The River's Gift

  High above Ariella's head, a mere speck of a lark soared and caroled in the azure sky, its song descending in a sweet rain of silver notes. Beneath her bare feet, soft grass studded with meadowsweet and tiny clover blossoms flowed cool and velvety. Ariella ran mostly for the joy of release, but partly from guilt—if she got out of earshot of the Manor quickly enough, she would be able to say in truth that she hadn't heard Magda calling her.

  And inevitably, her chaperone would call, as soon as she realized that Ariella was not at the loom in the solar, at her embroidery frame in her room, or her fine sewing in the garden. Magda was supposed to be educating her—

  Except that she doesn't teach me anything that hasn't to do with a needle, Ariella thought with youthful scorn. Everything I've learned about herbs and simples came from the monks at the Abbey. And everything I've learned about the forest I learned by myself, with no one to teach me. So there! Magda had become more fretful, more insistent of late that her charge "behave as a proper lady." Perhaps it was the advent of her sixteenth birthday that had brought all this nonsense on—Magda seemed to place great significance on it, though as far as Ariella could see, one more birthday made no difference at all to her. Her Papa treated her the same, the serfs and servants had not changed towards her. Only Magda acted as though sixteen years meant something portentous.

  So Ariella ran through the meadow to escape her tormentor, the single-minded old woman who tried to keep her pent up inside the dark, chill manor or confined to the stiflingly manicured garden in the center courtyard. She ran, and she hoped that today she could outrun that unwelcome call of, "Lady Ariella! This is unseemly!"

  "Behaving as a proper lady" did not include discarding her hennin headdress and veil, heavily embroidered linen gown, chemise, leather shoes and stockings, donning an old, threadbare, homespun dress and kilting it up above her knees, then running off bare-legged, bareheaded and barefooted to the forest. Proper behavior required too much of one who had run free since she had been able to run at all.

  And if a lady could not course through the wild forest surrounding her home, then she did not want to be a lady.

  Ariella reached the safety of the forest and ducked beneath an overhanging bough, not even the least out of breath. She paused for a moment among the shadows and peered through a screen of leaves across the meadow to the Manor.

  The stone-walled building slumbered behind its moat, with a single sleepy guard standing watch on the wall and a pair of swans gliding undisturbed on the waters. She breathed a shallow sigh. If luck be with me, Magda is safely asleep, never knowing that I am not where she believes me to be. If Magda had gone off to take her nap, she'd not awaken until her maidservant came to summon her to the evening meal. By then, Ariella would be safely home, and if there was nothing to show in the way of fine work for the passing of the hours, Magda would only chide her for day-dreaming the time away.

  Now that she was safely within the invisible walls of her sylvan sanctuary, Ariella sat down on a drift of last year's leaves and took the time to braid her hair. When she was done, she bound up the end of the shining golden tail, as thick as her wrist and as long as her arm, with a bit of leather thong she fished out of the left-side pocket tied about her waist. Her two pockets bulged with her pilfered stores, and Magda would have had a litter of kittens if she'd known that Ariella frequently ransacked the stillroom to get her treasures.

  In her mind she heard Magda's shrill voice, cracking as it always did when the old woman grew agitated. "Those simples are for humans, not the beasts of the field! God have mercy, that I should be cursed with the task of civilizing such a fool of a girl!"

  It was hard not to feel resentment towards the old busybody, who grudged every leaf of plantain and drop of cordial as if she and not Ariella had been the one who'd gathered and produced the remedies kept in the still- room. I could understand her attitude if she'd been the one working all winter distilling essences and blending tinctures— but surely if I made these things, I should be allowed to decide to use them!

  Ariella sighed again, this time deeply, as she slipped through the tangle of bushes and briars as easily as a bit of mist, rarely catching so much as a thread of her skirt on a thorn. But after all, she had plenty of practice to learn to move so surely here. That was one thing that Magda could never say, that she was clumsy.

  Bringing Magda here to take charge over her had been her father's idea, and a poor one Ariella thought it was. She guessed that it had been in response to that minstrel's distasteful interest not long after she'd turned twelve when her shape had taken on strange new curves and she'd outgrown the bodices of her gowns almost overnight. He'd only tried to kiss her hand, for heaven's sake! Oh, and he'd made moon-calf eyes at her, and sung love-songs at her, but that was hardly anything to fret over. I haven't needed a nursemaid since I was four, and I don't need one now, Ariella thought rebelliously, passing crab- wise between two close-growing trees and coming out on a deer-trail. As if I couldn't take care of myself with a cheeky mountebank! Aye, or anyone else, for that matter! She knew she'd only to whistle anywhere on the Manor grounds, and no matter where they were, her father's pack of mastiffs would come running to her side, ready to defend her against all threats. Why, not even an armored knight would take his chances against six full-grown mastiffs, much less a silly singer! And for all that she was slender and willow-slim, she was strong, and not the kind of swooning simpleton who wouldn't be willing to pick up a poker or a dagger and defend herself, if it came to that.

  Her father's supposed reason for calling his aged cousin Magda out of her retirement in a convent to chaperone his daughter was that he wanted her to learn "manners" and be more "ladylike." Why he should wish such a thing, Ariella had no idea, for she knew as certainly as she knew the sun would rise each day that her Papa had no intention of giving her up in marriage to anyone, no matter how highborn—and she was in full agreement with his plans. Why, how could she ever leave this place, when there was so much that needed tending, her Papa not the least? She had long since learned all there was to know about the proper management of Swan Manor, although since the hiring of the new major domo, there was precious little management she needed to deal with.

  If only she could persuade him to send silly Magda away again, she would be perfectly content in every way. I have the Abbey library, I have Papa, and I have the forest. What more could anyone need? Oh, she'd heard enough ballads and tales from minstrels and bards to know how a young maiden was supposed to spend her days—dreaming of a romance, sighing after love, waiting for a husband. She didn't have the words to express how much of a waste of time that seemed to her.

  She realized that she was all bound up in her annoyance and growing angry, and she stopped dead in her tracks, then, right in the middle of the game-trail. I have to stop this, she scolded herself. I'm going to frighten them off.

  She closed her eyes and cleared her mind, concentrating on the moment and nothing more.

  First, the scent of the forest, green and cool, with hints of resin and a waft of old, dead leaves. Then the feel of the trail beneath her feet, soft with leaf-litter. Last, the sounds all around her, the songs of larks and starlings, the chirp of sparrows, the calling of crows and rooks, the trill of wrens, the chattering of squirrels—the rustle of leaves in the breeze—the creak of branches and the snapping of twigs.

  When she felt calm and at peace, when all of her annoyance with Magda was gone—that was when she felt the first soft touch on her foot.

  She opened her eyes and looked down, and as she expected, there was a young rabbit gazing mournfully up at her, one ear torn and bleeding freely, the marks of sharp teeth visible. At a guess, he had escaped from the jaws of a stoat.

  With a bit of was
te wool to pad the ear, a bit of soothing ointment, and grass plaited into string to bind it all up, the rabbit was soon on his way. But before she was done with her work, she already had a gathering about her feet of three more patients: a hedgehog with an injured paw, a squirrel with a gashed side, and another rabbit, this one limping with a broken leg.

  There were no more small animals waiting for her ministrations when she had finished with these three. She waited to see if any more would appear, but none did, and she walked on until she came to the river, where, by custom, she tended the larger creatures and the hunters.

  There was an unvoiced truce among the wounded; she had never seen an injured animal attacked by another in her presence, although she very well knew that many of these creatures would not hesitate a moment to kill and eat each other in different circumstances. She often wondered about that, but nothing she had witnessed had given her an answer.

  Magic, she thought with content mingled with wonder. That must be the answer. It felt strange to be in the presence of magic, and stranger still to be the one conjuring it. But it was dangerous too; scores of tales told her how dangerous it was to be known as a witch or a magician.

  She heard the river long before she saw it, rushing beyond the screen of the trees, cooling the breeze with its breath. There was a great gray wolf waiting for her by the riverside, and when she approached him—carefully, for experience told her that animals in pain sometimes snapped at her if she startled them—he held his mouth open for her to see the broken, abscessed tooth that must have been causing him agony.

  "Oh, you poor thing!" she exclaimed involuntarily, for she had suffered from a similar affliction as a child and knew how much it must hurt. But this case would require more of her "special" talent than usual; animals usually suffered silently beneath her ministrations as she eased pain, but nothing would keep such a dangerous beast quiet as she inflicted more pain than he already suffered. Being bitten while trying to help did not figure into her plans.

  Gently, she bent down and she placed one hand on his head, and concentrated all of her thoughts on one thing. Sleep—

  The wolf resisted her at first—it went entirely against his natural instincts to make himself so vulnerable without the protection of the pack around him—but at last, with a sigh, his head drooped, his legs buckled, and he dropped to the ground. She knelt beside him, making certain that he was not going to awaken until she was ready for him to do so. He would not feel what she did to him until she was finished, and then he would have relief instead of nagging pain.

  Now she did what she had to—using the small version of a horseshoe-nail-puller she had coaxed the blacksmith into making for her, she clamped the iron jaws about the rotten stump of a tooth, braced the wolf's head between her feet, and pulled. She strained her arms until they hurt, and at last the tooth tore free of the jaw, and pus and blood oozed out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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