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Authors: Robin McKinley
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a son.
“What is redroot?” she asked again.
Teka frowned. “Redroot. That’s—um—astzoran. Red-root’s the old term for
it—they used to think it was good for some things.”
“What things?”
Teka glanced at her and Aerin bit her lip. “Why do you want to know?”
“I—oh—I read a lot in the old books in the library while I wasn’t ... feeling quite
well. There was some herb-lore, and they mentioned redroot.”
Teka considered, and some of her thoughts were similar to Tor’s when Aerin
had asked him to teach her swordplay. Teka had never thought about whether
Aerin’s fate had more to do with what Aerin was or what Damar was, or for
reasons beyond either; Teka merely observed that Aerin’s fate was unique. But
she knew, knew better even than the cousin who loved her, that Aerin would
never be a court lady; not like Galanna, who was a beautiful termagant, but
neither like Arlbeth’s first wife, Tatoria, whom everyone had loved. None of the
traditions of Arlbeth’s court could help the king’s daughter discover her fate; but
Teka, unlike Aerin herself, had faith that the destiny was somewhere to be found.
She hesitated, but she could remember nothing dangerous about the no longer
valued redroot.
“Astzoran doesn’t grow around here,” said Teka; “it is a low weedy plant that
prefers open meadows. It spreads by throwing out runners, and where the runner
touches the earth a long slender root strikes down. That is the redroot.” Teka
pretended great concentration upon her patch. “I might take a few days to ride
into the meadows beyond the City and into the Hills; I am reminded that there are
herbs I need, and I prefer to gather my own. If you wish to come, I will show you
some astzoran.”
The ointment recipe, Aerin found, was not as exact as it might be. She made
one mixture, spread some of it on one finger, and thrust the finger into a candle
flame—and snatched it out again with a yelp. Three more mixtures gained her
three more burnt fingers—and a terrific lecture from Teka, who was not, of
course, informed as to the details of why Aerin seemed intent on burning her
fingers off. After that she used bits of wood to smear her trial blends on; when
they smoked and charred, she knew she had not yet got it right.
After the first few tries she sighed and began to keep careful notes of how each
sample was made. It was not an exercise natural to her, and after she’d filled
several sheets of parchment with her tiny exact figures—parchment was
expensive stuff, even for kings’ daughters—she began to lose heart. She thought:
If this mess really worked, everyone would know of it; they would all use it for
dragon-hunting, and-would have been using it all along, and dragons would no
longer be a risk—and that book would be studied and not left to gather dust. It is
foolish to think I might have discovered something everyone before me had
overlooked. She bowed her head over her burnt twig, and several hot tears
slipped down her face onto her page of calculations.
Chapter 7
ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY there was a banquet for the first sol, despite
all she could do to prevent it. Galanna shot her glances like poisoned arrows and
clung curiously near Tor’s side for someone else’s wife of so few seasons. Perlith
made witty remarks at Aerin’s expense in his soft light tenor that always sounded
kind, whatever he might be saying. The king her father toasted her, and the faces
around the tables in the great hall glittered with smiles; but Aerin looked at them
sadly and saw only the baring of teeth.
Tor watched her: she was wearing a golden tunic over a long red skirt; the tunic
had embroidered flowers wound round its hem, and petals of many colors
stitched drifting down the full sleeves; she wore the same two rings she had at
Galanna’s wedding. Her flame-colored hair was twisted around her head, and a
golden circlet was set upon it, and over her
“What is redroot?” she asked again.
Teka frowned. “Redroot. That’s—um—astzoran. Red-root’s the old term for
it—they used to think it was good for some things.”
“What things?”
Teka glanced at her and Aerin bit her lip. “Why do you want to know?”
“I—oh—I read a lot in the old books in the library while I wasn’t ... feeling quite
well. There was some herb-lore, and they mentioned redroot.”
Teka considered, and some of her thoughts were similar to Tor’s when Aerin
had asked him to teach her swordplay. Teka had never thought about whether
Aerin’s fate had more to do with what Aerin was or what Damar was, or for
reasons beyond either; Teka merely observed that Aerin’s fate was unique. But
she knew, knew better even than the cousin who loved her, that Aerin would
never be a court lady; not like Galanna, who was a beautiful termagant, but
neither like Arlbeth’s first wife, Tatoria, whom everyone had loved. None of the
traditions of Arlbeth’s court could help the king’s daughter discover her fate; but
Teka, unlike Aerin herself, had faith that the destiny was somewhere to be found.
She hesitated, but she could remember nothing dangerous about the no longer
valued redroot.
“Astzoran doesn’t grow around here,” said Teka; “it is a low weedy plant that
prefers open meadows. It spreads by throwing out runners, and where the runner
touches the earth a long slender root strikes down. That is the redroot.” Teka
pretended great concentration upon her patch. “I might take a few days to ride
into the meadows beyond the City and into the Hills; I am reminded that there are
herbs I need, and I prefer to gather my own. If you wish to come, I will show you
some astzoran.”
The ointment recipe, Aerin found, was not as exact as it might be. She made
one mixture, spread some of it on one finger, and thrust the finger into a candle
flame—and snatched it out again with a yelp. Three more mixtures gained her
three more burnt fingers—and a terrific lecture from Teka, who was not, of
course, informed as to the details of why Aerin seemed intent on burning her
fingers off. After that she used bits of wood to smear her trial blends on; when
they smoked and charred, she knew she had not yet got it right.
After the first few tries she sighed and began to keep careful notes of how each
sample was made. It was not an exercise natural to her, and after she’d filled
several sheets of parchment with her tiny exact figures—parchment was
expensive stuff, even for kings’ daughters—she began to lose heart. She thought:
If this mess really worked, everyone would know of it; they would all use it for
dragon-hunting, and-would have been using it all along, and dragons would no
longer be a risk—and that book would be studied and not left to gather dust. It is
foolish to think I might have discovered something everyone before me had
overlooked. She bowed her head over her burnt twig, and several hot tears
slipped down her face onto her page of calculations.
Chapter 7
ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY there was a banquet for the first sol, despite
all she could do to prevent it. Galanna shot her glances like poisoned arrows and
clung curiously near Tor’s side for someone else’s wife of so few seasons. Perlith
made witty remarks at Aerin’s expense in his soft light tenor that always sounded
kind, whatever he might be saying. The king her father toasted her, and the faces
around the tables in the great hall glittered with smiles; but Aerin looked at them
sadly and saw only the baring of teeth.
Tor watched her: she was wearing a golden tunic over a long red skirt; the tunic
had embroidered flowers wound round its hem, and petals of many colors
stitched drifting down the full sleeves; she wore the same two rings she had at
Galanna’s wedding. Her flame-colored hair was twisted around her head, and a
golden circlet was set upon it, and over her
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