Page 7 of Secrets of the Lore Keepers
“What did you say?” I met his eyes and realized he’d seen me admiring his body.
Quickly I cursed to myself and set to work changing the bandage.
“Did you find out who killed them? Did they have enemies?” Kian asked.
I shook my head, keeping my gaze on his wound, which was healing nicely. It might leave a scar, but he’d have to live with it, for I did not possess the magic of healing, just herbs.
“No,” I admitted, shoulders sagging, wondering how he’d turned the tables and got me to talk about myself when I was most curious about him. “We had no clues and no place to start looking for them. Besides, the land needed us. It always has, always will.”
A spark of recognition flickered in his eye before fading back into distant confusion. “The land,” he repeated, as though those very words would bring back his memories.
We fell silent as I worked, and I recalled Maraini’s desire to search Mama’s journals for a memory potion. What if there was a clue in those journals? A sign of where they were going and why? But no reason spoke to me.
The journals weren’t accounts of daily life; they were more of a yearly almanac with accounts of the farm, the animals in the barn, how much they could produce and how much they were worth. There were notations of the herbs and plants in the garden, and the uses for them. There were details of the weather, and which plants flourished during the seasons. Some accounts included recipes, and those were my favorites, for Mama would take her time, drawing a plant in black and white beside the list of instructions. One recipe was the familiar tomato and basil sandwich that Maraini and I often ate. It went into the journal along with a picture of fat ripe tomatoes and large basil leaves as big as my hands.
When I was younger, I liked to sit on my mama’s knee and watch her draw, her spidery handwriting creating something beautiful out of nothing. That was what spell work was like, the beauty of transformation, taking one thing and using words and our firm belief to turn it into something else.
“Where did you go?” Kian asked, wonder in his voice.
I realized that I was so preoccupied with my thoughts, I’d paused and sat, staring off at the wall behind him. Slowly, my eyes slid back to his face and lingered on his dry lips. I needed to bring him water, but I’d forgotten. “My mother kept records of everything that took place on this land. Perhaps she wrote down a potion for memories. I’ll find one and craft a cure to help you recall what was lost.”
I could feel Kian’s eyes linger on me as I finished bandaging his wound. “There, you’re all better now.” I smiled at him, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Tell me,” his voice was low, almost rough. “Are you and your sister witches?”
Laughter burst out of my lips before I could stop myself. I shook my head, almost crying from merriment. “Witches?” I sputtered. “What makes you think of that?”
Incredulous, he stared at me, as if he did not know what to think. He shrugged, reached for his shirt and stood. “Just now you mentioned a potion, earlier you spoke of wards of protection, and my wound, I imagine it was deep. I saw the dried blood in the hay and yet I barely feel it.”
A stillness crept over me. He was right. The healing potion had worked far better than I imagined. Without it, he’d still be lying in the hay, unable to move.
“I’ve only seen you, and you claim you have a sister. But where is your husband? Where are the children? It is so quiet here, like you have something to hide.”
A finger of fear touched my shoulder, and I stepped back to the entrance of the stall. Frowning, I replied. “I don’t have a husband or children. It’s just my sister and I. We take care of the farm. Alone.” My eyes narrowed, a sudden fury rising in my chest. How dare he judge me! “As for hiding, what is it you think we’re hiding?”
A flicker of confusion passed over his eyes, as though a haze kept him from understanding clearly. He waved his hand as though to brush it away. “I’m not sure why I spoke those words,” he admitted. “It was merely an observation. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Still, I didn’t like the thought we were hiding something, and even though I had nothing to prove to an elven prince, I held the door of the stall open. “I need to go to the well, but your wound has healed enough for you to walk to the barn door. I’ll show you what I see when I look out across the land. For land is wealth and wisdom and freedom. We have nothing to hide here, but we have things we don’t want others to take from us.”
“I did not mean to offend,” he stammered, tying his jerkin. “It is the fact two young women living alone is unusual.”
“Does no one live alone in your land?” I asked, my curiosity about him returning.
“Nay, no one dwells alone in my tribe. We live and work together, the hunters and gatherers, the shaman and warriors, the women and children. Everyone has their duty, and we all dwell in the sacred hollow, an interlocking group of caves and trees bound by the years.” A smile came to his face. “Much darker than out here, where there are no trees, but we have each other and that is all we need.”
I watched his face as he spoke, the way his eyes went soft and wistful and lines of sadness played around his mouth. Something within my chest ached, and I wanted to help him regain his happiness again. Even though it was none of my concern. “It sounds beautiful,” I offered, unsure what to say at all.
His brows arched as though I’d surprised him. “Yes,” he agreed. “It was. It still is.” He said nothing more, but followed me out of the stall.
I felt rather bad for keeping him in there, as though he were an animal. I’d have to speak with Maraini about different living arrangements for our mysterious guest—an elven prince, no less. He was an interesting addition to our lives, and as I walked to the double doors of the barn, I realized that I was in no hurry for him to leave. None at all.
“This is our land,” I said proudly, placing my hands on my hips.
I knew the view like the back of my hand, for I’d seen it a thousand times. This time, instead of looking, I watched his face, knowing what he would see. The meadow rose in front of us and a dirt path led to the gardens, growing great and green. Beyond them was a row of apple trees, a tiny grove of only six trees, standing in a circle, waving their broad leaves.
The sunflowers at the edge of the garden cast bright spots of color, as did the bluebells lining the path that led up toward the house, the back of it which could just be seen from the side of the barn. And then all beyond was rolling green, the pastures where the cows grazed—I’d forgotten to let the horses out—and the meadow where we collected lightning.
Fat yellow and white stripped bees hummed as they pollinated the flowers, birds sang and blue and black butterflies flew from flower to flower, casting their beauty across the land. Every morning when I woke up and looked out my window, this was what I saw, what I loved. The slope of the hill where the herbs grew, the rutted dirt path that winded toward Capern, a few hours south of us, and finally on to that enchanted wildwood he spoke out so wistfully. It made sense that if he followed the road, he would have found us. But why? And who had wounded him so severely?
