The Song of Andiene - By Elisa Blaisdell Page 0,49
I am.” He laughed with pleasure. “We have led much the same sort of lives, too.” The candle flames on the table bent low, though there was no draught in the room. Perhaps it was the gusty breath of his laughter.
Malesa laughed also, after a moment’s silence. She poured him thornfruit wine, flavored with honey and bitter herbs. It lay in the cup as dark and thick as blood. Her face was in shadow, her dark eyes more shadowy yet. The firelight turned her pale arms and legs to the color of new honey. She loosened her hair and let it fall in black smothering waves, almost to her feet.
Ilbran raised the cup to his lips. Here I am, here I will stay, he vowed to himself. The sobbing of the forest creatures was distant in his ears as Malesa smiled at him, and blew out the candles. Though it was close-shuttered night in the room, he thought that the sound of her soft breath and heartbeat would have been enough to lead him to where she waited. That night she did not sleep alone.
Chapter 11
On the shores where they measure time, four winters and three summers went by while Andiene stood and listened to the teaching of Yvaressinest, in the land where they do not count the days.
“I have taught you all you can learn,” the dragon said at last. “Go and conquer your kingdom, and win me my revenge.” His voice was warm with praise, the first time in all her life she had heard such words. “I would not wish you to war with me.”
Andiene laughed happily, not examining his speech for mockery. “Never fear, I shall not try to conquer this land.”
“You may if you please,” he whispered. The fog had thickened, swirling between them, hiding his grayness in the gray mist.
Andiene took a step forward, another step, and stopped. In front of her, the cliff fell sheer to the rocks, and the waves tore against them. Forest, meadow, dragon, all were gone into the mist. Andiene stood on the summit of a mountain that rose up out of the sea.
Sweet-snow bloomed around her feet, and sandray, that heals all wounds that are not mortal, grew stunted for lack of water. Below her lay no river, but merely a cleft in the rocks.
The fog was thinner again, but it had left her robe clammy and clinging to her. When she raised her arms to push her hair from her face, the fabric tore across her shoulders. When she reached back to feel it, it tore again, rotten as if it had been buried in the earth.
How long has it been? She was filled with sudden dread. There was no harsh whispering voice to flatter and reassure her now.
How long has it been? I never saw the night. Has time robbed me of my revenge? Far below her, the sea birds called.
She found it easier to climb down from that mountain top than it had been to go up. Then, she had been barely grown from short-legged childhood, sheltered and pampered all her life. Now she was a woman grown, long-legged and agile, as strong as if she had spent seven years climbing over the hills like the horses of the eastern mountains; she moved awkwardly only when she wondered at her new-grown strength.
The sun was low in the sky when she reached the beach. The stones were warm under her feet. On that high plateau, the sun had never shone to warm the earth.
Driftwood lay bleached and dry above the tide mark. Andiene gathered a pile of it and knelt before it, her hands clasped together. Then she drew her hands slowly apart. Her face filled with pride as the white flame leaped up, lapped at the dry wood, and seized hold of it.
Fat and slow salfish swam in the tide pools near the edge of the cliff. She speared one with a sharp broken stick, cleaned it as best she could, and broiled it on flat rocks heated in the fire.
Once more, Andiene was alone. The dragon would speak to her no more. She had learned all that he could teach her. There were many things she needed to do, but none that she must do at once. She lay on the sand above the rocks, as unthinking as any naked wild animal, and let the sun warm her.
At last she rose, and shook the sand from her pale hair, that hung to her hips