The Coming Storm (8 page)

A nondescript man with sandy brown hair and sandy-brown eyes and a thin-lipped mouth that looked as if he sucked on lemons when no one watched. Medium height, medium weight. In all ways pedestrian. No cause for alarm or dismay. So why did she feel it? Why did she feel so awkward and disquieted when he was around? Was it only a leftover childish resentment for the time he now had with her father? Was it merely her imagination that her father had less time for her, less interest in her day-to-day affairs? Or had she simply grown old enough he didn’t feel he had to know where she was each minute of the day?

Only one moment stood out and sharply. Her father had been sitting at his desk pouring over tally sticks and coins, as usual.

Ailith had stopped for a moment between one thing or another and glanced in to see him sitting there. He hadn’t noticed her and she’d paused for a moment to look at him while he didn’t notice. Her heart caught for a moment, her love for him was so deep. He loved her as well and showed it. Many fathers stopped kissing their children once they reached a certain age. He hadn’t. In all ways, he had always shown he loved her. Until lately.

That’s when she’d seen the chain dangling from his neck, the small circle of gold with an odd stone set in the center of it. He fingered it absently. She’d never seen him wear such a thing and was certain her mother hadn’t gifted him with it. His birthing day was still months away and Selah hadn’t given it to him at the last. It seemed odd. She couldn’t imagine where it had come from or why he would wear such a thing.

“Morning, Father,” she’d said quietly, so as not to startle him so badly, as Dorovan had inadvertently done to her moments before.

Geric had looked up, his eyes not quite focused but breaking into a smile.

Reaching for the chain, she’d said, “What’s this?”

His expression had changed so swiftly it stunned her into immobility as he slapped at her hand, knocking it away.

“Don’t touch that,” he snapped but as instantly was chagrined and apologetic, tucking the chain and its pendant swiftly back into his shirt. “Nothing, sweet one, nothing. I’m sorry I spoke so harshly. I was distracted. Forgive me?”

Her heart was still pounding, her feelings wounded but of course she’d said, “No need, I shouldn’t have startled you. I should apologize, not you.”

Then he’d kissed her on the forehead absently and she’d gone away but the worry stayed with her. That and an odd uneasiness.

Little things. Nothings. Was it simply her imagination, a childish longing to remain a child still in her father’s eyes or was it really getting worse? She wasn’t a child, she was a woman grown, not that much shy of her majority. Was her father truly getting more irritable, less patient of late? It seemed more and more so. So many little things. She pushed her odd presentiments away.

Smiling again at Dorovan, she shook her head. “No, nothing to speak of, which makes me more at fault for not being aware. My teacher should chastise me severely for my inattentiveness. That’s no way for a warrior to behave.”

“Perhaps but your teacher isn’t so harsh as all that and it seems the lesson has been learned nevertheless. I doubt you will be so careless next time.”

“I won’t,” she assured him.

She knew how lucky she was to have an Elf to instruct her. No one she knew had ever heard of such a thing. It was their secret, hers, Dorovan’s and her grandmother’s. Not even her father and mother knew. Partly because his visits to her grandmother here were a secret and must remain so – there were those among both their peoples who wouldn’t approve. As well, they wouldn’t endorse his teaching her how to use a sword and bow. Or speaking Elven, for that matter.

“So,” Dorovan said, “let’s see what you remember.”

She drew her sword and stood at guard but he looked, sighed and shook his head.

“That won’t do,” he said.

Surprised, she stared. Her stance was correct, her sword held properly. She knew it, could feel it, her center of balance was correctly set.

Dorovan took a few steps back. Her distraction at this time served him well, he’d been able to hide this close at hand. He pulled out the package from where he’d hidden it and held it out to her.

For a moment Ailith looked at him shyly. She didn’t know what to make of it. What was this? Her heart was pounding.

A gift?

“Go on, Ailith, it’s yours.” Dorovan spoke gently and with pleasure.

Only for his own son, born of his one alliance, had he done such a thing, not for any other student of his. It would have been allowable within Elven society to have done so and he’d had many excellent students. This one, though, was special. She stood as his best student for certain, with more to overcome than they – her height and her race. She’d worked harder than many. That she had a gift, an immense talent for it, was certain but some came to it as easily and took it for granted. She hadn’t. There was that.

 There was also his fondness for her, for her light heart and merry ways, for her determination and will.

Some among his own people would be very displeased at what he’d done. He didn’t care, it had nearly been an obsession to make these for her. As it was with such magic.

“Mine?” Ailith said, carefully, and reached out for it.

It was a long package, very long, oddly shaped and not small. She had to kneel on one knee and tuck part of it in the crook of her arm to hold it. It was heavy but not unbearably so. Her fingers seemed oddly disjointed, fumbling as she pulled the string and picked the resulting knot apart. The package felt oddly familiar and there was this strange hum that was half heard and half felt. Then the wrappings fell away and she could only stare in amazement at what she found there.

Never had she seen anything so beautiful.

The scabbard of the longsword was in tooled black leather, Elvish knot-work and spirals like vines curling around each other. It was netted within a fine working of thin wire wrapped with silver, real silver, with tiny blue star-stones at every other joining along the front. Her breath caught in her throat. There was a matching short-sword and scabbard as well. And an Elven bow, with a quiver and arrows.

“Draw the blade,” Dorovan said, clearly pleased at her reaction.

Setting the short-sword on her belt, she fastened it in place and then drew the longsword as he’d asked. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt just so. Perfectly. As the length was revealed she saw the runes etched along the blade. Her heart seemed to go still and she looked at him in stunned and startled wonder. She’d only ever heard stories of such a thing. She swallowed, hard.

“Dorovan, this is a Named sword.”

His mouth twitched, amused. “Aye and what is its name?”

Down on one knee himself beside her, Dorovan watched her face and the light of awe in her steel-blue eyes.

Softly, she said, “Ailith, for it’s mine.”

In the old tongue of her people her name meant ‘light’, as in brightness. It suited her.

“That no other may wield it. Just so. No other men can see those runes and only a few of those among my people, most will see only a normal blade. I would have given them to you on the day of your majority but I didn’t know whether I could be there that day. There will be so much festivity, it would be difficult for me to see you anyway. So, I give them to you now. Your grandmother will say  they’re a gift from her. She’s already told your mother that’s what she’s gifting you. And, in truth, they are from her as well.”

Ailith was speechless, running her fingers gently along the runes etched down the blade.

He didn’t need to tell her not to speak of this, she wouldn’t, as she hadn’t spoken of her sword teacher or his relationship to her grandmother. Dorovan had visited when she was young and she’d surprised him, which didn’t happen often. But then, he hadn’t been expecting her. They’d asked her not to speak of it, explaining carefully why she mustn’t and she hadn’t. Her parents knew only that she took sword lessons when she visited, assuming  someone had been hired for the task. They didn’t know his race and there had been no reason to ask. Elves didn’t, as a rule, teach their secrets to Men. Elves didn’t teach men the sword, not unless they were Hunters or Woodsmen, and only one among them did that.

Knowing there was something of a lie to it itched at her sometimes but she also knew the stories about Elves and had heard the way some people talked about them. It seemed best not to speak of it so no one would ask. No one had and why would they? It wasn’t uncommon for someone of a landed family at her age to take lessons in swordsmanship, although after long years of peace it was becoming less common. Nor would they be likely to ask if an Elf was teaching her.

Dorovan hated the subterfuge, it offended his Honor but there was nothing for it. His people and those of men would frown on all of this.

“So,” he said, “shall we put them to the test?”

Raising her eyes, she looked at him. “Dorovan, how do I thank you for this?”

“I think perhaps you have,” he said. “Just now.”

Quickly, sweetly, she pressed a kiss upon his cheek.

In all the years he’d known her, she’d never made such a gesture. If he hadn’t been kneeling, she couldn’t have, she barely came to his chin. It caught his heart. Elves didn’t touch those outside their race often. Though they didn’t show it in the ways of men, his fondness for her and hers for him was strong.

Embarrassed, she stood abruptly, color washing through her face. She settled the harness for the longsword over her shoulder, fastened it properly to her belt to stabilize it for drawing.

Dorovan stood, taking his cue from hers. He didn’t coach, he merely waited.

Setting herself, she reached for the hilt and the blade hissed from the scabbard smoothly as she drew. Two-handed, finding the weight and testing it, she swung a few times and then went through a set of the forms to get accustomed to the feel. Not fast, but so she could get the balance of it. Then, one handed. A longsword in one hand could be awkward but the weight was right. She drew the short sword and did the same, the forms, the exercises Dorovan had so patiently taught her.

It was like watching dancing, if the forms were done right and they were. Dorovan watched her feet, her back, to be sure they were set right, her hands and the set of her shoulders, too. As always, perfect and precise. He knew she loved doing these for the precision of them. As he did, as any swordsman would.

Giving him a quick glance, Ailith picked up the bow, set string to it and drew it to test the pull. A little tighter than the bow she was used to using. This she could practice alone but not with the arrows in the quiver. Lesser ones. She’d save those finely-fletched Elven ones for better use. She set it aside and drew her sword again. Her eyes came to him when she was ready.

Dorovan drew his own sword.

Forms again but against an opponent, Ailith, so that motion became instinct, mind and muscle remembering. The blades rang together like bells, sweetly, such was the fineness of good Elven steel. It was like making music, like dancing. Testing her skills he didn’t find them lacking in any way and was well pleased. They worked until the sun had passed its zenith, getting her accustomed to the swords, both long and short. They couldn’t spar for any longer, she needed to return home before the sun set and she had a long ride yet.

They never said goodbye, never asked when the next time would be. Neither knew.

Ailith glanced back once as she rode away, the Named sword and the bow bound in their wrappings once again.

Even in motion Dorovan wasted no energy, he moved smoothly and seemingly effortlessly. He’d taught her some of that as well, the meditations Elves used to keep themselves centered in the world. In many ways he was like the uncle she’d never had, or an older brother. It was that kind of a closeness. There were a thousand lessons he’d taught her that had little and everything to do with what he taught her about the sword and the bow. The Elven concepts of Honor, their language, patience, stillness, more, she couldn’t name them all.

He was gone through the trees in that long, steady lope he’d told her Elves could maintain for days. She’d never told him of mornings she’d spent in the gray light of dawn running through the hills to test her own legs to see if she could run as he did. There was a joy in it, in the feel of muscles moving, of setting a pace that took you over hills and through valleys. She didn’t do it often now, not any more.

With a pang, she wished she could call him back. She couldn’t. She’d been gone for some days now, visiting her grandmother. It was a long ride home and she dreaded what she would find there.

The breeze cooled her face, drying the sweat.