The Sorcery Within

XVIII

IN THE FIRST WEEKSafter Ethmurl had gone, Lerina liked to spend middays meandering along the high bluffs. The fog would usually be well off the coast, providing her with a broad view of the ocean while she herself was camouflaged by the forest. She would watch as the ships of the Dragon's blockade maintained their patrols, catch glimpses of the fishing boats of her own people, and imagine that she saw other craft, always at the horizon or on the edges of incoming fog banks. Those who knew her might have thought her behavior odd, but ever since puberty she had habitually spent long periods alone away from the hold, and none were the wiser that she was now haunting the woods more than the beaches.

This day she broke her ritual, cutting short the time spent watching the Dragon Sea, and drifted deeper into the trees. Inland, Garthmorron was a treasury of virgin lumber, little exploited since the Elandri war had disrupted trade between Cilendrodel and the civilized world. The roads were infrequent and seldom travelled. The forest devoured her, the subdued light beneath the canopy guiding her toward her objective. Before long she found it, growing at the base of one of the mammoth trunks.

The shrub was in flower – tiny white blossoms to accent the earth tones surrounding them – but the abundant, delicate leaves were what she wanted. She stripped off a few handfuls, sniffed them, and wrinkled her nose. She folded the leaves into a piece of cloth and stood up.

A fluttering in the underbrush made her heart surge. A patch of ferns swayed and parted briefly, clearly revealing minute, nearly human outlines. Pinpoint eyes glinted up at her, then were gone. She stepped forward, alert, but the movement of the plants had stilled entirely, leaving no trace of her small visitor.

"Rythni," she whispered.

She might have searched, but knew from experience and legend that she wouldn't find anything. She gathered her composure and walked back to her father's cottage, holding the cloth of collected herbs in cupped hands.

The water had boiled, and she was pouring it into the teapot to steep when her father opened the door. She jumped, recovered herself, and greeted him as he entered.

"A fine day," he answered, obviously in a good mood.

"I thought you went hunting."

"Did. I came across a fine hart almost inside the grounds. He's hanging from the tree near the smokehouse, already gutted."

She winced at the image.

"Now, now, you know you like venison as much as I do." He arranged himself in the room's only real chair. Cosufier Elb-Aratule was ruggedly handsome, a small man just beginning to display the waning of youth. He sniffed the air.

"What's that you have there?"

"Amethery."

His face fell. Lerina felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

"You have a problem?" he asked.

"Not if I drink the tea." Her attempt to sound flippant fell short.

Cosufier straightened up slowly. "Apparently you had an interesting holiday with that fisherman's son." He kept judgment out of his voice. He hadn't pressed her over her somewhat dubious excuse for her absence, nor would he now.

"I'm afraid so."

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"As a matter of fact, I haven't decided." All at once, Lerina felt her reticence vanish. This was her father, not the gossips of the village or the unsophisticated sons of woodcutters and silk farmers.

"Oh?"

The scent of the amethery was thick, approaching the strength necessary for its purpose. "I was thinking what would have happened if my mother had chosen to drink."

Her father said nothing.

"Don't try to reassure me. You were both very young, and Mother wasn't the kind of person to let something happen that she didn't want. She must have considered it."

Cosufier cleared his throat. "Actually,we considered it." Lerina wondered if it were guilt she detected in his tone but realized she preferred not to know the particulars. "And so might the father of this baby, whoever he may be."

She paused. "He is someone committed to distant lands and responsibilities – and I think to another woman and her children."

For the first time, her father seemed worried. "Who?"

She shrugged, inwardly laughing at herself. "I don't know. He never told me his true name, I'm sure of that."

"What have you gotten yourself into, daughter?"

"He wasn't like anyone I'd ever seen before. He impressed me – the way you impress me, Papa. And he needed me, at least for a little while. I knew he wouldn't stay, but that didn't matter. I took what I could, and he loved me back as best he could. Preventing pregnancy was the last thing on my mind. I knew, if need be, I had amethery."

"But now you're not sure you want to use it."

"I don't want to raise a child alone, but I also don't want just any offspring. I don't know who Ethmurl really is, but he had something inside him that no boy of Garthmorron has to offer. This baby could be someone very special. That's my difficulty. If I conceived another dozen times, I might never produce a child to match the one in my womb now."

"Will the child exhibit the qualities of the father if he isn't present to raise it?"

"That's a long question, Papa. My short answer is: At least it will have a chance."

"Wait until Uncle Ossatch hears about this."

Her smile was involuntary. "I'm sure Uncle Ossatch will deny my adventurousness comes from his side of the family."

"At least I was able to do the honorable thing." Cosufier sighed. "This child of yours won't have that sort of buffer."

"I survived. So did you." However dull Garthmorron might have been, it had nurtured her.

"You want the child, then."

"I don't know, Papa. I really don't."

It took a few moments for it to sink in, then Cosufier suddenly stood up, adjusting his belt in a feigned attempt to seem casual. "Well, I have some chores I should be doing." But he only made it halfway to the door. "You know," he said finally, "your mother and I planned brothers and sisters for you, though we never had the chance to have them. I'm still young enough to enjoy being a surrogate father."

"Thank you, Papa."

"I'll see you in a few hours."

She kissed him and he was gone, leaving her stroking her abdomen and wondering if it would ever again be as flat and smooth as it was now.

A short while later, she poured a full cup of the tea – more than enough, she thought. She emptied the remainder of the pot onto the ground outside the back window, and set the cup on the windowsill to cool. It would be ready in a few minutes. By that time, she would have decided.

She climbed into the loft. She lay in her bed, which had never seemed too large until Ethmurl had left, and pulled out the scrap of doeskin she had hidden under her pillow, spreading it out on the bed to read the hastily scrawled ideograms of High Speech. She could have simply taken it from memory.

Lerina:

I leave like a thief in the night – because I could not face the hurt and judgment of your eyes. I cannot share with you the reasons why I leave, but believe me when I say that they have nothing to do with you. I said it once lightly, but now I repeat in sincerity: "Thou art the queen of all women." I love you.

– Ethmurl

With the note, he had left four jewels. She picked up the largest one. It glittered magnificently. She had never seen anything comparable, not even among the late Lady Dran's finery. If and when she ever needed to convert it into cash, she would receive enough to live on for several years, at a better standard than she was used to.

But at that moment, it had no allure. They were four rocks. Pretty, and precious to some, but nevertheless hard and giving no love nor warmth. What kind of legacy was that? She slipped her hand under her blouse and felt the area around her navel. It was warm, living, containing a potential for beauty unmatched by jewels.

She had made her decision. She wanted a better reminder of him than rocks.

She virtually sailed down the stairs from the loft. She would have to tell her father immediately; it wasn't fair to make him wait all day. She almost giggled at the expression she knew she'd soon see on Uncle Ossatch's face. But first, she turned to the windowsill to dump out the amethery.

The cup lay on its side, its contents dripping off the outer edge. Brows furrowed, she picked it up. It had a wide, flat bottom. Even a stiff breeze wouldn't have knocked it over, had there been one. Her father? Not like him.

Then she saw it. A tiny set of footprints led across the sill, etched with spilled tea, evaporating to nonexistence as she watched. She searched, but the rythni had gone, leaving no other traces.

As any Cilendri knew, a mother couldn't have asked for a better omen.