“What happened to you two in the wild, Mirnían?” She asked, barely hearing her voice above the thump of her heart.

He looked at the floor for a long time as the last colors of day faded to twilight. She waited.

“We were separated when we entered the Lows of Aer,” he said. He looked at her directly with a gaze that puzzled her, even as it stopped her breath with its coldness. “I do not know where he is.”

Two more weeks passed. Lebía rejoiced to see Mirnían turn away from his dour thoughts and look outward. She often sat with him in front of the house overlooking the valley, already dusted with snow. Occasionally, she even noticed a tear on his cheek, but he always tried to cover it with a forced laugh. They spoke about small, trivial things, but their intimacy grew. Still, Lebía doubted he would ever see her as anyone other than the little girl he had played with as a child.

No matter what she did, the leprosy still remained on his body. She prayed constantly to Adonais—“Tell me what I must do to heal him!” —but no illumination was forthcoming. While Mirnían improved, even allowing himself the rare pleasure of walking through the woods, he was not well, and soon it weighed him down again. His leprosy precluded any possibility of mingling with the villagers, which did not in the least help his tendency to brood.

One quiet afternoon about three weeks after Mirnían’s arrival, Lebía walked home after a long day of preparing vegetables for the winter. As usual, she walked alone, content to be with her thoughts, allowing the twittering girls that walked out with her to take the paths before her. The smell of fresh snow was a welcome relief after hours of sweat and dirt, though even the sea-air could not completely dissipate the ever-present tang of manure. She hugged her fur as she turned toward the setting sun and home. It shone steadily between the trees, but for a moment Lebía thought it moved sideways. She stopped, curious. The light flashed again, but now it was a second sun. Her heart tripped and ran forward as she realized what that light was. The stag had returned.

She ran into the woods. The trees spoke to her in hushed voices, their language caressing and mellifluous, pointing her toward the stag. The golden light of the antlers faded in and out of view, but she followed it easily. Soon she was deep in a part of the island she had not yet explored, where the spruces and pines grew taller and more sparse, allowing much of the sun to filter through columns of bark. On the sun-side, the trees blazed orange, but their shadow-sides were purple, giving her the strange sensation of being in two places at once. The gold antlers stopped. Their light brightened as she approached. The stag turned to face her. Its eyes were full of opal tears.

Lebía saw the sun and the moon facing each other in a darkling sky, but they were Voran and Mirnían also. She saw Sabíana, but with a different face, one she did not recognize for its sternness and warlike aspect. Now the sun was Sabíana, and it was shrouded in black, yet a fiery ring shone around the blackness. She saw smoke and fog and ruins of stone. She saw pearly bones overgrown with rich flora that pulsed with life. Where did she see all this? Was it in the opal tears of the stag?

She snapped back, as if awakening from a dream. The stag stood bowed on two forelegs before her. She felt a summons from it: mount, it said. At first, she was afraid, but the stag’s eyes were reassuring. She mounted.

They soared deep into groves that danced in twilight. Music surrounded them like a subtle fragrance, and now the light from the antlers was blinding white. As they entered a small clearing blanketed with snow, the stag slowed to a trot, then stopped at the banks of a stream that still gurgled, despite the winter. Steam rose from it, deepening the sense of mystery humming around her like a song. A curving wall of spruces leaned over the opposite bank of the stream. The air palpitated with a muted presence. Lebía was reminded of the high days in the Temple. In this stillness, she hardly breathed as the stag crossed the stream.

Lebía dismounted between two spruces and continued into the grove alone, through interlacing needles, up a rough footpath crisscrossed by roots. The path sloped upward, and the roots of the trees formed a natural stairway. At the top of the incline, where the path ended in a slight semicircle, stood three of the largest spruces she had ever seen.

“Welcome, Lebía,” sang a voice in the trees. A Sirin with golden hair and wings of different shades of green—all the colors of the forest—smiled at her, then sang.

All the spruces seemed to grow upward a hundred feet, covering the sky and the sun. The branches widened into an embrace that smelled of pine and fresh rain and overturned earth. Lebía collapsed into it, closed her eyes, and felt—for the first time in her life—complete and utter stillness.

“You and I are one now, swanling,” whispered the Sirin, though that whisper echoed over the trees and into the waters of the Great Sea. “I am called Aína.”

“I have waited for you all my life,” whispered Lebía. “I lost you once. You still came.”

“Dear girl,” Aína laughed like spring rain falling on icicles. “When you sacrificed your own need for Voran’s, you became the beloved of the Sirin for all time.”

“My new family,” said Lebía as the tears brimmed over onto her cheeks. She had never known joy to be so pierced through with longing. And yet, her joy was not complete.

“I know,” said Aína, answering her thought. “I can give you this grace, for this day only. If it is your desire, you may heal Mirnían of his leprosy.”

Lebía searched her thoughts, and realized she knew exactly what needed to be done. She ran off that very second, her excitement was so sharp.

“But Lebía, take care,” said Aína in her wake. “Mirnían has a secret wound that he will seek to hide from you. If he does not reveal it, you will not be able to heal him fully. And if he remains unhealed…Well, suffice it to say that the choices of men can sometimes topple mountains.”

Mirnían slept when she returned. She let him rest, barely able to contain her excitement. She boiled water and prepared a poultice whose recipe had suddenly appeared in her mind. When it was ready, she sat outside, wrapped in furs, watching the flakes gather on her feet. She tried—but did not succeed—to not think of the following day. All that she lacked now for her complete happiness was Voran. Surely their paths would cross again soon, she hoped.

For a moment, she remembered Mirnían’s strange expression when he spoke of Voran last. Did he know more than he was willing to admit?

The Dar of Vasyllia had three sons, none of whom could find suitable brides. So, he ordered them to shoot arrows into the wind. Wherever their arrows landed, there they would find a wife. The eldest son’s arrow landed in the courtyard of the richest merchant’s house. His daughter was famed for her beauty. The second son’s arrow landed in the garden of the high priest’s house. His daughter was famed for her virtue. The third son’s arrow landed in a swamp. An old hag lived there, famed for her ugliness. The third son complained, but his father ordered him wed. On the wedding night, disgusted with his bride, he threw her into the hearth-fire to die. But she came out of it with only her hag’s skin burned off. Underneath was a beauty that no story can relate, no pen can describe. “You could have had me, fair prince,” she said. “If only you had borne my ugliness one night. Now you must seek me beyond the thrice-nine lands, in the thrice-tenth kingdom.” And she turned into a swan and flew out the window.

From “The Apples of Youth”

(Old Tales, Book IV)

Chapter 14

Healing

Mirnían awoke. The stink of his own sweat flushed his nostrils, and his gorge rose. He was just about to curse aloud when a cool touch grazed his hand. Sparks ran up his arm, and he gasped in unexpected pleasure. Lebía stood on her knees, her arms on the edge of his bed. She had a small, mischievous smile. That smile. It made him want to laugh like he had not laughed in years. Warmth spread through his chest, and he couldn’t stop an idiotic grin from stretching his face from ear to ear.

Was he falling in love with little Lebía?

Lebía was simply dressed in cream and white, her only ornament a golden headband with two filigreed temple rings. Her unruly curls were forced into a braid that ended at the small of her back. Compared to the third-reacher daughters with their damask and stifling embroidery, Lebía’s simple adornment enhanced her natural beauty. But there was something else, a self-confidence absent in her usual manner. She was up to something.

“What a pitiful mess I am, Lebía,” he whispered.

“Shall I heal you, Mirnían?” Her eyes positively twinkled.

“Yes, please,” he said, taking up her teasing manner.

Lebía rose, opened the curtains, and pushed out the groaning storm-shutters. Powdery snow wafted into the room, sparked into gold by the winter sun. For a moment Mirnían thought he was still dreaming, but the blast of icy air soon convinced him otherwise.

Lebía crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him with an expression he had never seen on her face.

“I will heal you, dear one,” she said. Chills ran up and down his back. Yes, she was his dear one as well. He just hadn’t realized it until that moment. “But you may not like my methods. I’ve been a kind nurse, but now you need more serious treatment. Do you give your word that you will do all I say, no matter how absurd it may seem to you?”

“Whatever you do or say, my Lebía, I will follow faithfully.” If she wanted to continue to play this part, he would happily oblige.

She raised her right eyebrow the tiniest fraction. “We shall see,” one eyebrow seemed to whisper to the other. Was this the same Lebía that sat with downcast eyes on a bench with him only yesterday, never speaking until spoken to?

She glided out to the steam room behind the house. Within half an hour, resin-scented steam, tinged with the headiness of oak, filled the room, making him want to breathe in and never stop. When she returned, her cheeks were ruddy with cold, her eyes shone with the pleasure of physical labor, and the sleeves of her linen shift—rolled up to the elbows—revealed skin glistening like a fresh apple.

“You must wash, my dear,” she said. “I’ve prepared the bunches and the bucket. There should be enough steam even for your pampered tastes.”

“Lebía,” Mirnían said, tilting his head to one side, “you are not serious, are you? I am covered with sores. As much as I would love a steam, I can’t.”

“You promised,” she said, in a way that clearly settled the matter.

Mirnían pushed down his irritation and hauled himself out of bed. It was excruciating, but he managed to keep from swearing. His feet felt like bloated sausages. He took one step and tripped on something, falling onto sore-gouged knees. He restrained a cry, but only barely. Lebía crouched down to him, his pain reflected in her face, her mask of playfulness dropped. He forced a smile, and she once again put on the chiding, motherly role. Helping him up to his feet, she continued to lecture him.

“I found an old recipe for a poultice that heals leprosy,” she said. “Of course, its preparation is a great secret handed down from woman to woman for generations, so you must not ask how it’s made. I will treat you with it, but I put a heavy price on it.”

“I have already said I will do whatever you ask. Ask it.”

“You must promise to marry me.”

She looked serious. The game was growing a bit confusing, and a new headache was making him doubt his ability to play along. Still, he would play his part to the last.

“I do hereby pledge to marry you, Lebía, as soon as you heal me.”