Dancing
Studying with the great Maelbelenus proved somewhat different to Susan’s imagination in her first days. His brilliance as a healer was unquestionable, but the lack of any trace of magic annoyed her almost as much as his philosophies on life. She ground the root in her mortar steadily, adding leaves as she did so, mentally cataloguing the right moment to add the resin. She found herself far more interested in herbs and potions for general living than the cures for battlefield injuries which fascinated his other students, mostly male and Elvish, to whom she was not introduced.
“Have you got any spare pine resin?” She raised her head and found the most beautiful boy in the class raising an eyebrow at her. Her heart missed a beat as she drank in his green eyes, and the full generous mouth, which now quirked a trifle.
“Oh, of course,” she blushed as she realised she was staring and not replying, hiding her head behind her hair, forgetting it was barely an inch long. She fussed amongst her herb basket, pulling out a package. “Here you go, help yourself.”
“I think that is spruce, rather than pine.” Was he laughing at her? She dared a glance and there was a definite twinkle in his eye and that kissable mouth was quirking for sure.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, quickly replacing the package and checking the recognition knots on the replacement to make sure it was the right one. She shoved it at him, desperately thinking of something to say which wouldn’t make her seem a total idiot.
He opened the package and inspected the resin, frowning. “You don’t have a lot, do you? I had better ask somebody else.”
Susan felt bereft, all of a sudden it was important that they shared her resin. “There is enough for two potions,” she said, taking the resin and slicing it in half before handing it to him. Her hand trembled as she touched his, she was sure a spark rushed up her arm.
“This is your reserve in case you make a mistake,” he said, now with an expressionless face. “I can’t take this.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t make a mistake,” she gabbled, before blushing in anger at her presumption, a small voice at the back indignant at the lack of her usual poise.
“Really? I have already wasted both mine and half the sinjunswort leaves. I must bring my mortar over and watch how you do it, learn from you.”
To her horror, he did just that and she found herself the object of his intense scrutiny as she pounded her pestle into the mortar. With mortification, she wondered how far into the blending she progressed before the interruption, and she put the handsome boy out of her mind.
“I’m Laoire,” he said, nestling a little closer and pushing all thoughts of the potion to the back of her mind.
“Nice to meet you, Lowry,” she said, with a nervous nod.
“It’s pronounced Lay-reh, actually. What is your name?”
Oh shoot, she thought, how did I forget. “Susan, Susan Taylor.”
“Su-zan,” he said, testing the unfamiliar word. “I have never spoken to a human girl before. I am sorry I do not speak your language. I thought you had already put in the roots?”
“Oh, yes, of course, how silly.” I must concentrate, she thought, ignore him, put him to one side, no matter how gorgeous he is.
“When do you know the right time to put in the resin?”
“By the feel of the grind, it changes as you work the lumps out.” Without thinking she leant over and pressed his pestle into his mixture. “You still have lumps in, so a way to go.” She picked up her mortar and rested it on her thighs, tilting it so he could see and the contents tipped to one side. This gave her a larger area to grind the mix against the side with her pestle, which she proceeded to do.
“There, perfect. Now I put in the resin and grind that as well. It will get sticky now.” It did, and her arm muscles bulged as she worked the pestle slowly in and out of the mortar. Laoire laughed and she looked at him with a quizzical expression.
“Is this an invitation?” He asked with a broad smile, the most open expression on his face to date. She didn’t understand, before following his gaze to the mortar between her thighs and the pestle going in and out, slowly. Comprehension swept through her, followed by blood as she coloured to the roots of her hair, jumping to her feet with the mortar going flying. Cat-like reflexes enabled Laoire to catch it.
“No! Please, that was not my intention, I am a good girl. It is just the best way to grind.”
“It’s okay, calm down. What do you mean, a good girl? I don’t understand how you humans think. Good, as in good at sex?” Laoire found himself puzzled by this strange if attractive girl. Pretty face, no spectacular face, especially with the hair making her look like paintings of Aine the Fairy Goddess, a slender body beginning to ripen and mixed signals. Her skin kept changing colour, red to white, her breathing varied in intensity and her pupils, a bottomless black in that azure blue, kept changing size. He wondered what it all meant, especially as his interpretation of the grinding seemed wrong. A shame.
Susan closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. You are not a simpering virgin, she told herself, you are – were – the most powerful woman in the Kingdom. The Mistress of the King, and you’ve slept with Elves, every girls dream. This is just another one, even if he is pretty. She opened her eyes and found him watching her in puzzlement. She took another deep breath and counted to ten before replying.
“I am sorry for the misunderstanding. How is your potion coming? Is it ready for the resin yet?” She stood, taking her mortar from him and placing it on the table while retrieving her pestle. She ignored him while testing her mixture.
“I’m not sure, can you check it for me?”
She took his mortar and placed it on the table before checking it. “That’s fine. Put the resin in slowly.”
“Thank you for your help. Are you going to the dance tomorrow night?”
“A dance? I don’t know anything about it. I have no clothes suitable for a dance.”
“I’ll get the girls to find you something. You must come, meet all the fun people. You can teach me the human dances.”
He took his mortar and departed for his work area, smiling and she watched his bottom as he left, emitting a small sigh as she fought to control her emotions. Vaguely, she remembered hearing about people being elf-struck. She began to understand that now; they were all so damn pretty. She added water to her potion and left it in a tall bowl to brew, making her way back to her room.
Her room was so cool. Tiny, but hewn out of the living wood of a tree, invisible from twenty paces. The small window boasted trailing moss for curtains, which served to keep out the rain while lighting the inside in cool green, while a trickle of water running down the outside of the tree trunk kept filled a small reservoir from which she could release water into a basin for washing and ablutions. She loved this luxury, not having used a pump for over a year.
She stripped and washed herself, luxuriating in the cleanliness she learnt from Harry the Pathfinder, what seemed so long ago, but was barely a year. She debated with herself on where to eat. After paying Maelbelenus, she had expected to be short of money, but was pleased to find his charges low, and the room she rented came at a cost low by Praesidium standards. Food came with the room, if she wished to join the family further up the tree, but she was free to come and go as she pleased and didn’t need to tell them in advance. Presumably because so many Elves of all ages came and went. She did not know if they were other students, family members, employees, guards or visitors. She would learn and she was in no hurry. Tonight she felt the urge to explore, see if she could find the Elvish equivalent of a market or an inn. Her clothes felt unsuitable for a student, and with her new short haircut, she felt them too forward and revealing, desiring more utilitarian clothing. She wished to be unobtrusive, it was time to be out of the limelight, just a normal person for once.
She pulled on a light green work shift and proceeded to clean up the slight amount of mess in her room, when a call came from the door.
“Hello, anyone home?” The unlocked door pushed open and one girl walked in, followed by three more, cramping the room. To Susan they were all tall, blonde and ethereal, pretty with high cheekbones and slanting eyes, long hair flowing down their backs.
“You must be Soo Zann,” said the leader with a wide smile. “I’m Fainche, Laoire told us about you. This is Riofach, Orlaith and Fionuir.” The three other girls smiled, waved and made greetings while Susan returned uncertain smiles and wondered where she could get a lock for her door.
“Riofach and Fionuir live in the teaching trees too, while Orlaith and I live with our parents,” said Fainche, sitting on Susan’s bed where Riofach joined her while Fionuir inspected her wash clothes and cosmetics and Orlaith started fingering her hair.
“What have you done to your hair?” Orlaith ran her fingers through it, ignoring Susan’s attempts to move her head away. “It is beautiful and fine; you should let it grow.”
“I had to cut it,” Susan muttered, hoping that would be enough.
“Ooh,” squealed Riofach. “Did you sleep with lots of men, so the priests cut your hair? I heard you humans do that.”
Now she mentioned it, Susan recalled hearing the same story and flamed with embarrassment. Before she could speak, Fainche interrupted.
“Is it a trick? How you got into the teachings? Maelbelenus does not take everybody, and with your hair you look like the fairy goddess, what is her name?”
“Aine,” said Fionuir. “She was so tiny she could sleep in a rose bud, but her magic let her become as big as a lady and no man could resist her charms. The Kingmaker, she cast down King Aulom by biting off his ear as he took her by force. She seduced the High Druid himself, sworn to Danu, and the Mother Goddess in her anger imprisoned her on the Isle of Dreams, guarded by the dragon god Fiotr. When he sleeps she is able to escape to lure lovers to her lair, never to be seen again.”
Silence fell as the girls regarded Susan with curiosity, while Susan stared at Fionuir in fascination at this wonderful tale. She noticed Riofach looking uncomfortable, so she whirled around and plucked a rose from the vase of flowers, a gift from her landlady. She turned around, the rose held to her nose and inhaled deeply, her eyes shut. They shot open, so wide white was visible all around the pupil, the brilliant blue flashing even in the low light, and she blew pollen from the rose at Riofach.
“Come, come with me to the Isle of Dreams and meet Fiotr, my Dragon lover, and sate his desire for Elven maids.” Riofach’s jaw dropped open and she screamed, falling off the bed when Susan threw the rose at her. Fainche sat up straighter on the bed, while Orlaith backed away, her pale colour managing to become even whiter. Fionuir threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter.
“Oh wonderful, I am going to like you,” she said, giving Susan an impromptu hug. “Don’t mind Riofach, she’s a nice girl just speaks without thinking.” She whispered these last few words in her ears. In moments all the girls were laughing, except for Riofach who gave Susan a baleful look as she picked herself up.
“You really scared me,” she complained as she brushed down her dress.
“I’m sorry,” said Susan with complete lack of sincerity. “Oh, your dress is so pretty. What is it made from and how did you get that divine colour?”
Riofach perked up. “I love it! My mother gave it to me last week. It is from the thread we take from our caterpillars, dyed with snails.”
“Snails?” Susan blanched, wondering if she had misunderstood.
“Yes, from the sea to the south west. My mother visited once and said it is very smelly, they boil them for ten days, but it creates these wonderful purple colours and they don’t fade.” She held out a sleeve for Susan to feel.
“Oh, it is wonderful! This is silk, and such pretty colours. I have never seen such fine cloth; it is worth a fortune in Bresol or Praesidium. I didn’t know you produced silk of such quality.”
“We don’t make much, it is too much hard work,” said Fainche. “We only ever make enough to use ourselves. It is hard to get the Sea Elves to make the dye, which is why her mother went to try and get more. If we don’t go down there and stay for a while, they won’t make enough for us.”
“Of course not,” said Fionuir. “We’re Elves, we would rather dance and get drunk than do any work.” There was an undertone in her voice, which the other girls missed but Susan picked up with a narrowing of her eyes. Fionuir raised her eyebrows at her, as Orlaith laughed.
“Yes! The dance, it is tomorrow night. We must make sure Soo Zann has proper clothes, ones that show off her body nicely. You have a big bottom, the boys will like that.”
Susan bristled, she so did not have a big bottom.
“She hasn’t got anything to wear,” wailed Riofach, going through Susan’s wardrobe with no regard to propriety, causing the other girls to join her.
“I haven’t seen any shops,” said Susan. “Where can I get a dress?”
“Shops? What are they?”
“We don’t have shops,” said Fionuir. “Here, everyone makes their own or swaps something. Elves don’t work very hard; it is more fun to party. The work we do is tending the forest and the animals, gathering what we wish. The caterpillars give us thread when we sing to them, and we exchange thread with the dwarves to weave it and for jewels and gold. We have to escape quickly, as our mothers will make us weave cloth for our own clothes otherwise. But don’t worry, I have a dress that I think will fit you. You are welcome to borrow it for tomorrow. Can you sew?”
“Oh yes, my family are tailors, I am good at making clothes.” Susan thought a moment. “Do you girls use face paints? Perhaps I could trade making your face beautiful?”
“What are they? What do you mean?”
Susan took Orlaith and sat her on the root that doubled as a chair in front of her washbowl, but turned around to face into the room. The others crowded round behind her, exclaiming as Susan tied back Orlaith’s hair before dusting her face with a light powder.
“This is just a very fine powdered rock, though the rock is so soft you can scratch it with a knife. I grind it in a mortar so it is smooth. Brushing it over the face smooths everything out and lets me highlight the areas I feel will benefit.”
She worked with speed and precision, while the girls fell silent as Orlaith transformed, before she put away the talcum powder and selected a dark, sticky one instead.
“This is another soft stone, a black one we buy from the dwarves, but I mix it with the tiniest bit of beeswax so it sticks to where I want. Just a tiny amount and the eyes become bigger.”
In just a few moments, she traced around the eyes, highlighted the cheekbones, darkened the skin above her eyes, thickened the eye lashes and placed a light smear of scarlet wax over her lips.
“For the lips I use a crushed beetle, one we use for dying cloth. I love the scarlet, but it is only in the beeswax so if you eat anything you will rub the colour away.”
She stepped back, while Orlaith looked at the stunned faces with rising panic.
“What has she done? Do I look all right? It is terrible, isn’t it? Has she made me like a goblin?”
The other girls did not answer. Instead, they mobbed Susan, demanding their turn. Fionuir stopped the crush.
“The dance isn’t until tomorrow. Orlaith, use the water bowl to see what you look like, then wash it off. We don’t want anyone to see us beforehand, this is going to be wonderful. Soo Zann, I’m not going to lend you a dress, it is a gift in return for you making me look like that. And the others will gift you jewels, footwear, food and drink.”
“Oh, yes,” breathed Fainche as Orlaith squeaked at her reflection. “This is going to be the best dance EVER. We will have our pick of the boys. Those hags from Riverside are going to be so jealous.”
“Soo Zann, from tomorrow night everyone is going to love you and want something from you. Never mind learning from Maelbelenus, you should open your own school teaching this stuff.”
*
Four Elven maids and one human girl gathered in Fionuir’s room, selected as the largest and closest to the dancing glade. The presence of a small mirror, unusual in elven homes, clinched the decision. Each wore long, flowing silken dresses, cut tight to the body, with long sleeves, the cuffs of which attached to the sides of the skirt, allowing the wearer to pull up the skirt in time to the music. The dresses were dyed in the colours of the woods, greens, brown and a hint of blue, patterns mingling the colours in pleasing ways reminiscent of sunlight on the evening leaves.
Each dress bore a startling slash of scarlet, courtesy of Susan’s small supply, a few lengths of cloth from which the girls fashioned collars, cuffs or Fainche’s great spider sewn across her breast. To Susan, the dresses revealed more flesh than comfort allowed, all backless and plunging necklines. Her attempt to hide her small cleavage with her share of the crimson cloth served more to highlight her charms.
The Elven girls wore their hair in intricate braids, taking over an hour to create each one, flowers woven throughout. All five had tutted over Susan’s shorn locks, before re-creating Aine’s crown of leaves and flowers, even including blackthorn with its wicked spikes.
“Useful if the wrong boy gets too close,” said Fionuir with a nod as she ensured the thorns stuck out the sides. “You look the real deal now. Remember to lift your arms a lot, so your dress flares and looks like you have wings.”
“Here’s your posy,” said Riofach. “I put a rose in there, and don’t forget to use it when Muirgheal is horrible. I can’t wait to see her face; she’s terrified of magic.”
“I don’t even know who she is, and I don’t see why you think she will be nasty anyway.” Susan’s reservations to helping Riofach’s vendetta intensified.
“She’ll be horrible to you because you’re pretty and your bottom is bigger,” said Riofach, unmoved by Susan’s reticence.
“I do not have a big bottom,” said Susan, her patience snapping.
“For an elf, you do,” said Fionuir.
“And it’s beautiful,” said Fainche. “I wish mine looked like yours.”
“I think we are all ready,” said Susan changing the subject. “We will need to hurry, we are already late.”
“We need to be at least half an hour late,” said Fainche.
“We must make an entrance,” said Riofach, twirling on her toes.
“And we haven’t finished yet,” said Orlaith, pulling a pouch from her bag. “It’s time for the stones.” She poured the contents of the bag onto the bed, a riot of deep, sultry colours causing Susan to gasp. She recognised emeralds, rubies and even a clear sparkling diamond the size of a wren’s egg amongst various other stones: lapis lazuli, topaz, amethyst and opals. All set in silver, tangled up together in careless abandonment.
“We trade with the dwarves,” said Fionuir at Susan’s stunned face. Jewels were something she was comfortable with, after the king showered them on her, but to see such value in the careless possession of these young teenagers shocked her. There was as much if not more than in the collection she left behind, valuable stones mixed with common pretty pebbles, even amber.
“I have something special for you,” said Orlaith. “I think this will enhance your magical aura.” She slipped off the flower crown and threaded a fine silver chain through her hair, supporting a diadem hanging down to the centre of her forehead, before replacing the crown. Susan could feel a noticeable weight from the diadem, which seemed to radiate warmth into her skull. The other girls clucked their admiration and Susan glowed, staring at her reflection with the deep red glow from a ruby with mysterious depths, in startling counterpoint to her cornflower blue eyes.
“See, as beautiful as I expected. You may keep this one, my love, as my thanks for your lessons.” Orlaith beamed at her, and Susan tried to keep the tears back as she hugged her.
“You have holes in your ears?” Riofach inspected them closely, and slipped a pendant into each lobe. “Pearls from the south west. Beautiful against your skin. These are my present and thank you.”
“Such a mixture we are decking you in,” said Fionuir with a smile, as she slipped an amethyst necklace around her neck while Fainche attached a large flashing opal to her dress as a brooch. “You’ve been teaching us to co-ordinate our colours, to stick to one shade, and here we are turning you into a rainbow! But you are beautiful and they all suit you, don’t you dare take them off.”
Now Susan did cry, causing a little consternation amongst the elves who rarely let a tear escape and considered each drop of immense value. They collected every one and sealed them in a tiny vial before allowing Susan to repair her damaged make-up. The stars lit their path to the glade, candles beckoning them forward towards laughing voices and plaintive music.
The moon rose as they walked, and highlighted their entrance into the glade. Seeing Fionuir’s pleased smile, Susan knew this was planned. Their arrival caused a ripple through the revellers and the music skipped a beat. Fainche led them to the serving tables, head tall and regal, a poise Susan tried to emulate despite her missing height.
While the other girls surrounded them, welcoming their friends, Fionuir liberated a jug from which she poured a golden liquid, sparkling in the candlelight, into two carved wooden goblets. She handed one to Susan who inspected the carvings, a deer hunt shown in detail, before sampling the liquid. She gasped aloud at the taste, cool, sweet and peppery with a hint of sourness; she closed her eyes, concentrating on the sensations flitting over her tongue and down her throat.
“What is this?” She breathed deeply, allowing her eyes to open upon swirling colours and the details of the party leaping out of the darkness.
“Elven mead, mixed with special mushrooms, the Nectar of the Gods. This confers our long life and makes us happy, why we love to sing, feast and dance.”
“Something forbidden to humans,” growled a male voice in her ear, and she turned to see Maelbelenus beside her, a quizzical expression on his face. “Good thing you are a fairy goddess and already know that.” He turned and disappeared into the throng as Fionuir giggled.
Susan drank deep and felt the liquor explode in her belly, course through her veins and rush around her body, causing her feet to twitch and her arms to swing. A laugh bubbled from her, before a thought cut it off.
“Long life? Are you not a teenager like me?”
“I am the oldest of us four, next year will be my twentieth,” said Fionuir. “Riofach is the youngest, a bare sixteen winters. Why she acts so childish on many occasions. Drink deep, my Aine, and enjoy. Tonight we will dance and if we dance well the Gods will come amongst us. See, in the corner, humans at the teaching trees, wizards come to learn our lore.” Susan peered through the darkness, her new vision allowing her to make out a half dozen men sitting stiffly around a table. They talked amongst themselves, eating from the food on the table and ignoring the passing elves. “They stick together, and they will leave before the Gods come. For generations they have come, and yet you, my Aine, are the first woman to set foot in our teaching trees, and you came alone.”
Fionuir’s eyes became huge, spinning hypnotically as Susan sipped another draught of her mead, lost in their depths. She leant forward slightly and brushed her lips across Susan’s.
“Tonight the Gods will come and we shall see what they think of you, for never will they have danced with a human before.”
“The Gods?” Susan whispered, still deep in Fionuir’s eyes. “Will Aine be there? Will she be mad at me?”
“Aine? I told you, she is banished, imprisoned on the Isle of Dreams. Her brothers may come. Now eat this, Elven biscuit, to sustain you while we dance.” She thrust a fragment of something into Susan’s mouth; she chewed without thought, finding a biscuit that crumbled under her teeth to melt on her tongue, with a sharp, sweet flavour quite irresistible. The small meal sent energy coursing through her body, and she took Fionuir’s hand to follow her through the crowd, feeling Fainche take her other hand.
They made their way to a corner of the glade, the ground more moss than grass, a short distance from the musicians. These elves played a variety of instruments: flutes and recorders; a large lute, which she recalled was a viol, placed on the ground beside the musician and reaching above his head; a harp beside him, plucked by a lady elf and two elves almost competing, one with a lute and the other a gittern with a long neck.
Beside them stood a choir, three men and four women, all with their eyes closed and swaying to the music, not singing at this time.
As they moved into position, the elf with the gittern glanced over.
“Ah, dancers, about time. Ready for some tree dances? The willow in winter?”
“No,” said Fionuir. “We have a new student, our Aine. Something simple for her to start, the Aspen.”
The elf nodded, conferred briefly with his fellows and they began a melody with a strong drum beat, and Susan spotted the drummer for the first time, hidden back in the trees with two tall thin drums in front of him. The beat dragged at her feet and she wanted to start, before seeing both girls with their feet firmly planted, their hips shaking and their arms moving. The Aspen, she thought, of course. For the girls did look like the aspen trees in the wind, their leaves shaking and vibrating, and Susan joined them, finding the vibration in the music and following with her body, allowing the beat to thrum through her blood, her feet firm in the ground while her body shook with the music, waggling her hips, bottom and shoulders faster and faster.
The choir broke into song, with Susan unable to make out the words, more a hum and harmony than an absolute song. After a few minutes, Susan found she followed the harmony, especially the clear soprano of one lady, whose voice thrilled her as it reached the heights, and now there were words, in a language she did not understand.
The dances followed after each other, swift and non-stop, willows whipping in the wind, birds in flight, till Susan found herself being pulled from the dance. She tried to resist, caught in the magic of the movement.
“Come,” said Fionuir in her ear. “You cannot do this dance, the dance of the Ruff. Your hair is too short. We will take a break and eat some more.”
She allowed herself to leave the dancing area, skipping as they worked their way towards the feasting tables. She watched the girls on the floor bend at the waist, arms out like wings but pushing their hair out sideways, looking remarkably like the male Ruff, a wading bird, in his courtship dance. The boys danced opposite them, taking the place of the females, the Reeves. Entrancing, thought Susan, they mimic the birds to perfection.
She reached the tables, finding a stool, really an upended log, and sat, her legs aching and accepted a wooden goblet from a large Elf, who called her Queen Aine with a smile to show he joked. Another passed her a small wooden platter with nuts, forest fruits, what proved to be a smoked trout, a small elven biscuit and a pile of leaves, some of which she recognised. She thanked him prettily, before overhearing a whispered conversation behind her, as a man massacred the liquid Elven tongue.
“Excuse me, but why does this maid have short hair, when all the others have long hair?”
“She is not of Elven blood, she is special,” came the reply, from a male voice she did not recognise.
“Oh? She does not look human, her hair is too short and she glows, ethereal and beautiful.”
“You call yourself a wizard but cannot recognise magic stalks abroad this night? Have you heard the legend of the Fairy Queen?”
Susan could feel Fionuir shaking with laughter, as she turned to inspect the man. She knew him, a powerful young wizard much admired, whom she had seen with the Archbishop not two months before. The recognition was not mutual, as the young man’s face flared red and he dropped his eyes before her unblinking stare. Susan remained unaware of her looks, ethereal and other-worldly with her diadem and forest crown. Devilment rose inside her.
“Why do you speak the Elven tongue so badly, Bishop Roseton, when you say you possess magic?” She spoke in perfect Harrheinian, keeping her voice high, breathless and with a bell-like tone. She hoped a fly would not enter his mouth as she waited for him to speak, which took a full minute.
“Your Highness, I beg your pardon, I am newly arrived. I am honoured to see you and awed you know my name.”
“It is a small magic,” she said as she selected a berry from her plate. His eyes followed her every move as she slipped the blackberry between her lips and chewed with dainty precision. “Do you know the Venerable Reinand?”
The priest resumed his standard expression, jaw hanging free. “I have had the honour of speaking with him personally.”
“Tell him I have seen his Ronnie. She is well and sends her love.” Susan stepped backwards, sliding behind a broad Elven back, regretting the words as soon as she spoke them. Surely they would not be enough to lead the king to her door? Surely the king had forgotten her already, buried in another woman’s breasts.
To the priest’s astonished eyes, she just disappeared, and after a moment he wandered back to his colleagues, where they spent the next hour drinking Dwarven ale in celebration of seeing a Fairy Queen.
Susan kept well away from them, finding herself in demand as a succession of Elves came to speak with her, all referring to her as Aine, most calling her Queen Aine, some with a little bow. She played along with the game, and noticed that Muirgheal and her friends from Riverside did not introduce themselves. A couple of times she noticed herself under inspection from elven girls, a discovery that prompted the girls to switch their attention to the intricacies of leaf growth.
Three times Laoire appeared, each time her breath caught in her throat, each time a different distraction, the third time Orlaith dragged him off to the dance floor. Susan convinced herself this was his intention all along, that he had no interest in her and wondered at her desolation, the tears blinked away in a moment. Fionuir prevailed on her to dance again, and she caught herself up in the movement and music as the Elves moved on from trees and birds to animals. Susan pleased herself as a hind, bounding through the wood with great leaps, stopping to graze with her head on permanent alert, eyes large and liquid.
The music changed, and Fainche hissed, “Rabbits!”
Susan snapped off two chestnut leaves, fastening them into her crown and became a rabbit, nibbling, twitching her nose and dancing in circles, kicking her back legs in the air as she turned cartwheels to the music.
The music hissed and lowered, becoming malevolent, and a youth bounded into the centre, stripped to the waist. All the rabbits dived into the trees, turning to stick out their heads. The youth turned somersaults amidst prodigious feats of gymnastics. Susan’s fascination grew and she crept out of the forest, along with the other rabbits, eyes fixed on the youth. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognised Laoire, his movements hypnotic and his presence radiating desire.
He leapt and gyrated, as a weasel does when calling rabbits. Susan did not even know what a weasel was, yet she still found the performance more than fascinating, her eyes never leaving Laoire, drinking in his figure, his sculpted features, dark black eyes and rippling muscles. She gasped as his backward somersault put a curve in his back, emphasizing the lean waist and the solid muscle bands of his stomach with the little dimple in the centre. His broad shoulders bulged as he caught his weight on his hands and flipped himself over again, landing on both feet with a smile wide, white and inviting. One with the other rabbits, she lurched forward with his moves, unable to release her eyes, closer and closer till Laoire made a great leap, landing beside her, hands on her back, pressing her to the ground and his mouth by her ear, while the other rabbits shot back into the trees.
“Got you, little one,” he said into her ear, biting it for emphasis.
She shuddered as she stood, while all the dancers surrounded them, talking at once and to her surprise Susan found herself being congratulated.
“You were just the perfect rabbit,” enthused Orlaith.
“I wonder if the Spirit of the Rabbit did not take you,” mused Fionuir, casting an evaluating eye over her.
“The scream of the dying rabbit was the crowning glory,” said Fainche in glee, to Susan’s consternation, unaware of emitting any noise at all. Laoire’s hand remained on her shoulder, the possessive grasp of the hunter with his prey, and every finger screamed its presence where they dug into her skin to send her blood foaming and cascading to coalesce in her belly.
“Time for a break, I think, and I need a drink,” said Susan, weak at the knees and her hand pushing away Laoire proved ineffectual as his arm slid down in a gentle caress to rest on her rump. Orlaith took Laoire’s other arm, skipping as he led the way to the tables. Susan’s eyes narrowed at this impropriety with her possession and she slipped her left arm round his waist, for support, of course, as she looked anywhere but at his face or Orlaith.
Arriving at the tables, she relinquished Laoire and seated herself on an empty stool, accepting a goblet of nectar from Fainche. Fionuir placed a hand on her arm, face troubled.
“The Goibhniu is too strong for her, she should stick to mead.”
“The humans left already, it is time for the Gods to arrive, we must all drink deep to see them in their splendour,” said Fainche, her pupils contracted.
“Dragons,” said Riofach, her eyes part closed as she swayed in a dream-like state. “I want to see their steeds as they fly in, all brilliant iridescent colours.”
Susan reached for the goblet. If there were going to be any dragons, she wanted to see them. Laoire intercepted her hand this time, enfolding it within his own perfect hand, causing a sharp intake of breath.
“I agree, she is too soon amongst us to meet the Gods,” he said, drawing her to her feet. “I shall escort her back to her room, for safety.”
“Safe! Not with you, she won’t be,” said Fionuir, eyes flashing. “We know what you have in mind and why you want to get her alone.”
“You are no better,” said Laoire with some heat. “I saw your eyes on her and know your own desire.”
Taking advantage of the two squaring up to each other, Susan slipped from between them and retrieved the goblet from Fainche.
“There’s extra mushroom juice in it,” said Fainche, swaying with a happy smile, and Susan hesitated. A sudden vision of the inevitable consequence of drinking more nectar flooded her mind, herself writhing in Laoire’s arms, her body yearning for him. She closed her eyes, mind racing, forcing the vision away and tried to think. She was a good girl, she mustn’t sleep with Laoire this night, she barely knew him. This first dance was wonderful, maybe at the next dance, or the Elves would laugh at her and call her easy. All the male Elves would seek to bed her, follow her around, Aine the Fairy Queen would become Aine the Slut. No, this must not happen.
She passed the goblet back to Fainche with determination.
“I think I have had enough. I am so dizzy, and exhausted from the dancing. Better I go to bed, I think. People are going, see?”
“What? Oh, no, the musicians have gone. No Gods tonight, next week perhaps. I wonder why? Come on, I’ll walk you back.”
Fainche led off down the path, swaying and giggling to herself, Susan taking her arm and both girls supporting each other. After a few hundred paces, footsteps thundered behind them and Laoire appeared, panting, grabbing Susan’s free hand and putting his arm around her.
“Ha, my little rabbit, did you think to escape me so easily? You are my prey tonight, remember?” He pulled her from Fainche, turning her around to embrace her and catching her lips with his, bending his neck to reach down. One hand reached down to her bottom and thigh, lifting and pulling her into him, while the other cradled her head, his lips devouring hers and his tongue probing, seeking entrance. The world spun, Susan melted into him, her mouth opening and she entwined his tongue with hers, allowing him in to explore, responding to his need with promise and softness.
Fainche laughed, moving on and leaving them, while Susan ran her hands over his broad back, marvelling at the taut elasticity of his muscles and revelling in the strength with which he pulled her tight. A little moan escaped her occupied mouth, and she felt his response rise up, huge, heavy and hot against her stomach. For a moment she pressed against this intrusion, wondering what it could be. Realisation swept over her and she pulled back, thrusting her arms between them and holding his chest away from hers, while her breasts yearned for the return of his warmth and to feel his hot hands caressing her aching nipples.
“No,” she said, as firmly as she could, desperate need running through her. “Please, Laoire, I like you so much, but we have only just met. Don’t push me, please, let me get used to you, get to know you. I want you to respect me.”
“What?” He stared down at her, eyes clouded with passion and incomprehension. “What are you talking about? Respect? Of course I respect you, you are beautiful, Aine, and tonight we will get to know each other.” He dropped his mouth again, that beautiful, sensuous mouth and somehow she managed to avoid it, burying her face in his chest and just avoiding biting his nipple, tempting her from beside her mouth. A deep, shuddering breath coursed through her as she controlled her need and pushed away from him.
“Thank you, Laoire, for a wonderful dance and a lovely evening. I so enjoyed myself with you and would love to dance with you again next time. Good night.” She pushed away from him and ran, blind to everything and pushing back the tears. She hoped she did not put him off, but she must not be too forward, the foreigner who was easy would be a tag she would never shake.
Laoire stood in the path, a confused expression on his face, a plaintive query unsaid on his lips as she disappeared. His eyes narrowed, his mouth set and he began to stride after her, when Orlaith appeared, squealed at the sight of him.
“Laoire, darling, I couldn’t find you. Oh, you look so scrumptious.” She fell on him, catching him off-balance and both collapsed to the ground where she rolled him onto his back, grinding herself against his readiness and delighted at the speed with which her presence excited him.
*
Susan pushed into her room, turning to hold the door almost shut so she could peer round it. She expected to see Laoire following her home, pushing through the door to her room and carrying her to her bed, her loins turning to jelly at the thought. She yelped as strong arms pulled her backwards, turning her and kissing her. She wondered how Laoire managed to get to her room so fast and her questing fingers found him stripped and ready.
His lips and tongue more demanding, he carried her to the bed, pausing to strip her before laying her down in the darkness and she could resist him no more, spreading her legs and urging him on with soft cries, gasping as he filled her and rocked the bed.
The soft glow of her climax faded, the pleasant weight and warmth of him flattening her breasts and his breath still hard and heavy on her shoulder while she felt the delicious softening inside her and her heart hummed with glee and love, the nectar still coursing through her veins. She stroked his hair, preparing to apologise, when he whispered in her ear.
“Oh, Aine, my Queen, I have missed you so. These two weeks have been hard without you, but I received a furlough tonight and rushed to spend it with you. I must leave early, before the sunrise, but am happy to worship you again.”
“Oengus?” Susan lay back, appalled, her thoughts in turmoil.
Oengus murmured his love into her ear, his hands tracing and worshipping her body while he prepared for a second event. Susan’s first impulse was to throw him from her bed and her room, crying inside because this was not her now beloved Laoire, while her heart shrank inside her, curdling at the thought of Laoire discovering she rebuffed him only to sleep with Oengus. He would never speak to her again, and she longed for his touch, a longing which caused her to respond to Oengus’ caresses. Suppose he came to her room now and found her with Oengus? Had he already been? She should throw Oengus out. He would be angry and make a scene, drawing others to see what happened and Laoire would find out. But she must tell Laoire, he would understand. Wouldn’t he?
Oengus became excited and frantic, while Susan’s lips compressed. Laoire must not find out about Oengus. Oengus must leave happy and content, in the morning before sunrise. As a ranger he would be of use to her in the future and it would not be a good thing to upset him. While she calculated her options, her body responded in ways Naomi taught her, controlling and slowing Oengus’ movement, drawing him into the steady heightening of the senses which would give him the most pleasure. When he thrashed and bit the pillow, she felt nothing but satisfaction; satisfaction at a job well done, squeezing and caressing to enhance the moment, draining the energy from Oengus so he fell into a deep sleep.
She rose and washed herself, listening to his gentle snores, before thinking ahead to the morning. She must hustle him out as fast as possible, make sure he was gone before anyone could know he was here. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep as his snores drove her imagination down tortuous avenues, stalked by Laoire casting disgusted glances at her, never speaking.
Fleeing Foe
Asmara raced down the wide path through the forest, overtaking three Lancers finishing off a group of Spakka. She didn’t know where Sir Lionel or Sergeant Russell were, she was alone, desperate for a proper kill. Yes, she had taken seven so far, but all running away. She knew Lionel and the Lancers manoeuvred her to avoid danger and yearned for a duel.
Yes, at last, here was a Spakka, ready and waiting for her, confident and grinning at the sight of a girl. His axe dripped gore, proclaiming his skill, but she did not hesitate, slapping her heels into the horse who charged the Spakka. Speed, that was the key according to Jeremy. She leant forward, her cheek against the horse’s neck and aimed her lance at his chest. The point wobbled, she found her arm straining and forced herself to relax. The lance point dipped before rising to centre itself and she relaxed back in the saddle. Closing, the Spakka whipped his axe up and she threw herself forward, adding distance to the length of her lance as she leant forward. The Spakka tried to speed up his stroke, too late, she was through and not prepared for the shock of the impact which threw her back in the saddle, dropping the lance and grabbing for the cantle.
The axe, heading straight for her face, dropped in mid-air as the Spakka groaned, his hands on his belly around the lance shaft and his face white as he spat his fury at dying at the hands of a girl, a little girl.
Asmara gave up the unequal struggle, slipped out of the saddle off the back of the horse. She thumped onto the ground, landing painfully on her bottom, while the spear and her momentum flipped her round to land on her stomach, sliding her along the grass past the Spakka till her face stopped just a couple of paces from him. He glared at her, unable to move his hands from his stomach. She watched the life pass out of his eyes which still stared at her in accusation.
A horse stopped beside her and the rider landed beside her with feather-light impact. A hand grasped her arm and Sir Lionel helped her to stand.
“Good strike, nice and fast, right in the belly. We don’t normally do that if we can avoid it, because you lose your lance with big fellows like him. You can’t hang on. Now, retrieve your lance, clean it and let’s go. We have some ships to catch.”
“He, he looked at me...”
“Of course he did, he was trying to kill you but you were too good for him. Come on, foot on his belly and pull it out, that’s the way, nice and steady.”
He talked gently without stopping, not giving her the opportunity to think or speak, through the retrieval and cleansing of her lance to mounting her horse, busy grazing with not a concern for her health. She kicked him into motion with savage heels as Sergeant Russell arrived, raised an eyebrow at Sir Lionel and smoothly took over the talking. Between the two of them, they brought a small smile back to her face.
The bearded face of Matt arrived, smiling as always, with news.
“Jez is with the king. He only got nine today so he’s way behind, even if one was the king. Did you see it? We raced up the hill so fast they didn’t even realise we were there and Jez smacked his lance right through his eye as turned. Eeurgh, it was horrible, his head just exploded like a pine twist put on the fire.” Matt chuckled. “You should have seen the Spakka when they saw that, and later the crown as we ran along the back. Sick they were, and they broke.”
“Where is Jez?” Lionel hoped he misheard and his brother was not really with the king. He dreaded what Jeremy might say and do.
“He’s with the king. I’ve got to rush, Robbo is up to sixteen and I want to catch him, I’ve only got twelve. Oh, forgot to tell you. Sheepy is on eleven, Steve got chopped but he’s ok but Paul is dead, missed his strike. Andy lost two horses and is still going. Have you seen Pez?”
Matt took off without waiting for an answer. The princess followed Sir Lionel in a daze up the trail. Dead Spakka littered the way until the trail disgorged them onto a wide curved beach where low waves broke at intervals. Debris littered the beach as far as the eye could see, signs of a previous encampment. The undergrowth beneath the trees at the edge of the beach was gone, trodden down by thousands of soldiers going about their daily business. The smell of shit stayed strong in the air, as the wind blew offshore in small gusts. Small huts could be seen under the trees, thrown together from branches liberated from the lower boughs of the trees. Further along the coast, perhaps two hundred paces from where the trail emerged, stood a small stockade, rough pine trunks standing perhaps twice a man’s height. A sea of stumps beyond told the source of the timber.
Drawn up along the beach, more than thirty Spakka longships lay on their sides, masts pointing north. Two pulled away from shore, undermanned, while a third half floated free surrounded by horsemen pointing lances at the oars. Several bodies hung over the side while more lay spread-eagled across the sand from the trees to the water.
They cantered down to the Lancers, past several peering into each ship. Sir Lionel pulled up beside the older man from yesterday.
“Why aren’t you searching the ships, Robbie?”
“Guards. Willis got brained when he boarded that ship.”
“I’ll send for the Pathfinders. They won’t have any trouble. Pity, as most of the loot will be on these.”
Robbie stiffened before barking out some commands and six riders jumped onto the first ship. They went through it at speed, finding it empty of people but a full cargo of grain below decks. They moved to the second ship, when a piercing girl’s scream drifted down the wind, just audible over the waves. Sir Lionel led the way, cantering up to the rough stockade, where a horse cropped the thin grass outside, while its rider hesitated in the gate. Asmara recognised Matt, an uncertain expression on his face. The scream came again, abject fear. She pushed past him, and also stopped.
The stockade overflowed with women, empty eyed, sitting on the ground, a couple making haphazard attempts to clean themselves up. One young girl, backed against the far wall, screamed again, her eyes wide with terror at the sight of Matt. Sir Lionel and a few other riders pushed in behind Asmara, including Sergeant Russell who knew what they had found.
“This is the Spakka’s slave compound. That poor lass will have been raped a few times, and is scared of men. We’ll need to find some of the older women to take charge. Here, princess, this is no place for you. Let’s go and see the ships.”
“Shut up, Andy. These are my people, they need me. What do you mean by slaves and rape? They forced that girl?” Asmara understood the technicalities, if a little hazy on the detail. “Guys, get out. You are scaring the girls.”
Casting backward glances, the Lancers retreated, returning to secure the ships, though Andy mounted guard at the door, overseeing from a distance as Asmara approached the women.
“I am Princess Asmara,” she said in clear, low tones. “The Spakka are defeated and you are free. We are the vanguard, but I can send for what you need. Healers? Food? Clothing?”
One woman, a little older, pulled herself to her feet and gave the princess a wan smile. “Time is what we need, mistress. We’ve all seen our folk slaughtered by them bastards, our men dying trying to protect us. They moved faster that we thought they could, ma’am. Caught us on the way to the Wall.” She winced slightly.
“Are you hurt? Did they torture and beat you?” The princess showed her concern, taking the woman’s arm.
“I’m sore, ma’am, we all are, but we’ll live. It’s the girls that suffer, they still had their dreams of knights and princes. For the rest of us, well, we manage. It’s good for us to see you, to see you care. Thank you, ma’am.”
Asmara was not sure what to make of the whole situation, and couldn’t remember anyone calling her ma’am before. She felt ineffectual as she took in the women climbing to their feet, adjusting their dress and walking towards her, most managing tired smiles. One girl walked more briskly, coming to join her.
“We’ve not been hurt, your Highness, but we feared for our future. It was not the Spakka who mistreated us, but the Uightlanders. They have made an alliance.”
Asmara nodded in thought, remembering seeing some plaid in the Spakka wall. A noise came from behind her, and the girl’s eyes widened, her lip trembling. Asmara whirled to find Andy staggering back from the door, blood reeling from his head, and a large Spakka swinging his axe. Andy tried to duck, but took a glancing blow and slumped against the wall.
Asmara cried out in fury, dragging her rapier from its scabbard as three more figures pushed through the door, their plaid clothing proclaiming them Uightlanders. All smiled at the sight of the little princess with her tiny sword, and the first minced towards her, swaying his hips, causing his friends to laugh. Asmara thinned her lips, feinted at his head, ducked his block and ran him through the thigh.
He collapsed to the floor, roaring with anger, and the Spakka turned his attention from Andy to Asmara, approaching her with care, holding his axe at the ready while spitting commands at the Uightlanders, more of whom now piled through the gates.
Asmara wanted the Spakka and switched her attention to him, withdrawing from the killing stroke on the Uightlander. The Spakka watched her eyes, keeping the axe between them, twitching it effortlessly to deflect her feints. She dropped her point to his knees and scrambled backwards as the axe sang through the air, much faster than she expected, hissing past her face.
The Spakka grinned, showing a missing tooth although he lacked the usual scars and broken nose, being almost presentable.
“The little girl can sword fight,” he said in understandable Harrhein. “So of good family, I think, maybe even royal.” The axe snickered as it swung in fast, short arcs in front of her, forcing her back to the centre of the stockade while the women backed away, hands over mouths.
Asmara repeated a parry, knew he expected her to repeat again, and the next time he swung from right to left, she pulled back a fraction to let it pass, slipped her sword behind the axe head and helped it on its way while whirling her body round in a circle, her back against the haft of the axe for a moment as she used the momentum to twirl inside his guard and drive the dagger in her left hand into his throat.
That was her plan, high risk she knew, and it failed in spectacular fashion as the warrior read her movement and met her twirl with his left fist, in a cross hook to the jaw. Asmara’s eyelids fluttered and she slumped to the ground.