Thunderlord

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Kyria had heard whispers about her kinswoman, but had always considered them idle gossip. It was always easier to make up wild tales about someone who wasn’t present to contradict them. “That doesn’t sound so bad, what she did,” she said when her father paused.

  “If the story were indeed true, then she would be guilty of nothing more than what many other women have done. I believe she was widowed young and had a son to provide for.” He made a helpless gesture. “Rockraven was no richer then than it is now. Perhaps it was the best she could manage for herself and her child. No, the stories about the Rockraven curse say that she carried the genetic ability to control those storms. To call lightning from the sky and use it to blast her enemies.”

  Kyria shuddered, recalling the power of the storm she herself had so narrowly escaped and that had been a natural storm. “Such an ability would be a dreadful weapon.”

  “Yes,” Lord Rockraven responded, “it would indeed. Now we will say no more of this, for we have another matter to discuss.”

  The traps.

  “I was concerned when you followed your brother, Rakhal,” he said, “but in the end, I decided it did no harm. You tagged after him like an adoring puppy, but you did not drag Alayna into mischief. Rakhal was always a trustworthy lad. I knew he would look after you. Then when he left us, I expected that would be the end of it. I admit that at first I did not suspect you were going out alone. You must have timed your outings so that you would not be missed.”

  “I—yes, sir. I wanted to do my share, what little a daughter can do for her house.” An unmarried and unmarriageable daughter, she added silently, struck with an unexpected pang of sympathy for Great-Aunt Aliciane. What would she, Kyria, have done under those circumstances?

  “I fear I have been overly permissive as a father,” Lord Rockraven continued as if he had not heard. “I allowed you greater freedom than was safe or prudent for a gently reared young woman. Such lenience might put your well-being at risk, were it not for your storm sense. Looking at you now, I see that you are no longer a child playing at adventures in your brother’s clothes.”

  Kyria glanced down at her shirt of heavy, use-softened linex and worn leather breeches. The thick knitted vest, made to her brother’s shape, stretched across her breasts, even though it was too large across the shoulders. She flushed at how unseemly it was to appear before her father dressed like this, and wished she had had a chance to change into a proper woman’s tunic over full skirts.

  “I have neglected your future for too long,” her father was saying. “Perhaps in some fashion, I have indulged in a selfish desire to keep you with me. Now I cannot ignore the passage of years. You are a woman grown. I must not neglect your happiness for my own pleasure in your company.”

  “Papa, you must not call yourself selfish! And I am happy!”

  “You are a good child and a credit to your family, but consider what is to come. Eventually I will die, and Rockraven will go to Valdir. Ellimira is not the most affectionate of women, but she will be a strong chatelaine, strict and orderly. Your sister, Alayna, is so sweet-tempered and biddable, and she does her share of the household chores, so she can make a home anywhere. But you, Kyria, will not be content to live as an unmarried spinster under Ellimira’s rule.”

  Reluctantly, Kyria agreed. That fate had occurred to her, but there was nothing she could do about it except to stay out of Ellimira’s way. “I must try harder, then.”

  “You mistake my meaning. I was not chastising you for failing to come up to Ellimira’s standards of deportment.”

  “I don’t understand. What choice do I have? The neighboring estates are hardly overflowing with husbands.”

  At that, her father chuckled. “The shortage of men in need of good wives is not yet upon us. The roads will soon be open again, and we will see what they bring.”

  What man would want a wife whose only skill was trapping rabbit-horns? She was useless, penniless, and not nearly as beautiful as Alayna.

  “Until then, I expect you to comport yourself like a properly raised young lady of your rank. There is to be no more sneaking out, dressed like a ragamuffin in Rakhal’s old clothes. I will not have you behaving as if you had never been taught better.”

  Kyria had expected such a speech from Ellimira but not from her father. Secretly she’d hoped that he would continue to ignore her forays, but now that he had spoken so directly to her, she had no choice but to obey. “In this and all things, I will try to please you.”

  “I knew you’d get into trouble sooner or later,” Alayna said. She was sitting on the bed she and Kyria shared, legs crossed under her full skirts, when Kyria closed the bedroom door behind her. The room was small and dark, the windows narrow, and the few pieces of old-fashioned furniture almost black with age, but it did possess a small fireplace, and a soothing warmth spread from the newly lit flames. “Did I not say so?”

  “You did, and you were right,” Kyria responded with an apologetic smile. Alayna had teased her, but she’d never betrayed Kyria’s secret. “Sort of. I’m not exactly in trouble. Nothing like bread and water or being confined to my room for a tenday. You will be delighted to hear that he instructed me to behave like a proper, marriageable young woman.”

  “Marriageable?” Alayna’s eyes brightened. “Where will he find a husband for either of us?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe suitors will drop like snowflakes from the sky.”

  Alayna gave an unladylike snort. “Or sprout like cabbages in the spring. But as long as there are two of them—twin brothers, of course, so we will never be parted—oh, and they must be handsome and gallant and rich, too, so neither of us will have to do a stick of work—then I suppose they’ll do.”

  With a satisfied grin, Alayna bounced off the bed to help Kyria take off her wet boots. At least the heavy winter socks had stayed dry, or mostly dry. Alayna tsked in disapproval, very much like Ellimira did, as Kyria struggled out of the vest and breeches. “Those things must be older than the mountains! Look at these seams—they’re falling apart! It was just as well you got caught now, or you’d soon be running around bare-arsed.”

  Alayna helped Kyria into the warmest of her nightgowns and wrapped her in a comforter. She brought out a basin and coaxed Kyria to put her feet into it.

  Now that the interview with her father was over, and words said that could not be unsaid, Kyria felt shivery all over. She touched her toes to the water. “Ouch!”

  “What’s the matter?” Alayna glanced over her shoulder, away from plumping pillows and arranging a warming pan under the covers. “Scared of a little water? Whatever shall you do when it comes to soap?”

  “It’s hot! What are you trying to do, scald me?”

  “It is not hot. It only feels that way because your toes are nearly frostbitten.” Alayna dipped her fingers in the basin. “See? It’s barely lukewarm.”

  “I say it’s too hot.”

  “And I say you’re acting like a hoyden who’s allergic to bathing.”

  “Now you’re sounding like Ellimira’s evil twin sister!”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too!”

  Alayna’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, dearest. Here you are, half-frozen, bossed around by our sister-in-law and then by Papa—I’m dying to hear what more he had to say to you—and now I’m being wretched to you! Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Well,” Kyria admitted, “I’ve been rather a grouch, too.”

  “Then we’re even and shall pardon each other.”

  As Kyria sank first one foot and then the other into the basin, the heat seeped into her bones as proper sensation returned to her toes. She murmured in contentment as Alayna brushed her hair, braided it with the ribbons, and tied the ends together neatly. When Kyria’s feet were warm, she toweled them off and burrowed under the covers like a wild creature in its nest. Her eyes drifted closed
. The mattress shifted as Alayna, now in her own nightgown, slipped under the covers. Kyria felt her sister’s delicate touch on her temple, brushing back a stray tendril of hair.

  “You’re going to sleep before finishing the story, aren’t you?”

  “What? No!” Kyria tried to stifle a yawn, and failed.

  “Yes, you were, and it would be very mean for me to insist, even if I have to pinch you every five minutes to keep you awake.”

  “Yes, it would. I’ll tell you, Layna. Tomorrow morning.”

  “All right, then.” Alayna propped herself up on one elbow to plant a kiss on Kyria’s forehead. “I’ll remind you if you forget. A promise is a promise.”

  2

  The sound of the door creaking on its hinges woke Kyria. By the angle of the sunlight streaming between the half-closed drapes, it was well past midday. Alayna peeked in. “Oh, good. You’re finally awake.”

  Alayna nudged the door open with one elbow and backed into the room, carrying a folding table laden with covered dishes. “Am I not a devoted sister? I have brought you breakfast.” She began uncovering dishes. “Potted plums—which you might want to skip as last summer was not the best harvest and cook burned an entire batch—toast, and boiled onions. I think those are potatoes, but I’m not sure. And an entire pot of jaco!”

  Sitting up, Kyria lifted the covers. “Yes, I think those are potatoes.”

  “And I shall help you eat them.” Alayna took some onions and a piece of toast, and settled herself next to Kyria. The two sisters occupied themselves for next few minutes.

  “Pass the plums, if you please,” said Kyria.

  “You don’t want them.”

  “I do.”

  “They’re scorched, I told you.”

  “Layna, I am the best judge of whether or not I want plums for my breakfast.”

  Alayna passed the pot of stewed plums and waited while Kyria tasted them and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I told you so.”

  Kyria refused to take offense. Papa might forbid her the small amount of freedom she had managed, Ellimira would certainly scold and nag, but Alayna’s sunny disposition would always make the burden easier.

  “What else do you want to know about my last day of trapping?” Kyria asked, brushing the crumbs of the toast from her fingers. “Beyond that I got very cold.”

  “It must have been dreadful to get caught in a sudden snowstorm.” Alayna’s eyes pleaded for the tale of a desperate struggle through terrifying obstacles. A handsome rescuer who appeared and then mysteriously went on his way would be an agreeable embellishment.

  “It did come up quickly,” Kyria agreed. Had Papa told Alayna about the Rockraven Gift? “I . . . had a feeling it was coming on, and fast. Know what I mean?”

  “I know when a seam is going to turn out crooked, even when it still looks all right.” Alayna’s brow wrinkled. “I suppose it’s a matter of experience. I’ve stitched ten times more dresses than you, but I probably wouldn’t recognize a fast-approaching storm until I was knee deep in a snowfall.”

  “You were born and bred in these mountains. Of course you would see the signs.” But maybe no more than any other person. Papa had also said that Alayna never suffered from threshold sickness, so perhaps she lacked any trace of storm sense.

  Kyria reached out to take her sister’s hand. “Then we must be certain you are never out alone where such a storm might come upon you.”

  “Don’t be a goose. I’d never go traipsing off by myself.”

  “Oh, Mistress Prim and Proper.”

  “No, Mistress Likes-To-Keep-Her-Skirts-Clean.” Alayna sighed. “It seems that neither of us has any choice beyond which to do first, darn socks or mend torn linens. They both have to be done, and there are not enough hands to go around.”

  Kyria pushed the last plum around her bowl. Alayna had been right: it was too burned to be palatable. Like so many things we must endure. When they were children, she and Alayna had pored over the few story books the household possessed, fanciful tales of adventure and heroism. Kyria had exchanged those stories for Rakhal’s traps, for in her estimation it was better to be the trapper than the prey. Alayna’s romantic yearnings no longer seemed foolish, but a way of making life bearable.

  Kyria’s storm proved to be the last of the winter season, for no sooner had it passed than spring arrived in earnest. Snow still fell every night, as it did in these mountainous realms, but so lightly that roads became passable again. Each tenday, more of it melted than fell. Freshets of meltwater poured into streams and then into rivers. Buds swelled on the branches of deciduous trees, and from the cold frames in kitchen gardens came the first, very welcome, harvests of rhubarb, leafy greens, and slender-stalked, tangy onions.

  As the days lengthened, Kyria could not bear to be confined indoors. She walked in the kitchen garden, and then the grounds around the house, slowly widening her circles. Eventually she saddled her old chervine and went riding outside the gates.

  “Come with me,” she pleaded with Alayna, and on one occasion, Alayna agreed.

  Kyria mounted her on the chervine and walked alongside. Although an icy chill still lingered in the shadowed groves, the open spaces were sunlit and pleasant.

  “Blessed Evanda, that sun feels good. I’ve been cooped up for an age,” Alayna said. “I feel like a child on Midsummer Festival Day, only instead of sweets and games, I get an hour’s freedom.”

  Kyria smiled as she walked along, one hand on the chervine’s neck, still fuzzy with its winter coat.

  When she spoke again, Alayna had turned serious. “I’m sorry I teased you about running wild. I thought you didn’t . . . I love you, but we’re not the same.”

  “I’ve known that since we were children, Layna. You always wanted to be the princess, and I wanted to be the banshee-slayer and rescue you.”

  Alayna jumped down from the chervine’s back, ran to pick a star lily, and held it out to Kyria. “For my heroic sister.”

  Smiling, Kyria stuck the flower in her hair. “Now we can both be princesses.”

  They talked and laughed until, all too soon, it was time to return. Alayna was late coming to bed that night. She refused to explain, but Kyria suspected that Ellimira hadn’t given her a half-day off but had expected her to make up the day’s household tasks like any servant.

  Ellimira always found work for Kyria to do, as well, one disagreeable domestic chore after another, until Kyria felt she had all the responsibility of running a household with none of the authority to actually make decisions. To make matters worse, Lord Rockraven took advantage of the milder weather to send out riders, sometimes Valdir, on various missions to the small kingdoms surrounding their own, so there were always people coming and going and tracking mud across the floor.

  Kyria came across Alayna, standing at the front doors, which had been opened to air out the entrance hall, waving to Valdir as he trotted out of the courtyard. Kyria slipped her arm around her sister’s slender waist and they exchanged silent, knowing glances. Lord Rockraven was making good on his intention to search out husbands for them.

  When Alayna moved away, Kyria caught an expression of sadness in her sister’s lovely face, an anticipation of their eventual parting. She closed the distance in one determined stride and took Alayna’s hand.

  “We are safe, dearest. Where will Papa find a husband for either of us, unless it be some poor soul who has even less to live on than we do?”

  “I would marry such a man if I truly loved him and he loved me.”

  “Be serious. Could you live without a new hair ribbon at Midsummer Festival?” Kyria said, forcing a tone of levity.

  “I may act like goose, all romantic dreams and happy endings, but we do not live in such a world.” Alayna turned back to Kyria, tears glittering in her eyes. “I know there are no rich twin brothers waiting for us, even ugly ones. One or the other of u
s must surely go to an arranged marriage, and as I can bear our sister-in-law’s temper far better, you will be the one who leaves.” Her voice dropped. “I would give up a thousand ribbons to have it not so. But the world goes as it will, not as you or I would have it.”

  No words of comfort rose to Kyria’s mind. Expressions of reassurance seemed hollow. She stood there, unwilling to give voice to false hope, as Alayna hurried back into the house.

  One afternoon, after returning from a ride, Kyria was halfway to the house when Gwillim raced up to her. “There’s a party of men on the road—a rich lord and his guards, it looks like, with a cart and fine horses—they’re coming here. Mamma says you must put on your best gown. Hurry! They’ll be here soon!” Fairly dancing with excitement, the boy tugged her toward the house.

  A rich lord? Was it possible her father’s efforts to find her a husband had been successful? Yet she could think of no other reason for such a party to visit Rockraven.

  As Kyria allowed herself to be drawn along, she tried to see the great house as a stranger might. It had been built in a modest style, the stone walls well-crafted and the proportions pleasing, but that had been a long time ago. Generations of harsh weather and no money to spare for upkeep had taken their toll.

  Once past the main doors, Kyria was surrounded by a flurry of activity. From the top of the central stairs came Ellimira’s voice, issuing commands. Kyria drew Gwillim aside, out of the way of one of the house servants, a girl from the nearest village.