Donele sighs in exasperation. Her eldest - clench-fisted, shaking with controlled rage - takes several deep breaths before she responds.
“I’m glad I’m not, by Haelyn’s mercy. ”
Donele tuts.
“If I were your mother, you would be doing something useful with your time. You’re old enough to be doing your share rather than playing royal court, swanning about in fancy dress.”
Nieve's criticism is punctuated with the jabs of her index finger.
“Now Nieve,” Donele intercedes as her youngest sputters, “be kind to your sister. Just because Aerona takes her elocution and dance lessons more seriously than mathematics does not mean she wastes her time. Marrying well could bolster our family greatly.”
“With Da and Daene away... I just want to see all my siblings fulfill their potential. My duty has always been to serve the Fulcairns as they see fit. I would not see my siblings neglected, or their lives half-lived because virtue of birth has handed this right to me. ”
Donele softens, but Aerona - a trembling mass of tangerine curls in pink silk - makes a well-heeled turn and storms out of the hall, each step a billowing wave of fabric. Ribbons snap as she bodily throws open the door.
“Aerona - wait!”
“Oh Haelyn help me! Don’t chase her Mother, it will only…”
The rest is lost. Aerona’s face is hot and she’s shaking but she keeps moving, head down, each stomp down the hill toward the Little Bowstring a reproach. She smooths her hands over wet cheeks, kicks off her mules (stopping of course to retain them in her little silk bag), and marches north along the river.
It’s summer in Wilders Gorge and the heavy hum of the dragonflies and the gentle slosh of the river sing merrily - juxtaposing her dark mood. The air is thick with humidity, and the grass beneath her feet is verdant and dewy. A castigated rose, she walks on.
The breeze catches the layers of her gown’s full skirt as she descends into the Cradle much later. Her face is raw. It’s been hours out in the sun without a hat to protect pale skin. Along the southern edge of farmland a kindly matron beckons to Aerona from her doorway and treats the girl’s scorched forehead, nose and cheeks with a cooling balm. The matron, Paeghan is bemused by Aerona’s self-inflicted condition, and welcomes the folly of youth into her home. Her own husband is gone away, and the youngest is not yet out of nappies, so the passionate chatter of her guest brings an air of festivity to the austere kitchen.
“What was so urgent you left home so ill-prepared, my darling?”
The salve is thick and pungent; Aerona winces.
“I’m just heading to the Northern Woods to meet my brother - I need his advice urgently.”
“Oh? What troubles you? Perhaps I may offer council. I’ve always had a practical word for any who would hear it.”
“I’m sorry but I cannot - it’s too important. Only my brother knows me well enough to understand how to answer. It is rather personal in nature.”
“Well if you’re going on, take my hat - I’ve just given it new ribbon.”
“Oh I couldn’t possibly - you’ve already been far too kind.”
Paeghan only smiles, shakes her head, and sees the young maid off again. The isolated puff of blush silk slowly diminishes among the flowering orchards, and she watches it with the other women until it disappears over the hill.
Adair will be in the Aelvinnwode today; another season hence he may join the others beneath the banner of the Khoriens but for now he secures the border of the Gorge. It’s early afternoon by the time Aerona crosses the Bowstring and heads north toward the Cradlewood. The salve has helped, but she is leery of staying out in the sun - she keeps to the shade of the trees instead of walking in the open.
The rain starts just as she reaches the heart of the Cradlewood. Worried for her dress, she shelters beneath the heavy canopy of yew, intent on waiting out the summer storm.
The leaves of the yew susurrus and tremble from the wind which now howls through the valley. The rain drops streak diagonally, and a black stormhead dominates the sky. Aerona begins to panic - she knows that lighting will kill a man if it hits the tree he shelters himself beneath, but is equally likely to strike an object alone upon an open space. She cannot decide whether to stay or run. Hot tears join the raindrops upon her cheeks and she wails in adolescent indecision.
The first crack of thunder drowns out her cries, the lightning blinding her. There is no time to count between strike and peal - Spears of the Storm Lord strike the valley around her, one after another after another. For a breath there is silence and Aerona dares to stand. The instant she is on her feet, the entire world goes white.
She can’t breath - there is a terrible ache within her breast and the air is heavy with char and ozone. She struggles to free herself from the fallen branches which catch her dress and endeavor to pin her to the sodden earth. Motes dance in front of her eyes and her hearing seems to be returning - although with a consistent low buzz she hopes will pass. Before her, a sight like none other
A great old pine - wider and taller and nobler than its neighbours - has been split neatly in twain, its exposed flesh blacked and smoking but still held together by four feet of whole trunk at its base. Wedged perfectly into the cleft of the tree is something which flashes gold and red in the soft light. Receding clouds allow the late sun to break through, and Aerona gasps to see a bronze sword - pitted and in some places melted - yet whole, its hilt set with a perfect round ruby.
Hidden by the dense pine needles, Aerona wondered for how long this treasure had slept within the tree, and who had left it so embedded. Without thinking, Aerona stepped forward and took the proferred hilt into her hand. It was searing to the touch but she found she could not drop it. The rain had slowed to a misting, but it hissed at it hit the blade. Aerona clenched her teath, but the pain did not come. Instead she felt what could only be described as divine ecstacy.
Face flushed, she felt strong. Aerona felt fierce, she felt wrath,she felt wave upon wave of emotions unknown to her crashing into her body. There was an electric energy which coursed through her now. The rain itself now steamed around her, as if her body temperature had risen to meet that of the sword.
Aerona could taste the copper and iron of blood in her mouth - her heart thrummed a battle song against her ribs. She felt invicible and true - Aerona felt the power of Purpose. She felt the Call. She had been a girl mere moments ago, but in that instant she pledged her life to Cuiraécen. Aerona knew without knowing that the storm had been searching for her. She knelt before the split tree, and she prayed to the God of War for the first time. The words came easily. They had been spoken for centuries, in every manner of way - sometimes voiced only with the heart.
“Storm Lord! I, the ignorant, heed Your call. Greatest of Warriors, You have summoned one who is unworthy - but who shall become Glorious in your sight.”
“This I pledge in your name: My shield will shelter the weak. My sword shall strike down the wicked. I will honor Nesirie and Haelyn. Cuiraécen, I swear myself to your service. My arm is Your arm, my heart Your heart, my life Yours to spend or save.”
__________________
Later, it was Adair who found the tree. He considered the scene carefully, discerning its meaning. Aerona, brash slip of a thing, was easy to track. She had never been gifted with subtlety. He positioned the fallen branches just so, and cleared the signs of her from the undergrowth. He would need a horse or two to hide her tracks outside the Cradle - but he knew where a pair of mules who were born with the hearts of chargers were stabled.
Sadness and pride in equal measure swelled the young ranger’s heart.
“Haelyn, teach Your Son mercy, that He might send my sister home once more.”
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