1
Praise to the storytellers of our time, without whom we would live in darkness.
Hand in hand, Aarin and Ayleth hurried for the trees, where beyond lay their secret sanctuary along the banks of the river. A serene glen lined with willows and birches, it was just the sort of place young people kept secret once discovered.
A hideous wall of brambles cut off the north side from the narrow forest path and passing traders, and local fishermen traveled up to the beaver dam, where the rodents created a small lake. South of Hawksrill Village, the river ran wide and slow—a perfect place to swim.
Aarin stripped off his clothes, revealing dark-tanned skin stretched over a lithe, boyish frame—except his backside, bright white from waist to calf. Ayleth stifled a giggle as he tossed his garments on the ground and waded into the current. Protesting the water was too cold, she sat upon her favorite boulder, to sun like a cat on a step. She combed stray blonde locks away from her face and closed her eyes, face to the sky. Feeling indulgent, a poem came to mind, inspired by the sun shimmering off the river’s roiling surface:
“Every morning see it rise
Coursing slowly 'cross the skies
And the fading moonlight dies
And we two behold its face
Flowing o’er with untold grace
Fire from another place
Upon my skin a gentle kiss
From its light, a warming bliss
Who could ask for more than this?”
Her eyes opened at the sound of Aarin’s laugh. Not the reaction she anticipated. “You find my poem laughable?”
Aarin finished scrubbing his underarms and stepped out onto the rocky bank to where his discarded clothing lay. “You and I see the sun very differently,” he said, not bothering to dry off before tugging his trousers onto his bare backside. “Here, let me have a try—the sun’s something I know a lot about.” Hand over heart, he began—perhaps thinking his posture emphasized the weight of poetic words.
“Burning, scorching, blistering flesh
Just midday—no time to rest.
Fatigue has caused my pace to lag
Strapped behind this half-dead nag.
Despite my pray’rs it still hangs high
Mocking, laughing in the sky.”
Ayleth sniffed and crossed her arms. “That’s why plowboys aren’t poets.”
He chuckled and took her hand, dragging her from her rock perch to lie on the green grass. For as rude as his mocking felt, his cheerful laugh and gentle eyes made up for it. He pulled her into him. “If I had any say in the matter, I’d gladly abandon the plow and begin speaking in verse like you.”
“I do not speak in verse!”
His hand crept over her shoulder—not exactly as one might pet a dog, but certainly a consoling gesture rather than a tender caress. “I think it’s wonderful that you live in that world, Ayleth. The stories and poems you tell please me.”
“Do they?”
“Aye,” he said, closing his eyes and laying the back of his head on her thigh. “Tell me another?”
Ayleth thought a moment. “This one is called the story with no end.”
“Sounds long.”
“It’s about a king with only one daughter. He loved her so much that he did not want to give her away in marriage, so he promised her hand to the first man who could tell him a story without an end.”
“Sounds like the story you told me last night.” Aarin’s brow furrowed. “Do all your stories end with a marriage?”
Ayleth ran her fingers through his drying hair, combing mousy brown curls off to one side. “Of course not,” she said, frowning. “Would you prefer to hear about the princess who lost her crown?”
Aarin sat up and wiped leaves and twigs off his threadbare shirt, still on the ground. “Wizards, monster-slayers, and princesses. Haven’t you any tales about a normal boy?”
“Of course I do.”
“That’s the one I want to hear.”
“One night a boy and girl from a small village met in secret…”
“I like it already,” he said, nuzzling into her neck, his lips picking at tender skin, distracting her. “Tell me, what did they do?”
Ayleth let out a sigh, not certain she even wanted to continue. His naked chest rested against her arm and too-big trousers hung low, revealing a trail of hair running down from his naval, inviting her hands. “Not that.”
“Sorry, keep going.” He snuggled closer and set his chin on her shoulder.
“They sat under the moon, listening to the crickets. But, their presence in the forest did not go unnoticed and soon an evil creature named Absett slinked up to them from the shadows, seizing the boy and pricking him with his poisoned sting.”
Aarin’s lips grazed her neck. “That better not be the end.”
“Just listen.” She pushed his face away to concentrate on her story. “The girl began weeping over the dead boy’s body and soon their parents came looking for the children. When the parents saw the dead boy, they were angry. Absett appeared again. With his magic, he created a river of snakes, then a river of thorns, and then a river of fire. On a small island in the river of fire, he placed a land monitor.”
“What’s a land monitor?” Aarin asked.
“A big lizard.”
“Oh.”
“Absett said to the boy’s mother, ‘If you want me to bring the boy back to life, you must retrieve the land monitor and bring it to me.’
“The boy’s mother answered, ‘I am not swimming through snakes to get bit, or thorns to get pricked or fire to get burnt.’
“‘That’s too bad,’ Absett hissed. ‘If you captured the land monitor, I would have brought back the boy.’
“The girl jumped up, saying, ‘I will get it.’ She swam through the river of snakes, fiercely pushing them aside though they bit her. She swam through the thorns, and many were the pricks she got. When finally when she reached the river of fire, her blood ran freely. She dived into the fire and swam quickly, ignoring the burns.
“She seized the land monitor and swam back through the three rivers to bring it to Absett. As soon as she set it on the ground, the boy came back to life. The girl and both sets of parents wept. ‘Now,’ Absett said, ‘if you kill this land monitor, the boy’s mother will die, but if you let it go free, the girl’s mother will die.’”
Aarin stared expectantly. “Is that the end?”
“Yes.”
“But which did they choose?”
“I don’t know.”
His curiosity disappeared with a frown. “That’s the stupidest story I ever heard! I changed my mind about stories of princesses and wizards. At least those tales make me smile or laugh even when I know how they’re going to end.”
“You said you wanted something different.”
“Different, not pointless. I just feel empty inside now and unable to say why.”
“Oh Aarin,” she pleaded. “It’s only a fable.”
“A fable to squash what little hope I might have that a normal boy could end up happy like the knights and wizards always do.”
“Hope? No one lives like the people in stories.” She set her hand on his. “You and I will never meet a princess or see a dragon or climb a mountain or slay a giant. That’s why we tell stories—to dream and imagine. Not every tale has a tidy, happy ending.”
He threw a rock into the river, not even bothering to skip it on the surface—just an ungraceful splash. “I prefer the tales that do, though. They let me dream that one day I’ll be able to leave all this.”
“You want to leave Hawksrill?”
He shook his head, hanging his arms over his knees. “I know I never can. Becca and Meg need me.”
His sisters—as dear to Ayleth as her own brothers. “Meg’s almost seventeen. She’ll surely marry Francis Cooper this winter.”
“He likes to lie in her bed. I doubt he’ll marry her.”
“Becca will soon enough be grown. We could go to Brazelton and take her with us. My grandfather made a lucrative career there as a bard when he was a young man. That would be the perfect place for us!”
“Logan?” Aarin burst out laughing, his words barely making sense between breaths. “Gods, that must have been something.”
“What’s so funny?”
“I can’t imagine him an entertainer.” His laughter quieted to a chuckle. “He’s just so...stern.”
Ayleth laughed. “He’s wonderful fun when you get to know him. He plays a guitar and has a beautiful voice.”
Aarin leaned back on his hands. “They’re all so strange, your family. You must be like your mother.”
“What?” Ayleth scrunched her brows together, mustering a disapproving look for Aarin’s unbridled assessment of her kinfolk and the mention of her absent mother.
“You don’t look like Ren or your grandparents,” he continued. “They have dark hair and green eyes, and you got blonde hair and your eyes are sort-of purple. You must look like your mother if you don’t look like your father.”
“I guess so,” Ayleth muttered.
“Does he talk about her?” Aarin asked.
“No.” Ayleth wrung her hands, not sure whether to relay her concerns. Sometimes, secrets belonged inside, where they could do no damage to others. Other times, a secret revealed, released a burden from one’s heart. Ayleth wasn’t sure which would help her more just then. Anger settled in her shoulders and fists.
Aarin’s musing continued. “He probably loved her so much it hurts to think about her.”
“Perhaps she was no one important and he has nothing to say,” she countered.
Eyes wide and mouth open, Aarin stared at her. “You don’t think that, do you?”
“I don’t know anything about her,” she said, turning away. “It’s all very suspicious.”
“Suspicious? It’s just a wound he don’t want to open. Maybe one day he will.”
“If he ever comes back.” Ayleth sighed. A year was a long time for even Ren to be gone. As a young girl, she’d loved him—more than anything in the world. Part of her still did—the part that held tight to memories. But memories couldn’t last forever. The father that had been her comfort, cuddling her when she felt alone or got into trouble, was absent. Even if he returned, nothing would be the same. She stomped on a caterpillar inching up a stick. “I don’t even know how she died. Once, I asked him about it. I think I was eight or nine. His face turned melancholy and he said, ‘Ayleth, your mother is gone. Please don’t ask me about her again.’ He wiped his eyes when I left.”
“He wept for her? See, he did love her. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“It occurred to me some time later that he’s never in my life actually said that she was dead.”
Aarin’s voice rang with surprise, rather than skepticism. “You think your mother’s alive?”
“You’ve met him,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s possible she just left?”
Aarin shrugged. “Usually the da leaves, not the mum.”
She threw a rock as far as she could. “I don’t even care what the truth is!”
Aarin slid his hand around her waist. “Of course you do or you wouldn’t have gave it so much thought.” He sighed. “Sorry I brought it up.” And Ayleth knew he meant it.
He sometimes seemed the only person she could trust with thoughts she wanted to share but was afraid to. The secret crept to her tongue and she tried to swallow it back down. His caress, the forest song of crickets and frogs—Ayleth wanted desperately to change the subject. “Aarin? Are you mad at your da?”
His posture tensed. “Yes.” She snuggled into him. “And my mum,” he finished.
“Your mum? But she didn’t leave you, she died.” Suddenly his arm was gone. “Oh Aarin,” she said, reaching for him. “That sounded insensitive. Forgive me.”
“I’m not angry at her because she died,” he said. “I’m angry she didn’t choose a better man to father me—one who cared a bit. Is that too much to ask, to have been wanted?”
Ayleth wiped her eyes. “Please don’t do this,” she begged.
“Becca was eight when Mum died. That left me the man of the house at twelve and Meg, at thirteen, became our mother. How’s that fair? Without the generosity of our neighbors, we wouldn’t have survived that first winter. Couldn’t we have used a father then, to feed us and fix the house after the fire?”
Ayleth’s eyes stung and her hands felt weak. Why had she insisted on turning the focus to her friend? Because it was safer, cruel as that sounded. She’d rather talk about Aarin’s orphaning then her own disgusting situation. A secret she couldn’t tell, even to her best friend.
“Forget the man who walked out on me and Meg, where was Becca’s father? He’s gotta be one of the men in this village. How could he watch us starve and feel no pity?”
Aarin’s anger changed his voice from a sweet melody—pleasant and calm, to a harsh rhythm of clashing notes—chords abandoned. “You don’t know what it’s like. Your da and step-mum might be odd, but at least they take care of you. Your da’s gone but he’s coming back. And your step-mum might have thrown you out of the house, but you still have a roof keeping you dry. We didn’t have neither that first year. And no one gave a shit we were dying.”
Ayleth wiped tears away. Her pain ran deep, but she couldn’t tell Aarin the truth. He wouldn’t understand. “Parents who leave their children might be the saddest thing in all the world,” she managed between sobs. “It’s the most selfish thing anyone can do.”
Aarin’s eyes squinted and his mouth became a tight line, the tiny hairs of his youthful moustache just barely visible and accentuating his disdain. “We’ve talked about our dead mums before, but you’ve never mentioned any of this. Why’s it bothering you now?”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
He studied her and she placed her hands over her tear-stained face. “Please don’t cry,” he whispered into her ear. His arms enfolded her.
“I want to tell you, Aarin, but I cannot speak the words.” She fought against her trembling hands, embarrassed. “If I do, I’ll have to admit it’s true.”
“That what’s true?” All traces of anger fled, replaced by concern.
“A terrible secret.”
“A secret you can’t tell me? It must be a bad one.”
“It is.”
“And I can’t do nothing to make you feel better?”
“No. Sit with me.”
Between the constant lullaby of the babbling river and Aarin’s silent support, given in the form of an arm draped around her, Ayleth found a way to forget her anxiety. Why worry about the things she couldn’t change? Mairi would only be her problem a few more years, at which point Ayleth would be of marrying age. Aarin would make a kind husband. Honest as summer days are long, he’d never betray her like Ren and Mairi.
When evening pushed away the sun’s warmth and light, Ayleth and Aarin abandoned their sanctuary and dragged tired bodies back up the forested hills to Hawksrill. Ren Travers’ house lay on the outskirts, one of the finer homes in the village. Ayleth didn’t understand why he rented such a large estate—choosing not to farm the land but to let the forest slowly reclaim it. He kept a few goats and pigs, raised on foraging, but where his income came from, Ayleth could only guess. Probably from whatever business kept him away so long.
“I can’t stay tonight,” Aarin said as they approached the rear door of the barn.
“Why not?” The thought of not having Aarin’s warmth next to her as she slept came as a huge disappointment.
Aarin held the ladder steady for her to climb up into the hayloft. When Ayleth got comfortable, he lay down beside her. Twilight coaxed shadows out of every corner and crevice of the century-old barn as Ayleth traced her fingers over Aarin’s bony shoulder and into the front of his shirt, saying, “If you stay just a bit longer, I’ll tell you a love story—one you’ll never forget.”
“Is that so?” He scooted closer, the hay rustling under his elbows.
Ayleth giggled and leaned into his side. “Once, long ago, there lived a beautiful girl named Marinde. As her nineteenth birthday approached, everyone in her father’s barony awaited news of who would have her hand in marriage.
“One day the baron asked his four noblest knights, ‘Who among you would you marry my daughter?’
“The first knight, Gerald replied, ‘I would marry Marinde because she is kind and gentle.’
“The baron smiled.
“‘I would marry Marinde for her wit,’ Chadwick, the second knight, said. ‘She is smart and polite to everyone she meets.’
“The baron’s smile broadened.
“Orsen spoke up then, ‘I would marry Marinde, for she is an honorable and loyal woman.’
“The baron beamed. He looked to his fourth knight, a foreigner, but a good man. ‘As you know, My Lord,’ Gert began, ‘I am from a poor family and have no land of my own. I would marry Marinde for her dower lands and let her watch over them as she saw fit.’
“The baron didn’t immediately react and the other three knights frowned in disapproval.
“One day as Marinde was walking in the forest she was attacked by trolls and fought hard to escape them. Bloody and frightened, Marinde fled home and her mother cared for her injuries.
“Soon rumors of Marinde’s disfigurement spread throughout the town and eventually they reached the baron’s ears. He called his four noblest knights before him as Marinde stood veiled nearby. He asked, ‘Who among you will marry Marinde?’
“Silence. Only Gert stepped forward.
“The baron frowned. ‘You Gerald, who admired her gentleness?’
“The first knight shook his head.
“‘You, Chadwick, praised her politeness and intelligence. Is she less intelligent now?’
“Chadwick averted his eyes.
“‘Or perhaps you’d marry her, Orsen, for surely her loyalty and honor cannot be questioned.’
“Orsen did not speak.
“The baron turned to Gert. ‘You wish to marry her though she is no longer beautiful?’
“‘Yes,’ the humble knight said.
“‘Why?’
“Gert didn’t wring his hands, nor shy away. He kept his gaze steady. ‘Marinde is a smart woman and would be very capable of seeing over her dower lands. She is loyal to her people and well-loved by them, where I am a foreigner. She is kind and has a gentle soul, and will make a good wife and mother.’
“The baron pursed his lips in thought. Finally he said, ‘Her dowry is all the land west of the river, to the mountains. Give me your hand and it is yours.’
“Gert held out his hand and the baron placed Marinde’s hand into it. ‘Your wife, Sir Gert. Kiss her and seal the deal.’
“Hesitantly Gert lifted the veil and much to everyone’s surprise Marinde was not disfigured, but only had a small scar running down her left cheek.
“‘Will you be my wife, Marinde?’ he whispered.
“She gave a slight nod, and he took her into his arms and kissed her.
“Later that day, after their wedding celebration, Gert asked Marinde why she hadn’t revealed the truth about her injuries.
“‘Because I wanted the truth,’ she said.”
“Why did she cover her face if she wasn’t even horribly scarred?” Aarin asked, supporting his chin in his palm while he twisted straws in his left hand.
“She wanted a man who would marry her for something more than her beauty.”
“But he married her for her dowry! Isn’t that worse?” He tossed the straw.
“Perhaps honesty was more important to her.” Aarin could be so thick sometimes. She wasn’t sure she could explain the story’s moral any clearer. “Honesty like yours. It’s one of your finest qualities.”
“Maybe. I don’t have any lies to tell, but I reckon I could if I needed to.”
Ayleth sighed. “If you can’t remain all night, would you stay till I fall asleep? I hate this place but when you’re here it isn’t half as bad.”
“Of course I will.” In the darkness, she couldn’t see his smile but didn’t need to. She could hear it in his voice.
She curled up, snuggling close. “Good night Aarin.”
“Good night.” His lips sought hers and when they left again, Ayleth gazed out the window at the tiny crescent in the sky. Perhaps it would rain the next day and Aarin wouldn’t have to work. Then he’d be free to spend the day as he pleased.
If only she’d spent more time in her studies, she might have learned something of weather control—enough to bring a summer storm. Wishful thinking. Even Ren couldn’t make it rain and he was a third tier elemental mage.
Praise to the storytellers of our time, without whom we would live in darkness.
Hand in hand, Aarin and Ayleth hurried for the trees, where beyond lay their secret sanctuary along the banks of the river. A serene glen lined with willows and birches, it was just the sort of place young people kept secret once discovered.
A hideous wall of brambles cut off the north side from the narrow forest path and passing traders, and local fishermen traveled up to the beaver dam, where the rodents created a small lake. South of Hawksrill Village, the river ran wide and slow—a perfect place to swim.
Aarin stripped off his clothes, revealing dark-tanned skin stretched over a lithe, boyish frame—except his backside, bright white from waist to calf. Ayleth stifled a giggle as he tossed his garments on the ground and waded into the current. Protesting the water was too cold, she sat upon her favorite boulder, to sun like a cat on a step. She combed stray blonde locks away from her face and closed her eyes, face to the sky. Feeling indulgent, a poem came to mind, inspired by the sun shimmering off the river’s roiling surface:
“Every morning see it rise
Coursing slowly 'cross the skies
And the fading moonlight dies
And we two behold its face
Flowing o’er with untold grace
Fire from another place
Upon my skin a gentle kiss
From its light, a warming bliss
Who could ask for more than this?”
Her eyes opened at the sound of Aarin’s laugh. Not the reaction she anticipated. “You find my poem laughable?”
Aarin finished scrubbing his underarms and stepped out onto the rocky bank to where his discarded clothing lay. “You and I see the sun very differently,” he said, not bothering to dry off before tugging his trousers onto his bare backside. “Here, let me have a try—the sun’s something I know a lot about.” Hand over heart, he began—perhaps thinking his posture emphasized the weight of poetic words.
“Burning, scorching, blistering flesh
Just midday—no time to rest.
Fatigue has caused my pace to lag
Strapped behind this half-dead nag.
Despite my pray’rs it still hangs high
Mocking, laughing in the sky.”
Ayleth sniffed and crossed her arms. “That’s why plowboys aren’t poets.”
He chuckled and took her hand, dragging her from her rock perch to lie on the green grass. For as rude as his mocking felt, his cheerful laugh and gentle eyes made up for it. He pulled her into him. “If I had any say in the matter, I’d gladly abandon the plow and begin speaking in verse like you.”
“I do not speak in verse!”
His hand crept over her shoulder—not exactly as one might pet a dog, but certainly a consoling gesture rather than a tender caress. “I think it’s wonderful that you live in that world, Ayleth. The stories and poems you tell please me.”
“Do they?”
“Aye,” he said, closing his eyes and laying the back of his head on her thigh. “Tell me another?”
Ayleth thought a moment. “This one is called the story with no end.”
“Sounds long.”
“It’s about a king with only one daughter. He loved her so much that he did not want to give her away in marriage, so he promised her hand to the first man who could tell him a story without an end.”
“Sounds like the story you told me last night.” Aarin’s brow furrowed. “Do all your stories end with a marriage?”
Ayleth ran her fingers through his drying hair, combing mousy brown curls off to one side. “Of course not,” she said, frowning. “Would you prefer to hear about the princess who lost her crown?”
Aarin sat up and wiped leaves and twigs off his threadbare shirt, still on the ground. “Wizards, monster-slayers, and princesses. Haven’t you any tales about a normal boy?”
“Of course I do.”
“That’s the one I want to hear.”
“One night a boy and girl from a small village met in secret…”
“I like it already,” he said, nuzzling into her neck, his lips picking at tender skin, distracting her. “Tell me, what did they do?”
Ayleth let out a sigh, not certain she even wanted to continue. His naked chest rested against her arm and too-big trousers hung low, revealing a trail of hair running down from his naval, inviting her hands. “Not that.”
“Sorry, keep going.” He snuggled closer and set his chin on her shoulder.
“They sat under the moon, listening to the crickets. But, their presence in the forest did not go unnoticed and soon an evil creature named Absett slinked up to them from the shadows, seizing the boy and pricking him with his poisoned sting.”
Aarin’s lips grazed her neck. “That better not be the end.”
“Just listen.” She pushed his face away to concentrate on her story. “The girl began weeping over the dead boy’s body and soon their parents came looking for the children. When the parents saw the dead boy, they were angry. Absett appeared again. With his magic, he created a river of snakes, then a river of thorns, and then a river of fire. On a small island in the river of fire, he placed a land monitor.”
“What’s a land monitor?” Aarin asked.
“A big lizard.”
“Oh.”
“Absett said to the boy’s mother, ‘If you want me to bring the boy back to life, you must retrieve the land monitor and bring it to me.’
“The boy’s mother answered, ‘I am not swimming through snakes to get bit, or thorns to get pricked or fire to get burnt.’
“‘That’s too bad,’ Absett hissed. ‘If you captured the land monitor, I would have brought back the boy.’
“The girl jumped up, saying, ‘I will get it.’ She swam through the river of snakes, fiercely pushing them aside though they bit her. She swam through the thorns, and many were the pricks she got. When finally when she reached the river of fire, her blood ran freely. She dived into the fire and swam quickly, ignoring the burns.
“She seized the land monitor and swam back through the three rivers to bring it to Absett. As soon as she set it on the ground, the boy came back to life. The girl and both sets of parents wept. ‘Now,’ Absett said, ‘if you kill this land monitor, the boy’s mother will die, but if you let it go free, the girl’s mother will die.’”
Aarin stared expectantly. “Is that the end?”
“Yes.”
“But which did they choose?”
“I don’t know.”
His curiosity disappeared with a frown. “That’s the stupidest story I ever heard! I changed my mind about stories of princesses and wizards. At least those tales make me smile or laugh even when I know how they’re going to end.”
“You said you wanted something different.”
“Different, not pointless. I just feel empty inside now and unable to say why.”
“Oh Aarin,” she pleaded. “It’s only a fable.”
“A fable to squash what little hope I might have that a normal boy could end up happy like the knights and wizards always do.”
“Hope? No one lives like the people in stories.” She set her hand on his. “You and I will never meet a princess or see a dragon or climb a mountain or slay a giant. That’s why we tell stories—to dream and imagine. Not every tale has a tidy, happy ending.”
He threw a rock into the river, not even bothering to skip it on the surface—just an ungraceful splash. “I prefer the tales that do, though. They let me dream that one day I’ll be able to leave all this.”
“You want to leave Hawksrill?”
He shook his head, hanging his arms over his knees. “I know I never can. Becca and Meg need me.”
His sisters—as dear to Ayleth as her own brothers. “Meg’s almost seventeen. She’ll surely marry Francis Cooper this winter.”
“He likes to lie in her bed. I doubt he’ll marry her.”
“Becca will soon enough be grown. We could go to Brazelton and take her with us. My grandfather made a lucrative career there as a bard when he was a young man. That would be the perfect place for us!”
“Logan?” Aarin burst out laughing, his words barely making sense between breaths. “Gods, that must have been something.”
“What’s so funny?”
“I can’t imagine him an entertainer.” His laughter quieted to a chuckle. “He’s just so...stern.”
Ayleth laughed. “He’s wonderful fun when you get to know him. He plays a guitar and has a beautiful voice.”
Aarin leaned back on his hands. “They’re all so strange, your family. You must be like your mother.”
“What?” Ayleth scrunched her brows together, mustering a disapproving look for Aarin’s unbridled assessment of her kinfolk and the mention of her absent mother.
“You don’t look like Ren or your grandparents,” he continued. “They have dark hair and green eyes, and you got blonde hair and your eyes are sort-of purple. You must look like your mother if you don’t look like your father.”
“I guess so,” Ayleth muttered.
“Does he talk about her?” Aarin asked.
“No.” Ayleth wrung her hands, not sure whether to relay her concerns. Sometimes, secrets belonged inside, where they could do no damage to others. Other times, a secret revealed, released a burden from one’s heart. Ayleth wasn’t sure which would help her more just then. Anger settled in her shoulders and fists.
Aarin’s musing continued. “He probably loved her so much it hurts to think about her.”
“Perhaps she was no one important and he has nothing to say,” she countered.
Eyes wide and mouth open, Aarin stared at her. “You don’t think that, do you?”
“I don’t know anything about her,” she said, turning away. “It’s all very suspicious.”
“Suspicious? It’s just a wound he don’t want to open. Maybe one day he will.”
“If he ever comes back.” Ayleth sighed. A year was a long time for even Ren to be gone. As a young girl, she’d loved him—more than anything in the world. Part of her still did—the part that held tight to memories. But memories couldn’t last forever. The father that had been her comfort, cuddling her when she felt alone or got into trouble, was absent. Even if he returned, nothing would be the same. She stomped on a caterpillar inching up a stick. “I don’t even know how she died. Once, I asked him about it. I think I was eight or nine. His face turned melancholy and he said, ‘Ayleth, your mother is gone. Please don’t ask me about her again.’ He wiped his eyes when I left.”
“He wept for her? See, he did love her. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“It occurred to me some time later that he’s never in my life actually said that she was dead.”
Aarin’s voice rang with surprise, rather than skepticism. “You think your mother’s alive?”
“You’ve met him,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s possible she just left?”
Aarin shrugged. “Usually the da leaves, not the mum.”
She threw a rock as far as she could. “I don’t even care what the truth is!”
Aarin slid his hand around her waist. “Of course you do or you wouldn’t have gave it so much thought.” He sighed. “Sorry I brought it up.” And Ayleth knew he meant it.
He sometimes seemed the only person she could trust with thoughts she wanted to share but was afraid to. The secret crept to her tongue and she tried to swallow it back down. His caress, the forest song of crickets and frogs—Ayleth wanted desperately to change the subject. “Aarin? Are you mad at your da?”
His posture tensed. “Yes.” She snuggled into him. “And my mum,” he finished.
“Your mum? But she didn’t leave you, she died.” Suddenly his arm was gone. “Oh Aarin,” she said, reaching for him. “That sounded insensitive. Forgive me.”
“I’m not angry at her because she died,” he said. “I’m angry she didn’t choose a better man to father me—one who cared a bit. Is that too much to ask, to have been wanted?”
Ayleth wiped her eyes. “Please don’t do this,” she begged.
“Becca was eight when Mum died. That left me the man of the house at twelve and Meg, at thirteen, became our mother. How’s that fair? Without the generosity of our neighbors, we wouldn’t have survived that first winter. Couldn’t we have used a father then, to feed us and fix the house after the fire?”
Ayleth’s eyes stung and her hands felt weak. Why had she insisted on turning the focus to her friend? Because it was safer, cruel as that sounded. She’d rather talk about Aarin’s orphaning then her own disgusting situation. A secret she couldn’t tell, even to her best friend.
“Forget the man who walked out on me and Meg, where was Becca’s father? He’s gotta be one of the men in this village. How could he watch us starve and feel no pity?”
Aarin’s anger changed his voice from a sweet melody—pleasant and calm, to a harsh rhythm of clashing notes—chords abandoned. “You don’t know what it’s like. Your da and step-mum might be odd, but at least they take care of you. Your da’s gone but he’s coming back. And your step-mum might have thrown you out of the house, but you still have a roof keeping you dry. We didn’t have neither that first year. And no one gave a shit we were dying.”
Ayleth wiped tears away. Her pain ran deep, but she couldn’t tell Aarin the truth. He wouldn’t understand. “Parents who leave their children might be the saddest thing in all the world,” she managed between sobs. “It’s the most selfish thing anyone can do.”
Aarin’s eyes squinted and his mouth became a tight line, the tiny hairs of his youthful moustache just barely visible and accentuating his disdain. “We’ve talked about our dead mums before, but you’ve never mentioned any of this. Why’s it bothering you now?”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
He studied her and she placed her hands over her tear-stained face. “Please don’t cry,” he whispered into her ear. His arms enfolded her.
“I want to tell you, Aarin, but I cannot speak the words.” She fought against her trembling hands, embarrassed. “If I do, I’ll have to admit it’s true.”
“That what’s true?” All traces of anger fled, replaced by concern.
“A terrible secret.”
“A secret you can’t tell me? It must be a bad one.”
“It is.”
“And I can’t do nothing to make you feel better?”
“No. Sit with me.”
Between the constant lullaby of the babbling river and Aarin’s silent support, given in the form of an arm draped around her, Ayleth found a way to forget her anxiety. Why worry about the things she couldn’t change? Mairi would only be her problem a few more years, at which point Ayleth would be of marrying age. Aarin would make a kind husband. Honest as summer days are long, he’d never betray her like Ren and Mairi.
When evening pushed away the sun’s warmth and light, Ayleth and Aarin abandoned their sanctuary and dragged tired bodies back up the forested hills to Hawksrill. Ren Travers’ house lay on the outskirts, one of the finer homes in the village. Ayleth didn’t understand why he rented such a large estate—choosing not to farm the land but to let the forest slowly reclaim it. He kept a few goats and pigs, raised on foraging, but where his income came from, Ayleth could only guess. Probably from whatever business kept him away so long.
“I can’t stay tonight,” Aarin said as they approached the rear door of the barn.
“Why not?” The thought of not having Aarin’s warmth next to her as she slept came as a huge disappointment.
Aarin held the ladder steady for her to climb up into the hayloft. When Ayleth got comfortable, he lay down beside her. Twilight coaxed shadows out of every corner and crevice of the century-old barn as Ayleth traced her fingers over Aarin’s bony shoulder and into the front of his shirt, saying, “If you stay just a bit longer, I’ll tell you a love story—one you’ll never forget.”
“Is that so?” He scooted closer, the hay rustling under his elbows.
Ayleth giggled and leaned into his side. “Once, long ago, there lived a beautiful girl named Marinde. As her nineteenth birthday approached, everyone in her father’s barony awaited news of who would have her hand in marriage.
“One day the baron asked his four noblest knights, ‘Who among you would you marry my daughter?’
“The first knight, Gerald replied, ‘I would marry Marinde because she is kind and gentle.’
“The baron smiled.
“‘I would marry Marinde for her wit,’ Chadwick, the second knight, said. ‘She is smart and polite to everyone she meets.’
“The baron’s smile broadened.
“Orsen spoke up then, ‘I would marry Marinde, for she is an honorable and loyal woman.’
“The baron beamed. He looked to his fourth knight, a foreigner, but a good man. ‘As you know, My Lord,’ Gert began, ‘I am from a poor family and have no land of my own. I would marry Marinde for her dower lands and let her watch over them as she saw fit.’
“The baron didn’t immediately react and the other three knights frowned in disapproval.
“One day as Marinde was walking in the forest she was attacked by trolls and fought hard to escape them. Bloody and frightened, Marinde fled home and her mother cared for her injuries.
“Soon rumors of Marinde’s disfigurement spread throughout the town and eventually they reached the baron’s ears. He called his four noblest knights before him as Marinde stood veiled nearby. He asked, ‘Who among you will marry Marinde?’
“Silence. Only Gert stepped forward.
“The baron frowned. ‘You Gerald, who admired her gentleness?’
“The first knight shook his head.
“‘You, Chadwick, praised her politeness and intelligence. Is she less intelligent now?’
“Chadwick averted his eyes.
“‘Or perhaps you’d marry her, Orsen, for surely her loyalty and honor cannot be questioned.’
“Orsen did not speak.
“The baron turned to Gert. ‘You wish to marry her though she is no longer beautiful?’
“‘Yes,’ the humble knight said.
“‘Why?’
“Gert didn’t wring his hands, nor shy away. He kept his gaze steady. ‘Marinde is a smart woman and would be very capable of seeing over her dower lands. She is loyal to her people and well-loved by them, where I am a foreigner. She is kind and has a gentle soul, and will make a good wife and mother.’
“The baron pursed his lips in thought. Finally he said, ‘Her dowry is all the land west of the river, to the mountains. Give me your hand and it is yours.’
“Gert held out his hand and the baron placed Marinde’s hand into it. ‘Your wife, Sir Gert. Kiss her and seal the deal.’
“Hesitantly Gert lifted the veil and much to everyone’s surprise Marinde was not disfigured, but only had a small scar running down her left cheek.
“‘Will you be my wife, Marinde?’ he whispered.
“She gave a slight nod, and he took her into his arms and kissed her.
“Later that day, after their wedding celebration, Gert asked Marinde why she hadn’t revealed the truth about her injuries.
“‘Because I wanted the truth,’ she said.”
“Why did she cover her face if she wasn’t even horribly scarred?” Aarin asked, supporting his chin in his palm while he twisted straws in his left hand.
“She wanted a man who would marry her for something more than her beauty.”
“But he married her for her dowry! Isn’t that worse?” He tossed the straw.
“Perhaps honesty was more important to her.” Aarin could be so thick sometimes. She wasn’t sure she could explain the story’s moral any clearer. “Honesty like yours. It’s one of your finest qualities.”
“Maybe. I don’t have any lies to tell, but I reckon I could if I needed to.”
Ayleth sighed. “If you can’t remain all night, would you stay till I fall asleep? I hate this place but when you’re here it isn’t half as bad.”
“Of course I will.” In the darkness, she couldn’t see his smile but didn’t need to. She could hear it in his voice.
She curled up, snuggling close. “Good night Aarin.”
“Good night.” His lips sought hers and when they left again, Ayleth gazed out the window at the tiny crescent in the sky. Perhaps it would rain the next day and Aarin wouldn’t have to work. Then he’d be free to spend the day as he pleased.
If only she’d spent more time in her studies, she might have learned something of weather control—enough to bring a summer storm. Wishful thinking. Even Ren couldn’t make it rain and he was a third tier elemental mage.
