Talyo nodded to his son in approval. He knew why the boy had shot. Larian had always been the best archer in the family. That had been a tricky shot but Tylar was silenced, and Ciara safer. His wife had vanished upstairs to the watchtower. It had been built by his great-grandfather when he took this valley for his own. The land had been more lawless then and it had been used often. It stood high above the garth. Very high. Anyone who leaped from that would not survive landing on the cobblestones below. Lanlia returned to stand beside her husband.
“The doors are open.” He understood, she would not be taken alive.
The massive old door was beginning to split; soon it would fall. He laid his weapons aside and took her gently in his arms.
“Beloved, when I lost Shala I never thought I would know happiness again. With you I have found such joy and love as a man seldom finds.” Lanlia said nothing but held him to her with all her strength. There was a final booming ending in a long, splintering crunch as the door gave way. Talyo thrust her behind him.
“Go to the tower now, beloved, and do what you must.” In that split second as she turned to run she ‘saw.’ The gifts of her blood had never been real power in her. But with death reaching out she ‘saw’ now, as she had ‘seen’ the deaths of her stepsons and their family. Duke Yvian lay dead, betrayed by his own. Mountains twisted and crumbled, beneath them lay the armies of Karsten. Lanlia leapt for the stairs as her husband and son stood side by side behind her in the narrow hall.
As she flashed around the bend of the stairs she halted to stare back. Larian was down, she felt his death. Talyo was falling. She cried out as he turned to look at her one last time, love in his eyes. Then a sword fell. The guards howled in triumph surging forward to reach for her. But she was already in flight. She hurled herself through the doorways, slamming each door as she ran. It slowed those behind just enough. She reached the final door to the tower and thrust it shut, dropping the long metal bar into place. Then she flung herself up the final flights of stairs. She gained the top and it seemed more terrible to her that it should still be a bright day. All she had loved, all but her daughter were dead. It should be cold, snowing or raining. Not this soft sunshine of late afternoon.
She listened as the guards beat on the door below. It would take little time for them to realize they should bring the log again. Lanlia closed her eyes, her mind sought back to the visions of a dead duke, falling mountains. Below the door boomed. She reached to hold Ciara’s face in her mind. Would her daughter be strong enough to survive as she must? The door began to splinter. Lanlia called the faces of her loves. The stepsons she’d cared for, her beloved husband, her son and daughter. She stepped out onto the tower edge. The door broke open and a rush of feet roared upward. She turned to face them then and into her mind came a calm clear voice. She knew it. Her husband’s grandmother. A woman of the old pure blood who had loved them all.
*The blood shall come full circle. It shall rise to flower again. Come to me, child, and be free.*
As the guards threw themselves forward she smiled at them. Then she allowed herself to fall in silence.
High in her cave Ciara could see little. The men had broken down the door and vanished. Then her mother appeared on the watchtower. Ciara would have called to her but she remembered. She must draw no attention, she must keep silence. Her mother was facing away, looking down the stairs. Dimly the child could hear a thudding sound. The men were breaking down another door. She saw them rush onto the roof, saw her mother fall silently. And in that moment she knew she was the last of her family alive. Her hand stole up to grasp the pendant beneath her bodice. The other gripped the dagger hilt. They were hers to keep now, along with the memory. She would not forget how they’d died, that she swore on Larian’s treasures.
But she was still only a child. She crawled back into her refuge and wept until her face was swollen and her eyes slits. She cried until she fell asleep wrapped in her mother’s cloak. She did not see the guards leave almost empty-handed. What use were sheep or goats to them? And if Elmsgarth had held anything of value, they could not find it. A few had taken minor items. The bolt of cloth her mother had bought to make Ciara and herself new dresses. The set of good pans from the kitchen. A saddle and bridles from the stable. Several bits of clothing and a few sheepskins already tanned. They set a fire but it was already going out as they departed. They grumbled as they rode. The garth had been a waste. No loot, no women, nothing worth the energy.
It was day again when Ciara woke. She could still see her mother’s body below on the cobblestones. It set off another fit of weeping. She would have climbed down but for her promise. She stayed, a child’s appetite asserting itself by evening. Then she thought to rummage in the carrysacks that lay along the cave wall. Within one was food. She ate mindlessly, cramming the stale bread into her mouth and washing it down with sips from the flask she found. It was watered wine and she slept swiftly again once her hunger was assuaged.
She ate when she woke, crawling to the cave mouth to stare down the valley. Her mother had said she was to remain up here five days. There was enough food, and with the flask and a water bag as well she could stay safely. But the cave would stink soon. She relieved herself right at the back where there was a small dip. The rock was cracked there so liquid seeped away, but not solids. Nor was there any earth to cover them. Perhaps she should climb down when she must do that? But she’d promised, and what if the guards came back and caught her?
She remained, terrified, confused and grieving in her cave a third day. Then, as noon moved into early afternoon, she saw two riders moving towards Elmsgarth. She knew them, Lord Tarnoor and his son. Trovagh was only a year older than Ciara and the families had been friends. Her mother had said Ciara was to go to Lord Tarnoor, but he’d come to her instead. Still she was afraid in case any of the guards were here. She watched carefully. There was no sign of anyone but the two riders. At the garth door Tarnoor was gathering up her mother’s body. It would be all right, it must be. She slipped across to the branch of the great elm nearest her refuge. Then to the next and the next until she reached her window. She could hear their voices now.
“Yvian must be mad, Gods damn him. There’s only Talyo, Lanlia, and the boy here. They’ll have got Falco and Merryon in the city. That hell-cursed guard even tried to set fire to the garth before they left.”
He was interrupted by a lighter treble. “But, Father, Ciara isn’t here. I’ve looked in all the rooms.”
“You’re right, lad.” Lord Tarnoor’s voice was lifted in his familiar bellow. “Ciara? Ciara, lass. Where are you?”
The child remained silent. After a while, she heard Tarnoor speak again, bitterness in his voice.
“It may be that they took her with them. We’ll bury the family and then look properly. If she’s dead we’ll find her to lie with them.”
Ciara heard the digging begin, the spade striking rocks now and then as Tarnoor sweated and cursed. Her mother had said she could trust Tarnoor. Aiskeep owed her mother a debt. As a toddler Trovagh had fallen from high in the old Keep. He’d been badly injured and Tarnoor had sent to Lanlia for help. It was known she had somewhat of the healing gift. For many nights she worked over the small child until at last he was out of danger. He would always walk a little lame, and colds tended to settle dangerously on his chest in the chillier winters. But he lived. Tarnoor’s only child and the heir to Aiskeep. Ciara could remember her parents talking.
“He loves the boy,” her mother had insisted. “Oh, yes, it’s true he loathes the man who’d inherit if Trovagh died. But he loves the boy well. I have seen them together.” Her tones had become warmly amused. “I do not think the harsh Lord Tarnoor is as hard as he would have many think. I have told him, too, that the child should have a playmate.”
Tarnoor seemed to have agreed. After Trovagh was well again his father brought him regularly to Elmsgarth to play childish games with Ciara. Although she was a year younger and slighter of bone, she still was the e
qual to Trovagh whose injuries had slowed his growth. She had come first to like and then to trust her friend completely, and with him his father. She watched her family laid to rest, heard the old words said. But she was afraid without quite knowing why. She had always been active. Scrapes, bruises, and occasional punishment had been hers. It was not pain of body that held her back now, but pain of heart.
The guards of Karsten were to protect the people. Why, one of Falco’s best friends was a lieutenant. The duke was there to give Justice. Where was his Justice in this? Where was the protection? If being one of the Old Blood was wicked, might not Tarnoor, even her friend Trovagh, turn against her? She could not bear it if they came at her with swords. Her heart would break before the bright metal struck home. She hovered indecisively edging first a little toward them, then back. The movement caught Trovagh’s eye as he turned. Already wise at ten he did not run toward her but spoke quietly to his father.
“Ciara’s here, but I think she’s afraid.”
“Don’t alarm her. Walk to her very slowly, speak quietly,” Tarnoor advised. He’d seen enough terrorized children in his time as a soldier. The Goddess grant none had laid hands on the lass.
Trovagh moved forward, hands held out. “Ciara, Cee? It’s Tro. My father’s here. Nothing bad will happen to you. Please come out. Cee?” She edged toward him, white eye rims showing like a terrified horse. He kept talking, reminding her of their games, their secrets, until at last he reached her. Still murmuring gently, he placed a hand on her arm and felt the long, slow shudders that rippled through the thin body. “Cee, no one will hurt you, I swear it. Please come with us.” Overcome then with fury, his treble hardened to a lighter imitation of his father’s growl. “I swear, Cee. I’ll hang the man who hurts you. If I can’t, I’ll order one of our men.” He met her eyes and suddenly the picture of his words set them both to giggling in slight hysteria.
Trovagh grinned. “I know, I know. My father gives that sort of order. But he’d say the same.” He laid a careful arm about the shaking shoulders and gently led Ciara to where Tarnoor stood.
“You would, wouldn’t you, Father? Hang the man who tried to hurt Cee, I mean?”
“Yes. If I could. Or keep him away from you at the least, child. Now sit down a minute and tell me what you can. Speak swiftly, for we must be away from here in case any of the guard return.”
She talked, the words spilling out of her like blood. It hurt to remember her mother’s orders, and how she had died. Tarnoor swore under his breath. He’d done things as a soldier under orders. But Aiskeep owed Elmsgarth a debt and he’d never been one to forget that. Nor one to harm a child, either, he added mentally. He hid a sudden smile. His son would never forgive him if anything happened to Ciara now. The boy had pledged his word his playmate would be safe. Tarnoor was not the man to see his son oathbroken.
“Can you climb up now and drop the carrysacks to us?”
Ciara nodded slowly. At his gesture she trotted up the stairs, traversed the elms, and from the cave dropped the four containers.
These were slung across the rump of Tarnoor’s mount. Then he turned as she rejoined them. This should be official.
“Your mother trusted me to care for you. Will you come with me to Aiskeep? Will you accept me as your guardian?”
Ciara’s eyes filled with tears. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say. The questions had an air of formality about them. Was there some special way she should answer? She stood drooping before him. Small face white with grief and exhaustion, body still shaking from the shocks of past days. She was unable to think, to speak. She could only huddle into herself, huge-eyed and silent.
Tarnoor forgot formality as he wordlessly held out his arms. She flung herself to him, weeping aloud as he held her. In that moment something passed between them. She relaxed, trusting, knowing she was again protected. Tarnoor held her enfolded, a rush of love for the child he’d been sent. His daughter now. His! And let none say differently.
2
T hey rode back together, with Ciara’s carrysacks hanging over the rump of Lord Tarnoor’s horse, while Ciara perched behind Trovagh on his smaller pony. Tarnoor had hoisted her up and wrapped her carefully in the oversized cloak.
“It’s too big for her, Father.”
“That’s no matter while she’s on the pony, boy. And I’d rather no one sees who she is while the countryside’s still so stirred up.”
At the thought of that Ciara shrank deep into the sheltering cloak. She’d seen neighbor Tylar die. Blood feuds had started from far less than a death. From beneath the enveloping hood she peered out, her eyes attuned to her own land, so that it was she who saw the sheep first.
“Oh, stop, Trovagh.”
The boy halted his pony. Ciara slipped from her perch to walk quietly toward the small huddle of ewes and lambs. Larian had released them as ordered before the guards arrived. The sheep had drifted well down the valley but kept to cover. It was growing colder toward winter. Soon they would be fed with extra rations of hay. But the odd smells of fire and blood had disturbed them. In their blacks and browns they had vanished into cover blending with the fall landscape. They recognized Ciara at once, though, crowding round to sniff hopefully at her hands.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you. Where’s Ysak?”
At the sound of his name the big ram shouldered his way through the small flock. She knelt to hug him gently.
“Look after them for me. We’ll return for you.” She gazed up at Tarnoor doubtfully. “We will, won’t we?”
“Yes, child. As soon as we’re home I’ll send out men to bring in everything of yours you wish. It’s likely we won’t find the horses. The guards will have taken any they found.”
“Larian let everything go before they got to us.”
“Then the men will look for them also. Get up behind Trovagh again. We must get you to Aiskeep.”
She mounted in silence looking back at the flock with Ysak as guard. Her mother had cherished each lamb. They were the only colored sheep in the whole area. Father had brought back several frail lambs from the province past Kars to the North. There, closer to the Estcarp border they had such sheep. He’d got the lambs cheaply in a deal and carried them back. With Lanlia’s care they had thrived. Now and again she had been able to buy or swap for others. Until at last the Elmsgarth flock numbered some twenty adult ewes and Ysak the ram. All were hand tamed and would come to their names.
They must be brought back to the Keep. She could not bear the thought of them being left alone, prey to men and animals. They were sturdy beasts, but in full winter they required shelter and additional food. In the back of her mind, she wondered why she was thinking so hard about the sheep. Tarnoor could have told her that it was shock, and her mind’s defenses. If she contemplated sheep she did not have to remember her family—or their deaths. Now and again he encouraged her with questions so that she hardly noticed the journey back to Aiskeep.
When at last they arrived, she was lifted from the pony. Tarnoor carried her indoors, through the feasting hall, and into a small bedroom beside Trovagh’s rooms.
“This will be yours.” He turned, speaking quietly to the plump, warmhearted Elanor, who was his distant kin. “Care for her, but touch nothing in her carrysacks, nor do anything she does not wish. See that she eats, if possible. If not, get her to drink something hot. She is uninjured but badly shocked. Ask no questions of her and be sure no one else bothers her, either.”
He left them to it. Elanor had been maid and companion to his wife before she died. Now she was housekeeper. Uninspired it was true, but efficient and kind nonetheless. He headed back to the stables in search of Trovagh.
“Do those sheep of Elmsgarth know you, son?”
“Yes. Are we going back for them now?”
“I think so. From what the girl says, it won’t be long before those sons of Tylar come looking. The body was gone, which means the guard must have taken it back to Sersgarth. They’re t
roublemakers, that family. But they aren’t complete fools. Sooner or later it will dawn on them to put aside any dispute over Sersgarth and gather first what they can elsewhere. Before then I want us to have been and gone.”
He called orders as men joined them. Two of the long hay wains drawn by strong teams began to plod off at once.
“Let them start ahead. We’ll catch up soon.” Tarnoor was speaking to his Master at Arms as the wains departed. “I want nine or ten men, all armed with bow and sword. Steady men, the sort who won’t act before my orders even in case of provocation.”
Hanion nodded. “Master Trovagh tells me that the guard attacked Elmsgarth. The three-times horning?”
“Yes.”
The Master at Arms snorted angrily. “Yvian’s gone mad. What harm did the Old Race ever do us? I rode with some of them in my early days on bandit patrol. Good men, good fighters, and canny, too. A shame to us all this business. Mistress Lanlia aided any with her healcraft who came asking. She never distinguished between the Old Blood and the new. As for that Tylar—” He spat at the ground. “Good job he’s dead, if you ask me. That family’s never been anything but trouble.”
“Like to be more before it ends,” Tarnoor said gloomily.
“They won’t overlook the death of their father—even if they were all just waiting themselves for him to die so they’d inherit.”
“Humph! Long wait that’d have been, too.”
“True, well, never mind.” Tarnoor reached for the reins of his own horse as it was led to him. “Let’s go!”