Spires of Spirit (13 page)

For a moment, brushing out her hair before the glass, noticing that, yes, her eyes held a radiance as though a touch of the full moon had gathered there, she stood still, contemplating herself. “I am a witch,” she said softly, and ti seemed to her that at that moment the statement was more true than it had ever been before.

But a soft knock roused her, and she went downstairs to find Elizabeth standing at her door, her face creased with worry and fatigue.

“It was . . . very bad last night, Roxanne,” she said. “Charity was beside herself, and we could not bring her to her senses until nearly dawn. Will you come see her?'

Roxanne felt a pang. Her intrusion into Charity's mind the day before had more than likely brought this about. She grabbed a shawl and, after hesitating a moment, her ebony-handled knife, and went with Elizabeth through the streets of the village.

“Did she say anything this morning about her dreams?” Roxanne asked.

Elizabeth shook her blond head. “Charity never says much about them,” she said. “But you can tell how bad they are just by looking at her. Oh, Roxanne, she hurts so . . .” Her voice broke then, and the witch put an arm about her shoulders as they walked.

When they reached Elizabeth's house, Charity was not there, but Mary was, and the older girl wiped her hands on her apron. “Charity left a short while ago,” she said. “She said she was going to the church.”

“You let her go?” said Roxanne.

“My sister is strong, Mistress Weaver,” said Mary. “Stronger than most people think. She said she wanted to go alone, and I saw no reason to stop her.”

Roxanne looked out at the street. It was late morning, but the day was still cool, and the light breeze wafted the odor of Francis' forge—hot metal and burning charcoal—throughout the town, mingling it with the scent of the forest. In the distance, someone was laughing. Closer was the sound of Andrew pounding a wooden peg into place. The day, she realized, was perfect. It was exactly as it should be. Everything was blending together in an intricate pattern, like a tapestry with not a stitch out of place. And even the church was fitting into it all, and not just because of Charity. There was more to it, as though she were being guided . . .

Half dazed by her knowledge, she patted Elizabeth's shoulder. “I'll go to her there, Elizabeth. It will be well.” It could not, she knew, be otherwise; and she pulled out of the vision only enough to turn away and hurry up the street, her shawl about her shoulders and her knife stuck in her belt.

Facing the town square was the church, the one built by Alban, the last priest. It was overlarge for the village—Alban had had pretensions—but it was well made. Next to it was the priest's house, also overlarge—Alban had liked comfort. Kay, the new priest, the son of Francis, usually laughed about his predecessor, and he made a habit of living simply, frequently opening his extra rooms to travelers or to the homeless.

Kay, however, was not in the church when Roxanne entered and made her way up the dark nave, and that was just as well, for Roxanne felt that her kind, descending as it did from stone circles in the forest and form knives raised in honor of old Gods, could not but be an intruder in a church. There was no place for her before this uncomfortably plain wooden cross. True, survival might dictate that she conform outwardly with regards to weekly mass attendance, but body and soul, mind and spirit, she belonged to her Goddess.

And yet . . . and yet her presence here was a part of this day, too, and, as such, it also was perfect. The pattern was becoming clear to her, as though she were approaching a shrine through a thinning fog, and, following that pattern, she turned away from the cross, turned toward the south, turned to where stood the strange statue of the Virgin. Before it knelt a young woman, her form indistinct in the soft twilight of the church.

Feeling keenly the gaze of carved eyes upon her, Roxanne drew closer to Charity, but just as she could see the girl more clearly as she approached, so she could also see the statue . . . and the faint light about it. More, though: she could suddenly see detail in it that she had never noticed during her compulsory hours in the church. The color of the statue was simply that of burnished wood, lovingly carved and smoothed, but Roxanne was suddenly seeing beyond the wood, beyond the surface, and she knew that Her robes were blue and silver, Her hair was dark, Her eyes gray.

Roxanne stopped a few paces behind Charity, staring in wonder. The Lady's belt was of carved emeralds and amethysts. A golden clasp held Her hair back on one side. Behind Her was the night sky, and the emblem of interlaced moon and star on Her breast was radiant.

The witch's heart was laboring, and she put her hand to her mouth, struggling with words that welled spontaneously to her lips, not in her own language, but in another:

“
Elthia Calasiuove.
”

The whispered name hung in the air like a lamp. Charity looked up. “Roxanne . . .” She was weeping, and the witch was beside her in a moment, her arms about the girl. “It was awful, Roxanne. Much worse than before.” She took a deep breath and swallowed, forcing herself to stop shaking. “I . . . I had to come here. I thought she would understand.”

“She does, child.” Roxanne held her. “Varden and I are going to take care of your dreams tonight. Rest easy. I'm very, very sorry I've caused you this pain.”

Charity wiped at her eyes and smiled weakly. “Roxanne, I trust you. I know you'd do me no harm. But I do hope that you and Varden can help me.”

“We will, Charity. On my oath, we will. What can I do for you now?”

“I think . . .” Charity looked down the length of the nave, looked toward the open doors that gave out upon the sunlit street. She dried her eyes, took a deep breath, straightened. “I think I'd like to take a walk in the forest with you, Roxanne. I think that will help me today.”

“Anything.”

Charity got to her feet and took another deep breath, letting it out slowly as if dispelling the last of the night's phantoms. Roxanne rose and turned toward the light, but Charity held her back. She studied Roxanne for a moment, then nodded in the direction of the statue.

“She's your Goddess, isn't she?”

Roxanne looked into Charity's face. She could not lie to her. “Yes,” she said. “She is.”

“Varden has told me a little about Her, but he won't say much. He's an Elf, he says, and his ways are different.”

Roxanne looked up at the gray eyes that watched her. Different? How different? The pattern grew a little more. Something was about to happen. Something wonderful.

“I saw her . . . last night,” said Charity. “Just at the worst. She came, and she helped me. I saw her . . . just like I see you now.” She struggled with the words. “She called me her daughter. And . . . and . . .”

Roxanne waited. She felt it coming, and though she knew what it was, and what it meant, she would not speak. No prompting. No questions. Charity had to ask on her own.

The young woman glanced at the statue, then turned again to the witch. “I love her, Roxanne. I want to learn about her. Will you teach me?”

Roxanne was still held by the calm, gray glance. Deep in the depths of those eyes, she saw a flicker. Starlight. And moonlight. “Yes, Charity,” she said. “Yes, I will.” She took Charity in her arms, held her tightly. “Yes, I will. Bless Be, my child.”

Charity laid her head on Roxanne's shoulder. “Blessed Be, Roxanne.”

***

Roxanne did not hear Varden approach: she felt it. She was already at the open door when he rounded the corner, and he stopped when he saw her. Standing in the spill of firelight, a bundle in his hand, he bowed.

“May I enter?”

“Need you ask?” She took his hand and drew him in. He handed her the bundle.

“We will be in the forest tonight,” he said, “and I am afraid that skirts will not do for such travel.” He indicated the bundle. “I took the liberty.”

Curious, she set it on the table and unfastened the gray cloth wrapping. It proved to be clothing much like Varden's, but cut along more feminine lines. A pair of soft boots was included, as was a belt.

She looked at him, met his eyes, and he smiled almost shyly. “We have time,” said the Elf. “Charity is not yet asleep.”

She picked up the tunic. The cloth was smooth and light, closely woven. Fine work. An embroidered border of flowers was worked into the hems. Masterful stitching. “I . . . I'm honored,” she said, and then she gathered it all up and climbed the stairs to her room.

The garb fitted her perfectly. Sitting on the edge of her pallet, she tucked the breeches into the knee-high boots, then rose and belted the tunic loosely, as seemed proper. But when she lifted her head, her glance fell on the oaken chest containing her wedding clothes. She had carelessly let her gown fall on top of it, and the dark blue garment lay crumpled on the wood like a discarded chrysalis.

And when she looked into the mirror that hung on the wall above the chest and saw her face shimmering softly in the candlelight, her eyes filled with the radiance of the moon, her dark hair falling in waves to her shoulders and spilling across the green tunic, it seemed to her that she might well have been facing one of the Fair Ones instead of a glass. Slowly, since she had first touched Varden in the forest, she had found herself taking on something of his nature; and though she was priestess and witch, now, standing before this mirror, she would not have been much surprised to find that she was, yes, Elf too, as though the one nature inferred, even demanded, the other.

It occurred to her that she should perhaps have found this disturbing. But it was not disturbing at all. She had followed her Goddess through the years of her life, serving Her with perfect freedom, loving Her with as much of her being as she could call hers . . . and now it seemed that the path she had been following led a little farther on. True, it branched off and took her away from the well-trodden road, but it was, unmistakably, her path, and she thought that, off in the distance, she could see a Woman waiting for her, a Woman robed in blue and silver.

Silently, Roxanne reached down, picked up her gown, folded it, and laid it carefully on the chest. For a long minute, she paused with her hand on the garment—and on the wood beneath—and then she turned and left the room without looking back.

Varden was waiting, and he nodded slowly. “It is well.”

But Roxanne stopped at the cupboard and opened it. Her ebony-handled knife she thrust into her belt, and she dropped a necklace of acorns over her head and arranged it under her tunic collar. She turned to face the Elf. “Where do we go tonight, Varden?” She was not speaking of the forest.

He understood. “We will go among the stars. To the Door that you saw.”

“And what shall we do there?” she said formally.

“We will take it apart and make it anew.”

She felt the light in her face, in her eyes. “And what will that do to me?”

Varden watched her carefully. “I do not know for certain.”

“I think I do.”

“Are you willing?”

She fingered the acorn necklace. “This afternoon, I spoke with Charity. She wants to learn about the Goddess. She asked me to be her teacher. I said yes. In doing so, I took on responsibility for her. I will defend her to the death . . . could I possibly quail at fighting unto life?”

The Elf was silent.

“Since we first spoke at length last week,” the witch went on, “I've felt the touch of a Hand. I've thought that only my actions were being guided, but now I think I know differently. She's guiding you also, Varden. And there's more here than Charity's nightmares.”

Varden said nothing. The fire was behind him, and his face was shadowed. Only the gleam of the starlight in his eyes told Roxanne that he was watching her.

She met that gleam, moonlight for starlight. “I love you, Varden.”

He stirred, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I love you, Roxanne.”

She looked at her hand. For all the light that pulsed through it, it was still mortal flesh and blood. “Would an Elf take a human for a lover?” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

“It could be.” Varden's voice was almost as low. “And it could be that there would be much pain on such a path.”

She crossed the room to him, reached out. He gave her his hand. “I've made my choice,” she said. “Will you consider it?”

He did not falter. “I will consider it, Lady. I am honored by the choice, but I must look into my heart for guidance. Humans . . . humans are . . .”

“Humans are weak creatures. I understand,” she said. “But I'm a little less human these days, it seems. I'll wait.”

She let go of his hand and stood back. He bowed deeply to her, went to the door, and opened it. Together, they stepped out into the night.

***

Beneath the thick canopy of leaves, the forest paths, Roxanne knew, were dark, but tonight they did not seem overly so to her eyes. Rather, she saw everything—branch and trunk, water and stone—in shades of blue and gray, but though she did not have to take Varden's hand for guidance, she did anyway. His grip was gentle, and he had obviously guessed at her newfound ability, for he did not hesitate to point out to her sights that she could not have seen without it: a fox engrossed in its hunting, an owl sweeping noiselessly through the branches above them, meadow mice tumbling at the roots of a tree.

The path rose toward the forest highlands, and the full moon was nearing the zenith by the time they emerged from the forest and entered a broad expanse of meadowland that was thickly carpeted in grass and ringed by trees. Near the center was a rectangular block of stone that looked to be made of granite—smooth and polished, glinting in the light—and, like David's statue, like everything touched by the Elves, it seemed to possess an inner radiance of its own.

“This place is cherished by my people,” said Varden. “I suppose one could say that it is sacred, though such a distinction does not exist in our language.”

Roxanne inhaled sweet air that was laden with the odors of the forest and of the night. Sacred, profane . . . any such distinction, she felt, was meaningless. Standing in this meadow, she was in the presence of the Goddess. She went down on one knee. “
Elthia Calasiuove
,” she said aloud. “My Lady. You call, and I come gladly.”