Enver looked delighted as Estral told how the clever farm boy discovered each of Bovian’s secrets, saved his village from the curse, and was rewarded with riches, a fair maiden, and a kingdom. It was more the way the story was told than the story itself that drew one in, and Estral told it masterfully.
When she finished, Enver said, “Ah, that is very well done, and different from the tales told by my people.”
“How so?” Estral asked.
“Eletian stories are often in verse, or sung, and of real people and deeds.”
“We have many like that, too. Would you tell us one of yours?”
Enver bent his head in thought, then looked up. “There is the song of Hadwyr and Narivanine, and of when the world was new. I have not the skill to translate the verse, but it is the story of their love.”
Karigan found she did not have to understand the words to understand the story. The power and texture of Enver’s voice carried all the emotion, the yearning of two lovers, the intensity of desire, and the joy of their bonding. She was lifted by the soaring melody until a dissonance pulled her back. The tone turned dark and desperate. Her anxiety built with Enver’s increasingly sharp tempo, her breath ragged as the anguish in his voice sawed right into her chest.
“Narivanine, Narivanine,” he sang, and Karigan knew it was Hadwyr crying out for his lover, and she gasped with the pain of it. Narivanine was . . . lost. Sorrow washed over Karigan, the sort of which was raw, too close. She wanted to scream, but she ran out into the snow instead.
She pressed her back against the cabin trying to control her breathing, to hold back the sobs, her hands clenched at her sides. She pivoted and pounded the log wall as hard as she could, exulting in the pain.
WITNESS
Suddenly, Estral was there, grabbing her wrist and encircling her in an embrace that trapped her arms to her sides. She sobbed into Estral’s shoulder, and Estral made soothing sounds and rubbed her back. Soon the sobs came to a shuddering halt, and Karigan drew away, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
“Think you’ll be all right?” Estral asked.
“Sometimes . . . sometimes it just comes out of nowhere,” Karigan replied.
“Oh, it came from somewhere,” Estral said acerbically. Lantern light shone from the cabin’s interior to the outside through the dusty window, and fell upon her hair, which was collecting snowflakes. “If you’re ready, let’s go back inside. It’s freezing out here.”
Karigan nodded and followed her into the cabin. Enver was pacing and he drew to a halt when she entered.
“Galadheon,” he said, worry wrinkled across his forehead, “forgive me. I meant no harm. The song of Hadwyr and Narivanine is well known among my people and often sung, and I reached for it naturally.”
“Did he ever find her?” she asked.
Enver stared blankly at her.
“Hadwyr. Did he ever find Narivanine?”
Enver shook his head. “No, he did not.”
Drained of emotion and energy, Karigan went to her bedroll and sank to the floor. She stared at her hand and flexed her fingers, the pain an echo of that which was always within her.
Enver knelt beside her and took her hand, gently unfolding her fingers. “Not broken, at least. I have evaleoren salve, which should soothe the pain.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Karigan Helgadorf G’ladheon,” Estral said, standing above her with her arms crossed. “Now don’t give me that look. We’re not stupid. Let Enver slather his salve on it. He’ll feel better, your hand will feel better, which will make me feel better. Plus, I won’t have to worry about whether or not you can use a sword next time we are attacked by groundmites.”
“I have two hands,” Karigan reminded her.
“What if something happens to the other? Then where will we be?”
Karigan didn’t have an argument for that, so she allowed Enver to apply the salve. Evaleoren was aromatic, so even as it warmed and soothed the pain in her hand, the scent relaxed her, calmed the turbulence that had sent her pounding on the cabin wall.
Enver seemed to know just how to massage the muscles of her fingers and hand, how much pressure to apply, and where.
“You heard about Helgadorf?” she asked Estral. She had never shared her middle name with even her best friend.
There was a hint of a smile on her friend’s lips. “I have my sources.”
Mara? Maybe her aunts? Oh gods, had Estral talked with her aunts? What other embarrassing things might they have told her?
Enver paused his massage to examine the back of her wrist. “This is a recent wound,” he said, indicating where Brienne had slashed her during her swordmaster “test.” It was pink, turning into a scar as had been intended.
“It is the mark of a swordmaster,” Karigan said, and not without some rancor.
“The ways of your people are strange to me.”
“Sometimes they are to me, too.”
Enver smiled slightly and released her hand. “I will leave the evaleoren salve out in case you have need of it in the night.”
Karigan nodded her thanks, and she and Estral began readying their bedrolls to sleep. Enver went outside to, as he told them, take in the air.
Estral sat cross-legged on her blankets. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Sometimes, I guess,” Karigan replied. “And I guess, sometimes not.”
Estral stared at her. “I think that is one of the most honest statements you have ever made.”