Pol touches his daughter

The door had been left open, and Pol could hear his daughter inside, sniffling and sighing and being comforted by some woman. There were also men inside, and there were men all over the forest searching, he knew, for the man Malcolm and for the baby.

There was little that men with their iron swords could do against such elves as he and Shosudin, but Pol had the baby in his cloak, and he would not risk any harm to his daughter’s son.

Thus they had waited a long while in the trees, waiting for the yard to be clear of men, and all the long while Pol had listened to his daughter sobbing and sighing over her lost baby, as he had listened to her mother so long ago.

He could not hold Iylaina in his arms, but he knew it would not have helped if he could. He had held Lira, but he had not known how to comfort her. Over the years, before his eyes, his laughing, playful Lira had grown bitter and grim, and even open-​hearted little Vin had not known how to love the life back into her. Then the woman Hel had wrung it out of her.

“Are you ready?” Shosudin whispered to him.

“Someone’s here!” Iylaina cried in the language of the men.

Shosudin said, “I first,” and bounded up the steps into the man’s house.

Pol followed more slowly so as not to jostle the sleeping baby, and by the time he stepped inside, the room was already in confusion. There was a tall young man who had drawn his sword, a small older man who was telling him to put it away, a heavily pregnant woman, and his daughter—his beautiful daughter had squirmed away from the woman and pushed past the man to throw herself at Shosudin.

“Shus!” she sobbed. “Where is Vash? Where is Malcolm? Where is my baby?”

Pol was enraptured both by the sight of his daughter and by the warm, limp weight of the baby who dozed in the bend of his arm. If the young man had attacked him with his sword, he might have been pierced after all.

“Quiet, quiet, Iylaina,” Shosudin was saying. “Your baby is here. Malcolm is not far.”

But Iylaine fell at his feet, limp against the pillar. Pol could scarcely understand her English through her sobs, but he could tell that she was crying and crying for her baby.

So had he once seen Lira on her knees, after Iylaina had been taken from the hall. Little Iylaina had not cried then any more than Makil was crying in his cloak, but it was because Vash himself had carried her away. He was told that the same scene had been repeated when Saralla had taken Iylaina from Vash, but then it was Vash and Iylaina both who had screamed.

“Pol! Come!” Shosudin whispered in a language he could understand. “Give him to her!”

Pol woke from his daze and slipped the baby from his cloak. Then began the moment he had been awaiting with the stoic patience of a rock through thirteen harsh winters: his daughter was coming towards him with a smile.

Of course, the smile was not for him. She saw nothing but the baby in his arms, and he did not think she would even remember his face after he had gone. However, it was his chance to observe her own, his chance to brush her hands with his fingers as he passed the baby over to her.

This time he was ready. He swore he would not blink his eyes until she had gone away from his sight again.

She was as beautiful as her baby face had promised. She had her mother’s own slanted eyes, but for the rest she had his sister’s face: the long nose, the high tilt of the cheekbones, the tiny chin, and his sister’s smile. It was no wonder Vash loved her so: if she closed her eyes, she was the image of Vash’s dead mother.

“He was not harmed,” Shosudin murmured. “He was only taken to be named according to our rite. His name is Makil. It is a grand name. It means ‘dragon’.”

“His name is Donnchad!” she cried angrily. Pol saw that the moment had passed. “He is no elf!”

“Vash did not know of this,” Shosudin said, pleading for his dearest friend. “He would never have allowed—”

“I don’t care! I don’t care about Vash! I don’t care about any of you! It was Uncle Mustache who took my baby from me! You all act so kind, but you are cruel! Cruel! Liars! Liars!”

“Iylaina…”

“It is time for you to go,” the small man growled. “You have hurt her enough for one lifetime. Malcolm had better be returned to this house before the dawn.”

Pol did not know what the small man could threaten if Malcolm did not return, but he seemed to believe so entirely in his menace that Pol himself felt a flutter of trepidation.

“Malcolm is only sleeping,” Shosudin said, “and when he wakes he will come home. He is safe. We would not hurt you, Iylaina. Nor the ones you love.”

“You already have!” the pregnant woman cried harshly. “Go! Get out of here! Devils!”

“Stealing the wee lamb’s baby!” an old woman cried from across the room. “Devils! Fie!”

It all made little sense to Pol. He only understood that his daughter hated him and that all these men and women hated him—but they didn’t understand! And he couldn’t explain!

Shosudin was tugging on his sleeve as if to lead him to the door, but Shosudin too seemed unable to tear himself away.

“Vash doesn’t know!” he said. “He will be so angry to know they have frightened you. He loves you, Iylaina! He—”

“Begone!” the small man roared in a voice all out of proportion to his body. “Cruel or selfish or idiots or devils! Or all! Leave her in peace!”

The baby grew frightened and began to whimper aloud, as a child of elf parents would not have done. Iylaina began to coo and purr to him, and at the sound Pol was finally able to turn to the door. He would be able to listen to this for some while as they walked away.

She had Lira’s voice, as he had always known, and he could almost believe it was Lira herself behind him soothing her baby—Lira who was now dead; her baby who was now grown. His arms had not ached so with emptiness since he had laid his wife in the ground. Then as now, he knew he would never touch this beautiful, beloved lady again.

He followed Shosudin out into the dark, blinking at last: blinking back tears.