Ciara's Song

  “N-n-no. But an allowance, and—” He broke off hastily. That bit about learning of the land and people. It was a portion of the formal acceptance of Keep Heir. Not all of it, just a part. Perhaps a hint that if he shaped well, the inheritance might be confirmed. He’d say nothing of that, though. They knew what they’d said. He knew. He’d prove himself before he expected them to say more.

  Ciara was talking gently, “Of course you must have an allowance. We can’t have you at Aiskeep with holes in your breeches. Don’t expect a fortune, Keelan. Aiskeep does well enough, but we aren’t Clan Iren.”

  She named an amount that made the boy stare. “What is it?”

  “Do you mean that much?”

  Trovagh looked interested. “That’s each year, Keelan. Not each moon. Doesn’t Aisha give you your coin?”

  “No, well, not really. If I nag long enough, I may get a little. But she says I don’t need it. Iren gives me bed and board, I can use a horse from their stables, drink wine at their table. What do I need money for?”

  “Well, you have it now. Come to my study after you’ve eaten and I’ll let you have the first quarter-year. Now eat; here at Aiskeep we don’t like to see our family starve.”

  He drank off his wine and offered an arm to Ciara. Once they were private, Trovagh exploded. “That selfish, mean, cheating . . .”

  “Lying, miserable excuse for a mother!” Ciara finished for him. “All this time she’s been begging for more and more money from us.” Her voice slid into a beggar’s whine. “Mother Ciara, I need more coin for clothes for my sons. They grow so quickly. Mother Ciara, I need more money for my sons, they must be able to pay their way in the city. Faugh! And all the time she’s given that poor child nothing.”

  She turned on Trovagh, but he forestalled her. “Yes, I know he could be lying. But I believe him. Haven’t you seen the clothes he has, love? And the weapons. His sword looks as if it was forgotten at the back of an armory. His bow was useless. That’s why Hanion and Harran chose to give him a new one. I’d say much of the money for Kirion has gone to him. But the allowance for Keelan, Aisha has been using for herself.” Trovagh looked at his wife. “Let us talk to Keelan. I suspect the boy has very little to bring back. We’ll send Harran with him and a letter. If we work the timing right, Keelan will be out of there before Aisha knows what’s happened to her.”

  It was done. Keelan had a peaceful happy ride over the long days to Kars. There he left Harran while Keelan rode on to Iren Keep. He found his mother as usual, too busy talking to Kirion to listen much to her second son. It was as if they’d barely noticed he’d been gone nearly a year. He bit back a nasty smirk. That would change soon.

  Keelan went through his room with care. Really, there was little he wanted. Most of his clothes were fit only to toss to a beggar. He had a few odds and ends.

  He gathered those into the saddlebags he’d been given. They didn’t even fill one. He shrugged. What did it matter. He was going back to Shosho, to Aiskeep and his family. He left the rest of his threadbare belongings and returned to the stables. They’d ridden into Kars on fine mounts from the Aiskeep Torgian strain. He’d left his mount in the inn stables along with Harran’s horse and hired a cheap, clumsy beast to ride the last distance to Iren.

  He’d given orders with a new assurance on arrival there. The beast was to be well-cared for and readied for departure again in a couple of hours. Keelan sat on his bed looking down at the lean saddlebags. It wasn’t much for eighteen name days. What did he have in Iren Keep anyhow? A brother he disliked, feared, and distrusted. And a mother—Keelan felt sudden tears sting his eyes. A mother who stole from him. Oh, his grandparents had been quick to cover up. But you didn’t live in a Keep like Iren most of your life without being able to read faces, hands, and half sentences. He’d seen the fingers tighten, seen the glance at each other. The query: hadn’t his mother given him his coin? He’d understood in a flare of rage and bitterness.

  During all these years, she’d constantly complained that Aiskeep gave her almost nothing. He’d discounted some of that. She had the latest clothes, the trips to Kars. He’d just assumed that Aiskeep made only her an allowance. That anything she gave her sons came from her purse. It had all been a lie. Trovagh had handed Keelan a purse, a mixture of copper, silver, and gold coinage. Then Ciara had called him to speak outside the door a moment.

  With Trovagh gone, Keelan had seized the opportunity. He’d seen the money given him placed down in a big ledger. Now he turned back a page or two. It had been there: steady columns of figures going down the page in three lines. One headed Aisha, another Kirion, the third Keelan. His new allowance was larger, but not by a huge amount. No wonder his mother could afford to dress so finely. He wondered if Kirion knew that the coin he wheedled from Aisha was Kirion’s by right. He’d stepped back behind the desk again.

  It had taken only seconds, but he knew at last how his mother valued him. It cut the last tie he might have had with Iren, Keep or Clan.

  Keelan looked down at the saddlebags. Then he stood with a new resolution. He tossed the bags over one arm, walking to the door to call the nearest servant.

  “Come in.” He pointed to the scatter of clothing, and other minor gear laying about the room. “See all this, it’s yours. Do what you want with it. Sell it, give it away, toss it on the midden. I won’t be back.” He listened a moment to the stammered thanks. “Never mind. But I’d get it out of here before someone else thinks they’ve a stronger claim.”

  Keelan grinned at the scramble that produced. He strolled down the old stone stairs toward the stables. The horse had been cared for, he checked, then tossed the stable boy a coin—to that lad’s considerable surprise—then mounted and rode quietly down the road toward Kars. He’d be there by nightfall.

  He slept dreamlessly in the big comfortable bed at the inn. Harran woke him early,

  “Ready, lad?”

  “Yes.” They shared breakfast from the tray the inn sent up, then packed. An hour after dawn, they were on the homeward journey. Keelan found he was singing softly. Home! It was a wonderful word. He remembered the letter his mother would be reading in a few hours. He sang louder. It really was a beautiful day!

  Aisha read the letter close to sunhigh. As she often did, she’d slept in, then fussed over her meal, her dress, and her plans for the afternoon. Only then was her maid permitted to bring in the letter and sealed purse. She’d assumed it to be the usual allowances, and a note of polite nothings from Elanor. She opened the purse and counted. It was short by a considerable amount. Aisha fumed. Then she opened the letter. With difficulty she perused the lines of neat script. Her reading ability had never been good. It was good enough in this case for her to understand what Ciara wrote—and rather more besides.

  Ciara had kept it polite, merely conveying that since Keelan was removing to live at Aiskeep his allowance would be given to him direct. That was all it said. Aisha understood the rest, though. Aiskeep knew that Keelan had been cheated for years. That his mother had given him nothing of what was sent. And moreover, Keelan would know this, too, by now.

  She pouted angrily. It was for her to decide how much a son should have. Keelan was still a child. She continued to read and gulped. Ciara had added that in the future the allowances would be sent separately, that Kirion should have his given direct also.

  That was serious. If Kirion understood that she’d cheated him for years, he might take revenge. She was just a little afraid of what her son was becoming.

  Then it occurred to her. Keelan had appeared briefly the previous day. She’d hadn’t seen him since. Ciara’s letter said he was living at Aiskeep now? Aisha hurried to investigate. The boy’s room was empty of all he’d had. At the stables they told her he’d gone the night before. Further inquiry discovered the inn. Aisha bit a finger. So—Harran had been there. It really did look as if Aiskeep had taken Keelan in, perhaps as heir.

  This news would serve very well to divert Kirion. She could mention tha
t the separate—and increased—allowance for him had been at her suggestion. He’d take the coin, but it would also help convince him that Aiskeep was trying to buy him off.

  Kirion was away on one of his mysterious errands. She waited until his return, telling him the news of his allowance first. As she’d expected, he was delighted—until she added, quite casually, that Keelan was gone.

  “Gone where? You mean he’s staying with some friend?”

  “Not exactly. The servants say he’s cleared all his possessions. In Kars they say he arrived with Harran from Aiskeep. Left with the man the next morning very early.” She made her face innocent. “Keelan said something about living at Aiskeep now; you don’t think he’s entangled with anyone, do you?” She invested the last query with a salaciousness that was startling.

  Kirion exploded in fury. “Entangled? I’d wager he’s entangled! They’ll have decided to make him Keep Heir instead of me.” He proceeded to damn every last one of his kin at Aiskeep, with particular virulent attention to his younger brother. “This so-called increase in allowance is to buy me off. We’ll see about it. Thank the Gods I have friends.”

  He flung from Aisha’s room in a way that secretly amused her. Kirion would find he had no friends if he started bullying them as he had always bullied Keelan. Perhaps that was why the younger boy had gone?

  Kirion stamped his way out to the stables. He had a horse saddled, then rode for the city. He received no satisfaction from his cronies. They could only recite Karsten laws that allowed what his grandparents might have done. Kirion returned in a worse temper than he’d been in when he left. He retired to the tower rooms where he preferred to live. They provided space, privacy, and enough distance from other occupied parts of the Keep to muffle the sounds that sometimes came from Kirion’s room late at night. He was making progress in his studies. That at least was satisfactory.

  He sat down wearily in a chair. If he could just master the art of influencing people. Not too obviously, but just enough to make them more receptive to what he was asking.

  With his anger as a goad he worked for several nights. Then he went back to Kars. He was gone a day and a night before he returned, a sweetly vicious smile playing around his thin lips. Now he could begin his moves. In a year or two at most he should have Shandro on the throne of Kars.

  After that he’d plan his campaign against Aiskeep. First he must stir hatred against the Witches once more. In later years it had somewhat died down. It must be kindled to flame again. That would be easy with Shandro; he’d grown up with tales of the mountains’ Turning. Half of his clan had died with Pagar. Yes, Kirion would begin with Shandro.

  Half done is well begun, Kirion reminded himself six months later. Shandro had been easy to rouse to wrath. All Kirion had done was take every opportunity of mentioning how far down Shandro’s clan had fallen.

  Of course he’d used the spell whenever he did so. He had that mastered. If only he could have risked the darker, more dangerous one that matched it. That he was not prepared to do. It would be the difference between persuasion and an order obeyed at once. But there were drawbacks. Kirion never underestimated danger to himself. The darker spell could lash back if it failed. It could recoil on the user to his doom. Kirion intended to rule Kars through Shandro, not to lie dead in some ornate tomb.

  He used his spell persuading as and when he could. Gradually over the next year Shandro rose in power. His attitude and those of his shadow court hardened against the Estcarp Witches and those of the Old Race who might remain in Karsten. Two years after Keelan had deserted Iren, Shandro became duke of Kars. It was a title of little value as wealth went. The generations of unrest or outright war had impoverished both the city and the provinces about it. All Karsten was poor.

  Using his spells Kirion persuaded traders to come more often to Kars. He cajoled better prices for Karsten goods. In Alizon there arose a fad for the felt wall hangings Ciara had made popular many years earlier in the South. A trickle of wealth began to flow into Karsten. It was not a great deal in itself, but it sparked a renewed hope, a rebuilding on the part of those who lived there. In another year the trickle of wealth had deepened and widened. Some of the clans and Keeps were growing rich again. Kirion made sure that the throne took its full share.

  At Aiskeep Ciara was torn. She knew from Geavon that Kirion was behind the Kars throne. She heard of the growing hatred against those with the Old Blood. Geavon would have warned her if she had not seen what might come. He was too old to ride any longer, but his mind was as keen as ever, and his fingers as nimble. He wrote more often to Aiskeep to make up for the visits he could no longer manage. His letter this time brought fear.

  Trovagh was with Ciara in their own room reading the latest pages. “He says Shandro is considering a new law,” she reported.

  Trovagh looked up from where he added wood to the fire. “A law on witchcraft?”

  “Yes. Not the Horning again, but the result is likely to be the same. They offer half the goods of any found to be of the Old Race and practicing witchcraft, to those who denounce them.”

  Trovagh was startled. “But that’s wicked. They’ll have half of the land denouncing the other. A good number of people have that blood. Any can add an accusation of spell-casting. How will they judge?”

  Ciara’s voice was dry. “Probably by how much those denounced can contribute to the duke’s coffers. I smell Kirion’s hand in all this. He knows who and what I am.”

  Trovagh grinned suddenly, “I don’t think he’ll even look at Aiskeep, dear heart. He’s your grandson. If he allows you to be denounced, he names himself. From what Geavon writes Kars is rapidly becoming hysterical on the subject. I wonder just how safe even Kirion may be.”

  Kirion, too, was wondering of recent weeks. It seemed that one could start a fire that was far harder to put out again. He sat glumly in his room at the palace worrying. It had seemed such a good idea when he began it. Now it looked possible even he could come under suspicion. He hadn’t bargained for that. He’d better work out a way to decrease the hysteria. He worked hard most of that winter. He succeeded eventually in convincing Shandro that the idea was not to wipe out all those with any ability.

  No, far better to get them under the duke’s hand. Use them to aid Kars. It took time but at last he was able to persuade the duke into revoking the law. Kirion took over the lists as yet unused. There were sure to be a scattering of those who were genuinely of the Old Race. He scanned the lines of names. He’d find those, then wring from them any indication of their abilities. Their families would stand hostage.

  Here and there he did find a man or woman of the Old Blood. None of the pure line but occasionally one of part-blood who had chosen to remain.

  It did Kirion little good. The less of the blood, the less chance that they’d be of use. Most of those he found practiced healcraft in some way. That was not what he wanted. Where they had money he saw to it they vanished. His pockets were filling, as was Kars’s treasury. But it gained Kirion no power. He knew an old poisoner in the lower city who could do more than any of these pathetic remnants of the Old Race. He decided to move more openly against Aiskeep in ways they would find it harder to counter. He chose a man of Shandro’s clan to make the offer. A very carefully chosen man.

  The messengers arrived the day after Aisling’s sixteenth name day. Trovagh watched as Ciara read the beautifully penned letter. Her eyes blazed in disgust as she turned to him.

  “Ruart! I’d rather give her to a pig. You’ll tell him no, of course?” Trovagh hesitated and his wife stared at him.

  “Tro? You aren’t going to agree, you can’t!”

  “Don’t be a fool. No, I wouldn’t dream of agreeing, but look at the consequences. We can’t say the girl is too young. She’s sixteen. Kirion knows that even if Ruart doesn’t. So what do we say. A flat refusal is likely to bring half of Ruart’s clan about our ears at the insult.”

  “Say she’s sick, loose of morals, mad, or promised elsewhere
. Anything, Tro. But she doesn’t go to that man. He’s the one Geavon told us about two years ago when all that witchcraft fuss was stirring in Kars. I will not have Aisling wed a man of that sort even if the girl would agree. And as yet she’s shown no sign of looking at any man with much interest.”

  “I agree, but we must move carefully,” Trovagh said quietly. “One thing, too. It’s to my mind that we should bring Keelan into this discussion. We made him Keep Heir over a year gone. Aisling is his sister, and he has a right to know what is asked and by whom.”

  “This offer was probably instigated by his brother anyway. Yes, Tro. Call him.”

  Keelan came, read the letter in silence, then stared at the fire. It was a fair offer if you disregarded the character of he who made it. Aisling was offered honorable marriage into a powerful clan. They’d accept her with only a small dowry, and they offered several sweeteners for the contract. And if she gave Ruart a son, she was then free to depart should she choose to do so. With her would go a large sum of money as largesse for the clan heir. That last was supposed to help convince Keelan.

  Persuade your sister, pressure her if need be. And we’ll make you rich in a couple of years. It was well worded, of course. It could equally read that they’d let Aisling free if she wished once she’d given the clan an heir. The coin was to support the heir’s mother in her old home once she returned there. That was what Ruart would claim was intended if he was challenged.

  Ruart. A crony of Kirion’s but almost ten years older, he must be around thirty-five by now. Keelan had seen more of the man than he’d wished in Iren Keep. Not a nice type.

  Then, too, there was that business Geavon had mentioned. Keelan remembered thinking at the time that no matter how it had been covered over, he’d wager it had been true. But if they simply refused the offer for Aisling a storm would be raised. Ruart would demand a good reason. What could they say—we’d rather cut Aisling’s throat than throw her into your bed?