Journey to Aviad Page 2

  It was no surprise that Elowyn had heard whisperings of people entering the Shadow Wood and never returning; it was rather the expected outcome for anyone so foolish. She herself had watched countless bands of armored warriors head in the direction of the Shadow Wood, and she could not recall having seen any of them come back. But she had never heard of anything emerging from its depths to drag people into it either. That was the sort of thing that would keep one lying awake at night, jumping at every rattle of the wind.

  Elowyn’s breath caught in her throat and she began to shiver as she looked down at the tracks again. Something about them greatly disturbed her—something beyond the pain of knowing that a life had ended so violently. She examined the area again to see what it was that she might have missed. She retraced the bowman’s final steps, stopping as she approached the second set of footprints. Not only was there no indication that the second man had helped the first, been chased off, or fled in terror, the contrary seemed to be the case. It appeared to her as if the tall man with the staff had led the animals to the bowman, stood by as they attacked him, and followed the pack of beasts into the Shadow Wood as the corpse was dragged away.

  Suddenly the sun no longer seemed warm or comforting, and all of Aviad’s diamonds had dried up. A little bud of fear was balling up in the pit of Elowyn’s stomach, and no matter how hard she swallowed, it refused to stay down in its place. She knew she was nearing the same panicked state that must have made the bowman break into a doomed run. She snatched up the helm, the arrows, and the bow, and as she ran for dear life, she came to another startling realization. The previous night, she had stayed up much later than she should have, star gazing. When she’d finally dropped off to sleep, the ground had not been wet enough to leave such clear footprints. Indeed it had not rained in more than a week, save for that small shower just before dawn. This attack had happened while she was blissfully sleeping, completely unaware that a life and death struggle was taking place but a few moments’ walk away. If she’d been seen, she might very well have been caught and dragged off with the unfortunate bowman.

  Ordinarily the walk home from her favorite place by the stream was a lengthy one. That day it took her half the time. She could not keep herself from breaking into a run whenever she thought about the narrow escape she’d had. She slowed her pace as the trees thinned and she began to see signs of other people about. For the first time in her life she breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of civilization.

  Moments later, she saw her own thatched-roof cottage coming into view. Before going inside she went to stash her latest treasures into her own private chest. She had found it some time ago, broken and abandoned in a rubbish heap, and decided it was worth saving. She had hidden the chest in the hollow of a huge tree not far from the cottage, well away from her mother’s prying eyes. The ancient tree was covered with vines, and the opening was not obvious to the casual passer-by, so her things were safer there than any place else she could think of.

  Space in the chest was precious. She only kept her most special items there … some bright, smooth stones from the river, a writing tablet her tutor from the Temple had once given her, bits of twine and rope (one never knew when such things might be useful), a knife with a broken handle someone had cast away, a few beads, and pressed leaves that were bright red, orange and purple, carefully caught and saved last autumn. Most precious of all was a pair of old trousers that she thought must have been her father’s. They were well worn and smelled of the sea. She had found them in an old trunk in the cottage years ago, and carried them off without anyone knowing. The newly found helm just barely fit into her little chest of treasures, but the bow and arrows were simply too large. She left them resting on top, their length extending upwards into the tree. She would decide what to do with them later.

  Walking toward the cottage, Elowyn was filled with an entirely different kind of anxiety. Her heart, her step, her breathing … all suddenly seemed extraordinarily heavy. There was always an uncomfortable stillness that descended when she returned home. She hesitated outside the door, kicking up dust with her toes, gathering the strength to enter. Her mother rarely looked at her or spoke to her, as if ignoring Elowyn would negate her actual existence. Morganne, her older sister was cautiously kind, with an apologetic look in her eye that was almost a condescending form of pity. Perhaps it was only Elowyn’s imagination, but she always felt that if Morganne could have put her facial expression into words, they would have been “I’m sorry you can’t be more like me—then maybe mother wouldn’t dislike you so.”

  Two springs had passed since Elowyn noticed that her mother was going to bear a child—Adelin she came to be called after she was born. Their mother avoided Adelin as much as possible, passing on the responsibility of her care to Morganne. That was about the only thing that Elowyn had in common with Adelin, whose arrival had been a strange surprise. But her existence was not something their mother would voluntarily speak of, and Elowyn did not dare ask. Adelin regarded Elowyn with an equal amount of suspicion. If Elowyn tried to pick her up, she would cry loudly for Morganne.

  As much as Elowyn dreaded returning home, she knew she couldn’t stay away forever. She had already been gone for two straight days, and had no desire to sleep out in the dark alone that night, not after what she’d seen. With a heavy sigh, she pressed against the wooden door until it swung open. Adelin was sitting alone in a corner, attempting to untangle herself from a great deal of yarn. Her expression became very intense and focused as she tried to comprehend the puzzle placed before her. Apparently the yarn had been a clever attempt to keep Adelin quiet and out of the way for a while. Morganne was sitting at the work table, casually sewing a plain linen chemise. The relaxed curve of Morganne’s shoulders told Elowyn that their mother had gone into the city for the day. A wave of relief swept over her as she plopped herself down on the rough stone floor.

  The shutters were open, allowing a single sunbeam to illuminate Morganne’s figure, her fair hair catching the light like spun gold. A delicious-smelling spring breeze filled the room, flushing out the unpleasant odor of the tallow candles their mother burned so readily through the winter months. It was such a rare moment of peace that Elowyn dared not so much as breathe, lest whatever benevolent spell hung over the cottage be broken. This is how it should be, she thought to herself. This is what’s real.

  Morganne paused from her sewing and gave Elowyn a probing look. “Are you well?” Elowyn nodded. She was more than just well—she was content. Such moments were more precious than all the wealth of Tyroc. Morganne continued her sewing. “I was starting to worry about you, being gone so long. Those renegades attacked again along the north road—left ten of the city guards dead, but not one of the renegades was even wounded. They laid out another ambush,” she said in a disapproving tone.

  Elowyn’s ears perked and her heart stirred with a curious indignation. She couldn’t help but think of the man with the helmet. An ambush certainly wasn’t fair. It was the kind of attack made by cowards, and by strange wolf-like beasts, not by honorable men. Yet there was another part of her that had to admire their cunning. These renegades, from all reports, were only a small band, but they were exceptionally wood-wise. They had successfully challenged the ruling family of Tyroc without ever being caught, or losing a single member. That was the way the stories went anyhow. It was almost as though they were invincible.

  “One of these days, you’re going to get into trouble out there, and what then?”

  “I don’t go near the north road, or any other road for that matter.”

  “You know that’s not the point.”

  Elowyn sighed; she had no desire to argue. She noticed that a dingy gray cloud had swallowed up the sunbeam. She stared hard at the open window, wishing that the sunbeam would come back. Normally she would have shrugged off Morganne’s comment without a thought, but she couldn’t forget what had made her come running home in the first place. She had felt threatened, and it wasn’t by any r
enegade group. Somehow running into them seemed much less frightening than running into whatever had dragged off the bowman. As a general rule, men could be moved to pity, they could be reasoned with, but what of these other roving creatures? Stifling a small shiver, she quickly changed the subject.

  “I wonder what the renegades are after anyway. Why do they keep attacking?”

  “I don’t think anyone knows for sure. I heard some women talking about it in front of the tailor’s stall last time I went into town. One had heard that the renegades are a group of the City Guards that went bad after the Sovereign died. They had been among his most loyal men, who by some accounts went mad with grief. Another said they were traitors who made a botched attempt to overthrow the Sovereign’s sons and then fled the city to keep from being executed. Yet another claimed they were under an evil curse, though I don’t believe that. The most reasonable explanation I have heard so far is that they are poachers trying to cover up their hunting of forbidden quarry in the Sovereign’s forest. One thing for certain—they don’t seem to care who they kill. All the stories agree that they are ruthless, bloodthirsty murderers,” Morganne said with a tone of certainty. “Please stay home for a while?” she softly pleaded.

  Elowyn looked at Morganne thoughtfully. There were days when she acted as though she cared, and yet there were others when she seemed to enjoy rubbing Elowyn’s face in the fact that her own mother didn’t want her. “Besides,” Morganne returned to her usual practical tone, “Mother has been weaving incessantly all winter, and none of the wool cloth has been fulled yet. I am going to need your help soon.”

  Elowyn made a face and groaned. Fulling was a nasty, smelly, tedious job—even worse than making tallow for candles in the fall. Normally Elowyn was kept well away from the cloth with her always slightly grubby hands. Their mother was meticulous when it came to keeping the house free of dust and dirt. Most cottages like theirs had floors of beaten earth covered with rushes or hay. But their mother would have none of that, and paid to have a stone floor laid. She complained that the earthen floors soiled her wool and cloth, and that rushes only gave the mice and other pests a place to hide. Every morning before her work began, the cottage was swept out, and whenever possible, strewn with absinthe and wild thyme to keep the moths and mice away. The trestle table was set up and wiped clean. Then their mother would either spin, or sit at her loom, and make it known that she was not to be disturbed. It always seemed to Elowyn that she loved her loom more than she loved all three of her daughters put together. Mother did all of the weaving, leaving Morganne most of the sewing—that was how they made their living throughout the year. The quality of their work was known well enough in Tyroc shops that her mother’s many eccentricities were graciously overlooked. By all rights, she should have had her own shop in town. But she wanted none of the hassles of running one, especially the part of dealing with a constant stream of noise from the street and interruptions from customers. She much preferred to work in solitude, selling her finished product to cloth merchants, or to other tailors.

  It was a mystery to Elowyn that she had not yet been apprenticed to one of them. Many of the other girls her age and class already had been apprenticed to someone, or at the very least, they were learning the family trade well enough to one day continue it. But no mention of an apprenticeship had ever crossed her mother’s lips, nor did she teach Elowyn the craft that she and Morganne knew so well. Elowyn had no real interest, truth be told. Still, she could not help but feel slighted that she was purposely left out. This is not to say that Elowyn did not contribute in her own way. Survival was always a precarious thing, and each had to do their share. Even little Adelin was made to help with the most simple of tasks. It was Elowyn’s job to fetch water, keep the garden, bring in the firewood, run errands, and collect wild foods and herbs when she went out roaming in the woods. Sometimes she was given the washing to do, though her small size made doing a good job difficult, and their mother was as particular about the laundry as she was the cleanliness of the cottage.

  Fulling was the most dreaded chore Elowyn was required to help with, and she never managed to get out of it. Her mother would lay a length of newly woven wool cloth in the big wooden trough behind the cottage, then pour over it warm water and stale urine that had been saved up from the chamber pots. She and Morganne would have to hike up their dresses and walk across it for hours, until the weave was tightened, and the cloth slightly shrunk. After that it would have to be stretched out on a wooden tenter, and its surface brushed with teasles from the garden. Once dry, Morganne would use long flat shears to smooth off the nap—once for common cloth, and several times for fine cloth. If it was to be sold to a merchant, the cloth was then brushed, pressed, folded, and stored away until their mother was ready to cart it into the city. Cloth that was to be used for Morganne’s sewing was set aside for washing with soapwort, or sometimes for dyeing. Typically their mother wove linen over the winter months, preparing for summer demands for cooler cloth, and because linen did not need to be fulled. But whatever wool cloth she did make was saved up until the first warm weather, and then the dreaded trough would make its appearance. Elowyn’s legs and feet ached just thinking about it.

  Living among weavers and seamstresses wasn’t all bad though. For one thing, Elowyn never ran out of clothes, and they never went unmended, no matter how many times she ripped her dresses on trees and thorns. There was something satisfying too, about laying out dull looking linen on the grass, then watching the dew and sun work together to bleach it white. But what she really looked forward to were the times when their mother bought raw wool that had not yet been dyed. Some colors were too difficult, too expensive, or too dangerous to make at home, and for those she was willing to pay the dyer in town. All the rest were made with Elowyn’s help.

  Elowyn loved getting up in the dark hours before dawn, and starting a blaze beneath the enormous dye cauldron. It was big enough that Adelin could curl up comfortably in its bottom, and none would know she was there unless they looked inside. Their mother paid two men from a neighboring farm to hoist it onto the trivet for her, to empty it when needed during dyeing season, and take it down for storage at the end. It took Elowyn and Morganne many trips back and forth from the stream to fill the cauldron with water, and it took hours for the fire to heat.

  With some small amount of pride, Elowyn would watch as the dyes were made using plants she had grown in the garden or collected out of the woods. Not that her mother ever acknowledged it, but that was the only time when Elowyn really felt deep down that she was part of something bigger. Those plants were her contribution to Mother’s sought after cloth, and Morganne’s famed needlework. Elowyn tended and nursed the garden with the same care she would give a wounded animal, and her plants always grew straight, healthy and strong, even when other gardens yielded a stunted crop.

  Once Mother had the mixture she wanted, Elowyn would watch the fire and stir the pot so that all the wool dyed evenly. There was something about that big bubbling cauldron that always captivated her imagination. She would pretend that she was brewing potions like the great alchemists she had heard about in the old stories. They were forever attempting to find the elixir of life, or a formula that would change lead into gold. Even though they had failed, their attempts had brought forth a variety of useful concoctions over the centuries that were used to aid Aviad’s armies in their fight against the Shadow Spirits. The old tales were full of desperate battles, and heroic feats, in a world filled with miracles brought forth by the very hands of Aviad. Elowyn’s soul felt a great sense of loss, and a longing for such times now long passed into history. Nothing remarkable ever happened in the present day, certainly nothing worth preserving in tales of glory for generations to come.

  After dark, when everyone else had gone in to bed, Elowyn would lie on her back near the fire, and watch the sparks spiral upward to meet the stars. She would dream of far-off lands ruled by benevolent monarchs—places of peace, and wealth, and pristi
ne beauty. Sometimes she dreamed of going off to find her father. In her dreams he was always strong, kind, intelligent, and loving. If only he knew where she was, he would come for her … wouldn’t he? But somehow, once all the dyeing was done, and the cauldron had been dried out and stored away, the magic and the dreams went away with it. The reality was, she knew nothing about her father, not even his name. Her mother refused to speak of him, though neither she nor Morganne knew why. To bring the subject up at all risked a beating, and they no longer dared to ask.

  After a long day spent haggling over cloth prices, their mother would typically come home tired and irritable. But when she returned late that particular afternoon, her eyes were bright with excitement. It was unusual to see her in such high spirits. For a fleeting moment, Elowyn saw a beauty in her mother that stood in such sharp contrast to her volatile nature. Her hair was a lovely light golden brown, her eyes the blue of the deepest ocean. She had a strict profile, with every feature outlined to perfection. Rarely was a hair on her head, or a fold of her clothing out of place. But it was difficult for Elowyn to perceive her as beautiful. Elowyn realized that it was because she never smiled—to the contrary, she was usually scowling about one thing or another. While Mother’s creations were often praised by others, she rarely expressed any satisfaction with her work. She just continued on; spinning, weaving, and selling, without ever pausing to admire the exceptional beauty brought forth by her own hands.