“You can write.”
Ciara sighed. “I know. But that’s just writing. What you do is art.” She pointed. “Look at the kitten peering out around the capital letter. Look at the lawleaves along the border, and the quarewings eating them.” She laughed. “That bird is winking. I always thought quarewings were cute. It’s just so beautiful, Tro. Uncle Nethyn will love it.”
“What’s Elanor giving him?”
The girl grinned. “A new robe and slippers. She used some of my brown and black wool, then she dyed more of the white. It’s in the house colors.”
Trovagh whistled softly. “You mean she managed to get that mulberry shade right at last?”
“Yes. Don’t let her know I told you. But it’s perfect. She’s done it with two different lots of wool now. It wasn’t the color so much. It’s setting it; mulberry usually doesn’t hold once it’s washed. Now that she’s found a way to make it fast, I expect we’ll have something else to trade next market. The gold was easy, that’s just onionskins. She got the mulberry just right, so I expect we’ll all be wearing it after a few more name days.”
The preparations continued whenever Tarnoor was absent. There was much muffled giggling and hasty whipping of things from sight whenever he returned. Tarnoor played his part by carefully seeing nothing. The servants contributed their help with enthusiasm. The Keep Lord was loved and besides, it wouldn’t do to miss out on any fun going in a long, hard winter. When the day came, Tarnoor obligingly found work he must do away from the main Keep rooms.
In the large banqueting hall there were loud voices. “To one side—no, the other one, you fool. Higher. More. Yes, that’s it. Secure that there. Shift the other over a handsbreadth. Ah, yes. That’s perfect.”
Elanor stood back to beam in approval. “They look wonderful, Cee. Now go quickly and change, you, too, Tro. I’ll just make sure all is well in the kitchens, then Tarnoor will be back. Go, go!” She chased them from the hall so that they ran giggling before her. Feet pounded up the stone stairs. Young voices called back and forth as they changed to festival clothes. Ciara swept from her room to join her friend. He took her arm and they drifted regally back down the great stair, the elegant effect slightly spoiled by quiet giggles. Tro was telling her how an overfresh mount had dumped Hanion in a snow-drift that morning.
Tarnoor arrived to find his family clustered at the hall entrance.
“What’s this? Are we to eat standing out here?”
Ciara danced up. “No, Uncle Nethyn. But we have a surprise for you. Now you have to promise to shut your eyes and not open them until we say.” Tarnoor shut his eyes obediently. With a child on either side to guide him, he was piloted to his seat.
“You can open your eyes now.” Tarnoor did so.
Before him there was the usual pile of name-day gifts. But there’d been no need to hide those from him. He glanced around, his eyes suddenly caught by new color where none had been in the old hall. He stared before walking over to touch, to examine. By the Flames but this must have been work for the child. It was something new, too. The hall had wall hangings, old tapestries woven and sewed by his mother, his grandmother, and earlier ladies. Such tapestries were not only to brighten a hall, they also kept drafts from those who ate there. Many years gone there had been two more tapestries. But the years and the moth had conquered.
The drafts had been fierce of late where those two had once hung. Now two new hangings were in place. Tarnoor fingered them. Felt! No one had ever done wall hangings of felt before. The hangings had a strong, primitive look to them. The colors were clear and brighter, hard edged on each piece. He stepped back to look again. Aiskeep in spring, gray stone under soft blue skies, with green grass and the stream. Thickets of lawleaves, and a flock of sheep grazing nearby.
The other hanging was Aiskeep in the fall. The same gray stone Keep, but with the glowing hues of almost winter. He moved forward once more. It was interesting. Up close the picture vanished into no more than odd-shaped pieces of felt. Step back and you could see Aiskeep again. Ciara waited anxiously. Trader Tanrae had told her of this method of making hangings two years ago on one of his visits. It was quicker than tapestry, warmer, too. It might also last better, but only time would demonstrate that.
She waited, then Tarnoor turned to drop an affectionate arm about her shoulders.
“My dear girl, you’ll ruin the Keep.” He waited while the hopeful look shifted to worry. “I’ll have to begin giving feasts to all my neighbors to show these off to them.” Ciara heaved a relieved sigh.
“Do you really like them, Uncle?”
He was serious for a moment. “I think they’re wonderful. I know the time and work they’d have cost you. Where did you get the idea?”
“Trader Tanrae. He told me once of a tribe across the seas who make their tents from felt in many colors. It was so drafty in the hall after the old tapestries were gone. I wondered if I could make hangings the same way.”
Tarnoor admired the hangings again. “It seems you can. Now, I’d better see what else I have lest the rest of the family grow jealous.” He twinkled at her as they returned to the massive table. The remainder of the evening was wild amusement. Hanion came in to sing several of the old hill songs accompanied by garthsmen on flute and drums. Elanor also sang, accompanying herself on her small hand harp. They played foolish games and the evening ended with Ciara and Trovagh doing an impression of Tarnoor and Elanor in which they found each had chosen to invite mortal enemies to the same feast.
The comments on the enemy Keeps, their lords, ladies, servants, and customs, had both adults laughing loudly. Hanion who had remained by the door to watch and listen was almost in tears of mirth. He could recognize, if the other adults could not, some of his own words on those visitors he had not liked. It was well into the night before any retired. This name-day feast had been the best any could remember.
* * *
The remainder of the winter passed slowly. Spring was late, sliding into a shorter than usual summer. Pasture for stock was short. At Sersgarth they were overstocked. Beasts stolen years earlier from garths of the Old Race had prospered. Seran had refused to sell as many of the offspring as he should. Now Sersgarth land and stock would suffer unless he found other grazing. His mind turned to Elmsgarth. No one had ever settled. He had pastured his beasts there more than once, each time prudently for only weeks at a time.
This time it would be for a summer and fall. The house would be convenient; he could sleep there warm and dry, and his wife and son could remain at Sersgarth. This he did but with care. It was known his beasts were on the land but not that he himself used the house. Fall arrived in a blaze of color. It would be another hard winter from the signs. Seran sent back his beasts to Sersgarth, but he remained. He’d always believed there were valuables unfound in the house. He would take a day or two longer to search again.
This time, quite by accident, he discovered the secret cupboard in the main bedroom. He peered in cursing vilely. Nothing! After all that, nothing! Voices alerted him so that he dived for cover partway up the watchtower stairs. There he sat silent, listening to the young happy talk, the laughter and jokes. Now and again he managed a glimpse of the pair.
Trovagh and the Witch’s daughter. He’d missed his strike at her once. But now he knew she was still at Aiskeep. If that interfering lord had other things to think of, Seran would be able to use Elmsgarth as he wished.
He waited impatiently until, hours later, the pair had ridden away. Then he fled for his own mount. He knew at least two Keep Lords who’d pay well for this information. Not because they cared about hunting Witches. No, they had feuds with Aiskeep. That should gain Seran land and a fat profit to boot. He caressed his coin that winter. With spring thaw Aiskeep would find it had enemies at the gate, nor would it know from whence they came.
He was both right and wrong. One of the Keeps had troubles of its own that spring. The other waited until early summer. Then they gathered their forces.
They marched first to Sersgarth, there they forced Seran to join them. They camped solidly at Aiskeep gates and commenced the attack. But for all they could do, the Keep stood. Summer wore on as the attacks became more frantic. Twice attempts were made to undermine the walls. But Aiskeep was built on a ledge of underlying rock. The enemy could tunnel only so far before they found their passage halted. They held the siege but privately the Master at Arms knew it was futile. Still his lord commanded.
It cost them dearly. In men and supplies, and most of all in the fear or respect others might have for them. They had made no impression on Aiskeep, but many of their own guard were dead. They were weakened by this and all for some tale from a garthsman with his own ax to grind. The Master at Arms guessed he’d be made scapegoat on his return—unless he could soften his lord’s wrath. There was one way to do that. He had Seran bound before the army marched on Sersgarth.
There they demanded a price. To buy the lives of Seran and his family, to save the garth from being razed, let all there bring out what they had. There was a swift discussion between the brothers. They drove out all the stock that was Seran’s. All the plunder from the Old Race that Seran had hoarded. The betrayer betrayed. His secret hiding places were emptied, all was offered. It was not enough. The brothers took his wife aside. They would pay coin each of them, but it was against Seran’s share in Sersgarth.
He would live, but he must leave to find another home, other work. She would have refused. She had no great love for her husband, but she guessed that if she refused they would claim her to have agreed anyhow. She spoke the words, hating them with her eyes. Small hoards of gold and silver, small items of jewelry appeared. One by one Seran’s brothers contributed until the Master at Arms nodded. Seran was released while his laughing guards gathered the price they had taken.
Pushing the stock before them, the small army rode for their Keep. They could have still razed the garth, taken all that it possessed. The Master at Arms had chosen to leave the dirt-grubbers be. His lord might not approve, as such a thing was a game too many Keeps could play once it began. His lord received him grimly, a man who had failed. But the plunder displayed turned his mood to one of approval. It was only men he had lost. More could be found anywhere. The supplies used were more than covered by this display of ransom. He laughed, tossed coins to each soldier, more to his Armsmaster. There would always be another time.
Seran was not so fortunate. He had been long overbearing, even vicious as the oldest brother. Now he had brought down disaster. The younger three and their wives argued all night. By morning they were united. Seran was taken outside to be shown a small shaggy pony. On it was a pack, not overplump.
“This is yours. Take your wife and son and go.” He would have protested, but for the look in their eyes, the hands that hovered by pitchforks, wooden staves. With a surly snarl he took up the lead rein, called the two who must go with him. He marched from the gates without looking back. In a way he understood his brothers. It was what he himself would have done. It was Aiskeep he hated. Lord Tarnoor who was the enemy. He’d remember that. Somewhere, somehow he would gain a revenge on them. They’d recall this day and weep tears of blood.
It was long before Tarnoor discovered these events. He shrugged when he learned. Seran had betrayed many in his time, that matters were reversed was only just. He would have helped the woman and boy had he known where they went. He did not. None seemed to know or have seen the small group as it fled. But it was almost a year. Well into the following summer before word came to Aiskeep. All three had vanished.
On the road Seran had suffered a second loss. His wife had refused to travel far beyond Teral. Her family’s garth was there, and there she would stay. She was taken in again willingly, not so Seran. He stayed the winter but in spring it was strongly suggested he move on. His wife remained. His son went with him. Over the years, Sersgarth was forgotten. But Aiskeep and its lord were not. Seran grew old muttering tales of revenge into his son’s ears. The boy listened. Seran died, still swearing revenge. His son joined a lord’s guard to learn soldiering. Revenge was all very well, but it put no beans on the table.
* * *
At Aiskeep the years were quiet after Seran’s departure. They slipped by like beads on thread as unrest ruled Karsten. Yet it passed them by. The knowledge that twice other Keeps had tried Aiskeep walls nor found them wanting encouraged Aiskeep to be left in peace. Tarnoor started no feuds, and he lived quietly; he believed it was better not to stamp on the tail of a sleeping snowcat. Geavon continued to write from his Keep near the city. The news was rarely good as Keeps and clans warred, now with this one now with that.
Trovagh and Ciara were happy. The girl was seventeen, slim and round of face. Her eyes glowed a warm laughing hazel, her skin a sun-ripened peach. She was agile and supple, interested in everything and everyone. Trovagh was her friend and partner in it all. Sometimes his father wondered how long it would take the lad to wake up and look at his young friend. The lass was not beautiful, but there was an integrity there. A strength and pride. From towers to furthest valley she knew and loved Aiskeep.
One day the boy would open his eyes. Ciara was born to be Keep Lady. Elanor smiled to herself. Events would take care of themselves. She made sure that Tarnoor said nothing. In the Year of the Pronghorn they celebrated Ciara’s eighteenth name day. The Torgians had produced two foals in that time. The oldest had been carefully broken and trained for the girl at Tarnoor’s orders. Trovagh led the girl to the stables to show off the fine colt. Ciara clapped her hands.
“He’s lovely. Tro, let’s go for a ride?”
Her friend grinned cheerfully. “I guessed you wouldn’t wait to try out everything.” He patted the magnificent saddle that had been his own gift. Beside it hung the bridle Elanor had given and a beautiful saddle blanket of rabbit furs that was Hanion’s gift. Trovagh looked across at the stalled present.
“But it’s a pity you can’t use the colt. Father was so annoyed the poor beast picked up a stone bruise right on your name day. Never mind, you can take Quickfeet; she’s good in rough land.” He grinned at her. “You’d better change. The stable boy will have my horse ready by the time you get back here.” He added as she turned to go, “And tell Father that we’ll ride down to the cave and be gone all day. I’ll get food from the kitchen, then wait here.” He watched as she picked up her skirts to run lightly back up the inner stairs. It was only on feast days and when visitors were present that Cee ever wore real skirts. At other times she wore the shorter knee-length type divided for riding. She always said that she was too busy to drag about in skirts to the floor with all the weight of wool.
If pressed she recounted that tale of old Geavon’s about some Keep Lady who’d broken her neck by tripping over a long skirt. Anyway, he liked Cee the way she was. Most of their visitors didn’t mind. Geavon had been here twice in the past few years. He was a stickler for proper dress, but he’d smiled at Cee and said nothing. Geavon had been involved in some conspiracy in Kars before the first visit. It had gone wrong and Geavon had chosen to be out of sight and mind a few months. The second visit had been last year. The old man had complained that as Tarnoor never came to Gerith Keep, Gerith Keep must come to him. Trovagh was silently of the opinion that the man was lonely.
At least he had been. Elanor had mentioned that Geavon had hip pains from an old wound. That he was taking extract of poppy to ease the pains when they came. Maybe the old man was wanting to see his only friends while he could. Last time he’d arrived with quite a train of guards and a couple of travel wagons. It occurred to the boy as he remembered, that this was rather more than needed for a visit. Even for Gerith’s lord who liked to travel in style. He’d have pursued that idea but for the necessity of persuading Cook they must have food. Once the saddlebags had been filled he’d forgotten all about it.
Ciara joined him just as he returned to the stables. She wore her new riding clothes made by Elanor during the winter. Almost absently Trovagh no
ticed how well they suited her—and how well they fitted. He found he was admiring the supple sway of her body as she sat through the excited cavorting of her young mount.
“Hey, sleepy. Are you going to sit there all day or do we ride?”
Trovagh snorted. “Ride. Bet I can beat you to the first garth.” He kicked his horse into a gallop before he finished his words. Ciara was behind him though as his horse accelerated. They raced whooping and laughing down the valley. But at Marin’s garth, he and Jontar met them with grave faces.
“Lord, the Lady Ciara’s flock did not return to their barn last night. The boy with them has not come back.”
“Maybe one of the sheep became lost. If the lad was looking too late to return, he’ll have kept them in the cave for the night.”
“That’s likely, Lord. But we’d be happy if you could be sure.”
Trovagh glanced at Cee, and she nodded. The lad was Marin and Jontar’s grandson. It was natural the old men should be worried. But the day was bright, too nice to spend worrying. They followed the trail to the fork near the cave. One track led to the cave, the other deeper into the mountains. As they turned toward the cave, Trovagh halted.
“I can see something down there; look, Cee, just by that rock at the bottom.”
She stared over the small cliff. “It’s a lamb. That must be why the boy’s late. He’ll be up at the cave with the rest of the flock. You see if you can get the lamb. Even if it was killed yesterday it should be all right for eating. I’ll ride up to the cave to find Kiv and tell him.”
Trovagh nodded agreement, then dismounted to peer over the edge. It shouldn’t be hard to get down, but it puzzled him why Kiv hadn’t found the lamb. Maybe he had only lost it on the way home, then turned back to look. It was always wise to have some sort of rope on one’s saddle in rough lands. He unhooked the braided rawhide, fastening it to a stump near the cliff edge. Then he walked down the steep slope to gather the lamb across one shoulder. He was about to climb back when a flutter caught his eye. He glanced across. Something lying behind a larger boulder? But only cloth would flap that way.