Spires of Spirit by Gael Baudino Page B

thought that particular emotion possible for Elves. But then he smiled in return. “And upon you and yours,” he said. He came forward, offering his hand, and helped Roxanne to her feet. “And what brings you this far into Malvern today, Mistress Weaver? I would think that you would have returned home to sleep.”
    “To sleep?”
    “You were awake all night. I had supposed that all humans needed sleep. Or maybe I am mistaken?”
    It was her turn to blink. “I see. And was I the evening's entertainment? A naked witch parading about, chanting and waving a knife?” Had they been spying on her? Her methods could only appear crude and primitive compared with those of the Elves, but still, common courtesy . . .
    Varden shook his head. “By no means, madam. We had our own . . . commemoration . . . last night, but we saw you enter the forest at sunset, and we felt your worship merge with ours. It was a blessed night.”
    “I was out in the fields this morning.”
    “True. And we were among our trees. Our separate kindreds have each their own concerns.” He bowed and offered his arm. “Will you walk with me, Lady? I would speak with you this morning.”
    His use of the old title unnerved her a little. “I . . . have herbs to gather . . .”
    “Roxanne, my name is Varden. And my business had somewhat to do with yours. May I go with you to collect herbs?”
    She laughed suddenly. “Could there be any question, Varden? I might as well forbid Kay to enter his church as tell an Elf not to walk at will in Malvern.”
    The starlight in his eyes flickered. “And I might as well show disrespect to my Creatrix as accompany a witch without her leave.”
    Roxanne stopped her laughter. Varden was an Elf, and she, a mortal, was essentially trespassing in his forest. And yet he treated her with deference and courtesy. She took his arm, wondering at him and at his ways. “Yes . . . yes, of course you have my leave, Varden,” she stammered.
    The path wound through the forest, branch and leaf pressing in on both sides, and they traveled it in silence. Varden's steps were steady, and Roxanne's were no less sure, though she paused once to loose her skirt from the greenery, wishing as she did that she had not given up her breeches and shirt.
    Varden waited patiently for her, watching, and, “It is about Charity,” he said quietly as they continued.
    “Charity?” said Roxanne. “She is indeed why I'm here today. Her nightmares?”
    “It is so. How much can you do for her with herbs and philters?”
    Roxanne could not read the tone of his voice. “How much? As much as I can. I can help her to rest at night. If the dreams are very bad, I might have to find out what is troubling her.”
    Varden seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “And what methods might you use for that?”
    The path took them up the side of a low hill, swung out of the trees and into the sunlight, and skirted a meadow that lay like a bright carpet of wildflowers. “Methods?” Roxanne looked at him, but he was gazing at the blossoms. Still that sense of discomfort about him . . . something that, like surprise, she had not thought possible for Elves to manifest. “Why do you ask me of methods, Varden? Yours are infinitely more effective than mine, I'm sure.”
    But Varden stopped, reached down, and plucked a scarlet bloom. It glowed in the sun like a small, petaled flame. “Our meeting, Roxanne, is perhaps overdue,” he said. “My people and yours are sundered in many ways, but we hold some things in common, and therefore it may be that we should share others. True, my folk have knowledge. But yours do also, and it should not be overlooked or held cheap. You love Charity. As do I. The girl's nights are troubled. I would ease them, but I cannot touch the life of a mortal without great cause. I . . . could assist your efforts, though, were you willing.”
    He extended the flower to Roxanne and, after a moment, she took it. His gravity and the sense of weight behind his