The Duke's Ballad

XVI

Aisling set her feet firmly. Before her was gathered a sheet of bark with the herbs crumbled in a tiny heap. Dry twigs lay in a circle around the herbs. In a separate pile lay nine leaves. Three from each of the two main types of trees that grew in Elms-garth. The last three contained one each of the other bushes. The shrubs that clumped toward the garth-house. Her hand went up to close about her pendant and she freed it. With the chain shortened the pendant lay against the pulse as it beat in her throat. She could feel the power rising with each thump. Keelan stood behind her his sword drawn.

He stood firm even when silver mist rose to enclose his sister. From within it Aisling was chanting again, very softly. Fire came to her call, blooming a soft gold wavering back to silver and then to gold again. With a final word she sent it to the herbs, adding the dry twigs as the herbs burned. Sweet smoke rose. The fire blossomed, but beneath it, a barrier to the snow, the bark remained whole. The fire flared, a candle reaching upward in a warm gold pillar of light.

Aisling bowed her head in salute as she took up the first three leaves. “Elm, guardian and namesake, come now to my call. You for whom the home was named. Who sheltered my grandmother in time of death. Who stand tall about the garth protecting it from the winds that blow. Come elm, share your strength again that those who have cherished you might live.”

She felt the spirit of the elms stir. “Come elm, how often have you shared your sap with those here. It has salved their wounds. Brews from your bark they have drunk and been healed. They know you, as you know them. Always have they given you honor. Come elm!”

The spirit woke. A faint sense of inquiry came to her. She opened her mind showing the rasti, showing how Elmsgarth’s people could die without aid, reminding the elms how the people here had ever given honor and how if the rasti struck or even remained in waiting, the honor would be gone. The power flowed into her then, freely given.

She added the leaves to the small fire and took up those of the willow. “Come willow! You who have lined the streams a hundred hundred years. Whose bark has soothed fevers, relieved pain, and aided winter sickness. Come willow! Whose spirit has been honored by those who share the land.” She felt it stir and smiled, her voice becoming coaxing. Old Willow disliked to wake but it would. “Come willow, aid those who have cared for you, those who are part of you as you are part of them.” The power roared, given at her asking.

She flung it into the fire, which soared up, a slender pillar of light. Then she took up the last three leaves. Her voice was gentle. “Come winterbloom. Come lawleaf. Come cheel! Healers, friends, and sharers of the land. Share healing now, share strength and friendship.” These spirits were weaker, more fragile but they came at once. She felt the power slip into her softly, and she bowed her head. All living things had spirits; if honored they thrived.

Here in Elmsgarth there had long been a tradition. Once each year in spring there was an honoring of the trees. A ceremony that thanked each species for returning to life after winter. Water and a small portion of some sort of nourishment was given to the smallest sapling of each type. Across much of Karsten this custom had lapsed. Aisling smiled; in Kars they would laugh heartily at the very idea. A peasant folly. Not in Elmsgarth. Here the ceremony had never died. Trees died or lost their leaves outside these lands. It was different here.

In Elmsgarth trees lived longer, grew larger, and were slower to lose their leaves, swifter to regrow them in early spring. Ciara had learned from her mother, Lanlia, who had learned from her husband’s mother. Even when Ciara had left her home, left her dead behind, she had still insisted on returning each year for the ceremony. She had taught it to those who held the land after her.

Aisling wondered now, even as she chanted, combining the power given her, aiming it carefully, if perhaps someone from the previous family would have survived if they too had honored the tradition? They’d promised, making it clear that they were only humoring a superstitious fool when they spoke of it to Ciara. It had been too late to refuse them the garth they’d paid for. It was almost certain they’d never carried out their promise. The girl shrugged. The trees hadn’t saved Ciara’s family, only the child herself, and that had been as much by her own strength and sense and that of her mother. But then, they had not called on the spirits that day.

Aisling slowly moved her hands apart. The power within the flames split, each half bending away. No time to worry about ideas. Now she must keep control. That was hard. Raising the spirits had been easier. She stretched the flames, teasing them out into long slender ropes of fire. They burned, a woven rope that shimmered gold, silver, and a sparkling blue-green.

She pointed with each hand, signaling with an index finger that each rope was to circle the rasti burrows, then to meet again. They must blend in a perfect circle without weakness. They obeyed, swirling out and melding to form the chain that would bind. Aisling began to chant again, crafting the power.

Those within the line of fire, enemies are to all that is within this garth that honors well spirits of land that here do dwell.

She switched to the older tongue that would bring the power flooding.

She waited tensely as the power circled, then, with a lowering of her hands she emptied it out around the circle. Within herself she reached to the rasti: no pain, no fear, just a slow sleeping into death. She regretted the need, but they would die anyhow. It was just over halfway through the winter. If this rasti pack was so desperate already, then they would not survive the rest of the cold time.

The power sank into the earth. Through her pendant, clutched in one hand, she felt it touch the small sleeping bodies. They slept, deeper and deeper. Coma. She laid that upon them. Then she laid on the bonds that would keep it so. Behind her Keelan was alert. He saw her eyes open and caught her as she slumped.

“Is it… ?”

Her whisper was fading. “It’s done. They will never wake.” Her eyes closed. Keelan scooped up the slender body and laid it on the sledge. It would be a hard bed but only for a brief time. Another quarter candlemark on foot. Maybe a little longer with the sledge. He turned to look down the valley and bit back a cry of dismay. The garth was gone from his sight, so too the trees that towered along one side of the valley and encircled the rear of the home. Nothing but whiteness. He knew the snow had returned.

By now Harran and the others must be almost through. Harran knew Elmsgarth; he’d see to it that they kept to the track along the left-side valley wall. It would give them all shelter right up to the garth-house even if the way was slightly longer. But Keelan was out in the valley center. No wall to guide him and his sister helpless, depending on him to save her. He cupped his hands about his mouth and took several slow deep breaths.

Then he removed his scarf and wound it about his face. He had to breathe slowly. Gulping air this cold could freeze his lungs. He took up the sledge ropes, tied them, and stepped into the loop. It lay across the back of his neck under his jacket collar, then passed under each arm. That way he had his hands free. He must not try to move too swiftly. A fall could break an ankle or leg. If he did that they would both die. Even a sprain would be dangerous.

For long moments he was almost paralyzed with fear. If he moved he might kill them both. Then common sense reasserted itself. If he didn’t move they’d both freeze anyhow. He muttered a quick prayer, then leaned into his harness. The sledge moved slowly behind him as he plodded forward. The snow was falling more heavily, blinding him, sliding coldly down his collar. He adjusted the scarf as he walked.

Keelan considered as he advanced toward the unseen house. He’d been facing directly up the valley when the snow came. The wind in winter almost always blew down the valley in one direction but not in a completely straight line. It veered slightly to the southwest. So if he traveled directly into it, hopefully he wouldn’t walk in circles. And old Hannion had told him that a man moving in a snowstorm tended to veer to his right. Keelan paused a moment to study his hands as he held them up. If so then the two angles should cancel each other out.

Right. He leaned into the harness again remembering the lay of the valley. From here he should meet nothing until the garth-house. He would still have to walk with care though. The stream ran swift in the thaw and it had carved out a deep bed. If he strayed too far to the right he could stumble over the edge. A step at a time he marched forward. The wind and snow on his face, icing his lashes, blinding him to more than one step ahead.

The sledge was becoming heavier. It dragged him back as he leaned harder into the rope, or maybe it was the blowing wind. Each breath was icy, biting into his lungs with every inhalation. He paused and turned his back to it for a brief respite. Aisling lay wrapped in the second blanket they’d used to hold down the wood. He touched her face and smiled. She was warm. He took up her hands in their heavy knitted mittens and chafed them briskly. Hands could become frostbitten even if the body was warm.

He could do nothing for her feet. His own should be well enough. He swung his arms, beating his hands against his sides. Then he took up his march again. A step, another, his prints in the snow behind him filling in almost as fast as he made them. He glanced back to see that they left a line, the most recent footprints still deep. The next shallower, until some five steps back the print was a slight dimple in the snow. The sixth was gone, filled in.

He shivered and moved faster. He was counting as he walked. A man walked a steady four miles per candlemark over country that wasn’t too rough. He’d had less than a mile to go when the snow started to come down. Maybe only half a mile. So count that the sledge halved his speed. He shouldn’t take more than that one mile’s speed. He’d gone perhaps half of that before he began counting.

His brain felt fuzzy. What was he trying to work out? Oh, yes. If he’d come halfway, how many more paces would it take to reach the garth-house. But he’d lost count. He’d have to start again. One, two, three. Was Aisling all right? He should check. Twenty-six, twenty-seven… His own feet were feeling numb. Not frostbite, please not frostbite. Fifty-two, fifty-three—Oops, he’d lost the wind again. He had to walk straight into it. Not easy. It hurt against his face and eyes.

Eighty-six, eighty-seven—He was sitting down. How had that happened? He didn’t remember falling. Maybe he’d stopped for a rest. Can’t rest here. Must get to the garth. See Aisling is warm. Build a fire with the wood. The wood, where was it? Was he to cut down trees? He remembered loading axes into a wagon. The axes would be following. That was it. Someone was bring axes—and wood. Oh, and he must keep counting. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…

He was sitting in the snow again. How foolish. Aisling said sitting on cold ground gave you—What did it give you? He couldn’t remember but he mustn’t sit down, Aisling said. Aisling, his sister. Yes! He had to get Aisling somewhere and keep the wind on his face. It stung. He didn’t want to do that but for some reason he had to. He had to count too. He giggled breathlessly as he tripped and almost fell. Two left feet. Yes. Two, three, four…

Why was he bothering to count? For that matter why was he bothering to walk when it was so hard? If he lay down very soon it would be lovely. He could sleep and be warm. It was warm now, really. He’d could lie down for a while in the warm and rest. Aisling wouldn’t mind. She was a good sister to him. She’d understand. Keelan took another step while he considered where to lie.

Something huge and solid loomed up, and he ran into it. The impact half-jerked him from his stupor. “Ouch!” He ran his mit-tened hand down the heavy planking. It was either the house or one of the barns. He turned to follow the wall and remembered Aisling as the sledge dragged at him. Lords of Light, he’d been dying on his feet. He could dimly recall the decision to lie down and sleep in the lovely warm snow once he’d walked just a bit farther.

Well that the wall had been there to wake him. He groped down its length until he reached a door. He looked above that. The garth-house. Long ago someone had carved a spray of elm over the door to the main house. The carvings over the barn doors were different. He groped for the latch. The door swung open slowly to reveal a room full of still bedding-wrapped bodies. The fire was out. Ash, a soft gray-white on the hearth. No time to check the garth-folk. He must see to the fire. He hauled the sledge inside, slammed the door, and turned back to the hearth.

He tore off his mitten, thrust a hand into the ash. Warmth—it might not yet be dead. He leapt for the sledge, dug hurriedly beneath Aisling, and produced the bundle of kindling. He dived back and stirred the ash with a stick. Coals! One still showing the faintest hint of red. He laid a handful of twigs on it, blew with all his strength, and prayed. Gunnora, Lady, these here are in your hands. Let there still be an ember. He blew again and watched with incredulous joy as the tiny flame crept up.

Gently he fed it another twig and a second as it grew. At last he had a fire, a healthy vigorous infant fast growing in size and strength. He sat back on his heels, hands to the warmth. Of all the blessings given to man, surely fire was the greatest. He reveled in the growing heat. Then he remembered Aisling. He untied her carefully, lifted her, and laid her by the fire, wrapping the blankets about her. Then he took her wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there. She’d trusted him with her life, and he’d not failed her.

But had Aiskeep come too late for these others? He stood, half-reluctant to find out in case he had. Slowly he walked to turn back the blankets on face after face. His fingers groped for the throb of life in slender children’s wrists, in wrists sun tanned, work thickened.

In wrist after wrist he found life. Only in one could he find nothing. He piled more wood on the fire, then went into the freezing air briefly to gather snow, a pot of which he placed by the fire. Then he sought out the larder, assembling the ingredients for a mighty stew. That pot went onto the swingle over the fire.

He dug around and found soup bones, added some of the snow water, and other odds and ends. That would cook faster. Then he sat down to feed the fire and luxuriate in the warmth. It was as if he’d never known the heat of fire before. Now he loved it. He took it to him and held it tight. It was life, a talisman against winter and death. A sun men made to bring back summer in the midst of the snow. From the bundle beside the fire Aisling lifted her head and smiled at him.

“You made it.”

Keelan smiled back. “Guess we did.” His smile widened until he was grinning like a fool, unable to stop as he found tears leaking down his face. He grasped her hand. “We made it in time. They’re alive. I haven’t done more than check, but they are, Aisling. They live, all but one I’m not sure of.” His voice broke, and he sat in silence holding her hand.

Aisling lay gathering her strength. Her mind scanned her body slowly. No damage: the spell-sleep had protected her long enough. The strength of her gift was still a lot lower than she would wish but it might yet be sufficient. She touched Keelan with her mind, evaluating. He was weaker, exhausted still from his walk to reach a haven and save her. She quietly augmented his strength. There was nothing else necessary apart from a possible slight frostbite in several toes, but that was minor.

She’d heal it later if she had the power left. For now she had to know about Jonro’s family. She could feel the life sparks about her. Keelan’s glowed strongly; the others all were much weaker. They would live but they would wake disorientated, starving for food.

They could wait though. She touched them lightly. They’d all live. But there! One dimming to nothingness. She staggered to her feet, leaning on her brother. He guided her across to the limp form, guessing which patient she needed to see first. Aisling laid back the bedding to study the wan face.

Keelan moved the covers lower, and his breath hissed out. Aisling looked. The rasti. Jonro must have gone to chop wood by the stream. The vibration of his ax had roused the rasti, and they’d streamed forth to battle. She’d sensed no injured in their burrow, but then they were cannibals. Any injured would have died quickly. Jonro had escaped. His family had bound his wounds and laid him nearest the fire. Keelan was peeling the bedding lower and lower.

Aisling shuddered. From toes to lower thighs the man’s legs had flesh bitten from them. There were bites up his left arm. Several more were scattered where his clothing must have pulled back to bare his flesh as he fought the horror. Keelan was staring down.

“Can you heal all that?”

“I could but I won’t.” Her flat gaze met his own stunned gape. “Kee, listen. If I make this as if it’s never been, someone will talk. If I healed every wound I still couldn’t make them forget that the injuries had existed, but Jonro won’t die. The wounds are already starting to fester. Rasti are filthy little beasts. It’s that which often kills humans bitten by them. I can heal the infection that is beginning. I’ll burn it from him so it does not return.”

Keelan was turning Jonro’s arm. “One of them has severed a tendon in his arm.”

“I know. I can fix that too.” Her grin was wry. “I’ll collapse again once I’ve done what I have to. You’re going to be the only one on your feet until Harran gets here.” She studied the injuries on the unconscious body before her. “When I’m done there’ll be no more infection. He won’t develop wound fever, and any real damage like that tendon will have been healed as well. But the bites will still be raw and open. He’ll have huge scars.” She took in a breath.

“Get clean cloths, salve them, and bind them on only as firmly as it takes to keep them in place. Tell Harran when he arrives that the deeper bites should be stitched. That’s if I’m not awake again by then.” She turned back to her patient. “Now.” Her hands closed around Jonro’s throat. Her thumbs lay softly feeling the pulse through questing fingertips. She drew strength from herself. Her power was dangerously low, her gift straining to obey her demands.

She first burned out the infection. Then she treated the wound fever also starting to race through his blood. Her mind sought out the injuries that could disable: the severed tendon in the arm, the fraying ligaments behind one knee where another bite had savaged flesh and sinew. She sought out any more that could leave a farmer unable to work his land. There was nothing, only the weakness of body that was dragging him down. The endless cold followed by the shock that was draining him.

She took up the last of the Gift she had to give, thrust it home, felt his heartbeat strengthen, and sagged to her knees. Dimly she felt her brother lift her back to the warmed blankets beside the fire. Kee-lan stroked the hair back from her forehead.

“An interesting life we lead,” he mused. “You keep falling down. I keep picking you up. Just make sure if you continue falling over, that you do it when I’m around.” He tucked her blankets around her more securely and moved to stir the stew. The soup would be ready shortly. Keelan stretched, sighed, and moved to open the door. Outside the blizzard was picking up power. Gunnora aid Harran and the Aiskeep men out in this.

He poured soup into a bowl, found a spoon and settled to spooning a bowl of soup into every patient in turn. With that done he refilled the soup pot and set it to heat again. It had just begun to bubble when sounds from outside caught his attention. That sounded like Harran’s voice. Thanks be! But just in case… The door opened, and the first man entered to find Keelan lining an arrow.

“All’s well, lad. It’s us.”

Keelan lowered the bow. “How do you know that makes it well?”

Harran gave him a hurt look. “Now, now. And after all we did to get here.” His nose twitched. “Is that soup I smell?”

Keelan laughed. “It is and it’s ready to drink. Everyone here is alive. Jonro’s family have all had a round of soup, and there’s mutton stew cooking too.” He took the bowls handed him and began to fill them with the steaming savory concoction. “Sit down and get outside this.”

Harran checked off the Aiskeep men, saw to it they had a bowl each, then sat. He was weary to his bones, but they’d made it. Aiskeep had not failed its people.

Ten days later, during another lull in the storms, the Aiskeep men rode home. Jonro was recovering well. He’d have terrible scars but no physical impairment. Everyone else had been up and about for days. Aisling had slipped out twice to monitor the rasti. The first time their life sparks had flickered low: they slept, dreamed of blood, and the hunt, and the joys of mating. The second time no sparks remained: the rasti were gone. Only the small corpses remained, deep in the cradling snowdrifts.

As soon as the ground began to thaw Jonro’s family would dig them out, taking the pelts with care. Unmarked pelts were valuable in the market. Then they would fill in the burrows with stones. Elmsgarth would leave nothing that offered an easy refuge to the rasti should others come this way.

The rest of the winter was quiet. Aisling was happy about that. The spring looked likely to bring enough excitement. They still had to find a way to dispose of Kirion and the duke. Neither would be exactly an easy target.

In Kars Shastro was bored most of the winter. He enlivened that by taking a new love, a slender blonde woman, the wife of one of his courtiers. It amused him to flaunt her in the man’s face, but it was the courtier’s own fault. Marry a lovely innocent woman and talk constantly about her before your duke. What did the fool expect? Besides, she hadn’t been that innocent, or Shastro was no judge. He was annoyed to find them both gone near spring. Fled Kars and away. He shrugged petulantly. There were always other lovers.

Kirion had spent a busy season in his tower. Varnar was coming along nicely. He dreamed often now. Sweet dreams of his loving beautiful wife and his adorable little daughter. Kirion could see that even when awake the man was remembering. It would be so amusing later, once he was ready to let his toy know the truth. He was interrupted by the need to bespell a courtier’s wife. Then again, later, to scry for the fluttering idiot and her gawk of a husband.

He wasn’t pleased at having to lay aside his experiments. Shastro was less pleased to hear that his prey had gone to the Coast Clan. He hadn’t known the dratted woman was kin to one of their bloodlines. Spring came, quietly surrounding the city with greenery. A season when life began, at least usually. This year the opposite might apply.