Which meant they were talking to each other. That talk might be nothing but insults and braggings, but it was communication nonetheless. Alea would have to find out how to use that communication to lighten the feuds, not increase them, that was all.
All! But how? She shelved the question for another day. “I’ll heal whoever is ill,” Alea said, then remembered something else from Herkimer’s database. “The Oath of Hippocrates demands it.”
“Hippocrates?”
“What clan was he from?”
Campbell and Gregor were both instantly suspicious.
“He was the founder of medicine in a land far away,” Alea explained, “the first healer. He swore to heal anyone who was ill wherever he found them—stranger or neighbor, rich or poor, enemy or friend.”
Clansfolk were nodding slowly; the idea seemed to make sense to them. Healers and Druids, after all, were neutral. “Well, it’s your choice,” Hazel said, scowling, “but I hope you don’t expect much of Campbell hospitality.”
“Don’t worry, it will be better than a Gregor could manage,” Jethro said with a glare at Hazel, but it didn’t have much spirit behind it.
“I don’t heal for pay,” Alea said, “neither in kind nor in kindness. Simple food and a roof over my head is all I expect.” She turned back to Hazel. “Hospitality such as yours is a pleasant bonus.”
“Then you’ll have an even more pleasant surprise at the Campbell homestead,” Jethro averred. “If you’ll come with us, lady, you won’t regret it.”
“If I heal your sick ones, I won’t,” Alea told him, then to Hazel and her Gregors she said, “Good-bye, then. Thank you very much for good guesting and fine company on the march. I’m sorry to have taken you so far out of your way, but I did enjoy your presence.”
“As we enjoyed yours, and the trip together.” Hazel smiled and caught her hand. “Thank you for our kinswoman’s life, Alea. Our house is yours, whenever you wish it.”
“As is ours,” Jethro rumbled. “Lady, will you walk with us?”
“That I will,” Alea said, and strode away with the Campbells, but she turned back to wave at the Gregors before they were quite out of sight.
“Stop! Stop!” cried a dozen voices, and the elf leader called, “He only sought to protect his friend!”
The pains ceased as suddenly as they had come, and Gar sagged with relief.
“We thought the tall one might be a friend to us, too,” one of the fairies trilled, “but what does he seek to bring forth from that pack?”
Gar let go of the twist of paper that held a dozen needles and pulled out a knot of ribbons instead.
“Move slowly,” the bird-voice warned.
Gar winced at a reminder, a pain that twisted in his brain and was gone. “Only some pretty things that might delight the Wee Folk,” he protested.
“He may indeed be a friend,” the lead elf told the fairies. “Certainly he shows a friend’s interest.”
“A friend’s?” asked the fairy. “Or a hunter’s?”
The elf shrugged. “We have given him warning, but were only beginning to let him show good will.”
“I mean no harm,” Gar told them, then frowned. “But I will protect myself as well as I can, and my friend.” He stared meaningfully at the fairy and readied a mental bolt of his own.
“Do not fear for the young one,” another fairy said contemptuously. “He only sleeps—he is not dead.”
“We do not kill lightly,” explained another.
“Nor do I,” Gar assured them. He frowned from the one group to the other. “But how is this? Do fairies and elves league to protect this wood?”
“We league to protect one another,” a fairy said, scowling. “The New Folk think that we are spirits whom their ancestors feared,” an elf explained. “We do all we can to encourage that thought, and punishing their minor crimes, or rewarding their virtues, seems to strengthen it.”
“I can see that it would.” A dozen stories of elfin capriciousness cascaded through Gar’s mind—everything from Rip van Winkle’s twenty-year sleep to neat housekeepers finding six pences in their shoes. “Why only minor crimes, though?”
The elf made a face. “They will not leave off their great sins for any reason. They will murder one another no matter what punishments we visit.”
“Because you draw the line at killing them yourself,” Gar said slowly.
“Aye, unless they seek to slay us,” the elf said darkly. “But for slaughtering one another … Well!”
“We will hurt them sorely,” a fairy said, “but we will not slay.”
“I understand well.” Gar had a similar code. Then, daring, he said, “I am greatly honored by your telling me this, but how do you know you can trust me?”
“Oh, we have long ears,” the elf said, grinning. “We have heard you speak of seeking to end the continuous havoc these New Folk wreak upon one another.”
“I do seek peace,” Gar said slowly, “and of course that means peace with your peoples as well as among my own.”
“Are they truly yours?” a fairy said pointedly.
Gar felt a chill. “How could they be anything else? Do I not look like them?”
“Save for being taller, aye,” the fairy admitted. “Why then would you think I am not of them?”
“Chiefly because one of our number saw you descend from a golden egg.”
Well, Herkimer was more of a discus than an egg, but Gar took the point.
“You and your leman,” another fairy added.
“She is not my leman,” Gar said automatically, then added in explanation, “only my friend, and my companion in arms.” The fairies exchanged a glance that clearly said they knew his heart better than he did, but they were polite enough not to say it out loud. One turned back to Gar and said, “At least you will not deny that you are both of a kind with the New Folk who war upon one another continually.”
“I am of their kind, but not of their nation.”
“Not of their nation.” An elf nodded. “I like that. But certainly of their kind, for their ancestors, too, did come from the sky.”
Gar remembered his earlier encounter with the fairies, and his conjecture that they were native to the planet. “Did not your ancestors also come down from the heavens?”
“They did not,” the elf said firmly. “We are of the earth, and our oldest tales tell how the first elves sprang from forest mold.”
“And the first fairies from an eagle’s aerie,” a fairy added. Gar guessed that they were both right—that the common ancestor of their kind had been a catlike forest creature whose descendants had branched into a tree-living race and an earthbound race. The first had evolved into a bird’s worst nightmare—winged cats—which had evolved further into fairies. The second had evolved into the elves, and the extra two limbs that had been transformed into wings in the fairies had become extra arms in them.
Extra? Surely they only seemed superfluous from a Terran’s perspective! To the elves, he no doubt seemed maimed by only having two arms.
“We count you an ally,” the fairy said reluctantly, “because you seek peace.”
“And, too, because you come well recommended,” another fairy chipped in.
The first turned to give her a black look, and Gar found himself wondering who had recommended him—one of the first clansfolk with whom they had stayed? Still, it didn’t pay to be too inquisitive, so he asked, “Are you still wary of me?”
“Not at all,” an elf said, “for we hear your thoughts, and they are goodly—at least toward us.”