Chapter Text
The house was quiet.
That was how Galadaelin Thranorion liked it. He liked the whisper of his pencil on paper, the scratch of the blade when he paused to sharpen the pencil, and the click of beads when he leaned forward in concentration and his braids shifted. Once in a while he heard the cry of a wood pigeon reminding him that a world existed beyond this pleasant little world that he had created for himself. But it seemed a far off thing. Unimportant. This rare moment of peaceful solitude was all that mattered, because Galad knew that it would not last forever. So he revelled in it, enjoying every second.
Setting aside his pencil, Galad picked up the laurel leaf that had occupied his attention all morning. Sunlight streaming through the window made it translucent. Galad smiled to see even the tiniest of veins illuminated as he twirled the leaf between his fingers with the same gentle care he would show a baby bird fallen from the nest. It had taken him time to find such a perfect example of a laurel leaf. Dozens of others had been marked or torn or crushed. This one, though…this would live forever in Galad’s book, where alongside its painstakingly sketched picture he would record all its healing properties and the medicines in which it played a part. He had already completed pages on lavender, feverfew, calendula, willow, and vervain, but there was much left to do. His ambition was to do this for a hundred different flowers, herbs, and leaves.
Galad carefully put the leaf down and picked up his pencil again, but the front door flying open made him flinch so sharply that the pencil fell from his grip. Resting his hands flat on the table to stop them shaking, he closed his eyes and willed Breigon to keep walking. Because of course it was Breigon. Nobody infused the simplest of tasks with violence and rage quite like Galad’s second eldest brother. The living room door burst inwards and bounced off the wall, and Galad looked up in silent resignation. Peace had ended.
“Get to the workshop.” Breigon’s voice was harsh in what had been beautiful quiet. “Adar wants you.”
“Why?” Galad asked softly.
“I assumed that you would do as you were told without questioning an order from our father, so I didn’t ask,” Breigon said with a sneer. “He will be thrilled to know that you’re choosing disobedience today.”
Galad felt his eyes widen and his mouth fall open, but fear gripped him so absolutely that his brother had almost disappeared by the time he managed to get his words out. “No! I’ll go to him. I promise. But may I please have a bit of time to finish drawing my leaf?”
“Your what?”
“My…my leaf,” Galad repeated. “For my book.”
Breigon turned back with a contemptuous snort, his dark brown hair swinging around his broad shoulders. “Right. Your book. Your pointless, waste of time endeavour that nobody in the world but you is ever going to see. No, you can’t have a bit of time.” He strode to the table and snatched the beautiful laurel leaf, crushing it in his fist and using his other arm to swipe Galad’s outstretched hands away. As Galad sank back into his chair, Breigon sprinkled the pieces of broken leaf over the paper. “The picture will be next if you don’t move.”
“The picture is already ruined since you destroyed the leaf that I was drawing,” Galad said quietly.
“So get another one,” Breigon snapped.
“I can’t just…leaves are like snowflakes, each one is unique!” Galad protested, tears stinging his eyes.
“Are you crying over a leaf?” Breigon asked gleefully. “This is a new level of pathetic that I am both delighted and repulsed by.”
“You ruined hours of work,” Galad whispered.
“Stop being a baby,” Breigon said. “Tidy this mess and get to the workshop.”
“Perhaps you should tidy it,” Galad dared to say. “You made it.”
He knew that he had erred as soon as the words left his mouth. But there was no calling them back. Breigon stood perfectly still. Galad kept his gaze averted, because he didn’t need to look to know that his brother’s brown eyes had hardened like rocks nor that his wickedly handsome face had whitened with fury. He sensed a split second before it happened that Breigon was coming for him. He didn’t try to escape. Better to just take it. Breigon grabbed a handful of his braids and yanked his head back, his other hand going around Galad’s throat as he leaned down and hissed against his ear, “When I tell you to do something, you do it. Don’t question me. Don’t talk back. You tidy this mess and then get your backside out to the workshop before I stripe it for you and then take you to Adar so that you can tell him why you were delayed. Do we have an understanding, Little Galad?”
Galad nodded silently, but Breigon shook him and he whispered, “Yes, muindor.” Breigon released him roughly and stalked from the room. Only when the slam of the door had stopped echoing in every corner did Galad close his eyes and let out the breath that he had been holding. His hands shook as he gathered the pieces of ruined leaf. Bits of it ended up on the floor. When he had picked them all up and tossed them into the fireplace, he looked down at his drawing. To the untrained eye, it looked perfect. But it was not finished and so it was not perfect. Galad threw it into the fireplace as well.
The family business operated from a large two-storey workshop just across from the house. A widely respected carpenter, Master Thranor’s services were commissioned not just by people from the nearby village but even from the towns of Nen Silivren an hour north and Glaerobel further south. Galad’s eldest brother Celegnir was in Glaerobel right then to discuss a commission with a customer. Galad didn’t know the details. His father and his brothers didn’t much involve him in the business. That suited him well enough. It was not an area of interest for him although he could – and did – appreciate the beauty of the finished products and the skill and craftsmanship that went into making them. Even when Breigon’s unkind hands had wielded the tools and shaped the wood.
“Ada?” Galad said softly when he entered the workshop where dust motes floated lazily in the light. His father was sitting at his usual workbench, methodically whittling a piece of wood. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come immediately.”
Thranor glanced up with a brief nod. He set aside wood and knife, and brushed dust from his hands onto the front of his olive green tunic. “You are here now. There are orders to be delivered today. Breigon and I have no time to handle them with Celegnir away.”
“I will take them,” Galad said.
“These two,” Thranor said, going to the table by the door and pointing out a pair of identical box-shaped packages, “have been paid for. The customer details are noted on them. You only need to make the delivery. This package at the back has been half paid for. Mistress Glavranien will pay the remaining twelve golds upon delivery. And this last one right here is for Healer Albethon. Do not hand it over to him until he has paid and you have the coins in your hand. Is that quite clear?”
Galad nodded dutifully. Albethon was a whimsical fellow whose flights of fancy and frequent lapses in concentration made him an odd choice of healer, and yet that was how he served the local village. Galad had once witnessed Albethon wander off in the middle of stitching an injury because he had suddenly remembered that he needed to replenish his stock of willow bark. The patient in question had been Galad’s third eldest brother Noendir who had cut his leg climbing a tree. When Noendir had finally said, “Is Healer Albethon travelling all the way to Amon Lanc to get willow bark?” Galad had nervously offered to finish the procedure. He had never stitched a wound before, but he had watched Albethon do it and he had practiced on his toys. Galad still remembered how grateful he had been that Noendir had trusted him. He also remembered, less happily, how excited he had been to tell his father and how painfully hopeful he had been that Thranor would be proud of him. Thranor had conceded that the stitching was well done, but then he had soundly spanked Galad for taking such a risk with Noendir. It had only been small consolation when Noendir had later sought him out to hug him and whisper, “I think you did wonderfully.”
“I mean it, Galadaelin,” Thranor said intently. “Albethon will try and convince you that he has paid already – not to try and trick you but because he’s so damn flighty that he’ll believe it – and when that doesn’t work he’ll promise to pay tomorrow or the next day or the next day and that day will never come. He owes eight gold coins and sixteen silvers. You get those coins first. Every one of them. Then you give him his order.”
“I understand, Ada,” Galad said. “I won’t let you down.”
“You had better not,” Thranor replied.
That wasn’t the response that Galad had wanted. He would have loved to hear I know you won’t but he hadn’t expected it and what he had got was the best he could hope for. He gathered up the parcels and set off, glad not to run into Breigon. The customer who lived nearest to Galad and his family was in fact Healer Albethon, but Galad made a conscious decision not to go there first. Albethon might be the flakiest elf in the forest, but he was a kind and gentle being with an unrivalled knowledge of herblore. Galad liked spending time with him, and since Thranor had not told him that he must be home at a certain time, that was what he intended to do.
After successfully completing the other deliveries, Galad made his way to the thatched cottage where Healer Albethon lived. A piebald horse grazed outside and a tabby cat was fast asleep on the rocking chair on the decking. Through the open front door came the heady scents of sage and lavender and beebalm, and Galad had to duck under low hanging sprays of herbs that hung from the beams. “Healer Albethon?” he called. “It’s Galad.” The cluttered but clean front room was occupied by a ginger tomcat who looked up sleepily from the patchwork blanket that he was kneading. Tucking his parcel under his arm, Galad paused both to say hello to the cat and to admire a crooked stack of books piled precariously atop one another.
“Galad, my dear boy!” The curtain that divided the front room from Albethon’s workspace was flung aside. Albethon did not much like doors. He darted over to Galad and gave him such a hard slap on the back that Galad – being only very slender – was knocked sideways. His eyes watering, Galad steadied himself and turned to greet Albethon only to find himself gathered into a bone crushing hug. It left him breathless, and he barely had time to try and extricate himself from it before Albethon released him, put both hands on his shoulders, and squeezed them cheerfully. Enduring such bruising tactility was the price of spending time with the enthusiastic healer.
“Hello, Healer Albethon,” Galad began. “I-”
“Wait right here! I have something to show you.”
Albethon spun away, and the hem of his open fronted yellow robe whipped around the stack of books and sent them crashing to the floor. Galad winced, but the cat didn’t stir as if he was accustomed to such disturbances and no longer deemed them of concern. As Albethon disappeared behind the curtain, Galad knelt and began gathering up the books. He was three books into the task when he realised that he had both hands free. The parcel had been cleverly slipped out from under his arm, probably when Albethon had hugged him. He sat back on his heels with a frustrated huff of breath.
“Healer Albethon? Did you take that package already?”
There was a flash of red hair as Albethon stuck his head around the corner. “I’ll be right back. I have a treat for you!”
“All right, but the package…” Galad gave up with a sigh and finished stacking the books in two shorter piles. That seemed safer for books, cats, and people. He was about to get up when he noticed a scrap of paper that had ended up on the floor during the book collapse. As he smoothed it out, he recognised Albethon’s scribbles and poorly spelt ramblings. In fact, they quite pushed the matter of the parcel from his mind and he looked up in disbelief as his older healer friend came back to join him. “Healer Albethon, this is all just speculation and guesswork, yes?”
“Oh, you found the notes on my experiment!” Albethon said happily.
“Your experiment?” Galad repeated. “You mean these notes are based on practical application?”
“Of course they’re based on practical application,” Albethon said with a sigh. “My dear boy, do you think that the first person who used willow bark tea for pain relief just knew the precise dosage? Or that there was not some trial and error involved in the discovery that raspberry leaf is of use in pregnancy? Or, to draw comparisons to this, that risks were not taken to establish the benefits as well as the dangers of deadly nightshade?”
“Yes, but it concerns me that you’re experimenting with oleander on your own with nobody to help if it all goes wrong,” Galad said. “Oleander is incredibly dangerous!”
“I’m never on my own,” Albethon said, and he pointed at the dozing cat.
Galad took a breath. Then he stopped. He didn’t know the exact age of his frustrating and odd healer friend – he wasn’t sure if Albethon even knew – but since Albethon spoke clearly about a time before the rising of the sun and the moon, he had to be at least two and a half thousand years old and likely much more than that. If he had survived that long, his continued existence probably did not depend on Galad. “Healer Albethon, about the package that you took,” Galad said finally, deciding that it was best to steer the conversation back onto its proper course.
“Yes! I have been in dire need of a new rack for my vials and tubes ever since I knocked over the old one and it smashed to pieces. I was picking splinters out of myself for days. One of them was spectacularly long,” Albethon said. “It was ever so kind of your father to make a new rack for me. And he even sent me a dozen little measuring spoons to replace all the ones that have disappeared.”
“But you asked for the spoons,” Galad said carefully. “They’re not a gift.”
“Hmm?”
“The spoons and the rack,” Galad clarified. “You commissioned them. They’re not a gift from my father. You have to pay for them.”
Perplexed pale green eyes came to rest on Galad. “Hmm. I have coins lying around…somewhere.”
“Eight golds and sixteen silvers,” Galad said. “Can you pay that today?”
“Yes, yes, today or tomorrow it’s all the same,” Albethon replied.
“It’s not the same at all, it’s two different days,” Galad said unhappily. “Please, Healer Albethon. I have to collect payment today or my father will be angry with me.”
“My dear boy, enough fretting! You know that I won’t let you down. I’ll settle it before you leave.” Albethon pulled his hand out from behind his back and presented it with a flourish. He was holding a dish that contained an assortment of sweets. “I made these myself. Try one!”
Albethon sounded so proud of himself that Galad couldn’t help allowing the distraction. He took one of the sweets, a deep golden colour, and sniffed it delicately. “Honey and lemon?”
“Yes, yes, honey and lemon,” Albethon said. “What do you think a sweet like this might be good for?”
“Suppressing a cough,” Galad said. “And helping to ease a sore throat.”
“Just so! And this one?”
Galad blinked as Albethon thrust the dish at him again. He took another sweet, yellow again though paler than the first one. “Ginger,” he said after a moment. “Ginger and…I can’t make out the other ingredient.”
“Apple,” Albethon replied. “Only there to dilute the taste of ginger. Not everyone cares for it. What might one use ginger for?”
“To ease nausea,” Galad said promptly.
Albethon beamed and praised him, and they spent the rest of the afternoon discussing various ailments and cures. It was knowledge that Galad had learned years ago, but he didn’t have anyone else he could talk about healing with and so he didn’t mind going over the same things even if he craved more. When the afternoon drew to a close, he ventured to ask Albethon one final time about payment for the goods that he had delivered. Albethon distractedly promised that he would settle his debt the very next day, but Galad knew as he walked away that the eccentric healer had already forgotten. He sighed and headed for home.
The big double doors at the front of the workshop were closed and locked with the bar pulled down over them, so Galad let himself in through the side door. He took out the money chest from the bottom drawer of the desk tucked into the corner of the workshop, and for the tiniest of moments he imagined himself taking eight golds and sixteen silvers from it and presenting them to his father as if they had come straight from Albethon. The very notion of such dishonesty shook him so deeply that he jerked his hands back from the chest. Disappointed in himself, he withdrew the coins from Mistress Glavranien and put them into the section of the chest reserved for payments that had been received but not yet recorded in the accounting book. Then he hastened back to the house before he could have any more devious thoughts.
Master Thranor was seated in his favoured chair in the living room with his ankle resting on the opposite knee and some papers spread out across his lap. Galad hesitated in the doorway before venturing to disturb his father. “I’m back.”
“After spending the afternoon with Albethon, no doubt,” Thranor replied without looking up. “I trust that the deliveries went well.”
“I delivered everything,” Galad said. “Mistress Glavranien paid the remainder of what she owed.”
Thranor did look up then. “I never doubted that she would,” he said with a trace of impatience. “What about Albethon?”
“I…” Galad felt his fingers clench involuntarily around the doorframe. He swallowed nervously. As his father’s sharp hazel eyes bored into him, he found himself doing something that he hated to do. He lied. “I got all the money, Ada. I put it in the coin chest in the workshop to be added to the accounting book. Should I have brought it straight to you?”
“Never mind,” Thranor said briefly. He picked up his papers and turned to the next one before adding as an afterthought, “Well done, Galad.”
Galad smiled hopefully but his father didn’t look at him. Recognising that he had been dismissed, he withdrew from the living room and stood in the hallway with his back against the wall. He sank his teeth into his lower lip as heady excitement rushed through him. His father was pleased with him! His father had praised him, had told him well done! But his smile slowly faded. Lies had a way of coming out, and when this lie came out…no. It couldn’t come out. Not ever. Thranor would punish him, but worse than that, he would fall from his father’s favour.
He slipped upstairs and went straight to his bedroom. With the door safely closed behind him, Galad took out the carved chest where he kept his own coins and emptied the contents into the middle of his bed. Had this been a month ago, the pile of coins would have been higher because Galad never spent recklessly. When Thranor rewarded him with a coin for helping with the business, when Celegnir sent him on errands and let him keep the change, or when his grandfather Bregolas who lived in the south wrote to him and enclosed a gift of coins for him to buy something for himself, he saved each one and only spent them when he had more than enough for whatever he wanted. Last time it had been art supplies, good drawing paper, a book on midwifery – which Breigon had tried to convince Thranor was vulgar and inappropriate, but Thranor had unexpectedly sided with Galad and acknowledged that it was educational – and a small bag of sweets. Sadly for Galad, those purchases had left him with six golds, twenty silvers, and a handful of coppers. That was the total that he reached the first time he counted, the second time, and the third. Two extra golds did not just appear.
Galad sat back on his heels and pushed his hands through his hair. “What am I going to do?” he whispered to the empty room.
A whiff of peppermint and pine needles drifted beneath the door and Galad slowly turned his head. His stomach was already churning. Wishing that he had taken one of Albethon’s sweets to fight nausea, he left the relative safety of his room and went down the hallway to the bathing chamber that his eldest brothers shared. He stared bleakly at the door and forced himself to imagine what would happen if he confessed to his father. Thranor would stare at him in silence while he made his confession. Then he would shout. Galad hated being shouted at. Hated it. He could tolerate the stern scoldings that Celegnir often gave him. But Thranor never scolded. He just shouted and vented, his rage breaking over his youngest son like relentless waves on a stranded ship. Once Thranor had shouted enough, he would punish Galad. Failing to get the payment and lying about it, that would be a paddling. There would be no comfort at the end of it. Thranor would simply shove Galad off his lap and shout at him to get out of his sight. And the approval…that hard won, built on a lie, desperately craved approval…would be all gone.
Galad opened the door.
“Breigon?”
His brother was soaking in the bath with his hair knotted to keep it out of the water. His strong arms were resting on the edges of the tub and his head was tilted back, his eyes closed. Breigon breathed in deeply through his nose and let it out. “This had better be very good, Little Galad.”
“I need to ask a favour of you,” Galad said quietly, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic.
“A favour. You interrupted my bath, my hard earned time to myself at the end of the working day, to ask a favour of me,” Breigon repeated.
“I wouldn’t ask if I was not desperate,” Galad replied. “But…but I need you to trust me and not ask me any questions.”
Breigon opened his eyes and gave him a long look. “That is bold of you. What is this favour that you so desperately need?”
“I need two gold coins.”
“Work for them.”
“Ordinarily I would, but I need them quickly,” Galad said. “I need them now.”
Breigon stood up. Droplets of water trickled over his chest and the muscles of his abdomen and glistened on his arms as he stepped out of the bath. “Towel,” he commanded, and Galad hastily passed him one. Breigon wrapped the towel around his waist and gestured for Galad to follow him. He led the way back to his room decorated in shades of grey and green with the same handsomely carved furniture that filled the rest of the house, and he opened the second drawer of his bedside table. Galad caught a glimpse of gold as Breigon reached in and picked up two coins. “Say please,” Breigon said idly.
“Please,” Galad whispered. “I’ll do anything.”
Breigon uncurled his fingers and let the coins fall, and Galad hastily snatched them out of the air. He took a breath to thank Breigon but his brother was already waving a hand at him in bored dismissal. Galad thanked him anyway as he went to the door. He had just pulled it open when Breigon came up behind him and reached over his head to press it shut again. “Some friendly advice from your big brother,” Breigon said, leaning down to murmur against Galad’s ear. “Never offer anything. Some people – not me, but some people – might take advantage of that. I would so hate for you to be hurt.”
“Thank you, Breigon,” Galad said, because he didn’t know what else to say.
“Run along then,” Breigon replied, taking his hand off the door.
Galad didn’t need to be told twice. He went, detouring briefly to his own room to scoop up the coins from his bed and shove them into his pocket. Then he went downstairs and lied again to Thranor, telling him that he was going to check on the horses because he thought that he had seen one of them limping. Thranor barely glanced up anyway. For once relieved by his father’s lack of attention, Galad slipped outside and returned to the workshop. He counted the coins – eight golds, sixteen silvers. He put them into the coin chest and laughed in dizzy relief. “I did it,” he whispered, and a weight lifted from his shoulders.