Lirare knelt to the dusty earth, sifting a handful of ground through her fingers. Breathing deeply, Lirare closed her eyes and listened to the forest. The bird song was dull, rustling mice scurried underground and stayed there, even the mushrooms slowed their earthy unfurling. Something had happened to cause the season to draw in like a hermit crab in its shell.
Her mother Meridun might discern what was happening in the world. Ancient Meridun lived in the woods farther to the east, defending her trees and creatures. Green and white clad woodsmen were always hunting for more ground for the Woodland King, Gendall the Bloodyhanded.
The stream had receded with the drought. Lirare slid down the bankside into the muddy water, not bothering to lift her skirts from the slow current. She pulled her brown hair over her shoulder and dipped her fingers in the water. She gathered the same sense from the water as she did from the dust.
Her stomach lurched. The earth was recoiling from the touch of evil. Where and what it was she did not know but the signs were clear. Something malevolent had been awakened.
Rustling came from the brush. Lirare sat up and shook her hands dry. A wolf pup appeared. Lirare smiled and clicked her tongue. The animal tested the air with its nose. Lirare's feet sunk into the clay as she approached, wringing the water from her skirts. The wolf did not shrink away as she allowed it to smell her open palm.
"Come along, little one," she coaxed, rubbing its skull between oversize ears, "we have supper waiting for us at home."
Lirare's home was nestled into a large oak tree. It was a sturdy cottage with crooked windows and wildflowers growing in the cracks of the door and window frames. A few errant fireflies, late in the season, winked amongst the darkening trees in the surrounding meadow.788Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVierl0cdwO
788Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMx6zoqTdvA
The hinges of her front door creaked as she walked into the shadowy room, the air scented with mushrooms and dried herbs. The wolf froze at the threshold. It let out a low growl as Lirare lit a mulberry candle.
"It's just us."
Lirare was not normally fearful. Her entire childhood had been spent within a wood known for its malevolent forces against outsiders. However, what she had sensed in the earth and water that day had set her nerves on edge.
The animal's paws danced between the floorboards and the flagstone at the door. Lirare’s heart beat quickened. Her daughter wouldn’t have sat in the darkness, and she was not due home until the next morning.
Her grip on the candle tightened as she sensed a presence in the shadows. She lifted the flame. A figure rose from a chair by the squat kitchen table.
"Who is that?" she demanded. "How dare you enter my home?"
"Good evening, Lirare." A familiar voice drifted towards her.
Lirare’s heart dropped to her stomach. It had been years since she had heard that voice. He came into the weak candle light. She studied him in shock. He stood, hands clasped at his back and peering at her with a quiet smirk. His long, black waves were streaked with grey and his face was lined with the cares of a hard lived life. His eyes were the same corn flower blue they had been when they had first met all those years ago. Lirare let out her breath, lowering the candle.
"How are you?" he inquired as though it had been a matter of days since their parting.
Lirare approached him. She had always been tall for a woman. But the usurped barbarian prince of the western Clans was taller still. She met his eyes. His expression still held his prideful smirk. It reeked of insecurity.
"I've been well. Where have you been?" she breathed, standing a hand's breadth from him.
The bearded corner of Roark's mouth turned down. His silence only ignited her temper.
"I have a more intriguing question," she snapped, picking up dry kindling on the table by the door and striding over to the hearth. "What exactly do you call a fortnight? You said you would return in a fortnight. That is two weeks if I am not mistaken, not a century."
She struck the flint and sparks dusted the straw. Roark stood silent behind her. The fire gathered strength, giving off the sweet scent of the fresh cherry wood. She rose with her back to the room, unwilling to see if he had disappeared into the night.
The floorboards groaned under his weight. His heavy boots, lined with fur even in warm weather, scraped the hardwood. She caught her breath as he moved behind her. He brushed her hair from her shoulder, exposing her neck.
"You haven't changed at all," he spoke gently, studying her. "You are still the same as that day in spring when I first saw you. What were you doing again?"
Lirare swallowed back tears. She was nearly three hundred years old and the Clannish prince could still reduce her to the emotions of an adolescent girl. His fingertips grazed her neck.
"I was bringing water from the stream." She dared turn towards him.
He nodded, firelight revealing that the years had taken their toll. The creases around his eyes and on his forehead deepened with his frown. His lips parted as he took her chin with a rough hand.
"I hadn't expected to find you," he confessed, locking in her gaze. "I had hoped but didn't dream that you would still be here after all these years."
"Why didn't you come back? You promised." She whispered, resting her hand on his.
His face darkened as he turned away. "I knew if I had then I never would have left you. I have a destiny to fulfill."
"You have revenge to seek and blood to spill," she replied, trying to ignore the old wound she felt opening. "You have done well by your people in the Collach Highlands."
Roark turned sharply. "It is my duty that the Throne be redeemed to the line of my fathers. Our blood cries for it!" His volume rose, harsh in the quiet room.
"It is your duty to your predecessors that you live a full and rich life peaceably." Lirare reached out, laying her hand on his broad back. "We could have had a happy life here as we had dreamed."
He glanced down at her, studying her face. "It is a life I would have loved."
Scraping at the door distracted them. An orphaned fawn of Lirare's knocked against the doorframe.
"Though it would have been a life frequently interrupted by the creatures with whom you keep company." Roark rolled his eyes in vague annoyance.
"Won't you remove your armor? Please, make yourself comfortable." She reached out without hesitation to take the heavy fur vest he wore over his chain mail and leather. "You must be hungry."
Roark narrowed his dark eyebrows, unaccustomed to taking orders. Though disgruntled, he obeyed. He set aside his weapons. Lirare grimaced at the sight of his sword but said nothing, turning to the fawn at the door.
She pulled down the bowl of herbs and goats milk that she had mixed to help nourish it now that it lacked its mother's milk. The fawn licked her hand as she led its freckled snout to the clay pot.
Roark pulled out a chair, scraping it hard against the floor. Lirare's being was electric with his presence. The unbridled masculinity of the man stung the air. Instead of it bothering her, it left an aching absence in the pit of her stomach. She had longed for him after he had abandoned her all those years ago.
She recalled a century earlier the two of them standing in the autumn wood. Vibrant leaves drifted down in the golden dawn as they stood by his horse, packed to return to the Collach Highlands where his people had found refuge. He had rested his forehead against hers and gathered her hands to his chest. As he had the night before in the faint light of the waning moon, he promised he would return.
Lirare locked the image away in her memory. The sweet pain of those words bit through her. She didn't know if she would be able to bid him farewell again.
Lirare prepared a pottage of cabbage, peas and wild rice. Roark swirled the cup of cider she had given him, warmed by a hot poker. She sliced a clove of garlic, lips parting as she focused on her task. Her eyes flickered over him before she drifted towards the simmering cauldron. He wondered if he imagined her fingers trembling. Shifting in the rough-hewn chair, he stood and pulled his pipe from his pocket.
"Have you been traveling long?" She asked as he came alongside her, bracing himself against the hearth.
"I come from a meeting in Ostlet." He picked up the candle on the mantle and kindled dried weed in the clay bowl of the pipe. "I am making my way to the Collachs for a meeting with the Earls of the Clans."
Lirare's jaw clenched. "So that makes me a stop along the way, I suppose."
Roark grimaced, fragrant smoke swirling around his head. He had not meant it to sound that way. Truth be told, he had avoided her wood for years. He had done his best to numb his guilt with the driving need to reclaim the White Horn. However, he could never forget Lirare bare foot in the clear spring light, holding two buckets brimming with river water at her sides.
Light wavered across her expression. In the shadows, he could not tell whether she was hurt or angry. He reached out and brushed her lower lip with his thumb. Her eyes dilated before she whipped away towards the kitchen table.
Roark ran his hand over his face. His pride would never allow him to explain himself to her. He could blame all on his obligations, even have the arrogance to touch her as though she were his woman. But he didn't know how to speak honestly of his feelings for her. That was what she needed, not meager excuses while he pathetically pawed at her.
"You look tired." She moved beside him and filled a wooden bowl with stew.
He took the trencher from her. "I travelled through the night. I did not sleep."
"It looks as though you have not slept in weeks." She filled her own bowl and returned to the kitchen table. He followed.
"Early spring, I met with the mage, Avol Redeyed. He brought me news from the Woodland Kingdom. I just came from another meeting with him."
"How does Avol fare? I have not seen him since last year."
"He is well." Roark filled his spoon with the steaming broth. "Do you still refuse to cook with meat?"
Lirare glanced up and arched an eyebrow. "I would think after coming miles through the night and into today, you would be grateful for a hot meal."
He smirked as he brought the spoon to his mouth. Lirare sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, watching him with wry expectation. "I think my cooking can stand on its own without meat."
He swallowed, the liquid burning his throat. "Aye mistress, that it can."
Fighting a grin, she looked down at her bowl and shook her head. Roark chuckled as he turned to his meal.
"What news from the Woodland?" She asked, her voice still light.
“The Bloodyhanded King. Gendall. They say he is ill."
Lirare nodded without looking at him.
"My father’s murderer may be on his deathbed. His son stands to inherit but is proving not as savvy as his father. Their armies are not as strong as they used to be, especially in the west close to my mountains. So I have called to my exiled kin and we will meet in a few weeks' time," he explained, his tone turning cold as her uneasy silence stretched on. "Such a prospect would be priceless."
"There is a price to the things you seek. I have always known you would be willing to pay it."
"I could not turn back if I wanted. I am bound to my fate."
Lirare turned her pine green gaze on him, calm and ever youthful. "Fate is nothing but a choice. If you make your way to the Westward Mountains and the White Horn, it will because you willed it."
"Then it is my will." His voice rose sharply and his brow furrowed.
Lirare pursed her lips. She rose from her seat and took her half full bowl to the door. She whistled out into the night and crouched as the wolf came obediently. The animal lapped at her food as she stroked its ears. Roark’s temper ebbed. He rested his forehead on his palm and exhaled.
She peered out into the glade as the crickets sang in the high grass. "You needn't carry guilt for choosing what you call your fate over me. I have always known where your heart lay. When you leave from this place, I want you to do so with peace."
Roark stood, the chair nearly falling backwards as he pushed away from the table. Striding over to where she stood, he took her by the arms.
"Lirare. Do not speak of my leaving you as though it were simple for me."
"It was easy enough for you to forget about me for decades. It would have been better had you stayed away." Her voice broke with emotion.
"I could not leave without seeing you once more. Living with just the memory of you has been terrible but to die with only those fleeting moments would be-" He took her face in his hands. "There has been no peace in my heart from the moment I laid eyes on you and I fear there will never be again."
She gripped his hands. An owl cried to the waning moon, shadowed by frothy clouds in the clear sky. Roark's mouth parted as he studied her face in the starlight. Her breath caught in her throat as he firmly pressed his lips against hers.
Memories he had suppressed flooded his brain. Of swimming together in the clear stream waters, cold with melted snow, laughing at the antics of a couple territorial mocking birds. Holding her as she slept in the quiet hours before dawn. He had never longed for another as he did Lirare. He knew as long as he lived there would never be another for him.
She pulled away with a ragged breath, "Roark. You must leave by dawn."
Roark stumbled back, his brow lowering as he fought to gain composure. "What do you mean? Come with me, leave this place. When we take back my throne, return with me to the mountains."
"And become Queen of the White Horn? I'm sure your mother would be quick to accept that arrangement!" She shook her head in confusion. "Even if such a thing were to happen, do you really believe I could survive without my forest?"
Roark groaned, running a hand through his hair. "There must be a way."
"There is none. This was a fool's hope, my love."
At the tenderness in her voice, he faced her. He had only been concerned with his own needs since they had met. He had left her because it was best for him, according to his overbearing mother. He had returned because he wanted it. He wondered if he had ever considered what was best for her. He turned back to where he had left his things.
"Please, Roark. Stay and get some rest." She begged as he buckled the bracers on his wrists.
She stopped his hand as he picked up the heavy chain mail shirt. She pressed her palm to his cheek. "Please Roark, stay till dawn."
ns 15.158.61.15da2
