Nithawene

He's here. At last.

She's hidden in the attic of the great hall, pressed low amongst the grainstores, with her eyes pressed up to a gap between timbers, watching breathless until he's close enough that she knows for sure it's him. And then there's no stopping her. She scrambles through the closest bolt-hole, up onto the thatch, over it, across an icing of heaped snow, and down again onto the ground. Her bare footprints leave a trail in more snow. There are men and women coming and going, carrying baskets, driving livestock. She hardly sees them. She's a blur; racing along the narrow track, taking rocky shortcuts where it dithers too long, her breath intermingled with her joyeous laugh.

Home. Finally. After all the months waiting for him.

“Papa!” She calls out before he can even be close enough to hear her. He's coming up the trail with a small group of men, and though she doesn't mean to she finds herself counting them. He'd set off with six companions and come back with four. The realisation blunts her happiness: where is Fongerd? Where is Hoshstar?

But then he sees her and waves to her, and she can't help but feel the wave of pure gladness. Another family's grief slides into the background. All she wants to do is have him hold her and lift her up, twirl her around like he's always done, while she's still small enough that he can. She wants to fly for those moments.

She jumps into his arms, him with his pack still on his back, a climbing stick in one hand. She can see the indulgent smiles all around her and doesn't care. She's first; the other children, the wives and sisters, sweethearts, they can all catch up in their own time. He buries her in a bear hug but he doesn't spin her around, doesn't hold her aloft so that she feels she has wings. He puts her down gently and strokes her hair. Things have gone badly then.

“My lamb,” he whispers.

“I watched for you every day.”

“I knew you would.”

She can see that he's tired, and there are small, half-healed scars on one side of his face, there are cuts along the back of his hand that are healing now but were once deep enough to be stitched. Dirt and sweat are an integral part of him, the clothing of the road. And troubled: she can read his face quite well – always could – and she knows that matters are dire. She should probably be afraid, but right now, this now, this moment: all her head has room for: he's back.

#

By night the villagers gather in the great hall. There's no body in the head chair – no lord since the world went wrong. Any man could sit there and it wouldn't mean anything especial – perhaps a boldness or an arrogance, but no more – and yet superstition seems to keep the warriors and elders in their buzz all around, but never in it.

She's nine and she's not that big for her age, but she can't escape the chores; she's been grinding the grain with the women, rolling it into dough, shoving it into the ground-oven after stuffing it full of nuts and cheese. Now it's fresh-baked, smelling new and savoury, mouthwatering, ready for these heroes – her father is one of them – to enjoy in their welcome home.

She dips a jug into the ale barrel and pours for the grown-ups. Another inescapable chore. But she doesn't mind this one so much, because it lets her wander freely, listening to everything that's said. The morsels she hears are dark – 'growing bigger' – 'able to do nothing, or so they say' - '...would not even try' – 'gone, run away, the whole town is empty, not a soul left.'

And she lingers beside her father, pouring for him – though his cup was only half empty.

“Tetha, my lamb.”

“Don't leave me ever again Papa.”

A warm smile. Nothing else. Not at all the promise she wants to her hear from him.

“I missed you,” she dares.

“And I, you.” Another embrace, one-armed, while his other arm reaches for a chunk of fresh bread. “And look, you've grown, look at these long, gangly legs huh? Has your aunt been sending you running three times around the mountain each day?”

She giggles, shakes her head.

“Twice as tall, and getting blonder. That's a mop of angle-hair that is. Just like your mother had. Hah, you'll be a beauty when your time comes.”

“I've been collecting tarsel eggs every day.” It's not small thing, because tarsel are the size of dogs and have heavy, sharp beaks; and they don't take kindly to a little girl stealing their children to make breakfast of. They can swoop from a height sometimes, they could knock an unwary collector half-way down the mountain. Their feathers the colour of chestnuts, their bellies like saffron and red clay combined.

“You must be careful.” But he doesn't forbid her. He is proud. She'd known he would be.

“I'm born of the mountain,” she insists, “how can I ever fall?” Though the tarsel choose to nest on high points, crests that are not at all easy to reach.

“My brave one.”

“I am.”

“And good as well, I hope.”

“Yes, papa.”

“I shall ask your aunt.”

“She'll tell you. I promise.”

“Well, go serve the other villagers, I can't drink that jug all by myself now can I?”

He could, she remembers hiding in her spot in the attic, watching him with the other men, laughing and slapping the table, boasting, downing full cups of this ale: he could drink twice this, has in other times. But now doesn't seem like a time for drunkeness. She kisses his cheek and she moves down the table.

#

It's no place for children, the discussion that follows. She's not to stay. And although her father tells her to go back to the hut and sleep, he must know that she's not going to, that she'll find a hiding place and listen. She doubts she's the only one. In the attic, amongst bags of grain, she lies flat and watches through floorboards as the grown-ups have their discussion.

The talk is grim.

Fongerd. Hoshstar. Her father tells it: “Raiders. When we crossed the plain. We didn't even see them until they were right on top of us. Fongerd and Hoshstar fought hard, they were brave and they died like men. We had to bury them out there, I'm sorry. But here...” He's done the right thing, he's brought back the fingerbones, he can give them now to the widows and mothers and eldest sons. This is not their men back, but its that piece of them that will help them remember, that'll focus their grief and keep the souls of their men a little safer. They come solemnly to take these, grateful, red-eyed with grief.

“What about the Principati?” someone wants to know.

“They, they can do nothing.”

A hush, a few soft breaths. A question at last: “Well, why not?”

“They've tried, or so they told us. They've gathered the best of their spell-learned and performed their ceremonies. And they've tried to investigate.”

“Well, what then?”

“Nothing. A blankness. Their magic bounced back against it. And any man sent in there doesn't come back. Any man sent after him doesn't return to report.”

Tollen, her father's companion, speaks up now: “The towns west of the Haleshron have evacuated to a man. We passed through six empty villages and three towns. There was nobody left at all. They've given up.”

“Is that it then? Are we just going to run?”

“We have a few years,” one woman says– brawny, ice-eyed Serilitash - “we have time.”

“We think.”

Her father says: “We could try for one of the Braelian cities.”

“There's darkness between here and there.”

“We'd try to go around.”

“Is there still around? We've seen how it spreads into valleys and lowlands.”

“We can at least try. I'm not sure what else we have.”

#

In the straw, shut up in her bed, she isn't going to sleep. She can feel the fire as it settles down into embers, she can feel the quiet cooling as they pale from red to grey. She feels the stirring warmth as her aunt wakes and stokes them into a little more life – scattering bones and dung to keep the house warm until morning.

Tetha lies awake until she hears her father come in. She listens to him whisper to her aunt. She holds her breath, hoping, fighting back tears. She waits until he comes into the little room she shares in winter with the goats. And then she's bolt upright, waiting to spring.

But he holds his hand out to still her.

“Oh no. Don't.”

“I have to.”

“But you just got back!”

“Yes, I know.”

“And I've waited every day. Every day! Just waiting for you to come home. Oh, please papa, it's not been even a day!”

“Ah, but it's urgent.”

“I was listening. They said a few years.”

“The journey will be worse the longer we wait. And that's if it's even possible. None of us know.”

“And if you go and it spreads...” How will he ever get back? Will he? She's looking into his eyes and she can see it all written out there, all as clear as dew on sandgrass. You don't think you can come back. And she buries herself in him, crying unashamedly.

He at least doesn't lie to her. He takes her arms and settles her back. What can be said now? She's only nine but she does know, she understands his duty. First her mother – taken by the winter – now her father, giving himself to the road, to the dark thing, in hope of saving his people, his daughter's home – she's never been out of it, has never wanted to. He tells her, “I've brought you back a present.”

In spite of herself she is at least curious. In a small voice: “What is it?”

He unwrap a crystal globe. It's the size of a large apple, perhaps a bit larger, too big to hold easily in one hand; and beautiful – she's never seen anything like this, never owned anything even close to what it is. She wants to be aloof from this bribe that should be such poor substitute for his taking himself away – but she can't help reaching for it, and she doesn't mean to hold her breath, doesn't even know she has until she feels the breath straining at her lungs.

Inside, there's a plant – it's not one she recognises. This is a miniature vine, soft white stalks covered all over in delicate golden flowes. The petals are full of colours, but all of them are yellow: colours of sun, butter, gold, clay, candlelight, wax and honey; there's a gentle sparkle about them, a way of not seeming quite still. The outer-most flowers press against the clear crystal as if searching for the way to come out.

“It's a scrap of Nithawene. Do you know what that is?” And to her shaken head: “The vines are long extinct, but a few have been preserved this way. It's a rare thing, and it has a mind – of a sort. It knows me, and it'll know you. It'll watch us both.”

“Can it really?” Not just a story? I'm too old to hear a story.

“I think so. The sorcerer who gave it me said so.”

“Don't you need it?”

“No. I need to know that you are safe and good. I need to know that we have this connection, this here, no matter what happens.”

“But you have to come back. You have to!”

“The flower knows so.”

“This is rotten,” she tells him, “this is rotten, and it's unfair. I only get you back for one night, the you go off again and I'd don't know when you'll get back! Why can't some other girl's father go away and do this?”

He only shakes his head.

“Well, it isn't fair. It really isn't.”

Just stroking her, telling her he knows, no lies or false promises, just this golden bloom that does seem to know her, and does seem to a little understand.

#

When she's kissed him, when she's made her promises, when she's watched him and his companions walk away, she takes her flower and climbs to one of the high points so she can watch him for as long as possible. From here she can see the darkness as well – this tarpit of empty wrath,
something nobody can really name. It hangs on the flatlands – and yes, of course, it's grown. It spreads slowly - spilled honey - its new limbs exploring the cracks, settling into them, expanding and seeking out new pathways. Cold, she knows of it, inpenetrable, with its evil influence capable of freezing or necrotising the flesh of any who approach. Animals have all fled. Soon people will. Us? And how could she flee without her father?

But she holds the Nithawene flower against her heart – because this is how. This is how he'll find her, anywhere. If the village is swallowed or the mountain cut off, this is the beacon. She can see it shiver, twisting a little bit, as if to assure her that she's seeing true. Bright petals press against the edges, hungry for fresh air and sunlight, maybe not knowing that their glass cage is also their survival.

She can just see the dot of him; the small, thin shapes of five men walking over the lip of Sarrust Ridge. She can see the sunrise glance red against his shoulder. Her flower shifts towards that, settling at a different angle, still flattened at the extremities against the inside of the crystal. This, she thinks, is how she knows he'll come home.