And in the end, the only good that came of it all was that I utterly failed!” His fingers traveled along her tight braids.
“Do you know how badly I want to undo these?”
A knock and a liveried servant entered and bowed. “Excuse me, Lady Gabrielle, I didn’t know you had a visitor. The king thought you’d want to know: the party from Verdeau has arrived early. Prince Tristan, your brother, is here.”
“
C
’MON
, it will do us good,” Tristan urged. “It will do
me
good, anyway. I’ve been on my best behavior through four days of talks. The strain is starting to tell.”
The two women looked skeptical. Gabrielle had been shaken to hear of the events that had brought Rosalie to Gaudette, but glad of her company over the last few days. By the time the talks had started a few days after their arrival, Gabrielle had been well enough to leave the little clinic (against the Maronnais bonemender’s finger-wagging advice) and share Rosalie’s room in Castle Drolet. Though so different in personality, they had quickly become fast friends. Now they smirked at each other.
“What?” demanded Tristan, mock-wounded. “What’re those faces for?”
“Oh, Tristan, honey,” said Rosalie demurely, “it’s just, you know, forgive me, but I’m having trouble actually picturing you on good behavior.”
“It’s true, though,” said Féolan. “His conduct was exemplary and contributed greatly to a successful outcome.”
“There—you see!” crowed Tristan. “A commendation from the director!” As a distinguished participant who was not directly negotiating, Féolan had been accepted by all as director of the meetings, and Danaïs had been persuaded to stay on and take his
place as translator for the Elvish Council. Gabrielle gathered the directorship had been taxing work; Féolan had stopped in on the first evening and collapsed into her chair, proclaiming, “It would be easier to beat them all into silence with the flat of my sword than persuade them to wait their turn!”
“So—how about it? The musicians are said to be the best in the northland. And who knows when we will all be together again?” Tristan looked around the dinner table. There was a hesitant pause.
“Tristan, I’m not sure Gabrielle is up to it,” said Féolan.
“Is that what everyone is hemming and hawing about?” said Gabrielle. “I’m fine. I’m almost entirely better and so well rested I’m half-crazy from it. I vote to go!”
“Where’s Derkh?” asked Tristan. “He must come too.”
“Roaming the city again.” Gabrielle had been glad to see Derkh take to the streets of Gaudette—another sign of his growing confidence. “He’s been out walking every afternoon. He said he’d be back for dinner, though.”
Sure enough, Derkh hurried over and took his place minutes later. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. His normally pale cheeks were pink with exertion, his expression eager. “You’ll never guess what I just heard.”
They all waited while Derkh loaded up his plate with mounds of roast mutton and potatoes.
“Ahh, you make me feel old, Derkh,” said Tristan. “I remember when I could eat like that. Now,” he said, waving at his only slightly more modest dinner, “I’m past my prime.”
Derkh grinned and forked an entire potato into his mouth. Gabrielle was quietly delighted by his bad manners. He had changed. Not long ago such a jest would have made him duck his
head in silent embarrassment. Terrible though his experience in the mountains had been, it had somehow done him good.
“So? What did you hear?” prompted Rosalie.
Derkh swallowed painfully, then grabbed for his glass and washed down the huge mouthful with a gulp of wine. “I was down past the market area—there are streets there where the different tradesmen have their workshops and such. And I heard these men talking with an accent—
my
accent! They were Greffaires, I’m sure of it! Right in the streets of Gaudette!”
He sounded positively indignant, Gabrielle thought. Certainly he was baffled at the calm way his news was received.
“Well? Shouldn’t we report it or something?” he persisted.
“Um, Derkh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” observed Tristan, “but you are a Greffaire, and you were in the streets of Gaudette as well. Should we report you?”
“Yeah, but I...” He stopped, wrinkling his forehead in the effort to explain. “You know what I’m doing here. So does King Drolet. But what are
they
doing here?”
“Quite a number of Greffaires have settled in the north of La Maronne, as I understand,” remarked Féolan. “We have heard of some near Stonewater, in Loutre and in the sheep country south of Otter Lake. I am not surprised some have come to Gaudette.”
Derkh’s eyes widened. “You’re telling me these are the soldiers who deserted at the invasion? They’ve settled here, just like that?”
“Not ‘just like that,’ exactly,” corrected Tristan. “I got talking with one of the Maronnais councilors about it over lunch one day. Apparently there was some trouble at first; the Greffaire men hid in the bush and stole from nearby farms to feed themselves. When sheep started to go missing, things nearly got ugly—there was talk of rounding them up.”
“Why didn’t they?” asked Derkh. Gabrielle understood there was more than curiosity behind the question. His dinner momentarily forgotten, Derkh bristled with intent. His alert posture reminded Gabrielle of a hound straining after a stray scent.
“La Maronne is the most sparsely populated country in the Krylian Basin,” explained Tristan, “and spring is a very busy season. A shepherd went after a ewe that had strayed and found her in the hands of a Greffaire ‘outlaw.’ She was lambing early, and he was attending to her with some skill. The shepherd persuaded the man to come home with him, fed him and put him to work with the shearing and lambing.
“It didn’t take long for word to get out that the Greffaires were willing workers, and on the other side that Maronnais farmers had little interest in the politics of war.”
“They may have to go farther afield to find work come winter, when things slow down,” added Féolan. “But for now, they seem to be faring well enough.”
“And now,” said Tristan, putting down his own glass with a flourish, “we have news for you.”
“You mean more news. I had no idea about those men.” Derkh’s expression became vague as he contemplated what he had learned. His eyes, gleaming black in the candlelight, snapped back into focus at Tristan’s impatient harrumph. “Sorry, what is it?”
“We’re going out tonight.”
“Out where?” asked Derkh, still not following.
“Out carousing, my lad. Out on the town. Out drinking, to be precise.”
R
EVELING
in ordinary sights and sounds as only the recently convalesced do, Gabrielle was delighted by every detail of the crowded pub. Crammed around a little table puddled with dribbles of ale, she regarded her companions with blurry fondness. How easily she might never have experienced this moment! Life pulsed through her veins, and the world was good.
The music was as fine as Tristan had promised. The minstrels sang little, but were such masters of their instruments that one did not miss the voices but rather found them in the viol or lute or whistle. Gabrielle was especially entranced with an instrument she had never seen in the south, a Maronnais invention the minstrels called mountain pipes. Its wild lonely wail seemed to her born of the wind that scoured the high empty places.
Tristan, on the other hand, gave all his admiration to the drummer—a hulking bear of a fellow who dwarfed the simple skin drum cradled on his knee. The lap drum, held upright with one hand and played with the other, was a standard instrument throughout the Basin countries, but it had become something entirely new in this player’s hands.
“Would you
look
at him!” Tristan was laughing in excited glee. The drummer’s arm was a blur as the beater stick traveled the drum, now clacking sharply, now booming out the deep bass of the bottom skin, now skipping a complex rhythm that made them
jiggle in their seats. The effect, maybe, should have been over-busy and confusing, but it wasn’t: the steady pulse of the rhythm never wavered, and it at once anchored and powered the music.
Danaïs and Féolan were equally rapt, though for different reasons. They came of a people who lived and breathed music, who delighted in the beauty of complex layers of harmony and pure lines of melody. Technical ability did not awe them—Elvish musicians had hundreds of years to perfect their skills. What was new to them was the sheer raw energy of this music, the way it made their hearts jump to the drum or thrill as the viol flew up the scale to its top note. Their own music could be soothing, heart-wrenching, or uplifting. This music was alive.