The spirit woke. A faint sense of inquiry came to her. She opened her mind showing the rasti, showing how Elmsgarth’s people could die without aid, reminding the elms how the people here had ever given honor and how if the rasti struck or even remained in waiting, the honor would be gone. The power flowed into her then, freely given.
She added the leaves to the small fire and took up those of the willow. “Come willow! You who have lined the streams a hundred hundred years. Whose bark has soothed fevers, relieved pain, and aided winter sickness. Come willow! Whose spirit has been honored by those who share the land.” She felt it stir and smiled, her voice becoming coaxing. Old Willow disliked to wake but it would. “Come willow, aid those who have cared for you, those who are part of you as you are part of them.” The power roared, given at her asking.
She flung it into the fire, which soared up, a slender pillar of light. Then she took up the last three leaves. Her voice was gentle. “Come winterbloom. Come lawleaf. Come cheel! Healers, friends, and sharers of the land. Share healing now, share strength and friendship.” These spirits were weaker, more fragile but they came at once. She felt the power slip into her softly, and she bowed her head. All living things had spirits; if honored they thrived.
Here in Elmsgarth there had long been a tradition. Once each year in spring there was an honoring of the trees. A ceremony that thanked each species for returning to life after winter. Water and a small portion of some sort of nourishment was given to the smallest sapling of each type. Across much of Karsten this custom had lapsed. Aisling smiled; in Kars they would laugh heartily at the very idea. A peasant folly. Not in Elmsgarth. Here the ceremony had never died. Trees died or lost their leaves outside these lands. It was different here.
In Elmsgarth trees lived longer, grew larger, and were slower to lose their leaves, swifter to regrow them in early spring. Ciara had learned from her mother, Lanlia, who had learned from her husband’s mother. Even when Ciara had left her home, left her dead behind, she had still insisted on returning each year for the ceremony. She had taught it to those who held the land after her.
Aisling wondered now, even as she chanted, combining the power given her, aiming it carefully, if perhaps someone from the previous family would have survived if they too had honored the tradition? They’d promised, making it clear that they were only humoring a superstitious fool when they spoke of it to Ciara. It had been too late to refuse them the garth they’d paid for. It was almost certain they’d never carried out their promise. The girl shrugged. The trees hadn’t saved Ciara’s family, only the child herself, and that had been as much by her own strength and sense and that of her mother. But then, they had not called on the spirits that day.
Aisling slowly moved her hands apart. The power within the flames split, each half bending away. No time to worry about ideas. Now she must keep control. That was hard. Raising the spirits had been easier. She stretched the flames, teasing them out into long slender ropes of fire. They burned, a woven rope that shimmered gold, silver, and a sparkling blue-green.
She pointed with each hand, signaling with an index finger that each rope was to circle the rasti burrows, then to meet again. They must blend in a perfect circle without weakness. They obeyed, swirling out and melding to form the chain that would bind. Aisling began to chant again, crafting the power.
Those within the line of fire, enemies are to all that is within this garth that honors well spirits of land that here do dwell.
She switched to the older tongue that would bring the power flooding.
She waited tensely as the power circled, then, with a lowering of her hands she emptied it out around the circle. Within herself she reached to the rasti: no pain, no fear, just a slow sleeping into death. She regretted the need, but they would die anyhow. It was just over halfway through the winter. If this rasti pack was so desperate already, then they would not survive the rest of the cold time.
The power sank into the earth. Through her pendant, clutched in one hand, she felt it touch the small sleeping bodies. They slept, deeper and deeper. Coma. She laid that upon them. Then she laid on the bonds that would keep it so. Behind her Keelan was alert. He saw her eyes open and caught her as she slumped.
“Is it… ?”
Her whisper was fading. “It’s done. They will never wake.” Her eyes closed. Keelan scooped up the slender body and laid it on the sledge. It would be a hard bed but only for a brief time. Another quarter candlemark on foot. Maybe a little longer with the sledge. He turned to look down the valley and bit back a cry of dismay. The garth was gone from his sight, so too the trees that towered along one side of the valley and encircled the rear of the home. Nothing but whiteness. He knew the snow had returned.
By now Harran and the others must be almost through. Harran knew Elmsgarth; he’d see to it that they kept to the track along the left-side valley wall. It would give them all shelter right up to the garth-house even if the way was slightly longer. But Keelan was out in the valley center. No wall to guide him and his sister helpless, depending on him to save her. He cupped his hands about his mouth and took several slow deep breaths.
Then he removed his scarf and wound it about his face. He had to breathe slowly. Gulping air this cold could freeze his lungs. He took up the sledge ropes, tied them, and stepped into the loop. It lay across the back of his neck under his jacket collar, then passed under each arm. That way he had his hands free. He must not try to move too swiftly. A fall could break an ankle or leg. If he did that they would both die. Even a sprain would be dangerous.
For long moments he was almost paralyzed with fear. If he moved he might kill them both. Then common sense reasserted itself. If he didn’t move they’d both freeze anyhow. He muttered a quick prayer, then leaned into his harness. The sledge moved slowly behind him as he plodded forward. The snow was falling more heavily, blinding him, sliding coldly down his collar. He adjusted the scarf as he walked.
Keelan considered as he advanced toward the unseen house. He’d been facing directly up the valley when the snow came. The wind in winter almost always blew down the valley in one direction but not in a completely straight line. It veered slightly to the southwest. So if he traveled directly into it, hopefully he wouldn’t walk in circles. And old Hannion had told him that a man moving in a snowstorm tended to veer to his right. Keelan paused a moment to study his hands as he held them up. If so then the two angles should cancel each other out.
Right. He leaned into the harness again remembering the lay of the valley. From here he should meet nothing until the garth-house. He would still have to walk with care though. The stream ran swift in the thaw and it had carved out a deep bed. If he strayed too far to the right he could stumble over the edge. A step at a time he marched forward. The wind and snow on his face, icing his lashes, blinding him to more than one step ahead.
The sledge was becoming heavier. It dragged him back as he leaned harder into the rope, or maybe it was the blowing wind. Each breath was icy, biting into his lungs with every inhalation. He paused and turned his back to it for a brief respite. Aisling lay wrapped in the second blanket they’d used to hold down the wood. He touched her face and smiled. She was warm. He took up her hands in their heavy knitted mittens and chafed them briskly. Hands could become frostbitten even if the body was warm.