Original fic, Airhien

[janetlin]

Was feeling like writing today, so I went looking through old notebooks and computer files looking for inspiration, and I found this, which I had written for my Creative Writing class last summer. I'd been holding off posting it because I intended to submit it to a writing contest, but now I think I'll share it with you guys, instead.

Title: Airhien
Rating: PG
Genre: Fantasy
Summary: If you love someone, let them go...


Airhien

Bran woke to find her gone, as he had known she would be; she was always gone in the mornings. He also knew that she would come back, because she always did. Some day, the old thought interrupted, some day she won’t return. You can’t change what she is. In twenty years, though, every morning she had returned to him from the east, and every night when they retired he hoped she would stay with him just one more day.

They never spoke of where she went and what she did there, but Bran knew. He knew what she was and had known enough of her kind to respect their peculiarities and their desire for privacy during the rituals. So every morning, no matter where they were, she slipped away before he woke, and he had breakfast ready for both of them by the time she returned.

This morning, though… there was something different about today. Something about the letter she had been given last night made today different. Bran’s stomach twisted; he knew who the letter must be from. Ignoring the banked coals of last night’s fire, he slipped into the trees after her. There was a rocky outcrop slightly north and east of their camp, and Bran knew she would be there. As he approached, he could hear singing, like Nature herself speaking to him. The song was wind through the trees, the chatter of birds, and the low, warm thrum of the earth itself. Nothing human could make that sound, and Bran smiled; he had never heard her sing before. Following the song, he stopped at the edge of the trees and could finally see her, standing on top of the rise with her arms stretched out to the lightening horizon. Her song rose as the sun did, and Bran found himself wondering whether the sun caused her to sing, or if the sound of her voice had made the sun rise.

She was bathed in its warm glow, and her red-gold hair shone, its gentle waves flowing like a slow river down to her waist. Many men before Bran had lost their hearts to the unearthly beauty of her kin, and Bran could hardly fault them. He was powerless to do anything but watch and listen to her rite.

Her song faded as the initial shock of the sunrise dissipated and, without turning, she said, “Good morning, Bran.” He was not surprised, of course her elvin ears had heard his approach.

“Good morning, Maryn,” he replied. It was the name she had asked him to use, but he doubted it was the one her parents had given her; it was suspiciously shorter than elvin names usually were, and lacking in their favored soft consonants and multiple vowels. “So this is what you do in the mornings,” he said, not wishing to spoil the tranquil mood by bringing up the letter.

She still did not turn to him. Her upturned face drank in the sunlight. “When you were a child, did you not seek your mother’s kiss upon waking in the morning?” she asked.

“It has been a long time since I was a child, but I suppose so, yes,” Bran replied.

“This is much the same,” she explained. “We greet our Mother at the birth of each day. We thank Her for delivering us through another dark night, and ask for Her blessing and guidance.” She paused and turned her head slightly. “You have never before sought me during my vigil.”

Bran shrugged, “Today felt different.”

“You are perceptive,” she replied, and his thoughts finished, for a human.

“It’s the letter, isn’t it?” he asked when he couldn’t stand the ensuing silence. He hadn’t wanted to be so abrupt, but anything that could affect her mood this way must be important.

“Yes,” she whispered, and returned her gaze to the sunrise.

Bran hated himself for pressing, but he had to know. “It’s from him?” Part of him hoped she would say no, that he hadn’t called her home, that everything would somehow stay the same.

“Yes,” she said, such a tiny word to imply so much.

In twenty years, he had never sent her a single letter. And suddenly, now…. Bran wrinkled his forehead, and asked, “Isn’t it usually your brother who -”

“My brother is dead,” she said, and a cloud obscured the newborn sunshine, as if summoned by her grief.

Bran walked over to her and turned her face to him. Her violet eyes were bright with the promise of tears. “Maryn,” he breathed, and pulled her to him. She leaned into his chest without protest and let her tears fall. Bran rested his chin on the top of her head and tried not to think about what else this news meant.

She pulled away from him and wiped her face. “I must return,” she said, voicing Bran’s worst fear. He could only nod. “Will you come with me on this journey, too?” she asked.

How could he refuse those eyes? “I would go with you anywhere,” he answered honestly. Even if it’s returning you to him.

She seemed to have somehow doubted he would agree, because she gave him a relieved smile and leaned into his arms again. It will take us six weeks to reach the Greatwood, he calculated. He had six weeks left with her.

Twenty years earlier…

The patrons of the Ranger’s Watch were in high spirits, laughing loudly and emphatically applauding the minstrel by the fire for his repertoire of slightly off-color ballads. The barmaid wove through the scattered tables to set four tankards of ale at the booth in the corner. Bran raised his in thanks to her, and she winked at him as she turned away. Parth, the leader of their little band, reached out to pinch her hip as she passed, which earned him a slap and a scornful look. The four men simply laughed.

Parth reached up and mussed Bran’s dark curls. “Ah, she only likes the young one!” he declared, and they laughed again. At twenty-three, Bran was indeed the youngest, though the twins, Mat and Thom, were only three years his seniors. Parth scratched at his grizzled beard and said, “She would obviously benefit from knowing a gentleman with more… experience.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“A gentleman,” came a soft voice from behind his shoulder, “would not speak of such things.”

The four men looked to the end of the bar nearest them, and found a cloaked and hooded figure nursing a pint. The shape under the cloak was indistinguishable, but the hand holding the mug was decidedly feminine. Parth raised an eyebrow at the twins, who nodded. As one, the three of them rose and approached the woman while Bran leaned back in his seat. Despite his youth, he did not enjoy the challenge of wenching as much as they did, and preferred simply to watch.

Parth laid a hand on her shoulder, and she spun around, the hood falling away to reveal hair like molten gold and furious violet eyes in a face as smooth and pale as the White Dunes. The last chord from the minstrel’s lute hung in the air and faded, unnoticed. The room stilled as if a cold wind had blown through, and every man’s eyes turned to her. It was like she pulled them to her, and Bran felt himself leaning toward her, too, unable to look away. She was dressed plainly in ranger’s garb: dark greens and browns and dusty black, but she shone, and everything else in the world was forgotten.

“Ah, a fairy lass!” Parth said, the first to recover from the shock. He raised his hand again to stroke her elegantly pointed ear.

She batted his hand away and the next thing Bran knew, his friend was falling backwards against the bar. The twins stared for a moment, dumbfounded, and then as one advanced upon her. She lashed out at both of them with her hands and feet, her movements as fluid and graceful as if she were dancing. Mat and Thom could hardly react to one strike before the next landed. Bran watched with shameless admiration as the mysterious elf pummeled his friends, and once she was done with them, she turned to him.

“You can wipe that grin off your face,” she told him. “You’re next.”

“I, lady?” Bran asked innocently.

“These are your friends?” she motioned to Parth and the twins, who now lay groaning on the floor.

Bran looked at them, knowing he was making a choice. “Not exactly friends,” he said, “we travel and do business together.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are highwaymen,” she observed, and the patrons who had been watching intently suddenly turned away. Nobody wanted to attract the attention of bandits.

Ignoring them, Bran smiled at her and rose to make a little bow. “At your service,” he replied.

“It would serve me to rid the countryside of your filth!” She reached for the polished oak staff leaning against the bar and stepped toward him.

“Alas, my lady, I am too drunk to properly enjoy the dance,” Bran said, hoping she had not noticed the mug in his hand was still his first. Not too drunk, he thought, but too wary to face you unprepared. “Tomorrow, perhaps?” He flashed his most winning grin, but she was unaffected.

“By tomorrow I will be gone,” she answered, heading toward the door.

Bran laughed. “But you have promised me a dance!” he insisted, surprised at his own arrogance. Something about her made him bolder, or perhaps it was just the ale.

She stopped with her hand on the latch and turned to him again. “I have promised you nothing but a lesson,” she replied, and disappeared into the night. The life seemed to have gone out of the room, and Bran imagined the fire in the hearth was not as bright now. The minstrel began picking at his lute again, but this time he sang a somber lay about a man who had fallen in love with an elf and pined for her until his body wasted away. He died with the white snowdrops he had picked for her clutched to his chest; they took root in the soil that had claimed him, and ever after bloomed the dark red of his heart’s blood.

Bran shook his head and set down his ale to help Parth and the twins, who were no longer in the mood for carousing, up to their room. By the time they all woke the following morning, Bran was already dressed and preparing to leave. “You’re off after that fairy?” Parth asked him.

“I am,” Bran replied, swinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “The lady has offered me a dance, and it would be rude to refuse.”

“You fool,” Thom declared, “you’ll be chasing her across the whole world!”

Bran laughed. “And what an adventure that would be!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps someone will make a song of it some day.”

Parth shook his head. “You young ones are hopeless,” he grumbled, and the twins, though they were young too, nodded sagely.

Bran winked and chuckled as he left.

The elf-maid had not tried to hide her tracks, and light though her footsteps were, Bran followed them through the forest without much difficulty. She had only traveled about two miles from the edge of town, and when Bran came upon her in a clearing, she was still leaning over a small fire and finishing her breakfast. “You have followed me,” she observed, raising an eyebrow.

Bran nodded. “We had an engagement,” he reminded her.

“Are you so eager to learn your lesson?” Bran thought he heard a sigh in her soft voice.

Undeterred, he declared, “I am eager to learn everything at your hands.” She shook her head and stood up, stretching her limbs with the same fluid grace Bran had seen the night before. “Teach me how you fight,” he said, desperate for any reason to stay near her.

She fixed her unsettling violet gaze upon him, and when his confidence didn’t falter, she said simply, “I am not a teacher,” and began rolling up her blankets.

“Then let me learn by watching you.” Bran knew it wasn’t the ale now; there was something about this mysterious elf that drew him, and he knew he could not let her escape.

“My path is my own,” she said, not looking at him.

“As is mine,” Bran agreed. “So are they not somehow the same?”

She tugged hard on the ropes securing her rolled blankets. “Must I fight you to make you leave?”

Amused by her exasperation, Bran held out his arms and smiled. “Let us fight, then,” he offered, “and decide after.”

She dropped the roll next to her staff and approached him unarmed. To be fair, Bran took off his sword belt and let it fall. He reminded himself of what he had seen in the tavern, and willed his body to be loose and fluid, as hers was. He surprised both of them by deflecting her first strike, and was lucky to block a few more of the hundreds she rained down upon him. Before he knew what was happening, though, he was lying on the ground, with her heel pressed against his windpipe.

“Is this elvin magic?” Bran asked, his voice sounding like a croak.

She smiled. “There is much you must learn,” she replied, and walked back to her campsite.

Bran rubbed his throat as he sat up. “In the meantime, great teacher, what shall I call you?”

She turned, and her fairy eyes laughed at him. “My name is Maryn.”

They traveled in silence for most of the first day. Though his curiosity was like a raindrop that kept falling on his forehead, Bran would not force her to speak until she was ready. Her brother has died, he reminded himself, and he is calling her home. There was more here to consider than how the situation would affect Bran. Though he would miss her terribly, he tried not to think about it.

“Bless you, Bran,” she said suddenly while they were stopped under a great oak and he was breaking the hard bread and cheese for their midday meal.

“For what?” Bran asked, handing over the cheese.

“For not speaking when I needed silence,” she answered, smiling. “I think I am rubbing off on you: you are more elvin than you know.” Bran didn’t know what to say, so he just returned her smile. She pulled a rolled parchment from her rucksack and cradled it in her hands. Her voice was soft and she spoke slowly, “You have never asked for explanations, and for that I am grateful. But the time has come for the answers you deserve. This...,” she hesitated, and then held the scroll out to him, “this is as good a beginning as any.” Bran handed her the bread and took the parchment.

It was addressed to “Airhien” in a flowing script Bran knew his fingers could never imitate. He ran his thumb across the strange word. This is her name, he realized, and suddenly everything he did not know about the woman he had spent twenty years with yawned like a chasm before him. She was watching him, so he obediently unfurled it and read:

Airhien,

I am sorry that after so many years my first letter must bear such ill news. Two days ago, your brother fell defending me and our home from a goblin attack. Your father is proud Anruael was faithful to his duty, but your mother is not consoled. She demanded that I find you, but I confessed to her, as I do to you, that Anruael never revealed your whereabouts or your correspondence to me. I learned only after his successor as Captain of the Guard brought me this stack of letters from his quarters.

Why have you been hiding, Rhienin? Why did you ask your brother to keep such a secret from me? We never kept secrets as children; we told each other everything. Do you remember? We told each other the names we would choose, long before we were old enough. We confessed our grandest dreams and darkest shames, all on the shores of that pond with the lupines. Our circle has been broken now, and you must feel it as keenly as I do. Please come home; your family needs you. Anruael was all your parents had after you left, and now he is gone, too. He cannot return, but you can.

If, upon your return, you wish to be relieved of our arrangement (as it would seem, given your disappearance), I am sure I can persuade my father. It has been so long, and since it was never formally announced, no one should object. Your mother, as you can imagine, may try, but if you threaten her with running away again, she will almost certainly give in. She was quite shaken last time, as were we all. Anruael and I never went back to that pond; it must have dried up and turned into a meadow by now. Your father retired from training the Guards to tend to your mother, and I… well, Father tried to keep me busy, with little success. I took up scouting with the Guards; I hoped to be the first one to find you when you returned. Anruael was the only one who understood.

He was always the truest friend, and will be given honors worthy of his sacrifice. His rites will take place on the solstice. I do not dare hope you are near enough to return in time, but one of my prayers that night will be for you and your journey. May the Mother light your path home.

~Ciraelan~

The letter raised more questions than Bran had ever allowed himself to think about. He rolled it and handed it back to her, the name on the outside once more catching his eye. “‘Airhien’?” he asked.

She nodded. “The name I chose for myself when I was old enough.”

“Which was how old?” Bran knew it was probably rude to ask, but she had opened the door.

A corner of her mouth lifted and she admitted, “Forty years, as you count them.”

“Then you’re….” Bran raised an eyebrow.

She answered simply, “Old enough to be your grandmother, yes.”

Bran was taken aback. He had assumed that she was older than he, but he had never imagined she would be that much older. Looking at her again, though, he realized he shouldn’t have been surprised. Her youthfully smooth face was the same now as twenty years ago, and he should have suspected that it had been so for many years before she met him. Bran was reminded that his own face had not borne the years as gracefully: forty years of living out in the wild had toughened his skin, and the hazel eyes that used to win him smiles from barmaids and merchants’ daughters were now hooded and had creases in the corners. Did you think keeping company with an elf would grant you her eternal youth? he chided himself. Changing the subject, he asked, “And this… Ciraelan?”

She smiled as if to ease his discomfort and answered, “Ciraelan was my brother’s and my best friend as we were growing up.” She stopped at that, but Bran knew there must be more.

“And now he is…,” he prodded.

She sighed. “Now he is the prince,” she said, “and my betrothed.” Her soft words were a mortal wound to Bran. He had known that she had run away from romantic involvement with another elf, but he had never pressed her for more details. Now the truth loomed over him like a hungry dragon, smacking its chops over the shreds of Bran’s heart. Not just “involvement,” the dragon hissed, betrothal. And to a prince.

“Is that why you ran away?” Bran asked, to bring himself back from his dark thoughts.

“Yes,” she answered. “It was arranged by our parents. Ciraelan and I… he was confident that it would not affect our friendship, but I was not so sure. My mother and I argued about it, and I left. I hated her for trying to destroy the best thing in my life.”

“But by running away,” Bran pressed, “didn’t you destroy it?”

She shrugged, “I always thought I would come back some day, after all the fuss had settled down.”

“What kept you?” Bran asked, trying not to sound as hopeful as he felt.

“The longer I was gone,” she replied, “the more awkward I knew it would be to return, and then I met you.” She shrugged. “With our friendship, returning no longer seemed as important.”

“He loved you,” Bran said quietly. He loves you still, from the tone of that letter.

“I know,” she replied. “I think I’ve always known. I just… never let myself realize it.”

“And you love him.” That was clear to Bran now.

She looked at him with those unnatural eyes and actually looked surprised. “I suppose I do.” She laughed, “Again, something I never allowed myself to admit. Besides,” she reached up and ran her slender fingers through the graying hair at his temples, “it was easy to ignore when I was with you.” She kissed his forehead, and Bran’s mind wandered back to the only other time he had felt those lips, years ago. They had both had plenty of mead and for once let the needs of their bodies take control; the next morning, they had both claimed not to remember anything, but Bran knew that he, at least, had lied. He carried the feel of her hands on his skin even now, and sometimes the wind felt like the way her hair had brushed his face.

“You loved me, too,” she said, sweeping away Bran’s defenses. She knew. He had tried to tell himself his fascination was only a reaction to her supernatural nature; if he were out of her presence, he would no longer be affected. But she had stripped him down, and the only thing left was the truth.

He swallowed, but his voice was hoarse when he said, “Yes.”

“For how long?” she asked.

It was a simple question that deserved a simple answer. “Always,” he said, and reached up to take her small hand in his, “and still.”

“Dear Bran,” she smiled at him, but now that he had started, he had to finish.

“But I will go with you this one last time,” he said, “to take you home to him. You belong with your kind, and the man you love.” Am I convincing her, or myself? he wondered.

“I have been with a man I loved these many years,” she said, squeezing his fingers.

Ignoring the flame of hope that swept through him, Bran insisted, “That’s not the same.”

“Love is love,” she replied with a shrug, but Bran knew it wasn’t so simple.

“Airhien,” he said, which caught her attention. How many years had it been since someone had spoken her true name? “You and I both know that you need to return,” he continued. “You belong with them. Don’t chain yourself to me; I don’t want you to watch me die.”

“Death is not so near, my friend,” she said, but Bran saw her eyes flick again to his graying curls.

“It is near enough,” Bran countered, and forced himself to stand up, away from her. “Come,” he said, stuffing the rest of the bread and cheese into his pack, “we are making good time.” He didn’t dare look at her, didn’t dare meet those eyes, or he would not be able to take another step.

Two days past five weeks, they reached the border of the Greatwood. The grassy plain stopped abruptly at the feet of tall and forbidding trees Bran recognized at a distance as Sentinels, seeming as absolute a barrier as the great sea-walls of the south. Beyond the first row of trunks, the trees grew so close together the canopy was nearly solid. Very little light reached the forest floor, and though Bran knew the elves who lived here were creatures of light, his mind thought of what other beings and beasts would flourish in such eternal murk: goblins and wolves and serpents as long as the trees were tall. Bran was reminded of every fairy tale and legend he had ever heard, and couldn’t imagine creatures like elves living in the same forest as such horrors. Airhien, as he had been forcing himself to think of her, sensed his trepidation.

“Do not fear to walk in shadow,” she told him, “it is a creation of the Mother, as we are.” Her words had the sound of something elvin mothers told their children at bedtime.

“How do you greet the Mother, in there?” he asked, stalling for time.

Airhien looked askance at him and answered, “Climb a tall tree,” in carefully even tones. Bran supposed this would have been obvious, if he were an elf, and she must have wanted to laugh at him. “Come,” she said, and tugged at his sleeve. Bran certainly didn’t want to try finding his way through the forest on his own, so he followed close behind her.

They walked for miles, turning in places Bran didn’t even realize there were trail markers, but Airhien’s pace never hesitated. She knew exactly where she was going, though Bran wished she didn’t seem in such a hurry to get there. She needs to see her family, he reminded himself. The solstice was three months past, now, and their grief must be healing, but Airhien’s was still raw. She keened for her brother in the dark of night, when she thought Bran was asleep. She had abandoned Anruael, too, when she had run away, and Bran knew that her guilt must be almost as great as her grief. If Airhien had been home, he was certain she would have been at her brother’s side in that battle, and might have saved him. That is, he thought darkly, if she weren’t kept safe in the castle, with her belly swollen with her prince’s heir. He shook the thought away.

“Are you tiring?” Airhien asked, misinterpreting his frown.

“No,” Bran replied, “just thinking.”

“Tiring work, indeed,” she grinned, and walked up to one of the trees. “This will do,” she said, patting the trunk, “up you go, it’s nearly sunset.”

“How can you tell?” Bran asked. Airhien raised an eyebrow. “Right,” he said, jumping to reach the lowest branches and swing himself up.

“Keep going,” she instructed. “The branches are smaller and closer together near the top; it’s quite comfortable.” Bran nodded and kept climbing. He could hear her following below him. She undoubtedly could have climbed faster, but Bran realized she was making sure he was all right.

The tree was impossibly tall, and Bran’s arms and legs ached when Airhien called up to him, “You’re nearly there.”

Nearly there, he mused, what is “nearly” supposed to mean to someone who never tires? He pulled himself up through a gap in what seemed to be a carefully woven mat of branches, and was met by a pair of violet eyes.

Bran nearly fell back down with the shock. “Who are you,” the strange elf asked, “and what are you doing here?” In a flash, Bran felt cold metal pressed to his throat.

“I’m traveling with an elf,” Bran answered, hoping that somehow granted him safe passage through their homeland. Airhien had not mentioned there would be any problems. “Her name is Airhien,” Bran said, and the elf’s eyes narrowed. He doesn’t believe me. “She is the sister of Anruael, who was Captain of the Guard, and the betrothed of prince Ciraelan.”

“If she has come to harm….” the blade pressed closer against Bran’s skin.

“She has not,” Bran promised. “She’s coming right behind me.” He motioned to the gap through which he’d come. They could already hear the slight rustling of her approach.

Bran had never been so glad to see her red-gold hair as when she emerged from the branches. The blade fell away from Bran’s throat, and the elf who had held it looked positively stricken. “Airhien,” he breathed, and she turned to his voice.

When her eyes fell upon him, Airhien’s face went pale. “Highness,” she said, and pulled herself up to make a curtsey. Bran looked again at the elf who had threatened him. His clothes were well-made, the knife he still held intricately crafted, and above his brows was a thin golden circlet holding back hair so white-blond it was nearly silver. Bran made a half-bow and looked sideways at Airhien for guidance.

“Rhienin,” the elf spoke, the nickname that had been used in the letter, and finally Bran knew who he must be. Sheathing the knife, he approached Airhien and folded her into an embrace. “You have returned,” he said into her hair.

“Yes, Ciraelan,” she replied, “as soon as I received your letter.” Her hands pressed against his back and Bran wanted to look away. This is why you brought her here, he reminded himself, but he hadn’t thought he’d have to see such a personal reunion.

“I had feared it was lost,” Ciraelan said, pulling back from her. “I had feared you were lost.” Bran noticed his hands were pressing her arms tightly, and a surge of protectiveness swept through him. If he hurts her….

“I have been well,” Airhien assured him, and his grip seemed to lessen. “My good friend Bran has taken fine care of me.”

The prince turned to Bran, who bowed again. “Your highness,” he mumbled, feeling very much like an interloper upon their private moment. Ciraelan took him by the shoulders and pulled him up.

“I am indebted to you,” he said, embracing Bran, “for returning my dear friend.” Bran had to admit that the prince seemed perfectly amiable, though he resolved to watch him closely for any sign that Airhien would not be safe or well cared for with him. “Please,” Ciraelan continued, unaware of Bran’s skepticism, “be my guest in my father’s home for as long as you like. There will be a grand feast for Airhien’s return.” His expression turned serious and he turned back to her. “That is,” he said softly, “if you wish it.”

Bran understood the other question that was being asked, and fancied that she hesitated a moment before answering, “I wish it.” Ciraelan smiled like a young boy given a sweet and swept Airhien up in his arms again. She laughed and kicked up her heels as he spun her around. Bran watched and tried to look happy for them.

“Your family will wish to know you have returned,” Ciraelan said, coming back to his senses and setting Airhien down. Her violet eyes glittered and there was a fetching blush in her cheeks, and Bran thought she had never looked so beautiful. “We can traverse the canopy, if you are ready.” He turned to Bran with a questioning look.

Bran’s muscles had stiffened while they had been standing there, but he assured the prince, “I will manage.” Damn him and his eternal youth and vigor, Bran thought, but looked once more at the glow in Airhien’s face. She was so happy; Bran knew the right choice had been made. This, too, he realized, I can do for her.

Ciraelan took Airhien’s hand and started walking across the woven canopy. “Stay on the larger branches,” he instructed, though Bran noticed he and Airhien didn’t look where they were stepping. Haltingly and much less graceful, Bran followed them.

Full night had fallen by the time they reached the elvin city. It sat in its clearing like an island of light in the dark forest. The windows of the houses on the ground and in the trees glowed like fireflies. Airhien’s family home was on the ground, near the treeline, and by the time they climbed down to it, Bran thought the bones in his arms had turned to water. Airhien’s mother answered the door and, when she saw her daughter, gathered them all inside, crying and calling for her husband. Bran tried to keep to the corners and be as unobtrusive as possible, but Airhien’s mother rained kisses upon him for returning her daughter, who “gets herself into such trouble,” and her father insisted on shaking his hand, as he had been told men did. Bran tried not to wince at the pain of moving his arm. Noticing that Airhien and Bran were both uncomfortable with the attention, Ciraelan stepped in and suggested they retire to the castle, which Airhien’s mother declared was “a lovely idea,” with a wink at her daughter.

“Some things have not changed,” Airhien said as they walked away, and she and Ciraelan shared a secretive smile Bran pretended not to notice. The walk to the castle was quiet, which suited Bran’s mood. The city around them seemed to draw in upon itself as its inhabitants prepared for sleep. The few lights left on fell behind them as they approached the castle: a marvel of white stone with contours so delicate they seemed to have been molded instead of carved, and its own unearthly luminescence.

Ciraelan showed them inside and Bran tried not to gawk as they walked down the hallways. It was bright as midday, despite being indoors: the light from frequent torches joined with the stone’s own peculiar glow. Tapestries of intricate needlework adorned the walls, and the vine pattern on the runner beneath their feet seemed alive. Ciraelan showed Bran to guest rooms finer than any inn he had visited. The furniture was well-crafted and plentiful. No solitary bed and washbasin here: the room had its own breakfast table with three chairs, a bed big enough for four people, a comfortable-looking armchair with a reading table, and a brocade-covered bench beneath the window. “I will have the servants bring you some supper,” Ciraelan said, and he and Airhien walked away. Bran sank onto the silk-swathed bed and listened until he could no longer hear their footsteps in the hallway. Never in twenty years had he been so far away from her.

Tomorrow they’ll have their feast, and then probably only a few days until the wedding, Bran figured. They’ve waited long enough. He lay back and willed himself into oblivion.

The following morning, Bran was wakened by gentle singing and the hazy light of false dawn. Somehow in the night he had decided what he would do. He had never undressed, so he swung his legs off the bed, picked up his pack, and walked to the door. What if she sees me? he suddenly thought. What if she asks where I’m going? Just have to move fast. And he did just that. Softly and quickly as a shadow he slipped down the hallway and out of the castle. No one was around to see him: they were all singing their greetings to the Mother.

The sun was just peeking up over the treetops when the lone figure slipped into the twilight of the forest. “Will you follow him?” Ciraelan asked as they watched from his balcony.

“No,” Airhien replied, “he would not want me to,” and she and Ciraelan raised their voices in a prayer to the Mother to light Bran’s path.

Bran followed the intermittent spots of light on the forest floor, and realized he was traveling east. East, he mused, Maryn always liked the east…