Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (3 page)

Adria took a long breath and nodded. None were near enough to listen, but she watched the others and wondered how their words sounded to the Runners. Mateko had learned a little Aeman, of course, but it was not natural for him. Only Shísha spoke it well, and she was not among them this night.

But none listened, and none could understand the privilege they shared, that they worked so hard to abandon. They all knew from where she had come, of course. But Preinon alone among them truly knew who and what she was, and who and what they fought.

Scions. Princes of the Aeman and of Heiland, exiled or not.
Adria frowned.
We almost put it all aside, at Palmill. Will we have to make that choice again?

“
And I was being watched
,” she said aloud, in Aesidhe, then lapsed into Aeman again. “I am certain this time. Something about the Tainábe…. More and more often, when I’m alone, when I am scouting or hunting, or…” She shook her head in denial of her own superstition. “I really feel like someone is watching me. Someone or something I can’t see, or hear… ever since Palmill, and the... the woman in red.”

“You’ve been listening to ghost stories,” he smiled a little. There were often such tales traded around the fire at night, sometimes half true, often little more than Aesidhe myth or legend. Still, it was difficult for her to tell when they were joking. Aesidhe humor was certainly something Adria could not yet fully understand, and often everyone was smiling but her.

It was good-natured, and gave her something in common with the Aesidhe children who had not yet mastered the subtle ironies in adult language. But this time she would not be so easily put off, would not simply dismiss the notion as fantasy or superstition.

“There’s some truth even in the strangest myths,” she said. “Truly, Uncle, have you never sensed something of the sort?”

He signed and smiled in resignation, but also in warding, saying, “
These are things best spoken of in the day, or in the presence of the wise
.”

She nodded. It was enough of an admission to soothe her worry for the night.

“
You must ask
Shísha,”
he said as he rose.
“
Who will know more of things unseen?
”

He stood full in the firelight, covered in elk skins and blade sheaths and scars, and two things occurred to Adria at once. Preinon was a beautiful man, among the Aeman or the Aesidhe. His hair was several winters long, and only just dabbled with gray, his eyes and mouth just edged with wrinkles. His name among them was Watelomoksho, Wars with his Brother, and he had been named with respect.

Why has he not married an Aesidhe?
She wondered.
Most any woman among them would welcome him.

At just the same time, and a little to her surprise, she realized that Preinon was getting old. He didn’t wear it as other men his age might, it was true, and she had no doubt few could guess his weight in years. But his eyes, and the way he stood, and the set of his shoulders…. Preinon held seasons of snow and sun, of blood and fire.

Huddled below him in her furs, she felt truly a child again — not only from the shame she had worn all night and all day, but from the will to please him, to please all of them. Her eyes began to tear, and there was not enough smoke to blame.

“
I have heard what you say,
Atutéko
, and your words are the truth
,“ she whispered. “
Still, Today I failed us.”

He shifted above her, and when she glanced just a little to his face, he nodded. Not like a disappointed father, but as a teacher who knew her better than this one regrettable moment. “
Today you made a mistake. That is all. Today you walked two webs at once
.”

“At’e so wateme choacho, tegoni wateme watemeio thhúksho,” Adria nodded.

“The divided mind can only defeat itself,” he translated, smiling grimly. It was a phrase they had traded more than once.

Adria sighed, then smiled a little to match his. “You know, for a people who write nothing down, the Aesidhe remember far too many sayings.”

Preinon chuckled. “They remember
because
they don’t write anything down. They don’t have a choice…. they can only remember or forget.”

“Is there a saying for that?”

“Probably,” Preinon laughed. “I can’t remember….”

Adria laughed, finally, as well. He met her gaze a moment, and his smile warmed even her colder side. “Mélitali taina-gi chete óhi.” He held her shoulder a moment, then gave it a gentle shake.
Sleep and dream well, Chosen Child.

With her own hand she made a sign of familiarity, of resignation to a beloved elder. “Zho kónegi tagli, tegoni zho at’esa apte.”
As you ask, My Good Friend.

The skies were still clear as she bundled herself wholly inside her furs. She could see stars through the break in the canopy above, and they seemed especially bright to her, as they often did in the winter sky. The other Runners were stilling as well — those who were not already on watch.

Chasebatu, in a bed roll not far from Adria, began to sing an Aesidhe hymn to the stars. A few of the others took it up here and there, and Adria found herself mouthing the words by the time it was finished.

Zho lemaskisiya shnalo makch’oyi push’ewe.

Zho shóli lulowiwela zheskisi-to p’o egmayuwela táwe,

zho washemali-cheeche taináhe-to páo.

Zho tainayapo mispawe.

Zho washemáli chush’oio-haipe shóli-koali mispawe.

Chatechoku at’e goniwe sni,

wateko zhezazhuli ktaksaya limiyatowe chetewe.

Wateli shémapao nuwe, tegoni wateli hozo nipshawe.

Shóli zhuhiwizhu lulowiwela.

Shóli lozhani p’o chatecho choachopo lolowela,

tegoni zho lozhazhani limiyatowe tagli t’umno.

Lemaskisiblaya zho zheoya oeyi gnu, áo zho chushi gonespa gnu,

tegoni lemaskisinoya zho homilo bopi,

tegoni zho hozo nipshawe, tegoni zho homilo push’ewe.

Zho chushokaniya-at’oshe niptewe.

Zho hoyapoe ashayuwe.

Zho shóli-aípe lush’oya khhawe, tegoni zho chushokaniya khhawe.

Zho chushogli tainaya-to p’o zhechush’onu homilo-hã khhamnawe.

Cushopush’e-aiohhe zho sholibe chushonagle,

tegoni zho zhelemulowe so chete t’úmno,

tegoni wateko ina p’o taina p’o taináhe glo t’umno.

I remember seven seasons of winter,

watching the whirling of your patient dance,

through which I rise into sleep.

All these dreams I keep,

I keep them by your light alone,

for the Moon is of a changing mind,

with the mood of a stormy lover,

always touching and then wandering away.

You dance more gently.

You move with grace and confidence,

an understanding beauty.

There is time enough to smile and to weep,

for a home I have left,

to wander, to remember.

I linger ever high.

I wander ever far.

I make lines below you, constellations.

I weave a web of hope and of longing.

And when I awaken without you,

may I feel it is enough to know that I have lived,

for a lifetime, for a night, for a dream.

Adria could translate the words as she heard them, but could not yet fully understand them, though the emotions they stirred were real.
So much is lost when translating,
she sighed to herself.
Some of the words no Aeman would easily understand.

Understand
…
an
understanding beauty
.

In Aesidhe, the word “understand” was itself beautiful in scope:
Limiyate.
It meant literally “to be enfolded.” It was used to describe something one has learned, but it also implied that something was truly shared, a blanket for children, or the warmth of the sun. It was a gift from a parent to a child, a teacher to a student, or even from the map of stars to the lone wanderer.

It was not something which occurred only in the head or the heart, but in the innermost part of a person. It was something which connected each soul to the world — the points of light which filled the space between birth —
mile
, “unfolding”
—
and death —
limipoe
, “re-enfolding.”

Understanding
…
she thought.
The simple passages of life, as natural as breath.

Zho wateli limiyati,
Adria smiled.
I understand.

Adria folded into sleep and dreamed not of flight and of drowning, as she so often did.

She dreamed of running.

In the deep wild, a pale girl wandered among the oldest hills and tallest trees, searching for ghosts. She had long since left any trail or sign of civilization, had long since exhausted herself and her store of food and water. And even as she heard the voice from the darkness, Adria had nearly decided to lie down and rest in the lulling cold of the late-winter moonlight.

Had she slept, she might not have awoken. Had she not heard the voice, she would have slept. But for a trick of coincidence, the Princess of Heiland, for the hope of ghosts, would likely have joined them.

Coincidence,
Adria would later learn,
is not chance, but the marriage of design.

She might have learned this before, had she taken the words of her father to heart. She had asked to be trained as one of his Knights of Darkfire, and he had refused, shaking his head, with words both gentle and reproachful.

“It has been decided. It cannot be changed.”

She had wandered beyond his protection now, beyond his reproach. Ebenhardt Idonea may have united all of Heiland in name, but not all in spirit. Here only the Wilding held court.

Here I will find the ghosts of Heiland.

Adria thought she had followed one, now and then, half glimpsed among the trunks of distant trees. Motion in white, a breath of wind and snow from pine branches, maybe. For so very long, all she could hear was the wind, the rustling of trees. Until the voice.

Frightened, Adria turned about, seeking the one who had hailed her. There was nothing, no one.

It is true,
the girl whispered to herself.
Ghosts.

It was a woman’s voice first, but the words she could not understand — not Aeman, not Somanan, not even the older and stranger Kelmantian. And without being able to see them, or even to tell the direction of the voice, she could not think how to respond.

When she did try to speak, her voice caught in her throat, her tongue swelled. She was hungry, thirsty — and now, desperate with fright and cold and exhaustion, she felt as if she might fall out of herself somehow. She trembled, and the voice came again, and still she could not tell from where.

She turned about, and without thinking drew her dagger from its sheath. It had barely cleared the leather when three arrows struck the ground — one from the side, an inch from her right foot; one from ahead, an inch from the other; and one from behind, to split the earth between her feet.

Her blade slipped from her hand, useless. She had bested young men a head taller, but she could not even hold her weapon now, could barely keep her legs.

These are real arrows,
she realized.
Ghosts or no.

Though thirteen years of age, Adria felt like a child again. She closed her eyes, and in self-loathing desperation, whispered a prayer to the faceless god of her father’s Sisterhood.

“Girl, speak,” a man said, slowly and with an odd accent, and her eyes snapped open. He spoke Aeman. “Why do you… travel so far from home?”

“Lost…” she whispered weakly. Then, a little stronger, “Sir, I am lost.”

She heard the voice speak a little lower, in the strange language, and heard laughter from more than one place around her. Still frightened, she was now also angry at being mocked.

Adria glanced down at her blade, then again noted just how far the arrows had sunk into the earth. Her own bow was strapped uselessly upon her back. Still, in their laughter, they were less than careful. She could make out the general location of three of them, at least, should she have to flee. But there might be more — she was almost certain there were.

“From where are you lost?” The man continued. His voice, though accented, was steady. He did not have to search for words too long. “You have wandered miles from any village or Aeman road.”

He had moved. By his voice, he should have been close enough for her to notice his movement, despite the darkness and thickness of the trees.
These
must
be ghosts,
Adria sighed.
But
…
ghosts who rain arrows and laughter?

Whatever they were, they obviously were moving to surround her — it was probably already too late to run. Judging from the arrows about her feet, this was almost certain. Still, the voice somehow calmed her a little. She was slowly regaining her control.