Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One Page 7

  Still stunned, Riah could concentrate only on the last question. “No! How could I tell him anything? For years I waited for some word, for some guidance. I needed to see the toltyr. I needed to know everything was real, and not some dream!”

  The falconform raised his huge claw, and it held a leather pouch. She took it and spilled the contents into her hand. Round, made of grey pewter, and attached to a black, tightly braided leather cord, it was the Toltyr Arulve. The medallion was engraved on both sides with what appeared to be the same symbol, but was not. She had not seen the medallion since she left the Seani, eighteen years ago.

  She rubbed the smooth metal with her thumb, and its image blurred with her tears. There were, she remembered, two medallions, one for each boy. Oh Rulve, was Teller wearing his when he—

  Yarahe, his unblinking eyes upon her, interrupted the terrible thought. “You must give this to Sheft. You must tell him who he is. Do this soon, before the season turns. I will come again in Hawk with further instructions.” The falconform spread its formidable wings, which cast a shadow over Riah, and swiftly departed.

  He disappeared into the blue sky, trailing unanswered, hopeless questions that no longer mattered. Only one son now. Oh God Rulve, she had only one son left.

  # # #

  When Sheft arrived at Moro’s house, Etane was just leaving in the wagon. He was off to a horse-farm in Ferce, on some business of his father’s, but it was clear that the main object of his journey was a young woman he had met during the summer: the horseman’s daughter, Leeza. Sheft wished him luck, and Etane drove away grinning.

  Mariat’s eyes lit up at the sight of the bee he’d carved, and she set it on the shelf next to the jar of honey, “where it would feel at home.” After informing Mariat that she was invited for dinner, he made himself useful to Ane in the kitchen garden. She asked him to pick the squash before the borers got to them, and then insisted that they take a basket of them back to Riah. Mariat took one handle, Sheft the other, and they walked back through the hayfield.

  When he pushed open the door to his house, he stopped in dismay. Riah sat on the bench at the table exactly as he had left her and looked as if she had been crying. He glanced at the hearth and was relieved to see a pot bubbling there.

  They put the basket of squashes on the floor. “These are for you,” Mariat said to Riah. “Can I help you cut one up for dinner?”

  Riah made a visible effort to focus on them. She rose and indicated that Mariat sit down. “You are the guest here. I’ll do it.”

  She took a squash to the side counter and began to peel it. Sheft sat next to Mariat on the bench as she chatted about the gossip in her aunt’s village of Okrup, but the shadow over Riah seemed to deepen.

  “Is everything all right?” The question came out before he realized how futile it would be. The dark moods that prompted him to ask seemed always to prevent her from answering.

  Her back to him, Riah continued cutting the squash into small pieces. His heart sank at her silence, but then she spoke. “I suppose I was thinking of your aunt, Mariat. How alone she’d have been without you.”

  A look of regret passed over Mariat’s face. “She had many friends, but they all had their own lives. Their own family troubles. I kept her company, cooked and cleaned, but couldn’t take away the pain. It just got worse. Those last few weeks… I don’t think she even knew I was there.”

  Mariat looked so despondent that he longed to take her hand and look deep into her eyes.

  But he must not do that. Instead, with his gaze averted, he leaned toward her. “I’m sorry. You must have felt very lonely.”

  She turned her head away and nodded, her eyes moist. Then she looked up at him and produced a smile. “Well, I’m home now—and so is auntie.”

  “In the end,” Riah said in a low voice, “we must all die alone.” She moved past them, her face set, and scraped the diced squash off the cutting board and into the stew.

  The early twilight of autumn crept into the room as they wiped off the rest of the squashes, stored them in the root cellar, and cut the bread for dinner. He was helping Mariat set out spoons and bowls when he suddenly remembered what he’d seen earlier. “On the way to Mariat’s house,” he said to Riah, “I spotted an enormous falcon heading this way. Did you see it too?”

  His mother plunked mugs on the table and didn’t look up. “How could I? I was in the house most of the day.”

  Just then the door banged open, and Tarn came in late, asking about dinner. It was soon served, but they would have to eat quickly if Sheft were to get Mariat home before dark. Their hasty meal suited him, for neither his mother nor father had much to say. After they’d finished, he went out to hitch Padiky to the wagon, for the night would overtake them if they walked.

  A huge yellow moon hung low in the deepening twilight as Padiky plodded down the track. Mariat sat next to him, not touching, but so close the space between them seemed to vibrate. He ached to put his arm around her, but kept his wrists bound in the reins. They said little, but when they arrived at Moro’s house, and he jumped down to help her from the seat, their hands touched. A shiver went through him. Once on the ground, she did not let go of him, and he lowered his gaze.

  “Sheft, you don’t have to do that anymore.”

  He had looked at her many times, but always askance, always dropping his eyes when she turned to him.

  “Look at me,” she whispered.

  He would do anything for her, even this, but fear kept his gaze on the ground.

  “Please.”

  Knowing what she would see, hoping it would be his heart, he raised his eyes.

  She searched them, with something like wonder, then reached up and very gently, so gently that he felt it throughout his whole body, touched his eyelid with the tip of her finger.

  He drew her close and she came gladly, as if to the warmth. Her temple felt warm under his cheek; he brushed his lips against her hair. His need grew and swelled as he held her in his arms, and she leaned against him in trust. He bent his head to kiss her, and her mouth and the feel of her body tight against his pulsed through his abdomen and down. It was difficult finally to set her apart, to whisper good-night, to watch her enter her house and close the door. He drove away, still connected to her in a tether of breathless joy.

  # # #

  That autumn seemed magical to Sheft. The harvested fields lay in spent satisfaction, framed by empty milkweed pods and tall bluecurls that smelled like mint. Sometimes Moro brought out a chair for Ane so she could sit in the sun with a blanket over her lap, and she watched their comings and goings with a wan smile. Sheft brushed past her while he carried baskets of apples or potatoes to their root cellar and sometimes he bent down to speak to her, and she squeezed his hand and called him wheat-head. By the middle of Acorn, however, Ane could no longer leave her bed, and Sheft came as often as he could to visit.

  One day, after he had read to her from the book of tales, she smiled up at him from her pillow. “I’m getting ready to leave this world, but I’m not afraid. Rulve is right here beside me.”

  “I’m glad for that, Ane.”

  Her old eyes twinkled at him. “I mean you, Sheft. Those who love wear Rulve’s body.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Creator of the world is a spirit. With no hands or heart but ours. So if Rulve’s work is to be done, if his love is to be poured out, then our bodies will have to do it.”

  Her words overwhelmed him, and he didn’t know what to say.

  She breathed out a laugh and glanced at Moro, who was taking his boots off at the kitchen door. “And at night I have a bulky Rulve snoring next to me, and sometimes he rolls over and takes all the covers.”

  # # #

  One warm afternoon, Sheft persuaded Mariat to come with him to their old spot where the Wysher Creek met the Meera. Mariat spread out a blanket and sat close to him as the burbling of the water mingled with the hum of late-ranging bees.

  “This
will probably be our last trip here before the cold weather sets in,” he said. Autumn brought endings, and he didn’t want anything to end. A thought edged into his mind—you might never come here with her again.

  She took his hand. “Don’t be sad. When winter comes we can sit together by the fire.”

  He put his arm around her and they sat, quietly holding each other, until she curled up with her head on his lap and fell asleep. The river slid by, sun-lit clouds reflecting on its surface, but in the current beneath, old leaves turned slowly, like unasked questions. The sky hazed over and a light breeze sprang up, heavy with the smell of rain. A few strands of her hair wisped across her cheek. He tenderly brushed her hair back and covered her legs with a corner of the blanket.

  She trusted him completely, but did not know him. She did not know how wrong things were inside him.

  Leaves swirled down from the trees and were caught in the river’s current. They formed loose mats of maroon and yellow and bright green that circled and drifted apart. The hazy ball of the sun was touching the Riftwood’s tallest trees when Sheft woke her. “It’s time to go home.”

  They stood and embraced, length to sweet length. “I love you, Sheft,” she murmured.

  “Oh God, I love you too.” The words poured out before he could stop them. He had all he ever wanted in his arms, but the pain of an inevitable future loss kept his eyes tight shut against her blowing hair.

  Chapter 8. Miramakamen

  At the end of Acorn, when the fields had been harvested and a few golden leaves still dangled from the ash trees and the rest pooled like sunlight beneath them, the big market-fair was held in Ferce. It was a social event for young and old alike; and not only did the neighboring farmers come, but also peddlers from as far away as Ullar-Sent. Mariat had sewn a new skirt for the occasion, and after setting aside a store for both Tarn’s and Moro’s families, announced she had all her honey pots filled and sealed. Sheft packed his woodware in a box, ready to be taken to the fair.

  The paper sheets dried at last; but then, two days before the fair, Etane was invited to spend a few days with the family of Leeza, the young lady he’d met in Ferce. Moro would not leave Ane, so Mariat was left without an escort. Since no respectable young woman ever traveled alone, Sheft knew she faced bitter disappointment. Pushing away the thought of confronting a gauntlet of suspicion and hostility in a strange town, he offered to take her. Moro gave his solemn permission.

  Most of Sheft’s thoughts now revolved around Mariat. It was as if the night clouds under which he lived had thinned, and he glimpsed a high and lovely star. She could have had her choice of several young men in At-Wysher, yet she had chosen him. This wonder had come upon him as a gift unbelievably great.

  But it was a gift he should never accept.

  The morning of the fair dawned cold, although there had not yet been a frost, so he put on his sheepskin jacket and, full of both joy and dread, loaded the box of woodwares and toys into the wagon.

  When he arrived at Moro’s house, smoke was rising out of the chimney into the chilly air, and Mariat was waiting for him, wearing her brown wool cloak. She whisked it aside to show him her skirt. It was a chestnut color, with thin strips of burnt orange, yellow, and scarlet woven in.

  “What do you think? Do you like it?”

  She was so beautiful that he hardly ever noticed what she wore. “I do. But I like the person who’s wearing it better.”

  She laughed, and they loaded the wagon with three boxes of her honey jars, each one sealed with wax, covered with leather, and wound with a cord.

  They set out, the sun came up pink and gold, and it looked to be a fine autumn day. It may as well have been drizzling, however; because, sitting so close to one he needed so badly, he knew that the very love he felt for her demanded he stay far away from her.

  He cleared his throat. “Mariat, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Thinking what?”

  “Well, that we might be somewhat—somewhat mismatched.” He groaned inwardly at the inadequacy of the word, at the blunt way he had begun this conversation.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re the prettiest girl in the village, and the kindest. You have so much to offer, but that’s not—not the case with me. I can’t give you much of a future.” He could give her no future. He wanted to enfold her in his love, lay his strength at her feet; but life with a hated foreigner would be a life of misery and humiliation.

  “Oh, Sheft.” She took his arm and rested her head against his shoulder. “Of course we have a future together. You’ve worked a successful fieldhold all your life, and you know paper craft. My beehives and knowledge of herbs will help too. Our future will be just fine.”

  “It’s not that. You know I’m not—not accepted around here.”

  “I accept you. My father and mother and brother accept you.”

  But none of them knew the deeper truth. None of them knew what was drawn to his blood. Mariat looked up at him with a slight frown. “All this talk about being mismatched. Are you trying to get rid of me, and I’m too stupid to notice?”

  “Rid of you! Mariat, that’s just—”

  She put a finger over his lips. “All right then. We love each other, and that’s what counts.” She snuggled beside him until other vehicles appeared and forced her to sit up more properly. “You worry too much, sweetheart. Always so serious. I’ll make it my duty to cheer you up.”

  The wagon creaked along, and in the face of her smile, he couldn’t bring himself to continue telling her their relationship would only hurt her.

  They arrived at mid-morning. The market was set up in a large field between the Village House and the Meera and the entrance fee made a fine profit for the Town of Ferce. There were two wagons ahead of them, and by now his hands were sweating. What if they wouldn’t let him in? He winced away from the thought, a blunt example of what he had tried to explain to Mariat. They drew up to the man collecting the toll, and he gave Sheft a sharp look.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Ullar-Sent,” he answered truthfully. He held out ten coppers, double what was needed.

  The man looked around quickly, took the coins, and pocketed half. “Find any place you want,” he said, motioning for the next wagon to approach.

  With a sigh of relief, Sheft drove slowly through the crowd. Open wagons, carts, and tents were lined up in rows, and the paths between them were already crowded with customers. Mariat soon gave up her idea of finding a place in the shade, and they pulled into a spot between a large wagon full of crates of squawking chickens and a cart laden with baskets of purple onions. Behind them were the sheep pens. Sheft unhitched Padiky and led her to the pasture fenced in for the occasion, where he had to pay yet more coppers to yet another sharp-eyed and frowning Fercian.

  When he returned, he set up their wooden trestle tables and stacked them with the honey pots and woodware. Mariat discovered the wooden toys and, delighted, put all of them out. They would, she declared, attract children—followed by mothers with coin-filled pouches. On every side farmwives bustled by, clutching large bags and holding toddlers by the hand, young men flirted with pretty girls, and excited children ran between the stalls. Sellers shouted out praise for their goods and men led bleating sheep or cows with clanging bells around their necks.

  Soon Mariat’s first customer appeared. Sheft sat in the back of the wagon, facing the sheep pens, where most people would not see him. He glanced over his shoulder from time to time, keeping an eye on Mariat, who conducted a fairly brisk business. Twice he came forward to help, but after one look at him, mothers pulled their children away and moved on. So he returned to his seat, brought out his carving knife, and began working on another wooden hay-mouse. A few children who had come to look at the sheep noticed him and gathered to watch. One small boy wanted a carving lesson, so Sheft sat him on his lap and, guiding his right hand with his own, showed him how to hold the knife. The boy lost interest when he discovered carving
was harder than it looked and ran off.

  As Mariat had predicted, the toys did indeed draw the attention of children. She had to rescue a carved fish as it disappeared over the edge of the table and into a child’s grasp. There were several whining requests for purchases, and one temper tantrum from a young girl whose mother wouldn’t buy anything. Within a few hours, much of the woodware, all but three carved toys, and most of the honey pots were gone. The day grew warm, and Mariat tucked her cloak and Sheft’s jacket into a corner of the wagon.

  When they smelled meat grilling and pan-bread frying, and when customers drifted towards the booths selling food and ale, Mariat brought out their lunch. They sat in the front of the wagon, eating their boiled eggs and bread and sharing the water jug.

  Mariat nudged him. “A drama in the making,” she said, nodding toward a group of shoppers across from them.

  A small boy, about three years old, sat by his mother’s feet while she haggled over some unbleached cloth. Next to him stood the pot of honey she’d just purchased. Holding one of Sheft’s wooden ducks under his arm, the boy uncovered the pot. He dipped the duck’s bill deep into it, made gobbling sounds, then pulled the duck out and slurped the honey off. Sticky liquid ran down his chin. They watched, holding back their laughter, until the mother looked down with a horrified squeal.

  “It looks like all our customers are eating lunch,” Mariat said. “Including your duck there. Now’s our chance to visit some of the other stalls.”

  That would not, he knew, be a good idea; but she looked so disappointed he decided that if they didn’t go far and he kept his eyes lowered, he could risk it. “All right.”

  Her eyes sparkling, Mariat quickly made arrangements with the onion lady to watch their booth, scooped the coppers they had earned into her pocket, and took his hand. They threaded past the poultry, pigs, and vegetables and headed toward the center of the fair. There they marveled at the great choice of candles, medicinals, furs, mugs, and pots of all kinds. Sheft discovered a display of woodcarving tools and, at Mariat’s urging, used several coppers from his morning’s profits to purchase a short curved blade, perfect for etching. They stopped to admire a pile of wool blankets dyed in unusual colors. Mariat bargained hard with the seller, using a talent that surprised Sheft, and purchased a pale yellow blanket for Ane. It looked like the morning sun, she said, and would cheer her mother up.