Silver Eve (4 page)

I would not be sorry to leave this village, that name. Each of them grinning now like fools over the death of one Troth. A tiny, ugly victory in a sea of despair, those grins highlighting bleak stares. Maybe mine was as bleak. I suppressed a shudder, said as fairly as I could, “Farewell, then. Good luck to you.”

Charred grass, charred village. Not sorry to leave this place—

But they did not like to lose me so quickly. They trailed me a little ways, chattering: “Won't you stay?” “Where do you go?”

No, I will not stay. I go to my end.

“Wait,
please,
Mistress Healer!”

That was Rafinn. I stiffened, then turned.

“Your name,” he said, eager and nervous. “At least give us that. We must thank you by name.”

“Eve,” I told him after a moment. It was not my full name, or my nickname. But it made me sound older, more like the aged Healer he'd expected.

“Then thank you, Mistress Eve.” The remaining villagers murmured the same in turn, “Thank you, Mistress Eve.”

I nodded to each, then walked on alone.

“Mistress Eve,” I heard Rafinn say admiringly to the others. “The one who is unafraid of death.”

No. No tears, no fear of death. Grimacing as I left them in the distance.

Then, a little farther on, I smiled.
Fear
of death? Nay. I would be glad of it.

I WOULD BE
glad of it.

That ran as a little song. Kept me company all the way to the mossy edge of a drought-diminished river. I stopped there to wash away the filth of the past days, shedding my clothes piece by piece—cloak and frock and undershift and sandals. I scoured the blood and ash from each using river stones in slow, methodic circles. Scoured myself with the stones until I, like the cloth, was scrubbed clean, and my hair was silver-blond again.

I left everything to dry on the bank and plunged into the river, diving straight to the bottom. Swimming was my favorite idyll, once—the clear water, the sun-sparkled droplets on skin, the peace—it was my shedding of a day, my healing. But now the quiet of it made my ears ring with memory: the clash of sword, the shriek of beast, and the roar of fire in Merith's square. Things I could not shed or heal.

I would be glad of it.
I sang it underwater, watching the bubbles rise and pop, like splatters of blood beneath the red sunset.

Later, I spread myself out to dry like my clothes and waited for the light to die. And even later I gathered watercress and fennel and a wild carrot for a meal, adding in a bit of dried meat that one village had spared me as thanks. Methodical and neat and emotionless. I scraped some oil from a berrit leaf onto a stick and lit it as a candle.

Functions of survival that I no longer had use for yet performed without thought.

A bitter truth: I might chant that I would be glad for death, but to offer myself to it was a near-impossible effort—even in the grip of a Troth. I was no good at it, at this decision to be done; I could not let go.

'Twas weakness, not cowardice. Call it duty, or the fault of my gift. Healers knew too much. An affinity with the workings of Nature: we could spot the greens and herbs to eat or mend with. We could find water easily, light a fire, fashion a storm-proof shelter, gauge direction….Our hands bestowed calming energy to others or sped the healing process. We protected ourselves instinctively, with little effort. The effort was in trying to take life prematurely.

Next to my little salad I placed two of the vials of herbs from my satchel and stared at them as I ate. Only two vials. The minion was too precious to misuse; I left that in the bag. But the heliotrope and yew were lovely poisons. I took them out often, unstoppered them to smell the dark-deep earthiness of one and the cherry scent of the other. I imagined fading into sleep.

Fade away: 'twas what I planned, why I left Merith, why I'd abandoned Grandmama and Lark one early dawn without goodbyes and walked away from my life. I could not stay, mend into some half existence. 'Twas like finishing a tapestry with the color missing, and I could not bear to weave such a dulled, lonely picture. I wanted Raif. I wanted not to have let him die.

My hand reached for the yew, disembodied. I touched a fingertip to the smooth glass, rolling the vial a little to watch the dark bits tumble inside. Some plants' poisons fade when cut and dried. Never yew.
Chew thoroughly, expect gastric distress, death comes quickly…
I'd done this so many times: stared at or smelled the vials, recounting the effects, intending to stuff their contents in my mouth. Each time I was sure I could confound my instincts, I only found myself packing up and traveling on in a daze. Another meal, another night, another devastated village.

My fingers found the stopper. I squeezed it between my thumb and forefinger.
This time, Evie. If this time you could just…

The fennel went bitter. I spit it out, wiped my mouth, and was stuffing the vials back in the satchel before I even realized.

But then I caught my breath. It was too forceful, that shove. My fingertips brushed things I'd tucked under the satchel's bottom seam. Mementos of home I'd taken with me, things to keep close yet out of reach, things far more potent, more painful than any poison.

A lark feather and a braided leather ring.

The feather was for Lark. I picked it from the garden path not long after she'd gone for the Riders. It was no sign, but lark feathers were rare, so an auspicious find nonetheless. And the ring? The ring had been worn by Raif's grandfather, the tailor who was mutilated by the Troths. During the attack on Merith, Raif grabbed back the ring the Troths had kept as a prize. And I, in turn, took it from Raif's lifeless hand.

Hand to hand to hand
—a circle of leather, a circle of victory and of death. My own hand was cold, frozen by that accidental touch. Memories were building now like rain clouds: first a sprinkle, then a shower. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to force them back, but they were bursting over me, as fresh as yesterday's happening, brutally sweet and heart-scraping. Raif—my loyal comrade in Merith, my partner in all the exploits I could not share with my shy cousin. Every field and garden, every tree had been explored and picked and climbed together. He was the best part of my every day.

A downpour of memories now, drenching, drowning. So I gave in, hugged my knees close to my chest, and braced.

“Look up, Evie! Look where I am!” Raif calling from somewhere in the canopy of Jarett Doun's apple trees. Six years old and so proud of his squirrel-like agility. “Hold out your apron!” Fruit raining down before I had a chance to lift the hem of my blue apron….

“ 'Tis Evie, you dolts!” Raif at ten years, snorting with laughter at our group game of blind man, when I'd put on little Wilby's eyeglasses as a disguise. We were too familiar with one another to ever win at it; Raif was pulling off his blindfold with one hand and tugging my long braid with the other. “You cannot hide from me…!”

One hand usually pulling my braid, the other shoving his own shock of black hair from his brow. At twelve years we goaded one another—happy, carefree, busy bodies, just longer-limbed and wild-spirited. Raif constantly pointing over my head so I'd turn, and then stealing my hair ribbon to wave in victory. I'd leap for it; he'd feign surrender to my strength. We'd scuffle for the prize….

And three years later came ridiculously fateful words: “Cath! Stop giggling!”

Voices—filtering from the orchard where I'd gone to welcome Raif home. He'd been away in Crene for eighteen months apprenticing with the treekeepers, and I'd waited impatiently for his return—both wanting to prove myself his superior with my own Healer knowledge and to have our teases again. But there was the flirting, silly Cath arriving first, eager to claim the so very handsome and newly grown-up Raif. And he was happily obliging: “If you want a kiss, then let me do it properly….”

I caught their kiss, gawking like a fool. And what was familiar was suddenly lost in queasy strangeness—of heart, stomach, and limb—a sickness I could not cure. Seeing Raif in the orchard, at Gatherings, or by any accident became both brilliant and awkward. He stood out, suddenly, not as my friend but like some beacon too bright to look upon, yet impossible to avoid. And then it was even more strange and awkward when at sixteen he stopped at our booth one market day to smell Grandmama's lavender soaps and lemon balm possets—

Raif said my hair smelled of those things. He said it shone as silver as the full moon. And then all the feelings were no longer strange, but delicious and thrilling, and as necessary as breathing.

Tall, dark-haired, and pale-skinned, even in midsummer. Quiet, patient, more serious, with a wit too subtle to be much recognized in our guileless village. I knew Raif's face better than my own, for I could not help but watch him—learning to observe in secret from the corner of my eye. I observed as Cath lost his fancy. I observed as he contrived reasons to visit our booth or arrive to draw water from the common well at the same times I did. I observed him observing me, sometimes, and was secretly glad. I lay in bed at night picturing his smile, wanting that kiss he'd given Cath. I'd construct the moment when he might profess, and shape our future into pretty pictures—husband, wife, and babies gathered around a hearth. And I kept it—
all
of it—secret.

My stupidity, such secrets. My loss. I was blunt and forthright about most things, but I never spoke of love. 'Twas a choice I made when very young. I liked being a Healer; I wanted to be best at it, maybe even to earn the status of White Healer, so I'd decided never to betray my feelings—that I might always appear impartial, look fairly to all. If Raif asked for my hand, that was a fine thing, but I'd not choose him first. I thought I was being brave and selfless. I thought it didn't matter.

Grandmama would say, “Loving freely will not weaken one's gifts,” as if she suspected my desire. But I stayed rigidly quiet. And Raif was patient.

It was not until that last day, when the threat of Troths weighed heavy in anticipation. It was after market; I'd repacked the basket, said my daily—and more earnest—farewells, and was just past Dame Keren's cottage when Raif met me and pulled my elbow so that I swung around the side of her chimney and into his arms.

He kissed me. It was not my first kiss, but I thought it the best. And he kissed my cheeks and my hair and held my face between his hands to look me straight in the eye, to memorize me. Then he left quickly without demanding my response.

Soon after, the village bell was clanging in warning, the Troths were howling, Raif was lying heart open in the village square, and my moon-colored hair was red with his blood. And then I hung, half surprised, half eager as a Troth sprang for my throat, undone when that Troth was stabbed dead by a Rider charging past.

Words of affection, of pledge, were never shared. 'Twas Lark who told Raif I loved him, as she told me the same.
Love cannot die,
Raif bade her tell me in return. And even that Lark intervened for our sakes was a lost effort, for it was too late for anything but words. All of it was too late, too secret, wasted and unfinished.

Love cannot die.
But it did die. And I was left with these fierce memories and a ring.

My arms were clasped so hard around my legs that my limbs were white. I slowly let go, slowly tied my satchel closed over the unused herbs. But I smiled a little, for I was not yet defeated. I had an alternate plan for death: Rood Marsh. I'd heard it talked of at market—'twas a place so wide and so empty, a person would lose her way in the reeds with little there to sustain her. It gave purpose—like a little glow beyond all the numbness—for if I could not struggle free of Healer instinct on my own, this marsh would do it for me.

West, I was told. I was getting closer. And my clothes were dry.

Moonlight made for easy travel. I walked through the night and the next one, slept some, and continued west. I was far enough from Merith that I could no longer guess at which village I passed or recognize the ribbons of their market tents. I aimed away from the sunrise, keeping a little to the south. If I strayed north I might reach the city of Tyre. That was a vile place, I'd heard; I had no wish to lose myself there.

Once, I happened upon a troupe of mummers who were camped on the banks of a shrinking pond. Their bells jingled faintly merry in the breeze, a reminiscence of festivals, of acrobats and pantomimes. “What news?” they asked me of the towns to the east. My answer was the same as theirs was from the west: too meager a harvest to celebrate, farmers too poor to pay for treats.

We shook hands all around in place of food to share, as none of us had any to spare. I started off, but a little farther on one of the children waved at me, pointing to the water. She wanted me to fetch some little waterfowl she'd spied drifting in the middle, struggling to stay upright. The pond was not deep, but none of them could swim. I kicked off my sandals, bunched up my skirts, and waded in. Black and white, the thing was like a large duck, but not one I'd ever seen. I slid my hand under his firm belly and towed him slowly back to shore. He waddled up the bank a ways and crouched silent, so we kneeled by him. “Is it dead?” the girl asked, frowning.