Free Twixt Firelight and Water by Juliet Marillier Page A

man’s limbs.
     
    Aisha is kneeling beside me; I feel her hands, sure but gentle on my back, my shoulder. I have forgotten how to use this body. I cannot move. Repeat these words after me ... I struggle to my hands and knees, Aisha helping me. I think I might be sick. I am sick, retching up the meagre contents of my belly onto the stones. Aisha scoops up water, cupping it in her hands. I drink. The skin of her palms is lighter than the rest of her, the hue of fine-grained oak. Her fingers are long and graceful.
     
    I stand. Her arm rests lightly around my shoulders, supporting me. I draw breath, open my mouth, utter a croaking sound.
     
    ‘Take your time,’ says my brother quietly. ‘By earth and air ...’
     
    I understand, through the nausea, the dizziness, the utter wrongness of this clumsy man-body, that the geis cannot be fully undone unless I can play my part.
     
    ‘By ... by ... ah ...’ A paroxysm of coughing. The two of them wait for me, quiet, confident. ‘By earth ... and air ...’
     
    ‘Good, Conri,’ whispers Aisha. ‘You’re doing fine.’
     
    ‘By fire and water,’ says Ciarán, and I see that he has tears rolling down his cheeks.
     
    ‘By fire ... and water ... I bind myself ...’
     
    It comes more easily with each word. A harsh voice, for certain, no bard’s honeyed tones, but a human voice. I stumble through the vow. I owe it to my brother for his long care and for his belief in me. I owe it to this woman, this stranger, to honour the sacrifice she’s making for me. So, turning to look into her lustrous dark eyes and seeing not a scrap of pity there, only joy at the remarkable feat we’ve accomplished tonight, the three of us, I finish it: ‘Until death changes us forever, I bind myself to you, Aisha, my wife.’ Dearest Lóch; goodbye, my lovely one.
     
    Ciarán takes a cloth strip from his belt. Aisha extends her right arm, I my left. We clasp hands, and my brother wraps the cloth around our wrists.
     
    ‘By the deep, enduring power of earth; by the clarifying power of air; by the quickening power of fire; by the life-giving power of water, you are now joined as husband and wife. By the mysterious, all-encompassing power of spirit, you are hand-fasted until death separates you one from the other. I give you my solemn blessing, Conri, my brother.’ He touches my brow with his fingertips and I feel a thrill of power run through me. ‘I give you my solemn blessing, Aisha, my sister.’ He touches her in her turn, and I feel her tremble.
     
    My knees are weak. I’m still dizzy and sick, my eyes unwilling to accept the change. Aisha holds me up while Ciarán speaks the final prayers, closes the circle, then moves to add wood to the fire and get out his little flask of mead. My knees give up the struggle; Aisha only just manages to stop me from falling. She settles beside me on the stones, her arm around me in comradely fashion. It feels good.
     
    Ciarán pours mead into cups. For a while, the three of us sit in utter silence.
     
    ‘Don’t look at me,’ I say eventually. ‘This was your crazy idea; yours and hers.’ I glance from the sombre, pale Ciarán to the silent Aisha. Before either of them can speak a word, I burst into tears. I sob and shake like a child, my head clutched in my hands. Aisha kneels up and wraps me in her arms, cradling my head on her shoulder and humming under her breath. Gods, oh, gods ... The worst of it is to be so helpless, so feeble, so unmanned before this woman, this extraordinary woman who surprises me at every turn.
     
    ‘Weep now, Conri,’ she says in a murmur. ‘Weep for Lóch; weep for your young life lost; weep for what could not be. Weep all night if you need. Weep until those sad tears are all gone, husband. And in the morning, know the good gifts that you have. The most loyal of brothers. A wife who will stand by you forever and always tell you the truth. We will not long be strangers, Conri. Family, at Sevenwaters and in