They trudged on beneath a white-gray sky. The snow flurries eased up and then worsened so many times that Kyria lost count. During the lighter spells, she made out the ridge of dark gray stone to one side, as steep as the face of a cliff. When she glimpsed it again, the slope was more shallow, and snow clung to the crevices At last the trail curved around a rock fall and they came out into a glen. Here the trail widened enough so that two or three of them could have ridden abreast without being crowded. To either side, fallen snow draped the gently rising shoulder.
With a start, Kyria realized that the snow in front of them was not smooth. A set of tracks marked the center of trail, although the edges were blurred with new snow and the whipping of the wind. Even so, she thought they had been made by one animal or several, traveling single file.
The captain, who had been riding point, called out, “There it is!”
Kyria looked up from the blurred tracks to see a dwelling of sorts at the end of the glen. The roof slanted sharply, extending to form the top of a livestock paddock. Two animals moved in the shadows there—horses, she thought, for they looked too large to be chervines. Smoke arose from the chimney on the opposite side.
The smoke terrified Kyria. I’m in the middle of nowhere, and I have no idea who that is in the shelter. He might be a perfectly innocent fellow traveler. Or a vicious outlaw who would think nothing of disposing of anyone who got in his way.
Then she reminded herself: I’m surrounded by armed men, sworn to protect me.
“Why have we stopped?” came Alayna’s plaintive voice. She sounded as chilled, hungry, and exhausted as Kyria felt.
“There’s someone already there!” Kyria called back. Then she saw the captain coming toward them.
“Is it safe?” Dom Ruyven shouted.
If it weren’t, Kyria had no idea what they would do. Whoever was in the shelter might not have noticed their approach yet. They could still turn back—and go where? Alayna could not withstand the cold much longer.
“Rest assured, my lord, my ladies, no harm will come to us from our fellow traveler,” said Captain Francisco. “Trail truce holds in these mountains, as it does everywhere. Even the most bitter enemies lay down their swords within those walls. However, these accommodations may be rougher than you are accustomed to. We will of course make every effort to ensure your privacy, but these shelters were not intended for comfort. Damisela Kyria, you and your sister should prepare yourselves.”
“I assure you, we do not expect a bower filled with silken couches and hothouse blossoms. Merely getting out of this storm, having a dry place and perhaps a fire, will suit us very nicely.” Kyria sounded braver than she felt, for her teeth were beginning to chatter.
Captain Francisco smiled, not unkindly. “Wait here while I make our presence known to our fellow traveler.”
“I don’t like this,” Dom Ruyven said as the captain rode off toward the shelter. “The risk . . .”
“It is the captain’s job to keep us safe on the trail,” Kyria said, a bit snappishly. “Surely we can trust his judgment in this matter. And none of us, least of all my sister and myself, could survive a night in the open.”
In the pause that followed, she could almost read his thoughts, that her life and welfare must be safeguarded at all costs. Certainly, a man would want to protect the bride he’d paid such a price for, but something about Dom Ruyven’s intensity puzzled her. Was there more to this marriage than met the eye?
A few minutes later, the captain and the guard who had ridden out with him returned partway and gestured for the rest of the party to approach. When Kyria slid to the ground in front of the shelter, her knees threatened to give way beneath her. She caught the mare’s stirrup and steadied herself. Timas eased Alayna from her saddle, lifted her, and carried her to the door as it swung open.
“Here, let me take her,” a man inside said in a smooth, even baritone. “She’s chilled through.”
The Scathfell guards set about unsaddling the horses, taking them to the paddock lean-to, and bringing their belongings inside. Dom Ruyven offered Kyria his arm, and she took it, acutely aware of her fatigue.
Inside the shelter, she found a fire burning in the soot-streaked fireplace. Appetizing smells arose from the travel-sized pot hanging from a hook, and if she was not mistaken, hearth-cakes were baking on a flat stone set on a bank of embers. She almost fainted at the sight.
Then Dom Ruyven eased her into a wooden chair, well within the circle of the fire’s warmth. One of the other men offered her a pottery mug, twin to one her sister already sipped from. It was jaco, strong and laced with honey. Normally, Kyria didn’t care for overly sweet things, but the first taste sent a rush of energy through her body. If the drink had not been scaldingly hot, she would have downed it without pausing for breath. She pulled off her mittens and cradled the mug as the warmth eased the cold from her fingers.
Their host—if a fellow traveler who’d had the fortune to arrive before they did could be called so—stood with his back to her, gesturing as he spoke to the captain and Dom Ruyven about how to divide the single chamber and ensure a degree of privacy for the women. She saw then how an open doorway beside the fireplace led to what looked like a pantry where closed bins were stacked on the other side. The remaining two walls, facing one another, bore built-in beds, three high. The lowest on one side had been made up with blankets. Dom Ruyven seemed to be arguing that he would not share a room with a stranger, and the captain was insisting that the women must have the best the shelter had to offer and that the sides of the room could most easily be cordoned off. The stranger interrupted in soothing tones, saying that he was happy to give up his place and sleep on the floor with the other men. Dom Ruyven accepted the offer with grudging grace.
The stranger turned back to Kyria with a perfectly straight face, but she caught a flash of merriment in his eyes. Those eyes were set under arched brows that, like his shoulder-length hair, were burnished with copper lights.
“Yes, I’m feeling much better,” Alayna was saying in a stronger voice. “It’s terribly rude of me, I know, but is the stew ready?”
The red-haired stranger chuckled as he straightened up. “Not quite, damisela, but when it is, you shall have the first serving.” A single stride took him to stand before Kyria. “You’re looking better, as well. However, looks can be deceiving. Ladies, please understand that I mean no insult, and certainly you may have your guardian,” with a glance at Dom Ruyven, “right to hand. But I would be remiss if I did not ascertain you have taken no greater hurt than a healthy appetite. May I examine your feet?”
Alayna looked surprised, but Kyria understood immediately. Rakhal had lectured her more than once about the dangers of frostbite. “Most certainly,” Kyria said. “And there is no need to ask anyone’s consent when it comes to our well-being.”
Kyria leaned over and fumbled with her boots. The outer leather was damp where the snow had melted and soaked in, but her thick wool socks were still dry. She glanced up to see the stranger kneeling before Alayna. A high color had risen to Alayna’s cheeks, and she giggled as the stranger touched her bare toes.
She’s always prattled about meeting a handsome stranger, and now she has. Kyria knew she ought to be happy for her sister, even if the flirtation must be limited to a few days at most, under circumstances hardly conducive to romance, and yet she felt a vague sense of disappointment. She chided herself for resenting her sister’s moment of happiness; after all, she herself was betrothed. Even if she hadn’t yet laid eyes on her promised husband.
“My sister and I seem to be quite well, foot-wise,” she said in a voice that rang with forced cheer.
“Nevertheless,” the stranger said, coming to kneel before her. His touch on her foot was gentle, his fingers smooth of calluses and surprisingly warm. “You are quite right. I can see that you have little need for my diagnostic skills.” Again, she caught the twi
nkle of mischief in his gray eyes, as if he were sharing a secret with her.
She cleared her throat. “May I know the person to whom we are indebted for such expert care?”
He looked startled. “You are unfamiliar with the customs of the trail, damisela. We do not offer our full names when in the shelter. In this way, even the worst enemies may sleep securely under the same roof. Cold is no respecter of politics.”
“I thought there was a truce in the shelters.”
“Indeed there is. By keeping our names and our purposes to ourselves, enemies remain unknown to each other, and we strengthen the truce.”
Kyria nodded. That made sense.
“However, I don’t expect you to call me Hey there! or You pickle-brain! My friends call me Edric.”
Edric. She turned the name over in her mind, finding it simple and strong. “I’m Kyria, and you have already met my sister, Alayna.”
“Damisela! What are you thinking, to put yourself on such terms of familiarity with a stranger?” Dom Ruyven burst into their conversation, his face reddened with more than the closeness of the fire.
He was perfectly correct, but Kyria bristled at the strict, confining rules of propriety. She might be forced to adjust, assuming her promised husband demanded it of her. Meanwhile, she refused to renounce the ease and friendliness she had been enjoying with Edric. “What am I thinking?” she said to Dom Ruyven. “Why, merely ensuring that no one gets called pickle-brain by mistake.”
Edric’s composure never faltered, but she could feel him laughing with her.
5
The young woman who glanced at him with such merriment in her eyes was like a fresh spring breeze in his mind. She was lovely, too, with the clear, bright skin and vitality of someone who’d spent a great deal of time outdoors. Also an active, self-reliant person by the way she managed her own boots without waiting for help.
And she had laran, unfocused and untrained as it was. It rang through Edric’s mind like a silver bell before he slammed his own psychic barriers shut. A moment, a breath, and he severed all contact. The first oath he’d taken at Tramontana Tower, the fundamental promise of all telepaths, was never to enter the mind of another without consent.
In that brief moment, however, she’d become aware of his gaze. The color in her face heightened, and she lowered her eyes. Her guardian looked to be on the verge of losing his temper.
“Your pardons, vai domyn,” Kyria said without a hint of subservience. “I must tend to my sister. Traveling through the storm has fatigued her greatly.”
Without waiting for a response from either Edric or Dom Ruyven, Kyria began arranging one end of the room for women’s quarters, and in short order, a rope had been strung, several mouse-chewed blankets from the shelter’s store had been draped over it, and the two sisters disappeared behind their rudimentary privacy screen. Edric found himself mildly disappointed to lose their company. The younger one, Alayna, was pretty in a conventionally feminine way, but he’d been subject to too much attention from such damiselas, urged on by their ambitious parents to make such an advantageous match. Even if the pretty blonde didn’t know who he was, she had undoubtedly spun some romantic nonsense in her mind about him. That much was clear from the way she gazed at him with doe-like eyes. He needed no laran to imagine her thoughts: the handsome, mysterious stranger.
The older sister, Kyria, appeared to harbor no such delusions, at least none he could detect. He would have liked to speak further with her, but they would likely be snowbound together for several days, so it was best not to court trouble. Edric intended to be on his way as soon as possible after the storm cleared.
My mother’s health is failing . . . No, that was an exaggeration. Many who suffered a bout of lung fever made a complete recovery. But the news had shaken him badly. What if she became an invalid, no longer able to act as Regent? What if she succumbed to the fever while I was so far away? And if she died or become incapacitated, their estranged kin would seize upon that weakness.
The thought of the mountainous region at war, as had not been seen in a generation, sobered him. He no longer had the luxury of remaining in his Tower sanctuary. It was time to assume the responsibilities of his birth. He had departed Tramontana the day after learning of her illness, and forged on even when his mother’s messenger fell ill and could not continue the journey. Blessed Evanda, keep my mother in health until I return.
“Vai dom.” The captain of the armed escort interrupted Edric’s thoughts.
“No title, please. Just Edric. We travelers need not be so formal.”
The captain’s face softened in a brief smile. He was of middle years, keen-eyed but pleasant of countenance, if somewhat weathered from much time outdoors. “And I am Francisco, captain of this party. It seems we have displaced you from your bed. Will you partake of our spacious accommodations?”
Edric pretended to inspect the rough wooden planks. “You are most generous, for I see it is as well-padded as any granite shelf.”
“An expert on granite shelves, are you?”
“None but the finest.”
Francisco chuckled. “And for that, you shall share the fine repast prepared by Timas, as well. You seem to have some skill in healing, my friend. May I presume upon you further to make sure none of our horses has taken hurt? One of them was moving stiffly for the last hour.”
Edric answered that he would be glad to help and followed Francisco to the lean-to. The body heat of the animals had already warmed the air, and the place smelled of the grain that had been stored there as fodder. Star, his blue roan mare, whickered a greeting, but his dun pack horse only flicked an ear in his direction and then went back to dozing. Francisco’s glance lingered on the mare, clearly assessing her quality, but made no remark.
As he examined the horses, Edric relaxed his laran barriers. He had no special empathy with animals, as the Ridenow and MacArans were said to possess, but his early training as a monitor allowed him to sense disruptions in the energy flow of living things. When he bent to inspect the legs and feet of the horse that Francisco indicated, the one ridden by the pompous lordling called Ruyven, he reached out with his psychic senses as well, probing for deeper injuries that might not yet manifest, even to a trained horseman. The horse flinched when he pressed along its back muscles. If he had been alone or with a group of leroni trained in Tower ways, Edric would have used his starstone to amplify the power of his mind, but he didn’t know these people or their purposes. While trail truce might hold while they were snowbound, it did not compel their silence after. A single, ordinary traveler might pass with little remark, but a trained telepath, wielding a matrix with skill . . . no, he dared not draw that kind of attention to himself. Home was still a long way off, and Francisco had keen eyes.
“I think this fellow’s a bit saddle-sore,” Edric remarked, giving the horse a pat on the neck. The horse swung its bony head around, regarding him as if to say, You can’t fool me. I know what you are.
“There’s a supply of herbs in the shelter,” Edric went on. “I’ll make up a heating mixture and massage it in every couple of hours.”
“Surely one of my men can do that . . . sir.” Francisco protested.
“I’ll move my gear out here and sleep above the hay rick. It’ll be warm enough.” Edric kept his tone light. The less time he spent in the company of strangers, the less chance his identity might be revealed. It was a pity he would not get to speak further with Kyria, but safer this way.
Alone in the lean-to, Edric slipped his starstone from the pouch of triple-layered insulating silk that hung by a cord around his neck. Like all Tower workers, he had trained in the basics of healing. A breath, another breath, and then he slipped effortlessly into a state of heightened psychic awareness. As Edric massaged the prepared mixture of herbs into the horse’s back, he reached out psychically as well. Sluggish brown energy permeated the ligaments and muscl
es where the weight of rider and saddle had pressed. He untangled the knots and eased the flow along the horse’s energon channels.
The work, although taxing, was a joy to perform. After so many years living among other telepaths, his mind open to theirs, it was a relief to not have to maintain his mental barriers. He had not drawn a free breath since he’d realized that Kyria, too, was sensitive.
Kyria. Why must his thoughts keep returning to her?
He pressed his cheek against the horse’s neck, feeling the solidity and warmth of the animal. Through the physical contact, he sensed the horse’s contentment. How much simpler were the lives of animals, who had no need for deceit, for schemes and envy. Or for feuds that ran like poison through the generations.
The hayrick proved not nearly as comfortable as Edric had hoped, and a thread of icy air wound its way through gaps in the outer wall. At last, he was able to burrow under sufficient hay to be reasonably warm. He had to use the body temperature regulating meditations he’d learned at Tramontana, necessary during the long, bitter winters there, but in the end, his body relaxed and his mind drifted.
In that liminal state between awake and asleep, the storm sang to him. At first its voice sounded faint, the distant wailing of the wind through the mountain passes, the sounds that any traveler might hear. Then its tone turned sweet, a lover calling to him. In the back of his mind, he sensed the massing clouds, the pressure of the air fronts, the shift and play of temperatures, and most of all, the slowly building electrical forces. He could taste the tension in the air, the release of moisture high in the atmosphere, as seductive as wine. As the minute droplets froze, turning into crystals of ice, they sang through his senses like a vast chorus of siren voices.
The storm elements formed a symphony, and he longed to be one with it. With a thought, he could send the snow in cascading falls here or drive it there, gather it up in a blinding sheet, call the winds to whip it into a blizzard . . . and break his most secret, solemn vow. He was treading close enough to betrayal as it was, indulging himself in the rapture of the storm. But to control it outright was another matter. Since the awakening of his laran, he had believed that if he ever used his storm talent—ever summoned lightning and hurled it where he directed—that it would destroy not only himself but everyone around him.
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