by Court Ellyn
“…caught up to ‘em and picked ‘em off from the trees,” Alyster was saying. “They nearly sniffed me out, but pine resin and bear fat covered my scent well. When there was only a handful of the bastards left, we sprung a trap on their camp. The lads ran around to confuse ‘em, while I took ‘em from behind.”
The strategy was a good one. Kelyn would have to remember it.
“There were no captives left. We were too late to save anybody.” Alyster let out an unsteady breath. “Cousin Haim heard about the army you was raising down here and said we ought to sign on with ya.”
“It wasn’t your idea?”
Alyster fell back in the chair, laughing. When the laughter trailed away, his eyes flickered with something feral. Kelyn had seen the same glint many times when Thorn was at his angriest. “The only reason I’m here is because they’re the last o’ my kin. Better come wi’ them than go back to a house full o’ ghosts.” Alyster reared up from the chair to loom over the desk. “We came for vengeance, a’ right. I will scout for you, follow your orders, whatever you say. But I will take nothing in return. Not one bloody copper, not one bite of food, not one swallow of mead, nothing that belongs to you. We will see to our own.”
Without waiting for dismissal, Alyster shoved the chair from his path and let himself out.
Kelyn realized he was shaking only when he lowered his face into his hand. A long while later he heard a presence stir softly on the threshold. He smelled Rhoslyn’s clean hair and wanted to melt into the floor. The door closed quietly and she asked, “Will you own him?”
He raised his face. “You left the parlor when I asked you not to?”
She shrugged in her defense. “Eliad told me his suspicions. He’s right, too. This stranger looks a bit like you.”
Kelyn’s fist landed on the desk. “Fool with a big mouth.”
“Don’t blame Eliad. This is hardly his fault.” Was she angry with him or merely frightened. “So? Will you?”
“No.” He leaned back in the chair and breathed deeply to ease the knot in his chest. It didn’t work. “Alyster made it abundantly clear that he’d spit in my face if I tried.”
“Then he’s not a threat.”
He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know, Rhoz. I never thought … Goddess.” What spoiled adolescent highborn believed in the existence of consequences? Consequences were something that thundered down upon poachers and highwaymen and Fieran sheep thieves. “I hadn’t thought on that poor girl since … well, since before Carah was born, I suppose. By then, it was ancient history. Everything had changed, and all that belonged to a different life. It was easy to imagine it hadn’t happened at all.”
Inexpressible sorrow surfaced on Rhoslyn’s face, and Kelyn knew she thought of Kethlyn. The son they had been so proud of. That Kelyn’s unremembered bastard should answer his call to arms instead … the irony sickened him. “I don’t want him around Carah. He might change his mind and do her harm.”
Rhoslyn nodded. “I’ll find a chaperone for her.” She turned to leave. “Hnh, I’m beginning to support Thorn’s opinion of the Goddess and her wicked games.”
~~~~
Carah was changing into her silver robe for supper when Maeret and Lady Ulna told her that they had been employed to take shifts as her bodyguards. As the duchess had warned them, she unleashed a firestorm of a tantrum. “He’s my brother! How can they think to keep me away from him?” More, if what Eliad said was true, he was avedra. As soon as Eliad whispered his suspicions to her and her mother, Carah tried to run outside and meet this man, but Rhoslyn grabbed her by the elbow and ordered Eliad to escort her upstairs—and to keep his jaw locked.
Lady Blue Mountain provided the voice of reason. “As the heir of Ilswythe, you cannot afford to be careless. Trusting blindly has seen many an heir dispatched under mysterious circumstances.”
Maeret laid a hard hand upon Carah’s shoulder, forcing her to stop pacing. “You’ve always been conceited, but don’t think it can’t happen to you. My Mum and Da didn’t.”
While Carah listened in horrified silence, the two of them worked out a schedule amenable to them both. Ulna would take the daylight hours while Maeret drilled under Laral’s rigorous instruction; Maeret would take over after dark. As sunset was even now fading beyond the windows, Ulna took her leave. “I’ll see you in the morning, Carah. Don’t worry. I’m sure your father will soon learn if this … relative … is to be trusted.”
Carah crossed her arms and stomped a foot. Da was forgetting that his daughter could read the thoughts—and intentions—of men. She’d soon be able to protect her own skin, too. I’ll meditate twice as hard and twice as long.
“I guess I should post myself outside the door,” Maeret said. The massacre at Bramoran had changed her, just as it had changed everyone. If she’d been dogged and dreary before, she was downright depressing now. Her heavy-lidded eyes had grown hollow and distant, as if she saw only the vengeance for her parents evading her over some horizon. Her teeth ground with pent-up rage, and she rarely voiced anything but criticism.
Carah stopped her. “Don’t go overboard. You may only stand outside my door if I’m to be locked in, and I don’t think that’s what my mother meant. Besides, it’s supper time.”
The ladies descended to the dining hall together. Maeret, still in full armor and smelling of sweaty horse, insisted on standing ominously behind Carah’s chair. Carah glared across the table at her mother, but Rhoslyn smiled, well-satisfied with the arrangement. Da refrained from joining them at table. He had the excuse of planning the campaign, but Carah knew there were other reasons for his absence, too.
Exercising masterful aplomb, the highborns avoided any mention of the troublesome guest. With smiles on their faces, they nibbled on chicken as if it were the most delicate peahen and discussed how much more professional the civilian companies were looking after only a few days of drilling. The art of ignoring the heart of the issue was a talent among them.
The bard assisted them in their endeavor. Byrn the Blue played his lute softly in the corner beside the hearth. Carah couldn’t decide if she liked him. When he showed up at Ilswythe’s gate four years ago, she had thought him charming, talented, exciting. But things were different now. Maybe it was her foul mood, but the bard smiled too much. He agreed too often. His fingers could fly over the strings, his voice could wring tears from a battle-hardened knight, but he seemed to float outside the pain of loss, the frenzy of training, the desperation of planning, the hoarding of each morsel of foraged food. Somehow, he’d even managed to ride across Leania and half of Aralorr, dodging ogres and sleeping in tents, without so much as a snag in his blue hose. His blue velvet sleeves had lost none of their puff or the feather in his hat its wag. Didn’t he have family he feared for? Didn’t dust cling to his shoes like it did to everyone else’s? It was unnatural.
Carah was being unfair. It wasn’t Byrn’s fault that her parents were being unreasonable. She understood why she couldn’t have Rhian. But not meet her own brother?
She steamed and contrived and did a poor job of hiding it. Her mother looked at her with raised eyebrows, as if to say, “Stay away.”
After suffering through the pleasantries, Maeret accompanied her back along the shadowed corridors to her rooms, a hand on the haft of the morning star. Because of her silly precautions, Maeret had foregone supper and had a tray brought up to her. She ate in heavy silence at Carah’s hearth while Carah herself pretended to be meditating on the nature of fire. In truth she was listening to Maeret’s every move. It wasn’t long after she finished off the chicken and brown bread that she started yawning. Poor girl, Carah thought, biting off a grin. Been working so hard, day in and day out. “Maeret dear,” she said, “why don’t you get out of that armor. You must be terribly bruised. And your feet must be throbbing.”
“Can’t, thanks,” she replied. “I have to be ready. In case …”
“Yes, I’m sure. And you can’t use that thing barefoot?” She n
odded at the flail hooked to her belt.
Maeret considered a tedious long while, then tugged her boots off.
“And those heavy shoulder plates. Let me help you out of them, at least. You can’t even lean back to relax.” Maeret glowered but didn’t argue as Carah unbuckled the pauldrons and laid them on the floor. “It is nice to have some company,” she lied. “Aisley is a fine companion, but she’s … rather sweet. And she cries, out of the blue, you know.” That wasn’t true either. The raven-haired girl had shown remarkable fortitude in spite of things. But it was true that Aisley liked needlework, and Carah had no patience for the half-conversations conducted by someone whose attention was divided by a panel of linen.
“She cries? I hadn’t noticed. I … I have nightmares.” Maeret’s voice was flat as a cobblestone.
“Yes … so do I.” That, too, was true. Carah considered offering her a powder to help her sleep, but Maeret, she suspected, wasn’t that stupid. “You haven’t had the chance to battle them yet, have you?”
“The ogres?”
Carah nodded.
“Just from the wall. I’m not sure my arrows struck a mark.” Her teeth started grinding again.
Best change the subject or anger would keep Maeret from sleeping at all. “Shall I read?”
“Read?”
“Yes. Books. To help us relax and forget our troubles for a bit. Goddess knows I need it.” Another lie. The few books that had survived the rampage of the ogres filled a single shelf in Uncle Thorn’s library and were rapidly circulating among the highborns who were desperate for anything to keep their minds occupied. Currently on Carah’s pillow lay a ragged copy of Travels of A Penitent. Considered to be one of the great studies of foreign cultures, the book made for tedious, dry reading. It might suit Maeret perfectly, or it might knock her out like a fist to the chin. Carah insisted Maeret take the fireside chair while she made herself comfortable on the rug. Then she opened to the chapter detailing the extensive religious practices of the Ixakan priesthood and started reading aloud. Her tactics worked better than she imagined; her own head grew heavy and after four or five pages, she glanced up and found Maeret’s chin lowering toward her chest. Just to be safe, Carah forced herself to read a couple more pages as she quietly eased herself to her feet. When Maeret didn’t stir, she laid the book aside and slipped from the room.
Better hurry, she thought; silence might raise an alarm in Maeret’s sleepy head and rouse her. In the kitchens Carah chatted briefly with the highlander girls on scullery duty, to discourage suspicion that she’d come for any reason but to catch the latest rumors. She learned that Eliad’s mistresses weren’t getting along and that Lord Rorin was suffering panic attacks several times a day. Then, while one of the girls vigorously scrubbed an iron pot, she told her neighbor that some of the Stonearm kindred had arrived today. “… them from Mount Kulkrie. Cattle thieves, the lot,” she muttered. No word of Lord Ilswythe’s embarrassment, however. That was a relief. When she’d been seated at the chopping block long enough to become invisible to the workers, Carah ducked into the larder and out the back door to the herb garden.
The cool night air clung to her skin. She chafed her arms briskly and searched the bailey with Veil Sight. The bright azethion of Elarion drifted along the battlements. Rhian’s unmistakable lifelight radiated atop the front gatehouse. But Uncle Thorn was nowhere to be seen. Carah suspected he had locked himself in his rooms again, determined to conquer the unruly energies that kept defying him. She made her way casually to the north gatehouse and asked the Elari on sentry duty, “You speak duínovan?” The Reg turned an ear, then held up a hand with his forefinger and thumb pinched close together.
“Where might I find Azhien?”
The Reg shook his head. “Azhien?”
“Yes, where?”
“Ah.” He pointed at the roof of the keep. Carah supposed dranithion were more comfortable high above the ground. The sentry called something in Elaran. The only words Carah recognized were “rea” and her own name. Faster than she thought possible, a lifelight scrambled over the crenels and down a drainpipe.
“Something is wrong?” Azhien asked, running up to her.
She smiled, surprised at his concern and his prompt response. “No, I just need a bodyguard.” The irony made her snort indelicately. “The guards my mother chose for me can’t exactly see ogres on the horizon, and I’m not foolish enough to venture out by myself. Not anymore.”
“Where do we go?”
“I want you to take me to meet the men who arrived today. Do you know where they’re camped?”
If he knew why she was curious about these highlanders, Azhien kept it to himself. He escorted her out the north gate and eastward around the base of the wall. Light flickered from hundreds of campfires. Inside shaggy hide tents, highland babes cried; their mothers sang half a dozen lullabies. The smell of cattle dung mingled with the odors of beer and iron and sweat. Beyond the highland camps, a patch of darkness spread out like a cool black sea. Forath’s faint red light did little to show Carah where to put her feet. Azhien walked across the archery range with more confidence, so Carah held onto his arm. He appeared to be aiming for a single campfire that was separated from the rest. It glowed near the riverbank, where the Avidan curved north for Mount Drenéleth. Given the scullery maid’s comments about these newcomers, it was no surprise that they avoided camping near Eliad’s people.
“What did they do when they saw you approaching them this afternoon?” Carah asked, primarily to ward off the butterflies souring her belly.
“I think they know not what to think. But I am charm.”
Carah laughed. “You’re like your cousin. Falconeye thinks he’s charming, too.”
“Tell him he is not. I want to see his face.”
The thunder of water dampened the sound of their approach. The highlanders didn’t notice their guests until they were almost upon them. A man seated on the far side of the fire raised his face, reached for a hatchet, but stopped and rose slowly, looking Carah up and down. Her robe shimmered like silver moonlight. Other men took notice and scrambled to their feet. They were a shaggy-looking lot, and poor; the firelight hinted at patches on threadbare elbows and knees stitched with yarn instead of proper thread.
She paused on the edge of the light. “I’m looking for the son of the Swiftblade.”
A taut silence followed. Eyes darted. Throats were cleared. Carah began to wonder if Eliad was mistaken. At last, a voice sharp with anger said, “You winna find him here.” A couple of the highlanders stepped aside to clear a path, but the young man didn’t approach. His face was half in shadow, half in light, but there was no mistaking who he was. He resembled Da more strongly than Kethlyn ever did. Carah’s eyes welled. She swallowed the tears fast, lest these hard men think poorly of her.
What should she say to him? She hadn’t planned a single word. Surely an hour after she returned to her rooms, she would think of a dozen appropriate things to say, but at the moment her tongue betrayed her. Her goal had been merely to escape the house and see him for herself. But she couldn’t stand here staring. She started forward; an older man with a copper-colored beard stepped in front of her. “Lass, let it be.” His tone was more regretful than angry. Under bushy eyebrows, his eyes pleaded.
She hadn’t considered that her own brother might not wish to know her. Heat flared in her cheeks; her heart plummeted. Swallowing the humiliation like a mouthful of sand, she cleared her throat and told no man in particular, “I’m Carah. And I’m a healer. In the fighting to come, if you’re wounded, don’t hesitate to come to me.” She extended a nod of farewell, her skull too heavy for her spine, and turned to go.
“You’re fae-man? Like His Lordship’s twin?”
She faced the man who was her brother and raised her chin. “Avedra. Yes. I am.”
He let out a breath of resignation and finally approached her. Carah felt herself wringing her hands and forced them to relax at her sides. “We hear stories a
bout him. Are they true?”
“About Thorn Kingshield? Perhaps. He’s training me.” The young man’s azeth glowed easily as bright as her own with hues of iron and stone. An avedra for a brother! Carah could hardly believe it. Kethlyn’s resentment of his little sister’s “special” gift had widened the rift between them. “Have you ever been—?”
Trained, she meant to say, but the man shook his head as if her thoughts were clear enough to him. Nor was he interested in the topic she’d chosen. “Who sent you to talk to me?”
She took half a step back. “No one. I’ve been ordered to do the opposite, in fact. Some suspect you’re a danger to me. Are you?”
He laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “I know where I belong. You don’t.”
Did he mean to be cruel, or was he merely tactless? “Avedrin are bound by different rules, and I’m avedra first.” She said it like she meant it and almost did.
“And a lady a close second, I imagine.”
She hadn’t bluffed him in the slightest. “Presumptuous, aren’t you.”
“I’m sure I would be, if I knew what that meant.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “If you’re trying to drive me away, it won’t work. I’ve already lost one brother. You don’t have to like me, but I mean to look after you anyway.” I never looked after Kethlyn, Goddess knows.