by S. A. Hunter
The Ttamarini must be here. They may already have set up camp on the North Field, west of Kenna Beach.
Swinging her legs over the edge of her bed, she rubbed with brief irritation at her shins. Her bones ached lately. Nan said it was because she was growing so fast. She ran to the window and the cool silkiness of morning air caressed her skin. She massaged her chest, Nan insisted she wear a binding now. One restriction after another, it seems.
Nothing was visible yet in the courtyard, though she thought she heard boot steps and voices in the stable yard. Anticipation flickered along her nerves as she danced her feet on the cold stone floor.
She dragged on the green gown Nan had set aside for this day, but her long, sleep-tangled hair caught in the buttons. Nan came in to find her half dressed and jigging in frustration.
“Lass! What be you doing out of bed at this hour?”
“Are they here, Nan? I want to see them.”
“Hold still now, you’re all a-tangle, I should have braided your hair last night, but a more sleepy lass I’ve never seen.”
“Ouch! Please hurry Nan.”
“You may as well hold your breath, Button. I will see you properly dressed and fed before you leave this chamber, does hear me, lass?”
Thera recognized the tone of Nan’s voice and with a great effort of will, forbore to fidget. Elanraigh Bless. I don’t need a nursemaid! Nan’s fussiness is so annoying. Mother should have had other children for Nan to lavish her care on, then I could be left alone.
Thera cast a sullen glower at Nan’s profile as the maid turned slightly to unravel a knot of Thera’s hair. Nan’s fair brows were puckered in concentration, a pink tip of tongue protruded past the compressed lips.
Thera sighed at her freakish irritability and contritely took back the wish. She loved Mother, of course. However, it was Nan, with this very same look of concentration on her face, who had plucked out slivers, crooned over scrapes or cuts as she bathed them, or simply cuddled and rocked her whenever she needed the closeness. Nan always knew when those times were—that was Nan’s gift.
By the time Thera washed, there was constant movement and voices beyond her chamber door. Nan’s deft fingers subdued Thera’s curls into a head-molding braid.
“I was with your mother this morning, early, lass,” Nan’s hands rested a moment on Thera’s shoulders. “We be leaving at dawn’s blessing tomorrow for Elankeep.” Thera twisted around, aghast. Nan continued quickly, “Now, now, lass. You be knowing your lady mother only agreed to let you stay long enough to see the Ttamarini arrive. ‘Tis just for the now, ’til it be safe again to come home.”
Thera simply said, “I don’t like to leave, Nan, not when there is trouble. They needn’t treat me as such a child—I could help.”
Nan’s voice was thick as she pulled Thera to her. “You’re getting so grown-up, Button.” So tightly did she clench Thera to her bosom that Thera’s cheek bore the imprint of Nan’s apron button for some time after.
* * * *
The early morning light shone bright, burnished by a brisk wind blowing inland off the sea. Dew still sparkled on spider webs and on the tossing cedar branches.
Thera stood with her mother and the household guards. Oak Heart was mounted in front of the Heart’s Own, the guards, and the town dignitaries. Thera could not recall ever seeing the front courtyard so crowded with people. Representatives of the guilds and town marshals stood to one side, resplendent with polished badges of office. Their murmured conversations lapsed into silence. Soon the cracking of banners in the wind, the creak of leather, and the scuff of shifting horses was all the straining listeners heard.
Thera watched her father. He is a heroic figure, Thera thought. She watched the light reflecting in the amber hue of his link mail and the clean wind drifting the white plume of his helm. Grandfather Leif’s square-cut emerald broach gleamed at his shoulder.
Thera mused on her reading of her father at the end of his tale last night. She had learned that Oak Heart had a fear he could barely bring himself to acknowledge—that he would become as a callow youth, a “stumble foot,” when once again face to face with Lord Teckcharin, Chief of the Ttamarini. Thera was bemused to find that her father, a warrior, could harbor such an anxiety.
The Heart’s Own—Dougall, Lydia, and all the rest—were in formal military dress, their faces stern behind the nosepiece of their helms. Horses had been groomed meticulously, leather tack was buffed until it shone, “Like a maiden’s blush,” as Shamic said. Every bit of brass, silver, and steel gleamed.
From the North Gate finally came the sound of many horse hooves on paving stones. Cheers echoed from the folk of Allenholme lining the roadway outside the gate as they greeted their new allies.
Thera felt a welling of anticipation and wanted to cheer too. But she was very conscious of her woman’s crown of braids and full-length green gown. She glanced sideways at the stiff formality of the guildsmen and town representatives ranged alongside, and encountered a smile from one grizzled man who wore the badge of a fishing guild master. His grey-green eyes held hers in friendly rapport a moment, and then he turned with a show of restoring his face to decorous dignity.
Thera could read the welcome in townsfolk’s’ voices. She was sure anyone could. Dread of the Memteth was as great a part of the mythology of her people, as was respect for the prowess of the Ttamarini warrior.
The drift of music came with the approaching troop; drum, tambour, and pipe. They played, not a martial air, but a song to move feet and lift spirits. Finally the Ttamarini riders turned through the gates.
Thera strained to see the Ttamarini leader, Teckcharin. She saw a regal stallion to the front of the approaching company that must be seventeen hands tall, its black coat gleamed and rippled in the sun. The beast danced into the courtyard. Teckcharin, it must be he who rode this horse, seemed almost familiar to Thera. Her heart thudded behind her ribs.
He was as she’d known he would be from her father’s recounting of his adventure the evening before. He sat tall and straight, it hardly appeared he needed to guide his mount at all. The long straight hair, only lightly streaked with grey, was bound off his brow with a brightly woven band. An eagle feather was attached to the single braid that hung beside his face.
That face was proud and stern, yet as he locked eyes with Oak Heart, Thera detected a glimmer of smile. She read no smugness or mockery there, indeed, Thera read a considerable affection for her father.
Once through the gate, Teckcharin’s warriors fanned out behind him. Their horses stepped high, with much jingling of decorations, sea shell chimes were braided into the horses’ mains and tails. Next came acrobatic dancers, Song Dancers, she’d heard they were called. Thera smiled and clasped her hands. Energies swirled about the courtyard, bright and chaotic, full of life.
At a sign from Teckcharin, the music ceased and he rode forward alone. The Oak Heart heeled his horse ahead of his assembly. For a moment, in complete silence they regarded one another. Her father extended his arm, palm up, in the warriors’ greeting, and Teckcharin smiling openly now, grasped it with his own. They met and held each other’s eyes as their troops cracked the sky with the thunder of their approval.
Chapter Six
Teckcharin spoke into the last echo of their cheer. “You must be Leon Leif ArNarone.” His voice was as Oak Heart remembered, deep and melodious. His greeting was an echo of their first meeting fifteen years ago.
“Well met, Lord Teckcharin,” rumbled Oak Heart. His smile encompassed the Ttamarini entourage as well.
Windgather jibbed at the proximity of Teckcharin’s stallion. The Ttamarini watched as Leon placed his hand on his shoulder and spoke a soothing phrase in the Ttamarini tongue. Windgather subsided with a white-eyed toss of his head.
Teckcharin’s tone was pleased, “So, you do not despise our ways?”
“Indeed not, my Lord,” replied Leon. “If the Elanraigh was so determined to put such a lesson in my path, it was my duty to re
member it.” Leon glanced over at the Ttamarini riders. “In fact, I have good memories of the two moons I spent in your camp—your people were generous with their time and diligent with their teachings.”
Teckcharin smiled. He looked over Leon’s mount, “It is a fine animal, Duke Leon, but…” Teckcharin turned in the saddle and gestured to a warrior that Leon had already recognized as Tenatik. The Ttamarini horsemaster heeled forward, leading another stallion. Several of the Allenholme folk murmured their admiration.
Tenatik, whipcord lean and grinning broadly, spoke to his leader in animated accents.
Teckcharin turned to Leon with raised brows. “Tenatik says that he hopes you fall from your horse less frequently now.”
Leon snorted and quirked his brow. “Did I not have the finest of instruction while I guested at your camp,” he replied to Tenatik with a bow, “to cure me of any such ineptness.”
When Teckcharin had translated this, Tenatik laughed in turn. Tenatik had a long-featured, jester’s face, but the eyes that appraised Duke Leon were shrewd. His lips pursed, and the smile lingered in his gaze. He spoke then to his chief and passed over to him the reins he held on the led stallion. With a salute to Oak Heart, he heeled back to the warriors’ formation behind Teckcharin.
Teckcharin, in turn, ceremoniously handed the reins on to Leon. “A gift from my people to yours. From the very colt that caught the eye of a rash young warrior, some years ago.”
Speechless and with shining eagerness, Leon swung down from his mount. He back-handed the reins to the closest guardsman. Removing his gauntlet, he reverently smoothed his hand over the stallion’s glossy russet chest, deep and well muscled. Murmuring Ttamarini endearments to the horse, he ran his hand down a canon bone like iron. The horse whuffled down his neck interestedly.
“His name?” Leon asked.
“His name is Leishtek, after the flame-red tree that grows near the sea.”
“Ahh.” Leon gusted out his breath and looked up at Teckcharin.
“My Lord Teckcharin, the magnificence of this gift humbles me. Truly. I have nothing in my stable to match this horse. The best of my hunting birds will be yours to choose from, indeed, anything I have that delights your eye it will be my pleasure to gift to you.”
Teckcharin’s eyes glinted, but he merely nodded his head. “It is well, my friend, it is well.”
The Ttamarini chief swung gracefully off his mount. As he faced Leon, his expression sobered. “It was time for this ancient bitterness between our peoples to be finished, my friend. Our Maiya, Ishtarik,” he gestured respectfully to the Priestess/Dream-speaker that Leon remembered from years ago, “has seen visions of black sails in her dreams.” The old Maiya came forward to join them.
“Aye. So has my daughter. She is only a child, but my Lady tells me she comes into her gifts young. She promises to be a great Salvai, Lady of the Elanraigh, you understand.”
Leon saluted the Dream-speaker, Ttamarini style, both hands to forehead. “Goddess guard your peace, Maiya.”
The old woman smiled, showing teeth that were surprisingly strong, white and even, though the eyes in the craggy face were dimmed with the chalky whiteness that sometimes comes with old age.
“Goddess guard the fruit of your loins, Duke Leon,” she intoned.
Leon flushed a bright red. He pushed back his camail hood and scrubbed at his beard and neck. His bright blue eyes squinted at the Ttamarini chief. Teckcharin’s features held only an elaborately bland expression, but as he met the Oak Heart’s look, his eyes danced. “Our Maiya is a Dream-speaker and walks always with one foot in another land, Duke Leon. Even I, Chief of Ttamarini, can only accept her blessings with the same wonder.” Teckcharin looked down at the top of the Maiya’s head, a wry smile twisting his lips. “She will never deign to elaborate.”
The old woman laughed appreciatively.
Leon found himself wishing Fideiya was at hand. He scrubbed at the back of his neck again and then gestured toward the assembled high folk of Allenholme waiting to receive the Ttamarini leader. “You will permit me now to introduce my people?”
The Ttamarini chief placed a hand lightly on Leon’s arm. “If you will permit, Duke Leon, there is one other I would have at my side for this.”
“Of course, Lord Teckcharin.” Leon eyed the assembled Ttamarini with amiable conjecture. No doubt the man had certain of his retinue to whom he was close, as he, Leon, was to the Heart’s Own. It was Leon’s opinion that Teckcharin would call Tenatik, the horsemaster forward.
The warrior who heeled his horse in response to his Chief’s signal was not Tenatik. It was a youth, the image of Teckcharin, who galloped his mount to the waiting Chiefs, reined and dismounted in one easy motion, to make a profound obeisance at Teckcharin’s feet.
Teckcharin’s voice thrummed with pride. “Duke Leon Leif ArNarone, I present my son and Heir, Chamakin Dysan Chikei’.”
The youth surged to his feet with supple grace and bowed his head to Leon, who rested astonished eyes on the young warrior in front of him.
“Chamakin,” he breathed. “I know this youth. He was a toddler still when last I saw him. I remember making him a small reed pipe to play, which he then played incessantly all over the camp until Tenatik threw it for the dogs to chew.”
Oak Heart observed the flush that crept over the youth’s face and mentally kicked himself. He had equally disliked old soldiers’ recollections voiced about his childhood once he was grown and considered himself a man. Leon cleared his throat.
“This is a warrior I see before me now. I give you a warriors’ greeting, Chamakin Dysan Chikei, be welcome to Allenholme,” and Leon extended his arm palm up to have it firmly grasped.
The youth has muscles of iron, thought Leon. For a brief moment Leon wished he too had a son like this, then, resolutely, pushed the thought away.
The horses were given over to a retainer’s care and the small party turned to walk together.
“Your Salvai is here?” Teckcharin asked, “Perhaps she and our Dream-speaker will jointly bless our alliance.”
“Nooo,” replied Leon, slowly. “Our Salvai Keiris never leaves the Elankeep sanctuary. Though long ago, in different times, I understand, a Salvai did more frequently commune with the folk.”
Teckcharin was silent for several strides, then spoke. “Your Salvai, a position of great importance—like a Maiya, or Dream-speaker—is Goddess appointed. Is it truly your tradition for her to be unmated? To keep herself apart?” There was disapproval in his voice.
“Yes.” Leon’s voice was thoughtful. He had often wished that Keiris would interest herself more with the people of Allenholme. There should be more gifted people than there were. He personally thought Keiris hoarded her gift, though he would not wound his Lady to speak so of her half-sister. “That is how Salvai Keiris explains it.” He continued, “She, the Salvai, is the chosen one of the Elanraigh. An intermediary for the people of Allenholme with the elementals of the forest, her devotion cannot be divided. That would be to insult the Elanraigh.” Leon glanced at the Ttamarini chief, whose expression still expressed, what? Distaste?
The Oak Heart felt obliged to explain further. “The Salvai Keiris is the chosen of the Elanraigh, her interpretation of its wishes could not be in error.”
Teckcharin looked disturbed. “It is our way to guard and express our love of the land by way of union between man and woman; priestess and warrior. Anything else denies the Goddess, and belittles her gifts.”
The Oak Heart sighed, it was the Old Faith. Leon felt a strong wish for the friendship and trust of this man. He spoke slowly, turning to face Teckcharin. “This will be a time of learning and sharing ideas between our people, as well as fighting the common foe. May we follow wisely the path the Elanraigh,” he nodded respectfully to the Dream-Speaker, “and the Goddess, show us.”
The party stopped in front of the granite steps on which were arrayed the Oak Hearts’ family, officers and guild leaders. “Lord Teckcharin Rys Chikei,�
� said Leon formally, “I would present my Lady Fideiya Ned’Chadwyn, who is sister to the Salvai at Elankeep.”
Lord Teckcharin studied with focused concentration the countenance raised to his. Fideiya’s brow crept upward as she forbore the scrutiny.
“Blessings, My Lord,” she greeted him, a trace of austerity chilling her voice.
Teckcharin blinked and the tension in his features relaxed. He smiled with great warmth. Taking Fideiya’s hand, he placed it over his heart. “Goddess bless, Chaunya.”
Leon’s brow rumpled as he pondered the greeting. Surely Teckcharin had used the Ttamarini word for kinswoman of high birth. His glance caught Shamic’s. The old soldier, he saw, had flushed hotly. Leon, himself, was not inclined to take offence. It was obvious the Ttamarini chief meant only to convey respect to the life sworn of his ally.
Oak Heart noticed the old Dream-Speaker was staring at Thera. Indeed, so now were all three Ttamarini.
These Ttamarini are all so intense in everything they do, Leon thought. He observed that his daughter did not quail under the regard of such powerful personalities. Though slightly flushed, she returned their measuring with a searching look of her own.
“My only child and Heir,” rumbled Leon in introduction, “Thera ep’Chadwyn Ned’ArNarone.”
To the Oak Heart’s surprise, Lord Teckcharin gently took both Thera’s hands in his own, and stood quiet a moment before folding her hands over his heart in a greeting similar to that he’d given Lady Fideiya. The words he murmured to her were lost to Leon, though he saw his daughter smile in return.
Thera’s voice rang sweetly clear, “My Lord Teckcharin, I know your heart. Goddess bless.”
The Dream-speaker turned in surprise to Leon. “Where did this enoiten child learn of our ways?”
Leon’s brow rumpled again as he ruffled through his memory of Ttamarini speech. Enoita, he believed, described both an igniting beauty of soul, as a lit candle will shine through fine porcelain, and one who acts in harmony with all things.