Spires of Spirit (3 page)

“And so you come to me?”

“In eighty years, you are the first to look upon her with compassion.”

The Elf's statement fell on Andrew like an oaken beam. “Varden . . . the first? Surely you're mistaken . . .”

The light flickered in Varden's eyes. “I am not. My memory goes back far beyond yours, dear mortal.”

Andrew spread his hands helplessly. “But what can I do? You said yourself that she's like a starving dog.”

“Are you unwilling to try?”

“You're asking a lot. I have my family to worry about, too.”

Varden nodded. “That is so.”

“So what right do you have to ask me such a thing?” Agitated, Andrew jumped up and went to the unshuttered window. The night was warm, and the song of the crickets was loud and clear.

“None whatsoever.”

“Good. Because . . . because . . .” Andrew was looking off into the night, but in his mind he was looking once more through a chink in the wall of a shabby hut. “I've got to do something.”

“And will you?” said Varden behind him.

“Probably.” Andrew smeared the dampness from his eyes and turned around. “And I'll probably get hurt, and my family—”

The Elf held up a hand. “Peace, friend. Do you think I would ask and give nothing in return? You have the protection of my people. We will shield you as we can. Do not be mistaken. Your action will still be dangerous, but generosity and compassion shall not go unrewarded.”

He reached into a pouch at his side and extracted a green stone. It was about the size of an egg, faceted, and shining with a soft light as of a forest meadow. “This is a beryl. Keep it with you, Andrew. It will shield you from all but the greatest powers.”

The carpenter took it. The stone felt warm. “And if it fails?”

Varden only looked at him. “There is danger in your task.”

“Why can't you and your people do something, Varden? You have . . . have . . . powers. I've heard the tales.”

“And what would that teach her?” said Varden. “That love and concern are not to be found among those of her own race? That only the terrible Elves of the forest can find it in their hearts to love her? That she can expect sympathy only from those whom the Church condemns? Were her situation other than what it is, were its origins different, we might consider such an action. But it is not so. It is a mortal hand that must help her, that must itself be redeemed by her.”

“Redeemed? What could she possibly—”

There was an edge in Varden's voice, like a sword blade sheathed in velvet. “Your people rejected her. The fault lies with them, with their choices, with their actions. Through your actions, however, they will have the opportunity to show that they are of a different stuff than the Elves believe. As I said, I have never guested with a human before, and for good reason. Now I find that a spark of love exists in a race that hunts down and burns my sisters and brothers. Do not protest, carpenter: Inquisition rages in the north.”

Andrew had indeed lifted a hand, but at the mention of the Inquisition, he let it fall to his side. “I'm surprised you even speak to me.”

“Forgive my words. They are indeed overharsh considering your actions.” The Elf rose gracefully from his chair. “I will come again, Andrew. My people are fading, but maybe before we depart altogether we can find some friendship among our younger cousins.”

“I never thought I'd be helping the Elves . . . or a witch, for that matter.”

“Ah,” said Varden, “but the Leather-woman is not a witch. Those who do harm never are. Those who practice the Old Ways have many things in common with my people.” The light in his eyes turned troubled. “Including being hunted by the Church. This age is an unfortunate one, in which ancient wisdom is held cheap . . . and hated.” There was a rustle on the steps leading to the loft. Elizabeth's voice carried down to them. “Andrew?”

“We have a guest, Elizabeth.”

She descended, a robe clutched about her, and as she came forward, her eyes were on Varden. “Good evening to you, my lord. If my husband had awakened me, I would have shown you greater hospitality.”

“Elizabeth,” said Andrew, “this is Varden. I . . . met him in the forest this afternoon.”

Varden bowed, touching his hands to his forehead. “Fear not, Elizabeth. Your husband has seen to my comfort.”

Elizabeth's eyes suddenly grew wide. “Fair One! You are welcome here! You do us great honor!” And she curtsied deeply.

For a moment, Varden stood, looking from Andrew to Elizabeth. Finally, and with reverence, he took the woman's hand and pressed it to his lips. “And you do me honor also, madam. I find that there are indeed jewels among the shards.”

He donned his cloak. “I will say farewell now. I will be near. Be at peace.”

Andrew let him out, and the Elf vanished silently into the darkness. The beryl felt warm and strangely heavy as he turned to Elizabeth, but she was looking at her hand, at the place where the strange, immortal lips had touched.

***

Summer passed, and the year drew toward harvest. The fields ripened in the warm sun, and the days turned hot and dusty. Nonetheless, those in Saint Brigid who were weather-wise read the signs of a coming harsh winter, and so, even in the heat, Andrew was busy mending shutters for the village folk, preparing for the cold season.

Andrew kept the beryl with him always, carrying it nestled in a leather pouch he wore next to his skin. In the warm weather, he had not worried about the Leather-woman's comfort at night, though over the weeks since he had talked with Varden he had done his best to see to it that she had gotten a fair price for her work and a fair weight for her money. He had tried to be innocuous, but his efforts had been noticed . . . and not only by elvish eyes.

He was sharing a skin of wine with the smith one afternoon while they negotiated the price and number of some pole pins. The business was pretty much done when Francis leaned back on his stool and fixed the carpenter with his black eyes.

“So now, Andrew. What are you up to?”

“Up to?” Andrew took the skin and drank.

“Aye, man. Up to. Yer acting dard pretty about the Leather-woman, and so I'm asking. You know I a'ways pay her a fair price for her doings, though I'm not sure about others. And now yer looking into it?”

“It's true,” Andrew admitted. “I think she should be looked after. She's old, and the winter will b e hard. I wouldn't like to see her starve . . . or freeze.”

“There's many folk in Saint Brigid wouldn't regret tha'.”

“Yes . . . that's true.”

The smith watched him silently for some time, a rivulet of sweat running down through the soot on his face and into his black beard. “Let me know if you need help, man.”

Andrew was startled. “Why . . . why do you say that?”

“I mak' her braces for her. Done so all my life. My first time at the forge, my father was making her a brace—did you know that? 'Tis true. The first iron I ever beat went onto her leg, and though she's done sa' bad, sure enough, I canna but feel that there's sa'thing in her worth guarding. In spite o' what she's done.”

Andrew stared at the leather wineskin in his hands. She had taught herself how to work leather. “Someone told me once that her life could have been better . . . if things had been different.”

“Aye, Andrew. But life takes its turns.”

“I'm wondering if we can't . . . well . . . turn it back.”

The smith chuckled and wiped at his sweat. “Turn it back? Andrew, that's wha' miracles are for, and He that di' them is gone from us until the Last Day. More's the pity for us, poor devils.”

“I wish that there were some way . . .”

“Maybe a wizard, Andrew, if you can find one.”

“Or . . . Elves?” Andrew was suddenly acutely conscious of the stone at his side.

The smith's eyebrows went up. “Elves? D'ye talk from tales . . . or experience?”

Andrew colored, stood up. “Just thinking, Francis. If we can get her through the winter, it'll be well.”

But there was a tapping from the street, and Andrew recognized the sound of the Leather-woman's stick. In a moment, she had entered the smithy and they were face to face.

“Good day,” said Andrew.

“No
mother
today, scrapling?”

He shrugged and shook his head.

“Do you need leather, Francis?” she rasped past the carpenter.

“Aye, madam,” said the smith. “Come in an' be comfortable. Does your brace fit well enough?”

“Tolerable, thankee.” The Leather-woman had not moved. She was talking to the smith, but she was looking at Andrew . . . or rather, she was looking at the place in his shirt where he kept the stone. When he tried to leave, she stepped directly into his path, bringing him up short. Their gazes met, and he shuddered at the chill in her lake blue eyes.

“Magic can get you in trouble, scrapling,” she whispered. “Look at me, and beware.”

He pressed his lips together and swallowed. “Let me know,” he said evenly, “if you need anything. Now, or this winter.”

“So the old black hen has some friends, eh?”

“More friends than she thinks.”

“Go to hell.” She brushed past him, but he felt her grab for the stone. He stepped back involuntarily, but she had already drawn back her hand as though she had been burned. She looked at him for a long moment. “Mind yourself, scrapling,” she said at last. “The Folk of the Wood have no power over me.”

“Nor do they want any,” Andrew returned without thinking.

She spat and turned away. Andrew bid Francis good day and went out into the light. He was already a good distance up the street when he heard her shout behind him: “And the next time you come peeking at me you'll get an eyeful of something!”

***

The first winter winds were cold, sweeping down from the mountains to the west, smelling of frost. There was little snow as of yet, but the air was frigid, and heavy cloaks and quilted jackets came out of storage chests early. Andrew could not wear mittens when he worked, and he was glad when Elizabeth brought him something hot to drink, for he could warm his hands on the earthenware mug.

He saw the Leather-woman only from a distance now, but he did not cease thinking about her. The frosty winds had made him consider once again her miserable hut, so full of holes that it might as well have possessed no walls at all, and a plan was forming in his mind. To be sure, it was a foolhardy one, but the beryl by his side was a constant reminder of Varden's words:
Her help must come from human hands
.

And so he spoke to Francis and gained his cooperation. All he needed was some time, and since the Leather-woman stopped regularly at the smithy to see about necessary bits of harness, Francis had only to find some plausible excuse to delay her for an hour or so.

And when he did that, the Thursday after the feast of the patroness of the village, Andrew went to the Leather-woman's hut with a trowel and a bucket of plaster, and, working quickly, filled in the worst of the holes before the wind half froze him. Shivering, he returned to his house, and Elizabeth wrapped him in a blanket and sat him close by the fire. He was shaking, but only partly because of the cold.

At least, he thought, she will be a little warmer. At least I've given her that.

“Do you think I'm wrong, Elizabeth?” he said aloud. “Do you think I'm being foolish?”

She sighed. “I've been afraid of her too,” she said. “I've kept the children indoors when she's gone by, lest she . . . do something to one of them. Now . . . I'm not sure. I'm finally seeing her as . . . as someone like us. Someone who just went wrong. Maybe . . .” Her voice drifted off, then: “Maybe she's someone who needs a second chance. Maybe she's someone who can actually do something with a second chance.”

Andrew saw the Leather-woman neither the next day, nor the day after that, but on Sunday, as he walked alone in the forest, he came around a turn to find her waiting for him.

The light was weak, the sun shining through a thin overcast, and her shawl looked more like an autumn leaf than ever. She looked thinner, too, but her eyes burned at him. “Why?”

Andrew was silent.

“I said:
Why?
”

“I . . .” His tongue was nearly frozen with fright, but he forced the words out. “I didn't want you to be cold.”

“Stay away from me, damn you. I don't want your help. Far better it would be if I were dead.”

“No, it wouldn't. Don't say things like that.”

“And why not, scrapling? The village wouldn't have to pay for a sexton. Just light my house, and let me burn. It'll be far cooler for my corpse than for my soul, I assure you.”

“
Don't say that!
” His fists were clenched at his sides. Fear? Passion? He did not know. “You've got to
try
. There are some who care.”

“Like the Elves? Don't start, Carpenter. I've known that they've been spying on me. They'll fare no better against me than you . . . or your friends. Now, stay away from me!”

She lifted her stick, and a blast of wind whirled leaves and dust into Andrew's eyes. When he could see again, she was gone.

The next day, in the late afternoon, he heard about the accident at the forge.

He was there within minutes, and Francis' wife met him at the door, her face white with worry.

“What happened, Hester?” he panted.

“A crucible exploded,” she said vaguely, still in shock. “Metal went everywhere. The men put out the fire but Fran's . . . he's . . . his hands . . .”

She put her own hands to her face, sobbing. Andrew held her and said what words of comfort he knew until her eldest daughter came and took her away.

“He's been bespelled, Carpenter.” It was Jaques Alban, the priest. His face was plump and pallid, and in his voice Andrew heard a note of fear.

“And what have you done for him?” said Andrew.

Alban was looking toward the door as though wanting to escape. “I did what I could. Fever is setting in now. It will probably take him in a few days.”

Andrew exploded. “You're damned hopeful, aren't you?” He pushed past the fat man and into the chamber beyond. He heard the smith's labored breathing.

A woman was kneeling beside the bed, wrapping a white cloth about Francis' hands. She lifted her head. “Andrew?”