The River's Gift (2 page)

She
had her work cut out for her this time. Only when the tooth was gone, and she
had used her magic to reduce the swelling and pain, and the infected socket was
cleansed with brandy and packed with bread-mold and spider-webs, did Ariella
wake the wolf as gently as she had put him to sleep.

He
leapt up from her lap as if he'd been stung, and sped off into the forest
without a backward glance. She didn't mind; none of her sylvan patients ever
gave any evidence that they felt gratitude for her ministrations. She'd been
hurt and disappointed at first, especially in the excitement of learning that
her special gift with the animals of the Manor-farm extended to the animals of
the forest, but she had gradually come to realize that the fact that they came
to her at all was a mark of supreme trust.

After
the wolf came a fallow doe, and after the doe, a hawk with a broken talon, and
a wildcat with sick kittens.
As the cat left, her kittens feeling well
enough now to frisk behind her, Ariella dangled her feet in the cool water and
gazed out on the river, a sense of lassitude and content coming over her.

Only
one person in the entire Manor knew of her abilities, the mute and half-witted
dog-boy who cosseted, fed, tended, and slept with his charges, for the dogs
were the first who had come to her to be cured. She was wise enough not to be
caught by anyone else; she might have gotten by, dosing the animals with herbs,
but if anyone had ever seen her heal illnesses and injuries by touch alone, as
she had with the hawk and the kittens—then she could find herself in a great
deal of difficulty.

Such healings made
her tired and sleepy, however, and it was good to rest against the trunk of a
willow with her feet in the water, and watch sun-dazzle dancing over the
surface.

She
was half-asleep, and thought it was a dream, when the slick-shining, handsome
black stallion rose out of the river before her and moved into the shallows to
stand at her feet, tossing his head impatiently.

She
studied him dreamily as he waded through the sparkling water towards her,
diamond-drops falling from his streaming mane and tail and rolling down his
heaving sides. His nostrils flared nervously, and he vibrated with suppressed
energy. So dark it was blue-black, his satin coat gleamed, highlighted by more
gem-drops of water. She gazed at him without moving, unwilling to break the
dream, until he shoved her leg impatiently with his nose, making it clear that
this was no dream.

With
a squeak of surprise, she jumped up. The stallion still stood before her,
hock-deep in the water, glaring at her with furious scarlet eyes. He tossed his
head and trumpeted an angry call that rang and echoed up and down the river,
startling the birds in the tree above her into explosive flight.

This
was no farm-horse, strayed this way by accident. This stallion was wild—full of
rage—and dangerous.

She
tried to touch him with her thoughts, to soothe him as she had so many other
wild, pain-maddened creatures—and met a barrier as implacable as the stone
walls of the Manor.

Met
it? That was too tame—she slammed into it abruptly, leaving her as dazed for a
moment as if she had run headlong into a rock cliff.

She
shook her head, trying to clear it, as she clutched the trunk of the tree
beside her to keep from falling. When she could see again, she stared into
those half-mad eyes and swallowed.

A
startled thought flashed through her mind.
This isn't just a horse—

:of
course I'm not a
horse, foolish little mortal child,: a st
range and imperious voice snarled inside her head, making
her start again.
:Now
get your wits about yon and help me!:

"Help
you?" she replied faintly.
"How?"

For
answer, the stallion raised his left forefoot out of the water. In shocking
contrast to his stunning perfection, that foot was swollen to three times its
normal size.

There
were times when hurt or sickness seized her; impelled her past her fear, past
her ability to think, forcing her to reach out and heal. She had no choice at
those rimes—and this was one of them, in spite
of
the fact that memory had supplied sudden and frightening
recognition of the creature before her.

As
the stallion had said, he was no horse. He was a riverhorse, a Kelpie, and
deadly to humans. By all reports, Kelpies hated mortals, and would do anything
to rid the forest of them. If he'd had a choice, she would not be
standing before him
now, she would be drowning in the fastest part of the river, lured there by his
own magic.

Be sensible!
she
told
herself sharply.
If he wants help, he isn't going to hurt you, is he?

As
if she had any choice—her power responded to
his own
magic and need in a way that overwhelmed her conscious reservations.

Before
the Kelpie had the opportunity to react, she reached out against her own will
and grasped the injured forefoot, and quick examination by touch proved that
the Kelpie was no different than an ordinary horse, in this at least. There was
a hard object lodged between the frog and the hoof, much as a stone would have
been, except that this didn't feel like a stone and had caused far more
swelling than she would have expected. Encouraged by the Kelpie's statuelike
immobility, she waded into the water so that she could turn the bottom of the
hoof upward. It was then that she saw the nature of the object—an iron
horseshoe nail.

There
was only one way to get that out. She reached into her pocket for the
nail-puller.

But
the moment she brought it out, the Kelpie reared back, water splashing wildly
as he lashed out with his good hoof, ears flattened back and teeth
bared
.
:No
more Cold Iron!:
he shouted in her mind.

And that I can't blame him for—if a single
nail has caused him such pain and hurt.

Hut
she stood her ground, hands on her hips. "If you want that nail out, I
have to use this," she snapped back, brandishing the nail-puller at him.
He shied back, eyes rolling, and stayed away from the tool. "I can't get
that nail out otherwise!" she insisted. "I'll try not to touch you
with it, but I can't help you without it!"

She
knew why he was afraid of the tool—and why his forefoot was so swollen and
inflamed from a mere scrap of metal. Cold Iron was deadly to the creatures of
Faerie, and the bit of nail would likely kill him unless he could find someone
to get it out. But the only creature that
could,
would
perforce be a mortal, like herself—potentially just as deadly an enemy to him
as he was to mortals.

He
finally calmed somewhat and took a few limping steps towards her, his neck
stretched out, his ears still flattened back.
: Swear! Swear you won't touch me with that thing
!:
he demanded.

She
sighed, but swore as he demanded, and at length he allowed her to take his
fore-hoof in her hand again, set the nail-puller carefully onto the head of the
nail, and begin working.

She
was no blacksmith, to accomplish the task in a single pull. She had only the
strength of any other young girl, and the only way she could get the nail out
was to wriggle the nasty thing back and forth, pulling all the while, getting
it loose by infinitesimal degrees. Both she and the Kelpie were exhausted and
sweating by the time she worked the nail free and dropped it into her pocket.

But
she was not so exhausted that she forgot to weave her spell of healing about
the hoof.

As
soon as she let the Kelpie go, he danced backwards, throwing his head to the
side as he curveted out of her reach. She expected him to vanish as the wild
animals did, but instead he paused, injured foot raised out of the water, and
turned to stare at her.

Already
the hoof was nearly normal size again, and she wondered what he thought he was
going to do now. Other than charge her—and she did have the nail-puller to defend
herself
with—he couldn't hurt her. She already knew
what he was; he could not possibly beguile her onto his back so that he could
carry her off to drown her. Was it possible that he was grateful?
A creature of Faerie, purportedly with neither heart nor soul?

He took another step towards her, his head down.
:You
helped me, mortal child. You didn't have to, you could have chased me away, but
you helped me even though I was rude and angry. Why
?:

She
didn't
really
know the answer to that herself, so she shrugged. "I suppose because you
were in pain and needed help," she replied. She thought for a moment,
then
added, tentatively, "You didn't ask to get an iron
nail in your foot. The stories about your kind aren't very—flattering, but as
far as you doing anything, I haven't heard of anyone being drowned in this
river by a Kelpie
.. . ."

The Kelpie nickered, clearly laughing at her.
:I
prefer to frighten the silly fools. Drowning them would
taint the water, mortal
child.:

She
reflected that anyone who saw a magnificent black stallion running loose would
know her Papa had no such animal and leave it alone, recognizing the Kelpie for
what it was, or would be a thief who deserved what he got for trying to steal a
valuable animal.

"I
wish you'd stop calling me 'mortal child,' " she added with a touch of
irritation
. "
How would you like it if I called you
'soulless demon'? My name is Ariella."

The
Kelpie stepped back a pace, his ears going straight up with surprise, and she
recalled that names were supposed to give magical creatures power over each
other. Well, nothing to be done now.

:My
name
—:
he began hesitantly,
:You can
call me Merod.:
It probably wasn't his "real" name, but
it was one he would answer to, and that was good enough. "I'm glad I was
able to help you, Merod," she said with a decided little nod. "And if
you feel any obligation towards me for that help, you can discharge it simply
by not drowning anyone from Swan Manor."

He nickered again, green eyes flashing with mischief.
:
That's
a poor bargain for you, asking me
to do only what I would be inclined to do anyway, Ariella.:

"And
I hardly have the means to compel you to do anything, do I?" she countered
as he tossed his head with merriment. "And honestly, I have everything I
need or want right here in the forest."

He
pawed the water, sending sparkling drops flying in every direction, then
whirled on his heels and dashed into the deepest part of the river, vanishing
beneath the rippling water. She stared after him,
then
laughed breathlessly.

A
Kelpie! She had seen, touched, spoken with a real creature of magic! She hugged
her arms to her chest as if she clasped the secret to her. From this moment on,
nothing would ever be the same.

The
odious Magda was nowhere to be seen when she slipped back into the Manor.
Thankful, she went directly to her sun-filled room and hurriedly changed out
of her woods-running clothes. With great regret, she dusted the last traces of
the forest off herself and put on the silken hose, the leather slippers, the
fine, white linen chemise, and the heavy amber gown with its train and
encumbering folds of wide skirt. With a sigh, she tucked her hair into a net
and adjusted her linen veil over it, then donned the jangling chatelaine belt
that Magda insisted she wear. Her "real" clothing went back into the
chest at the foot of her bed, hidden under her outgrown gowns and linens.

She
seated herself at her embroidery frame in the window-seat overlooking the
garden-court and picked up her needle just in time; she hadn't taken more than
three stitches when puffing and shuffling from the room next in hers signaled that
Lady Magda had finally arisen from her nap.

Ariella
shook her head, as the next few moments brought the querulous call of
"Ariella?
Ariella?
Where are you
,
child?"

"At
my frame, Lady Magda," Ariella called back, and she waited for Lady Magda
to make her stately appearance.

The
round-topped wooden door squeaked open, and Magda moved ponderously into
Ariella's brightly lit room, squinting at the light. "Child, are you
sitting in the sunlight again? You'll spoil your complexion, I've told you a
hundred times! And you'll fade your work."

Since
Ariella didn't particularly care whether the altar- cloth she was working on
was ever finished, much less if the colors were faded, she held her tongue.

Lady
Magda looked nothing like her cousin, Ariella's father; where Ariella's Papa
was thin and dark, Lady Magda was plump and florid, of no more than middling
height, with squinting, short-sighted blue eyes and a mouth like a pinched-up
purse. Although she had not taken holy orders and apparently had no intention
of doing so, she always dressed in nunlike gray, black, and white, heavy gowns
which were far from comfortable in the heat of summer, so that her face was
always red and damp with perspiration.