Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

  Beside her, Rhiannon exhaled audibly. She nudged Nineve into a canter down the steep slope. Munin plunged on right beside the filly. Lakenna’s eyes went wide, and her mouth opened in a wordless cry as she pitched perilously over the gelding’s neck. Rhiannon reached out a hand and righted her. Reining up on Lakenna’s other side, Branor put his free hand on a shoulder as well. Somehow, the three of them made it to the bottom with the tutor still in the saddle.

  Lakenna took a deep shuddering breath. “M’lady, please help me down, or I fear I will split in half.”

  Before Rhiannon could comply, they heard a shout and saw Phelan running toward them from the far side of the meadow, waving his arms and jumping with joy.

  A low moan escaped Lakenna’s lips as they broke into a canter toward the running boy. Tellan beat them all. The stallion flew across the meadow, scattering sheep in all directions. Coming to a skidding stop a few paces from the boy, Tellan jumped off and Phelan leaped into his arms.

  Rhiannon kept checking the sky. It was clear and cloudless. The sheep were calm, except where horses plowed through them. “Do you sense anything?” she asked Branor and Lakenna.

  Branor said no. Lakenna just shook her head, watching the decreasing distance to Phelan like a thirsty person eyeing a glass of water. They pulled up at father and son. Rhiannon jumped off Nineve and gave Phelan a bone-crushing hug while Branor helped Lakenna down.

  “Rahl and I killed a winged horror!” he announced excitedly as he broke the embrace. “It was easy. Well, once Teacher Lakenna started praying anyway.” He frowned. “Adwr was killed. But he ran. If he had stayed by Mil—” He broke off when he saw Lakenna. “Teacher!” He ran to her. “We could tell when you started praying. What took you so long? I want you to teach me how to pray like that because—”

  “Phelan!” Tellan broke in, smiling. “Later. Now, tell me: have there been other attacks?”

  “No, sire. Just the one. They did attack both our groups, but at the same time.”

  “Any herders injured other than Mil?”

  “One of Bowyn’s men sliced his palm with an arrowhead. They only had one horror. They killed it. We had two, but one got away.”

  Lakenna exchanged a worried frown with Branor. They both understood the numbers. So many winged horrors. Were more arriving every day? How many more were there in all?

  A gentle breeze ruffled her hair, bringing the now-familiar smell of sheep. The sun was warm on her face. Glancing at the grass, Lakenna saw it had been grazed down to the dirt. The sheep had to be moved to fresh pastures.

  Serous came striding up. “Greetings, m’lord. Been a right interesting few days. Master Phelan proved himself a true Rogoth. Proud I am of him.”

  As Tellan asked about the men and sheep, Lakenna kept wondering what was different about the head herder. He had always been unflappable, but now she sensed a solidity, a calmness about the old man that had not been present before. Then it hit her. His hands! The joints were normal, not red and swollen. And his walk. That was what had first piqued her curiosity. Serous had stridden up smoothly, without his characteristic stiff shuffle.

  Rhiannon had seen it, too. “Serous,” she blurted, “what happened to your hands?”

  “The Eternal healed me, m’lady.” He regarded his hands solemnly. “I prayed for help so I could protect Master Phelan.” He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers and lifted his knees. “The Eternal answered by freeing me to move.” He nodded to Lakenna and Branor. “Grateful we herders are for your prayers. Without them, we couldn’t have stopped those things. Shooting an arrow into a horror’s eye by torchlight is nigh on impossible.”

  Lakenna cast a worried glance at the sky. Only a few turns of the glass remained until sundown.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  RHIANNON

  THEY DROVE THE sheep as fast as they dared toward another meadow with good grass and water. Rhiannon, Lakenna, and Branor rode with Tellan and Phelan, who was on a spare mount chattering away learnedly about sheep herding and winged horror slaying. Mil, his leg splinted, rode in a makeshift litter along with the two bandaged burn victims.

  The sky remained empty of all life. Rhiannon had mixed feelings about that. Remembering the ride back to Lachlann, she knew that the total lack of birds could be ominous. All during the afternoon, she had watched the sky with Lakenna and Branor, alert to any outward or inward warning of the Mighty Ones’ creatures. The lower the sun sank, the more the north wind picked up.

  They stopped with twilight falling. Llyr divided his men into four groups. Serous and Bowyn did the same. Two groups would spend half the night protecting the camp and patrolling among the sheep while the other two groups slept. They would switch at midnight.

  Phelan did not last long once he ate in front of the fire. He managed to tell Rhiannon even more about his adventure before his eyelids grew heavy. She made a mat for him with a folded blanket and tucked a second around him. After kissing his forehead, she smoothed his hair and told him how proud she was of him. He smiled happily and was asleep before she straightened up.

  She added a few branches to the fire and began oiling her sword. Lakenna sat across the flames, picking at her food.

  The attack had unnerved Rhiannon more than she wanted to admit. Such a helpless feeling watching the arrows bounce off the horrors. It reminded her again of that first attack on the road, something she hadn’t really dealt with in her mind. And then there was the difficultly she’d felt in praying. She had tried to join Branor and Lakenna, but didn’t think she’d helped. She had to face it: in the moment of need she’d been useless. Protectoress of the Covenant? She couldn’t even protect Nineve.

  The inward nagging built again, telling her to surrender. Surrender her will, her plans, her hopes to the Eternal and trust him for the outcome. Almost like Lakenna and Branor wanted Tellan to give up the trade agreement. Rhiannon suddenly understood his dilemma in a new light.

  Around the other fires, the warriors and herders scheduled for the midnight watch ate and talked among themselves, bows and quivers within easy reach. Each fire had a supply of unlit torches stacked nearby.

  Tellan and Llyr rode in from stationing the early watch. As they dismounted, Branor walked up to them. The three engaged in an intense conversation. Rhiannon had no doubt what it was about.

  Rhiannon drew the oilcloth across the shiny steel. How could her father renounce the agreement with the Broken Stone people? If they did not sell their export wool to Lord Gillaon, then the only other buyer was Clan Sabinis. And without a contract, the best the Rogoths could expect from Ryce Pleoh and the other two would be a ruinously low price.

  But if winged horrors continued attacking the sheep or the hlaford or the homes of Rogoth kinsmen, then what? How many winged horrors were there? True, three of the beasts had been killed in the last three days. But two kinsmen were dead, two had severe burns, and one had a broken leg. A rate of exchange that could not continue. Tellan was responsible for his kinsmen. Something had to change.

  She folded the rag and put it in a leather pouch. Full dark had fallen, and the temperature was dropping steadily. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

  Serous brought an armload of branches for the fire. Though his face was still a mass of fine lines and wrinkles, he moved with the spry step of a man thirty years younger. “Mark my words, m’lady,” he said as he placed a few branches on the fire. “It’ll be an early winter.” A shadow crossed his weathered features, but then he brightened and flexed his joints. “But that’ll be no problem now!”

  “I haven’t seen Rahl,” Rhiannon said. “I promised his mother and Vanora that I would check on him.”

  “He’s out for the first watch with Bowyn. Best not to mention Vanora’s concern where the other herders might hear.” Serous grinned. “The lad’s being ribbed bad enough as it is.” Putting both hands on his hips, he looked up at the stars, sniffed the night air, and grunted. “No doubt about it, an early winter. Wouldn’t be surpr
ised if there’s snow on the ground for the Presentation and the Maiden Pole ceremony.” He eyed Lakenna. “Teacher? Anything I can do for you?”

  Lakenna, startled, looked up. “Pardon? Oh, no. Thank you, though, Serous.”

  He nodded and took his leave. The tutor resumed her contemplation of her bowl of stew. The fresh wood hissed and popped in the fire.

  Watching sparks dance and weave in the updraft, Rhiannon chewed the inside of her lower lip.

  Have you met the prince?

  . . . as long as the Faber dynasty remains intact . . .

  . . . you will find that path opening before you one day. The Eternal does not force anyone to follow him. You will have to choose to walk it or not. If you do so choose, it will unfold according to his timing.

  Could it be? Was there something in all this to connect her with . . . with the prince? Or was she being some starry-eyed twit? If there were some connection—protectoress and prince—the implications would be mind-boggling.

  Rhiannon stilled. If she were going to be responsible in some way for the Covenant, didn’t she have to change as well? And quit ignoring the nagging inward voice that kept telling her to surrender? Surrender what? But she knew. Branor had told her that night in 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. She had to surrender her desires and allow the Eternal’s will to be done. It sounded simple, yet it was so hard.

  Rhiannon saw that her father and Llyr had finished their conversation with Branor. Llyr moved among the camp, talking and encouraging the men.

  Now was the time. “Teacher?”

  Lakenna started again. Her face seemed pensive, worried. “Yes?”

  “I need to talk to you and Branor. And my father.”

  She led them to the two men. Rhiannon stuttered around at first, trying to get it out. All three watched her patiently. Finally, she found the words.

  “It is time for me to . . . surrender. To the Eternal, I mean. I have been determined to walk in my prophecy my way, through my hopes and desires. I have been afraid to admit to any weakness, afraid to let the Eternal have his way with my life.”

  She paused. Branor nodded encouragingly. Lakenna nodded, too, but her eyes contemplated the ground. Tellan folded his arms across his chest and waited. The etched lines around his mouth proclaimed the strain of the long day.

  Rhiannon took the plunge. She dropped to one knee. “Before you as witnesses, I bow the knee to the Eternal. I give my life to him. I give my prophecy to him. And my future to him. When he opens the door, I will walk through it. I will open no door on my own. This I pledge of my own free will and accord.”

  A huge weight left her shoulders.

  When she rose, Branor hugged her. Lakenna did so next, then abruptly turned away with her head down and hurried back to the fire. Tellan regarded her with a mixture of pride and curiosity. Then he hugged her strongly. They walked arm in arm to the fire and sat opposite Lakenna.

  Rhiannon dipped her father out a bowl of stew. A part of her wanted to ask about his thoughts on renouncing the agreement after the talk with Branor, but her heart was too full of thankful prayers to do anything but send them upward.

  Lakenna stood rooted by the fire, with a white-knuckled grip on the edges of her cloak. The firelight flickered across her pensive face. She took a few steps, hesitated, glanced at Rhiannon, then raised her chin resolutely and walked to Branor. After conversing a short moment, they stepped to the far edge of the light cast by the campfires.

  Lakenna talked at length. Branor listened and nodded a few times. Lakenna stopped and began pulling nervously at the edge of her cloak. Branor waited patiently, face neutral.

  Finally, Lakenna spoke again, then buried her face in her hands. A soulful keening came, and deep, shuddering sobs racked her body. She swayed back and forth before crumpling to her knees.

  Alarmed, Rhiannon rose. Her father reached out a hand to stay her.

  Branor knelt and wrapped Lakenna tightly in his arms. His lips moved in prayer as tears streamed unchecked down his face as well.

  “No, daughter,” Tellan said gently. “Whatever this is, let it remain between them. Mererid and I have long known something eats away at our tutor. Hopefully, this will help her.”

  Rhiannon sat down and tried to keep her eyes away. She of all people understood what Lakenna was feeling right now, though it had never occurred to her that the tutor might need to surrender, too. Perhaps surrender was not just a one-time event. Perhaps it was something you simply had to keep doing so long as you served the Eternal.

  The fire had burned down to red coals when Lakenna returned. The front of her blouse was wet, but her face was more at peace than Rhiannon had ever seen. She gave Rhiannon a hug, the first one ever, then crawled under her blanket and went to sleep.

  Giving one last look of the star-filled sky, Rhiannon pulled up her own blanket and fell into a fitful sleep.

  She came awake suddenly, completely. The moon was up, a thin crescent just past the new moon. Wide-eyed under her blanket, Rhiannon listened for the slightest sound. Other than her father’s soft snoring, it was quiet—dead quiet.

  Then something like a douse of cold water washed over her. She sat up, her stomach turning in a way that was now frighteningly familiar. On the other side of the fire, Lakenna stirred and propped up on an elbow. Her long hair rippled across the wool blanket like a dark cloud as she searched the sky.

  Another wave came, then another and yet another. Nauseated, Rhiannon reached over and shook her father. “Father!” she gasped. “Winged horrors.”

  Tellan kicked off his blanket and rolled to his feet, sword in hand. “Where?” he asked as he jammed on his boots.

  “I don’t know.” Her stomach churned again. Then twice more. Cold sweat beaded her forehead as she drew her sword. Her heart hammered wildly.

  “Lord Tellan!” Branor stumbled into view, hair tousled. “Call your men to arms! Many horrors approach. Many!”

  “To arms, Rogoths!” Tellan bellowed. “Light torches!” The camp exploded like a disturbed anthill. Men poked torches into the hot coals while others grabbed bows and slung on quivers. Soon, torches threw enough circles of light to illuminate the entire camp. Warriors searched the sky, arrows nocked, bows half drawn.

  The horses whinnied nervously. Several pawed and snorted. But beyond that, it remained strangely quiet. Branor and Lakenna joined hands and bowed their heads.

  “Llyr!” Tellan rapped out. “Send a man to warn the herders.”

  The rhyfelwr did so, then returned, face concerned. “Keeper? Teacher? Will our arrows penetrate, or will it be like yesterday?”

  Branor opened his eyes. His unshaved beard was a dark shadow across his jowls, the lines around his mouth deep from the strain. “It is still there.”

  Lakenna moaned. “I sense him. But I cannot get to him!”

  Llyr gave Tellan a frank look. “If we can only kill these things with an eye shot, we may have made a terrible mistake telling Maolmin’s rhyfelwr that Lady Rhiannon is with us. It may be best to put her and an escort on fresh horses and send them galloping home.”

  “And if they can sense Rhiannon and follow her?” Branor asked.

  Tellan’s brow knitted, wrestling with it.

  Part of Rhiannon said, Yes! Let me run! Angry at herself, she shoved that aside. “My place is here, Father. I will stay and fight.” Cold sweat ran down her sides. She had to clamp her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  “Rhiannon stays with me,” Tellan decided.

  “Lord Tellan,” Branor pleaded, “I say again, our inability to bind the horrors must be directly related to your agreement with the pagans of the Broken Stone Land. Many lives will be lost if we cannot bind these beasts so they can be killed with weapons. Even if we survive this night, there will be more attacks. Renounce this association. Trust the Eternal. He will provide.”

  “How can I, Keeper? Shall I shout to the wind and hope I am hea
rd by all parties to the agreement?”

  “In your heart, m’lord,” Branor said. “Annul the agreement now, in your heart, and it may be enough. You can deal with the parchments later.”

  A rightness surged inside Rhiannon, and she knew she had to speak. “Please, Father. I believe he and Lakenna are correct. I ask you not for my sake, but for our kinsmen.”

  Tellan pondered a moment longer, then turned and looked at her. His eyes were full of love. He took a deep breath and spoke in a raised voice. “I, Tellan Rogoth, kinsmen lord of the Rogoth kinsmen, do hereby renounce any and all associations with Lord Gillaon Tarenester and his Broken Stone partner. I beseech the Eternal for help in our time of trouble.”

  Tears came. Rhiannon hugged him—just as a series of shrill screeches split the darkness.

  Startled, Rhiannon glanced up into the sudden wind and saw the underside of a winged horror. Its rear legs were extended, and wickedly sharp talons descended straight at her!

  Tellan threw her to the ground and rolled them both sideways. Swirling gusts of sparks blew from the fire and stung her face. The horror landed with a thud that shook the ground. Lakenna fell at the impact. All around came the twang of bowstrings and shouts mingled with the guttural hissing of more and more horrors—perhaps a dozen of them—as they plummeted down into the midst of the camp, mouths spewing fire.

  Lakenna struggled to her hands and knees. “Yes!” she cried. Her lips began moving silently, face fierce and determined as she prayed.

  Branor staggered backward from the same wing buffeting. Righting himself, he closed his eyes and grunted like a warrior swinging a sword. “You are bound, foul demon! Bow the knee to the Eternal!”

  Rhiannon stopped rolling five strides to the side of the beast. She rose, sword in hand. Sounds of pain and fear and battle swirled all around her. The horror swung its head back and forth, searching. When it saw her, it bellowed and wheeled about with the elegance of a snake. Yellow eyes pulsed with raw fury. Its rank, decaying smell filled her nostrils.