Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (46 page)

“The Aesidhe believe that all our ancestors live on among us, as a part of us, and as a part of our influences.”

“Like gods?”

“Perhaps, but… this is just a point of view. We lead and are led. Our mothers lived and were led, and theirs. If you make a choice which affects the world, which affects your future, how can you believe that those before you did not? Generations of generations. Creators and created. Call them gods or god if you like. Most do.”

Adria blinked, dazed with the beautiful and obvious simplicity.

“Webspinners,” she whispered. 
Walks Both Webs at Once
. Tabashi had placed doubts in her head, and yet Preinon was somehow speaking directly to these. Adria wanted to hunt, to Run, but now she was beginning to understand what it meant to
walk
first. 
To act, and not react, I have to understand the difference. The causes and effects. The way a girl becomes a woman, is born and dies. The way of change.

Suddenly, things slowed again, and her head throbbed, the blood in her temples pulsing. Before her, the fire stilled and paled almost to frozen.

She remembered the voices calling her names, known and unknown. Strands of web. The world seem to stretch out around her, distant, then close. She could not have touched her uncle if she could have reached. Beyond and between them trees and seedlings and trees became again. Mothers and their daughters. Suns and moons and winds and rain. Hunters and their prey.

She saw the spirit web of the burned boy, the dragon of fire being drawn out. She saw arrows, paused in flight, and her chessboard, its pieces still, awaiting her or her father’s next move, and then again, and then again, and then again.

“For every wound, there is an arrow,” Adria whispered. “For every move, a myriad of counter moves. Forwards and backwards. How many lives, for how many times, all intertwined? It is... too much to be a part of...”

“Mélitali, you have only to choose your aim, and decide where the arrow flies.” Preinon clasped her shoulder, and whatever spell she suffered was broken. “One move at a time. One arrow and one wound can change the world.”

Adria smiled and nodded her acceptance, and focused again upon him, and time passed. She blinked and shook her head. “The... world doesn’t... seem to be moving right, lately.” She couldn’t think of a better phrase.

He considered her, and seemed to understand. He rose, with a groan of half-feigned effort, and then stretched. “It has been a long day, Lózha. You must be exhausted. We should rest. And when we awaken tomorrow, I will show you the first step in the firing of an arrow. I will show you how a Hunter makes her bow.”

The bite of an arrow... the rush of falling... and the drowning.

No... dream.

She was too warm, even with the curtains of the bed open, and the walls felt far too close, the air stale. Her senses were dulled and her body sore from having slept too deeply in the comfort of her old bedclothes. She sat with a pillow clutched to her breast, but the reason why faded as quickly as the sounds of wind and water, leaving only the slight rustling of skirts from the bedchamber doorway, and the footsteps of Twyla, now easily recognized.

“Highness?” the girl asked, a little worriedly.

“I’m all right,” Adria smiled, hiding her drawn knife amidst the blankets for fear of frightening her friend or looking foolish.

“You cried out,” Twyla frowned as she neared the bed. “And you tossed and turned the whole time you slept.”

Adria yawned and stretched as she rose and stepped to the shuttered window, playing at their latch, half-intending to open them to the cool air. “The last time I truly slept I was... well, in rather different surroundings.” She smiled.

“It’s too quiet for you, isn’t it?” Twyla went to Adria’s wardrobe, looked back over her shoulder with feigned seriousness. “You should have a falcon sent down, to keep you company. Or maybe we could fetch you a wolf, or perhaps even a bear?”

“Oh, of course I’ve grown too wild…” Adria smirked wryly. “I shall simply have to grow accustomed to sleeping indoors. I might have thought to bring my pet elk, to keep me warm at night. But really, he’d never fit through the doorway. And the stairs?” Adria rolled her eyes.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t welcome the duty of bathing him,” Twyla replied. She pulled out two or three pieces of garment, eying Adria speculatively. “I hope something here besides your sleeping gown fits. When was the last time you wore a proper dress?” She hesitated. “For your status, I mean...”

“I took no offense,” Adria smiled, waving the comment away. “And... well, I believe you were present the last time I wore a proper dress.”

Twyla’s best choice, it seemed, was a violet cotte, embroidered in silver, with a close fitting bodice, and overly full skirts. The girl bit her lip apologetically. “Your father’s color.” She might have said more, but closed her mouth again, and turned the dress around a few times, awaiting decision.

Adria approached and lifted the arms of the dress. It was overly heavy and overly long. She would have to lift the skirts merely to take a few steps. “This is… new?” she mused. “The style is changing. More elegant, with less concern for utility.”

Twyla nodded. “After the current Somanan fashion. Which seems odd, considering how warm it must be in the south.” Twyla’s own dress was somewhat less substantial, but then her status allowed generally for more practicality.

“I do not suppose my own garments will be clean...” Adria ventured.

Twyla frowned. “Lady...”

“Oh, I know,” Adria sighed, grinning. She traced the silver threads entwined about the buttons of the sleeve. “Hafgrim might mistake me for game, and chase me about the halls for sport. Nonetheless...”

Twyla nodded, grimacing as she realized Adria’s other hesitation. “Nonetheless, he might be equally offended by a display of colors.”

Adria agreed without a word.

“We shall find you something neutral, maybe?” Twyla replaced the questionable garment and continued her search. “Gray, perhaps… though save for mourning periods, color is still ubiquitous of dress.”

From beyond the window, Adria heard the sound of horns. Then, soon after, the hoof beats of perhaps a dozen horsemen. The shouts of men.

“He returns,” Twyla said, now fishing in the furthest reaches of the wardrobe, her head and arms swallowed by the front row of garments.

With a deep breath, Adria sat within the oriel, unfastened and opened one shutter of her window. At just the right angle, the parchment tightened with the wind, like a sail, and Adria barely kept it from smacking against the inner wall. She adjusted it until it fought her a little less, and she leaned her head over the embrasures of the lip to look down.

Far below, the horsemen, all Knights of Darkfire, were reigning in. Squires dismounted first, while the horses stamped their excess of energy. Adria could see her brother in the fore, the ring crown of his helm just visible from her height.

Even from this distance, it was obvious that Hafgrim had changed as much, if not more, than Twyla had. His build had increased dramatically, and filled the mail, tabard, and cloak of his station well. His violet plume danced as he brought his dark steed to a halt.

He seemed comfortable in the saddle, now, and held real command over his horse — a skill he had not accomplished before Adria had left. He removed his helm while still in the saddle, and his squire took it from him. Hafgrim shook out his hair, and mopped his forehead with the back of his leather gauntlet.

He has become handsome
, Adria realized, with small surprise. She would never have described him so as a child. He dismounted with ease and without aid, and the steed gave no protest. His squire handed him the sword from his saddle, and Hafgrim strapped it onto his belt himself, beneath the white sash he had recently earned.

“He is... the very picture of a knight,” Adria said.

“The ceremony was beautiful, like a holiday,” Twyla said, a little wistfully, as she held up a couple more dresses for Adria to wordlessly refuse. “A few dozen young men were titled then and took their sash and standard. Hafgrim was the first among them — the first to recite the Tenets and the Code, the first to swear himself to King, to Heiland, and to the One-Who-Comes.”

Adria frowned at the words, but then smiled with a little pride at the image.

“It was quite an affair, with as many as attended,” Twyla continued, as Adria turned and frowned at the next offered dress. “So many wanted to be knighted along with the prince. Some had delayed the year before, and others managed to take their oaths early. It was exhausting just listening to all the recitations.”

“It is no simple matter living one’s life bound by oaths,” Adria said, half to herself. Louder, she said, “Hafgrim must have been proud.”

“They gave him a glorious fanfare, and Taber knighted him personally. She bowed before him, and she named him ‘Sir Hafgrim.’ Everyone cheered, then, and it made the oaths of the other knights seem a bit... well… anti-climactic.”

Adria watched as the squires led the horses away, and the Knights lined up for drills as Hafgrim joined them.

Taber bowed
, Adria thought.
Unusual... but then, a prince honored by a Matron Sister, and not a king.

Aloud, she said, “She called him ‘sir?’ She did not crown him, or give him further title?”

“No,” Twyla responded. “But you know the custom. He must prove himself upon this first duty before being named heir. That tradition, at the least, has not changed.”

Adria nodded vaguely. Below, the Knights, in two rows, moved to each new command in unison. Adria had seen these motions before, and realized that they fought not too differently from this, even in the wild. 
Predictably, methodically... Advance, slash, parry, thrust...

But they were strong, and their confidence apparent. 
Am I to stand among them? Adria wondered. Will I be allowed, even? Will I have to demand?

Steward Falk appeared below and approached Hafgrim. The prince stepped out of rank, and they spoke for a moment. Hafgrim turned from profile, then looked up and found Adria’s window. It was too great a distance to tell if he saw her there, but he must surely see the open shutter, at least. In a moment the steward bowed and backed away, and made his way back across the yard, as Hafgrim returned to the drill.

“He has refused to meet with me,” Adria said.

“Surely not.” Twyla returned to the wardrobe, and dangled another garment from her hands, twirling it hopefully. Then she saw Adria’s assurance. “How do you know he has refused?”

Adria turned and sighed, and considered the colorless garment Twyla held before her, finally shrugging and waving a vague assent. “He has refused... because he can.”

By the time she was dressed for dinner, Adria’s assumptions were confirmed by a footman at her door.

“Hafgrim will not be able to attend you tonight,” Twyla relayed, frowning.

“I see.”

“He will, however, await your presence in the harbor at dawn, beside where
The Echo
is docked.

Adria nodded.

Then Twyla brightened. “You are to be dressed for the sea.”

Adria still nodded, but smiled then as well.

“Well, Twyla…” she sighed, looking down at her dress dismissively. “I do hope you have some idea what that means.”

As Twyla laughed and wandered into the wardrobe again, Adria realized the more crucial meaning of the request.

It means that he remembers.

Part Six

Dance and Echo