Ciara saw the pain in his eyes. She dropped lightly to the ground studying the injured leg. For a horse to break a leg meant he must die, but perhaps it wasn’t really broken. She ran light fingers down the foreleg. There was a break but it was clean. Maybe, just maybe . . .
“Keep him still, don’t talk to me for a while.”
She pulled her pendant free, cupping it in one hand while she laid the other across the injured leg. She didn’t know if she could do this. She knew she would try. Boldheart had been the best of all the foals of his year. He’d come to a call, proud but friendly. Uncle Nethyn had chosen him when his previous horse got too old for the harder riding. Boldheart was beautiful, dapple-gray over a silver white mane and tail a cascade of pure silver. He was so gentle that once or twice she and Tro had stolen a ride on him, yet he was warhorse trained. She could feel his pain, his fear, but his trust in his rider, and in the humans who had always been kind to him, kept him lying there.
There was no one but Tarnoor and Trovagh to see. She slipped deep into the mist, it was so easy now. She let her thoughts slide, just emotions. She had it! The feeling of damage, of something to be repaired. It was like pulling herself up a rope; she reached the place and sank her mind into the problem. First she had to put all the bits together. Luckily there were only the two main portions and a chip or two. She held them in place with her mind and wondered. What should she do next? A memory surfaced. Metal turned molten in a mold. Did she have the power to do this? But if she failed, Boldheart died. She must not fail.
She reached out, drawing the mist into her. It flowed, filling her with warmth. Then she drove it into the injury, poured it out sinking it deep into the bone. Slowly, so slowly the bones mended, flowed together until all was whole again. She was far into the mist, a glimpse, a hint of a road there. She was thrust violently backwards. In her mind rang a voice.
*Silly girl. Not yet. Go back. Do I have to do everything around here?* Ciara surfaced, giggling weakly. She’d recognize her grandmother’s tones anywhere.
She found she was clutching the pendant so tightly the wings had left marks on her palm. She lifted her other hand from where it lay curved around Boldheart’s injury. With the last of her strength she ran light fingers down the leg. It was healed. There was no sign it had ever been less than whole. Then she fell back too exhausted to move. Tarnoor gaped down. By all the Powers, she had done it. His attention came back to the child, she was so white. His hand sought her throat. The pulse was slow but strong.
He eased himself out from under the heavy head and stood slowly. Then he spoke to his horse. With a thrashing of legs the beast rolled to sit, then to rise to his hooves. Trovagh’s face lit joyously.
“I told you so. I told you Cee could fix him.” He crouched back to touch Ciara’s arm. “Is she all right?”
“She’s drained herself of strength, lad. She needs to be gotten to a bed. Hold!” Tarnoor grabbed his arm before Trovagh could vanish. “It isn’t as easy as that. I’ve been listening to the messengers as they come and go. Beyond Aiskeep the mood is growing harsh about the Witches and the Old Race.” He looked into Trovagh’s eyes. “Do you know what Cee has done here?”
He answered himself. “She healed a broken leg. When you were very ill she healed you, too. Each time she was tired for days. Healing takes a price from the healer. With the Old Blood driven from Karsten there are very few now who have her ability. She’s valuable—and what is valuable may be taken. The longer we can keep silence about this the safer for her. Do you see?”
Trovagh saw. “I won’t say anything. We could sneak her in the back way. Elanor could say Cee’s got a cold and has to stay in bed a few days.”
The idea worked. Ciara was well again in a week. It was Lord Tarnoor who was left to think of the problems that could arise if this were known. He talked to Elanor. She had a good practical head on her shoulders. Moreover, she loved both children.
“She’s healed both Trovagh and now Boldheart. About the horse we can keep silence. No one but us knew he was ever injured. But Hanion tells me there are some garbled hints around the Keep of her healing of the boy. As I see it the problem is twofold. First the Old Race is still outlawed in Karsten, and Tylar’s death is not so long ago his sons have forgotten. If they could do her an ill turn without bringing down my wrath, they would do it. Secondly there is the question of power. Not hers so much, but what others may see in it.”
He did not need to elaborate on that to Elanor. Her line might be a cadet branch, but in its time they had fought their way upward just as savagely. Ciara’s healing ability could be used as could any ability. One of the powerful coastal clans would happily use the girl as healer in war. They’d use the very fact they had her to encourage their men at arms. Soldiers would fight far more ferociously if they believed they could be healed of crippling wounds after the battle.
“You said she was exhausted afterward?”
“For several days. She said she was unable to call her gift during that time.” His look was black. “Do you think any of that sort would care? They’d force her to it, or lie to their men. All that would be necessary would be to show her healing one of their own. The soldiers would believe. After that if she failed her master would have only to threaten to give her to the men she refused to heal.”
“To what end?”
“Think, woman. They’d believe her as treacherous as they have always claimed those with the Power to be. That lie could be used to inflame the men against whoever they wished. They could claim the enemy was Witch-ruled, or involved. Oh, any good lie would serve. We need to keep the girl’s gift a secret. I’ll have an eye kept on Sersgarth, too. Those sons of Tylar’s have been troublemakers from birth.”
To that Elanor could agree wholeheartedly. “One of the men told me the older son has moved stock onto the old Elmsgarth land.”
“Seran, yes. I hesitate to object as yet. Legally the land belongs to Aiskeep but it’s too far from the Keep to be used. So long as Seran stays out of the house I’ll hold my hand.”
He ushered Elanor out saying no more. Seran was as nasty a piece of work as Tylar had been—and more cunning. Tarnoor was sure the man had been talking to Aiskeep people. He couldn’t lock the guards in the Keep. Off duty for a few days they often rode to Teral township and the markets there. Too much to drink, the right questions, and Ciara might be safe no longer.
In that he was right. Seran had already garnered some of the Keep gossip about a child healer. He’d leaped to conclusions—unfortunately, some of them were correct. He could not recall having ever seen the child. She’d look like the Old Race, he expected. Sharp-angled face, black hair, and gray eyes.
Elanor, too, had considered that. Ciara did not look like her blood. After all, she was no more than half. It might be possible to make her look even less like to those still hunted. She sent for Ciara; the girl had sense. She might even have further ideas of disguise.
Cee listened. “You can’t change my eyes or face shape. Anyhow, they don’t look like Old Blood. Maybe my hair. It isn’t black, it’s dark brown. Could we lighten it just a shade more? It wouldn’t show that we’d done it but I’d look more like a Karsten native.”
They tried. With an infusion of herb wash Ciara’s hair lightened from dark to medium brown. It was surprising, Elanor thought, how much it altered the child’s appearance. Nor had Elanor been her cousin’s maid for nothing. A skillful change in hair style added a rounder look to Ciara’s face. They could do no more but pray now it would suffice.
For a time, it did. Seran was told by more than one drunken man at arms from Aiskeep, that no female of the looks he described dwelt there. It left him furious but temporarily baffled.
Spring slipped into summer, then midsummer before the news came with hammering hooves to the Keep gates. “Open, open for a Clan Messenger!”
Hanion looked about. Only one rider, and that one all but hysterical on a staggering mount. He ran to open the gate.
“
What is it, man? Has someone died?”
“Aye. Call your lord.”
Hanion put two and two together coming up with six. He fled for Tarnoor’s study calling loudly.
“What . . . ?”
“A messenger from Lord Geavon. Lord, I think he may bring news of Yvian’s death.”
Tarnoor took the stairs three at a time. The messenger was drinking wine eagerly but halted to offer the letter. Then he returned to his cup. Riding like this was thirsty work.
Tarnoor did not wish the contents of his letter to be questioned. He retired to his study before breaking the familiar seal. Geavon might be a crotchety gloomy lord, but he and Tarnoor had been fostered together as boys. They were of the same clan and hence kin, and their friendship had been stronger still. Geavon’s Gerith Keep was close enough to Kars for Geavon to hear all the news within days, sometimes within hours. A letter sent with this much urgency must contain news of real import. It was quite likely Hanion’s suggestion was right.
Tarnoor sighed. If Yvian had been assassinated by one of the clans, life was about to become dangerous. He read swiftly, then sat thinking. An assassination, it appeared—but not by a Clan Lord seeking power.
Tarnoor remembered. Yvian had chosen to wed Loyse of Verlaine Keep, daughter to Fulk, known as the wrecker-lord. It had been a proxy marriage but legal. Then the bride had vanished.
At first she’d been believed dead at her own hand. There’d been talk of a high window left open, lace left snagged on the rough stone of its sill. Tarnoor smiled. Talk had begun and the people had been amused that the duke’s bride would rather be dead than wed. Then other news drifted through on the winds. The girl was alive. She had escaped, fled through the countryside and across the mountains to seek refuge with the Witches in Estcarp.
It was bad enough to lose a bride. But as the news filtered slowly back to the city, the laughter had become too loud to be safely overlooked. For a man to find his ax-wed bride fleeing from him was bad enough. To hear that she had taken in marriage another, worse. But when that other was a misshapen boy, when he and his bride now stood high in the councils and friendship of an enemy . . .
All this made Yvian appear an ineffective fool. He’d gone to Fulk of Verlaine for answer. All that much-tried lord could say was that the witchery of Estcarp had had a hand in events. But where Loyse was now Fulk could not say.
For Yvian it was not safe to allow the matter to drop. Where the people laugh too loudly a duke’s throne may begin to shake. Apart from that, Yvian was a proud man. In all of this his pride had been flung into the dust. Somehow he had seized Loyse and succeeded in bringing her back to Kars. It even seemed likely he had bedded her and thus the woman was now Duchess of Kars. But the matter had not stopped there for long. The next any knew Yvian was dead, murdered. By Loyse, some said. By Witches, others claimed.
Fighting amongst several city and clan factions had broken out at the time of Yvian’s death. This time all were agreed that the fighting had been Witch-inspired. The duke’s mistress, one Aldis, had come with lies to each faction setting them against one another. There was no reason, no benefit to her in this. No doubt it was witchery. Moreover, the Lady Loyse had vanished, so had Aldis, and to complete the set, word had come from Verlaine that a half of its men at arms were dead, the remainder vanished along with Lord Fulk. That must be witchery as well.
Tarnoor snorted. Witchery be damned. It was trouble that’s what it was. With Fulk gone the rich pickings at Verlaine were open. If Fulk did not return swiftly a dozen local lords would be at one another’s throats to seize the Keep. Still worse, the same applied to Kars. Loyse was allied by her mother’s line to three of the more powerful clans. They would be moving shortly to claim the duchy in her name. If she did not return, however, there were plenty of others who’d be interested in a vacant Keep of considerable wealth and the potential for a lot more so long as ships sailed and storms came.
Geavon ended with a couple of paragraphs of warning. Their own clan might well become embroiled in all this. Geavon would find it hard not to become involved if so. Gerith Keep was too close to Kars to be overlooked. He urged his friend to strengthen Aiskeep, to look to his walls and supplies. If none of this was soon resolved war might come.
Tarnoor reread the letter, then yelled for Hanion. “The repairs to the outer wall, are they complete?”
“Yesterday, my lord.”
“Then I want you to take the wains for further stone. This is to be used to strengthen any other weaker parts of the walls.” He named a figure for this which made Hanion look grave. “After that ready the wains again. We go soon to Teral market to purchase siege supplies.” Hanion opened his mouth in horror. Tarnoor overrode him. “If you can think of anything we can take and sell in the markets before we buy, say so once you have checked. Warn the garth owners they should harvest as and when they can. No harvest should be left longer than the time it takes to ripen. Aiskeep will aid with harvesters at need.”
He leaned back in his chair and summarized Geavon’s letter, concluding, “Clans and city factions are already starting maneuvers. Sooner or later some half-wit will add weapons to the discussion.” He looked at Hanion.
“You wanted to ask if we were at war. We may well be very soon. Not with Estcarp, but with our own. The worst kind of war. Go and prepare for it, old friend. The storm is rising, and I’d like to be sure our roof doesn’t leak.”
He watched Hanion leave before sitting back to swear savagely. Yvian! No country needed outside enemies when they’d enthroned an idiot like that. He wondered where it would end.
4
T ime drifted by. Aiskeep walls were thickened in the two weaker places. The children ran about getting under everyone’s feet, men at arms vanished to different garths to help bring harvests home, and Teral market came due. As if preparing for trouble to come, the harvests, at least here, had been very good. But by slow, loaded wain, Teral was two days distant. Ciara’s eyes on him were so hopeful Tarnoor smiled.
“You two can come. You’re to stay together at all times. Don’t bother the men or Hanion. Be ready to return when I tell you.” He thought of something else. “Ciara, isn’t it your name day very shortly?”
“Yes, Uncle Nethyn.”
“Well, we’ll have to celebrate that.” He mentioned it to Elanor before the wains rolled out of the gates, and found himself with a list of small things to buy. Women, they always had some small errand you should do this very minute!
Men, they always left everything to the last minute! Elanor was muttering in turn as she saw them off. How was she supposed to ask him earlier if she wasn’t told!
The trip was wonderful for Cee. It was the first time she’d left Aiskeep land since she’d arrived. She and Trovagh rode ponies, ducking and crossing the lumbering wains as the excited pair attempted to see and do everything at once. Tarnoor watched them indulgently. They’d be away five days, maybe six. Two days travel each way and one or two days at the market. Among them, he, Hanion, and Elanor had successfully found enough to part-fill each of the three wains. If it all sold at reasonable prices they would have sufficient coin added to what Tarnoor already had to buy.
He had gone over his lists before they left. He’d buy bar steel for the forging of weapons, horseshoes, and harness rings. More tanned leather, bolts of cloth, and much thread of differing kinds. It was cheaper to purchase the materials rather than goods already made. It should also be possible to find rings ready made to repair chain mail. Enough of them and he could have the Aiskeep smith make up additional armor and save much time. It would also help Tarnoor’s purse.
The trip was peaceful. Nothing went wrong. No delays occurred, and the weather remained fine. Tarnoor worried about all that. In his experience when things went right, something wrong was looming on the horizon.
He reflected that he was becoming as gloomy as old Geavon. It was Teral he was approaching, not Kars. The small line of wains and riders topped the long shallow slope and star
ted down toward the town. Teral had been built on the bend of a large stream that cut deep into the softer earth. This meant that even with the water in spate the small town never flooded. The buildings were mostly of wood but the inn and stables were older. These were of the pale local stone, well and solidly laid. Tarnoor had sent ahead to reserve most of the rooms.
He saw to the stabling of their beasts, chased the excited children upstairs to leave their gear, then freed them to explore.
“Here, that’s for you to spend. Remember it has to last the whole time we’re here.”
Ciara and Trovagh dashed off to count. “We’re rich.” Ciara was looking at the handful of coins.
Trovagh grinned at her. “Not as much as it looks,” he informed her. “Father must have been saving coppers again. But it does mean we can split it more easily. And we don’t have to worry about changing it or anything.”
Ciara was looking about her. “Oh, jugglers.” They watched the entertainment for a while, dropping a copper in the laidout hats. Then it was the lines and rows of stalls. Trovagh would have bought food but Ciara was more practical.
“The inn’s been paid for all our meals. Let’s go back and eat there free.”
They raced, laughing, back to the inn, there to share well-roasted mutton, new bread with fresh butter, and apples to follow.
“Mmm.” Trovagh caught a drip of butter. “Good idea of yours, Cee.” He grabbed a couple of the apples, handing one to her. “Let’s go see the beast market.”
They raced off again. Tarnoor smiled after them. They were having a wonderful time, bless them both. He returned to his discussion with the innkeeper.
“Yes, my lord. Rumors have reached even to Teral and farther south. People are buying all they can afford of supplies. I’ve had word another trader arrives in the morning bringing beasts for sale and Sulcar-traded goods.”
Tarnoor sat up at that. “You mean some trader is in from the coast?”
“Aye, my lord. Trader Tanrae is from hereabouts. He returns home to be with his family for a while.” He leaned closer and his voice dropped. “Word is that with the trouble in Kars the man wishes to be well away from any possible fighting. Where there is war, merchants and traders do not profit. Worse, their goods, gear, and beasts may be impressed by the army. Tanrae’s parents are at a garth several days south. His wife and children live with them. The man’s heading that way once he has sold most of his merchandise.”