Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

  “A bold move! The Sabinis, with Maolmin in the background, already control the selling of Dinari export wool. With this they tie up the source as well and prevent us from buying significant amounts for two more years!” He cocked an eyebrow at Harred. “And the threat?”

  “For the next three years, the Sabinis will not buy wool without a contract.”

  “Exactly. If my Broken Stone merchant cheats me or the Sabinis prevent us from hauling the wool across the mountains, then I cannot repay the gold I have borrowed, and I will be ruined. Then you can be sure that Tellan and any other lords who take our offer will not be able to sell their wool for the next two years.” Gillaon smiled thinly. “Their kinsmen will rise up and take their heads.”

  A group of young clansmen walked by. They eyed Harred and Gillaon with speculation, then strolled on, muttering among themselves. More than one looked back over his shoulder, the undercurrent of tension plain. Everyone knew that important events were afoot.

  While Gillaon brooded, Harred thought of his dead grandmother, a praying woman who could quote long passages of Holy Writ from memory. With a clarity that was startling, Harred remembered an incident with her that he had not thought about in years. He must have been ten or eleven at most. One day a week, Gran baked sweet rolls for the grandchildren. That particular afternoon Harred lingered after the others left, talking to her, enjoying the warmth and smells of the hearth. Gran brought the conversation around to the Eternal and read several passages from hand-copied portions of the Holy Book. Then Harred knelt with her. They prayed, and in the Albane manner Harred swore fealty and asked the Eternal to indwell him.

  After they rose to their feet and Gran wiped the tears from her eyes, a strange thing happened. Seizing his right arm, she held it aloft and intoned: “Thus saith the Eternal! ‘This arm will fight for the Land as did Destin Faber. It will be a mighty tool for my purposes.’”

  For a few days afterwards, Harred came by and read Holy Writ with her. Then chores and games with his friends intruded, and he stopped. Gran kept asking him to come again, but he never did. On his first day of formal warrior training, Harred had remembered that afternoon with Gran, but he had not thought of it since—until today.

  He brought his focus back. All these layers to what seemed a simple wool sale still amazed him. Knowing more explanations would have to wait until another time, he asked, “What will Tellan do, m’lord?”

  “Before hearing your report about the stable last night, I would have said he would have no choice but to sign the Sabinis contract. Now . . . I wonder.” Gillaon pressed his lips together firmly; he slapped his gloves into his hand. “Much will depend on what happens between Tellan and Maolmin at the meeting.”

  Chapter Twelve

  RHIANNON

  PHELAN POPPED HIS head inside the door. “Father’s back to escort us to the sale. But something is going on. Everyone is in Mother’s room.”

  Rhiannon waited impatiently while Lakenna tied the last of the hair ribbons.

  The tutor stepped back, gave one last look, and nodded. “The slippers are just right.”

  Although her feet were much larger than Mererid’s, the doeskin slippers fit perfectly. Rhiannon’s tread felt unusually light as she and Lakenna stepped across the hallway to her parents’ room.

  Mererid stood by the table reading a sheet of parchment. She wore her favorite gown: a dark wine velvet with a high collar of ivory lace. Her hair was swept back off her face, softly twisted behind, and held in place by a silver-topped ivory hairpin.

  Tellan, Girard, Llyr, and Creag waited impatiently. High Lord Keeper Branor, dressed in Keeper black, waited as well. His cloak and robe looked clean and ironed. He must have prevailed upon one of the serving girls to launder them for him. The Keeper’s eyes flickered between Mererid, Tellan, and Llyr, a faint questioning look on his features.

  Rhiannon’s stomach tightened at the tense atmosphere. From her father’s dark expression, she realized this day—the most important day of the year—was off to a bad start. However, when Tellan’s eyes rested on her, his expression brightened. “I scarce believe this is my daughter. Here stands a woman, full-grown and beautiful.” He stepped toward her and gave a slight bow. “Though it is a few weeks early, may I bid Lady Rhiannon welcome?”

  Warm pleasure infused her, momentarily damping her concern at the tension in the room.

  Branor gave her a bow as well. “Lord Tellan is richly blessed to have two such beautiful women.”

  Flustered at the unexpected attention, Rhiannon acknowledged the Keeper’s bow with a tilt of her head.

  When Creag saw her, his eyebrows climbed and his jaw dropped. Then he spoiled the moment, of course. “Where is your sword? Surely you are—”

  “Be quiet, Creag!” Mererid said without looking up from her reading. “I will listen to none of your and Rhiannon’s bickering this day.”

  Tellan turned and gave a bow to Mererid. “Before we go any further, my lady wife, let me echo the Keeper’s comments. With you and Rhiannon, the Eternal has indeed blessed me beyond all measure.”

  Mererid looked up at her husband and searched his face. “Yes, Tellan Rogoth, we are blessed with each other. No matter what happens this day, let us all cling to that.”

  Then Mererid lowered the parchment in her hands and gazed at Rhiannon. Her eyes moistened. “You are radiant this morning, daughter. You will do all our kinsmen proud.”

  Rhiannon felt her cheeks heat as she struggled again with an unfamiliar mixture of embarrassment and pleasure.

  ‘Now,” Mererid said, her focus returning to the parchment sheet. “Loreteller, rhyfelwr, I would hear your opinions on this.”

  Girard spoke first. “It seems straightforward. A three-year contract. If we do not accept it but sell to Lord Gillaon instead and his plan is unsuccessful, then for the next two years we will be at the mercy of the Sabinis to purchase our finest export wool at whatever price they choose to offer.”

  Mererid scanned the parchment again and sighed.

  “The Sabinis will not bid this morning,” Llyr growled, “but guarantee a set price for three years whether the overseas markets go up or down.”

  “The price is the same as last year’s,” Girard added.

  “Which was lower than the year before, which was lower than the previous year,” Llyr finished.

  Mererid handed the contract to Rhiannon, and she read eagerly. As the advisors had said, Clan Sabinis offered to buy all the top-grade wool the signee could produce for this year and two more at the price of two silvers per standard weight bale. She handed the parchment to Branor.

  “Three years hence, when the contract expires,” her father said as Branor read, “what then? With no competition, what price can we expect? That is what all our efforts with the Arshessa have been about: to receive true market value, not having these Sabinis take turns underbidding each other!” He shook his head. “I recognize High Lord Maolmin’s heavy hand in this.”

  “Has Lord Gillaon responded?” Mererid asked.

  “He consults with his rhyfelwr.”

  “And the other kinsmen lords? What are their thoughts?”

  “They too consult with advisors and will join us when Gillaon arrives at our pavilion.”

  Mererid swung her cloak on with a flourish. “It seems, then, we will have many guests. The food?”

  “My wife is taking care of that, m’lady” Girard said. “All will be brought soon after we arrive.”

  Mererid slid her arm though Tellan’s and looked at the group brightly. “The coming meeting should prove most interesting.”

  The Rogoth party walked across the stone bridge arching over the Clundy.

  “This move by the Sabinis has everyone talking,” Creag informed Rhiannon importantly. They walked behind their parents, who were flanked by Llyr, Girard, and Keeper Branor. Lakenna and Phelan brought up the rear. “The contract will change the way wool is sold from now on.”

  “And who told you that?”


  “I read it the same as you!” He frowned at her look of doubt. “Girard helped me some, but I read it! The change is plain if one thinks about it. A known price for three years? Lord Gillaon was concerned. Ask Girard. Llyr spent most his time talking to the other rhyfelwr.”

  Rhiannon’s interest increased, but she spoke with studied casualness. “Lord Gillaon’s rhyfelwr? He is young for that, don’t you think?”

  “Llyr doesn’t seem to think so. While we were walking back to the Bridge, Girard asked Llyr what he thought after talking to—Harred?” At Rhiannon’s nod, Creag went on. “Llyr said Lord Gillaon knows what he is doing and that Harred is solid.”

  That gave her a warm glow. They walked in silence for a moment, then Creag lowered his voice. “What did High Lord Keeper Branor say about the winged horrors last night? Are more Keepers coming? I asked Llyr, but he said Father will need to tell me.”

  She gave him a brief account of the night’s discussion. Creag’s eyes widened when he heard that Branor was the one who had given Rhiannon’s birthing prophecy and widened even more when he heard about Lakenna’s role in killing the horrors.

  He snorted. “It was all High Lord Keeper Branor. Everyone knows that Albanes don’t fight, much less their women!”

  “Without Lakenna,” Rhiannon hissed, angry at his smug tone, “we all would have been . . . !” She bit back the rest when Mererid glanced over her shoulder at them with a frown.

  Faint tentacles of morning mist still hovered above the grass of the festival area when they arrived. The buzz of excitement increased steadily. All present were dressed in their finest. Many called out greetings and best wishes for a successful day as the Rogoth party made its way through the throng. Rhiannon held back to walk with Lakenna and Phelan. She could sense the tutor’s excitement at the spectacle before them.

  Merchant booths displayed all manner of expensive wares: bolts of brightly colored cloth, jewelry, glassware, oil lamps with fancy globes, leather goods, dyes, exotic spices from distant lands with unpronounceable names. All were being eagerly picked over by wives and older girls, though hardly any buying was going on at the moment. Later, once the sales had concluded at noon and gold and silver coins had traded hands, they would drag husbands and fathers back to show them the latest thing their family must have.

  Noting how Lakenna’s head swiveled back and forth as they walked, Rhiannon asked, “Do Albanes have festivals?”

  “Yes, but not the size of this!” Lakenna gestured at the booths. “There is more here than we have at three of our festivals put together.” She gave a wry grin. “Admittedly, Albanes have the deserved reputation of squeezing coins until they cry out. I guess many merchants choose more fertile fields.”

  “Just wait until we go to the Fall Gathering,” Creag said over his shoulder. “It is three times bigger than this. Those who have been to the festival during the Raedel in Ancylar say that is ten times bigger than that.”

  Lakenna shook her head in amazement.

  Beyond the booths were places set aside for contests of strength, agility, and other skills. Targets for archery, knife, spear, and ax throwing dotted the area. In addition, ropes ringed off spaces for engagements with wooden practice swords. That event took place in the afternoon with heavy wagering on the outcome as kinsmen and family groups backed their favorites. Rhiannon sighed, keenly missing the weight of her sword hanging from her waist.

  In the very center of the fairgrounds, women and servants tended large cooking pits where sausages and thick pieces of bacon roasted. Fat drippings sizzled on the hot coals, sending up rolls of gray smoke heavy with spicy aroma. Ove, the Rogoth ancient household servant, was in her glory as she moved her spare frame about the pit, gesturing with her cane, ordering her workers about with a no-nonsense attitude and a sharp tongue. Rhiannon’s stomach rumbled as they passed young boys and girls scurrying back and forth carrying wooden platters to clansmen and merchants doing business among the bales of wool.

  Opposite the pits stood the pavilions of the three kinsmen lords. Their colorful banners fluttered on poles high above the throng.

  “Ours is the red one on the right, the white ram with triple spiral horns,” Phelan pointed out proudly to Lakenna as he held on to her hand. “The middle banner, the sky blue one with the pair of grasping lions, is the Fawr kinsmen. They are the largest in the Clundy valley, and Mother says Lady Aigneis never lets anyone forget it.”

  “Phelan!” Rhiannon chided.

  “The black banner on the left,” he went on unfazed, “the one with the red raven, belongs to the Leanons. Lord Baird is old; he and grandsire were great friends. When Lord Baird drinks too much and no women are around he curses every other word and tells better stories than Girard—”

  “Phelan Rogoth!” Rhiannon said, giving him her sternest glare as they entered through the folded-back opening of the Rogoth pavilion. “That is enough!”

  Lakenna winked at Rhiannon. “I do look forward to meeting all these, Master Phelan. You can tell me more later.”

  Carpets had been laid out to floor the pavilion. Under Girard’s wife’s direction, several children hustled about placing platters of food on two long tables covered with red and white linens. The platters contained steaming sausages and bacon, cheese, nuts, and loaves of dark bread. Each end of the tables held stacks of pewter plates, mugs, and pitchers of hot punch.

  The first person to greet the Rogoth party as they entered was Bowyn Garbhach, a sheepherder and the head of the largest of the three family groups that made up the Rogoth kinsmen. He was the acknowledged spokesman for the other two and, as such, was always present when the wool was sold. A thick bear of a man, he possessed a large head and flat nose with widely spaced nostrils. His short-cropped hair was peppered with gray. He nodded respectfully. “M’lord, m’lady. The Eternal’s blessing on you on this day.”

  Tellan and Mererid echoed the greeting. Mererid hurried on toward the tables.

  Bowyn remained in front of Tellan. The family head’s voice took on an edge that Rhiannon had not heard from the man before. “’Tis a buzz about the grounds about this Sabinis offer, m’lord.” He shifted his feet and squared his shoulders. “Me and the other family heads are a’wondering how you’ll be responding.”

  Mererid halted and turned back; a slight frown wrinkled her brow. Branor and Lakenna stopped side by side. They eyed each other, then edged apart. Lakenna moved to Rhiannon’s side. Branor stood a pace from them, hands clasped behind his back.

  Tellan regarded the family head calmly. “Tell me what the others are saying.”

  “Lord Tellan, Lady Mererid,” Bowyn began gravely, as if he had not just greeted them. He raised his chin. “Lord Tellan, Lady Mererid, begging your pardons, but I’ll be having a hard time explaining to my people why we did not take this offer.” He removed a parchment from inside his shirt. “Once this is signed and sealed, it becomes like a letter of credit. It can be brought to any moneylender as collateral. Coins to buy more stock, clear more pastures, expand production. Many of us have children grown and married and longing for their own start. This gives them a way.”

  Tellan, Mererid, Girard, Branor, and Llyr exchanged looks. Looking back at Bowyn, Tellan said, “And where did that insight come from?”

  Mererid moved closer until she stood shoulder to shoulder with her husband. “Yes,” she said, eyes glittering, “matters of trade, letters of credit, and dealing with moneylenders normally are handled by nobles. Pray tell us, kinsman, whom do we thank for this information?”

  Bowyn did not flinch. “High Lord Maolmin. One of his men came at first light this morning and brought me to him. The High Lord read me this contract and explained about letters of credit and how they can be used.” He met Mererid’s gaze levelly. “It may be nobles’ dealings, m’lady, and I may be naught but a simple sheepherder, but I understood it right enough.”

  “A simple sheepherder!” Tellan edged in front of Mererid, who took a small step back. “Always have I relie
d on your advice. Bowyn Garbhach’s wisdom has kept me from more mistakes than I care to think about.”

  The tension in the family head’s stance relaxed a bit, and a pleased expression flickered across his features.

  While Rhiannon noted how the respect and man-to-man inflection in her father’s voice was bridging the gap threatening to open between them, she recognized the glint in her father’s eyes and understood well the reason. One of the sacred duties of a clan lord was to shield his kinsmen from any nobleman who might use his position to take advantage of commoners. But the reverse was equally revered, and it was a grave breach of clan protocol for Maolmin to have undermined another lord like this.

  Girard’s and Llyr’s feelings on the matter were plain. The loreteller’s mouth was a thin slash with turned-down edges. Llyr regarded Bowyn with a piercing stare that would have had a lesser man’s feet shifting in a nervous fidget. Branor’s face was unreadable.

  But Rhiannon knew Bowyn would not be cowed easily. He had strapped on his sword innumerable times and ridden at the head of his men when Tellan called the Rogoth kinsmen out to deal with lawbreakers and other matters of clan justice.

  The family head nodded gravely at the compliment. “Aye, m’lord, you’ve always given my opinion due consideration. That makes my duties easier. Most matters that come to me, I see solved myself. But when that’s not possible and I say I’ll take it before you, my people know they will receive justice.”

  Girard’s wife had finished the food preparations. She came up to the group and stood by her husband, but then she seemed to detect the tense atmosphere and she frowned.

  Bowyn scrubbed a thick hand through his hair. “Difficult times these last years. We’ve all felt the pinch, and the extra coins from Lord Gillaon’s offer would be welcome indeed. But as followers of the Eternal, many of us have strong feelings about our wool going to the Broken Stone Land.”