Chapter 28: Your Heart in Return for My Own

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"Can you help her?" Taran asks, his voice breaking into a sob. He knows, of course, because they've seen this sickness before, that Sterren can do nothing, but still, he hopes. Or tries to hope, at least, for Elara's sake.

"Taran, come," Sterren says gently, taking his arm to lead him away from his daughter's bed. "Let her rest, now." Let her not hear the bad news she'll have to tell her father.

"It's the sweating sickness," Sterren says. There's no way to make the truth sweeter, no matter what words she chooses. "I'm sorry, Taran." She doesn't have to say that there's no cure, everyone in this village have felt the touch of this illness, lost someone to it.

"Is there nothing you can do?" Taran weeps, his voice ragged as he makes the desperate plea.

"I can pray for her," Sterren offers. Like she and her mother had prayed for her father when the sweats took him, like so many have prayed for their parents, siblings and children. The Lady never answered those fervent prayers, but that doesn't stop people from turning to divine aid when mortal efforts fail them.

"She's all I have left," Taran says, his words forced past his tears, "I can't lose her, can't lose my Elara."

"I'm sorry," Sterren whispers, holding him, crying with  him, remembering the day his wife, Briec died. They had mourned together then, too, as her own mother perished in the same flash flood that took Elara's mother. The hardest part about being a healer is being unable to heal, especially when it's your friends and loved ones that illness strikes. 

Her heart is heavy as she walks the stone path to her uncle's house later that afternoon. As much as Sterren would like to take the evening to meditate and pray for poor Elara and her father, she's still an Avendale, and when the lord of the village summons her for a visit, it is her duty to answer.

Their castle is not so grand as those seen in the larger towns and cities, but the Avendale family have held this village for centuries past counting, and well respected even if they're not the wealthiest and most famous of the nobility.

As she wends her way down the path, Sterren sees her uncle, Marrec, Lord of Avendale, watching for her approach, and wonders what's so important that he'd be waiting on her arrival.

"I asked you to wear your finest dress," Marrec complains as he greets her with a kiss on the cheek, "We are entertaining guests, and I wanted you to look your best."

"I'm sure your guests won't pay me enough notice to care that I'm not gowned in silk," Sterren answers with a laugh, following him into the house. She went as far as to choose a velvet bliaut for the occasion, and that is more than enough finery for her, let her uncle's despise her sense of fashion as much as they like, she won't sacrifice her comfort for their pleasure. 

"I was rather hoping my guest would take notice of you, dearest niece," Marrec answers, "I've invited you especially to meet him."

Sterren stops in her tracks when they get inside the door, blushing as she recognizes her uncle's guest.

"Reinier Landgraab," Marrec continues, not knowing his niece had made the young lord's acquaintance once before, "He's asked my hospitality for himself and his men while he hunts the dragons in our forests."

The slightest smile is al the hint of recognition he gives her, and if he's noticed or cared about her lack of finery, he gives no indication.

Well schooled in the manners of the court, he takes her hands when her uncle introduces her, and speaks the harmless flattery expected from a man of his station.

As they sit for dinner, Sterren notices that the other worthy families if the village, with young marriageable daughters of their own, are noticeably absent from this gathering, though her Aunt Gwencalon is well-known for lavishly entertaining their neighbors frequently.

Her uncle takes charge of the dinner conversation, asking the young heroes for tales of their exploits, especially as concerns the very dangerous business of dragon slaying.

Reinier keeps quiet through most of the evening, allowing his men Harald and Geeraard to do the boasting for him, looking almost bored as they sing his praises, recounting all the details of his most famous feats. Almost bored, Sterren thinks, watching his eyes sparkle as they gaze into hers, watching his fingers, laid casually on the table, creep ever closer to her own.

After dinner, Marrec proposes a walk around his grounds, and insists Sterren join them, though it isn't the custom for the ladies to join the men on such excursions. Though his agenda is obvious, Sterren is delighted to accept her uncle's invitation, and as they amble about the pond, she can't help but notice that she and Reinier have lagged considerably behind the others.

"You must forgive my uncle for being so painfully obvious in his intent," Sterren says as Reinier halts their progress by stopping to take her hand.

"You are very forthright," he answers with a chuckle, "You are not like any of the ladies of any court or noble house I've ever encountered."

"I'm not of a noble house," she admits, "Marrec is my uncle, but his sister, my mother, married a commoner, and lived in the village, where she served as a healer. As I do now." Reinier is charming and handsome, she thinks with a pang of regret, but whatever her uncle was hoping for is quite impossible, and she sees no point in carrying on a facade that could hurt them both.

"Yes, I had heard that you are healer. Quite a talented one," Reinier says with a smile that makes her blush, remembering how she'd bandaged him. "Only a fool ignores the good fortune the Watcher sets before him, and I am no such fool, Sterren Avendale. The Watcher has put you in my path twice now, and I have taken note."

"The Watcher?" Sterren asks. She'd heard very little about the faith of the northerners, knowing only that they do not know the Lady, as impossible and strange as that might seem.

"We are, all of us, in His hands," Reinier says. Before he can explain further, the sky cracks wit thunder and lets pour a torrential rain, and all their party must rush back inside.

"What happened to that lovely gown I sent you last summer?" Gwencalon asks, coming in to her chamber as Sterren prepares for bed. The night is too dark and stormy for her to walk back to her own house in the village. Sterren hesitates, not remembering which dress her aunt means, or whether she sold it or had it made into curtains. Luckily, she is not pressed for an answer, as Gwencalon forges on, "A match like this won't come your way again, Sterren. You must do everything you can, as quickly as you can, to secure his affection. Before we meet for breakfast tomorrow, I will come in to dress you myself, and my maid will attend to your hair. She has such a way for making the prettiest curls..."

"Thank you, Aunt, but I must be away before breakfast tomorrow. Taran's daughter has the sweats, and I must at least try to make her comfortable."

"That's absurd," Gwencalon protests, "You cannot throw away any chance to spend time with Reinier. After breakfast, he'll be going off hunting with his men, then you can visit all the sick children you want. Once you are married, you'll be giving that up, anyway."

"I cannot give up what I am, aunt," Sterren says, "The Lady gave me the gift of healing, and I must use it where I can."

"You are like your mother," Gwencaloon says, "She gave everything up for this nonsense. Please tell you aren't thinking of giving up Reinier Landgraab so you can run about the village tending to sick people."

"He is handsome, isn't he?" Sterren muses, knowing there's no point in arguing further, and indulging for a moment the fantasy of being his lady and wife, playing host to the nobles who would call on them, tending to his wounds when he returned from slaying might dragons.

"Any girl would give anything to be his wife," Gwencalon says, "He likes you, I can tell. You could be the one he marries, Sterren, but you must be the kind of lady a lord like him could take to wife."

And there's the problem, Sterren thinks, letting the fantasy sail away with just the slightest regret. She is not and never will be that kind of lady. "I understand," she says to her aunt, smiling and blushing, and secretly planning to sneak out before dawn to tend to her duties as healer. Her uncle and aunt will be sore with her for allowing such an opportunity for them all to pass, but Sterren has a greater purpose than just being a lady and wife.

"Sterren," Reinier whisper her name, loud enough to wake her, but quiet enough to not stir up the whole household. 

He falls to his knees before her as she wakens, rising to sit at the edge of the bed. "Reinier?" she asks sleepily, confused.

"I cannot stop thinking about you," he says, taking her hand in his, "Tomorrow, I face a dragon, but tonight, I can only think of you."

"You are bold, sir, to come into my room when I'm sleeping." Sterren says, her voice light so he knows she's not truly offended by the visit.

"You have been honest and open with me," he answers her, "And, so, I'm honest with you, about what I feel for you."

"And this declaration of honesty could no wait until morning?" she asks, still teasing.

"You are making light, now, like all the other noble ladies. Do me the honor of showing me your true self, the girl who bandaged by wounds, the girl I was speaking with earlier. Tell me to go now, if you don't want me, or give me your heart in return for my own." 

"I could not turn you away," Sterren answers, rising to embrace him. She doesn't fool herself into believing it's marriage he wants, and she'd already decided that such a union would be impossible anyway. But, to share the pleasure of love with him for a night would not require her to give up her life as a healer, and such another chance might never come again.

"I thank the Watcher for you, Sterren," Reinier says as he holds her face in his hands, "He has truly blessed me."

One night, maybe two or three depending on how well his hunt goes, is all she's going to have with him, so Sterren throws herself into enjoying him as thoroughly as she can.

"Promise me," he whispers, "Promise you will always be honest with me, as you were tonight."

A strange request in the heat of passion, Sterren thinks, but promises readily, as she's honest by nature, and she gives no real thought to why he'd ask it of her, when they will likely part ways forever in just a few days time.

Ametair's cabin, deep in the forest the humans call enchanted.

"How did I let you talk me into sitting out here in the pouring rain while we wait on Morvyn?" Ametair asks.

"Remember when we didn't have houses at all? We never minded the rain in the old days, " Talfryn muses, "Morvyn just ran out of places to bring his girl. Last time--"

"Yes, I heard what happened to you last time," Ametair says, "And now you're bringing humans into my camp. How did Morvyn manage to convince her to come here? They fear me even more than dragons."

"That's because you go out of your way to frighten any mortal that dares come too far into the woods. While we hunt as far from them as possible," Talfryn says, "Morvyn's girl has no idea that her host for the evening is the Lord of the Hunt himself, Ametair the Wolfen. She thinks this is Morvyn's house."

"She had best not come sniffing around here on her own," Ametair says gruffly, "I should never have agreed to this. These humans are a blight on the land, cutting down the forests to build their villages, swallowing up the wild meadows for farm land, damming up the rivers..."

"We're agreed on that," Talfryn says, "I wish my father could see it. But he just wants to hide away, and let the mortals take over."

"He wants peace. But the cost of peace may end up being too high. If they come into my forest, not even Aymeri can stop me from doing what I have to defend it."

His cabin smells vaguely of wet dog, and doesn't have even the basic amenities Gaelle expect from the poorest peasants in her village, but it's indoors, out of the rain, and so deep in the forest that no man can come on them, like last time. She had been terrified at first, when Morvyn suggested they come here, into the forest. Even the bravest warriors and hunters avoid this forest, home to a variety of monsters and spirits. But it's also Morvyn's home, and she trusted him to bring her safely out of it again, once their passion was spent.

He has a special kind of beauty about him, a sort of grace that sets him apart from the men in her village. The kind of beauty the fair are folk said to possess, the kind that lures in the hapless to their doom. Some people say the wild tribes of the forest are cousin to the fair folk, and that's what gives them the courage to brave these woods and live among them. Looking at Morvyn, sometimes Gaelle believes that might be true. He is like no other man she knows, and she loves him. 

Before tonight, she hadn't thought much past her love and her desire, hadn't thought of a future beyond these furtive meetings, the excitement of their secret and forbidden love. But tonight, he brought her into his home, and suddenly she can't stop herself from thinking about her future. As mush as she loves him, wants him, this is no future for her, out in the wild, in this squalid cabin that smells of wet dog.

Gaelle entertains the thought of bringing Morvyn into her world, making her people accept and welcome the wild man she's given her love to. But she knows that won't happen, her father would never allow Morvyn into his house.

"We must go, before first light," Morvyn whispers, pulling her in for one more kiss after they've dressed themselves. "Signal me when you can next get away."

"Yes," she agrees. There will be no future between them, Gaelle thinks, but she's not ready to let go of him now.