Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

  Elmar gave Harred an appraising glance. “Aye, this agrees with you. If I hadn’t been aware of your underlying gentle nature, I’d swear you be about to rip that one’s liver out and eat it raw.”

  Harred blinked. “That bad?”

  “Your face be something to behold.” He snorted. “Get your eyes to flash fire like that Rogoth daughter does, and you’ll never have to draw a sword again.”

  The small red flowers Harred had noticed on the trail bloomed in broad swaths across the grassy shelf. He and Elmar were being escorted to the trading tent by Keto, the white-haired retainer. Arriving at the Tarenester wagons just before noon, Keto had been gracious and apologetic “for any misunderstanding.”

  Keto was reed thin and moved with an ease that belied his white hair and wrinkled skin. His silk tunic was richly embroidered with unrecognizable symbols. Around his neck were a gold chain and an emerald the size of a pigeon egg, a display of wealth at odds with the mountain wilds around them. If it was meant to awe, Harred had to admit it was working. He found himself even more apprehensive about dealing with the Broken Stone merchant waiting inside.

  He and Elmar were plainly dressed in new wool shirts and leather pants, boots freshly polished. Keto’s lined face had shown momentarily surprise when he saw they wore no arms.

  Do not wear swords. Broken Stone warriors clank around with weapons hanging all over them. By going unarmed you will make them seem overly frightened. Besides, if they plan treachery you’re dead men anyway.

  Nonetheless, Harred had two throwing daggers inside each boot and a thick-bladed knife strapped to his back under the shirt. Elmar was similarly armed.

  As the three of them neared the tent, Harred’s gaze was drawn to the red flowers again, and despite everything, thoughts of Breanna flooded his senses. Tingling warmth enveloped him. He saw her in the stable, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and questioning; he saw her during the loreteller meeting and the way she had tilted her head: “Do you serve the Eternal, Harred Wright?”

  Yes, indeed. Here is a bouquet of flowers I picked for you while proving myself as rhyfelwr. Even in the mist of dealing with incredibly rich pagans, your image was ever before me.

  Harred told himself for the hundredth time to forget the loreteller’s daughter. Her father would refuse his suit, making a Wifan-er-Weal the only way. He’d take his chances against any four handpicked Dinari—but then to face Maolmin Erian? Not after seeing him move in the stables and being in his presence at the Rogoth pavilion.

  He reviewed in his mind Lord Gillaon’s instructions. Keto’s appearance signaled success during the opening skirmish. Harred knew his true test—if there was to be one—awaited him now.

  The breeze picked up and snapped the red and white trading banner against its pole. The Broken Stone wagons stood ready, mules hitched, drivers waiting.

  A message, that. Good. No one wants this wool heading west more than Harred did. He smiled grimly. As long as the original agreement is adhered to.

  They came to the front of the tent. Keto pulled back its opening flap and ushered them inside.

  Thick rugs covered the grass. In the center a small brazier burned some type of aromatic wood. Faint tentacles of smoke rose to escape through a flap in the roof. Assorted bags, cushions, and small chests were arranged next to the sides. At the back of the tent stood a small table and two chairs.

  The Broken Stone merchant stood waiting beside the brazier. He was an impressive figure. Almost as tall as Harred and broader across the shoulders, he gave the impression of immense physical strength. He was clean-shaven except for a large mustache drooping below his mouth. His green leather vest and black cloak were clean and well made, although decidedly plainer than Keto’s flashy attire. The merchant’s face was impassive as he watched them enter. Four warriors stood quietly to his side. Identically dressed in quilted vests and dark gray leather pants, each had a long, curved sword hanging naked from a broad belt, along with several knives. They carefully kept hands away from the hilts.

  The Broken Stone merchant strode toward them with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He halted two paces from Harred and Elmar and gave the slightest of bows. Although his voice was quiet, his deep bass filled the tent. “I am Thoven Vlaeska. It is an honor to receive you. I have been looking forward to our meeting with keen anticipation.”

  “The pleasure is ours,” Harred replied smoothly, just as he’d rehearsed with Lord Gillaon. He formally introduced himself and Elmar. “Lord Gillaon sends both his greetings and his hopes that this will be the first transaction of a long and fruitful association.”

  The faintest of frowns crossed Thoven’s face. “I am here to meet Lord Gillaon.”

  “With the uncertainties of the King’s Licenses he thought it best to send me in his stead. As rhyfelwr, I am familiar with the details of the agreement reached last year.”

  “You speak for Gillaon?” Thoven demanded, his eyes intent.

  As the power of that gaze rested on him, Harred felt that the pagan was looking inside him somehow, assessing his strengths and weaknesses in a way disturbingly familiar. He gathered himself and managed to reply. “I am empowered to carry out the agreement.”

  Thoven’s eyes bored into him a moment longer, then the merchant seemed to reach a decision. “With your permission, I will have Keto and his men inspect the wool.”

  Elmar went with Keto and the four warriors, leaving Harred alone with the merchant.

  “Please, sit.” Thoven indicated the table and chairs. “Food will be brought soon. We can talk while we wait.”

  Harred pulled a chair and sat. Now it begins.

  Thoven settled into the other chair and crossed a leg. As big as he was, he somehow gave the impression of a larger presence. “Was Maolmin as much a problem as we feared?”

  “He opposed the sale, but Lord Gillaon’s price and Lord Tellan’s support made the difference.”

  “How did Maolmin react to the prospect of his wool coming west?”

  Although the merchant’s face remained bland, Harred sensed an underlying anticipation. Again Gillaon’s coaching returned to him.

  With Clan Sabinis squeezing us harder every year, I have been in communication with Thoven for some time, trying to import goods through the Broken Stone Land. From the beginning, he demanded Dinari wool. It is a prize export to be sure, but I sense a desire to damage Maolmin. See if you can find out more about that.

  “The High Lord,” Harred said, choosing his words carefully, “was concerned that dealing with pagans would violate the Covenant.”

  Thoven barked a laugh. “Of course.” He looked inquiringly at Harred. “Tell me, clansman, where does this Covenant mention not to trade with those who worship the Lady of the West?”

  Harred’s silence was answer enough. According to legend, when Destin Faber united the six clans and cut the Covenant with the Eternal, many of the defeated worshipers of the Mighty Ones left the Land. In the western area, where the Landantae clan and Harred’s Arshessa clan dominated, the pagans had crossed these Ardnamur Mountains and settled in the Broken Stone Land beyond.

  Finally he said, “It does say: ‘Keep this covenant and the Mighty Ones’ yoke of slavery shall be broken.’”

  Thoven uncrossed his legs and leaned his arms on the table. His hands were large, his fingers long and powerful. Waiting for the merchant to speak, Harred understood what nagged him about the man. Thoven sounded like Maolmin. Not with voice or accent, but the same sureness, the same unruffled command. And something was similar about the two men’s eyes.

  “Frankly,” Thoven said, “the yoke you are under is the Sabinis control of the Faber throne. They use that interpretation of the Covenant to shackle competitors. My people and others across the Great Sea—‘pagans,’ all—have dealt quietly with the Sabinis for years.” He shook his head. “The Faber dynasty totters. Lord Gillaon sees this clearly. Your king is invalid, allowing Cullia to profane her oath by aiding her clan in squeezing her su
bjects dry.” He paused. “Would Lord Gillaon dare import without permits if the crown was not so weak?”

  Harred had to concede that point. Still, the Covenant and its link to the Faber dynasty was the bedrock all six clans stood on. Or did they? Maybe it was words only. Harred knew that many in the Land still worshiped the old gods. How much did they communicate with and profit from their Broken Stone and overseas counterparts? The more he learned about higher-level clan dealings, the more it seemed the Covenant was ignored when trade and profit were concerned.

  The front flap opened, and a young woman entered carrying a tray with a pitcher and two goblets. Harred almost gasped. She was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. The Rogoth daughter—Rhiannon—was a rare beauty, but this woman belonged in another category altogether.

  As she glided toward the table, the impact of her perfection was breathtaking. Her oval face was fine-featured and accented by high cheekbones and a thin nose. Elegant eyebrows and upward slanting, almond-shaped eyes gave her face an exotic cast. She had full red lips and hair as yellow as honey gathered atop her head in a jeweled clasp. Soft curls swayed against her neck and shoulders. A blue gown with many folds covered her demurely from neck to feet and yet somehow managed to draw attention to certain curves.

  Something very male stirred inside Harred. With a strength that rocked him he desired to posses this young woman. To be able to hold such beauty. To feel her softness.

  No, no. He tore his eyes away. She is bait being dangled. Watch yourself.

  She set the tray on the table, took the pitcher, filled the goblets, and placed them in front of the two men. She went about her task with practiced movements and downcast eyes. Finished, she glanced at Thoven.

  “Thank you, Zoe,” he said. “You may leave now. I will send for you later.”

  She bowed her head in acknowledgment. Then she lifted her face and looked straight at Harred. Those tilted, almond-shaped eyes enveloped him like a lover’s embrace. Her smoldering gaze promised erotic pleasures only dreamed of.

  Harred could only gape. His blood surged hotly. Once more he was seized with the desire to possess this exquisite creature.

  As suddenly as it appeared, Zoe’s raw sexuality vanished. Smiling faintly, she turned and left the tent, a picture of demure femininity.

  Harred had to will himself not to get up and follow her. Teetering before a volcanic abyss, he flailed inwardly for some landmark to help him regain his center. What was happening here?

  Mercifully, Breanna flooded his senses again. He clung to her like a drowning man thrown a rope. He clung to her goodness. Her purity. Breanna became a beacon beckoning him into a sheltered harbor and away from the storm of emotions that threatened to engulf him.

  Taking a deep breath, he brought his focus back to the wool. When he did, he noticed the Broken Stone merchant watching him like a hawk, eyes hard and calculating before a bland mask reappeared.

  Harred had entered the tent prepared to use his wits and Gillaon’s training to see that the original agreement was adhered to. And then Zoe was thrown at him. Why? To befuddle him before Thoven reneged on the agreement? Again, why? No, Zoe could not have been meant for him. Perhaps for Lord Gillaon?

  As it turned out, he was wrong on all counts.

  “Prince Larien seeks a bride,” Thoven said softly. He traced a finger lightly around the rim of the goblet. “The Rite of Presentation is perfect for Zoe. The rewards of being allied with the new princess—and future queen—will be enormous.”

  Harred swallowed, mind whirling at the implications. “Only clan nobility will be presented.”

  “You have had foreign queens before. The latest was the Rosada princess, Natachasa de Delgurre.”

  The Rosada. Again, Harred saw Da’s burning eyes. But Harred could deal with Rosada; they at least worshiped the same God. This now was something entirely different. “That was to seal a treaty that ended generations of Rosada raids.” Harred shook his head. “No Broken Stone woman could hope to—”

  “Zoe is from Costos. The island has large numbers who worship the Eternal.” Thoven smiled without humor. “But with her Broken Stone ties, Zoe will be an instrument to return our two countries to the relationship we enjoyed before the Faber dynasty.” The merchant’s mouth firmed. “We must reach agreement on this before discussing Lord Gillaon’s wool.”

  Harred sat straighter in his chair. “What is there to discuss?”

  “A small favor between partners. Zoe returns with you, and Lord Gillaon takes her to the Arshessa Presentation. Lady Ouveau, the chief advisor to the queen, is . . . a friend of a friend. She will see that Zoe is introduced to the prince.” Thoven’s lips quirked. “Zoe is capable of proceeding from there.”

  Wrongness twisted Harred’s stomach. Cold sweat trickled down his back.

  Thoven’s eyes flashed. “The Faber dynasty is at its lowest ebb. New blood is needed. I say again, the rewards will be beyond your imagining.”

  It was unnaturally quiet inside the tent. Outside, Harred heard the braying of mules and the jingle of harnesses as wagons moved.

  He took a deep breath. How he longed to be out of this chair, to stand before his opponent with the familiar heft of his sword in his hand.

  Why did he keep thinking of this man as an adversary like Maolmin? Lord Gillaon had warned him that the Broken Stone merchant moved in the highest circles of nobility and government. A person to be taken with the utmost seriousness. Harred believed it.

  What to do about Zoe? If she was from Costos, it was possible, though by no means certain, that she served the Eternal. More likely she did not. A pagan—albeit a secret one—as princess and ultimately queen? Would Gillaon go along with this?

  No, though Gillaon’s own lust might be stirred up by Zoe, he would see this woman for what she was: poisoned bait dangled in an effort to—what? Take the throne? End the Covenant? Both?

  Harred’s mind reeled. He could not make a decision like this.

  Suddenly he realized this was his lord’s true reason for not coming. Cannily, Gillaon must have feared something like this: a demand carefully wrapped and presented. Gillaon had borrowed beyond his limit to buy the wool and was vulnerable to pressure from the Broken Stone merchant. If Thoven did not take the wool, who would? The Sabinis controlled all Land harbors and shipping. Gillaon would be unable to export the wool to the lucrative markets across the Great Sea. He would be ruined. But by sending a young rhyfelwr not empowered to deal beyond the wool agreement, Gillaon would deflect any such pressure.

  Harred struggled to keep the relief off his face. Here was his way out. A way around the wrongness roiling his guts. “I am under strict orders to sell the wool and purchase the return goods only,” he said. “I will relay your request to Lord Gillaon. He requests another load of amber and other jewels later in the summer while the passes remain open. When we return, I will bring his answer.”

  Thoven frowned fiercely. “That is too long! Another will have to see this done, and Lord Gillaon will lose the reward.” He glared at Harred. “You risk much. A man of Lord Gillaon’s talents is wasted as a mere kinsmen lord. He is capable of more—much more. When he understands what he has lost with this opportunity he will not be pleased.” Thoven waited expectantly.

  The implications of all this continued to batter Harred. Six months ago he was a simple warrior. Now he found himself in the middle of a plot to place a pagan queen on the throne—at the very least, and perhaps to end the Faber dynasty and the Covenant as well.

  “I do not have the authority to make this kind of decision,” he replied truthfully.

  Thoven hissed in disgust. He stood angrily to his feet.

  Harred rose as well. “And the wool?”

  Thoven ignored the question. “I will prepare a letter outlining our conversation for you to give Lord Gillaon. Though this opportunity has passed him by, there will be more.” The cold promise in the merchant’s voice sent a shiver down Harred’s spine.

  “And the wool
?” Harred repeated dangerously. Weary of this war of words, his hand edged toward the knife strapped to his back. If Thoven reneged on the agreement, Harred was ready to kill him, then walk outside and signal Elmar and the Tarenester men to arms. The emerald Keto wore should come close to repaying Gillaon’s debt.

  Thoven watched him as if reading his thoughts.

  “Easy, warrior. If it is top-grade Dinari wool, as I am sure it is, then I will pay eight silvers per bale as promised. And we have brought ample wares for your trip back. Return here two months from today, and Keto will meet you with more amber and jewels.” His eyes glowed. “But hear me! Tell Gillaon that if we are to continue beyond that, he must bring triple the number of Dinari bales next year. I will pay a gold per bale. Triple it again, and it will be a gold and two silvers.”

  Thoven smiled, and Harred felt another chill. “Let us see how Maolmin and the North counter that.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  LAKENNA

  “AFTER THE MAIDEN Pole,” Creag explained, “the kinsmen gather for music and dancing and singing—”

  “And scenes and skits,” Phelan broke in while Ove set out his bowl. “I like that the best.”

  “This time I will help Girard tell The High Lord’s Horn.” Creag took a loaf of bread from the wooden platter, tore it in two, and handed Rhiannon the decidedly smaller piece.

  Lakenna watched approvingly as Rhiannon bit back a retort and then thanked him. It was Rhiannon’s sixteenth birthing day celebration. Everyone in the pavilion seemed in high spirits. In the morning, Serous and his herders and Phelan would begin driving the sheep to the high pastures. It had long been Lord Tellan and Lady Mererid’s custom to combine Rhiannon’s birthday with a feast for the departing herders, their families, and the three family heads.

  The tables were arranged in a huge U with the people seated according to rank. The Rogoths sat at the head table with Girard, Llyr, and their wives. And Lakenna. Serous and the three family heads and their wives sat on the sides closest to the Rogoths. The other herders and their families stretched further down the table.