Ciara's Song

1

Ciara was playing in her secret cave in the cliff when the rider came. She recognized him at once. It was her brother Larian come back from distant Kars. He was studying as apprentice merchant with an old friend of her father’s. But why was he home? She scrambled down from her cave to where she could swing across from one tall elm to another. From there she could reach her bedroom window at the back of the garth. She clattered down the stairs calling, “Larian, Larian, Mother! Larian’s home!”

Her parents popped out of the cook room, both looking startled. “It can’t be.” Her mother sounded worried. “He isn’t due home again until Year End.”

Her father was practical. “Well, my love, we’d better go and see.” But before they could move toward the front of the garth, Larian came striding through to meet them. His face was white with exhaustion under the brown, and his eyes haunted. He wasted no words.

“Yvian’s gone mad. He’s ordered the three-times Horning for all of the Old Blood. I took Falco’s relay and came by the mountain paths. The guards will be right behind me. Half of them were fanning out south as I slipped away. They’re slaughtering any who even look as if they might be of our kind.”

Ciara’s mother stared up, and in a voice that the child did not recognize she spoke softly. “They took Falco at the very gates of the city. Merryon died fighting before they burned the house about his family. Even now the death-bringers circle the valley. For only one of us is there an escape.”

Talyo stared at his wife. “Do you see true, beloved?”

“I see true. We have less than a candlemark. They are too close for us to flee. But Ciara might hide.” She turned to the girl gently. “Don’t ask questions. There’s no time. You have a place where you go. Can you reach it without being seen?”

Frightened, bewildered, the child gulped. “Yes.”

“Can you take possessions with you if they aren’t too large or heavy?”

Ciara nodded slowly. She’d taken old rugs to furnish her cave already. Often she’d taken a meal there.

“Good, come with me. Talyo, you and Larian free the stock. Send them running. When you’ve done, barricade the doors.”

She was gone then, dragging Ciara behind her. “I know you get out of your bedroom window. Where do you go from there?”

Ciara pointed. “Across the elms. There’s a cave in the cliff up high you can reach from a branch on the end tree.” Lanlia stared.

“Goddess, if I’d even dreamed it was so dangerous I’d never had ignored it. Listen, Ciara. Can anyone get to your cave from below?”

“N-n-no. You can’t even see there’s a cave.” She remembered finding it the first time quite by accident as she scrambled about the elms.

“How big is the cave, sweetheart?”

“It’s very small. I have to crawl to get inside.” Lanlia’s look urged her to continue. “I can lie down inside but only just. When I do I can stretch my hands out and touch the wall on each side.”

“What do you have up there?”

“Rugs, only old ones, Mother. And candle ends. What are you doing?”

Lanlia was moving with a swift sure speed as she gathered items. She stowed them into a carrysack as Ciara asked her question.

“You must go to your cave. How long does it take you to reach it and return from this window?”

Ciara considered. She sensed the question was important. “Maybe a fifth of a candlemark.”

“Good. Now listen to me. There may be no time later to say this. What Larian said was that the duke has ordered all of the Old Race, all of our people to be killed on sight. That’s our family. Your father, Larian, and I will stay in the garth. If nothing happens you can return. If we are dead, you are to wait in the cave for five days. Five days, do you understand?” Ciara nodded, gulping back tears of fright.

“After that, try to make your way to Aiskeep. Lord Tarnoor has always been our friend. Ask him what you should do. Do not let any other see you. Now, take this to your cave. Just drop it there and return at once. Go quickly.”

The carrysack was thrust into Ciara’s hands as Lanlia snatched up another. Still gulping back sobs the child scrambled through the window on to a branch climbing higher and higher before she crossed the line of elms toward her refuge. But once there the peace of it seemed to still some of her terror. She stared down the length of their valley but saw no one. Maybe Larian was wrong. But something deep inside warned her the message had been true. Her other two brothers were dead. Her mother had seen it so. Mother ‘saw’ seldom, but when she did see what she saw was the truth.

Ciara was the baby of the family. She was barely nine. Falco and Merryon had both been adult men, Merryon married with a family. She had seen them both no more than twice in her life. They were the sons of her father’s first wife whereas Larian was her full brother. He had only gone to study in Kars three years ago. Since then he had been home each Year End bringing gifts for all. She had heard of the three-times horning as any child might hear. It was something done to outlaws she recalled vaguely as she scrambled back across the line of trees. The guards blew a horn three times and named the ones who were now outside all laws. After that the wicked men could be killed without blood feud or punishment. Anything they had belonged to their killers. She almost fell through the window. Did that mean they were outlaws now?

Lanlia had no time for her questions. “Take this one back, too. Hurry!” Ciara found another full carrysack pushed into her hands and obediently hurried. A third journey, but on the way back this time she could see riders. She dropped into her bedroom gabbling the news. Her father was there. It was he who asked quietly, “How many?”

“I couldn’t count, maybe twenty.”

“Are they riding fast?”

“No.” Ciara was puzzled. “They don’t seem in any hurry.”

Larian’s voice was suddenly savage. “No, they know we’re trapped if we’re here. Why tire the horses.”

Lanlia was practical. “Let them dawdle all they will. It gives us more time. Ciara, you remember what I told you, tell me again.”

“I’m to go to the cave and stay there five days or until you call me back. If you can’t… oh, Mother, I’m scared!”

She was hugged hard. “I know, now go on.”

“If anything happens I wait five days, then go to Lord Tarnoor. Only to him.”

“Yes. This time don’t come back from your cave. Be careful. Don’t let the riders see you.” One by one her family embraced her. At the last Larian placed two items in her hand. She looked down.

His hand closed hers upon them. “If we live, I’ll claim them from you, little sister. If I don’t, they’re yours.” He helped her through the window, watching as she vanished in the foliage.

He could have gone with her. From what his mother said there would be room in the cave for two. But his seventeenth name day had passed. It was for a man to defend his home and family, not to hide while others died.

He’d been fortunate. His father was only partly of the Old Blood, but his first wife had been wholly so. For that Falco and Merryon had both died, their faces too much of the ancient race. But both Larian and Ciara looked more like the incomers. Lanlia had been a half-blood orphan who wed the widowed farmer. Her children resembled her, dark-haired, but with rounder faces and eyes of a clear hazel.

It had saved the boy’s life as he thrust through blood-crazed men toward the stables. Once there he had swiftly saddled Falco’s relay. He’d guessed his brother would need them no more. That first two days he had ridden all three mounts into near exhaustion to stay ahead of the news. Then he had swung up onto the foothill tracks. In a tiny valley he had unsaddled the leg-weary animals, hobbling them carefully. He had allowed the horses to graze all day while he hunted. Two hares and several rabbits would be good rations for days. He ate ravenously, tearing the roast flesh from small bones.

That night he had slept until midday, risen to eat eagerly again, and then saddled his mounts. Now he kept away from any riders. Several times he dropped down to warn garths where the inhabitants were friends and of the Old Blood. Each time he had been given filled feed sacks for the horses, food for himself. He had been able to press on to the limits of his strength. Two horses had been left behind as he rode.

Larian clamped his teeth shut on a plea to join Ciara. He knew if he stayed he would die. He stared out of the window slit as the riders approached. He recognized the enemy, and accepted death. With the guards was a neighbor who’d always coveted Elmsgarth land. Under the new Karsten laws he could take it once all males in the family were dead. Ciara had no claim. Only if she had been adult and wed could she have held it.

The neighbor might overlook the child’s absence, but not Larian’s. He would see the lathered horse that stood head down by the fence and guess. Larian stood straighten If he was to die, then he would see to it their neighbor did not profit. He strung his bow and waited.

Far above Ciara had reached the cave with her last carry-sack. She huddled into the heavy gray wool of the cloak. It felt like home. Lanlia had woven it for herself only last year. Falco had sent a set of matching hareskins to line it as his Year-End gift. They’d been taken when the hares were in winter garb so that on one side the cloak was dark gray wool, and on the other pure white fur. It was far too large for Ciara, but it would keep her warm in her refuge if she must wait. It even had a hood with drawstrings to tighten it about her face.

She wiggled forward to look down. The riders had reached the garth. From her perch she could hear only a mumble until one raised his voice.

“Come out and you can go free.” She knew the man. He was Tylar from Sersgarth in the next valley. He had a pack of brawling sons all looking hard at their father’s garth. At least that was what her father had said once. Her mother had retorted that Tylar could look for land for his sons elsewhere. Below Tylar was shouting again.

“Come out and you can go. You leave everything and we’ll leave you.”

There was no movement from the house and Ciara whimpered. If Tylar was telling the truth it would be wonderful. They could just leave and they’d be safe. Then she wondered.

But where would they go if they had to leave everything behind? How would they live?

She squirmed back a little looking down at the treasures Larian had given her to hold for him.

They were treasures in truth. The slim-bladed dagger laying in her hand had never been sharpened. It had come down from the family of her father’s grandmother. Legend had it the dagger had been made by an adept in the Power. Be the story true or not it was true that the dagger remained razor sharp no matter what its usage. For that alone it was prized. Larian had been a favorite of his grandmother’s. She had given the weapon to him when he left at fourteen to study in Kars. She had died soon after and Ciara knew how Larian treasured it.

The other object she held was a pendant. It was drop-shaped in silver with small wings sweeping up in a curve on either side. Minute blue stones edged each wing feather. It had been wrought with a delicacy that was sheer beauty.

That had come from her mother’s side of the family. It was a bridal gift, held by each son in turn to give to his chosen. Ciara slipped the chain about her neck allowing the pendant to fall beneath her bodice. Then she wiggled back to peer out from the cave mouth again. What were they doing down there?

At first she could see no one. Then a small group of men on foot came into view. Leading them was neighbor Tylar. They carried a log from the wood stack. Ciara was puzzled; what did they plan to do with it? She gasped as below the log was swung forward to strike the door with a hollow boom. She stared blankly. Why, they’d break the door if they kept doing that. Then as the log struck again she understood. They meant to break in. Now that her family was thrice-horned anything could be done to them. There was nothing against the law. Small whimpers squeezed between her clenched teeth. All the stories she had ever heard rose up to remind her of what that ‘anything’ could be.

Larian sighted his arrow carefully. From among their neighbors, only Tylar was with the guards. If he was dead, there would be none to say Ciara lived. There was no hope for any within Elmsgarth, he knew that now. But his adored small sister might still survive. With Tylar dead his sons would be too busy squabbling over their own Sersgarth and the Elmsgarth land to bother about one small female child with no claim. He hung on the shot until Tylar moved clear. The arrow flew with deadly accuracy. Tylar fell soundlessly, heart pierced. The guards shouted with rage, redoubling their attack on the door.

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 equal 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

They 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 troublemakers, 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!”

A dozen riders clattered out of the gates and off down the road at a steady canter. Tarnoor glanced over them. Hanion had chosen well. Veterans to a man, they wouldn’t act too hastily. He might need that quality if Tylar’s sons appeared before Aiskeep had been and gone again. Trovagh rode beside him on a fresh horse; the boy might well be of help, Tarnoor thought. Trovagh had run all over the garth with young Ciara. He’d know most of the hiding places there. He scanned the countryside as they rode. No sign of Tylar’s lads fortunately. But it had been three days. One of them would think of Elmsgarth sooner or later. That was why Tarnoor had chosen to return at once.

It took hours, until at length Tarnoor ordered torches to be lit. The two wains were filled, heaped high, with more items lashed onto the outside. The sheep had long since been found and started on their trek to Aiskeep. It had been Trovagh who, as Tarnoor had foreseen had been of most use in finding things.

“The horses always hole up in the willows down by the stream if they’re left out.”

He’d been correct. Four of the strong farm beasts were there along with the saddle horse Larian had been riding. There, too, was the sensible middle-aged mare Lanlia had always ridden. All of the beasts looked well and came willingly to Trovagh’s call.

“Good, lad, get them to the stables. Tell Hanion to have the team harnessed. It’ll give us another wain.”

Trovagh vanished to pass on the order, then vanished again on his own behalf. He returned leading two female goats, both almost whimpering in their desire to be milked. Hanion grinned down at him.

“Well, that’s fine.” He glanced over at the men. “Erek, you came from a farm, do what you can for this pair, then put them in the wain.” It was almost moonhigh before all was loaded. Tarnoor took his son aside.

“Two things. Can you think of anything else Ciara would wish to have before we leave? Do you know of any hiding places within the garth where valuables might be kept?”

Trovagh nodded. “Cee has a hidey-hole in her room. I don’t think there’s anything valuable there but she’d like to have the things, I think. And there’s one in her parents’ room, too. Cee showed me once. It’s a secret that even she wasn’t supposed to know.”

“Show me the secret one first, then take a sack and clear out the one in Ciara’s room for her.”

He was interested to find just how secret the first had been. To open it one had to stand on a stool and swing on a beam. It was clever. At first glance the beam was no more than a roof beam. But with weight dragging at it, one could see that the beam only touched the roof, and it was not attached. Beside him a panel slid open. He studied the hidden contents. Several wooden boxes, one small, the others larger. He opened the first to discover deeds to the land, family papers, and a small bag of gold and silver coins. Talyo’s fallback money no doubt, he thought. Best not to waste time checking everything else.

He’d just have the lot removed to the wain. He yelled for a couple of his men.

It was almost dawn before the last items were gathered in. The men were tired but pleased with themselves at cheating Tylar’s kin from their loot. All had known the family at Elmsgarth. There were few who had not at sometime or another availed themselves of Lanlia’s healcraft. As soon as the road was sufficiently light they moved out. The garth wain rumbled along in their midst. Tarnoor smiled to himself. He had the deeds to the land. With those he could legally register his own name as owner. He would have that done at once, but quietly. If one of Tylar’s sons settled, he could be tossed off at anytime. Not that there was any hurry.

He grinned again. The land was too far from the Keep to bother working. But if someone settled here he would wait. Once they’d established themselves he’d offer to sell them the land complete with deeds. That would be more money for the girl. It also gave him control of who settled there as a neighbor. It had been an exhausting, but very fruitful day. He slouched back in his saddle. Trovagh’s pony was being led from the wain. The boy himself was fast asleep on a pile of bedding atop the load. Yes, indeed. A good day. He’d acquired the daughter he’d always wanted as well as his son. Found the right to choose a neighbor, and raised himself even higher in his son’s eyes.

A rider galloped back from the road ahead. “Lord, there’s a rabble approaching. Tylar’s sons lead. They’ve wagons and pack ponies.”

Tarnoor acted. Most of his men had served as soldiers in their younger days. He’d kept up the training. He heeled his mount to the head of the line, chose thick brush, and signaled them to leave the road. He added the signals to keep the horses silent, and to make no move until ordered. Everyone was under cover by the time the would-be looters passed. Tarnoor considered them, a motley lot. That miserable garths-man from farther north, a neighbor of Tylar’s. The man spent more time drinking than farming, Tylar’s four brawling sons, and a sprinkling of others who hoped to profit. Half of them still looked drunk, the rest miserably hungover.

He exchanged looks with Hanion. The would-be looters wouldn’t be at all happy to find someone had been before them. It could be a good idea to throw them off the trail if possible. The longer it took for them to learn the truth, the safer Ciara would be. He motioned Hanion close and talked busily, the Armsmaster nodding back at intervals. Once the road was clear Tarnoor emerged. The wain trundled on its way with an escort of half the men. Tarnoor, Hanion, and four of the Keep guard rode at a slow walk back toward Elmsgarth.

They caught up with the group ahead just as they reached the turn into the valley. Tarnoor was at his most bluff and heartily ignorant. “What’s this, a drinking party so early? Has someone married?”

Tylar’s oldest son answered after a swift glance around. “No, Lord. We heard that Elmsgarth had been attacked. We go to see.”

“Ah. That is good, that is right. To help a neighbor who may be in trouble. I, too, have regard for Mistress Lanlia and the family. I shall ride with you.”

His small group hid grins with difficulty as they watched the boy struggle with having to tell a lord he wasn’t wanted.

“Um, no need, sir, my lord. We wouldn’t want to take you out of your way.”

“Nonsense. Good friends, good neighbors. Only right. Besides, there may be bodies to be buried. Can’t have them around stinking up the garth. Not right, no, no.”

“But, my lord…”

“Now then, any more and you’ll have me thinking we aren’t of use.”

The boy pasted a patently false smile on his face. “Oh, no, my lord. You do us honor.”

“Good, lad. Don’t worry, we won’t interfere with your work. You get on and help the family. Mend anything broken, yes? Dig any graves if they’re needed. I’m just here as lord to see what has happened.”

He reined his horse back a little. He and his Master at Arms exchanged glances. Both were having trouble keeping straight faces at the miserable looks ahead of them. The group had come to loot and be rich, not to dig holes, and mend fences. They were unhappily aware that under Tarnoor’s eye they might have to do just that.

“Well, Hanion?”

“Very well, my lord. I’d say they suspect nothing.”

Tarnoor nodded. The harder part would come when they reached the garth. That they did very shortly. The scruffy group ahead gaped in fury at the neat graves to one side of the house. They scattered, shouts and cries revealing their dashed hopes. Tarnoor dismounted to examine the graves. He’d left no sign as to who had buried his friends. He bowed his head for a moment praying they rested in peace. Tylar’s son dashed up to him.

“My lord, someone has been here already. The house is stripped.”

He met raised eyebrows. “So? It may be that some of the family survived. They may have departed with their goods to seek a place where thieves do not come in the night.”

He watched as the lad opened his mouth to refute most of that, then almost bit his tongue off to keep silence. Tarnoor nodded kindly. “One should not jump to conclusions,” he said pompously. “I daresay Talyo will let us know what he wishes. Until then, let no one think to claim his land too hastily.”

The young man facing him was all but chewing his tongue to shreds at this. How could he tell the lord that Talyo would let no one know anything ever again. He spoke cautiously.

“Um, my lord, has no word come to you from the Kars guard?”

“I have been traveling. What word?”

“The Old Race was thrice-horned by Duke Yvian, my lord. I fear that Elmsgarth may have been attacked by those…” He spluttered to a halt. Well, no, Tarnoor thought. You can’t very well explain it was your father who led the murderers here to make a profit. Or that you are here now to take anything you can lever up. Your kind envy anyone with more. You’d use any excuse, this horning was just convenient. Aloud he spoke casually.

“Well, in that case I think you may remove anything you find. Property or beasts. But do not damage the house. It may be of use to whomever settles the land.” He saw that thought sink in. Good. The house would be safe. “Nor would I seek to seize the land too hastily. It is possible the duke will have plans for it. He has friends at court who are landless.”

That was no more than the truth, too. There were always a crowd of eager, money-hungry hangers-on at the duke’s feet. He’d ridden with Yvian when they were both young. None of this smacked of him. If his courtiers were money-hungry, Yvian had been power-hungry. Tarnoor had backed him when the duke first ascended the throne in Kars. Not because he liked Yvian, so much as Karsten needed a stronger hand just then. Yvian had that. He had appetites, too. But they were ones his people understood. What had gone wrong to drive the duke to all this? It was utter folly but too late to mend. Tarnoor would keep his head well down until he knew the worst. Meanwhile he would look to his own defenses.

He stared out across the garth. It was quite possible Yvian would gift the land to one of his hangers-on. Or some toady of his mistress, Aldis. He’d met the lady once and would put little past her. Perhaps this was some ploy of hers? He turned to the lad again.

“There seems nothing I should do here. Should you find anything you believe I should hear about, send word.” The boy nodded, a faint smugness coating his look. He’d tell his lord nothing. If they found anything it would be theirs. Not that there was likely to be anything. Some sneaking thief had been before them all, curse him. They’d bide their time. If no one came to claim the land in a year or two, he’d take it. This had been a larger, more fertile farm than Sersgarth. Let his next brother take that. The other two could lay claim to a smaller place now also unoccupied to the north of them. They’d been there in time all right.

He licked his lips at memories of three days past. His father had come here to die. His sons had gone elsewhere and it had been others who died. His share would help to refurbish Elmsgarth again. He could at least graze the stolen beasts here. He sketched a bow to his lord and hurried away. If anyone did find anything he would not be cheated out of his share. Tarnoor gazed after him in disgust before signaling his men to close ranks. They cantered off down the road and were some distance away before Hanion spoke.

“I think they have no suspicions.”

“No. The boy’s too busy cursing over lost loot to suspect us. He thinks that I came there for the same reason. Well enough. But, Hanion, keep still the tongues in your men’s heads. It’s likely most of this will blow over. But in case it does not, I don’t want that cat’s leavings to know the child lives, or that it is Aiskeep that has his plunder.”

“No, Lord.”

Tarnoor left it at that. Hanion had been with him all of their lives. He was solidly reliable. Full of common sense and born at Aiskeep, the son of the man who had been Master at Arms to Tarnoor’s father. Its interests were his own. Aiskeep had always been clever in that. Its guard was chosen from those born and bred there. Now and again they added another family. But a guard was never chosen from that generation. His people were treated fairly, not as other lords closer to Kars corruption often dealt with their servants. Tarnoor was sure his people were loyal, but like most, they gossiped. Hanion would see to it that gossip was confined to Aiskeep.

They clattered back through the gate just as the last wain was being unloaded. Trovagh had been carried off to finish his sleep in a bed, but Elanor waited for her lord in the courtyard.

“Ciara?”

“I persuaded her to drink chicken broth, my lord. She slept then, but I know she had nightmares. She cried out and struggled in her sleep often. I fear she may be ill from the shock.”

Tarnoor sighed. “I know. Her mother was the only one hereabouts with healcraft. Do what you can. Let Trovagh visit as he wishes. She trusts him.”

Elanor nodded as he strode away. She would care for the child as her own. She, too, had liked Lanlia and trusted her. Unlike others outside the Keep Lanlia had not treated the woman as a mere servant. Elanor had indeed been maid and companion to Keep’s Lady when they arrived. But she had also been bloodkin from a branch of the family without wealth. Still, she had been well taught in all the things necessary to care for a large Keep. Seria had been delicate—and lazy. She had been more than happy for Elanor to take over the running of the Keep’s day-by-day affairs. When visiting, Lanlia had spoken to Elanor as a friend, and deferred to her knowledge of the Keep when ordering treatment for Trovagh. For her sake, Elanor would now care for Ciara. The girl was of good blood, Old Race or not. She hastily stifled another idea. That was the future. It did not do to tempt the gods.

Over the next few weeks Ciara faded, however, despite all Elanor could do. The girl slept, only to wake screaming. Elanor became aware the child was unable to keep down most of what she ate. Trovagh was gentle with his friend. He could take her mind from memories and willingly played the fool to do so whenever possible. But at last even he was afraid for her.

“Father, I don’t think Ciara is well.”

“No.” Tarnoor didn’t think. He knew. It was as if a wasting fever had the lass in its grasp. “Does she talk to you? Say anything about her nightmares?”

“No. I asked, but she doesn’t want to say. What can I do to help?”

His father sighed. “Just be her friend, lad. Maybe she’ll talk once she’s been here a while longer.” He returned to a letter from a friend as Trovagh ran off. News from Kars was odd these days. Yvian had made ax-marriage to the daughter of Verlaine. The mother’s line had been well enough, but the father’s? Faugh! The man was a wrecker and a rogue. And what of Aldis, she’d not appreciate being thrust aside for some maiden. Letters were few and slow arriving of recent weeks. This one was dated before the Horning. He took up another of a later date and read in bewilderment. What all this talk of Kolder was he did not know, but he liked nothing about it.

He finished reading and rose slowly. Out in the stables he found Hanion and took him aside.

“Strange things happen in Kars of late. I think it wise that we mend walls and shut gates. Make no haste too obvious but be sure all is secure.” He saw the sharp glance that met his. “Yes. It is possible trouble may travel this far. We host messengers of other lords as they pass. Tread lightly, but I would know how others of our rank have dealt with the Horning.”

“That I can tell you already, Lord. Many have ignored it, or openly taken people under their protection. The messenger of Lord Geavon came through last week. He said his lord was very angry, saying that his family had been lords of Gerith for centuries. They took no orders to murder their people from some upstart mercenary. The only man who attacked at the horns bidding, he took and hung.”

Tarnoor grinned. He knew Lord Geavon. A crotchety, gloomy man but a good friend and kin to Tarnoor. Geavon’s great love was his lineage and his Keep. In Kars Yvian’s word ran, but further out, the lords remembered their duke was a man of no family. They might bow politely in Kars. In their Keeps they bowed to none. Yvian had been raised to duke to keep order in the towns and city. If he failed at this, it was likely there would be plots to depose him. No decent lord appreciated the sort of disorder that was now upon Kars. He proved right in mat. As days passed small groups of refugees slipped by Aiskeep. Some, bolder, ventured in with letters of introduction from men known to Tarnoor.

He helped all who did so. Some would have taken Ciara with them, had he asked. He did not. Lanlia had trusted him. Besides, the child was too weak to travel. He did not yet acknowledge that he had grown swiftly to love her. The slow seep of those who fled lessened and died. It bothered him. He wasn’t above being tempted; there’d been things done he regretted in his life. But this wholesale slaughter of the innocent appalled him. He would kill if he was attacked, or occasionally as a needed example. But Yvian was ruining Karsten with this folly. His grimness lightened considerably with the next letter.

His bellows of amusement brought Trovagh, Ciara, Hanion, and Elanor.

“My lord?” Hanion was interested.

Tarnoor read further and shouted again with mirth. He looked at the circle of puzzled faces. “A letter from a friend near Kars. Yvian is short a bride. The girl vanished into Est-carp to wed some boy there. It appears Yvian was not to her taste. The Kolder, too, are ended. Estcarp made a foray against them and the Kolder are gone from Kars.” He snickered loudly. “None of this will sit well with the duke. Makes the man look a fool, not that he isn’t. But no man likes the world to know it. He’ll have to move in some way to regain authority. Hanion, just in case it’s in this direction, move the work along faster. I want the walls mended in another week. You may also look for another half-dozen suitable guards. I’ll be sending you with some of the men to Teral market. We want more weapons and I’d like to lay in barrels of beer and salt beef.” He clapped his hands still grinning. “That’s all the news. Off with you.”

Trovagh stayed. “May Ciara and I go along, Father? She’s never been to a real market in a town before.”

His father considered. It might perk the child up. She didn’t look of the Old Race so should be safe enough in Hanion’s care, then again was she fit to travel so far? It would be a full day’s ride there and another home again. He compromised.

“The market I want won’t be for two more weeks. Tell Ciara she may go with you if she is better by then.” He smiled as the boy raced away to share the promise. It reminded him, he must look at the boxes found in Elmsgarth. Thus far they had been stowed away unopened. The only action he’d taken had been to record the transfer of Elmsgarth to himself. It had been done quietly so far as he knew, none but he and a clerk in faraway Kars had knowledge of what had been written. Of course he had also taken the bag of coins. That was going toward mending the Keep walls, and gathering extra supplies. It was fair. Walls would help to protect Ciara, while supplies would be shared with her as well.

He watched the girl over the days. She might force herself to eat. It did no good, all that she ate returned, weakening her further. Tarnoor guessed that something within her revolted at living. Unless one of those who cared for her could find the secret and convince her otherwise, Ciara would go to join her slain kin. He would not have that happen. He loved his son as a strong man loves one who will follow him. But Ciara he had come to love as one who protects responds to the need of one weaker. For her his love was a sheltering roof to her frailty. He watched helpless and raging as she failed.

In another ten days she was too weak to leave her bed for more than a handful of hours. Trovagh stayed with her. He brought games, stories, ideas, anything that would divert her. Elanor played and sang to both children. She had a soft voice, but clear and true, and some small skill with the hand harp. Ciara in particular loved the old songs, begging them over and over. Nightmares still plagued the girl. She woke crying out more than once most nights, the lack of sleep also wearing hard on her.

She refused Elanor’s offer to share the bed. She did not wish any to know the shape of her dreams. They seemed to her to be a monstrous wrong and wicked. It was Trovagh at last who broke through the wall of her grief and pain to understand what tore at her. Ciara was sleeping but the boy was awake. As he lay quiet he heard the whimpering from her room. On silent feet he stole through the door. Ciara slept, yet in that sleep tears ran down her face. Now and again her mouth shaped a name.

“Mother, Father, Larian?” Her words became loud enough for the listening boy to understand.

“Mother, please, I’m lonely. Mother, where are you?” Her hand slid out, fingers curled as if they sought for another clasping hand. “Father?” Her voice was a moan. “Larian, why am I alone? Why did you all leave me here?” Her voice trailed off into soft weeping once more. Trovagh took the reaching hand in his. With his left hand he shook her gently by the shoulder.

“Cee? Cee, wake up. You aren’t alone. You have me and Father, and Elanor now. Cee!” She opened vague eyes to stare at him. The fingers gripping his convulsed. Still half asleep, she spoke her horror for the first time.

“They all left me. There’s no one now. I don’t have anyone. No family, everything is cold and empty. When you and Lord Tarnoor came I was afraid. Mother always said Yvian dealt justice, and the guards were there to protect us. But they killed everyone by the duke’s order. Why? What did we do that was so evil? I was afraid you would kill me, too, so I hid. I’m afraid all the time now and I have no one. Lonely, so lonely…” Her voice shuddered to a halt. Trovagh did the only thing he could think of.

His voice became coaxing, “Listen. You can have a family.” Behind him Tarnoor stood motionless and silent in the doorway. He, too, had wakened and come to the child’s cries, just in time to hear her confession. He could understand it. Older, stronger people than this girl had been broken by the knowledge they stood alone. Children often understood other children better than any adult. He waited to hear what his son would say.

“Honest, Cee. You can have a family.”

“How?” Her interest was caught.

“You do like me, don’t you?”

Her hazel eyes gazed at him. “You’re my best friend.”

He stammered a little on the next question, “D-do you love me, Cee?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation.

Trovagh drew in a deep breath. “Then you can have a family.” In bemused wonder, Tarnoor listened as his son proposed marriage.

“If we’re betrothed, then my father is your father, too. And I’m sort of a brother until we marry. Elanor’s cousin to my mother so she’d be your cousin, too. That way you’d have a real family again. All you have to do is say the words, Cee.”

For the first time in many years, Tarnoor felt tears prick his eyes as his son led Ciara through as much as he understood of a betrothal ceremony. Somewhere along the line the boy had also heard of knife oath. He added that in, solemnly bringing out his knife to draw a bead of blood from a finger of each of them. The blood was then mingled. Trovagh reached for the cup of water beside her bed.

“Drink a little.” She did so obediently. Trovagh drank after her. He took Ciara’s hands. “That’s it. By the Cup we shared, by the Flame to witness, by the Blood joined. We’re betrothed and my family is yours. You don’t have to be alone again.” He leaned forward to kiss her very gently on the forehead. “That’s my right as betrothed.”

Then, as Tarnoor shrank further out of sight, the boy stretched. “Gods but I’m sleepy. You’ll be all right now, Cee?”

She nodded, her small face happier. Tarnoor watched as his son trotted back to his own room. When he could again peer through the door, Ciara was asleep. The Keep Lord was thoughtful all of the next day. Without her noticing, he kept an eye on the girl. The ceremony, odd mixture though it had been, seemed to have worked. Ciara kept her meals down, slept without dreaming, and woke to eat heartily. She blossomed. Tarnoor spent a week thinking it over, then he made a decision.

It would not be a bad idea to allow the ceremony legal status. He’d never lose Ciara. His son could have a far worse wife and the girl had brought a fair dowry—by now he’d had sufficient time to check all her belongings and the boxes. He quietly called Elanor, confiding what he had seen.

“The child adores him. I think it an excellent idea, Nethyn. Trovagh will never be strong physically. The girl won’t hold that against him as another might. Nor will she seek to take power for herself. She is of decent family, is she not?”

Tarnoor nodded. “Her mother Lanlia was orphaned. But her grandmother was of a very old family. That pendant the child wears is from that line. There’s more. When I opened the boxes, I found a complete setting in solid silver for the table.” He whispered the crest and watched her eyes widen. “Yes, that’s no line to be scorned. There were plates and bowls with it, all in silver. The carrysack Lanlia gave the girl to hide in the cave had jewelry. Fine work with rare gems from Estcarp. Another of the boxes had gold and silver coins. A goodly sum. Ciara does not come empty-handed to a betrothal even as Karsten would count it.” He thrust a paper at her. “Sign this as a witness. It says I approve the match. I’ll have the priestess in tomorrow.”

Elanor signed, smiling.

The next day the children were called to Tarnoor’s study. When they left both were beaming. On one slender finger Ciara bore a ring. They’d spoken words all over again, this time before a Priestess of Cup and Flame. They hadn’t cared. Both knew that it was the earlier ceremony that bound them. It would for all of their lives.

3

For a time Aiskeep was quiet after that. Ciara grew strong. The nightmares troubled her no more. That winter it was Trovagh who was ill. His chest troubles flared with the coming of a cold that made him cough painfully. Ciara vanished industriously into the herb room to brew. She returned with a concoction that he swallowed trustingly. Then he smiled.

“That tastes just the same as your mother used to give me.”

“It is the same.” It helped the boy until he was careless enough to escape from his bed.

A messenger had come, there was commotion, loud, excited talking, all the fuss guaranteed to bring a boy from his bed in the middle of a night that was chill by any standards. Boylike, too, he ignored it, wearing no more than his slippers and nightgown. By the time he had crouched long on the stairs to hear all that was said, he was chilled to the bone. After all that it hadn’t been so interesting anyhow, Trovagh muttered to himself. He hunched back into his cold bed and shivered. He felt so cold.

By the early hours of the morning he was hot, tossing off his bedding only to drag it back again as he shivered once more. Something woke Ciara then. She sat up listening. There was nothing to be heard. She would have laid down again but for the tugging at her attention. She dressed quietly. Lanlia had always said to pay attention to feelings such as these. Silently the child drifted from her room. She would look at her family, see that all was well.

She came first to Trovagh’s room and stood listening. There came a faint moan, a soft sound of jumbled words. Then she knew. Ciara wasted no time in entering to reach him. The boy thrashed, burning with fever, already delirious. Ciara looked once, then raced from the room to call Elanor. She burst into the Keep mistress’s room without ceremony. Elanor woke abruptly to someone who shook her savagely calling her name. Scared half out of her wits she screamed. This brought Tarnoor bellowing questions as he burst through the door in turn. Ciara had no time for any of them.

“Shut up!” she yelled. “Listen! Tro is sick. He’s feverish and his chest is rattling when he breathes. Come quickly.” She did not pause to see if they obeyed. By the time they found her she was back with her friend sponging his face gently.

Elanor turned to build up the fire. Heat would help to break the fever. It was then that Trovagh coughed. She heard the rattle and winced inwardly. That was pneumonia, she’d heard it before. Many died from it. They labored for two days as Trovagh grew no better.

Ciara sat with him constantly, her herb concoctions seemingly the only thing that helped. Her presence always able to calm him. The whole of Aiskeep prayed. They’d known the lad since his father brought him out in swaddling clothes to be shown to those he would rule. They were aware that Tarnoor’s rule was fair and kind by any standards, far more so than the rule in many Keeps. Trovagh would continue that. The heir after him would not. Tarnoor prayed most fervently. He begged for the life of his son—for several reasons. The foremost was love of the boy. The next was love of his people and the great grim gray Keep they shared.

Like the people he knew the habits of the next heir. A corrupt lad. Barely twenty, he was a third cousin in a cadet branch of the line. The boy lived mostly in Kars, and was a hanger-on to Yvian and worshiper of Aldis. If Risho ever came into power he would be ruthless for his own pleasure. Tamoor prayed harder, on his knees in the small shrine until his back ached. It was all he could do. Upstairs Ciara labored with all the aid Elanor could give. The fire blazed, and blankets were piled on the bed. Trovagh was dosed with every medicine Ciara had learned that might help. None of it broke the fever.

Elanor sat back on her heels. The fire was pouring heat into the room. She glanced at Trovagh, noting the fever flush, the wasted look. They were losing him. The thought was intolerable. She found herself shaking Ciara by the shoulders.

“You’re of the Old Blood. Help him! Use it to do something. He’s dying!”

The girl’s head whipped to and fro. Do something? She’d tried everything she knew. But she couldn’t lose Tro, he was her best friend, her family. Her betrothed. She hadn’t been able to save her kin once. This time she would rather go down into the dark with Tro than lose him. She freed herself ruthlessly.

“Go and get more drinking water. When you come back don’t speak or touch me. Keep anyone else to that, too.” Her eyes came up to stare hard into Elanor’s. “I don’t know if I can help, but I’ll try.”

She set herself to remember as she sat on the stool beside the bed. Her mother’s mother had died when Lanlia was only sixteen. But Talyo’s mother had lived with them until Ciara was seven. Larian had been her favorite but she’d been kind to Ciara, talked to her. Larian! The pendant! Could that help her now? She freed it from her bodice, staring down at the perfect tear shape, the tiny flickers of blue gems that edged the flanking wings. She cupped it in her small hands. It seemed right then to reach out. Tro’s hands slid into hers to lie cupped above them. Into that double cup she allowed the pendant to rest.

She was afraid, so afraid. The maids had talked when Ciara was unnoticed. She understood vaguely that it was the gifts of the Old Race that had brought death to them. They said Yvian hated the Witches. That use of the Power was evil and witchcraft. But if she didn’t do this Tro would die. She struggled for a time before she could force herself to try. She would not let Tro die because she was afraid.

She allowed her mind to relax, to slow into a gentle calm. The pendant helped with that. It radiated peace, warmth. She felt her breathing slow, her heart cease the nervous pounding. She was no longer aware when Elanor returned. Above the cupped hands her face was a serene mask, while within them the pendant gave off a soft silver light shot with blue. Elanor bit back a gasp. Silently she moved to sit in the doorway. She would keep the quiet Ciara had demanded. Tarnoor would have spoken but her gesture was so fierce he, too, joined her without speaking. Motionless, praying, they waited.

At the bedside Ciara slipped deeper into the trance. From the hands cupped in hers she could feel something. All her thoughts appeared slowed, it was—it was—tightness! Ah, yes. Something bound with many ropes that must be unknotted, unwound to free the captive. Patiently she did so. She could not have said how she managed, only that she felt the ropes loosen and fall away one by one. She flung the last of them aside. Rightness returned. But the silver mist in which she walked was peaceful. She could remain here.

From the door Elanor saw the child’s face grow strange. It was a mask now, as if the life slowly drained from her. At the same time the rattle of Trovagh’s breathing ceased. Now he breathed in and out quietly. His face flushed, but with the normal pink of returning health. Ciara grew paler, more mask-like. Elanor panicked. The girl was exchanging her life with that of the boy in some way. If she went too far down that path they would have Ciara dead instead. Without pausing to reflect she flung herself to where the girl sat.

Hard hands struck the link. The two sets of cupped hands were thrust away as the pendant fell free touching neither. Ciara fell limply from her stool. Tarnoor leaped forward in time to catch her as from the bed Trovagh spoke.

“What’s all the fuss? Cee? What’s wrong with Cee?”

There was instant commotion.

It resolved into Elanor tucking the wilted Ciara into the bed by Trovagh’s. It was there the girl had chosen to sleep as she cared for her friend. Now it would be most convenient to have them together and damn the conventions. Tarnoor held his son’s hand thanking every power whose name he could recall.

Tro was insistent, “Is Cee all right?”

By now Elanor had been given time to check this. “Yes, she just seems to be completely exhausted. I don’t know what she did, but it’s drained all her strength. A long sleep, a good meal or two, and she should be well again.”

Tarnoor heaved a sigh of relief, then another of exultation. He’d done right to make the betrothal legal. With Ciara at his side to keep him well, Trovagh would live to rule for many years. His face twisted into a snarling grin. Now let that debauched cousin of his try to claim Aiskeep. His son was alive, his people were safe… and Gods but he was tired. He sat in the large chair beside Trovagh’s bed. When next anyone looked at him, Tarnoor was deeply asleep.

A week later things were back to normal for all but Ciara. She had no idea of how she had saved Tro. That worried her. What if she couldn’t do it again? Perhaps if she looked at the pendant again, without needing to help? She closeted herself in her room while Tro rode with his father. Elanor was busy in the stillroom with an infusion of herbs that must not be left.

Ciara pulled the pendant free, then sat looking at it thoughtfully. It was old, that she knew. Grandmother had said it was a bridegift. Somehow Ciara felt that it was very old. There was a feel about it, as if it also had a power of its own. Maybe it did.

She cupped it in her hands, reaching again for the stillness and silver mist. It closed around her, warmly welcoming. It reminded her of Grandmother, like a soft lap and comfort. She could have stayed here forever but when she thought that the mist changed. No longer was it so warm nor so welcoming. She understood. She must not stay, though as a visitor she was permitted. She drifted timelessly before resurfacing to her own room.

Ciara was fascinated. After that she used her pendant most nights, just for a short time. Her ability to reach the mist improved until in a few months she could fall into it at will. She had half forgotten how she had used the pendant with Trovagh. It was only remembered when he came running one late afternoon.

“Cee? Cee?

She bolted from the door, there was desperation in his voice.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

Trovagh was white with horror. “Boldheart—Father jumped him over a wall and he fell.”

“Is he badly hurt?”

“His leg’s broken.”

Ciara snorted, “That’s bad but it’ll heal in a few weeks. There’s no need to get that upset.”

Trovagh stared at her, then his voice went higher, “Not Father, Boldheart!”

Ciara gasped, then acted. She dived for the stillroom seizing her healer’s satchel. “What about Uncle Nethyn, he isn’t hurt at all?”

“Just a few bruises,” Trovagh panted as they ran. “Here, up behind me.” He held the overexcited pony still as she mounted, before kicking it to a gallop. They raced across pasture, up the hillside, and around the curve of brush. Before them Tarnoor sat, Boldheart’s great head in his lap. Tarnoor’s hand stroked the sweat-streaked neck. He glanced across as the children galloped up.

“I can’t leave him. If I do he tries to stand.” 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 Tend 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 righting 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

Time 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 started 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 laid-out 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.

“Hm.” 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.”

“But has he not sold it in Kars before he departed?”

The innkeeper shook his head. “I hear the cargo was landed from a ship well to the south of Kars. Tanrae planned to go on to the city.”

Tarnoor understood now. “I see, but then he heard the news, so he chose to travel swiftly in the opposite direction. A wise man. What goods are you sure he has for sale? It may be we shall remain a day to see.”

The list was interesting enough to ensure that. The children arrived back to eat in the early evening. Tarnoor seized on them.

“We remain here tomorrow.” He hastily hushed the yells of delight. “Ciara. I want you and Trovagh to check the herb stalls for me. Quietly! Buy nothing. Do not appear too interested. If Ciara sees any herb we do not have at Aiskeep and may need in case of war, remember where you saw it. Come back and get Hanion. I shall rely on you both in this. Ciara, you are to take Hanion’s arm. He will buy what you casually pick up to sniff or look at. A squeeze is yes, a light pinch is no. I want none to guess you have herb knowledge lest they guess more. I trust you both to be sensible and careful.”

It was this transaction that produced danger. Seran might never have noticed the children if they had been at other stalls. But Lanlia had been well-known for her healcraft and herb knowledge. He knew Trovagh, enough to recognize the boy as Seran passed the stalls. Then he saw the girl. His step faltered. Ciara did not look like the Old Blood, but she did look very like her mother. And it was that resemblance Seran recognized. He sucked in a long breath. The brat’s brother had killed Tylar, Seran’s father.

It would be fitting if she had an accident here at the market. He was pasturing his stock at her garth now but from what he saw, she and the boy were close. He saw danger to his own plans in that. Under the new laws of Kars and Yvian, she had no claim to Elmsgarth. But Yvian was dead. If the duchess returned she might favor another female. If one of the powerful clans set up another duke they, too, might favor the girl. She seemed to be well in with Tarnoor’s son.

The old lord was no fool. Elmsgarth would make a fair dowry. If Aiskeep held it from the girl it might be sold to any who had coin to buy. Good fertile land well away from likely trouble, a large house in weather-tight condition, pens and barns standing ready… Tarnoor could gain a fine price for Elmsgarth if he ever chose to sell. Seran glared at the unsuspecting children. Tarnoor didn’t live in great state, nor did he travel to Kars to toady to those in power. Still all knew he was related by birth and marriage to two of the clans. But if he did not have the girl in his hands, his claim to the garth would be greatly weakened.

Seran smiled, a look of vicious anticipation. The stream was deep. True in summer it did not flow so strongly but it should be sufficient to drown the Witch’s daughter. Over the remainder of the morning he stalked the children, now free from Hanion. In a large, busy market there would be possibilities.

Tarnoor was busy elsewhere. Trader Tanrae had arrived with goods both interesting and useful. The two men were busy talking prices and haggling with enthusiasm. Tarnoor made a last purchase and gave instructions for its handling and delivery. He was about to leave the trader when Trovagh appeared looking distressed.

“What is it, where is Ciara?”

“She’s gone. Hanion bought as she showed him. Then he went back to the inn. Cee and I went to look at the beast market again. She was right beside me, when I turned around she’d gone.”

Tarnoor wasted no time. Better he made a fool of himself than anything happened to the girl. “Run to the inn,” he instructed Trovagh. “Tell Hanion to turn out every man but a couple to guard our wains. I want the market combed, stallholders asked if they saw Ciara. Hop to it, lad.”

Trovagh raced away while Tarnoor turned to the trader. “I regret I must leave you so abruptly, but as you have heard, I have something to attend to.”

Tanrae nodded slowly. “How old is the little maid?”

“Ten years all but a week. It was for her name day I purchased some of the wares you offered.”

“Yes, so I surmised. You will not mind if I and my men also aid the search? I have a daughter of that age myself.”

Tarnoor bowed formally. “I would be deeply grateful, trader.”

He hurried from the tent with the trader at his heels calling his men.

Tanrae gave quick instructions. Within minutes the hunt was up. In a small tent among the beast tents Seran snarled. Damn that Aiskeep brat. He’d missed the girl so fast, raised the alarm so quickly, that Seran had no time to get her away. He could kill her. But Tarnoor had enough authority to hold everyone here. There was no telling what he would do if he recognized Seran.

There might be no evidence, but what lord required that if he preferred to ignore it? Seran glared at the struggling bundle beside him. Best he left the damned girl here and slipped away. There’d be another day. One he’d win next time. Thanks be to Cup and Flame she hadn’t seen his face.

He unlaced the tent flap cautiously. Fortunately the hue and cry had not yet reached this end. He thrust the squirming bundle out and laced the flap again. Then he pried up the rear of the tent and crawled beneath. By the time men were walking down this row he would be well away.

He was. Nor could Ciara say who had laid hands on her. It was Tanrae who almost tripped over the trussed girl. His yell brought everyone from Tarnoor to Trovagh running. Tarnoor slashed the cords and a ruffled, frightened, furious child emerged spitting out horsehair. Investigation of the horse blanket used betrayed nothing. Seran had stolen it elsewhere. The rope was ordinary cord used for many things in a market. Nor could any remember selling it in particular or to whom. Tarnoor kept his guesses to himself.

He did have Hanion quietly check about with several of the men. No one could remember seeing Seran or any of the other three of Tylar’s sons. That evening Tarnoor faced the trader over a drink.

“I owe you a debt, trader. I think evil was planned. Your aid made so much more excitement than her taker expected that he chose to leave Ciara and flee.”

Tanrae eyed him shrewdly. “You guess who this was, do you not?”

“Perhaps. But I’ll accuse no man without proof of some kind. It is true there is a family with good reasons to wish the girl gone. But none were seen here. The child herself can say nothing save that she was gripped about the throat from behind, lifted a little, and carried a short distance. She believes the grip on her throat made her faint for a period. When she recovered she was trussed as you found her.”

“What of the tent she lay beside?”

Tarnoor snorted in disgust. “The owner left it laced shut. There’s no sign within that it was used. Although the pegs at the rear are loosened as if someone may have entered that way. No one was seen.”

“He was lucky.”

“Very lucky!” Tarnoor said softly. Tanrae glanced at him. This lord might prefer evidence before he acted, but the trader would not like to be guilty if such evidence were forthcoming. Lord Tarnoor was powerfully muscled. He might be approaching middle-age, but it was clear he’d been a soldier and a fighter. An old sword-cut showed at the top of his left sleeve. The sword at his side was plain with well-worn hilt. Still Tanrae would wager it was a fine blade within the sheath. The lord simply saw no reason to spend on fancy hilts. But the eyes and the lines of Tarnoor’s face told a tale to one who could read.

Tanrae had not been a trader for many years without being able to read such. This man would make a loyal and generous friend—and a very bad enemy. He’d rule kindly, until one of his people crossed what Tarnoor thought essential. The trader nodded to himself, drinking off the last of his wine. Then he fumbled in his purse.

“I brought these for the lass. They’ll go with the gifts you purchased for her.”

Tarnoor looked down at the two small bells. “So they will. That is kind of you, man. Nor do I forget I owe a debt for your quick aid.” He rose, ushering the trader out. A good man that. Canny, but honest. He’d look for the man at other markets. As for the children, he’d assigned Hanion to keep watch. Right now they were busy loading the wains for the trip home. He hid a smile. Hanion was under orders to keep them from the end wagon. Ciara’s name-day gifts would ride in that, transferred there just before they departed Teral.

The ride home was uneventful. Ciara got over her fright easily. Tarnoor had convinced her that the attack had been no more than a mistake, telling a tale he claimed to have heard in the market of a girl who had run from her home. He made it convincing. Ciara believed, but Hanion knew better.

“You think it to have been that Seran, my lord? I could make inquiries. If he was from home it is likely someone will mention it if asked the right way.”

“That proves naught, unfortunately. But listen for word of him. You’ve kept one eye on the man, now keep both. I would know where he goes and what he does at all times so far as is possible. He’s a soured, dangerous enemy, and I think we’ll hear more of him.”

“Why not simply have him killed?”

Tarnoor grinned. “You barbarian! It’s a thought. But there’s more to consider. Sersgarth boasts four sons and two daughters. Already the next generation arrive. If I have Seran murdered, be sure they’d think it to have been at my word. After that there’d be blood feud. It would take a massacre to prevent that.”

“What do you think he planned for the child, Lord?”

“Me? I think the stream runs deep there. A few minutes longer without hue and cry and Ciara could have been at the edge. Thanks be to the Powers and the trader that time was not granted.”

“Then why not another accident, Lord? I’m sure Seran is sometimes drunk. How easy it is for a man in drink to fall.”

“Perhaps. I’ll think on it. Now—to work.”

A few days later it was Ciara’s name day. Elanor was thankful for that. Keeping the girl’s gifts hid had required more work than preparing the feast. But it had all been worth it. The beautifully made box was carried in, ribbon bedecked and mysterious. Ciara took it. Her gaze fell on one end where strange holes decorated the side in a pattern. Each was a thumb joint wide and from one issued forth something slim and furry.

“What is it?” Her finger reached out hesitantly to touch. “Uncle Nethyn, what is it?”

“Try opening the box, sweetheart.”

Gently Ciara unwound the ribbons. The lid was lifted and two small faces peered back at her. Then a small pink mouth opened. It meowed plaintively. The other promptly followed suit. Whatever they were they seemed to offer no danger.

Ciara reached in to lift one. It clung with small claws, purring vigorously. She lifted the other and stood cuddling them as they snuggled into her.

“What are they?”

“Cats, my dear. Well, kittens yet. I purchased them from Trader Tanrae. The Sulcar often carry them on the larger family ships to keep down rats or mice. We see them seldom here in the South but they are valiant hunters. Worthy beasts to have the freedom of a Keep.” To the listening Elanor he added quietly, “They will also be useful for trade in a year or two. I paid high. They are from different litters and should breed well. Once there are sufficient kits I can sell them to other Keeps hereabouts. If war comes they will be worth their weight in gold against vermin in the barns and storehouses.” Elanor watched the children each cuddling a happily purring kitten and smiled to herself. All that was true, but she suspected it had been thought up after the purchase. Tarnoor was kinder and more generous than he permitted most to know.

He’d already returned to Ciara, “Here, lass. The trader sent you these as a gift.” He held out the two bells. To them he added a matching pair of small leather collars. “Hanion made these for you. See, you may tie the bells to them.”

In minutes the kittens were scampering about tinkling merrily as they bounced and played. Trovagh trailed his scarf and the children shrieked as the kits attacked. In days they were often a foursome. The kits grew quickly, friendly to all but preferring to sleep one on each of the children’s beds. There was a swift massacre of mice, followed by rats as soon as the babies were a little larger. It made them popular with all in the Keep.

Geavon wrote again several weeks after Ciara’s name day. The news was not good. Tarnoor read it, then summoned Elanor and handed her the letter. She, too, read and frowned.

“So the Lady Loyse has reappeared in Estcarp. That makes people certain it was she or the Witches who slew Yvian. That Aldis is nowhere found makes no fuss. Indeed, it may make things easier solved. But Fulk—now that he’s been gone for months the lords about Verlaine squabble vigorously over his hold.”

“Indeed. The man was a wrecker and a rogue but he held Verlaine with a strong hand. Loyse makes it plain she will not return nor lay claim to Verlaine or Kars. Thus both rulerships are open. I think it will not be long before argument turns to warfare over Verlaine at least. That should suit Estcarp. Verlaine is close to their border. If the lords nearby squabble over Verlaine, they are not fighting nor raiding elsewhere.”

Elanor agreed thoughtfully. “Is it possible that this was why they slew Fulk and Yvian?”

“It is possible. Any soldier could have predicted the outcome.”

“So all this may have been a deep-laid plot against Karsten? In revenge for the Horning perhaps?”

Tarnoor shrugged. “Perhaps. It is done now. But it’s as well we’ve prepared. If the struggle grows violent enough at Verlaine it will pull the coast clans in. Then there is Kars. Here in the South we may be called by the clans. If that happens, then there is likely to be open war among the clan lords. Such wars are without quarter. No enemy is fought so savagely as one who is your own.” He sighed. “Alas for Karsten.”

Elanor left to ready the evening meal while Tarnoor sat thinking. He would write to Geavon suggesting a compromise. For two generations it had worked with a Keep here in the far South. He sent the letter swiftly by messenger. Geavon received it and blinked. Wisdom from a backwater. It just might work. He sat to write letters of his own. There was an advantage to be gained. Two of the disputing lords were of Geavon’s clan. If they combined, the others would back off.

They might have done so, had the letter arrived in time. Even in the South they heard how the lords battled over Verlaine. Finally, Tamoor’s suggestion ended it, but not without many dead and hatred stored up. There was a marriage. Verlaine was again ruled. By the second son of one lord, wed to the eldest daughter of his neighbor. In a year he was dead, poisoned. His wife could not hold the Keep and fled to her clan. The war began again and spread this time.

But Tarnoor had used the year wisely. He’d bargained, traded, bought, and sold. Aiskeep was stronger than it had been in many generations.

The kits, too, had contributed. Their first litter had sold for very high prices as Tarnoor had expected. The second litter, already bulging the small female’s sides, was sold in advance. Tanrae had visited Aiskeep, once bringing a long train of loaded wains. The same Sulcar ship had met him quietly on the coast. With the trader came a second female kitten for Ciara.

Elanor might wonder that the Sulcar who allied with Estcarp would come to trade. Tarnoor did not. Civil war in Karsten could only profit other lands. If they sold Karsten goods and gear to war, then the longer and more deadly that war, while the Sulcar profited and other lands lay safer.

From overseas news came that the hounds of Alizon hunted. Karsten could not look to them for aid. They had strange allies, men said: perhaps those Kolder who had done so ill by Kars after all their promises. Meanwhile in Karsten war came closer. Twice Keeps near Kars were clan-besieged. The fighting spread to Kars for several days. It died again but sullenly. Then one arose supported by two of the clans. Kieren was young, but a fighter known from the wars with Estcarp. Since many believed that their troubles were all Witch-caused, that stood him in good stead.

He made truce with a third clan by marriage. Another year of peace, and half again. Ciara was growing. She’d been twelve last name day and Trovagh thirteen. She was not beautiful but there was strength and sweetness in her face. She and the boy were as close as ever, always up to some ploy. The letters from Geavon came regularly to Aiskeep. Tarnoor expected another shortly. Instead, Geavon’s nephew came quietly in the night.

He stood in Tarnoor’s study talking softly. “My father is being drawn into clan councils. Kieren does not treat his wife well. Her clan plans to wait until she bears her child, then declare her Kars Regent in the child’s name. My uncle thinks this will bring war again. He asks that you allow his family to come here while there is yet time.”

The man he addressed nodded. “Bring them cautiously. Travel as traders or a garth family on the move. They’d be good hostages against Geavon’s compliance with orders.”

“Yes, my lord.” The young man slipped away before dawn, riding back to the Keep.

Events overtook him. It was weeks before Tarnoor heard, then he sat silent. Geavon’s letter was open before him. The boy had been slain on the return. By whom Geavon did not know, only that the body lay before their gates one morning. The lad’s father was not a man to think deeply for meanings. He assumed that it had been done by the clan opposing his and acted. A third clan had been drawn in. The remaining three might have stayed out of the fight. It was none of theirs. But the duchess’s.father deemed it a good time now to strike for the duchy. The baby had been a son.

Kieren died in an ambush. The other clans swept in to do battle. Geavon was full of regret. It would not be possible just at this moment to send his family to Aiskeep. Tarnoor swore, tossing the letter into the fire. Outside on the stairs he heard the clatter of heavy boots. That was Hanion in a hurry; what troubled them now”?

He opened the door. Hanion burst in already speaking. “Lord, there’s men at arms at the gates. They tried to enter but we had the gates shut in time. They say they are from Lord Geavon but we recognize none of them and they are heavily armed. They demand entrance.”

Tarnoor followed Hanion to the gates. There he looked down at those below. Men at arms? No, more like a small army. He counted more than a hundred men along with a dozen wains. They had set a half circle about the gates just over an arrow’s flight back. This was no message from Geavon. He leaned far out to search for any known face. An arrow sliced the collar of his cloak as he shied sideways.

He swore again. He seemed to have done a lot of that since Yvian’s death, he thought. Then he descended to the gates.

“Unfriend, come forward and tell me what you wish.”

From the other side a voice called, “Open the gates and yield to Clan Grothar.”

“If I choose not to?”

“Then we remain here. Nothing goes in or out save it be one to offer surrender.”

“Stay then and be damned to you,” Tarnoor bawled back. He marched up the wall steps again to look between the crenellations. Aiskeep was under siege. The war had arrived in the South at last.

5

Ciara and Trovagh were bored. Outside the enemy had been camped at Aiskeep gates for a month. Nothing more happened. The soldiers sat there, firing an arrow now and then at anyone they saw on the Keep walls. Sometimes one of the Keep men at arms shot back. It had been quite exciting that first week where there was a lot of that going on. But the men outside had moved back a few more yards. They stopped bothering to shoot. Now they just sat. They didn’t even bother to reply to the colorful insults Aiskeep men hurled at them. After a long consideration of his maps, Tarnoor had identified the probable reason for the siege.

“Look, here’s where their land runs. This land belongs to Septan, who’s just wed into the clan. His land reaches almost to Aiskeep. Clan Grothar has a very old dispute with our clan.” He snorted. “The idiots have decided to take advantage of the general unrest to see if they can add to their boundaries.”

“Why is that so stupid, Uncle Nethyn?” Ciara was puzzled.

“Because, my dear, as any effective soldier knows, before you begin a fight, you should know what shape your enemy is in.”

Both children stared, then understood. “Oh,” said Trovagh. “All the stores we’ve been getting in.”

“The walls are all fixed, too,” Ciara added.

“Exactly. We’ve spent the last couple of years expecting this. The walls are just about the strongest they’ve ever been. We have enough supplies in the lower storerooms to last a year or more even without our own harvest, and we have a water supply. The armory is filled with arrow bundles, bar steel, and anything else we may need. So this pack of fools pick now to start something.” He snorted again. “I never did think Ager had any sense. He heads the clan because he has seven idiot sons who all back him. That’s why. Not that even they’ll continue if he does much of this.”

The sons—or Ager—must have come to a similar conclusion. The siege remained in camp ineffectively another couple of months. Then one morning they were gone again leaving only an awful mess and an incredible stench behind them. Tamoor promptly sent out scouts, Hanion leading them. They returned to say that Clan Grothar had far worse troubles of their own.

Hanion was grinning. “They have their own siege now, my lord. It seems the boy who wed into them isn’t so happy with his bargain. His own clan seems to have taken up his quarrel. Do we head for Teral while our gates are clear?”

“We do indeed.”

Tarnoor split his forces. Some thirty armed men escorted the lumbering wains toward the small market town, while another thirty men remained to guard Aiskeep. Most of those remaining were the older or young and inexperienced. Some were simply garthsmen who wished to help their lord. Between the two groups messengers rode. That way, Tarnoor mused, if anything happened at either end he should know within hours. Nothing did. The wains returned heavily loaded, the last of the Keep’s fall harvest was gathered into the storerooms, and winter was on its way.

Ciara and Trovagh had sneaked away. When the girl first arrived she had begged to learn the sword with her friend. Hanion agreed if his master had no objections. Tarnoor had merely laughed.

“Let the little maid learn,” he’d said kindly. “It will help to take her mind from her grief.” He’d then dug into the storeroom to find a light sword that might be used. In the four years since, the children had gained knowledge of both sword and bow. Ciara had proved to have a very real talent for the latter. She could not pull one of the heavier ones, but with a light bow she could place her arrows with a neat precision.

Trovagh was a swordsman. He would never be of more than middle height, but that height was already springy with lithe muscle. His reflexes were excellent, his sight keen, and he’d learned of Hanion all the tricks that shrewd old campaigner could teach. He still developed dangerous colds during the winters, but Ciara was there to help with those. At fourteen he bade fair to equal his father in common sense and leadership.

Beside him Ciara stood, their old comradeship as strong as ever. She could beat him in a sprint although his endurance was the greater. If he was the better swordsman she could out-shoot him. They knew each other’s minds, each often finishing a sentence for the other.

Tarnoor and Elanor, studying them, were happy with what they had wrought. The children knew Aiskeep from the highest tower to the lowest storeroom. They knew every inch of the lands and the mountains that backed them. Both rode like centaurs. Not that there weren’t flaws. Only the previous week, Elanor had found a large and indignant toad in her bed. She’d climbed into the bedding, thrust her feet down to the wrapped stone, and instead of the expected warmth, encountered something cold, damp, and alive. She’d screeched, shot out of bed, lost her balance, and landed sitting on her rump in the middle of the bedroom in a way both bruising to dignity and posterior.

She knew why the toad was there, of course. She’d made Ciara stay inside that morning instead of allowing the child to ride. Elanor had received a very thoughtful look. But one day the girl would be Keep Lady. She must learn everything possible now. Elanor rubbed her rump and smiled unpleasantly. Two could play at that game. She said nothing in the morning—but Ciara sitting down to her porridge found it to be heavily salted.

“I trust you’ll eat all your breakfast,” Elanor told her with a heavy significance. “If you do I’ll find myself silent.” Ciara ate glumly. Trovagh pulled the bowl between them and ate his half. Elanor understood. He’d helped with the toad and would share the punishment. She cleared away the emptied bowl and true to her word, said nothing of toads to Tarnoor.

Neither child had ever been beaten. After losing her family the way she had, an angry word left Ciara heartbroken, convinced of rejection. Once, in earlier days, Tarnoor had rounded angrily on her for a piece of dangerous mischief. He had found himself holding a child who wept more and more frantically. Her sobs shifted to gasps for breath, then she fainted. She became conscious only to return to the gasping and then loss of consciousness once more. She’d been put to bed and been miserably silent for a day until Tarnoor had convinced her she was not utterly unloved.

But during their next exploit, Tarnoor would savagely desire to beat both of them bloody. All had been quiet for weeks. Even a recent better from Geavon had reported fighting to have temporarily died down in Kars. Winter was closing in, and the children decided a last ride into the mountains would be fun before the snows deepened.

“Take your bow, we may see something.”

Ciara nodded. “You better take your sword, too. Uncle Nethyn says not to take chances even on our own land.”

Trovagh laughed, “All right,” he teased. “But what do you think is out there, outlaws or wolves?”

It was true neither were that likely. So early in winter the wolf packs had not yet begun to form. It would not be until several months later that they could become dangerously hungry. As for outlaws, most of those were to be found far more to the north where clan fights had often dispossessed garth families of their homes and land. Aiskeep was not only the Keep, but also the land beyond. The great stone Keep itself held dominance over the entrance to a long steep-sided fertile valley that cut well into the mountains behind, winding almost twenty miles as it gradually rose toward the steeper heights. Because of this position the Keep controlled the valley. The original Tarnoor had seen the advantages at a glance as Karsten expanded south several hundred years earlier. He’d spent everything he had in raising the Keep and walling it in thick solid walls.

This had paid off. He held the land alone for many years, the only lord able to keep his estate free of wolves and human attack. Over the years, those who enjoyed a frontier rallied to him, but they also preferred strong walls between them and danger. Since then garths had risen outside Aiskeep. They were often independent but the trade was useful. Nowadays most of the land about was settled, but with Yvian’s death, the usual peace had been permanently changed. The constant clan squabbling of the past four years had left many men with no trade but banditry. But right now neither child had any thought of that.

With a yelp Trovagh sent his horse racing up the valley, Ciara following hard at his heels. On the side of each saddle bounced a filled bag. They planned a trip that would take them to the valley end. It wouldn’t do to go hungry. They rode beyond the valley, then the horses leaned into the mountain trail. Farther up and well to the northeast there was a small sheltered cup of land. There was a cave there, and a rock basin usually filled with good water. They would eat, rest their mounts, and then hunt.

It was fortunate that they were walking their horses in silence. They approached the cave only to hear voices. Trovagh signaled Ciara to back her mount. Cautiously he joined her further back and dismounted.

“Who do you think that is, Tro?”

“I don’t know. But I know a few other things. They’re trespassing, and they aren’t our people. And before you ask, I was closer. That accent isn’t from here. It’s more to the west over by the coast.”

“Oh. So what do we do, ride back and tell Uncle?”

“Tell him what. That we heard a foreign accent in the mountains?”

Ciara grinned at him. “No, we tell him how many there were, what they looked like, and what they were doing here.”

Trovagh grinned back in relief. Good old Cee. He’d known she’d want to find out about this bunch as much as he did.

“Right. We leave the horses off the trail over there. If we cross the trail and go up the side there,” his finger indicated, “we should be right over the cave. With luck we can hear everything they say. We can even look through the bushes at them if we’re careful.” He had a brief moment of doubt about this. But Cee was nodding.

“It’s sunhigh. If they’re still here it probably means they’re staying the night. We can find out about them, then ride back to tell Uncle. He can come back with Hanion in the morning.”

Trovagh quashed his doubts. This was for Aiskeep, to help protect their people from outlaws. Not that in his heart he believed the voices belonged to wolfsheads. Probably some messengers trying to be unobtrusive at a lord’s orders. For all that he and Ciara were careful. With their mounts safely tucked away in the lawleaf thicket, the two children drifted quietly up the hillside.

Below them the cave echoed voices. A fire burned in the mouth. Trovagh looked down at that with interest. Hanion had told him often how to build a smokeless fire for enemy country. Down below was a perfect example of this. It certainly indicated a wish on the part of those below to remain unnoticed. A sideways glance at Cee showed him that this had not escaped her. They lay forward comfortably and prepared to listen.

A rough voice floated up to them as the speaker emerged from the cave. “ ‘n I say that we go west again. There ain’t nothing in these mountains.”

“There’s as much loot as you’ll ever see, you fool.”

“I seen nothing yet.”

“So shut yer mouth ah’ listen. Down there’s a Keep, see. Only the Keep’s right at the other end of the valley. Take a day for word of us to get there, an’ even then the lord won’t care if too many of his cattle don’t get killed.”

A younger voice cut in. “Cattle? You said there’s gonna be loot ’n women!”

There was the sound of an oath, a blow, and a smothered yelp. “Shut yer mouth when those older’s talking. People down there is just cattle to ’is lordship. That’s what I mean. We hit a couple of the families down this end. It takes another day for the Keep to hear, and by the time they come—if they bother—we’re long gone with whatever we wants. See?”

“So when ’er we go down?”

“Dusk. They’ll all be sitting down to ’er nice meal. All unsuspecting like. With it dusk, no one else’ll see nothing. We kill them all and take what we want. Then maybe another house or two before it’s daylight. If there’s any good-looking females we tie them up until we’re done looting. When we clear out, they come with us. If they can’t keep up, we dump ’em.” He laughed viciously, “Even females don’t chatter with their throats cut.”

The younger voice chimed in describing what he planned to do with any women taken. Trovagh blushed violently, then felt sick. He hadn’t thought of war being like that. If these men found him and Cee… the blood drained abruptly from his face. He was hearing what would happen to her in every word from that filth down in the cave. They’d have no mercy because she was gentle and loving. No mercy that she was only thirteen, and Trovagh had brought her here. He reached out to take her hand in reassurance. He looked at her then and blinked in surprise. Cee looked furious. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so angry. He wriggled back pulling her with him. At a safe distance she rounded on him and he understood.

“That’s our people they’re talking about. The nearest houses are Jontar’s and Mashin’s and Anrud’s. The bandits are going to kill them all. We have to stop them.”

Put that way Trovagh agreed. “We won’t have time to get back to the Keep and send help before dark.”

“No,” Cee said shrewdly. “But we could get Jontar’s daughter to take a message on one of the horses.”

Trovagh nodded slowly. It was likely to infuriate his father, but he’d see they’d had no choice. It was the duty of a lord to protect his people. But Ciara could ride for help. Not that he had much faith in her seeing that. He was right.

“I’m a healer,” he was told flatly. “I may be needed.”

The boy shrugged. He’d done his best short of tying her to a horse and running it off down the valley. Knowing her, she’d persuade it to run the other way anyhow.

“We need to know how many of them there are. We don’t want to risk us both getting caught, either. You go back to the horses, mount up, and be ready. If I get caught, it’ll be up to you.”

That made sense to Ciara. She slipped silently down the hillside to where the horses waited patiently. Above the cave Trovagh listened, trying to count voices. There were three he was certain were different. But they couldn’t be planning to attack a whole family with only three men. Many garth families had half a dozen men or more. Jontar’s certainly did. There was Jontar’s father, Jontar, two sons, and three married daughters. There were also an uncle, and a cousin. Some of the women would fight as savagely for their homes and families as any man.

Taking them by surprise over a meal would even the odds somewhat. But it was still likely there were more than the three men he could hear. He listened, then squirmed farther down the slope. If he could look partway into the cave he might see something to help. He did. Near the fire there was a heap of saddles and horse gear. He could count at least a dozen saddles. The conviction came over him that it was time he and Cee departed. Some of those men the gear belonged to must be around. He’d much rather they didn’t find either of them, Cee in particular. He reached the horses without incident.

“Well, did you find out anything?”

“Yes, there’s at least a dozen saddles stacked to one side of the fire. I guess they have the horses along a bit further. Maybe the rest of the men are there with them.”

“Or maybe they’re hunting.”

That sounded likely. “Yes, well, we have to get out of here and warn everyone.” He started his mount moving down the trail. They traveled at a fast walk. Trovagh didn’t want to warn the outlaws. In these hills the sound of galloping hooves carried. It was midafternoon when they reached the nearest houses. Trovagh took charge at once.

“Jontar, we need Ami to take an urgent message to my father.” It was fortunate that the girl was a good rider, Trovagh thought. She’d worked in the Keep stables the last two years. She was familiar with their horses and could ride fast. He gave her the message, making her repeat it twice. By now the whole family was there listening, eyes wide. Ami booted her mount off down the valley racing the light. She would arrive by dark.

Now if they could just keep the outlaws at bay until his father arrived. It dawned on him then that there were methods other than a passive defense. He gabbled quickly to Cee—thanks to all the Powers that she was with him. She knew his mind without long time-wasting explanations. After that there was a subdued bustle. One of the boys vanished on Cee’s horse to keep watch on the trail. There was a place where he could see far up the hill. But if he kept the lawleaf thickets between him and the approaching riders, he could make it back to the houses without being seen in turn.

Others of Jontar’s family had fanned out across the valley rousing the nearest garth families. They gathered in a steady trickle as the news spread. Trovagh gazed at them proudly. His first command. Those outlaws had underestimated the spirit of his people. He said so in plain words, the boyish pride showing through. Then he gave orders. They were obeyed. Some of the older men had fought bandits before; the lad’s ideas made sense. They said so in quiet mutters as confidence spread. Cee had vanished to arrange her own side of the work. Women surrounded her listening closely.

The sky darkened toward dusk as all was readied. Jontar’s lad came riding at a slow canter. Far up the trail he had seen the group of riders moving downslope.

“Lord Trovagh, they come.”

“Good, join your family within.” He scanned the area. He could see no one, to all appearances he was alone. He stepped up onto the water-butt beside the house corner, from there onto the roof where he lay flat. Like many of the garth roofs it was covered in a layer of thick turf. Quite cozy, Trovagh thought, as he made himself comfortable. Then he waited.

The bandits came riding carelessly. They made no great noise but expecting nothing they made no real attempt to be unseen. At this hour all beasts were, stabled or penned, the garth owners would be at their food. They dismounted, leaving their horses tied to a fence. Above them in the darkness Trovagh smiled. He saw nothing but he knew what would be happening at the fence very shortly. The intruders padded over to the house. One pressed his face to the logs. Through a crack—carefully provided though he did not know it—he could see the family in the light of a lamp within. They ate hungrily, talking of garth work as they shoveled in the good food.

The bandit drooled. Two of the women were wearing cheap jewelry that glittered in the light. They were young and pretty. What with the smell of the well-cooked food, the glitter of gold, and the women, he was entranced. He finally forced himself away. A series of hoarse whispers apprised his fellows of the plunder. They could see only three men. Taking this family would be like robbing baby birds in a low nest. They failed to see that the family all ate along the far side of their table. Or that behind them a door stood open.

Nor did they know that with ample start, Jontar’s daughter was even now pulling up at the Keep. She screamed an alarm as she hauled the horse to a plunging halt.

Hanion came running anxiously. “What is it, are the children hurt?”

“Bandits in the upper valley. Lord Trovagh and his lady brought the alarm. I’ve a message for Lord Tarnoor.”

His master arrived before Hanion could send for him.

“Trovagh? Ciara?”

“Safe, Lord. Your son said I was to tell you that bandits have invaded from the mountains. There appear to be around twelve of them. They plan to attack our garth, butcher my family.” She had no need to explain why. Tamoor knew bandits. “Your son plans an ambush using the people. He asks that you send reinforcements as soon as they can be got to him.”

“Is that all, lass?”

She came close so those arriving could not hear. “He and the lady said this, too, my lord. It’s their job to help us, you taught them that. And—they both love you.”

Tarnoor went white. He spun grabbing Hanion by the shoulder. “Call out the guard. I want half of them to ride, just in case this is some trick to lure us away from the gates. Pick the men who can best manage hard riding in moonlight. I want them ready to ride in ten minutes.” He left an orderly confusion to race for the stairs. Back in his room he shuffled into chain mail, sheathed his sword, and dived for the stairs once more. A just-woken Elanor pattered behind wailing loudly for an explanation. He commended her to Jontar’s daughter, vaunted to his saddle, and while Elanor still wailed, he was gone, his men trailing him.

Elanor stood glaring after him. He wouldn’t be taking half the guard if one of the children had merely fallen. She turned to the girl drooping near her.

“You’re Ami, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Elanor gathered her dignity, a touch difficult when one wore only a long ruffled nightgown with feet bare beneath. “Come with me, girl. I want to hear all about this.”

After she had heard she dispatched the girl to a meal and a bed. Then she sat for a long time in her chair. She prayed for a girl and boy out there in the dark. Doing what they did for love of their people. Then she prayed for Tarnoor, that he wouldn’t break his neck on this wild night gallop—and that he wouldn’t have apoplexy thinking about what was happening before he could arrive. Lastly she prayed for the people themselves. Then she sat silent, waiting for day to come.

Down the long straight road Tarnoor pounded. He kept the beast to a steady canter, though it went much against the grain. Still, it would do no good to push on so fast he left half his men injured from falls behind him. The moonlight lit the road to some extent. The horses knew the trail well, but potholes lurked in shadows, ruts in light and shade. If Trovagh had any sense he’d have sent someone down the road to wait for them, someone else to stand back and watch. That way if the plans went awry there’d be one waiting to say how and what. A chance for Tarnoor to act as rescuer. He only hoped the boy had been able to keep Ciara out of it. He doubted that, he thought with grim humor. But the girl had sense. If fortune favored Aiskeep, it would be the bandits only who suffered.

Behind him in the dark there was a sudden cry and a thrashing. Someone down. He ignored the sounds. If the man was dead there was nothing he could do. If he lived they’d see to him on their return. If he was so badly hurt as to require immediate aid, he’d die anyhow. He hated having to think that way but he’d been a soldier. If he must, he was capable of putting emotions aside. He snarled to himself. He’d give that pair emotion when he arrived. If they got themselves killed, he’d murder both of them. He found he was grinning savagely at the paradox. He glanced up at the sky.

Ami had said the outlaws planned to attack at dusk. It had been just after that when she arrived. With this cursed dark it would take longer to return, maybe twice as long. Three hours? He winced as he thought what could be happening to the upper valley in that time. This might even be an advance thrust against his defenses. All had been quiet recently. He’d expected that to change after winter. Had some cunning enemy decided to damage Aiskeep and allow winter to make that worse? He shivered. The Gods damn that fool Yvian and thrice-cursed Estcarp. All he’d ever wanted to do was care for his people and his Keep as his father had before him. Raise a son, see grandchildren, and be laid in the end in an honored grave.

None of which was looking all that likely right now. When he caught up with that pair, he wouldn’t know whether to kiss them or murder them. “Their job is to help their people. I taught them that indeed,” Tarnoor muttered ferociously to himself. By Cup and Flame but he’d teach them something else once he had them safe. Underneath he was conscious of a glow of pride. The blood of Aiskeep wasn’t thinning into weakling cowards at least. But if those bandits laid a finger, just one finger on either child…

He glanced up again at the sky. Halfway. Gods, keep them safe, he prayed. Just keep them safe.

6

Trovagh craned carefully over the roof edge. He could hear the hoarse whispers quite easily, as below the bandits readied for their attack. The boy smiled as he slipped backward to where the mortared stone chimney lifted above him. He dropped the waiting piece of stone into the opening, hearing it rattle downward. There, that was the warning to Jontar that the bandits were about to attack.

He could only hope that his plans could work. He and Cee had done their best,drawing on everything they’d ever heard or learned. But Trovagh could remember Hanion telling him that plans never did work out the way they were supposed to. Something always went wrong. You just had to pray it was nothing serious.

Outside, the outlaw leader had tried the door. Nothing held it against them. He turned to smirk with a gap-toothed leer to his followers. Then he thrust his weight against the wooden planking.

With a crash the door slammed open and the bandits poured in. The leader was amused to see the women rise screaming, fleeing through the door behind them. Women always did that. He’d sent a couple of his men around to the back of the building. They would take any women attempting to leave through rear exits of any kind.

He had no way of knowing that his men now reposed in peaceful unconsciousness where they had first stood in expectation. Trovagh had thought of that. Ciara led those who waited for them. Both men had been taken in silence by women who knew every inch of their ground—and wielded massive iron skillets. Ciara had seen to the binding and gagging herself. She leaned against the wall, a wide grin hidden by the darkness. If this was war it didn’t seem to be anything she couldn’t handle. She just hoped Tro would be careful. Uncle Nethyn would skin both of them if either came to harm.

Inside the house all of the garthspeople had been ready. The sound of the stone rattling down the chimney had warned them. Even as the door crashed open, the women had jumped for the entrance behind them. There they had slid through the opened window. The men—Jontar, one of his sons, and a son-in-law—had also jumped for the rear door. The table had been overturned with a quick heave before them as they spun to face the intruders. To reach them or the women they believed within their grasp, the bandits had to attack.

They had to do this across a high, thick-planked table and through an entrance wide enough for no more than two men at most. Up.until now the bandits’ attacks had been made against isolated garths, or those garths where the Keep Lord did not care for his people. The garths had been easily taken, the people weaponless and already cowed. Aiskeep was not like that. Its buildings were built solidly; its people loved and trusted their lord, who also encouraged them to be proficient with arms.

Ciara led her women around the building. They fanned out in groups of three into the dark. Ciara reached for her striker. The woodpile should be just here somewhere, she thought.

She found it by barking her shins. She hopped a moment muttering, then ran light fingers over the wood. There! Under her hand was a feel of kindling. She moved to stand before it, shielding the striker’s spark. Dry grass had been wrapped around thin, dry sticks. The striker snapped a fat spark into the center of the kindling. In seconds there was a growing flame taking an eager hold.

With the stack of wood beginning to flame, the outside of the building came into dimly lit focus for those in the dark. Inside the bandits still attempted to get across the table. One had fallen already. Part three of the plan moved smoothly into action. Behind them the door still stood open. Trovagh dropped lightly from the roof and whistled, the call of a familiar bird, albeit one unlikely to be about here and now—although bandits from the coast would be unlikely to know that, he hoped. He edged toward the entrance to be joined by three boys with slings.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Lord.” There was both excitement and savage anticipation in the answering hisses.

“Go!”

Slings whirled in unison as the lads stepped up to the door. The slings flicked forward. Inside the room three of the rearmost men in the outlaw group crashed to the floor. The boys stepped aside. Stones dropped into good leather again. Another volley. Two men fell, the third screamed as the pebble smashed into his ear.

“Back!” Trovagh snapped, grabbing the nearest lad by a shoulder. Within the house the bandit leader spun to gape behind him. No sign of the two he’d sent around the building. One man dead, five down behind his back. He was horror-stricken. This was no soft group of garthsmen. He must have surprised the soldiers.

True to the bandit code he promptly abandoned his men, diving for the outer door. The three remaining saw this and as promptly joined him in flight, trampling their unconscious fellows in an effort to reach the door first. Outside, two of the fanners pulled tight a thin cord across the doorway. It took the fleeing leader around knee level, pitching him to the ground. His followers trampled him with vigor in turn. Trovagh slid toward them from the side, sword flickering in the light. From the other side came grim-faced garthsmen bearing weapons of various types. They had the look of those who not only knew how to use them, but were very desirous of doing so.

The remaining bandits paused for a few seconds, but for outlaws there is no mercy if taken. They attacked desperately, seeking to break away in the dark. One did. He reached the horses, leaping into the saddle only to find as his weight hit it that both he and the saddle revolved rapidly. He landed on his face with a muffled howl. Ciara’s women wielded skillets with enthusiasm. The bandit stretched out to sleep with a weary sigh. At the house the two remaining outlaws fought back to back. Both had swords, but the garthsmen ignored the danger, closing in hungrily.

But thus far only the outlaws had been hurt. Trovagh preferred to keep it that way. His father would be more ready to forgive everyone. He whistled the slingers in again. They whirled their weapons and the last two outlaws folded to the ground. The boy beamed. Praise be to Cup and Flame. It seemed there were times when all plans worked out. He jumped violently as a slender figure slid out of the dark to take him by the arm.

“Gods, Cee. Don’t do that!”

She grinned happily up at him. “We’ve got three. They’re all alive too. The women trussed them like chickens for the ; pot. Hadn’t you better look at yours?”

Trovagh smiled back, hugging her. “One of ours is dead, I know. But you’re right. We’ll check the others and tie those alive.” He rallied Jontar’s family who swiftly brought out the bandits from where they had fallen.

“This one’s dead, my lord.”

“ ’N this one here, Lord Trovagh.” Ciara dropped to her knees checking carefully.

“Two here alive, Tro. This one is, but his skull is cracked. He’ll probably die. This one’s dead as well.”

The two taken last were both dead. The slingers had struck with all the power they had. The leader, however, was alive, muttering his way back to consciousness as he was swiftly and skillfully bound by hard-eyed farmers. Ciara had vanished again. Now she came trotting back to where Trovagh directed the clearing up inside the house.

“Five dead, one who’ll probably die shortly, and six alive. The live ones are all tied. One of them said something awful to Jontar’s wife. She hit him with her skillet again so I had them all gagged as well.” Trovagh looked at her proudly. She was a grubby, untidy girl, panting with exertion and excitement—and the best lieutenant a leader could have had.

“Let’s get them into a barn with guards. Then we need to bring the horses in.”

“Already done. The horses are over at Marin’s being rubbed down. I told everyone that we were awarding a horse and its gear to each garth that had fought. Was that right?”

“Yes.” He made a mental count. “Yes. Sure. That’s five horses to them, seven to the Keep. What are they like?”

Ciara looked thoughtful. “Most of them are ordinary farm horses, but there’s a couple there that aren’t. They’re a sort of yellow, with black manes and tails. They’ve been well-treated, too. Whoever amongst that lot were riding them has looked after both very well. They aren’t young, but they’d be worth keeping. The garths won’t want them. They wouldn’t be right for working land.” She shivered suddenly. “Isn’t it awfully cold now?”

Trovagh shivered, too. It did seem to have gone really chilly in the last few minutes. Maybe snow was on its way. He shuddered again before realizing.

“No, it isn’t the cold, it’s the letdown after a battle. Hanion told me about it. Get into the house and start the women making soup for everyone.” He studied the moon briefly. “Father will be here soon with the guards. If we can give them all something hot to drink while we show him our bandits, he may be a bit less furious.”

That, Ciara thought, scuttling hastily inside to start soup pots simmering, is something to hope for. She felt fey and oddly light as she moved. Under her bodice her pendant seemed to have warmed. Her hand stole up to curve about it. She still visited the silver mist most nights before she slept. But obedient to the dangers of being known, she had not used it to heal again. Was there something she should do now?

She was distracted from that by other demands. On the fire hob two large pots of soup steamed. Ciara rounded up as many mugs and bowls as the women could find her. To that she added all the moderately fresh bread that could be found at short notice.

A third pot of soup was placed at the ready then a fourth. Tonight was a night to forget care, to share in the celebrations. It wasn’t every day that a garth earned a new horse at no cost. They had paid no coin, and shed no blood. The young lord and his lady had fought beside them. Someone produced a flute, playing an old dance tune. Another man ran for a small hand drum. The wood stack was burning merrily, not that Jontar worried. He knew his lord. Tarnoor would replace the fuel since it had burned in his service. Jontar smiled at his wife, leading her into the dance. It could have been very different.

Ciara saw to it that the bubbling soup pots were shifted to one side to allow those still cold to warm. She also had a few words with several of the women.

Under a moonlit sky Tarnoor pressed on. Amongst the oncoming guard Hanion suddenly saw something. He reined up alongside his master.

“My lord, look!”

Tarnoor stared. “Dear Gods, the bandits must have fired a garth house.”

He drew rein. “We must not rush in…”

Hanion cut across his words. “No, Lord, I can hear Marin’s flute. He would not play that for any bandits. I think it’s a celebration. Nor would he celebrate if the young lord or lady were hurt.”

Tarnoor kicked his horse into a canter again. He strained his eyes for a sight of the boy and girl as he came into the firelight. His eyes fell first onto the bandits, twelve of them lying in a neat row propped against the house wall. By the other wall the children sat on a long settle brought out for the purpose.

Ciara had been listening; she heard the hoofbeats and signaled. Tarnoor loomed out of the night, the expression on his face grim. Before he could speak she ran forward to take his hand as he dismounted. Tarnoor found himself sitting on the low seat, a large steaming bowl of savory-smelling soup in his hands. The girl knelt at his feet.

“We’re so sorry, Uncle Nethyn. We know how worried you and Aunt Elanor would have been. But we had to do it.” Her voice lowered, “We’re theirs as much as they are ours. How could we run away from danger leaving them to fight alone? They fought so well, too.”

Tarnoor grunted. “How many dead and injured?”

“Oh, none of our side were hurt at all. Well, Marin’s son has a bruised—um—behind. He tripped over a bandit in the dark. You should have heard what he said.” She made a shocked face.

Tarnoor felt a chuckle rising. A dozen hardened bandits beaten by two children and a pack of farmers. He tried in vain to keep his face hard, before the laughter exploded. He threw back his head and bellowed. Trovagh sighed in relief. He’d thought Cee could soften the old man’s anger. He marched forward then with the head of each garth following.

“Father, I wish these men commended. We said that each might have a horse from the bandits’ mounts in recognition of garth courage and aid this night. Do you agree to this, my lord.” He went down formally on one knee before his father, a junior officer to his superior.

Taken by surprise, Tarnoor made no move. His eyes scanned those who waited. He saw the pride in themselves. They had faced armed men, led by their young lord. They had won and without injuries. It was events such as these which would forge the bonds between led and leader. It did no harm at all for a lord to be held as lucky, either. He remembered the anguish of his ride here. The terror that he might find either child dead or horribly injured. But he could not take his own fear out on those before him. He smiled.

“I agree. But first you who led shall each choose a horse. Bring out the beasts now so that we may see them.”

Ciara had vanished to obey almost as he spoke. She returned leading the two she had noticed. These were held to one side. In the dark Tarnoor could see little. The other ten mounts were paraded. All were reasonable beasts, geldings mostly with one mare. The mare, more valuable, was awarded to Jontar’s garth. It had been his family who risked most. The other four garth heads each took their choice. The chosen beasts were led away, the remaining five taken to join the guard mounts. Tarnoor turned to glance out into the dark.

“Of what like are the two you have chosen?”

Ciara led them forward. Tarnoor gasped. “Do you know what you have here, lass?”

“No, I’ve never seen horses like them, Uncle Nethyn. They look different from any but they are gentle. Look.” One of the beasts was lipping her hair, while the other nuzzled the girl’s shoulder. “This one’s a stallion, the other one’s a mare.” She looked slightly puzzled. “I always thought horses didn’t care about mates, but these two do.”

Tarnoor spoke softly, in awe. “Yes, they would. Nor am I surprised you have never seen the like of them. They are rare. Incredibly rare in Karsten. These are Torgians, child. They must not be young. Perhaps they were loot from the time of Yvian. They are a pair, trained to work together very likely. They bond to their riders as ordinary beasts do not, but only if the rider is worthy. Also they live long lives though they breed less often. They are a treasure beyond price to Aiskeep.”

Ciara patted the nearest rough shoulder. “Then Tro and I can keep them?”

“You may indeed. They are yours, one for each of you. Who shall have which of them?”

Ciara trotted over to Trovagh leading the Torgians. There was a quick muttered colloquy. She returned. “Tro wants the mare; that’s fine because I want the stallion.” Tarnoor opened his mouth to object, then noticed the beast nuzzling her with what he could only describe as an air of already besotted affection. He agreed resignedly. Torgians made their own choice of rider. A wise man who knew horses did not interfere.

“If you are both happy with that. Now stable the beasts and come, tell me how all this happened. Ami could give me only your message.” At once Trovagh and Ciara competed to explain. Separately and in chorus they told of how they had spied, plotted, and finally fought. Tarnoor hid his expression in blandness. From what the lad said, both had known some of the danger they were in, but not all. Ciara dashed away to bring more soup and Tarnoor turned to his son.

“What did you hear them say while you listened alone?”

The boy blushed, looking miserable. “They talked about women.”

Tarnoor was relentless, “What exactly?”

Trovagh spilled out the filth he had overheard, his face reddening until it could be seen even in the firelight.

His father nodded. “Yes, that is how men like that think and act. If they had taken you, either of you…”

“I know!” the young voice burst in. “Father, it was all I could think of until we got back to the garths. It was my fault. I risked Cee. I didn’t tell her what they said. I think she sort of guessed but I couldn’t tell her the words. They made me feel sick.”

“As any decent man would feel,” Tarnoor said quietly. “These are not good men. They are bandits. Best in daylight we ride back to this cave and look about. It may be that they’d had prisoners or other loot left to wait for their return.” He took the boy by the shoulders looking into the young, anxious eyes. “I understand all you did and why. I cannot punish you or Ciara for courage, or for standing by those you will one day rule. Your plans…”

“Cee thought up a lot of it!” Trovagh interrupted.

“Yours and Ciara’s plans worked well. They were sensible, pitting your strengths against the enemy’s weaknesses. But you were lucky. It isn’t often plans go as intended.”

Ciara had joined them, leaning against Tarnoor’s knee. She broke in then. “That’s what Hanion always says. Not to expect your plans to go the way you lay them out. He says you should have contingencies arranged, too. We did, Uncle Nethyn. As much as we could, and we had reserves waiting. Tro was wonderful!” She turned a glowing look on her friend as he blushed.

Tarnoor was hard put to it not to chuckle. They were so innocent, so young. Yet—he recalled the sudden ugliness of his son’s eyes as he recounted the conversation he had overheard. The lad had understood too much to ever be completely innocent again. He’d known he faced the same dangers with men like these, but his outrage and fears had all been for the girl.

His father grinned, not that Ciara couldn’t do her share. He’d bellowed all over again at her account. That first pair of bandits sneaking around the house in the dark hunting women. They’d certainly found them but not quite in the manner intended. Then while all was confusion in the house, Ciara had taken her group to undo the saddle girths on the waiting mounts. A very old trick that, but still good it appeared. Around him the celebration was louder. Many couples were dancing, more food had been brought out, and others ate and drank, toasting their lord’s son and his lady. Tarnoor accepted a mug of beer and drank heartily. Then he entered the circle dance. He wasn’t too old to celebrate his children’s victory either, by the Flame.

Luckily there had been no more than beer brewed by the garthswomen, Tarnoor thought the next morning. The merrymaking had continued until the early hours. He’d found Ciara and Trovagh asleep huddled together in one of the barns well before Tarnoor himself had staggered to rest.

He’d smiled down at them. As yet they treated each other as brother and sister. Time enough for formal marriage when that changed. They were old enough, but he had never had a taste for breeding his stock too young. It paid to wait. Full-grown beasts produced healthier offspring with fewer losses of dam or baby. From what he’d seen over the years, he thought bitterly, that should be applied more to human marriages as well.

He remembered his own weddings. The first when he was sixteen, the girl had been barely thirteen. She’d died in childbed, the baby with her. It had been more than ten years before he’d wed a second time.

Wiser then, he’d wanted to wait to have children; his new bride was so young. It had been the fault of her mother. Seria must have told her that she was no more than a companion to him as yet. The woman had brewed some poisonous potion, sneaked it into his wine, then coached her daughter. He’d been muzzy, hot with desire when Seria came. He’d done what the drugs drove him to and his young wife demanded before collapsing into sleep.

In the morning he’d feared for her. Left her alone again until she came to him to say she was with child from that night. Then he’d gone to Lanlia begging help. She’d come to look over the girl and told him the truth.

“She’s too young to bear safely. Her hips are too narrow. She will die.” She’d hesitated. “I could give her a potion to free her of the child. In such cases my craft allows.”

Tarnoor would have agreed. It was his wife who refused. She’d been another of those who feared witchery, even the gentle healcraft. She was certain it was a son and she would bear him safely for Aiskeep. It had been a son for Aiskeep, she had been wrong in all else.

Once her labor began Tarnoor had been ruthless. He’d sent at once for her mother. Demanded she attend her daughter so she might see what she had done. For three agonizing days he waited. He’d wept when the babe was brought to him. Wept again when he bade his dead wife farewell. He had not wept when he drove her mother from his gates.

If it had not been for her folly he might still have had the girl he’d adored. He might have had many strong children growing up to name him Father. She’d cheated him of that. He’d wed no more. Nor had he. Trovagh would be his only child. Tarnoor had been panic-stricken when the toddler fell and was so badly injured. Lanlia had come with all speed, her strength poured out to save the child. For that he’d sworn blood debt. It was why she’d sent her child to him at the last. In that he had still paid nothing. He’d loved the girl from the first, loved hep as the daughter he’d hoped to have with his second wedding. It was an old saying: A son for the Keep, a daughter for the heart. He had both. What the Gods took with one hand they gave with the other.

Ciara slept. In her dream the familiar silver mist rose about her. On her breast the pendant took on life under the covering cloth. It glowed softly, the gem chips at the wing edges points of blue flame. Ciara saw her mother standing on the edge of the watchtower. Across the distance their eyes met. Love linked between. Someone was saying something as the girl strained to hear.

It was familiar, not her mother speaking but—she gasped in sudden recognition. It had been years but surely—surely it was her grandmother’s voice that spoke? She willed it louder. It was speaking to her mother. She watched the change of expression on that loved face. Saw the fear and grief fade to be replaced with an accepting serenity. Ciara felt the same emotion flow across the link. She watched quietly as she saw the tower door spring open, the Kars guards rush through. She looked as Lanlia fell and through the link she knew her mother’s spirit had fled before she struck the ground.

In her mind the words Lanlia had heard echoed softly. A promise from one who scorned to lie. “The Old Blood shall come full circle. It shall rise to flower again.”

Ciara smiled in her sleep. Estcarp. That was where most of her blood had fled. But the voice spoke again then, very quietly. “Not to Estcarp but to the east shall the blood seek. There it shall flower in freedom. When the time comes, give what you treasure that one you love may fly free. Remember!”

Ciara woke slowly. She’d dreamed something but she couldn’t quite recall. She’d heard someone speak, seen something. It didn’t matter. Under her bodice the glow faded from her pendant. The time for her to remember was not yet. Beside her Trovagh stirred, stretching and yawning sleepily. He staggered to his feet.

“Didn’t Father say we should go to the cave today? Let’s see if there’s anything to eat, I’m starving.”

So was Ciara; she ran with him to seek both food and drink. Then she saddled their horses while Tarnoor gave orders.

“Keep the captives unharmed until we return. They may have water. If they speak uncleanly, gag them again after they have drunk. I will return soon. Go about your work but leave men to guard them.”

He nudged his mount into a steady canter up the hillside trail. The boy and girl ranged up the line of riders to fall in behind Tarnoor and Hanion. By sunhigh they were at the cave, spreading out in silence to hunt. There was nothing within but the ashes of a fire, debris from several meals. They continued on to where horses had been pastured. There they found dung and hoofprints, cropped grass. Hanion stood up from inspecting these.

“I see the tracks of no more beasts than those we have already. There are footprints leading away, one set only. A woman, I think. Let you and I, my lord, follow with care.” Tarnoor agreed, pausing only to signal Trovagh that he should join them.

There was not far to trail the reeling steps. For much of the way the one ahead had gone dragging on hands and knees. Tarnoor guessed what they would find. They rounded bushes, then with a gasp Hanion stooped.

His fingers touched, seeking life. Then he looked up. “No use, my lord. She’s been dead for hours. I don’t know her, she must have been some traveler they stole along the way.” His hands gently straightened the twisted body, closed the staring, agonized eyes. Behind them there was a sound close to a snarl as Ciara thrust past.

Tarnoor caught her back. “Nothing you can do for her, lass. She’s gone beyond some hours, Hanion says.”

The girl ignored him, dropping to sit touching the pale face. Then she spoke. “She must have an honored grave by Cup and Flame.” She reached for twigs piling them into a small stack at the feet. Trovagh walked away to return with a cup made from a large leaf. In it was watered wine from someone’s flask.

“Will this do, Cee?”

“Yes.” She stood looking down at the woman as Tarnoor spoke the words of leave-taking. There was Cup and Flame but the dead spirit cried for more. Ciara could feel the rage and hate that still held the spirit bound. It needed the fire for cleansing that it might be freed. Slowly her hand moved to her pendant. Tarnoor saw the movement and spoke softly to Hanion.

“Go to the men, say we return shortly, we do but bury one misused by those sons of filth. Remain with them until we are done.”

Ciara had waited. Hanion marched away, then her hand lifted the pendant. She opened her mind to the silver mists. She did not know what to do, only that the spirit should have peace. That she willed with all her heart. To those beside her it appeared she did nothing, but a soft golden glow rose about the woman’s body. It thickened, closed tighter. Then as it cleared, it could be seen there were only ashes. A small breeze lifted them, and they were gone.

Tarnoor looked at the girl. Now they both knew what could have happened. He signaled the children to him. “The bandits are your prisoners. It is for you now to decide what you will do with them. Speak together as we return. Tell me your choice once we are at the garth.” It was not a pleasant lesson, but both had to learn that wars had aftermaths. The decisions there, too, fell on the Keep Rulers. From the corner of his eye he watched as the pair talked, falling back in their concentration. Then they were riding into the valley. Ciara rode up to his left, Trovagh to his right. Both young faces were stern with decision.

At Jontar’s garth Tarnoor stood and looked down at the bandits. He glanced about; there was a line of trees by the stream that would do at need. He motioned to his men.

“As my son and his lady judge, so will you do.” It was Ciara who stepped forward, Trovagh at her shoulder. She spoke in a clear voice for all to hear.

“In winter the wolves come, we meet them with fire and sword, nor do we mourn their deaths. Yet they come to feed their cubs, to eat instead of starving. If we give them death and it is just then these men, too, should die. They came to plunder, to rape and burn, for nothing but pleasure in their own evil. So have we judged them.” She fell silent.

Trovagh took a pace forward, he breathed in once hard, then spoke. “Hang them!” When they rode out an hour later, it had been done.

7

That winter was hard. Bitter chill, an early snow that stayed late, and wind that whipped up the air to blizzard frenzy. Within the garths of Aiskeep there was no great hardship. The houses were strong, well chinked between the logs that formed their structure. The Keep itself was warm from the large hearths, although drafts abounded in the main hall in which all shared meals. Ciara had noticed that long since and planned for almost two years to surprise her uncle.

The sheep of Aiskeep were white, small hardy creatures that lived in two flocks in the foothills above the valley end. With the death of Ciara’s family, the flock of black and brown beasts her mother had reared were added. They grazed separate from the others with their own shepherd. The girl visited them every week; Ysak, the flock ram, was an old friend. The sheep were shorn in rotation by flock. It was a tiring business but wool was one of a Keep’s staples. Even the poorer garths had a few sheep. How else were they to have clothes to wear. The colored sheep remained Ciara’s. Quietly over the past two years she had taken possession of several of the fleeces after the shearing was completed. Some she traded with the garths. Others she retained. With all three colors she had worked busily on evenings when Tarnoor was away. Elanor and Trovagh had known her plan, of course; often they had found time to help. The kittens, too, had assisted—at least that was probably how they thought of it. Now this winter, it looked as if the end was in sight.

It would be Tarnoor’s name day in another few weeks. Since that was only a few days from the midwinter feast, it was usual to combine the two. Trovagh had found a small sheet of parchment, well used but capable of being cleansed. He scraped it patiently until all the old message had been removed. Then with painstaking care he lettered a name-day blessing on the whitened surface. From the Keep’s priestess he persuaded tiny pots of blue, green, and gold, these being the colors of good wishing. The blessing was a work of art when it was done.

Trovagh went in search of Ciara when he finished. “What do you think?”

She studied the parchment. “I think it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, Tro. I wish I could letter like that.”

“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 Nefhyn 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 snowdrift 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 noticed 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 Mann’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.

He took two casual paces forward, to find he was staring at Kiv’s body as it sprawled on the ground. Trovagh dropped the lamb. Flames! The poor lad must have fallen trying to reach the lamb. His eyes focused on the boy. There was something sticking from the lad’s chest. Trovagh investigated. The stump of an arrow, the broken portion lay near the body. Bandits? The cave! If there were outlaws around the cave would be the most likely place for them to be. Oh, Gods, Cee had gone to find Kiv there.

Trovagh was on horseback and cantering before he thought. He had sense enough to slow before the final stretch to the hideaway. He dismounted, slipping through the brush on foot; luckily he had taken his bow, he thought. They usually hunted while in the foothills. Cee would have hers, too, but he feared she might not have had the chance to use it. That was her horse standing there. Damn, if only her name-day gift hadn’t bruised his hoof that way. The Torgian colt would have attacked on command, or even without if he saw his rider seized.

Quickfeet shied violently away from the cave as within it Ciara screamed. The girl came staggering back clear of the cave-mouth, her upper clothing torn. Her fingers hooked into claws, her eyes flaming fury as she fought in silence now against the man who held her captive. Trovagh glanced about swiftly. There was another horse past the cave. It was a typical bandit mount. Overridden, ill-used, but of originally good quality. Why steal poor animals when you can steal the best. But only one horse, most likely only one man, two at most.

A savage slap sent Ciara spinning to the ground again. She came up fighting, sinking her teeth into her captor’s arm as he grabbed her. For a moment her face was visible to Trovagh. He saw the desperation behind the rage, the terror behind the determination to fight. Blood trickled down her cheek from one of the blows. Something rose in Trovagh. A chill, deadly fury. He stepped forward, spying the man’s bow. He darted silently toward it even as the outlaw heard the rush of feet. A quick stamp and the bow broke, now Trovagh turned on his prey.

Never fight in” a temper, his father had taught him. Trovagh’s mood was beyond that description,.it was ice, the deadly winter blizzard that comes to kill. It, too, did not slay in a rage, but those who met it died. He feinted. The man he faced was good enough for untrained farmers, but Trovagh had been taught by Hanion since the boy could walk. Swords crossed, flickering and shimmering. Another feint, a bind, and a sword whirling high into the air. The bandit made his final mistake. His eyes followed the blade upward. Trovagh brought his sword lashing around. The outlaw folded in silence to the bloody earth.

Cee? Where was Cee? Trovagh jerked his head around hunting for her. Over Quickfeet’s back an arrow pointed. He slouched in relief and pride, gasping for breath. Even after that she’d run not for a place to hide but for a weapon to aid him. Behind her horse Ciara allowed the bowstring to relax.

“Are there any more?” Trovagh was remaining cautious.

“No, he said he was alone, and the others were wiped out days ago by Aranskeep.” She emerged from behind Quickfeet as she spoke. Her hand went up to wipe away the trickle of blood. The man’s ring had cut high on her cheekbone when he struck her. She walked unsteadily toward Tro.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He hesitated; how did you ask a friend if she’d been raped? “Were you… he didn’t… ?”

She managed a small, shaky smile. “I fought him too hard, then you came.” He looked at her standing there. Hair torn half loose from its braids, clothing wrenched apart. She was bruised, bloody, but still Cee. His arms went out to close about her. Her face turned up to reassure him as their lips met, almost by accident. Long moments later he put her from him a little.

It was his smile that was shaky now. “I think perhaps we should tell Father our marriage could become official. That’s if you feel the same way, Cee?”

She smiled up, long affection and new love in that look. “Yes!” was all she said. It was enough.

8

The wedding was small as Keep weddings went. Trader Tanrae and his family, Geavon and all his, and a sprinkling of the clan who lived within a few days’ travel. There were also the people of Aiskeep, the garths, and those others outside the valley who still looked to Aiskeep as overlord. The preparations took until almost midsummer. But then their own priestess united Trovagh and Ciara by Cup and Flame. Aiskeep rejoiced.

Hard on the heels of that event came another that also delighted everyone. It was all Geavon’s fault, Tarnoor declared. That was no more than the truth. Geavon had sat with Tarnoor after the wedding. Both felt a little fiat after all the excitement. The children were safely bedded down in the tower suite, which was now their own. The guests had mostly departed, and things were returning slowly to normal. Tarnoor sighed.

“I suppose I have only a doddering age to look forward to now.”

Geavon snorted in amusement. “You’re still young enough to consider a third wife. Now that the boy’s off your hands, why don’t you look about? Flames, man. You’re only in your sixties; you aren’t trembling into the grave as yet. Find some widow with a little dowry and no children to complicate Aiskeep’s inheritance.”

Tarnoor flung back his head and laughed. “And find myself landed with someone who’d want to change the Keep about, and who doesn’t know the place! Meddling with the garths, upsetting the servants. If I was going to wed again, I might as well take Elanor, at least she knows Aiskeep and…” He fell abruptly silent. Geavon eyed him shrewdly as Tarnoor sat there. It looked as if his friend had finally realized something Geavon had been hinting at for weeks.

No more was said on that subject. They finished the wine, talked of harvest, then wandered off to their beds. Tarnoor lay in his old four-poster bed thinking late into the night. It was legal to wed Elanor. She was only a distant cousin to Tarnoor, a closer one to his late wife, but that didn’t matter. She was sensible, comfortable, and kind. She’d run Aiskeep for the last twenty-odd years. There’d be no changes just for the sake of it.

He smiled slightly. As for the dowry, Aiskeep was obliged to provide her with one should she wish to wed. That really was keeping money in the family should he marry her. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. There’d be no children, but there’d be a comfortable old age together. She was younger, but then she was wholly of Karsten. Aiskeep didn’t talk loudly about it, but there was the blood of the Old Race in the direct line here. Not a great amount. Just enough to lengthen their lives, keeping them hale barring accidents or sicknesses, until they died.

Ciara had done no more than bring back a stronger infusion of the blood. Aiskeep had always been a little different. He slept then. But in the morning he dressed carefully, going quietly in search of Elanor.

“I would speak to you; walk with me in the herb garden.”

Best to move slowly, Tarnoor considered, as they walked. He’d lived long enough to know that telling Elanor he had begun considering her because she had no children and wouldn’t turn the Keep upside down would not win him favor. Instead, he complimented her on her latest gown, plucked a sprig of rosemary to pin on her bodice, and left her baffled. Tarnoor followed the same plan every morning for a week until Elanor looked for him out of habit. Then he shifted his ground.

At the next evening meal he waited to hand Elanor ceremoniously to her chair. This drew interested looks from his children. They could hardly wait to get away once the meal was done.

“Did you see?” Trovagh was incredulous.

Ciara giggled, “I certainly did. Did you see the defiant way he did it? As if he was daring anyone to comment?”

Trovagh nodded, “It would be a fair match,” he said. “Elanor’s kin, so there’d be no problems there, and she’d cause no trouble at Aiskeep.”

“And she’s a dear!”

“That, too. Remember the time we put a toad in her bed and she made us eat that oversalted porridge?”

Ciara smiled, “I remember, but she didn’t tell Father. I think it would be good. After all, they’re old, and it would be nice for each of them to have company.”

Meanwhile Elanor, no fool, had also come to a conclusion. She’d never known quite when she began to love Tarnoor. Sometime after her cousin had left him widowed, she thought. When she’d seen how good he was with his tiny son, his people, and his Keep. How kind, honest, and caring he was. She’d never let him see it. She ran the Keep, but in a way she was a servant. If she allowed him to see she cared, he might fear it was only to raise herself. She guessed at the reasons she was considered, but there had been real affection when he looked at her.

She waited patiently as Tarnoor moved toward his question. He spoke gently of love then. Could she care? She assured him happily that she already did. Their wedding was quieter still. Just those within the Keep and Geavon who had not yet departed. But a week later Geavon, too, was gone. Aiskeep settled down. Elanor was happier than she had ever been, and Tarnoor seemed to be discovering a new energy.

It took three years before something occurred to disrupt the Keep.

“You’re sure?” Trovagh was delighted.

“Positive!”

“So we can tell Father and Elanor tonight?”

Ciara looked doubtful. “Just so long as they don’t go broody. I don’t want to be wrapped up and kept inside. I’m young, healthy, and the women of my line normally birth easily. Apart from that I know healcraft. I won’t take chances, love, but I don’t want to be driven mad by a fuss.”

Trovagh broke the news that evening. Privately he also managed a word with his family. The fuss was kept moderate. Ciara rode as usual, walked, and worked in the stillroom with her herbs. She bore a healthy boy. Four years later she added a girl to the family. But by then strange events were beginning.

A man had risen in the far South. He’d begun as a guard and proved to have fighting aptitude. From that he’d gone on to take over a garth. Then with a tail of men he’d taken a small clanless Keep.No one knew where he came from or what his blood. He called himself Pagar of Geen. But Geen was only a small town, and Pagar was a word in the old tongue for ‘One who stands alone.’ Nonetheless the man was a strategist as well as a fighter and leader of fighters. His next move was to take more land. It had lain long fallow, too far from clan land to be defensible, yet close to the Keep Pagar had taken, which had been small and not so defensible itself. Now the man was building a base, it appeared. Over the next two years Pagar strengthened his Keep, widened his holdings, then struck for real ties with power. It was a letter from Geavon that brought the news. Tarnoor read it with interest. So this Pagar had offered for the daughter of one of the smaller clans. He told his family over breakfast.

Ciara hooted. “Is that the one with a truly evil temper?”

“And a reputation for exhausting the Kars Guard?” Trovagh added.

“So I believe,” Tarnoor informed them. It was funny, but not for long. The woman apparently settled to a respectable wifehood, producing a son only days after nine months from the wedding. Her death in childbed was not surprising. Many women died that way. The child, however, lived, giving Pagar a solid clan claim. He used it to add men and clan soldiers to his train, striking within months at a keep belonging to a rival clan. It was taken swiftly. Then another, and a third. With growing wealth and status, his offer for a daughter of a larger clan was acceptable.

By this time there were voices suggesting Pagar be raised to duke. Merchants from Kars, some honest, others paid for the service, lobbied loudly. Here was a man who could finally bring order to the land. A man who knew the people. Three years later Pagar was crowned duke of the duchy of Kars. His alliances spread after that. His second wife died, again in a perfectly acceptable way. There was some gossip, put about by the ill-intentioned of course. Pagar ignored it loftily. He wed a third time. His prize was the only daughter of a powerful man in the most powerful of the coastal clans.

Pagar was thirty-three when he announced a campaign in the North. For too long the land around Verlaine had been lawless, Pagar said firmly. Fulk had never returned. Various lords had held Verlaine, the current one being a weak fool who permitted outlaws to ravage unchecked. Those living in that area agreed heartily. Pagar blooded his troops. Behind him he left Verlaine in the hands of one of those who looked to him. A strong guard reinforced peace over the area. Sycophants in Kars told all about them to look at how their duke handled things.

Geavon told a different story on a visit. “I don’t know the man’s eventual aim. But everything until now has been a carefully thought-out series of steps upward. I think soon he will attack Estcarp. It’s an old enemy to Karsten and the man must lead his men against someone.”

Elanor was puzzled. “Why?”

“Because of those he leads. Too many are mercenaries, bandits turned temporarily honest soldiers, outlaws impressed by the loot from the northern campaign. Without a war the army will fall apart. Pagar can’t pay them, but to keep them together he must. Or he can offer them the possibilities of vast loot. If he carves a path into Estcarp, he buys time to strengthen his power. Loot to rebuild Kars, plunder to pay his men. You do know he’s already started raiding along the border between us?”

Tarnoor was horrified. “Without declaration?”

“Exactly. Estcarp won’t take it for long. They’ll do something we may all regret.” Geavon sighed. “It all harks back to the Horning. Too many in our land benefited from that or have guilty consciences over things that happened. Too many have always feared that one day they’d be called to pay blood debt. Pagar has played on that. He has the city and most of the clans behind him in what he does. The worst of it is, Estcarp cannot win. If they do .nothing, Pagar will raid more boldly. If they act, then he will cry out that we are unjustly attacked by an old enemy. This is only the beginning. He will claim that if we do not fight, we will soon be a subject land.”

Tarnoor glanced at his friend. “Which do you think will come?”

“Those of Estcarp are not cowards, they’ll fight,” Geavon said thoughtfully. “Pagar is expecting an easier war than I think he will get. But once he is committed, then so are we all. I never liked nor trusted the man, I think he leads us where we would not wish did we but see the path ahead clearly. I fear for Karsten.”

It was well that Tarnoor persuaded the old man to remain. Two weeks later word came from Gerith Keep. Geavon left at once traveling light and as swift as aging bones allowed. His next letter was grim.

Estcarp had made some formal alliance with the Sulcar so that their fleets had been loosed upon Kars. Twenty ships broke the Kars river patrol, slashing into the very heart of the city. The results of that kept the duke busy in his own backyard for a year. The Kars merchants were outraged. The Sulcar had dealt death in moderation, but some wise one among them had counseled another blow. As the fleet withdrew they had burned every warehouse they could set alight. The duke had no sooner quelled that trouble than more came to him from the far South.

Hanion was amused. “They say the man claims to be Pagar’s half brother. That the father lived with some woman for several years before he died and got a son on her. This man is a bare twenty, but he’s ambitious and a couple of the clans with no love for Pagar will back him. Pagar had better deal quickly with him, else there are others who may decide this one to be the better bargain.”

Aiskeep was wise enough to remain apart. But as Hanion had said, there were others willing to fish in troubled waters.

Three years passed before Pagar was secure on his throne again. The half brother, however, had been so evilly slain that others rose in his place. As fast as the duke suppressed trouble in one province, it broke out elsewhere. Nor were supplies for war so easy to find of late with the Sulcar firmly on the side of Estcarp. For a time the duke lay low, keeping peace in the land while he built up trained men and quietly bought weapons to store against need.

In those years Aiskeep continued to thrive. The children grew, prospering in health and knowledge. Ciara’s daughter was sixteen when she wed. Ciara wept as she kissed her farewell.

“Be happy, do not be strangers to Aiskeep. May Cup and Flame go with you in blessing, little one.” For a time they did. Then it was the turn of Ciara’s son.

“But who is this lady, we have heard of no Aisha?”

Kirin laughed. “No, but is her name not a good omen? She is the sister of a friend I made in Kars. I met him when I stayed with Geavon at Gerith Keep last year. We visited my friend’s house in Kars often. She is young, only fourteen, but we could be wed next year.”

Ciara was uncertain. As ever she took her questions to Trovagh. “I know nothing of the girl; could we not invite her here for a time? We can thus decide with more knowledge. The match is well enough from what we know, but we know little.”

The girl came. She was small in stature, maybe a little sly, Ciara thought, quiet and gentle seeming but lazy and rather spoiled. She would not expect to run Aiskeep. In that she would produce no contention. She also appeared fond of Kirin, although Ciara wondered how much of her son’s determination was merely an infatuation with a very pretty girl. They were wed a year later, though Ciara wished both to wait a little longer.

Meanwhile, Pagar had again commenced raiding the Estcarp border. He, was strong on his throne, since many of those who opposed him seemed to die conveniently. There was more gossip about that, which ceased when people noticed that the gossipers also seemed to have a surprisingly high mortality rate. The raids carried on over the next few years, growing in strength and intensity. Pagar did not seem to mind his losses, nor, loaded with plunder from Estcarp’s border, did his men.

Then for the first time in many years, grief came to Aiskeep. Ciara’s daughter died. There had been no living child of the marriage, and Trovagh and Ciara mourned together as did Tarnoor and Elanor. They had been so fortunate, it had been a long time since death had touched any of them. It was to become a familiar visitor. A month later, Trader Tanrae’s son came bringing word that bandits had struck a merchant train. In the fighting his father had been slain.

Talron’s face was black with anger as he told them. “I do not believe it to have been the raid it appeared. One of the outlaws was taken alive. He swore their leader was paid for the attack, and that they were to be certain my father died.”

“Are you sure of this?” Tarnoor was shocked. “Your father had no enemies I know of. He was a good man and honest.”

Talron shrugged. “I’m sure the one who talked believed it. The truth of it is another matter.”

Ciara wondered. She wondered still more when her daughter’s maid found her way back to Aiskeep. She, too, had a story to tell.

“Lady, I loved your daughter. She was my lady twice over, once as her servant and once as I belong to Aiskeep. I cannot swear to my fears, only that they are there. The marriage was happy enough, though there were no children as yet. Then a cousin of the clan nearby began to visit often. He and my lady’s husband seemed to spend more time together talking close, as if they wished none to overhear their words. Then my lady fell ill. They said it was the ague but there were differences. I spoke so but was told I was an ignorant servant knowing nothing. My lady died, and even before her body was in the ground her husband’s friend was there, whispering in his ear.

“My lady was buried and I was told I should return to Aiskeep. That there was no need of me. They gave me a little coin, an old pony, and bade me join a merchant train coming south. All this I did, but, Lady, the merchants were kept late in Kars by storms. I did not leave the Keep when they believed.”

“What did you see?” Tarnoor asked quietly.

“My lady’s husband going very quietly to the shrine. Before the shrine priestess he made declaration that his Keep was now allied with that other clan. His friend stood witness.” She turned to Ciara. “I can prove nothing. I have no proof. But I believe my lady was slain in some way. I think her husband to be innocent, but he merely took the opportunity offered him by his friend. But my lady disliked the man, nor is that clan a friend to Aiskeep. So long as she lived she would never have let such an alliance be. I heard them argue often enough.”

Tarnoor dismissed the girl gently. Once the door had shut behind her he turned to look at his family.

“What do you think of her tale?”

Trovagh looked distressed. “The girl herself admits there is no proof. She even believes our son-in-law innocent. How can we accuse some cousin of another clan—and of what? That he poisoned our daughter so his clan might ally with one Keep? That’s the clan the duke wed into last time. It would be more than dangerous to accuse if what rumor says is true.”

It rested there until winter came. Of late many had been mild, but this one was harsh and long once more. When it faded into spring Ciara chose to ride out.

“I will if I wish, Tro. I’m not so old I can’t sit a horse. Come with me, and we can take some of the guard and ride toward Elmsgarth. Aiskeep owns it; we should be sure it survived the winter.”

Trovagh chuckled. “Well enough, let us ride.” They took six of the guard and a pack pony. It was a day’s ride to the garth that had once been Ciara’s home. They would stay the night there and ride back in the morning.

They walked the horses across boggy ground toward the edge of Elmsgarth land. Leading the small group was Trovagh. His hand suddenly flung up in a signal to halt. Ciara followed his look. Beside the willows huddled several starved goats. The bark had been eaten high, to branch forks in the case of some of the trees that had proved climbable.

“There’s something wrong. Sersgarth has been using this land as pasture for years but not in winter. Why would they leave the beasts here to starve? These are only the ones that have survived.” He pointed to a scattering of humps, black and white against the brown earth. He turned to the men. “Spread out, and look for other beasts and any people. Be wary. Listen in case I call.”

He sat his mount as Ciara craned about her. “Tro, should we ride on to Sersgarth? If they were in so much trouble that they’d leave valuable stock here to starve, then…”

“Then they are probably dead,” Trovagh cut in. “It has been possible to ride to Elmsgarth for at least a week. If any were alive, then surely they’d have come by now. Still, you are right, we should ride there to see. Wait a little until we hear if our men have found anything.”

One by one the guards trickled back. They had found no one, but the last of them reported signs.

“Signs? What sort of signs? Riders?”

“No, my lord. I think that there were cattle here, too. The fence at the back has been broken down. The beasts will have gone into the hills once they became hungry enough to push through the railings.” He paused to consider. “My lord, I believe there to have been perhaps a dozen cattle, maybe more.”

Ciara spoke with the sound of steel in her voice. “Sersgarth would never have left so much wealth to die here. Not unless they themselves were already dead. Let us ride quickly. We can be there before dark.”

Trovagh agreed. “Spread out in line. Harran, go well ahead. Two of you others fall back. String bows and ride with your eyes wide open.”

The small cavalcade swept down the road, half-melted snow and slush flying from many hooves. They rounded the bend before Sersgarth, then pulled to a hasty halt as Harran rode back.

“Lord, Lady, Sersgarth stands, but the door is shut. No one appears to answer my calls.”

They rode on with care. It was as Harran had said. Within the house there were ominous stains here and there. Anything small of value had vanished. More interesting, even the secret hiding places, usually well-guarded family secrets, had been emptied without signs they had been broken open. There were no traces of the beasts here. Even the horse harnesses and wains were gone. But there was no damage. Nothing smashed or burned such as bandits usually did.

They stayed the night, riding back to Aiskeep distressed and bewildered. In the South all had been quiet for some time. It would have taken a strong band of outlaws to win the garth with so little damage. Why then had they not stayed the winter? The buildings were weather-tight with good hearths and much firewood stacked behind the house. With the increasing pressure against Estcarp’s border, the loot to be had there drew outlaws and bandits north. Had this been a band of such traveling in that direction? But the other questions remained.

They were not answered that year. Instead, a large family appeared less than a month later to settle in the deserted garth. They claimed the goats found at Ciara’s old home as well. Trovagh and Ciara rode over to speak with them.

“From where do you and your family come?”

“From beyond Teral, my lord. A wearying journey.”

“We do not dispute your use of the land. But by what right do you claim it?”

The family’s leader was brief. “We purchased it, my lord. One who has been very long gone agreed it should be ours.”

Trovagh and Ciara blinked at each other. The only ones ever gone from the garth had been Seran and his family.

“Seran?”

“It was a woman. I do not wish to be impolite, my lord, but we have much work to do.”

That was so clearly true Trovagh asked nothing more. They walked the horses back, talking as they went.

“It must be Seran’s wife; there’s no one else it could have been,” Trovagh commented.

Ciara looked at him. “That’s true. But there’s something you haven’t considered. We only found Sersgarth abandoned a month ago. Isn’t that a rather short time? Think, Tro. It’s clear whatever happened occurred at the beginning of winter. But there’s been almost no travelers as yet this spring. How did Seran’s wife get word that the garth had been abandoned, that all the rest of the family had disappeared when we ourselves didn’t know?”

“How, too, did she then find this family to buy from her, and gather their goods and gear to be there so swiftly?” Trovagh added thoughtfully.

“If they came from beyond Teral as they said,” Ciara added, “the trip with all those children and animals must have taken more than a week. That shortens their time to have heard and made ready still further. I dislike this whole business.”

“And I, beloved. But there is naught we can do. Sersgarth has never looked to the Keep. We have no right to demand a sight of these purchase papers the man claims. We can only refuse them the right to use your own home as Sersgarth did.”

That time came quickly. Harran rode in just weeks later to say that Elmsgarth once more hosted beasts. Trovagh said nothing but rode out with ten men. The new family had moved into Ciara’s old home as well. The house was clean but to this garth they had no shadow of right. He said so. Politely, kindly, but very firmly. If they wished to buy, it would be considered. If they wished to rent, that, too, would be given thought. But until then, the land and buildings belonged to Aiskeep.

The family head returned to talk at the end of the summer. He would buy. Ciara sold reluctantly. Still the land had always been too far from Aiskeep, nor did any of the family wish to live there. The purchase price would be of use. But both she and Trovagh wondered how a garth family could afford to buy two large garths in outright holding. They did not ask. In some ways, they did not wish to know.

The marriage of Ciara and Trovagh’s son was blessed that year. A healthy son to balance the loss of friends and neighbors, which still puzzled Aiskeep. After that there was an interval. Kirin was often away in Kars. To the distrust of all at Aiskeep, he seemed to be moving into the circle of those about the duke. He grew further apart, too, from his wife who turned to spoiling her son as compensation. A second son was born three years later. He, too, was soon spoiled despite all that Ciara and Elanor could do.

It was rumored that Kirin backed the duke in his war. That he encouraged the raids, sometimes riding on these with his men. Ciara did not wish to believe this of her son. Her eyes were opened ten years after the death of her daughter and the disappearance of those at Sersgarth.

“You will ride in outright war? Surely, my son, you have other duties. What of your wife, your sons? One day Aiskeep will be yours.”

Kirin sneered at that. “One Keep in the poor South. If I please Pagar, I, will rule as a duke in Estcarp. With their allies elsewhere engaged they cannot stand. One strike to their heart and we’ll crush them as one crushes a walnut for the meat. My sons will rule a province, not one Keep.”

Tarnoor had listened quietly to this; now he spoke. “Estcarp has protections other than its soldiers. Also you have not thought. I am your lord. You are my heir’s heir. Under law you may not ride without my permission. It is not given nor shall it be.” He closed his mouth in a way that all knew his mind was made up.

Kirin smiled, a slow, vicious smirk. “Say you so, Grandfather? There may be one who says otherwise. As for Estcarp and its witches, they fail. Our scouts tell us the men of Estcarp move back little by little. They may plan to make a stand on their side of the mountains. If so, they are fools. Pagar will roll over them. Their land will be ours. As for your permission, I think you shall give it once you have thought about it.”

Before Tarnoor could speak again, Kirin strode from the room leaving the four remaining to stare in horror after him.

9

Pagar was harrying Estcarp forces when Kirin reached him. He returned at speed for several reasons, though he chose not to name them all. One was a third offer from Alizon.

“No,” he told Kirin. “I drink no cup of Brotherhood with Facellian. He has unchancy allies. Moreover, I do not trust him. Let him keep busy with the Sulcar; it keeps them from joining with Estcarp any further. Also,” he said, looking thoughtful, “Facellian moves against other lands. I think he takes more on his knife-point than he can thrust into his mouth. It may be that if his war does not prosper he will return to us with better offers.”

Kirin grinned sourly. “You say he harries the Sulcar, Lord. But the spies bring word of a great fleet assembling in Es Bay. Those of Alizon who would make a treaty with us have the same story. The accursed Witches may escape us all yet.”

“Not so. The army gathers. Very soon we shall strike into the heart of Estcarp. A portion of the army, led by you, my friend, shall ride hard to the northwest and the great bay. If any attempt to retreat to some land across the seas, they shall find you waiting.”

“Yes, but what of my grandsire? He speaks truly when he says my riding with your army is against the old laws.” Kirin sat, his elbow on the table as he stared gloomily into the wine cup. “I am the heir’s heir. If he says me nay, I may not ride. My sister is dead. My parents will not breed again. There is none else.”

“You have two sons,” Pagar pointed out.

“Both children. The law was made to prevent dispute in such matters. My grandsire is old, my father’s health has ever been chancy in winter. If I fall in battle, Aiskeep would be under regency for years.”

Pagar pursed his lips. “Leave it with me, my friend. I will consult those who are wise in such matters. Let you prepare for the time we move. I swear to you, you shall ride as you wish.”

He waited until the fool was gone. Oh, yes. Kirin would ride, but Pagar had other plans for the man he named friend. Other plans, too, for the doddering swine of a grandsire. It had taken half a lifetime but the oaths he’d sworn were almost accomplished. But before he made his final moves here, there were a few small matters to tidy away. He called for wine. He would think each move out that he must make. Too much haste was folly. He’d learned that as a common soldier.

At Aiskeep Ciara was unhappy. Was there something wrong with her that her son turned against them so? Had she not taught him well, loved him greatly? Yet now he cursed them all and would go against even the oldest of Keep laws. Tarnoor comforted her.

“The lad’s always been a bit hotheaded. He’ll calm down and realize he has responsibilities here. What about poor little Aisha? He’s planning to desert her, too, for the Flames know how long.”

Ciara snorted crudely. “Poor little Aisha will manage very well without him. She’s ruining her own sons to compensate. They have no curb on them at all. She does nothing either with them or for the Keep. She infuriates me.”

From his seat near the fire Trovagh chuckled. “You mean you can’t make up your mind, love. One minute you’re complaining she takes no interest in Aiskeep. The next you’re thanking the Gods she does not, lest she ruin it as she ruins her sons.”

Ciara threw up her hands. “I know, I know. Between her and Kirin I’m saying things I don’t mean.” She turned the talk to other things, but later in her room with Trovagh she was more thoughtful.

“I didn’t like the way Kirin spoke. There’s something behind that attitude of his. I know he and the duke are close; the boy’s spent most of the last couple of years in Kars. He’s hardly home at all. Geavon’s always said Pagar had his plans all laid out. That he was moving up step by step.”

“Geavon’s an old man who sees plots in every dark corner.”

“Geavon’s an old man who’s survived a lot of plots in dark corners,” Ciara retorted. “I don’t always agree with him, but I do here. I don’t know what it is”—she twisted her fingers together—“but I feel as if something is closing in on us. As if we are being watched, and in danger.”

Trovagh caught her restless fingers into his hands. “Hush, love. It’s all right. Kirin is only a young fool. He’s rushed to Kars to check the law. Once he finds Father spoke true, the boy will be back. Although, he could go.” He looked down at their linked hands. “I know why the law was made. It was to prevent children from being used as pawns in the old days. A child ruling anywhere has always been dangerous for those ruled. Father is old, but he’s strong and healthy. He should live long. Then there is me. I know I take colds, sometimes badly in winter, but I have you to aid me. Kirin has two sons to follow him here.”

Ciara was listening to him as he continued. “The problem is, sweetheart, that Father is old. I am known to be often winter-sick. And Aisha comes from a powerful clan. By law if Father, I, and Kirin died, you should be regent here for our grandsons. But can you see Aisha’s clan sitting back to allow it? No, they’d be here on some pretext within weeks. Aisha’s lazy. She’d agree to anything they demanded rather than argue.”

“And you think I’d sit by and allow Aiskeep to be overrun with her damned clan?”

“No, my dear, I don’t. For which reason they’d move against you first of all. Pagar is allied to Aisha’s clan, and you know the talk. It’s amazing how many accidents one can have if someone else puts their mind to it.”

He realized she was no longer paying attention to him. He fell silent, content to sit holding her hands in the quiet firelit room. His love. She’d always been that behind the friendship. It had taken him too long to see. But they’d had almost thirty years together in the big bed next door. He hoped for another thirty or even more. Their family lived long, and Cee was half of the Old Race. They’d be safe at Aiskeep. When other fools spent their coin on fancy clothes, trips to Kars, and looking fine at the court there, Aiskeep had been built.

Their outer walls were massive. The gates were strong and doubly so with a second curtain wall within and beyond the gates. There were now three escape routes where once there had been two. The garths in the Keep-guarded valley were snug, the buildings kept in repair. The people of Aiskeep lived far better than any Keep farmers, Trovagh knew. As for the armory, it would have armed a Keep of twice as many guards. The lower storerooms were kept filled. None at Aiskeep ever forgot the sieges of the restless years after Yvian’s murder.

Ciara sat quiet, body motionless, but within the stillness her mind raced. It had been Tro’s comment about accidents. It was true. If one ill-intentioned put mind to it, it was amazing how many accidents could happen. The question was, was there a mind here and if so, whose? First there’d been Trader Tanrae, a friend of Aiskeep. He’d died in a bandit ambush: bandits paid to make sure that whatever else happened, Tanrae died. There’d been no reason for it. Tanrae had been an honest trader. He’d had no enemies any could name.

Of course who knew what one who’d been offended might name an injury. It could take very little. Then there’d been Sersgarth. The whole series of mysterious events ending in a new family there—who’d also had the wealth to purchase Elmsgarth. They’d settled into both garths over the years.

They were peaceful enough but somehow, not friendly. Always polite, but without warmth. Ciara felt measured whenever one of them looked at her. As if they waited and watched to be sure what kind of opponent she’d be when the time came.

After that—her eyes blinked back tears—after that there’d been her daughter. The suggestion that the girl had been in the way of a powerful clan. There’d been nothing but the word of a suspicious servant. But an Aiskeep servant, devoted to her mistress and trustworthy. Yet what had the suspicions amounted to, after all? The idea that a large, wealthy, and powerful clan had a young wife poisoned so her husband could swear his Keep to them without objection? One Keep against the scandal that would erupt if poisoning had even been suspected? There were things a clan did not lightly risk. Open that gate and others were free to follow.

It was unlikely, she thought. Yet the servant had listed the details. The ague from which her mistress died had had unusual symptoms. It was odd that they had rid themselves of the servant with quite such haste. Odder still that the grieving husband should be swearing his Keep to another clan and so very hastily in such secret. She had a sense of something moving here, but her mind refused to put the puzzle pieces together. There was a vague link. Tanrae had been Aiskeep’s friend, Ciara’s savior. Sersgarth had been Aiskeep’s neighbor. A daughter of Aiskeep was strangely dead.

Well, worrying over it would not help, she decided. She’d done enough of that lately. Better to fix her mind on something she could remedy, like the way Aisha spoiled those brats of hers. She rose, taking Trovagh affectionately by the arm.

“I’m for our bed, my love.” He followed, glad she seemed to have found peace.

Kirin paid another visit, this time to speak with his wife. He found her infuriatingly unhelpful.

“I’m not becoming involved. I have to live here while you play at lords all over Kars. Your mother picks on me, your grandfather thinks I’m a fool, and you pay me no attention.” She burst into tears. “I’m with child again, too. Go away and do whatever you want. Just don’t expect me to help you.”

Kirin went. He rode back to the city convinced that a dukedom in Estcarp would be a boon greater than he’d thought. He could find some way of ridding himself of Aisha, and taking a younger, prettier wife. Perhaps a girl of Estcarp who would be properly grateful to be wed instead of taken as mistress. He’d take his sons in hand, too. They seemed more unruly and ill-mannered each time he saw them. A tough Armsmaster and a few beatings should cure that.

Once in Kars he was angered all over again to find Pagar was still on the border. The week it would take to ready the army had already stretched to two. Still Kirin could not legally join without causing an outcry. He must persuade Pagar to intervene before it was too late. He rode on to find him there. On the border his duke was triumphant. It seemed that the forces of Estcarp had learned the lessons Pagar had been teaching. He was closeted with his scout head as Kirin stamped in to join him.

“They pull back, my lord. If this continues, we may be through the mountains shortly. The heart is going out of them.

We win and win and they see no end to this war. My spies say that the fleet in Es Bay will bear away many of their lords and their households. For that reason, too, no doubt the men fall back. Few soldiers fight well when they know their masters plan to abandon them.” He sneered at the thought.

Pagar agreed. “Keep pressing them, but do not make them too desperate as yet. The bulk of my army will be ready shortly. Once we have that we can advance at speed.” Kirin nodded agreement. Pagar waved the scout chief to depart before continuing his speech to the intent Kirin. He laid his finger on a map. “Here I will split the army. The greater portion of it, led by me, will strike into the heart of Estcarp direct for Es City. The remainder led by you, will turn northwest and travel as fast as they may to the great bay. As soon as we are through the mountains I’ll have a screen of scout-fighters flung far forward in front of that portion.”

He smiled viciously. “I want none of the Witches to know they will be cut off from their fleet in the bay. Let it come as a surprise to them. Those who suddenly have hope taken away break more easily.” He drank deep from his cup, and looked up, face flushed red with wine. “I have laid my plans a long time, but now they ripen. In a month I will sit in Es City as master. Alizon is finding their own enemies a harder nut to crack than they’d hoped. My spies say it looks possible that Alizon will be defeated. I will take perhaps a year to recover our own strength. To train soldiers, to replace those we lose. After that I will consider Alizon.”

Kirin gasped, “You would rule three countries, my lord?”

“Why not? A man takes what he can in this life. Now, as for your grandsire, I will move there soon. You lead a third of my army. Do you think I will allow some old dotard to deprive me of a commander?” He patted Kirin’s shoulder. “Come, man. More wine and look to this map.” He guided the talk thereafter, before saying he would rise early and must go to his bed.

Once retired, Pagar called for one to attend him.

“Wake me early, at first light. I ride for Kars at speed. A light escort to ride with me. Two horses for each of us. Send a courier now with these orders for my lord Draven in the city.” He thrust a roll of sealed papers into the waiting hand.

He saw the man off and relaxed. At last all his plans were in motion. So few things left to do before he ruled a subject land. He smiled to himself. He’d risen high and meant to rise higher. Estcarp, Alizon, but beyond them were lands the Sulcar knew. Why stop before he reached even further? Here in Karsten he was limited. Officially he must answer to the merchants of Kars, to the heads of his wife’s clan. But in Estcarp, Alizon—he must answer to none but his own desires. Alone with no one to see, his smile was evil.

With daybreak he rode for Kars, where fresh horses waited. Pagar rested, then rode for Aiskeep. Once there he hailed the gates. Tarnoor appeared, to look down in surprise.

“Do you wish to enter, Duke?”

“No, let you come out to talk with me, Lord. I have that which I would say in private.”

Tarnoor sighed, turning to Trovagh and Ciara. “This will be some of Kirin’s work. The boy has convinced the duke to speak for him. Well, I must go down.”

He did so, finding a tent waiting, with a table, chairs, and wine laid ready. He sat heavily. This would not be pleasant, but the law was the law. Even the duke did not break Karsten law with impunity. He listened politely at first, later with paled face and glittering eyes. Then he signed the paper offered.

“You understand you will keep silent on this. Let your family believe Kirin is sulking in Kars awaiting my return. But I have one more request, Lord of Aiskeep.” Pagar spoke again, in lower tones.

Tarnoor reared back in his seat. “I will not!”

“Are you afraid?” The duke’s voice was silky.

“I have been a soldier before, My Lord Duke.”

“Good. Then you will know how to fight. You will do as I say. The consequences otherwise will not be in your favor.” He gloated as the old man bowed his head. He had him at last. He would deal with two now, two to come. Divide and conquer had always been a valuable method. He sat there impassively. Just another mission completed.

Behind him he left chaos. Tarnoor marched, back erect through his gates, then stood silent in anguished thought. Trovagh and Ciara came running.

“Father, what did the duke want?”

Ciara saw deeper. “What did that man say to distress you so?”

“It’s nothing, child. Just a decision I have made. I’ll talk later. For now I must have speech with Hanion.”

They watched him walk away as they gazed in bewilderment. “Hanion?” Trovagh muttered. “Why Hanion?”

“Oldest friend, perhaps. One he can trust to obey without question. Which means there is something wrong.”

They knew what it was soon enough. Through all the uproar, the weeping, the protests, Tarnoor held firm.

“I have made a bargain with the duke. If I ride with him he will see Kirin is safe. If I do not, he will take the boy anyhow. Once that is done, I must disinherit him—and his sons with him.”

“But, Father, that part of the law may be withheld at your choice. Kirin’s son could still be Keep heir.”

“Pagar threatens to have the clans rule otherwise. It would leave Aiskeep without heir, prey to any once we are gone. Pagar would see to that. I will not have it so.”

“But men, what soldiers will you take? Aiskeep guards?”

Tarnoor sighed. “I will not weaken Aiskeep. I have sent word to Tanrae’s son. Talron will spread it about that I am hiring soldiers. That I will not inquire as to character.”

“You’ll get only bandits and outlaws,” Ciara warned.

“That I know well. It will remove them from Karsten at the least.” Tarnoor smiled gently at her. He could not tell her the reason he acted thus. Pagar had threatened and Tarnoor had believed him. The reason Tarnoor had given his family had been only a portion of the threat. The other had been even more deadly. He held to his plan and his silence even when Elanor wept. It must be done.

Men trickled in, the most depraved-looking bunch Trovagh had ever seen. His father shrugged.

“You’d be surprised what unlikely material can make good soldiers.” He talked to the men of loot, and of the chances to do well in a subject land, until he was sure they would follow him at least until they reached Pagar. The duke should not be able to say a bargain had been broken. Still, unknown to his family, he hesitated. What if he did this thing and Pagar was the oathbreaker? He had not impressed Tarnoor as a man to care greatly. None knew of the words between them. None would know if Pagar returned triumphant to destroy those Tarnoor wished to save.

It was then that Ciara sought him out. “Father, I don’t know why you’re doing this. But isn’t there something I can do to help?”

He looked at her remembering the small terrified girl she had been. He’d buried her family while she stood by, then he’d taken her as his own. It wasn’t her fault Kirin had been rotten at the core. There’d been others in the Aiskeep line like that over the generations. Power-hungry seekers after more than one Keep. But he needed to know. He would ride, but what came after?

“Ciara, my daughter.” The words were slowly formal and the woman caught her breath. “Will you foresee for me?”

“You’ve never asked that.”

“I have never wished to know what lies before me. Now I must know. I know you cannot do this for yourself, maybe not for Trovagh. But perhaps for me it may be possible?”

Ciara clasped her hands. “I have never even tried.” Her voice dropped. “I, too, have never wished to know. Is it so important?”

“Yes.” The word was implacable.

“Then I will try. Where is Tro?”

“I sent him to the upper valley to speak with some of the garthspeople. He will not return until late. There is all the time we need, daughter.”

She bowed her head in acceptance. “Then let us begin.” The door was closed, the fire built higher. Ciara sat, pulling her chair around to face the chair in which Tarnoor waited. “I said I’ve never done this before. I can only do as I feel is right and pray.”

He nodded. Ciara lifted the pendant by its chain, taking it into her hands as she reached out to Tarnoor. “Take it between your palms.” He did so and she closed her fingers in turn about his wrists. Then she called the mists. She knew not if she would see: perhaps since his need was so great it would be he to whom the seeing came. Within the mist all was familiar. She wandered timelessly as always until something told her she should leave. She came to herself, sitting straighter, chilled. Before her Tarnoor’s face was wet with tears. He must have seen—but what? He allowed her to make up the fire once more but would tell her nothing.

When she had gone he remained gazing into the Flames. If that was the way of it, he could accept. He had seen all he required. Praise be to the Powers that they had allowed him to know. He later went in search of Hanion again. There he added to his words, and to his orders. He despised the men he would lead. They were filth Karsten would be well rid of—his face twisted into a bitter smile—and rid of them Karsten would be.

He rode out one morning. Aisha and his grandsons had not bothered to rise but Elanor, Trovagh, and Ciara were present. There, too, were all the people of the garths. They watched as Tarnoor rode down the road at the head of his men. It made a brave sight, the Aiskeep war pennant fluttering above the flag bearer. They stood watching long after the column of riders had vanished. Finally the garthspeople drifted away, back to their chores. Elanor retired to weep again. Trovagh took Ciara’s hand and held it tightly.

“Why do I feel there was something more behind all this?”

She sighed. “Because there is. What, I don’t know, but he had me foresee. I saw nothing, but I am certain he did. He would tell me nothing but, Tro, I think he saw his death. Did you know he’s left papers with the shrine? They order that you or I rule Aiskeep so long as either of us lives.”

Trovagh blinked in surprise. “The law allows. But what made him think it might be necessary to have that written?”

“I do not know but copies of it went to Geavon and to the main shrine in Kars for safekeeping. There is more also. If both of us die while Kirin’s children are yet minors, Geavon is guardian. If Aisha refuses to accept that, then Geavon’s son inherits Aiskeep.” Trovagh gasped in shock listening as Ciara continued. “Tarnoor did all this before the foreseeing. After that he seemed both sadder and easier in his mind. As if he knew the worst but there was compensation.”

They waited fearing word. Geavon sent messengers almost daily so that they should hear news of the army. It assembled, marching to the Estcarp border as each portion was ready. With one part Kirin marched as proud commander. In Aiskeep Aisha cursed him. She would bear him a third child before he returned, she was sure. He was selfish, and she hoped he never came back.

Trovagh and Ciara heard that news as their worst fears confirmed. Pagar had lied to their father, or Tarnoor had lied to them. He would have done that only if the alternative was worse.

At the border Pagar listened to his scouts.

“Lord Duke, the forces of Estcarp fall back further before us. If we move tomorrow it may be that we will reach the mountain’s heart by nightfall. We can rest the night, then strike forward with the dawn. Estcarp falters; if they see us determined, I believe they will break and flee once we reach their own land beyond the mountains.”

“What of Lord Kirin?”

“He and his men are already partway through the mountains. At your orders, Lord Duke, the rest of the army follows.”

“I so order.”

He listened to the trumpets as they sounded the advance. Close formation, rapid walk. Victory was close. Another day or two and he’d sit in Es City. Pagar called up his escort. He’d ride on down the lines of riders. Show the men he led from the front as a good commander should. His small group cantered past the moving lines. He noticed old Tarnoor with the men who followed him. More heirs were with the army here than the old man knew. Risho was in the tail of the wagons as supply master. Risho was heir after Tarnoor’s direct line was ended. Pagar smiled as he glanced back at the oblivious Tarnoor. Poor old fool, he really shouldn’t have acted as he did all those years ago. A man should honor his father and his oaths. Pagar had honored both.

He reached the head of the army just as it made camp. By now the tail would be well into the passes, too. They had orders to keep moving, making camp only when it was too dark for the horses to continue. They might be making a wet camp. Pagar studied the sky: the stars had vanished. Heavy cloud gathered. The wind was chill and there was thunder in the air. He snorted. Likely the Witches hoped to give him a head cold. It would take more than that to discourage Pagar of Geen.

Behind him in the half light Tarnoor directed his men. They picketed the beasts, built fires to heat food, and laid out bedrolls. Tarnoor was grimly weary. For a man of his age the march had been grueling but he would march no more. With the fraction of his blood that came down from another people he could see the Witch lights that flickered from tree to tree. They lit the rock edges, shimmered from leaves of the low brush. Tarnoor turned from the camp, walking away down a tiny gully that opened before him. At the end of it was a stretch of mountain ice-flowers. Their sweet perfume reached out to welcome him. In the midst of them, he knelt to pray.

He’d always done his best to be a decent man. He’d cared for Aiskeep and its people. Bred a fine son to follow him. There’d been things he regretted here and there, but few serious sins. Let him be forgiven them. Let poor foolish young Kirin be forgiven, too. Let blessings abide with Trovagh and Ciara, and all he loved. Moving slowly and deliberately he doffed his helm, waiting. Above him the thickening clouds broke apart for a moment. A single shaft of moonlight slashed downward to gleam from silver hair.

Tarnoor smiled. It seemed that after a lifetime the Gods chose to remember his service. The mountains stirred. High on a peak one rock dislodged, hurtling downward to strike Tarnoor squarely across the forehead as he lifted his face to the moonlight. He died instantly. His body fell back, stretching out among the ice-flowers. In a dying reflex his hand went to his sword hilt.

Then he lay still. About him the mountains bucked and heaved.

It was as if they had become as fluid as the seas in storm. They rolled, beating down all in their path, turning to lift then crush all life within their boundaries. Tons upon tons of stone filled valleys, to be thrust up into new mountains in turn. The rocks screamed as they tumbled, grinding against one another. The bellow of earthsound was enough to stun those who heard. It was sound beyond sound, terror beyond terror. Within the millstones of power called by Witches, Pagar’s army ceased to exist. In Estcarp, the circle of Women of the Power strove. They bled all they had from them, mind and body to save their land. Their power tortured and twisted the mountains until the hills shrieked agony.

Women died, power wrung from them to the last drop and beyond. They died, willing sacrifices to a land that was theirs, as all along its border the landscape churned in torment. Pagar had believed Estcarp defeated, beaten. He had wondered casually if they could find anything at the end to halt his advance. He lived just long enough to know.

There were those in the invading army who died in crazed terror, others who died striving to live. But Tarnoor of them all died first, and he alone of all the thousands, died without fear. He had seen this, and accepted his fate. Like an old wolf he was content if his enemies died with him. Let the son of his body, the daughter of his heart rule Aiskeep. Pagar would trouble them no more.