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Authors: Elisa Blaisdell
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her belly at the edge of the pool, her right arm submerged up to her shoulder. At first, she had imagined touches that were not there. Now, her arm was so numb that she doubted that she could feel a fish brushing against her fingertips.
She raised her head, cautiously, so she could look down into the pool. Something moved there. Her hand clutched it, moving swifter than she had known that she could move. She flung the fish out onto the wide bank, and plunged after it to catch it and strike it with a stone before it could flap itself back into the water. Then Andiene looked at it and laughed with triumph as she turned to shout up the gorge, defying the power that lay waiting.
“I can feed myself! Do you hear me? I can feed myself! And when I choose, I will win my own revenge! I will build me a boat to take me home to my kingdom!”
The fish was not one of the swift slim bloodfish, but large, gray-brown, with long tentacles around its mouth, a sanderling. Andiene had spent long hours in the kitchens, standing out of the way of the servants, watching, so she knew what to do. She hacked off the tough unscaled hide, with a sharp stone and cut the fish open. Then she looked at it, half-sickened by her work, her stomach rebelling at the thought of eating it raw.
An answer came to her, more memories of idle talk. The descent from river gorge to beach was more difficult than the climb had been, but she stepped carefully, and did not slip. Flint struck against flint and flashed out sparks countless times, but the dry sea-grass that she had gathered did not catch fire.
She threw the flints aside, at last, and looked at the fish doubtfully. After she had starved for a few more days, she might be hungry enough for it.
Then, as Andiene abandoned her attempt to draw fire from the rocks, the unlearned knowledge came to her once again. Not understanding what she did, she set hands together, fingertip to fingertip, palm to palm. As she drew them slowly apart, flames leaped up between them. The sea-grass caught and burned, with twistings of blue and green among the yellow flames.
Though her hands trembled and she could not control them, she fed the fire with dry driftwood, broiled the fish, then banked up the coals with ashes. She had learned her first lesson in the use of power, that it is more wearying than the hardest labor a man might do.
As she was picking the last tiny bones from the fish, the calling came again. “Come, Andiene, come. You are rightful ruler and the people will not deny you.”
She saw herself in robes embroidered in silk and gold, ruling, judging, waging war. She walked the white corridors of the palace of Mareja. She heard a minstrel sing her praises, the Song of Andiene. The kings to north and south sent tribute in dread of her. She was Lady of fire and air and water, holding power in her hands.
Andiene rose to her feet. She took an uncertain step up the gorge, another one, and then stopped. Was this the way to gain power, to move to another’s will like a puppet on a string? Anger freed her. She struck out with all her mind’s force, and the link that bound them stretched and was gone, as a spiderweb will stretch and then turn to tattered cords.
Almost, she longed to have the voice, the presence back, to fill the emptiness and silence. She laughed at her own folly, and stretched herself upon the sand to watch the stars. It was as though she had walked in a dream for all her life, and had only just awakened.
She had paid a heavy price for that wakening, to be sure. When she slept, she dreamed of the blood-soaked courtyard, dreams of terror from which she could not wake.
In daytime, though that terror was gone, the thought of the fisherman’s family troubled her. In the few days that they had sheltered her, she had seen more love than she had seen in all her twelve years of life. She had abandoned them to an uncertain fate. If she had been able to summon power at will, she could have stayed and fought
She raised her head, cautiously, so she could look down into the pool. Something moved there. Her hand clutched it, moving swifter than she had known that she could move. She flung the fish out onto the wide bank, and plunged after it to catch it and strike it with a stone before it could flap itself back into the water. Then Andiene looked at it and laughed with triumph as she turned to shout up the gorge, defying the power that lay waiting.
“I can feed myself! Do you hear me? I can feed myself! And when I choose, I will win my own revenge! I will build me a boat to take me home to my kingdom!”
The fish was not one of the swift slim bloodfish, but large, gray-brown, with long tentacles around its mouth, a sanderling. Andiene had spent long hours in the kitchens, standing out of the way of the servants, watching, so she knew what to do. She hacked off the tough unscaled hide, with a sharp stone and cut the fish open. Then she looked at it, half-sickened by her work, her stomach rebelling at the thought of eating it raw.
An answer came to her, more memories of idle talk. The descent from river gorge to beach was more difficult than the climb had been, but she stepped carefully, and did not slip. Flint struck against flint and flashed out sparks countless times, but the dry sea-grass that she had gathered did not catch fire.
She threw the flints aside, at last, and looked at the fish doubtfully. After she had starved for a few more days, she might be hungry enough for it.
Then, as Andiene abandoned her attempt to draw fire from the rocks, the unlearned knowledge came to her once again. Not understanding what she did, she set hands together, fingertip to fingertip, palm to palm. As she drew them slowly apart, flames leaped up between them. The sea-grass caught and burned, with twistings of blue and green among the yellow flames.
Though her hands trembled and she could not control them, she fed the fire with dry driftwood, broiled the fish, then banked up the coals with ashes. She had learned her first lesson in the use of power, that it is more wearying than the hardest labor a man might do.
As she was picking the last tiny bones from the fish, the calling came again. “Come, Andiene, come. You are rightful ruler and the people will not deny you.”
She saw herself in robes embroidered in silk and gold, ruling, judging, waging war. She walked the white corridors of the palace of Mareja. She heard a minstrel sing her praises, the Song of Andiene. The kings to north and south sent tribute in dread of her. She was Lady of fire and air and water, holding power in her hands.
Andiene rose to her feet. She took an uncertain step up the gorge, another one, and then stopped. Was this the way to gain power, to move to another’s will like a puppet on a string? Anger freed her. She struck out with all her mind’s force, and the link that bound them stretched and was gone, as a spiderweb will stretch and then turn to tattered cords.
Almost, she longed to have the voice, the presence back, to fill the emptiness and silence. She laughed at her own folly, and stretched herself upon the sand to watch the stars. It was as though she had walked in a dream for all her life, and had only just awakened.
She had paid a heavy price for that wakening, to be sure. When she slept, she dreamed of the blood-soaked courtyard, dreams of terror from which she could not wake.
In daytime, though that terror was gone, the thought of the fisherman’s family troubled her. In the few days that they had sheltered her, she had seen more love than she had seen in all her twelve years of life. She had abandoned them to an uncertain fate. If she had been able to summon power at will, she could have stayed and fought
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