Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

  It was morning, and until today the weather had been unseasonably cool for late spring. That had been a blessing these last few days as workers toiled steadily on building the new hlaford. Rhiannon, Mererid, Lakenna, and Ove, the house servant, slept in the pavilion, now erected several paces from the main stable where Tellan and the boys slept.

  At first staying in the pavilion had been an adventure. But now the close confines and inconveniences of tent living were getting on the women’s nerves. Rhiannon longed for the privacy of a room to herself again—and the security of solid walls and a roof over her head.

  Increasingly, her sleep was restless, with frequent wakenings from murky and fearful dreams. She could not shake the pervading sense that the Mighty Ones were gathering strength.

  Maybe it was the aftermath of last week’s thunderstorm. The rain and gusting winds had blown down one side of the pavilion and had torn a rent in the old fabric. Startling awake at the noise, Rhiannon had first thought winged horrors were upon her again. Heart pounding, she had groped for her sword, which she kept beside her even during the night, and had the steel blade halfway out of the scabbard before she’d realized what was happening. It was a wild, wet time as the women scrambled up and fled to the stables. Halfway there Ove fell and lay unseen in the downpour until Creag and Phelan got the stable lanterns lit and everyone realized the old servant was not present. Tellan dashed out to scoop her up and came running back with her in his arms, both of them soaked. Ove’s lips were blue, her teeth chattering. The next morning she had awakened with a fever, and she still had a deep, racking cough.

  Rhiannon fingered the hilt of the practice sword. If a thunderstorm could wreak such havoc on the pavilion, what could winged horrors do? Warriors stood guard from dusk to dawn, bows strung and nocked. But night after night had passed with no winged horrors appearing. Life was rapidly returning to normal.

  The weeks of tension leading up to the wool sale were gone, as were many of the money worries Tellan and Mererid had always grappled with. Though grumbles still came from a few kinsmen about dealing with Lord Gillaon and the Broken Stone Land, most were glad for the extra coin. The busy time of culling and separating the herds was almost done. Next week the herds would be driven to the high summer pastures.

  “That is all for you, Mistress,” Llyr announced, looking up at the sun. “Your lady mother awaits.” His weathered face came close to a smile. “M’lady made it plain yesterday that I have been keeping you too long.”

  Rhiannon bit back a plea for one more try at Creag. Mererid had butted in, and that was that. Her stepmother was using the coming Presentation as a potent weapon in her campaign against Rhiannon’s training. It won’t work. I’ll just do more drills at night.

  Harred could teach me . . .

  She put him from her mind. Harred had that girl.

  Creag and Phelan engaged with wooden swords as she peeled off the wool-padded vest and hung it on a line stretched between two poles outside the armory. Wood clacked as Creag defended against Phelan’s spirited attack. Since Lakenna had come, Creag actually looked forward to the afternoon sessions. Rhiannon had to admit that his whole attitude was changing. He was almost bearable to be around for short periods. And Phelan. He devoured everything Lakenna put in front of him.

  “Mistress, a moment, if you please,” Llyr rumbled as her brothers continued to flail at each other. The old rhyfelwr took her practice sword and placed it in the rack with the others. The skin on his forearms was a crisscross of faint white scars from old cuts.

  Before he could speak a group of men came into the armory, talking and joking among themselves. Her father struggled to keep eight warriors in full-time service, and they spent most of their day training Rogoth horses for sale. Beyond those eight, Tellan maintained a reserve of twenty trained kinsmen who received a small stipend to drill with Llyr one morning a week, and today was the day. In addition to swords, each man had a bow in a leather holder on his shoulders and a quiver full of arrows around his waist. Since the winged horror attack, their training was placing more emphasis on archery.

  Llyr motioned to her, and she followed him out of range of the warriors’ hearing. They walked a ways on the hard-packed dirt surrounding the armory. It and the two stables, the main one and a smaller foaling stable, resided on the second of three ridges rising from the valley floor. The structures, constructed mainly of rock gathered from the countryside, were sturdy and functional. The hlaford, its privy, smokehouse, and an underground root cellar rested on the uppermost ridge. Corrals for horse training and sheep pens comprised the broad lower ridge.

  Even an untrained eye could see what a strong defensive position this was. Any attacker would have to fight up the steep slopes and take each ridge in succession. Not an enviable task.

  But that means nothing to winged horrors—

  She waited on Llyr to speak. Since returning from Lachlann, she had noticed subtle differences in the way her father’s rhyfelwr treated her. They were having more of these one-on-one conversations—which thankfully were not about becoming more ladylike, as Mererid harped on morning, noon, and night.

  Rhiannon recognized what her stepmother and Lakenna had done in Lachlann, using Harred—who only cared for someone else—to get her to primp and simper and drink punch while making inane conversation to a group of poison-mouthed ladies. Well, Lady Aigneis, anyway. But no more. High Lord Keeper Branor had confirmed it. She was to be “Protectoress of the Covenant” and fight winged horrors and siyyim.

  Rhiannon lightly flexed her sore muscles. Next time the Mighty Ones’ creatures came, she would be ready.

  Her father strode up and joined them. Like his men, Tellan wore leather breeches and simple wool tunic. Normally he made appearances at these weekly training sessions every third or fourth time, but since the winged horror attack he was here at every one. His face had healed from the burn. His eyebrows were almost back to their normal thickness.

  Tellan and Llyr exchanged a glance.

  Something’s coming, Rhiannon thought.

  Llyr cleared his throat. “For your time in training, you are as good with a sword as I have seen. But you see what is happening in your bouts with Master Creag.” The rhyfelwr folded thick arms across his chest. “Every day you grow more like your mother. Lady Eyslk was tall and lean and possessed a wiry strength that kept her going at the end of a long day when even Lord Tellan flagged.”

  Tellan nodded. “Like your mother, your full-grown strength will be of a different type than a man’s strength. From now on, we will concentrate on other aspects of what it means to be a warrior.”

  Rhiannon relaxed. “For a minute I thought you were going to say something else.” She looked at her wooden blade in the rack. “Speaking of which, what do you think about forging me a sword with a longer, thinner blade, the better to thrust for a horror’s eyes?”

  A long moment passed before Tellan answered. “Interesting idea. I will talk to the master smith next time I am in Lachlann.”

  By his expression she could tell they hadn’t got to his real reason for talking. Mererid had been busy.

  “Daughter,” Tellan said, “whatever your future as Protectoress of the Covenant, you are being called to lead, not draw steel. The men who bow the knee to you will expect some knowledge about tactics and other fighting skills, but it is their job to wield weapons when and where you bid them.”

  “I take pride in my skills, Father. What I am learning will enable me to personally lead their training.”

  “Your father is a master swordsman.” Llyr said. “But ask yourself: is that why we Rogoth kinsmen will follow him to the ends of the earth—or is there another reason?”

  Rhiannon chewed the inside of her lip. The rhyfelwr spoke truth. Her father did not need a sword strapped around his waist to lead.

  Tellan’s eyes probed her gently, lovingly. “Have you noticed the difference in Creag now that he is beginning to hold his own against you? If he was in your service and you want
ed him to become the best warrior he could be, how would you go about it? Best him continually? Wound his pride? Or encourage him—lead him—to grow better each day?”

  “I will think on this,” she managed.

  “Good.” He turned to Llyr. “Prepare the men for inspection.”

  Aware that she was going to receive Mererid’s sternest frown and a lecture for being late, Rhiannon lingered and watched her father move among the men of the reserve. He checked swords, bows, arrows, and other gear, and asked about wives and newborn babes or commiserated with another about the loss of a loved one.

  He stopped in front a pudgy, round-faced kinsman only a year older than Rhiannon. Tellan examined the youth’s bowstring and frowned. He took the bow, slid an arrow from the quiver, notched and drew the shaft back to his ear and let fly. The arrow flew barely half the distance expected.

  Dead silence reigned among the men as Tellan turned slowly back. Instead of anger or open derision at the lad’s failure to maintain his gear in suitable condition, Tellan’s expression showed sadness tinged with disappointment. “I had a better opinion of you than this, Larris Werfl. Your father served me with distinction, and I never found him lacking. This string is old and frayed. If a fellow clansmen had been standing shoulder to shoulder with you, depending on your bow for his life, you would have let him down.”

  Larris’s face paled. He swayed, a stricken look on his features. For a moment, Rhiannon thought he might faint. After a moment, Larris opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Swallowing, he managed to croak. “I’ve been meaning to prepare new strings,

  Lord Tellan, but you know how Da’s been sick and all the extra work that I’ve—”

  “When swords are drawn there are no excuses, only deeds.” Placing both hands on his hips, Tellan fixed the lad with an anvil-hard stare. “Go home and take care of your father. Think about what it means to be a Rogoth warrior. If you decide to seek service again as a reserve, present yourself to Llyr. When he is satisfied, your place will be waiting.”

  Larris wilted. His head dropped, and he swallowed several times. Finally, he nodded and trudged off.

  Before he got out of hearing range, Tellan addressed the remaining men. “Larris Werfl comes from good stock. He will be back.” A murmur of agreement came from the warriors.

  Rhiannon looked at the young clansman. Larris raised his head slightly, and his shoulders showed he felt a trifle less dejected. When she looked back to her father, she found Llyr’s eyes boring into her. The rhyfelwr held her gaze for a long moment. Finally, she nodded to herself and he returned the nod, satisfied.

  She hurried to meet Mererid.

  “A lady does not clump, Rhiannon. She glides.” Mererid placed the board on her head and demonstrated. “Chin level, shoulders square, and imagine a broom handle running through your middle and into the ground.” Mererid moved regally across the rugs placed in a line outside the pavilion. The sun shone brightly, and the air smelled of grass and flowers. “The rear foot moves in toward the front foot, but does not touch, and then moves out and forward. That gives just the right amount of sway.” Mererid turned and came back. The board stayed on as if was glued. “Now, try again.”

  Blank-faced, Rhiannon took the board and positioned it on her head. She didn’t know which was worse, walking or sitting and rising gracefully as they had just spent forever doing before Mererid got out the hated board again.

  Rhiannon made it all of four steps before it tumbled off.

  Mererid’s lips tightened. “I have watched you doing sword drills. You move like a cat. If Llyr told you it would make you a better warrior, by now you’d be able to put a goblet of water on that board, walk thirty paces, turn around, and come back without spilling a drop.”

  “Because that is where my future lies. Not this.”

  “Your future lies with a husband and running his household.”

  “But my prophecy . . . ”

  Mererid raised a hand. “If you are indeed to battle the Mighty Ones’ creatures, your husband will have to provide the funds for men and weapons. You must serve your husband even as you serve the Eternal’s purpose.”

  “The Eternal will provide what I need.”

  “Most likely he will provide a husband to meet those needs.”

  So, Rhiannon realized, the latest tactic was twofold: a frontal assault about a husband coupled with a rear action of sending her father to talk after sword practice. “I won’t marry. I will be too busy.”

  “No one will follow a woman alone in this world. Your husband and his station will determine your resources. That is a fact every woman must accept.” Mererid nodded to the board in Rhiannon’s hand. “The Dinari Presentation is the time to attract the best—and richest—suitor for you.”

  “Maolmin will never include me, not after Father went against his wishes at the wool sale.”

  “We don’t know that. And even if he doesn’t, you will be there and be seen—and you will present yourself in a matter worthy of your mother’s memory.”

  Things were serious indeed for Mererid to mention Eyslk. All mementos pertaining to her were long gone. Not even a portrait remained. Rhiannon had mentioned that to Lakenna the other day in Ove’s hearing. The old servant brought the silver hand mirror and said, “Look. Here is your mother’s face.”

  Rhiannon stared at the board in her hands. “Are we through for today?”

  “We will continue until you walk to the end of the rugs with that board balanced on your head.”

  Rhiannon sighed audibly.

  Color bloomed on Mererid’s cheeks. “Your father and I have talked. If you do not attend to my lessons and Lakenna’s with the same diligence you show Llyr, your sword training will stop until she and I are satisfied.”

  Lakenna, too? Rhiannon felt betrayed. “If I were born a man, none of this would matter. I could fight winged horrors anytime I wanted to!”

  Mererid’s face whitened. She opened her mouth—then reestablished control. She turned abruptly and stared up the ridge at the hlaford. Carpenters worked on the second story. The spaces left for the windows being built were twice as big as the previous ones, and each bedroom had two of them.

  Rhiannon waited. Protectoress of the Covenant. What does that mean? It must lie with the last half of the Covenant:

  Keep this covenant and the Mighty Ones’ yoke of slavery shall be broken. The winged horror of the night and its brethren will cease out of the Land. They shall devour you no longer. You shall be safe in your Land and shall know that I am the Eternal.

  But the more she tried to fathom that part of the Covenant, the more the first half kept nagging her:

  I have made this covenant with you for the ruling of this Land. I set up one shepherd over you, my servant Destin Faber. He shall feed you, and he shall be your shepherd. And his son and his son after him, even unto one hundred generations, will they feed and protect you with this covenant of my peace.

  She felt Maolmin’s dark eyes bore into her again. “Have you been to Faber Castle?”

  “No, High Lord.”

  “Have you met the prince?”

  “I have not had that honor.”

  “Of course not.”

  She had not told anyone about that part of her conversation with Maolmin. Nor about the wrongness that had rolled off the man. From the way Tellan’s eyes had blazed during his confrontation with the High Lord, Rhiannon knew her father had been a knife’s edge away from a physical attack and the disastrous consequences that would have entailed.

  But what to do?

  An old clan maxim came to her: “Pray. Sharpen your sword. Then pray some more.”

  Besides, she cared nothing for Faber Castle or Prince Larien. As Protectoress of the Covenant, she would have other things to do. Much more important things.

  She had begun to read Holy Writ again. The more she read, the more she wanted to read. Her prayers had resumed. And she had questions for Lakenna. The tutor’s strong faith should help uncover what the f
uture held. Every day the feeling built that the Eternal was finally about to make something of her birthing prophecy. Rhiannon contemplated her hands and the calluses from gripping the sword hilt. Surely, the prophecy would entail her . . . But in her mind she kept hearing what Keeper Branor had said in the room at Lachlann:

  We can become so focused on our way that we don’t take the time to find what the Eternal’s way might be.

  Irritated, she shoved that nagging thought aside. Who better to understand what should be done than the one called to do it?

  Finally, Mererid turned back. Her features had softened. “I understand your frustration, Rhiannon. But you are a woman. A beautiful young woman who will make a wonderful wife and mother.” She took both of Rhiannon’s hands in hers. “You will not be as hindered as you may think.” Her eyes twinkled. “Can you think of anything I really wanted that did not come to pass? Anything that your lord father refused me, flatly and forever?”

  In spite of herself, Rhiannon chuckled.

  “I’ll make you a deal.” Mererid held up the board. “Walk to the end of these rugs like I know you can, and we will sit and I will share some of my secrets until time for lessons with Lakenna.”

  Rhiannon couldn’t be bought that easily. But Llyr had always taught her that there was nothing wrong with a momentary retreat to regather one’s forces. Rhiannon forced a smile. She took the board, placed it on her head, and glided down the rugs. Mererid had raised an unintended point. Moving this smoothly should indeed help in swordplay.

  Chapter Nineteen

  HARRED

  “GET ON!” THE man flicked the reins smartly across the mule’s rump. “Get on, now!”

  The mule paid no heed. It stood two-thirds of the way across a one-lane bridge spanning a stream in full spate from snowmelt. In contrast to the bone-chilling water two spans below, the mule dripped sweat. Its head drooped and its sides heaved as it sucked the mountain air.

  No wonder, Harred thought as he reined in his black gelding, Coal. The rickety wagon behind the mule looked overloaded. Its canvas-covered contents rose head-high behind the two riders on the seat: a man and an older girl, his daughter perhaps.