Spires of Spirit (4 page)

“Blessings, Roxanne. How is he?”

Roxanne sighed and tucked the comforter up around the smith's chin. Francis was pale under his coating of soot, and his teeth were clenched even though he was unconscious. On the other side of the bed, a slight blond boy was on his knees, praying. Andrew recognized him as Kay, the smith's oldest son.

Roxanne stood and drew Andrew out into the hall. Though she was a weaver, she was skilled in herbs and healing, and the villagers often turned to her for help. But her expression today was bleak. “Most of the flesh is burned from his hands,” she whispered. “Some of his fingers are just stumps. He'll never hold a hammer again, even if he lives. And there's a fever coming.”

“Alban said as much.”

“That priest . . . he should stay away.” Her dark eyes flashed.

“What chances are there?” Alban was right about at least one thing, though: magic had a hand in the accident. The beryl burned at his side, and Andrew recalled the words of the Leather-woman.

Roxanne looked up at him. He read the answer in her face.

“We'll have to take care of the family,” he said.

“Unless Kay can work the forge.”

“Kay?” The boy was young and thin: undeniably better suited for a tonsure than a smithy. Francis had been amused that he had sired a monk, but had always shrugged it off. “Makes up for me own youth,” he had chuckled.

“Please, sir.” It was Kay, standing in the door of the bedroom. “I heard you. I can handle the forge. I'll have to.”

“Kay, you want to be a priest.”

“I have to do it. If Father can't.”

Andrew looked at the boy, then at Roxanne. Even a breath could alter a lifetime. How much more so a pair of fleshless hands?

“I'm going for help. Roxanne, please tend to Francis and try to keep him comfortable. Kay . . . please pray.”

He turned and left the house. By the time he reached the street, he was running, and he headed out of the village and into the forest. The air was cold, and it burned his lungs and his throat, but he did not stop until he stood deep among the trees.

He was gasping by then, and he had to lean against a leafless oak. When he had caught his breath, he scanned the trees around him for a moment, then cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted: “Varden!”

His voice echoed among the bare trunks and ended in a cold sigh. The forest was silent and still. A trace of snow clung to the matted branches. He was about to shout again when he felt a touch.

“You need not shout, Andrew. I am here.” The Elf was wrapped in a gray cloak, nearly invisible amid the colors of winter.

“Varden, we need your help. Francis, the smith, is hurt. He tried to help me with the Leather-woman, and she struck at him. His hands . . .”

The light in Varden's eyes flickered uneasily. His face was without expression save a kind of sadness.

“I've been trying to help her, Varden. I'm not sure that it's possible. She'll kill anything that shows her love.”

The Elf was gazing beyond him as though searching among the trees. Or perhaps his sight was turned inward, turned toward some vision that only the Elves could know. “Anything is possible,” he murmured as though to himself. “Anything. There are only different degrees of probability.”

Andrew stood facing him, hoping. “Please, Varden. You said that compassion shouldn't go unrewarded. Maybe you don't believe it, but my race has tenderness too. Francis is in pain, and I doubt that he or his family is going to care if help comes to him from a human or an elven hand.”

The Elf nodded slowly. “Take me to him.”

With the Elf at his side, Andrew returned to the village. There was a small cluster of friends and neighbors at the smith's door now, and they turned to look at Andrew and his companion. Varden had pulled up his hood so that his face was half hidden, and, amid puzzled stares, they entered the house and approached the room where Francis lay.

Andrew was standing near the door. “And who is this? Do we bring spectators to a man's deathbed?”

“One might almost think you wanted him dead,” said Andrew. The priest snorted. Varden doffed his cloak and went toward the bed. The light in his eyes flashed as he turned to face Alban.

“It might be well for you to leave, reverend sir,” he said quietly. “I have work to do that you will find distressing.”

Alban had shrunk back a step. Andrew knew that he sensed something terrible about the stranger.

“Is this not the time for the prayers your people call vespers?” said the Elf.

“It is.” The priest's voice was almost inaudible.

“Then go and say them. And add two requests. One for the health of our friend and brother Francis, and the other for yourself, that you might not always decide upon death as the only outcome of misfortune.”

Alban was frozen for a moment, then, with a rush, he departed, his shoes clattering on the flagstone floor.

Kay, small and thin, was still in the room. He was staring at Varden. “My lord . . . can you help my father?”

Varden met his eyes. “I will do what I can, young one. You wish to become a priest, do you not?”

“Aye, my lord. I would like to come back and be priest here in Saint Brigid.”

Varden rested his hand gently on Kay's head. “And what kind of priest will you be? What do you learn from studying under such as Alban?”

“Everything, sir.”

“Indeed?”

“Everything not to be.”

Varden sighed softly and removed his hand. “Blessings upon you, Kay. Be a good priest.”

He turned toward the smith, who was still unconscious. The shimmer about him brightened as he knelt by the bed.

“
Hyrealle a me
.” The Elf's voice was a faint murmur.

Andrew felt the beryl turn warm. Without thinking, he covered it with his hand.

For a moment, Varden stared into the smith's face, then he took the bandaged hands in his own and bent his head. The ephemeral light grew brighter, and Andrew found that he was seeing, as though just at the edge of sight, a skyful of stars. Faint strands lay among them, shimmering like threads of light, weaving in and out and through one another, forming a complex web; and the carpenter realized that Varden was changing the pattern. He watched as warp and weft were altered, saw several strands fused while others were separated.

There was a sudden change in the air, and then the stars and the web faded. Andrew blinked at the commonplace room, wondering, but Varden straightened, took a deep breath, and stood up. He looked at Andrew. “Be at peace.”

Taking up his cloak, he fastened it at his throat and put up his hood. His light was shadowed, but Andrew could see his eyes. “Later, Carpenter,” said the Elf, “we will talk again. Let our brother sleep, and feed him well tomorrow.” A pause. A trace of a smile. “And you might as well unwrap his hands.”

He passed to the door. Roxanne, who had been standing there, was inadvertently blocking his exit. She came to herself at the last moment and stood aside, but as he passed she reached out to him, and he stopped and watched with curiosity as she lifted the hem of his cloak and kissed it.

“Master,” she said. “Thank you. I was powerless.”

“You did well,” he returned. “Be at peace, my lady.” He bowed deeply to her and, with silent steps, moved off down the hall. The folk at the door made way for him.

Roxanne went to Francis and removed the bandages. The smith's hands were whole and sound, without even a singed hair or a discolored knuckle.

Kay was on his knees again. Andrew was gripping the beryl still, his hand clenched tightly, the muscles stiff with the strain.

***

Francis slept through the night, rose, ate breakfast . . . and was back at the smithy the next day. At first, his time was taken up with repairing the damage done by the fire, but soon he was hammering metal as lustily as ever, and Andrew was present when, about a week later, the Leather-woman came into town and halted in shock before the door of the forge. Francis eyed her for a moment, and then he laid aside his hammer and thrust a piece of glowing metal back into the fire. “Good morning,” he said. “I ha' need o' leather.”

She had noticed Andrew sitting in one corner. Her eyes turned venomous. “You should be dead,” she said to Francis.

“But I'm not.” The smith rubbed his beard. “By rights I should be angry, but I'll tell you again: I ha' need o' leather.”

“Then you'll have to get it somewhere else,” she snapped. She looked at Andrew. “'Twas your friends helped you,” she cried. “I'll have my say to you later on, Carpenter.”

Andrew stood up wearily and spread his hands. “I'm trying to—”

“I don't need help. But you will. Believe me. And you won't find it in elvish hands.” Dragging her crippled leg behind her, she turned around and slowly made her way up the street.

Francis watched her. “How well can you know that Elf o' yours, Andrew?”

Andrew shrugged. “How well can you know an Elf?”

“Well, I hope y' have confidence in him, as you'll be wanting his help afore this is through.”

Andrew's hand went to the stone. “I don't doubt him.”

Heavy snows came the next month, burying the village deep. Andrew stayed indoors for the most part, as did the other villagers. No one saw the Leather-woman. Andrew reassured himself that she was still alive by periodically checking to see that there was smoke rising from the hole in the roof of her hut, but he was unwilling to risk further contact with her.

But as the snowy days continued, and as the cold increased, he found himself thinking and wondering again. She could not have much food in her house, and the snow more than likely made it impossible for her to get more. The certainty grew in him along with the worry, and by the first Sunday in Advent he was brooding about it. The village was approaching the winter feast days of joy and plenty, and he did not like to think of an old woman starving while others danced.

So, one evening, he asked Elizabeth if she would gather together some bread, and preserves, and smoked meat, and other good things that would keep. Elizabeth did not ask why, but Andrew knew that she guessed, and her quick hands soon had a large basket packed and covered with a cloth. Andrew was wrapped in his cloak and his furs by the time she was finished, and she put it into his mittened hands as he stood before the door. He looked at her, and she nodded. “We have to try,” she said.

“I trust Varden,” he whispered.

“So do I.”

She kissed him, and he went out into the night.

***

He checked the following day. There was no basket by the Leather-woman's door, and so he assumed that she had taken it in. But as the days passed, and as a sense of oppression grew about him, he thought of the smith and prayed that his family would be spared.

Then Varden came one evening, cloaked in blue and white, his eyes flashing as brilliantly as the moon and star at his throat. Elizabeth was just sending the children to bed, but when the Elf stepped into the firelit room, the youngsters stopped at the foot of the stairs to look. Varden met Andrew's eyes, then bowed to Elizabeth and the children. “Blessings upon you this day.”

James, twelve years old and fearless, strode directly up to him. “Are you an Elf?”

“James!” Andrew was aghast.

“Peace, friend.” Varden smiled and turned to the boy. “And what do you think, young one?”

James looked him up and down, scrutinizing carefully. “You don't look like what they say in the tales.”

“And what do they say in the tales?”

“That Elves are tall and strong, and have cows' feet, and breathe fire if they want.”

“I have never breathed fire in my life,” said Varden, still smiling. “Although I confess there have been times that I wished that I could. So, what say you?”

“I think you are.”

“In spite of the tales?”

“I don't care about the tales,” said James stoutly. “You . . . just feel like an Elf. I don't think the Elves in the tales would feel that way at all.”

“Well said,” replied Varden. “And quite correct.”

Regardless of James' stated conviction, Varden's confirmation made the boy's eyes open wide. Elizabeth came and took him by the shoulders. “To bed with you,” she said, and marched him up the stairs. The other children followed, whispering and looking back until they disappeared into the loft.

“And may the Lady send you sweet dreams,” the Elf called softly after them.

Andrew was standing to one side, his arms folded.

“And how are your dreams, Andrew?”

“Troubled. Last night I saw my family slaughtered before my eyes. Elizabeth woke me. She said I was crying out. My children were frightened.”

The Elf sighed. “So perhaps it is too late for love.” He spoke softly, almost to himself.

“She's bitter. Very bitter. And now I fear all her hate is directed at me.”

Varden moved to the hearth and sat down cross-legged, his back to the flames. Elizabeth came down the stairs. “If I would not be intruding,” she said, “I would like to hear what passes.”

“It is well,” said Varden. “Please join us, my lady.” He spoke to her as though she were nobility, and she blushed; but she sat by the fire with her needlework, her hands moving of their own as she listened.

Too agitated to sit, Andrew paced. “It's not working, Varden. It's just not working. If anything, she's worse. She hadn't done anything against anyone in the village for months, and now . . .”

Varden's voice was soft, grieving. “I had hoped that this would turn out otherwise. Though a tree in the forest may be struck by lightning, or broken by the wind, it can be propped up and tended to, and can grow straight again. But sometimes . . .”

Elizabeth spoke. “She was broken many years ago, and her wounds were never tended.”

“I'm afraid she can't be mended,” said Andrew. “She's like . . . like a starving dog.”

Varden nodded. “I believe I described her as such, when we spoke of the danger involved in this task.”

Andrew was not sure if he was being reprimanded, and the Elf's face gave no clue. “At that time,” he said, “we both thought that there was some hope.”

“You do not believe so now?”

“I'm not sure.” Andrew stopped pacing, rubbed at his cheek. “It seemed like a good thing to do. To help her, I mean. But at that time, she hadn't tried to kill Francis, and she hadn't threatened me. And now, more than ever, what about Elizabeth? What about the children?”