Part XII: The Nature of Things

Bronwyn’s face grew pale and thin in the following weeks, but she did not show any of the telltale signs of a child. She became despondent when Tristan stopped his nightly visits for dinner; she made crêpes several times after that but he never showed up. Her disappointment on these nights was almost painful for Enru to watch, knowing he had a part in breaking her heart for the first time.

Bronwyn, he said one morning, as she scrubbed the breakfast dishes, humming off-key a slow dirge. Is something the matter?

Bronwyn stopped scrubbing, and looked at her cat. “Is something the matter?” She laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not yet a woman able to make my own choices.” She resumed scrubbing furiously.

Meekly Enru said, You can make your own choices. We just think you should be…informed…before you make such momentous decisions.

“’Informed’?” spat Bronwyn. “About what?”

Enru was silent a moment. I cannot tell you. It is not my place. But I shall arrange it so that you are able to face Tristan.

Bronwyn stopped scrubbing again, but this time she embraced the cat with her wet soapy hands, much to his dismay. “You would really do that for me?” she asked.

Only if you let go of me, threatened the feline, but his voice was amused.

Enru was true to his word; he got Bèatrix to give permission for him to accompany Bronwyn on a ride through the forest one day in early spring. The air was almost balmy; a gentle breeze played in branches turning yellow with sap.

Bronwyn rode Trylla; the old mare seemed to have developed a fondness for the young woman, and the constant riding gave the horse much-needed exercise.

They left after the breakfast dishes were done and the laundry was finished; the sheets hung in the pale sunshine to dry. The path was muddy with the melting snow, making it treacherous for Trylla’s old ankles. Bronwyn had to dismount several times to lead her through the mire. But her heart was singing along with the chickadees that flocked around the trees lining the path.

Tristan sensed Bronwyn’s approach before he heard her arrival, whistling at the birds. He stood, swathed in thick white gauze to protect himself from the bees, and threw up a shield to block her path.

Bronwyn was plodding along the drier part of the path when all of a sudden Trylla stopped, stumbling as though she’d run into something. Immediately alert, she used her inner sight to scan the area and found the shield.

“Tristan?” she called softly. Enru slipped past the shield on ahead, investigating with his tail twitching. He returned moments later, trotting around the bend.

He’s beekeeping at the moment. He put up the shield to protect you so you wouldn’t get stung. He sat at Trylla’s feet patiently, squeezing his eyes as he basked in the sun.

Bronwyn waited several long minutes until the shield disappeared in a flash. She urged Trylla forward abruptly, and the horse nearly trod on Enru. He leapt out of the way with a yelp, switching his bushed tail angrily.

A little warning next time, he said irritably, following Trylla’s heels. Bronwyn ignored him as she saw Tristan, coming out of his cottage with a soft smile on his face.

“Bronwyn,” he said happily, and lifted her from her horse. She couldn’t resist a giggle as he swung her around, her red skirts billowing. “I haven’t seen you in several months. How have you been?”

Bronwyn’s face glowed despite herself. “You’d know how I’ve been if you hadn’t started sulking and avoiding me,” she said.

Tristan looked guilty as he set her down, his hands remaining firmly on her slender waist. “I know,” he said meekly. “I’m sorry.” He brightened. “But you came to see me. That has to mean something.”

Bronwyn narrowed her eyes at him. “Aye, it means something. It means that you and I have a problem.”

Tristan’s heart plummeted; the bright day seemed grayer all of a sudden. “What is it, Bronwyn?”

Bronwyn avoided his gaze. “I can’t stand not seeing you, but Bèatrix hates it so when you drop by.” She shuffled her feet, embarrassed.

“Well, Bèatrix will just have to get used to it because I intend to start eating your dinners.” Tristan smiled down at Bronwyn, lifting her chin with his finger. “Speaking of food, I shall make you lunch. I have fresh clover honey.” He turned toward the house, leading her in by the hand.

Bronwyn stayed until the shadows grew long and blue toward the east. “I’ll take you back to Willowood on Jethro,” decided Tristan, sitting up in bed and pulling on his trousers. He tossed Bronwyn her corset and motioned her to turn around. He laced and tied it quickly, expertly, and Bronwyn winced, thinking of all the other corsets he’d had to retie quickly. She pulled her dress over her head slowly as he padded into the kitchen, stirring up the fire to warm the room for her. Once dressed, she followed him, sitting in her customary place at the table.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Tristan, setting a cup of bitterroot tea with cream before each of their places and lighting his pipe.

“I just keep thinking about all the other girls you’ve had. How old are you, anyway?” she asked. Tristan shifted his gaze uncomfortably and mumbled something unintelligible. “What?” asked Bronwyn, leaning forward.

“Forty-seven,” he sighed. He took a long hit on his pipe, blowing the smoke out in puffy fat rings.

“Forty seven.” Bronwyn sat back, saying the word to herself. “And how many…No, don’t answer that.” She held up her hand. “I don’t want to know. I just won’t think of it anymore. I’ll pretend it’s just you and me.”

Tristan regarded her sadly. “It isn’t,” he said regretfully. “I need to tell you something; I’ve been putting it off all day, and Enru would be…displeased…if I didn’t tell you.” He sipped his bitterroot.

“Well, what is it?” asked Bronwyn impatiently. She watched him take another hit off the pipe.

“I’m a Warlock,” he said bluntly. Bronwyn’s expression didn’t change. “Oh, gods, don’t tell me Enru forgot that part of your training, too!” he exclaimed, slapping the table angrily. He regarded Bronwyn, the heat fading from his eyes. “A Warlock is the male equivalent of a Sorceress. They’re very rare; the men usually self-destruct long before they reach that level of training. Many of them become brilliant war generals; we’re very good at strategy. Unfortunately, most of the generals came to light fighting against another Warlock run amok.” He sighed heavily. “Your father was a Warlock,” he said after a pause. “His name was Deryan. He killed his familiar to be with your mother.”

Bronwyn recoiled in horror. “What? Why would he do that?” she cried out. Even thinking about Enru sick or hurt tore her apart inside; she couldn’t imagine intentionally killing him. “I can’t-"

“I’m not asking you to!” interrupted Tristan sharply. “Never would I ask that. It is a terrible, grievous sin. It marks you as a child born of blood sacrifice.”

Bronwyn began to shake, feeling cold all over. “Why…How…Why did he kill his familiar, though?” she asked. “What did that accomplish?”

“His familiar was a beautiful cougar named Nadua. Your mother-she was terrified of cats, and the cougar was too much. She wouldn’t have your father if the cougar was to be around, and a familiar will never leave its master. They serve you until they die.” Tristan’s voice was solemn.

“I guess it’s a good thing you don’t hate Enru,” she said after a while. “Because I would never, ever…” Her voice broke.

“I would not ask you to,” said Tristan. “I know the pain of losing your familiar.” Bronwyn looked at him, and he nodded, once. “Her name was Dharia, and she was a beautiful peregrine falcon.” His tone made the subject closed.

Bronwyn was afraid to pry; all these revelations about Tristan and his nature frightened her. He had powers; she’d known that, but it takes a lot of Ability to reach Sorceress-or Warlock-stage. She knew; every night after magical training she felt absolutely sucked dry. On the worst days, when she could barely summon the energy to breathe, she wondered if she really was Sorceress material, or if Enru and Bèatrix were trying to stretch her too far.

“Shall I take you home?” asked Tristan. Bronwyn glanced at him; the warmth was back in his face, the joy at seeing her.

“It’s my turn to cook for you,” she replied, smiling back at him.

Part XI: Contemplations

Bronwyn lay in the twilight, vaguely aware that she’d been awake for a while, but she didn’t feel inclined to move. Her eyes blinked sleepily in the dim light, and she floated for a while on the edge of consciousness, thinking about the night before, with Tristan.

He’d shown her so many things, so much tenderness, and it felt impossible to believe he’d been that way with so many girls. By his own admission, though he sounded ashamed of it. But, she couldn’t help wondering, did he mean that about feeling how it was…bigger? Was it just her, and her first puppy love, or was it really something different?

Enru jumped lightly on the foot of her bed. Are you awake? His voice was quiet and gentle.

Bronwyn nodded and rolled over, reaching out to scratch his ears. “I’m sorry, Enru,” she said after a while. “I’ve been horrible to you, and you’re only trying to protect me.” She sighed, sitting up.

I was, replied Enru. He extended his neck, and Bronwyn smiled, rubbing under his chin. But there comes a point, you know?

“I know. I crossed a line.” Bronwyn twisted her mouth, pushing him over and rubbing his belly.

Several. Oh, yeah. Enru stretched out his legs luxuriously. He allowed her to pet him a few more minutes before he rolled away, sitting up and washing a paw. Dinner is ready, by the way, if you’re hungry, he said. Shall we?

“I think that’s a good idea,” answered Bronwyn, raising her eyebrows as she felt her stomach growling. She’d eaten nothing but crêpes and sausage all day long.

Bèatrix fixed her with a cool stare when Bronwyn entered the kitchen, her dress and apron neatly arranged. She’d even adjusted her hem several inches lower, and she tugged her skirt over her knees when she sat down.

“Bèatrix, I’m sorry. I broke my promise to you,” she said dully. She hated apologizing; she hated the feeling of shame that washed over her now.

“Bah. ‘Tis forgotten; I know you’ve learned your lesson. Besides, you’re a woman now, and free to do as you please.” Bèatrix waved a large wooden spoon. She turned back to the stove, stirring a tomato sauce in the pan. Bronwyn stared at the wooden table.

“I was unforgivably rude,” she offered miserably.

“Rude is a matter of opinion,” said Bèatrix gravely as she boned fish for frying in a skillet. “I happen to empathize with your emotional state at the time, so it doesn’t bother me.” Bronwyn was silent. “I mean it, Bronwyn. Don’t worry. All is forgiven.” She set a plate of fish before her and drizzled a creamy tomato sauce over it. Bronwyn picked up her fork and began eating somberly, already filled with dread at the nausea that suddenly gripped her.

She suffered through an agonizingly quiet dinner, painfully without Tristan’s presence. He knew better than to come around for quite some time; Bèatrix would be after his head for a while. She knew he was lying low for his own sake, and hated him for it. Coward, she thought bitterly. It was all nothing to him, a night of sport and play.

She finished picking at her meal and stood. “Enru, would you like to walk with me?” she asked softly, stroking the cat’s head.

All right, he said, exchanging glances with Bèatrix. Her lips pursed and she raised an eyebrow at the feline: He would be informing her of anything Bronwyn told him. He looked away shiftily, unwilling to make the promise. Bèatrix sighed and began collecting the plates.

“Go,” she was all she said. “Don’t be out too late.”

Bronwyn was quiet for most of the walk, around the edge of the Willowood property. She wavered between confiding in Enru and suspecting him of being Bèatrix’s stooge. She couldn’t decide whether to trust him or not.

Is there something on your mind, Bronwyn? asked Enru finally, when they came back within sight of the main farmhouse. If you want, I will give you my word as your familiar that it will remain in my confidence. He looked at her solemnly with his green eyes.

“What exactly is the realm of my power?” asked Bronwyn finally, pausing and scooping a handful of snow.

Healing, in general, replied Enru, twitching his ears as he picked his way through the snow. Why?

“Is there a specific reason that Bèatrix is a midwife, and I am her apprentice?” asked Bronwyn, licking some of the clean snow from her fingers.

Well, it is the best occupation for a female Healer, said Enru, looking up at her. She concentrated on the snow in her hand, forming it into a compact ball. She mulled this over in her mind as she smoothed the snowball.

“All right,” she said finally. She hurled the snow as far as she could into the treeline. She began walking again, crunching back toward the house.

Enru followed her leaping from bootprint to bootprint, brooding on his mistress’s strange behavior.

Part X: Consequences

He took her to the moon and back, and it was late morning by the time they finally awoke. Bronwyn blinked awake, smelling something fantastic cooking. She sat up, and the bedclothes fell away from her, revealing to her her nakedness and reminding her abruptly of the previous night’s activities. She flushed, but her clothes were neatly folded at the end of the bed, and the door was closed.

She dressed quickly, and combed her hair with her fingers before braiding it in its usual plait. Straightening her dress, wishing for her apron, a cloak, more layers than she had, she opened the door and peeked into the kitchen.

Tristan was at the stove, an apron haphazardly tied around his waist. His brow was furrowed; he was tilting the skillet in swift circular motions. Every other breath he would take up whistling part of a tune, and then stop absentmindedly.

She smiled to herself, standing a little straighter. He wouldn’t make her feel dirty or ashamed. Pushing the door all the way open she strode across the room and sat at the table, conscious of a new tenderness between her legs.

“Awake at last,” said Tristan, turning his head and throwing her a smile. He returned to his task; flipping the thin pancake out of the skillet, he added it to a small pile on a plate, covering it with a towel, and then adding another ladleful of batter to the pan. “I’m making breakfast.”

“I see that,” said Bronwyn, amused. “And what are we having?”

“They’re called crêpes. I have blackberry jam and sweet cream for them, and sausage in a moment.” He completed another of the crêpes and paused, pulling down another skillet and popping several links of sausage on it, setting it on a burner. A small spark of magical energy and a flame was lit underneath the pan, and the sausages began to sizzle.

“Smells wonderful.” Bronwyn breathed deeply the aromas emanating from the stove and watched Tristan cook, the graceful way he moved, the odd tune he was half-whistling.

She glanced out the window and took in a sharp breath. The snow was very deep; several feet at least. And the frost lacing the glass indicated a very frosty temperature. She shivered just thinking about the miserable time she’d have getting back to Willowood.

“Don’t think about going just yet,” said Tristan, setting the platter of crêpes and a jar of dark jam on the table. He took a few more trips to bring the sausage, bread and butter and the cream over, and finally sat, smiling brightly at Bronwyn.

“Shall we eat?” he asked. She nodded mutely, and he showed her how to put butter, cream and jam in the middle of the crêpe and roll it up, drizzling it with more cream. They ate with gusto, every last crêpe and sausage link.

Bronwyn sat back with a sigh, gazing fondly at Tristan. “So what now?” she asked with a vague gesture.

Tristan gazed out the window for a moment, chewing the edge of his lip in thought. He sighed and pulled from the pocket of his apron a pipe and a leather pouch of pipeweed, lighting it with a flick of his fingers. He took several deep, pensive puffs before answering. “We have to get you back to Willowood.”

“Yes,” said Bronwyn. She waited.

“How did you get away last night?” Tristan’s gaze flickered toward her for a moment when he asked this.

Guiltily Bronwyn chuckled. “I spiked dinner with sleeping herbs. I think Enru caught on, but only after he’d eaten three helpings, and was already half-asleep.” Tristan grinned.

“Of all the ways of sneaking out, that was probably the most sure, except you didn’t plan for the snow.”

Bronwyn sighed. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted. “I wasn’t watching the weather, I was trying to slip the herbs into the food without being caught.” Her tone was rueful.

“You were incredibly ingenuous, and I am proud of you,” said Tristan, taking her hand. “We just have to get going soon, if we’re to make it back before dark. It’s past noon already.”

Bronwyn blinked in surprise. “Already?” she asked in disbelief. Tristan nodded, laughing at her discomfiture.

“Yes. You slept very late, my darling.” Bronwyn froze for a split second, the term of endearment hanging in the air, before she forced herself to forget it. He probably told every village girl that he loved them, she thought to herself viciously. Her smile became brittle and she dodged his gaze.

She couldn’t deceive him, though. He tilted his head, catching her chin in his hand. “What is it, Bronwyn?” he asked gently. She shook her head, forcing away the tears that threatened to spill. Something was different, she sensed, and it made her irritable that the fragile budding relationship was somehow altered.

“All right,” said Tristan, lifting his hands defensively. “You don’t have to tell me, but I do wish you would.” He regarded her for a moment, but her expression stubbornly did not change. “Bundle up,” he finally said. “I’ll go saddle Trylla and Jethro so we can get started back to Willowood.” He stood and donned a heavy dark red cloak, leather gloves and his boots. Bronwyn watched him prepare in silence, and when the door had shut after him with a firm click she let out a watery sigh, and let the tears flow for a moment.

He was acting as though he cared, that what he had said last night was true. But Bronwyn couldn’t afford to delude herself-she’d broken her promise to both Enru and Bèatrix, and she felt shameful of that.

She donned her own dark blue cloak and riding boots slowly, making sure her face was dry of tears before she stepped outside, making sure the door was latched firmly behind her.

Tristan was patting Trylla’s neck, as she stamped nervously in the snow. “She doesn’t like the way the snow slides underfoot,” explained Tristan, giving Bronwyn a boot up into the saddle. Bronwyn looked around.

“Where’s Jethro?” she asked. Tristan lifted the broom in his hand.

“I’ll go on foot and make a path for Trylla. She's skittish today, and it’s deep.” His manner was brusque, curt almost.

“Thank you,” said Bronwyn rather frostily. Two could play that game. They maintained a cool silence the long frigid ride home, and only when Bronwyn almost slipped dismounting did any of the former friendliness burst forth.

Her left foot caught in the stirrup, and she nearly fell flat on her back but Tristan caught her easily, dropping the broom into a snowbank.

“Easy there,” he said, and Bronwyn winced at the wrenched muscle in her leg, right up the inside of her thigh to her groin. She limped inside, and Bèatrix looked up, eyes snapping. They softened-minutely-as she saw the young woman’s injury, but she was clearly upset.

Gods damn it all, thought Bronwyn. She was very tired and not at all in the mood to deal with Bèatrix.

Where were you? demanded Enru, leaping onto the table. He paced agitatedly. What happened?

“I went for a ride last night; I couldn’t sleep,” said Bronwyn dully. “I got caught in the storm and Tristan saved me.”

‘Tristan saved you’ my ass! spat the cat. His fur was bristling with anger. You went up to see him and didn’t plan for the storm, you little tramp!

“Enru!” said Bèatrix sharply, but it was too late. Rage was rising in Bronwyn, and her face grew red.

“Yes, I saw him, and yes, I spent the night, and yes, I have joined the ranks of stupid village girls!” she cried, fists clenched. “I don’t care!” She strode past Bèatrix toward her bedroom, pausing at the door and turning. Her posture softened. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said cryptically, and went to go sleep in her bed.