Chapter Four: A Village of Beginnings
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Return to the earth and be free, for death is but another beginning. May Mother Anturia watch over you.”
—A prayer to Mother Anturia for the dead
It was early in the morning when Ein woke. He sat groggily for a while, listening to the quiet breathing of Evaine beside him, ignoring the stiffness creeping into the hollow of his neck where her head lay. It took a while longer for him to remember he wasn’t supposed to be asleep, and when he pulled his hand away from hers she let out a quiet groan and began to stir. He remained perfectly still as she shifted into a more comfortable position, and it wasn’t until her breathing evened that he dared move.
Ein rose to his feet and made a quick check on Evaine’s mother and father, noting the tinge of colour creeping back into their cheeks. Nodding to himself, he left the room on the balls of his feet. Hopefully he would make it back before Evaine woke, and she would be none the wiser.
After a modest breakfast from the innkeeper and a knowing wink which he ignored, he set out to the Tamelyn farmstead. Smoke rose from the chimneys of Felhaven as fireplaces burned to life and villagers woke up to tend to their daily chores. Some of them waved to Ein as he passed them by.
He reached the farm in what felt like no time at all. However, he wasn’t alone.
“Bran,” he exclaimed. And then, with a more respectful tone, “Master Sutherland.”
Bran and his father Sanson stood in the middle of the pen, working away at the sheep corpses. They’d sheared the bloodstained fleece already and were hacking away at the bodies with an assortment of knives and cleavers. A wagon stood beside the fence on the road, laden with several sacks of what Ein assumed were tools and cuts of meat, and tethered to it stood a brown mare pawing idly at the ground.
“Ein,” Bran nodded. His father ignored them. “How’s Evaine? I would visit, but we can’t leave these corpses out for much longer. It was hard enough finding the time to come today.”
“You left them out for the whole of yesterday?” Ein asked. He approached one of the sheep carcasses, fighting down the uneasiness in his stomach. Soon enough, part of that corpse would be on his plate. He hoped the flies hadn’t gotten around to laying their eggs yet.
“The village was in an uproar,” Bran sighed. “We spent the entire day scouring the countryside for the attackers. Didn’t find anything, of course.”
Bran stood up and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. He was a sandy-haired youth with a splattering of freckles across his red skin, just as tall and thin as his father. Ein remembered a time when young Bran had been the shortest of the three and Evaine had towered a full head above them both. Back then their worries had consisted of getting home before dark, following rabbits to their holes and finding the tallest trees to climb in the woods. How the times had changed.
“Evaine’s doing fine,” Ein answered. “The Master and Mistress look to be in better shape as well. Hopefully they’ll be awake later today.”
“That’s good to hear,” Bran said. He turned to where his father was on the other side of the pen and furrowed his brow. “Of all the times for disaster to strike, it had to be now. I hope they’ll be able to enjoy the festival tomorrow.”
“Get back to work,” Sanson called out from across the field, startling them both. The tension left Bran’s shoulders and he bent down to the corpse, cleaver raised. With a firm chop, he severed one of the hind legs and pulled it from the main body.
“Sorry,” Ein said. “Anyway, have you seen Einar around?”
Bran nodded, cleaning off the tendons from the cut. “Yeah. He’s dead. I pulled his body to the side since I figured you’d probably want to bury him.” He pointed to the edge of the pen. “Didn’t touch him or anything. Evaine would kill me if I carved him up like the other animals.”
“Thank the gods.” Ein exhaled.
“She doesn’t know he’s dead yet, does she?”
Ein shoved his hands into his pockets as Bran wrapped the leg into a flap of leather. “I think she suspects it. But don’t tell her; just say we didn’t find his body. I’ll go and bury him now.”
“Got it.”
Ein left him then, trudging over to the remains of the hound with heavy steps. His breath caught in his throat and he closed his eyes for a moment. Einar’s jaw was still locked into a snarl, eyes open in fierce determination, staring down whatever it was that had killed him. It had been dark and Ein had been tired the night before, but under the stark daylight the scene was exposed in all its savagery. He gently closed the hound’s eyes.
“Mother Anturia watch over you,” he murmured.
He bundled the body into his arms, careful not to let any of the insides spill out, and found a place beneath a pine well away from the edge of the farm. Bran and his father were small dots in the distance, moving back and forth between the sheep carcasses and their wagon. Neither of them paid him any heed.
The first spadeful was the easiest. The soft snow quickly gave way to packed ice and then firm, frozen soil, and it soon became a strenuous task. He fell into a steady rhythm, working up a sweat before long. It was a mindless exercise, one he didn’t dislike at all. He didn’t want to think. The past few days had given him enough to think about, with the upcoming Flower Dance and the whole issue of who he would take to be his bride, as well as the attack on the Tamelyn farm.
When he was done, he took a moment to admire his handiwork before gently lowering Einar’s body into the grave. A knot of sadness grew in his stomach, followed by anger and frustration. Things wouldn’t quite be the same without the wolfhound.
The screeching of a crow startled Ein out of his thoughts. He quickly began packing the earth back into the hole. Evaine would be up soon, and it was as safe a bet as any that she’d come back to her farm—if not to look for him, then to salvage what little she could. He wanted the job to be finished by then. Hopefully, a light sprinkling of snow would have covered the patch of dirt he’d dug up.
Bran and his father had just about finished when Ein returned to the farm and left the spade in the shed. Bran was panting with exertion, even more red-faced than usual. Sanson finished securing their wares at the back of the wagon, feeding the old mare a turnip while he was at is.
“All finished?” Bran asked.
Ein nodded.
“Just in time too, it looks like.” Bran nodded in the direction of the road. “We’ve got some visitors.”
Ein followed the other’s gaze to where two figures slogged towards them; the tall, broad figure of his father and the smaller, waif-like figure of Evaine. Alend dragged an empty sled behind them.
“Evaine,” Ein exclaimed, as she came to a halt. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” she snapped. “This is my home. I don’t need a reason to be here.”
She nodded curtly at Bran and then stormed off towards the battered entrance to the house, braid swaying behind her. Ein and Bran looked towards Alend.
“She’s a bit angry,” he explained. “I told her she’d have to move elsewhere until either her parents woke or the house was repaired. It’s too dangerous for a girl to be living alone so far out from the village, especially with dangerous beasts roaming about. Not to mention, she needs a new door as well.”
“Where’s she going to stay?” Ein asked.
“She’ll be staying with us, at least until her mother or father wakes up. They can decide what to do after.”
“Are you sure?” Ein watched Sanson carefully out of the corner of his eye. “Aren’t Bran and Evaine betrothed?”
“It was Sanson himself who suggested it,” Alend said. The butcher nodded, wiping his hands on his apron. “The Sutherland homestead is packed enough as it is. They don’t have enough room to spare for another.”
“Besides,” Sanson added, “it wouldn’t feel right having her sleep under the same roof as my Bran. He’s not of age for another few weeks, after all. It’ll only be for the next few days—the troupers are due in tonight, and once they’re gone, Koth has kindly offered one of his rooms at the inn to the young Mistress.”
Ein looked uncertainly at Bran, whose gaze was fixed on the floor. “If it’s alright with everyone then, I guess.”
Sanson gave Alend a courteous nod before turning to leave, taking Bran with him. Bran murmured a quiet farewell over his shoulder.
“What are you trying to do?” Ein asked, once they were out of sight. “Evaine and I are close enough as it is. Poor Bran must be worried out of his mind that I’ll try to take her from him.”
“I tried my best, but Sanson insisted. Their house can definitely fit a third; I’ve seen it myself.” He sighed. “The way he went about it, you’d almost think he was trying to hide something.”
Before Ein could enquire further, Evaine emerged from the broken door carrying an armful of clothes. She stalked past the two to the sled, dumping them in an unruly heap.
“I’m going to see if I can salvage anything else from those sheep corpses,” Alend said, unpacking a toolbox from his bag. “We might need to replace those arrows we dumped during the trip. Bone makes for decent arrowheads.”
Ein nodded as his father made his way over to the field. Evaine passed by again, this time with a large trunk in her arms. She stopped halfway to the sled and glared at Ein.
“Aren’t you going to help me?”
There was no sign of the vulnerable girl from the night before. Evaine was normally quite overbearing, but Ein had never seen her so irritable before. It was probably her way of dealing with the events of yesterday, so he kept quiet and made the wiser decision.
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Ein and Bran walked home under the noonday clouds, taking turns dragging the sled behind them. Evaine skipped between the two, firing complaints and annoyed remarks at nobody in particular. She’d spent several hours scouring through the wreckage for things to take back, which seemed to have improved her mood—if only slightly.
“Felhaven’s traditions are stupid,” she said. “Why do I have to get married? I want to go adventuring as well. Don’t you agree?”
Ein and Bran nodded, though it was clear on their faces that they didn’t. It wasn’t the first time Evaine had complained about the matter, and Ein suspected it was more to take her mind off her mother and father than anything else.
“I can’t believe no one’s ever tried to leave before,” she continued. “Surely I can’t be the only one who’s sick of being a farmer. Every day is the same; there’s never any excitement. Where are the dragons? The knights and the sword-fighting tournaments? The wizards casting thunderbolts from the sky? I don’t want to live my whole life having never seen a city before.”
“Those are all stories,” Ein said. “My father says real life doesn’t quite turn out like that. I can tell you for sure, sword-fights aren’t at all what I imagined them to be.” He rubbed his bruises absentmindedly. Alend held nothing back during their fencing bouts.
“Still,” Evaine said. “I want to at least experience something for myself. Remember when we used to run around playing pretend? Wasn’t that so much more fun than doing chores?”
“Evaine… we were kids back then.” Bran said. “We have to work and do our part for the village now.”
Even though Evaine was the eldest of the three by a good half year, she didn’t act like it. Perhaps it was because of how she’d been raised, the only daughter of an overprotective couple. She’d never been away on a hunt for days on end, never had to kill an animal with her own hands and stain herself with blood. Bran and Ein had spent many a night discussing the reasons behind her outlook on life and arrived at that conclusion. However, they didn’t dare say it to her face, and they refused her requests to stow away on trips outside the village no matter how hard she begged. Valeesha would have them flogged, and Nath would skin them alive even if nothing happened to her.
Once, Ein had thought it to be unfair. There was no reason to refuse her if she wanted to join them. In fact, it would be safer if she ventured outside the village with others rather than by herself. That way at least, if anything happened they would be able to protect her.
Then, Alend had suggested taking Cinnamin on one of their expeditions. After that, he’d changed his mind.
Evaine folded her arms and pursed her lips. “I don’t care,” she huffed. “If none of you will take me away, I’ll wait for some smooth-tongued traveller to whisk me off.”
“You can’t be serious,” Ein sighed. He knitted his brows. The lack of sleep was starting to affect him. “We’re in the middle of the Great Winter. Wyd help me, isn’t there something else to complain about?”
Evaine paused and gave him a hard look. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.
“Ein’s just worried about you,” Bran cut in quickly. “And so am I. Evaine, your farm was just attacked a few nights ago. Surely it would be wiser to wait, at least until your parents are well again?”
Evaine sagged.
“I would,” she said quietly. “But it won’t be long before we’re married, and once that happens I may as well be chained to the village.”
Whatever Bran had been about to say was cut short. It was no common knowledge that he was the most tame of the three, even when they’d all been children. Ein couldn’t see Bran leaving the village, not even if Hellheim plunged into winter. And once the two were married, Evaine wouldn’t be able to leave either unless Bran left or she was content with being exiled from the village. Husbands and wives who disgraced their vows without good reason forfeited any right to live in Felhaven.
“Are those the troupers?” Ein asked, pointing into the distance.
Bran and Evaine looked towards Lake Felhaven, the words on the tips of their tongues forgotten. Beside it was a small gathering of cloth tents flying the green and gold banners of the Wydlings. Tiny human figures moved about, unpacking their carts and tending to the horses.
“Let’s go,” Evaine said. “I want to meet them. The last time we had troupers come around was almost ten years ago. And these aren’t just any troupers, they’re the Wydlings!”
“Let’s go home first,” Bran suggested. “The troupe won’t be going anywhere, and I’m not sure Ein would appreciate towing your luggage everywhere with him.”
Ein looked gratefully at Bran. “Cinnamin will also want to come,” he added. “I’d feel guilty if we saw them without bringing her.”
That seemed to do the trick, and Evaine fell quiet between the two.
They split up at the village square, Bran heading off to his house at the butchery. Ein and Evaine continued down the street to the Thoren family forge.
Word of the troupe’s arrival had already spread across the town, and Ein couldn’t help but begin to feel excited. They’d had visited once, long ago, when the fields were still green and marriage was not a topic at the forefront of their minds. He recalled bits and pieces of juggling acts, sword swallowers, men who pulled animals from the hats out of their head, and the songs—so many songs, each telling their own story in such a vivid and memorable manner that they stayed long after the Travelling Folk were gone. There were tales of Lady Reyalin the Stormdancer and Dalan of the Legion, Selin and Sonata, the relicts, even the seven Urudain who served Al’Ashar. It wasn’t often that outsiders passed through Felhaven, and troupers were bound to bring with them the latest happenings around Faengard.
They weren’t just any ordinary performers, though. These were the Wydlings, living legends themselves. Ein found his step quickening despite himself. He wondered what stories they’d have that ordinary troupes wouldn’t, what songs and performances they’d planned for Founder’s Eve, what tricks the Songweaver had to show.
The Thoren family forge soon popped into view, a low, stocky building chugging black smoke into the air. When his father wasn’t home, his mother was usually tending the shop or working her way through the never-ending list of chores. There was always something to be done, whether it was cleaning the furnace, dusting the windows or polishing the fine display of weapons hung up on his walls. Ein could barely remember a time he’d returned home to find Rhea idle, unless she was taking her afternoon nap. She either worked hard or rested hard.
Today, she was sitting by the grindstone sharpening a hoe that had seen better days.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted, as Ein opened the door to a faceful of heat and iron. “What can I do for you today—” Her lips widened into a smile when she saw him. “Ein! Welcome back!”
Rhea Thoren had a small, round face with high cheekbones and lustrous, jet-black hair that hung down to her waist in a single braid. The beginnings of wrinkles lined the corners of her mouth and eyes, but she was still attractive enough for many of the widowers to drop by the store for no purpose other than to enjoy her company. She stepped out from behind the grindstone, placing the hoe to one side, wiping her greasy hands on the leather apron around her waist.
“And Evaine too,” she continued. Her face creased into one of concern. “I heard about your parents. I’m so sorry.”
“Mistress Rhea,” Evaine curtseyed. “I spoke to Master Alend and he said it would be fine if I stayed here, at least until my parents recover.”
“Yes, yes,” Rhea dismissed. “I know already. Leave your things over there, I’ll have the room set up for you in a bit. Come in, come out of the cold. Come sit by the fire. Is there anything I can get you to drink?” She ushered them to a table and chairs by the furnace. A cold draught blew through the room, whipping at a stack of receipts pinned under a paperweight.
“That won’t be necessary. We won’t be staying for long,” Evaine said.
Ein took a few steps to warm his hands by the fireplace. His father’s hammer and anvil lay to one side, along with a bucket of water and a pair of blackened tongs. It had been a while since he’d seen them in use; there wasn’t as high a demand of forging new tools as mending old ones.
“I was wondering, would it be alright if I took Cinnamin with us down to see the troupers?” he asked.
“Of course,” Rhea said. “Gods know if she’s doing anything productive at the moment. Cinnamin!” She called out towards the room behind her. “Your brother is home!”
There was a rumbling of footsteps from the hallway behind the forge. Rhea picked up the hoe and wiped it once with a dirty rag before bringing it back to the grindstone. Red sparks burst from the wheel, fizzling before they hit the ground. A low, keening sound filled the room. Ein sat back and closed his eyes.
He was home.
“How was the hunt?” his mother asked, turning the blade with practiced hands. “Your father told me most of what happened. Are you injured anywhere? Did you get enough to eat?”
“I’m fine,” Ein sighed. “It was tough, but we made it back in one piece. It could have gone worse, though.”
“Every time you two leave the village I stop sleeping,” she shook her head. “You know, I actually caught Cinnamin crying one night after a bad dream. She said she heard wolves howling, and a blade whistling in the night.” Rhea smiled. “Maybe the blade was your father’s. I heard about the haul you two brought back. With that much food, they’ll be calling you the Heroes of Felhaven in no time.”
A blade whistling in the night. Ein shivered, even as his sister’s voice reached his ears.
“Mother! I wasn’t crying...!”
Ein and Rhea shared a smile. Cinnamin emerged from the doorway in a flying mess of black hair and skirts, barrelling into Ein’s chest. She pressed her face against his shirt. Ein looked away from Evaine’s amused look.
“You’re back!” Cinnamin exclaimed. “You were gone for so long…”
Much like Ein, his sister seemed to have inherited more traits from their mother than father. Her hair was the same lustrous black, the shape of her face slightly round. She was the spitting image of Rhea except for her eyes. They were yet another shade of grey—the flickering of quicksilver, livid and formless.
Ein patted her head. “The woods are emptying,” he said. “It’s not as easy to bring back food anymore. We aren’t the only ones who need to eat out there.”
Cinnamin regarded him with a disapproving look. “You won’t be going away for a while yet, right? Mother told me how much food you brought back.”
“Hopefully not,” Ein said. “But growing people like you need to eat. If you helped some of the others on the farms, we might not need to hunt as much.”
Cinnamin scowled. “Working on a farm is boring.”
Evaine snorted in an unlady-like fashion.
“Everything seems to fall apart when you and Father aren’t here,” his sister continued. “I’m sure the monster that attacked Evaine’s home wouldn’t have dared come if you were here.”
“Now, now,” Rhea interjected. “Father and Ein are hardly the great warriors you make them out to be.”
“You told me you were the best, though,” Cinnamin said, tilting her head at Ein. “Or was that a lie?”
Ein swallowed. He did vaguely recall saying that, several years ago—back when his Father had gone easy on him in their duels, back when he’d been cockier than was warranted, proclaiming himself a hero. Under the scrutinizing glares of Evaine and his mother, he now regretted it. Thankfully, his sister’s attention moved on and he was saved from having to provide an explanation.
“You stink,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Go and take a bath.”
“Are you sure?” Ein asked. “I only came back because I knew you’d want to see the troupers.”
Cinnamin’s eyes widened. “They’re here already?”
“They are.”
Unlike he and Evaine, Cinnamin hadn’t been old enough to remember when a troupe had last visited Felhaven. For her, they were as much a myth as the dragons were. Cinnamin looked to her mother, bouncing up and down as if there were coals beneath her feet.
“Mother, is it alright if I go?”
“Yes, dear.” Rhea chuckled. She didn’t look up from her work. “Go and enjoy yourself. Take care of her, Ein. And you take care of him, Evaine.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Evaine curtseyed again.
They left the forge in high spirits, Cinnamin chattering away with enough energy for the three of them, Ein and Evaine nodding and offering brief responses to keep the conversation flowing. Ein couldn’t keep the grin from his face.
It was good to be back. He’d only been gone for a little under a week, but it had felt like much longer. He couldn’t picture a life outside the village, away from Bran and Evaine, Cinnamin, his mother and father. Felhaven was his home. It was the only world he knew, the place where his heart lay, and he would struggle to the bitter end before he was forced to leave it.
“You’ve grown since I last saw you,” Evaine smiled, stroking Cinnamin’s hair. It hung down to her waist in a wavy mess, an all-too-similar fashion to her mother’s.
“Yep! Mother says I’ll be old enough to braid my hair in a few years. Then, I’ll be like you!”
Ein and Evaine exchanged a glance. Ein looked away.
“How old are you again, Cinnamin?” Evaine asked.
“I’ll be twelve in a few weeks,” she quipped.
“So soon,” Evaine murmured. She looked towards the younger girl. “You make sure you enjoy these two years, okay? They’ll be two years you’ll never get back again.”
Cinnamin frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t worry.” Evaine tugged at her braid. “Come, I’ll race you to the village square.” She sped off down the road.
“Hey, that’s not fair! You have longer legs!” Cinnamin burst into a sprint, hair streaming behind her. Ein was alone before he had time to blink.
“Hey, wait!” He reached out a hand, but it was too late. The two girls raced off into the distance, kicking up dirt and snow in their wake.