Seregrían and the Riders Four have passed out of the moors of the Wold and entered the region of Rohan known as the Eastfold, a vast plain of rolling hills dotted by settlements and farms known as crofts. The lands are sparsely settled, with the folk of Rohan living in a few towns protected by wooden palisade walls. The land divides into the Norcrofts and the town of Cliving, and the Sutcrofts where stands the city of Snowbourn.
It is for Cliving that the party rides through the day, pausing only when night falls and the horses tire. The pace is slower than Burnoth would like due to the presence of the wolf, Warfrost; but not as slow as he feared, because the mountain-wolf shows greater endurance than expected. All the same, Seregrían insists on an occasional halt for rest, knowing the wolf cannot keep pace with the horses of the Rohirrim for very long.
The riders mount up before first light and continue westward, as to their right the land begins to rise in rocky heights covered with trees, and the sunlight glints off waterfalls from a distance. Atop a spur from the hills stands a palisade wall, green banners upon towers flying in the breeze.
“Yonder lies Cliving, the seat of Thane Athelward,” Burnoth explains to Seregrían as they pause on a ridge overlooking the lands. “Far to the south lies Snowbourn, another two days’ ride.”
“What do we know of Cliving, and this Athelward?” Seregrían asks. “Is he of the same temper as Harding, or even Sithric?”
“His mood is different from both, they say,” Burnoth says. “Athelward is in mourning over the loss of his wife, and has no son to carry on, but dotes upon his daughters. The crofters, as we have heard, have been driven from the lands and inside the walls of any town that will harbor them, Athelward seems to do nothing to hold the lands under his charge, but is content to stay within his walls. As you can see even from this distance, Cliving is a fortress of strength, and many flock to its protection; too many, perhaps.”
“Much the same as we saw in the Wold,” Seregrían says. “Driving the people like a herd into one pen, easier for the harvest. How soon shall we arrive, would you guess?”
“We are not far off now,” Hutha says, “you can see the road to the main gate there, less than a half a league off. We could walk the horses and be there in an hour.”
“And what is that I see here,” Seregrían asks, “this mere with falling waters from the heights?”
“These waters come from Cliving itself. A stream feeds the fountains near the mead hall, and then falls over the rocks to the lake below. Always the voice of the waterfall is heard. Another advantage for Cliving, they never lack for water even in dry summers.”
“Let us halt there, at the waters’ edge,” Seregrían asks, “so that we might be rested before entering the city and meeting this Athelward.” All agree, and the five riders dismount on a stony shelf sloping down to the water. The sound of falling water is loud, but not overpowering. The riders let their mounts stray for grass, and Warfrost pokes around the scrub for game.
Seregrían, however, is fairly intoxicated by the sound of the falling waters. She leaves the Riders at their hasty camp and walks to where the cascade falls onto smooth rocks with a mantle of spray. On impulse, she strips off her boots and laves her feet in the water; it is cold to the touch, She dips her hands into the torrent and drinks; cold, but an odd taste to the water, of earth and mould, rich and grounding. Moved by some feeling she cannot put into word, she strips off her leggings, then her tunic, and wades into the current. Stepping onto the stony shelf, she stands beneath the waterfall, her arms outstretched, letting the falling waters wash over her.
Seregrían feels an instant sensation as the water soaks her thin clothing, her skin, and her hair. She leans back, letting the water strike her face and arms. At once she is in touch with the richness of the land, its fertile soil carried along by the waters, the life and virtue of the lands of the Horse-lords in a way no word or song could convey. She perceives the land is as rich as its people, these children of Men who, down through the march of years, have made this land so much their own that they cannot be parted from it. And she realizes they belong here, as much as Elves belong in Lothlorien or Dwarves in Khazad-dum.
Seregrían steps out of the water, shaking herself dry but still soaking. She moves to stand in the sun to dry off, when she pulls up short; for Ulf is sitting on a rock just above her, slowly whetting one of his axes. “You watch, and you stare?” she asks scornfully.
“I watch over you, and mark where you stand,” Ulf replies. “The others are dozing in the shade of their horses, and that wolf of yours is nosing around for coneys.” He hops down from the rock and stands near Seregrían. “Even as close as we are to Cliving’s gate, I do not trust these lands to be safe. None of us should go off alone, and a bathing maid such as yourself might become an easy mark. Your tools you left with your mount, and if you insist on leaving yourself defenseless, then it is upon me to defend you.”
“Why you, especially? Are there not four strong men who would rescue a helpless maid such as I appear to be?”
“You are anything but helpless, Blodcwyn, and we know it. You were the only one, other than I, to stand against the Winged Terror. I was unmanned in that hour, and even the red fog did not ward me from the horror of that beast; but your light gave me new strength to rise to my feet once more.”
“And what is this ‘red fog’ you speak of? Have you some gift of your own?”
“One day, you might learn. And that day is not now. But you, Elf-witch, have the habit of putting yourself into peril. Standing against the Terror; healing Caeorwulf of his swoon; a dozen times I have watched you charge into battle, daring your foes, taunting them with your innocent youthful guise, only to draw them into your trap. Well named you are, Blodcwyn, your thirst rivals my own.”
“And how might you know of my thirst, as if to compare to yourself? Your anger is swift, swift as your axe-strokes or your years, while mine has had ages in which to grow.”
Ulf realizes he is truly staring now at Seregrían as she stands in the sunlight, damp clothes clinging to her lithe and well-knit frame, arms akimbo and her eyes even with his, just beginning to glow with that deadly silver. He thinks to himself: can it be, can the white fury match the red fog? Do her eyes see more clearly than mine? And what would she see?
“You may have ages behind you,” he says quickly, “but we do not have but an hour before us. Here, use my cloak to dry yourself before you don your garb once more. And if I may be so bold, find your scarlet clothes, the ones you wore that first night in the tavern. If nothing else uncovers Athelward’s mind, that will.” And Ulf moves off towards the camp to rouse the others.
Seregrían watches Ulf walk away as she dries herself and finds her clothes. And she looks toward him with an expression of… puzzlement.
