by Andre Norton
He took two casual paces forward, to find he was staring at Kiv’s body as it sprawled on the ground. Trovagh dropped the lamb. Flames! The poor lad must have fallen trying to reach the lamb. His eyes focused on the boy. There was something sticking from the lad’s chest. Trovagh investigated. The stump of an arrow, the broken portion lay near the body. Bandits? The cave! If there were outlaws around the cave would be the most likely place for them to be. Oh, Gods, Cee had gone to find Kiv there.
Trovagh was on horseback and cantering before he thought. He had sense enough to slow before the final stretch to the hideaway. He dismounted, slipping through the brush on foot; luckily he had taken his bow, he thought. They usually hunted while in the foothills. Cee would have hers, too, but he feared she might not have had the chance to use it. That was her horse standing there. Damn, if only her name-day gift hadn’t bruised his hoof that way. The Torgian colt would have attacked on command, or even without if he saw his rider seized.
Quickfeet shied violently away from the cave as within it Ciara screamed. The girl came staggering back clear of the cave-mouth, her upper clothing torn. Her fingers hooked into claws, her eyes flaming fury as she fought in silence now against the man who held her captive. Trovagh glanced about swiftly. There was another horse past the cave. It was a typical bandit mount. Overridden, ill-used, but of originally good quality. Why steal poor animals when you can steal the best. But only one horse, most likely only one man, two at most.
A savage slap sent Ciara spinning to the ground again. She came up fighting, sinking her teeth into her captor’s arm as he grabbed her. For a moment her face was visible to Trovagh. He saw the desperation behind the rage, the terror behind the determination to fight. Blood trickled down her cheek from one of the blows. Something rose in Trovagh. A chill, deadly fury. He stepped forward, spying the man’s bow. He darted silently toward it even as the outlaw heard the rush of feet. A quick stamp and the bow broke, now Trovagh turned on his prey.
Never fight in a temper, his father had taught him. Trovagh’s mood was beyond that description, it was ice, the deadly winter blizzard that comes to kill. It, too, did not slay in a rage, but those who met it died. He feinted. The man he faced was good enough for untrained farmers, but Trovagh had been taught by Hanion since the boy could walk. Swords crossed, flickering and shimmering. Another feint, a bind, and a sword whirling high into the air. The bandit made his final mistake. His eyes followed the blade upward. Trovagh brought his sword lashing around. The outlaw folded in silence to the bloody earth.
Cee? Where was Cee? Trovagh jerked his head around hunting for her. Over Quickfeet’s back an arrow pointed. He slouched in relief and pride, gasping for breath. Even after that she’d run not for a place to hide but for a weapon to aid him. Behind her horse Ciara allowed the bowstring to relax.
“Are there any more?” Trovagh was remaining cautious.
“No, he said he was alone, and the others were wiped out days ago by Aranskeep.” She emerged from behind Quickfeet as she spoke. Her hand went up to wipe away the trickle of blood. The man’s ring had cut high on her cheekbone when he struck her. She walked unsteadily toward Tro.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” He hesitated; how did you ask a friend if she’d been raped? “Were you . . . he didn’t . . . ?”
She managed a small, shaky smile. “I fought him too hard, then you came.” He looked at her standing there. Hair torn half loose from its braids, clothing wrenched apart. She was bruised, bloody, but still Cee. His arms went out to close about her. Her face turned up to reassure him as their lips met, almost by accident. Long moments later he put her from him a little.
It was his smile that was shaky now. “I think perhaps we should tell Father our marriage could become official. That’s if you feel the same way, Cee?”
She smiled up, long affection and new love in that look. “Yes!” was all she said. It was enough.
8
T he wedding was small as Keep weddings went. Trader Tanrae and his family, Geavon and all his, and a sprinkling of the clan who lived within a few days’ travel. There were also the people of Aiskeep, the garths, and those others outside the valley who still looked to Aiskeep as overlord. The preparations took until almost midsummer. But then their own priestess united Trovagh and Ciara by Cup and Flame. Aiskeep rejoiced.
Hard on the heels of that event came another that also delighted everyone. It was all Geavon’s fault, Tarnoor declared. That was no more than the truth. Geavon had sat with Tarnoor after the wedding. Both felt a little flat after all the excitement. The children were safely bedded down in the tower suite, which was now their own. The guests had mostly departed, and things were returning slowly to normal. Tarnoor sighed.
“I suppose I have only a doddering age to look forward to now.”
Geavon snorted in amusement. “You’re still young enough to consider a third wife. Now that the boy’s off your hands, why don’t you look about? Flames, man. You’re only in your sixties; you aren’t trembling into the grave as yet. Find some widow with a little dowry and no children to complicate Aiskeep’s inheritance.”
Tarnoor flung back his head and laughed. “And find myself landed with someone who’d want to change the Keep about, and who doesn’t know the place! Meddling with the garths, upsetting the servants. If I was going to wed again, I might as well take Elanor; at least she knows Aiskeep and . . .” He fell abruptly silent. Geavon eyed him shrewdly as Tarnoor sat there. It looked as if his friend had finally realized something Geavon had been hinting at for weeks.
No more was said on that subject. They finished the wine, talked of harvest, then wandered off to their beds. Tarnoor lay in his old four-poster bed thinking late into the night. It was legal to wed Elanor. She was only a distant cousin to Tarnoor, a closer one to his late wife, but that didn’t matter. She was sensible, comfortable, and kind. She’d run Aiskeep for the last twenty-odd years. There’d be no changes just for the sake of it.
He smiled slightly. As for the dowry, Aiskeep was obliged to provide her with one should she wish to wed. That really was keeping money in the family should he marry her. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. There’d be no children, but there’d be a comfortable old age together. She was younger, but then she was wholly of Karsten. Aiskeep didn’t talk loudly about it, but there was the blood of the Old Race in the direct line here. Not a great amount. Just enough to lengthen their lives, keeping them hale barring accidents or sicknesses, until they died.
Ciara had done no more than bring back a stronger infusion of the blood. Aiskeep had always been a little different. He slept then. But in the morning he dressed carefully, going quietly in search of Elanor.
“I would speak to you; walk with me in the herb garden.”
Best to move slowly, Tarnoor considered, as they walked. He’d lived long enough to know that telling Elanor he had begun considering her because she had no children and wouldn’t turn the Keep upside down would not win him favor. Instead, he complimented her on her latest gown, plucked a sprig of rosemary to pin on her bodice, and left her baffled. Tarnoor followed the same plan every morning for a week until Elanor looked for him out of habit. Then he shifted his ground.
At the next evening meal he waited to hand Elanor ceremoniously to her chair. This drew interested looks from his children. They could hardly wait to get away once the meal was done.
“Did you see?” Trovagh was incredulous.
Ciara giggled, “I certainly did. Did you see the defiant way he did it? As if he was daring anyone to comment?”
Trovagh nodded, “It would be a fair match,” he said. “Elanor’s kin, so there’d be no problems there, and she’d cause no trouble at Aiskeep.”
“And she’s a dear!”
“That, too. Remember the time we put a toad in her bed and she made us eat that oversalted porridge?”
Ciara smiled, “I remember, but she didn’t tell Father. I think it would be good. After all
, they’re old, and it would be nice for each of them to have company.”
Meanwhile Elanor, no fool, had also come to a conclusion. She’d never known quite when she began to love Tarnoor. Sometime after her cousin had left him widowed, she thought. When she’d seen how good he was with his tiny son, his people, and his Keep. How kind, honest, and caring he was. She’d never let him see it. She ran the Keep, but in a way she was a servant. If she allowed him to see she cared, he might fear it was only to raise herself. She guessed at the reasons she was considered, but there had been real affection when he looked at her.
She waited patiently as Tarnoor moved toward his question. He spoke gently of love then. Could she care? She assured him happily that she already did. Their wedding was quieter still. Just those within the Keep and Geavon who had not yet departed. But a week later Geavon, too, was gone. Aiskeep settled down. Elanor was happier than she had ever been, and Tarnoor seemed to be discovering a new energy.
* * *
It took three years before something occurred to disrupt the Keep.
“You’re sure?” Trovagh was delighted.
“Positive!”
“So we can tell Father and Elanor tonight?”
Ciara looked doubtful. “Just so long as they don’t go broody. I don’t want to be wrapped up and kept inside. I’m young, healthy, and the women of my line normally birth easily. Apart from that I know healcraft. I won’t take chances, love, but I don’t want to be driven mad by a fuss.”
Trovagh broke the news that evening. Privately he also managed a word with his family. The fuss was kept moderate. Ciara rode as usual, walked, and worked in the stillroom with her herbs. She bore a healthy boy. Four years later she added a girl to the family. But by then strange events were beginning.
A man had risen in the far South. He’d begun as a guard and proved to have fighting aptitude. From that he’d gone on to take over a garth. Then with a tail of men he’d taken a small clanless Keep. No one knew where he came from or what his blood. He called himself Pagar of Geen. But Geen was only a small town, and Pagar was a word in the old tongue for ‘One who stands alone.’ Nonetheless the man was a strategist as well as a fighter and leader of fighters. His next move was to take more land. It had lain long fallow, too far from clan land to be defensible, yet close to the Keep Pagar had taken, which had been small and not so defensible itself. Now the man was building a base, it appeared. Over the next two years Pagar strengthened his Keep, widened his holdings, then struck for real ties with power. It was a letter from Geavon that brought the news. Tarnoor read it with interest. So this Pagar had offered for the daughter of one of the smaller clans. He told his family over breakfast.
Ciara hooted. “Is that the one with a truly evil temper?”
“And a reputation for exhausting the Kars Guard?” Trovagh added.
“So I believe,” Tarnoor informed them. It was funny, but not for long. The woman apparently settled to a respectable wifehood, producing a son only days after nine months from the wedding. Her death in childbed was not surprising. Many women died that way. The child, however, lived, giving Pagar a solid clan claim. He used it to add men and clan soldiers to his train, striking within months at a keep belonging to a rival clan. It was taken swiftly. Then another, and a third. With growing wealth and status, his offer for a daughter of a larger clan was acceptable.
By this time there were voices suggesting Pagar be raised to duke. Merchants from Kars, some honest, others paid for the service, lobbied loudly. Here was a man who could finally bring order to the land. A man who knew the people. Three years later Pagar was crowned duke of the duchy of Kars. His alliances spread after that. His second wife died, again in a perfectly acceptable way. There was some gossip, put about by the ill-intentioned of course. Pagar ignored it loftily. He wed a third time. His prize was the only daughter of a powerful man in the most powerful of the coastal clans.
Pagar was thirty-three when he announced a campaign in the North. For too long the land around Verlaine had been lawless, Pagar said firmly. Fulk had never returned. Various lords had held Verlaine, the current one being a weak fool who permitted outlaws to ravage unchecked. Those living in that area agreed heartily. Pagar blooded his troops. Behind him he left Verlaine in the hands of one of those who looked to him. A strong guard reinforced peace over the area. Sycophants in Kars told all about them to look at how their duke handled things.
Geavon told a different story on a visit. “I don’t know the man’s eventual aim. But everything until now has been a carefully thought-out series of steps upward. I think soon he will attack Estcarp. It’s an old enemy to Karsten and the man must lead his men against someone.”
Elanor was puzzled. “Why?”
“Because of those he leads. Too many are mercenaries, bandits turned temporarily honest soldiers, outlaws impressed by the loot from the northern campaign. Without a war the army will fall apart. Pagar can’t pay them, but to keep them together he must. Or he can offer them the possibilities of vast loot. If he carves a path into Estcarp, he buys time to strengthen his power. Loot to rebuild Kars, plunder to pay his men. You do know he’s already started raiding along the border between us?”
Tarnoor was horrified. “Without declaration?”
“Exactly. Estcarp won’t take it for long. They’ll do something we may all regret.” Geavon sighed. “It all harks back to the Horning. Too many in our land benefited from that or have guilty consciences over things that happened. Too many have always feared that one day they’d be called to pay blood debt. Pagar has played on that. He has the city and most of the clans behind him in what he does. The worst of it is, Estcarp cannot win. If they do nothing, Pagar will raid more boldly. If they act, then he will cry out that we are unjustly attacked by an old enemy. This is only the beginning. He will claim that if we do not fight, we will soon be a subject land.”
Tarnoor glanced at his friend. “Which do you think will come?”
“Those of Estcarp are not cowards, they’ll fight,” Geavon said thoughtfully. “Pagar is expecting an easier war than I think he will get. But once he is committed, then so are we all. I never liked nor trusted the man, I think he leads us where we would not wish did we but see the path ahead clearly. I fear for Karsten.”
It was well that Tarnoor persuaded the old man to remain. Two weeks later word came from Gerith Keep. Geavon left at once traveling light and as swift as aging bones allowed. His next letter was grim.
Estcarp had made some formal alliance with the Sulcar so that their fleets had been loosed upon Kars. Twenty ships broke the Kars river patrol, slashing into the very heart of the city. The results of that kept the duke busy in his own backyard for a year. The Kars merchants were outraged. The Sulcar had dealt death in moderation, but some wise one among them had counseled another blow. As the fleet withdrew they had burned every warehouse they could set alight. The duke had no sooner quelled that trouble than more came to him from the far South.
Hanion was amused. “They say the man claims to be Pagar’s half brother. That the father lived with some woman for several years before he died and got a son on her. This man is a bare twenty, but he’s ambitious and a couple of the clans with no love for Pagar will back him. Pagar had better deal quickly with him, else there are others who may decide this one to be the better bargain.”
Aiskeep was wise enough to remain apart. But as Hanion had said, there were others willing to fish in troubled waters.
Three years passed before Pagar was secure on his throne again. The half brother, however, had been so evilly slain that others rose in his place. As fast as the duke suppressed trouble in one province, it broke out elsewhere. Nor were supplies for war so easy to find of late with the Sulcar firmly on the side of Estcarp. For a time the duke lay low, keeping peace in the land while he built up trained men and quietly bought weapons to store against need.
In those years Aiskeep continued to thrive. The children grew, prospering in health and knowledge. Ciara’s d
aughter was sixteen when she wed. Ciara wept as she kissed her farewell.
“Be happy, do not be strangers to Aiskeep. May Cup and Flame go with you in blessing, little one.” For a time they did. Then it was the turn of Ciara’s son.
“But who is this lady, we have heard of no Aisha?”
Kirin laughed. “No, but is her name not a good omen? She is the sister of a friend I made in Kars. I met him when I stayed with Geavon at Gerith Keep last year. We visited my friend’s house in Kars often. She is young, only fourteen, but we could be wed next year.”
Ciara was uncertain. As ever she took her questions to Trovagh. “I know nothing of the girl; could we not invite her here for a time? We can thus decide with more knowledge. The match is well enough from what we know, but we know little.”
The girl came. She was small in stature, maybe a little sly, Ciara thought, quiet and gentle seeming but lazy and rather spoiled. She would not expect to run Aiskeep. In that she would produce no contention. She also appeared fond of Kirin, although Ciara wondered how much of her son’s determination was merely an infatuation with a very pretty girl. They were wed a year later, though Ciara wished both to wait a little longer.
Meanwhile, Pagar had again commenced raiding the Estcarp border. He was strong on his throne, since many of those who opposed him seemed to die conveniently. There was more gossip about that, which ceased when people noticed that the gossipers also seemed to have a surprisingly high mortality rate. The raids carried on over the next few years, growing in strength and intensity. Pagar did not seem to mind his losses, nor, loaded with plunder from Estcarp’s border, did his men.
Then for the first time in many years, grief came to Aiskeep. Ciara’s daughter died. There had been no living child of the marriage, and Trovagh and Ciara mourned together as did Tarnoor and Elanor. They had been so fortunate, it had been a long time since death had touched any of them. It was to become a familiar visitor. A month later, Trader Tanrae’s son came bringing word that bandits had struck a merchant train. In the fighting his father had been slain.