The Song of Andiene - By Elisa Blaisdell Page 0,51
the night before. The thick clouds had dimmed the sun to a twilight like that of the dragon’s land.
Andiene huddled between the rocks, but could not sleep. The child that she had been would have died on such a night as that. Her clothing had rotted and fallen from her. She had nothing to shield her from the bitter wind. She struggled to keep her blood warming her, to keep the fire burning within her—work that one’s body does of its own accord when the nights are calm, but is not equal to, when the air is chill and the wind is strong. She was in grave danger of being destroyed by the storm she had wrought.
Daylight came, and the storm was gone. Andiene rose from her cramped hiding place and walked along the beach. It was littered with rubble and bits of wood as far as eye could see. Ahead of her lay the body of a man, in the edge of the surf. The waves washed over him and tugged at him as they went back, but they were too gentle, now, to take him with them.
Andiene knelt beside him, turned him over. The sight of one face, that of her usurper uncle, would have given her joy, perhaps, but she knew from the coarse seaman’s clothes that this would be a stranger. She looked at the drowned man’s face for some time—an ugly sight. Impossible to tell if he was one who had been kind or cruel, gentle or arrogant. Tears came to her eyes, a sense of fury and shame. Dragon’s teaching, and all it has taught me is to bring death, in little ways and great.
She needed all her strength to drag him up above the storm line. She laid him on the wide rocks, so he could lie decently.
She took his dagger and cut her tangled hair, sawing it off close to her head. She stripped off his outer clothes, and carried them down to the sea to wash them in the surf, and hang them to dry on the bushes. When she dressed herself in them, rolling the sleeves and legs in huge cuffs, the coarse canvas cloth felt strange and rough on her skin, and in spite of the washing, it smelt, to her imagination at least, of seaweed and decay.
The beach was littered with flotsam, but she found no more men till she had walked far down the sea strand, near where the cliffs met the water. There one lay, face downward, and as she watched, a wave broke over his head, and dragged him a few inches seaward.
This one was dressed in nobleman’s clothes, and her heart beat faster again with thoughts of revenge, as she turned his face upward. Again a stranger; her eyes stung with tears of shame for what she had done.
Remember that courtyard in Mareja, she reminded herself. The pavement ran dark with blood, and no one wept. This is one who served my enemy.
A higher wave came and broke over the man’s head, as she held it, and she stared in amazement as he gave a feeble cough, and turned his face aside.
Her joy was inconsistent with her grim plans, but it was no less real. This man, slight in stature, was easier to drag up the beach. When she laid his fingertips to his throat, she could feel his heart beat, though feebly, but his skin was cold as the dead. His hands had been tied behind his back in hard seaman’s knots. She touched the ropes lightly and they uncoiled like snakes and fell from him.
“No seed nor root of healing,” the Gray One had said. But she did not remember that; she gave no thought to healing, merely holding the man in her arms and desiring him to live, with all her strength and will.
Presently, his breathing became deeper and slower, his heartbeat stronger and slower also. He seemed to have almost passed into normal sleep; his skin was warmer to her touch.
Nighttime was near. She built a fire and laid him close beside it. He would need food. She had no time to wait patiently to spear a fish. Again, what she had to do shamed her.
She followed the gorge upward. It was dry as though no stream had ever run over the rocks. A flash of white caught her eye; she called softly and the dappled grasskit turned to look at her.