Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

“How familiar are you with the intricacies of forging steel?” Lakenna inquired.

  “All Dinari, and we Rogoths in particular, demand the best weapons.”

  “Do you have your own smith?”

  Rhiannon shook her head. She glanced at Mererid, who said, “It was commissioned to a master swordsmith here in Lachlann.”

  “Notice the edge where the sharpening has taken place,” Lakenna said. “See the grain?”

  Rhiannon looked closely and noticed a series of tiny faint lines running lengthwise along the bevel.

  “This is caused by the endless folding and hammering of the hot metal during forging,” Lakenna continued. “Unless the impurities in the beginning ore are removed by that process, the steel will not possess the combination of strength and flexibility needed for a weapon. And, it would pit and rust much too easily.”

  Rhiannon was impressed. “How does a—” Then she stopped. She had almost said, How does a woman know this? “How do you know this?”

  “Metallurgy is one of the subjects we will study.” Lakenna hung the mirror on the dresser peg, then pulled out the ladder-back chair. “We can talk more while I work on your tangles.”

  Rhiannon glanced warily between the two women. The issue of wearing her sword to the sale had been sidestepped for the moment. Best to save all reserves for that battle. Accepting defeat, she plopped in the chair and folded her arms across her chest.

  Mererid left the room, and Phelan slipped in. His face was freshly scrubbed and his hair combed. “You’re actually going to use this?” He picked up the brush and rubbed the bristles through his fingers. The dark rings that had been a fixture under his eyes for so long were gone, as was the sickly pallor to his face. “When I heard Mother and Teacher Lakenna talk about giving this to you, I knew you would set it aside.” He watched with rapt attention as Lakenna went to work with the comb. “We’re supposed to tell Father everything came from Aunt Serilda, but it really came from—”

  “I know, Phelan.” Her head jerked back as Lakenna pulled. She righted herself. “You look very handsome this morning.”

  He wore a white linen shirt with a cravat and bow around the neck, brown knee-length breeches, and a short cloak. It had been Creag’s dress outfit the last two years. Although altered for Phelan, it hung sacklike on his small frame.

  “Creag showed me how to tie the cravat.” Phelan frowned. “He said I look like a dressed-up scarecrow.”

  “In a few months it will fit you perfectly.” Rhiannon gasped as Lakenna braced herself and tugged hard.

  Phelan’s eyes widened. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Some,” Rhiannon admitted through gritted teeth.

  “Teacher, why start at the ends like that? Why not start at the top?”

  “It is best to begin at the ends, Master Phelan, and work your way up.” Lakenna plucked a wad of red hair from the teeth of the comb. “Rhiannon, when was the last time you did anything to your hair other than wash it? This is going to take a while.”

  “She hates to do women things. Mother has to force her. Rhiannon thinks all that is—”

  “Teacher,” Rhiannon broke in primly, “please tell me more about steel.”

  They talked steel and other metals, which led to farming and plows, which led to methods of food preservation, which led to transportation and shipping—which led to the wool sale.

  “Do Dinari wear swords at a festival?” Lakenna asked casually after putting the comb down.

  Rhiannon frowned. “No. Only the Sabinis mercenaries standing guard over their gold.”

  “Will your father or Llyr wear swords?”

  “No.” Rhiannon checked her reflection in the mirror. Her hair did look much better. Harred would not be wearing a sword either. Best to leave hers here.

  “What dress do you plan to wear?”

  “This one.” Rhiannon indicated what she had on. The sturdy weave held up during sword drills and did not tear when she stepped on the hem as often happened during practice sessions.

  Lakenna went to the oak wardrobe and removed a pale green linen gown with a high lace neck. It was one of Mererid’s. The tutor drew her hand lovingly across the gown.

  A month previous, Rhiannon had been forced to stand still for a long, boring afternoon while a fat seamstress with a mouthful of pins fitted this gown and two others of Mererid’s for altering. The seamstress and Mererid had talked knowledgeably about laces, linens, fine woolens, and stockings. All the while, Creag and Phelan had been out with Llyr doing sword drills on horses.

  “This one will make a more favorable impression,” Lakenna said, “especially on the Arshessa.”

  Suddenly Rhiannon saw the dress in a new light. She hesitated a moment, then stood and unbuckled her sword belt. “Phelan, it is time for you to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “I am going to try on this gown.”

  “You are?” Phelan’s brow wrinkled, then he brightened. “I want to see what you look like, too.”

  “Master Phelan,” Lakenna said, “it is proper to accord a young lady privacy when she dresses.”

  “Rhiannon doesn’t care.”

  “Best for you to leave now,” Rhiannon told her half-brother kindly. “I will call you in when we are finished.”

  Puzzlement ruled the boy’s thin face as he left.

  She removed the heavy wool dress, laid it across the bed, then stepped into the gown. It was lighter and hugged the contours of her body. Lakenna fluttered about, tugging and smoothing. After tying the lacing, the tutor stood back and nodded with approval. She brought the mirror.

  “This green is beautiful,” she said wistfully. “See how the color brings out the green of your eyes? I am anxious to see this Lord Gillaon’s and Harred’s faces when they see you.”

  Glancing down, Lakenna tapped her chin. “Those scuffed boots won’t do with a gown. Let me see if Lady Mererid has a pair of slippers that will fit. And some green ribbons for your hair. I’ll be right back.” She handed over the mirror and hurried out.

  Rhiannon walked slowly to the dresser, slid into the chair, and studied her image. Her eyes did seem more vivid. Fingering the ornate handle of the silver brush for a long moment, she picked it up and began brushing her hair.

  Chapter Eleven

  HARRED

  HARLY MORNING FOG was a slow swirling gray cocoon that enshrouded the stone bridge arching over the Clundy. The swift current battered and swirled through the rock-cluttered bed, spraying up a mist that clung damp and chill on Harred’s face.

  Past the bridge, he and Lord Gillaon turned down the cobblestone street that followed the course of the river. Well away from the bank, for fear of flooding, stood a mixture of shops, small inns, taverns, and open-air merchant stalls that outlined Lachlann’s central square.

  Normally the square would be bustling as merchants and shop owners set out wares and produce. Not so this morning. It was quiet and deserted, as all the day’s activity would be centered at the festival grounds. They strode briskly by a closed leather tanner’s shop and then a pottery establishment.

  Lord Gillaon Tarenester was freshly shaven. He cut a dashing figure in a dark blue cloak fastened at the shoulder by a gold clasp in the shape of a tree. Chin jutting forward and blue eyes alive with speculation, he radiated eagerness for the coming challenges. “You’re certain Maolmin would have harmed the girl,” he asked, “and that she realized it as well?”

  “I have no doubt, m’lord.”

  “Anything last night from Lord Tellan’s men?”

  “No, m’lord. Elmar and I checked every tavern. None were to be found.”

  Gillaon grunted, then retreated into his thoughts.

  Thinking of Elmar, Harred struggled unsuccessfully to smother a grin. Elmar’s face after the eager first bite of spicy mutton last night had been a sight to behold. The cheese so thoughtfully brought along had not mollified his gasping brother-in-law, nor had the straight-faced explanation about the dish being a Dinari form of welcome
. Harred took the muttered threats of revenge seriously and knew extra vigilance would be called for during the next few days.

  Those thoughts brought back to his mind the stables and Breanna’s serene features. A warm tingle washed through his body. Reluctantly, he put the loreteller’s daughter from his thoughts. Not now. But later, most definitely.

  They were about to round a corner when Harred heard the scuff of footsteps behind. He looked over his shoulder and saw two men stepping out from an alley. One held a wicked-looking knife, the other a long-handled cudgel. Harred whipped back, and two more men similarly armed had appeared ahead of them. Both groups sprinted toward him and Lord Gillaon.

  Harred gripped Gillaon’s shoulder to pull him into the street, but a third set of two came running toward them from that direction. Mentally kicking himself for not being more vigilant, Harred hustled Gillaon into a recessed door front.

  “We cannot run, m’lord. Stay behind me and give me room.”

  Harred stepped forward, muscles loose and ready. The Sabinis merchants had known no swords would be worn to the festival and had thought Gillaon would be unprotected.

  Harred smiled grimly.

  Come, hirelings, and meet an Arshessa warrior.

  With a flurry of pounding steps, the six were upon him. For an instant, they seemed surprised to find their prey ready to fight.

  That hesitation was all Harred needed. In one smooth motion, he kicked the knife out of the hand of the first to reach him while whipping the edge of his right hand into the throat. He slid around the falling, gasping man to seize the wrist of the second, who swung a cudgel. The arm made a loud snap as Harred broke it. He leveraged the screaming ruffian into the path of the third. It was a tight tangle for a moment, and all he could manage was to knock bodies away and dodge wild swings of clubs and knife thrusts.

  Breath rasping in his throat, Harred fought on instinct and training, blood singing. Time seemed to slow as he coldly calculated the most immediate threat and how best to meet it while positioning himself for the next. He felt detached, almost an observer.

  He crouched and seized a dropped cudgel and used it to skillfully parry a wooden club, then cracked the wielder across the head so hard he heard bone splinter.

  Another ruffian made a low sweeping knife thrust, aiming for the groin. Stepping inside the swing Harred slammed the heel of his palm up the man’s nose. Warm blood spurted as nasal cartilage and bone penetrated the base of the skull. The man’s knees buckled, and he went limp as a rag doll. Harred shoved him aside.

  Three bodies sprawled around the recessed door front. Gillaon remained behind him, untouched. A fourth attacker crawled away, arm dragging, moaning in pain.

  Harred squared off against the remaining two. “Whatever you’re being paid,” he growled, “it isn’t worth dying for.”

  One ruffian eyed the other. They backed up, then turned on their heels and fled, disappearing into the heavy fog.

  Lord Gillaon strode out of the doorway and lifted his cloak as he stepped disdainfully over the bodies. He gave Harred a curt nod. “As I said, your skills in this arena are formidable. Come. The true battle awaits. The wool sale is just our opening move.”

  The fog lay even heavier at the festival grounds. It dampened the sounds of preparations for the coming sale and blurred the shapes of merchants and their servants scurrying between colorful wagons and the open-air booths where their wares were displayed.

  A few paces behind where he and Lord Gillaon waited for Lord Tellan, a crowd of children watched wide-eyed as brightly dressed jugglers warmed up by tossing colored wooden pins back and forth. Just beyond them a troupe of puppeteers finished erecting their curtained stage and began removing puppets from travel-worn chests.

  The first puppet removed was the mainstay of every show and easily recognizable. She had a round, fat face and short pigtails. She was clothed in a dress with a white apron and clutched an oversized broom. Universally dubbed Shrew Wife, her saucy comments, both pointed and veiled, always brought howls of laughter, and many dug elbows into spouses’ sides.

  The sun was fully above the horizon and finally beginning to burn away the mist when Harred saw the Rogoths arrive. Lord Tellan clutched a rolled parchment in one hand. He was accompanied by his heir, a youngster with a squinty expression and a self-important air; the bandy-legged loreteller; and a hard-eyed, grizzled rhyfelwr who looked as naked without a sword as Harred felt.

  While Gillaon and Tellan exchanged pleasantries, Harred allowed himself to be eased aside by the other rhyfelwr, a gravel-voiced man named Llyr. They moved a few paces from the others.

  “We saw bodies on the way here,” Llyr rumbled.

  Harred related the encounter, brief and to the point.

  Llyr waited for more, then nodded. They talked generalities, but beneath it, they probed each other: two warriors instinctively assessing strengths and weaknesses. Harred decided he could best the older man now—but when the Dinari was still in his prime? Probably, but it would have pushed him.

  “This goes as planned,” Llyr said, “the Sabinis won’t go away quietly. Stay on guard when you leave with the wool. And through the mountains.”

  Harred grinned like a wolf. “When you go bear hunting, sometimes the worst thing that happens is finding the bear.”

  Llyr’s hard gaze bored in; Harred met it square on. Finally, Llyr seemed to reach a conclusion. The tension eased in his meaty shoulders. “You need anything after the sale, let me know. Your fight will be ours.”

  Harred nodded, aware he had passed a test of sorts. And he was more than a little pleased.

  They rejoined the others. Gillaon was reading the parchment Lord Tellan had brought. Finishing, he rolled it up. “Interesting. My rhyfelwr and I will study this.”

  “As will I and my advisors.” Tellan gave a short bow. His face glistened with a salve for his burn. “We meet in my pavilion later?”

  Gillaon returned the bow, and the Rogoth party took their leave. When they were out of sight, Gillaon cursed vehemently and thrust the parchment at Harred. “Read!”

  Harred struggled with the unfamiliar phrases but got the import of the proposed Sabinis contract. “Why would any Dinari agree to this, m’lord? Our price is two silvers higher.”

  Lord Gillaon did not reply. He paced back and forth in the wet grass, hands behind his back, clasping his leather gloves tightly. Stopping, he stared across the way to where bales of wool were stacked and knots of Dinari clansmen gathered around split-rail pens holding breeding stock for sale. Weathered sheepherders vigorously debated the merits of different bloodlines: their hardiness and resistance to disease, ease of lambing, wool quality, even carcass traits when slaughtered for meat.

  Following his lord’s gaze, Harred searched the grounds for Elmar. At Lord Gillaon’s request, Harred had set the mountaineer mingling in the growing crowd, listening for speculations about the upcoming sale. Elmar was perfect for that role. His potbelly and ambling walk hid a keen mind; his easy smile and open manner made friends of new acquaintances within moments.

  Finally, at the far edge of the gathering, Harred spotted Elmar with his foot propped on a sheep pen rail, talking and laughing easily to a group of Dinari clansmen.

  Gillaon stopped his pacing. His whole body quivered with suppressed emotion. “With the price we offered and Tellan’s backing, I thought we had done it. But the Sabinis have countered brilliantly. I sense High Lord Maolmin’s input in this.” Gillaon gestured to the parchment and fixed Harred with an anvil-hard stare. “Do you perceive the twofold approach? It is very characteristic of Maolmin. Beyond that, do you sense the subtle threat lurking? It is pure Sabinis.”

  As his lord’s blue eyes bored into him, Harred realized these were not rhetorical questions, but that he was being tested again. His mind raced, marshalling all he had learned since being appointed rhyfelwr, all the while trying to make sense of the particulars he had just read.

  “The twofold approach,” he began slowly,
“is vinegar in one hand and honey in the other.” Gillaon’s face remained unreadable as he waited for more. “Everything hinges on our partner in the Broken Stone Land,” Harred continued, thinking harder than he ever had before, realizing this was more demanding than any sword bout. “We need his ships to get the wool across the Great Sea and break the Sabinis monopoly. But the Broken Stone Land worships the Mighty Ones. That is the vinegar.”

  Gillaon grunted. “Among the nobility it has long been understood that ‘foreign goods’ means pagan goods. The Sabinis have used their overseas connections to grow rich by serving as middlemen for pagan and Land trade.” He snorted. “Less than a century ago Queen Cullia’s kinsmen group was a minor trading house—until they began handling pagan goods, falsely claiming that they had come from lands that worship the Eternal. Ever since Destin Faber and the Founding, the Dinari have been the staunchest in not dealing with pagans.”

  The number of people milling about increased steadily, adding to the clamor of preparations for the festival. Merchants bustled with last-minute preparations of their wares while women waited impatiently. The younger mothers balanced little ones on their hips while toddlers tugged at their skirts. Older children ran excitedly, weaving in and out, barely managing to keep from colliding with the adults.

  Gillaon pondered a moment. “This morning I asked the innkeeper about the woman Lady Mererid brought back yesterday. She is their new Albane tutor. Albanes are renowned for their determination not to deal with pagans.” He cut his eyes at Harred. “Your mother’s mother was an Albane, correct?”

  “Aye, m’lord,” Harred said, once again impressed with Gillaon’s memory for seemingly minor details. “She never got over her daughter marrying my father.”

  “Do you see any significance with this Albane tutor?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  “Nether do I, but the last thing we need for our plans to work is these conservative Dinari screaming that the Covenant prohibits trading with pagans.”

  When Gillaon went silent, Harred continued with his analysis of the Sabinis contract. “The honey is a three-year guaranteed price from a buyer they have dealt with for years, clansmen and followers of the Eternal.”