Elanraigh - The Vow

by S. A. Hunter

  Sussara twined affectionately around the musician. “Therra, listen. It sounds like wind through grass and birds in the morning.”

  “Yes, little one. Tenatik is gifted, for that is just how it sounds.”

  Booted footsteps crunched along the path and voices came into her hearing, “…five mares in foal. Blessings be.” Oak Heart’s rough voice drifted up. Dougall responded something, too softly for Thera to hear, and someone shouted a laugh in response.

  “Ah,” Thera leaned further outward, “Oak Heart, Dougall, Sirra Alaine, and—Chamak! “Sensations as ambiguous as frost burn, heat and cold, flashed over her. Chamak, for it was he she had heard laughing, called to Tenatik.

  “Ten’, did you tire of waiting for us that you torment the birds so?”

  “His arm is bandaged still,” Thera inventoried Chamak’s appearance, “Father didn’t say exactly what his injuries were. He sounds well, even happy,” she smiled—a smile that froze—“has he forgotten about me?”

  Tenatik rose to his feet, a grin deepened the crevices bracketing his mouth. He wiped the flute, placed it in his belt, and saluted. “Anything, oh son-of-a-great-chieftain, to forestall you raising up the game-scaring croak you claim is a singing voice.” Chamak and Sirra Alaine paused beside Tenatik, their voices lowered again, but Chamak’s gestures suggested introductions being made. As Tenatik began speaking with Alaine, Chamakin turned, looking up toward Thera’s window.

  Thera flung herself back inside, her heart thudding a panicked rhythm. What is the matter with me? Thera wondered. I want to see him, to look in his eyes and know if he still feels the same way about me. So why do I hide from him?

  She paced, halting in front of her polished bronze mirror—because I want to be ready when I meet him again, Thera acknowledged. She smoothed her nightdress to her, turning this way and that, trying to see herself as Chamak would see her. Thera smiled, the mirror reflecting the flash of whiteness. Humming Tenatik’s lilting tune, she twirled, moving her body with rising joy.

  * * * *

  Thera vigorously worked her brush over Mulberry’s hide. She muttered to the mare, “So. Where are they? I’m sure I heard Tenatik offer to show Alaine the stable, and Chamak followed them.” Her lips quirked wryly as she straightened, flexing her back. “Here I rushed to the stable as quickly as may be, expecting to conquer my lover once and for all, and no one is here.” The mare whufflled at her shoulder. “Except you, dear one, of course,” Thera glanced over the mare’s haunch, “and one small stable boy.”

  She dipped her hand into a sack of carrots and retrieved one for the mare. “Here, greedy child.” Thera glanced up, heart tripping, at the sound of multiple footsteps approaching.

  Is it—oh. Thera recognized the Cythians, accompanied by one of her father’s guards as escort.

  She quickly wiped her hand on her grooming cloth. The Cythian Heir, Ambrauld, stopped, squinting slightly in the brightness outside the stable. His companion, the Besteri mage, swung his head in Thera’s direction.

  “Lady Thera,” the guard saluted, “I was to escort Lord Ambrauld to join Duke Leon and his party. I thought they were at the stables.”

  So did I. “I believe they must have been here earlier, Guardsman Bran.”

  Before the guard could speak further, the Cythian Heir approached her, his handsome face lit with a delighted smile. “Finally! Well met Lady Thera.” He stared at her face a long moment, brows lifting and eyes wide, then his gaze roamed over her in a manner Thera found utterly embarrassing. Her face grew hot. As he reached for her hand, Thera quickly dropped the grooming rag to the straw. Catching sight of the grimy stains on her fingers, she flushed again as he gently pressed his lips to her fingertips. After suffering a brief awkwardness, she suddenly laughed.

  “I am sorry, my Lord,” she apologized quickly seeing the look of surprise on his face. Shaking her head, she delicately withdrew her hand. “Somehow the stable does not seem the place for such courtly courtesies. I should have met you in my father’s Great Hall with all appropriate ceremony.” She smiled winningly and the Cythian Heir beamed down at her.

  “Your ingenuousness disarms me, Lady.”

  His accent is definitely of the south—very refined. How he stares!

  Thera, in turn, quickly appraised this young Lord. He is as tall as Chamakin, she thought, though heavier muscled. Then, Thera judged, he is some years older. His eyes are a paler blue than father’s—almost colorless. Thera continued to read him, as his eyes glinted with amusement. He is amused at the little female who sizes him up like a combatant on the battlefield. There is arrogance in the set of that jaw. Perhaps that is not surprising, Thera conceded, considering his noble rank and physical appearance. Yes, his looks agree with what I read of him. He is not a man used to being thwarted, in anything. There is implacability in him.

  The guard cleared his throat and offered, “Perhaps my Duke took the Ttamarini Heir and his party to view the hunting birds—their pen is by the Northwest Gate, Lord Ambrauld. We might find them there.”

  “Be at ease, man,” snapped Ambrauld, his eyes fixed on Thera. He gestured toward the dark shadow at his shoulder. “Lady Thera, allow me to introduce Willestar, a mage of the Besteri, who serves as Councilor to my father’s house.”

  Thera was not prepared for the intensity of the dark regard that lingered insolently long on her face before the tall man bent gracefully.

  “My Lady Thera, I am your servant.”

  Thera nodded stiffly as the mage rose to his full height again. The Besteri’s full red lips pursed, his heavy-lidded eyes glinted as he again stared. “My pardon, Lady, but I must ask—I sense something of gift in you. Is it the Old Teachings? Who would have taught you this? he mused, The Ttamarini’s Maiya might have the skill, perhaps.

  The mage did not move closer, his hands were tucked within his sleeves, yet Thera felt as if chill, spectral fingers brushed her forehead. Instinctively her spirit flung itself to the place within that was hers alone. The Besteri’s mind-touch never reached her, passing like a wind in the high trees of her mind-place. The Besteri looked surprised. His moist lips pressed together, his eyes darkling and arrested. Then he smiled, and withdrawing his hands from his robe, he gestured—a slow opening of his hands to her view.

  Surrender or apology? I cannot read this man. Thera felt shaken.

  Ambrauld’s voice broke the tension between Thera and the mage. The Cythian’s eyes were on Thera’s horse. “Ahh, Willestar, look at this! She is yours, obviously, Lady Thera. A beauty.”

  Thera, distracted, stared as if she had not heard him. When I read people through my gift, does it feel so to them? No. No one ever looks disturbed—perhaps only if one reads another who is also gifted?

  She could barely forebear rubbing at the spot on her forehead where the Besteri had reached with his magic to read her. So invasive! He reached for it as casually as opening his wardrobe door.

  Mulberry bumped her from behind. “Oh.” The strange chill departed at the mare’s touch and she belatedly answered the Cythian Heir. “Yes,” Thera stroked the mare’s withers, “she was a gift from my father.”

  Ambrauld reached for the mare. Mulberry danced sideways, arching her neck and flattening her ears.

  “Sir. She doesn’t take to strangers,” Thera warned, pressing her hand against Ambrauld’s arm.

  “Here,” offered Willestar, and, muttering a quick string of words under his breath, he strode forward, grasping the mare’s halter. He raised his hand.

  Thera tensed, about to intervene, but Ambrauld had gripped her elbow. “Do not fear. He will not harm her, Lady. Watch, you will see. It is a marvel how he can handle animals.”

  “What—?” Thera flashed Ambrauld an angry look. If the mage strikes Mulberry I will deal him back double the blow. Ignoring the Cythian’s grip, Thera snapped her attention back to the Besteri. Mulberry, to Thera’s surprise, was standing perfectly still as Willestar placed his hands on her. His long, pale fingers smoothed down over
her neck and withers. Thera was incredulous until she saw the mare’s eyes roll toward the mage, her skin flinching under his touch.

  He forces her! He forces her to stand for him against her will.

  “Do not!” Thera swallowed against the repugnance she felt. Swinging around to Ambrauld, she lowered her voice in an attempt to disguise her shaking anger. Honored guest in my father’s house.

  “My Lord Ambrauld, she does not like it.”

  Ambrauld looked down at her with a gentle smile. “My dear Lady, surely you can see the benefit in a fractious young beast being so easily controlled with no harm done to it or its handlers?”

  “Do not. I beg you,” repeated Thera. “I do not wish to break her spirit so.”

  “You are a sensitive.” Ambrauld patted the arm he had taken again in a familial grip during Thera’s distraction. “Sensitivity is woman’s special gift. You do not displease me.

  “Willestar,” Ambrauld flicked his eyes away from the mare.

  “Yes, of course, my Lord. I would not wish to distress the Lady ArNarone.” Willestar’s voice was deep and smooth, rich as port wine. His hand lingered a last moment, caressingly, on the mare’s flank. Then, staring at Thera, the mage traced a sign in the air and Mulberry reared, shook her head and sidled to the back of her stall. The Besteri folded his pale hands back into his sleeves and turned to Lord Ambrauld with a pleased smile. “She is beautiful, and she has excellent spirit.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ambrauld poured wine into his goblet “You frightened her, Willestar,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the mage. He strolled to the window, inhaling the fresh breeze that stirred the shadows within the chamber. “This is a wild, yet beautiful place,” the Cythian mused.

  “It is damp,” muttered Willestar, “and the forest oppresses me.”

  Ambrauld turned his pale eyes on the mage.

  Willestar shrugged and continued, “Frightened her?” He cast an amused look at the Cythian Heir. “I think not. Disturbed her, yes. That.” Willestar rested his chin on his hand, his finger moved across his lips as he gazed at the fire. The light sharply defined the planes and shadows of his face. “She has talent, that one. My kind of talent.”

  Ambrauld snorted, surprised. “A woman’s magic. So? What harm in that?”

  Willestar said nothing as he regarded the younger man a long moment. He lowered his eyes and stared meditatively into the wine cup held in his hand. “You are much taken with this maiden.”

  Ambrauld savored the sweet wine in his mouth as stared out toward the sea. “Yes. I cannot stop thinking of her. She is like this place—her beautiful eyes that are the color of the forest, the freshness of her skin and the amber fire in her dark hair.” He drank again, “How sweetly she blushed when I kissed her hand.” Ambrauld grunted a laugh. “A noblewoman who grooms her own horse.” He shook his head, “It is appalling that ArNarone allows her to run so wild.” He turned the goblet in his hand, his thumb tracing the carved pattern. “Did you hear her laugh? A lovely laugh, like sparkling water. When you were not upsetting her that is.” Ambrauld slid a glance at the Besteri who continued to stare at the fire, a small cynical smile on his lips. Ambrauld again looked out the window, absently watching the reconstruction activity at the West Harbor. The Memteths’ attacks had greatly damaged Allenholme’s wharf area. Teams of heavy horse rumbled past, dragging fresh-cut timbers down the winding hill to the harbor.

  “Cythia has not fully appreciated the resources of this northern duchy,” Ambrauld mused—fine timber, skilled wood crafters. The fighting men are superbly trained. This young northern heiress would bring great wealth to Cythia. Such riches. Ambrauld smiled.

  “And her figure,” he continued aloud to Willestar, “is goddess-like. I never guessed a gently reared maiden could inflame me so. What sons we would make, and how joyously!” He turned his head and looked at Willestar under his brows, “Not like Ethelwidde, poor soul.” The wine goblet swung in a sloppy toast to his deceased wife.

  Willestar pursed his lips. One brow lifted. “She was—frail.”

  “Oh, indeed, gods rest her. Her bloodlines were impeccable, and her face plain as a tinker’s damn. She was always afraid of me— though, god’s witness, I tried to be gentle with her.” Ambrauld shrugged, and rose to fill his cup again. “But this one …”

  Willestar declined with a languid gesture as Ambrauld waggled the decanter. The Cythian shrugged and splashed more into his cup.

  “…she would not be running to hide amongst her women every night.”

  Willestar leaned forward to lift the poker and prod the fire. “The ArNarone Heiress has quite the opposite temperament indeed, my Lord. She will require very different handling.”

  Ambrauld’s smile flashed like white heat in the deepening dusk.

  The Besteri carefully controlled his distaste. The lusting dolt has no idea beyond the girl’s beauty. Calming his flash of irritation, he again focused his attention on the fire. He drew a deep breath, holding it long before releasing it. As he meditated on the young Lord’s desire, he was only marginally aware of the arrival of a manservant and Ambrauld’s good-humored preparations to dress for his requested meeting with Duke ArNarone.

  Ambrauld has a rival. I have seen how the Ttamarini Heir watches us. Willestar shifted again. Danger. Strong forces are working here, but to effect what destiny I cannot yet determine, except they do not lie with Cythian interests.

  The ArNarone heiress is, indeed, all the things Ambrauld rhapsodized about. A beautiful girl—soon to be a beautiful and formidable woman. Willestar’s lips twitched into a smile. When Ambrauld weds and beds the girl I must quickly take a hand with her, or she could very well manage to harness the Cythian Heir to her chariot.

  No. That would never do. She surprised me with her ability to resist my gentle probe of her talents. Yes, surprises and intrigues me. She must be controlled, but skillfully.

  As with the girl’s own concern for her horse, Willestar found he did not particularly wish to have to break her spirit.

  A child from her will strengthen the dilute bloodlines of the noble Cythian house. The King of Bole has no issue—he has blood ties to ArNarone, as well, it is said, as a great fondness for that stalwart line. However, Cythia is next only to Bole itself in wealth and power. Yes. A male child it must be, born with the girl’s gifts and raised under my tutelage. They will have a future King, shaped to Besteri design.

  Willestar stroked his upper lip with one finger as he mused on. Duke Perrod of Cythia had been appalled at his sickly daughter-in-law presenting him with a deformed grandson.

  Poor Ethelwidde, indeed. Willestar had reassured Duke Perrod that neither mother nor child was thriving after the difficult birth, but the Duke had not wished it left to chance.

  Fortunately, Ambrauld had not asked to see his “stillborn” son. He had publicly, dutifully mourned the child and poor, plain Ethelwidde, who had never looked better than when she was a corpse.

  * * * *

  “I wonder if we should put all your hair up, Lady?” Egrit pondered aloud as she rubbed cailia-scented balm into her palms and massaged it into Thera’s hair. She peered around into Thera’s face, “The noble guest from Cythia is so handsome. He looks and speaks so fair. I cannot believe he is one of the wicked courtiers that Healing Mistress told us of.”

  “Hmm? The Cythian? He is handsome enough. But I find I do not like Cythian ways,” Thera said. It is a good thing Mulberry was unharmed. Thera had stayed to soothe the mare, who, blessings be, recovered quickly enough from the Besteri’s handling.

  Egrit held thick swatches of Thera’s hair between her fingers and wove them neatly together at the crown of her head. “Of course the Ttamarini Heir is more striking, but,” Egrit shivered, “I cannot be comfortable around him. He is like a wolf, I think, fierce and solitary. His eyes look as if they see the very shadows of your soul. I would be afraid if he so much as spoke to me. But he did not. There.” One hand firmly holding the hair in
place, Egrit sorted through Thera’s jewelry box with the other.

  He is not solitary. He waits for his mate, Thera thought with a small frisson of excitement. She tilted her head, smiling in the mirror at Egrit. “You make me look beautiful, Egrit. I am in danger of becoming as vain as a Cythian bolari dancer.”

  Indeed, thought Thera, wondering at herself, today I feel glorious and invincible.

  ‘I wish, she sent to the Elanraigh, I knew if you are responsible for this feeling, or if it comes from somewhere in me?” The Elanraigh hummed along her nerves—there was a decided air of satisfaction in the Elanraigh’s mood.

  A young maidservant entered Thera’s chamber to light the oil lamps. Russet highlights flared to life in the dark mass of Thera’s hair. “The red must be from your father’s side, Lady,” said Egrit. “Ah, this is the one for tonight.” Egrit choose a topaz and gold clasp to fasten the twists of Thera’s hair. She brushed energetically at the rest until it flowed down her back.

  Thera stepped into the moss-green gown and savored the silky slipping of the fine clothes up her body. She watched in the mirror while Egrit fastened the back. Amber beads gleamed at the gown’s neck, cascading over shoulders and bodice. The gown clung to breast and hip in undulating shadows of deeper green. Amber, sewn a hand-span deep at the hem, made a pleasing sound when she walked.

  “Lady,” Egrit’s eyes shone, “always I knew you were lovely—never more so than now.”

  “Egrit,” Thera clasped the maid’s hands. “I thank you for your words, because tonight,” a smile tipped the corners of her mouth, “tonight he is here for me and I will make him mine.”

  “Which one, Lady?” asked Egrit with a dimpled smile of her own.

  “Which? Oh, tch.” Thera mock-frowned over her shoulder.

  Egrit was still smiling as she answered a tap on the chamber door. Swordswoman Enid, on guard duty outside Thera’s chamber, announced a messenger from Duke Leon. Thera glanced up and nodded. Enid swung the door wider and an unfamiliar youth in recruit’s colors entered. Glancing sideways at Enid as he passed, the young man’s gaze arrested on the ugly scar that marred Enid’s forehead and scalp. He reddened as Enid flatly returned his stare.