Page 1 of Thief of Roses
I.
“Vallon?”
He tortured himself by stealing glances at her over the fire as he did each night when the camp gathered for the evening meal and festivities.Her reticence produced a sweet ache that over the last sennight transformed into agonies.He wanted to unknot the bright green scarf decorated with feathers and stones that bound her plaits, tangle his fingers in her silver-flecked black hair as he unbraided it, and bury his face against her long, elegant neck to breathe in her scent.Even in the midst of evening entertainment, her square jaw set into an impassive expression and her dark brown eyes overlooked him.He burned more fiercely than the flames for a moment of acknowledgment or recognition that never came.
“Vallon.”
The emphatic repetition of his name tore him from his reverie.He raised his head in the direction of the speaker.Mother puffed on her pipe.Rashi had finished the song on their flute, resuming their seat beside their sister, when Mother singled Vallon out.All eyes turned to him.
Vallon blushed at being caught inattentive.“Forgive me, Mother.The music, the fire.It inspires reflection.What would you have of me?”
The elder pulled the pipe from her lips again.“You have been here among us for some time now.The camp would like to hear from you.”
“I would be most happy to do my part in entertainment, but I do not know what will best please.Those few skills I possess have been put to shame by others more talented than I.”
A knowing smile spread over Mother’s face.She waved the pipe with an indifferent air.“There is no judgment, just enjoyment — juggle or share a song or tell a story.Anything you wish.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Rushina who had taken a seat beside Vallon when the evening festivities began, “you might tell us how you received your scars.Was it a bear?”
Vallon touched his fingertips to the dramatic healed wounds stretching over his nose and the right half of his face, remembering well the claws that carved them into his flesh.
“It’s rude to bring up someone’s disfigurements,” Haynati scolded.“You know better.”
“I will share a different story,” Vallon offered, attempting to keep the state of his face out of discussion and such open speculation.Nonetheless, he averted the right side of his face away from the fire.
“We are eager for it,” responded Haynati who, despite the scars, showed a marked preference for the tall stranger.
Vallon spoke a common dialect of Rivanic with excessive formality and a light indeterminate accent, a telltale indication that he had not been born among the Rivani.Still, he found a place within their society, never shying away from the hard labor that sculpted his broad-shouldered frame and always lending his hands and talents to any other need that arose.In short time, the camp lauded him as an asset with his aptitude for mendingvyardincomponents and cleaning game with ease.
Proving himself a capable and industrious member of their group, many expressed their interest in receiving his attention despite his prominent scarring.To their dismay, Vallon kept to himself and always declined the initiations of others, citing that he searched for his mate.His pronouncement did not dampen the hope that others still might be the mate for which he searched even though gossip circulated that he left courtship offerings at thevyardindoor of a Rivan woman not of the regular caravan.
His Rivan appearance also assisted in his ready acceptance by the indigenous nomadic group.Aside from the scars, Vallon otherwise embodied all that comprised Rivan beauty — long black curling hair, large eyes so dark a brown to also look black, and skin bronzed and smooth, now interrupted by the healed wounds.Vallon bore other physical traits of the Rivani — the shape of his eyes, a lack of facial hair, and high cheekbones.The suggestion of mixed parentage resided somewhere in his brows, lips, and jawline with the aristocratic Varnasian nose confirming it.Still, those outsider traits little deterred anyone from recognizing his value to the group, and on the occasions when someone drew him into the evening dancing, even his serious demeanor gave way to smiles as radiant as the sun.
“I shall tell you of the end of the Fir’Darl, the worst of the gods,” he suggested.
Several Rivani kissed their thumbs and put their fists to their hearts.
Vallon studied the ground while gathering his thoughts.He mustered his courage and raised his head again, meeting the eyes of the woman he longed to claim.Her gaze fixed upon him but as he was offering entertainment, it meant nothing.
“The Fir’Darl came to existence in the time of the sorceresses,” he intoned, low and theatrically, reciting the opening to a story the Rivani told often, “when the House of de Vacca presided over Varnasian lands.King Hemnesio, instigator of the Great Persecution, ruled with severity and ruthlessness and secured his bloodline through the birth and maturity of two sons, Luca and Arturo.Luca, later the Coward King, followed in his father’s hatred and cruelty.Although younger, Arturo offered hope to the Rivani and they called him the Rivan Prince.With Arturo’s untimely death, hope was lost and the Fir’Darl was born, not from a womb as other creatures are but from the grief borne of the Rivani’s suffering, their rage taking a physical monstrous shape.”
Heads bobbed in acknowledgment of this well-known lore.
“In possession of both an immortal life and a body that betrayed his origins, the Fir’Darl retreated deep within the forests, banished from the world of men.”Where most tellers of this oral history recited the long suffering and resilience of the Rivan people, Vallon guided them somewhere new.“There, the Fir’Darl despaired in his isolation for endless years until one day, a Rivan woman found him....”
