Read Online The Song of Andiene by Elisa Blaisdell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elisa Blaisdell
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to protect them, as rulers should protect their people. But the power had eluded her, or else she had been afraid to use it.
She thought of it often, the great power she had used to free herself from Nahil’s men, the little power she had used to start a fire to cook her meal. It was an unknown thing, coming to her with no warning. No stories or songs had ever told of sorcery—and sorcery it must have been—acting without tools, herbs, incantations.
She found no reason to use her power again. She searched until she found a hollow branch fallen from the cliff far above, to fill with ashes and coals to carry with her, so she would not need to call fire from the air.
As the days went by, the caller remained silent. Once or twice she reached out with her mind, in a way she did not understand. She could feel no other presence.
The life she lived was easy enough, though bitter hard compared to the princess’s life she had been born to. The sanderlings grew no warier. She learned which plants could be eaten. After another storm, a sea-hawk’s nest, built out of season, drifted ashore. She fried its eggs, one by one, on a great flat stone.
And so Andiene grew thinner and taller and stronger. She learned her land well—a day’s walk north and a day’s walk south, to where the cliffs ran into the sea and she could not pass. The land fed her, but not easily enough to give her leisure to think to the future. She lived, for the most part, like a wordless animal.
Still, the caller was silent. Her impatience grew. She longed to war against his harsh subtle voice.
The river’s gorge was steeper as it went inland. As Andiene grew more skilled in climbing, she traveled further. One day, she did not turn back. She built a fern fire to cook her dinner at the very edge of the high cliffs, and lay down to sleep afterwards in a clump of springy, sweet-smelling bittery.
The stars had moved into the most perfect patterns she had ever seen, circles within circles like the Great Dance.
Her quarry, the one who had called her, was near. She would find him on the morrow. Her thoughts were full of excitement touched with fear, more fear of the unknown than fear of any harm that could come to her.
She did not examine her motives closely. The one who had called her—she wanted to find him, to know what he was. Still, she was drawn by more than simple curiosity. Perhaps the promises of power and knowledge had touched her deeper than she realized.
The next day was bright and chill. That sign of approaching winter would have troubled one who was wiser in the ways of the land, but Andiene was ignorant. She had lived all her life in thick-walled rooms, where winter was warm, and even the heat of summer was eased.
The steep slopes were hard to climb. Leaving the river far below her, she followed a rough track along the side of the cliff. After a while, she drew her robe up through her belt, kilting it to her knees for easier traveling.
The trail became rougher, until it was hard to know if it were a true path, or merely a chance shaping of the cliff. If it were a path, it was for creatures braver or nimbler than humankind. Andiene had grown surefooted, but at every step she took, the edge of the cliff broke loose and fell in clods, splashing far below into the river.
When it crumbled, she stopped and pressed herself against the cliffside, clinging to handholds and tufts of grass as though the whole path might crumble from under her feet. Sangry leaves slashed her hands when she moved unwarily, but she paid them no heed; they made clean cuts that healed well.
At last the path widened into a broad way that even the blind or halt could have followed with ease, but it was a level way, stretching on and on between the sky and the earth, fifty paces above the river, eight paces below the cliff top. Andiene studied the wall above her, and began to climb.
It was a better place for climbing than most, with handholds and footholds deep-cut into the
She thought of it often, the great power she had used to free herself from Nahil’s men, the little power she had used to start a fire to cook her meal. It was an unknown thing, coming to her with no warning. No stories or songs had ever told of sorcery—and sorcery it must have been—acting without tools, herbs, incantations.
She found no reason to use her power again. She searched until she found a hollow branch fallen from the cliff far above, to fill with ashes and coals to carry with her, so she would not need to call fire from the air.
As the days went by, the caller remained silent. Once or twice she reached out with her mind, in a way she did not understand. She could feel no other presence.
The life she lived was easy enough, though bitter hard compared to the princess’s life she had been born to. The sanderlings grew no warier. She learned which plants could be eaten. After another storm, a sea-hawk’s nest, built out of season, drifted ashore. She fried its eggs, one by one, on a great flat stone.
And so Andiene grew thinner and taller and stronger. She learned her land well—a day’s walk north and a day’s walk south, to where the cliffs ran into the sea and she could not pass. The land fed her, but not easily enough to give her leisure to think to the future. She lived, for the most part, like a wordless animal.
Still, the caller was silent. Her impatience grew. She longed to war against his harsh subtle voice.
The river’s gorge was steeper as it went inland. As Andiene grew more skilled in climbing, she traveled further. One day, she did not turn back. She built a fern fire to cook her dinner at the very edge of the high cliffs, and lay down to sleep afterwards in a clump of springy, sweet-smelling bittery.
The stars had moved into the most perfect patterns she had ever seen, circles within circles like the Great Dance.
Her quarry, the one who had called her, was near. She would find him on the morrow. Her thoughts were full of excitement touched with fear, more fear of the unknown than fear of any harm that could come to her.
She did not examine her motives closely. The one who had called her—she wanted to find him, to know what he was. Still, she was drawn by more than simple curiosity. Perhaps the promises of power and knowledge had touched her deeper than she realized.
The next day was bright and chill. That sign of approaching winter would have troubled one who was wiser in the ways of the land, but Andiene was ignorant. She had lived all her life in thick-walled rooms, where winter was warm, and even the heat of summer was eased.
The steep slopes were hard to climb. Leaving the river far below her, she followed a rough track along the side of the cliff. After a while, she drew her robe up through her belt, kilting it to her knees for easier traveling.
The trail became rougher, until it was hard to know if it were a true path, or merely a chance shaping of the cliff. If it were a path, it was for creatures braver or nimbler than humankind. Andiene had grown surefooted, but at every step she took, the edge of the cliff broke loose and fell in clods, splashing far below into the river.
When it crumbled, she stopped and pressed herself against the cliffside, clinging to handholds and tufts of grass as though the whole path might crumble from under her feet. Sangry leaves slashed her hands when she moved unwarily, but she paid them no heed; they made clean cuts that healed well.
At last the path widened into a broad way that even the blind or halt could have followed with ease, but it was a level way, stretching on and on between the sky and the earth, fifty paces above the river, eight paces below the cliff top. Andiene studied the wall above her, and began to climb.
It was a better place for climbing than most, with handholds and footholds deep-cut into the
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