Ciara's Song

10

The quiet years ended when Aisling was almost eleven. Those years had not always been easy, but war had remained more in the North than in the poorer, less populated South. Aisha had gone to the main Keep of her clan near Kars city. There she had mixed with those who believed themselves born to rule. Her sons had learned to ape the manners, the beliefs, and far more dangerously—the burning ambition of those in the upper city. Aisha’s clan had been powerful under Pagar. Now they talked constantly of those times and plotted that they should return once more. Among the other young men Aisha’s sons listened to the talk.

The older, named Kirion for his father, was the more ferocious in that. His visits to Aiskeep had slowly made two things clear to him. The first was that he did not wish to molder his life away settling dirt-grubber disputes while living too many days’ ride from Kars and civilization, luxury, pretty women, and all that made life interesting. The second was a bitter anger that the choice was unlikely to be his to make.

Trovagh had watched the boy for those years. He had seen the impatience, the belief that Kirion was more important than any farmer or servant. And he had seen that his people would never be happy with Kirion ruling Aiskeep.

The younger boy, Keelan, was a better choice, yet Trovagh doubted him, too. He was the more intelligent. It might just be that the younger lad had learned to conceal his beliefs better, learned to hide the contempt Kirion felt openly. Neither Trovagh nor Ciara liked the attitude of the brothers to their much younger sister.

“Kirion patronizes her,” Ciara said.

“A natural attitude for a much older brother, beloved. But I dislike far more his belief that she is inferior because she is a girl.”

Ciara smiled. “Of course he has to believe that. The child rides better, knows Aiskeep and its people better, and is secure here. Kirion resents it all. That mother of his seems to have filled his head with all sorts of ideas about his importance. He comes here and finds a child almost half his age being listened to over him.”

“Of course she is listened to,” Trovagh snapped impatiently. “She knows Aiskeep. If we went to Kars, we would doubtless listen to Kirion.”

“Quite. However, Kirion doesn’t see it that way; watch the boy, Tro. I’m not happy about his way of treating Aisling. One day he’ll push things too far.”

Trovagh agreed with that but what was he to do about it? The problem was partly that of age and little in common. Kirion was now twenty, while Aisling had just celebrated her eleventh name day. Keelan at seventeen was kinder to his young sister. Kirion made it clear he regarded her as an inferior nuisance. In fact, the lad’s attitude to women in general bothered Trovagh.

It was true Aiskeep was far from Kars, but Kirion didn’t make allowances for Geavon or for Trader Talron. Each in their own way brought or sent news from the city to Aiskeep. Twice of late Geavon had sent an extra separate note enclosed in his main letter. Both had carried warnings that young Kirion might be getting himself into danger. The lad had taken up with a faction that wished to see their figurehead on the throne. Trovagh had groaned. Hadn’t Yvian and Pagar done enough damage to Karsten?

Talron had brought news from the lower levels of Kars. “They say Kirion has a nasty temper. He’s not averse to beating a woman if she displeases him.”

Trovagh had been staggered. “Who?”

Talron coughed.

“Oh, I see. But even a paid companion has the right to decent treatment. What do they say of him?”

The trader sighed, “To be blunt, my lord, they say that he has no care for any. That people are merely tools to his ends. They say he would sell his honor if it bought him his ambitions or a good price.” He glanced across to see if he had given offense.

Trovagh shook his head. “It’s all right. The truth of the matter is that the boy is like that. It’s why I’ve been busy recently.” Talron said nothing, but raised an eyebrow in question. Trovagh spoke abruptly.

“I get colds in winter. These last few years they’ve been worse. I thought it time to act now, in case aught should happen. I have been to Teral’s shrine and sworn several documents. Copies have gone to Geavon to be held both by him and in the shrine records in Kars.” He hesitated. “You and your father were always good friends to Aiskeep. It may be as well that you, too, know.”

Talron sat silent. He would not ask, that would be intrusive, but he would listen. He hoped the answer would be what he wished to hear.

“Tarnoor made a similar deed,” Trovagh continued. “He said that when he died, I was heir, but if I died Ciara was to follow me as heir and to have Heir’s Right also.”

The trader blinked. That was strong wine to drink. Under Karsten law it was legal, yes, but unusual. The more so when the woman named was not of the clan or kin blood. It was a Right usually given to a sister, to a mother or daughter of the one bestowing it.

“I, too,” Trovagh said quietly, “have said this. I am undecided as to who shall inherit Aiskeep. I have formally disinherited Kirion but Keelan may yet be worthy. But if something happens to me, Ciara now has the Right under law to choose her successor. Geavon has several likely grandsons. Unlike Kirion who seems to feel this Keep beneath him, they would be happy to live and rule here. My father decided something similar before he followed Pagar.”

Talron grunted agreement. He knew that bunch—full of life and energy. At least two of them would rule well; they understood the garthspeople and the needs of a Keep. Geavon might live near the city but he had old-fashioned ideas on what a young man should know. His grandsons had been well taught.

Trovagh stood up. “I thought it best you knew. A man should know where he stands. You and your father were long friends of Aiskeep.” He tossed back the last of his wine, and placed the mug on the table before moving to the door. “I’ll ask you to say nothing of this to any. Elanor and Ciara know, and now you, but none else.”

The trader bowed. “I’m honored,” he said sincerely.

He considered the conversation once he had retired. Trovagh was wise. Kirion was a viper in any bosom. Talron had heard more than he’d passed on. Much of it was gossip and rumor but even that could have a solid base. If it was true, the foolish boy was tampering with dangerous forces. Keelan ran in his brother’s shadow. Yet there was something more likable there. In Talron’s opinion, Keelan did what he had to, to survive in a household that revolved around the older brother’s wishes.

He sighed for Trovagh and Ciara, both of whom he greatly liked. Odd how a solid, decent line seemed to birth a rotten apple sometimes. Kirin had been more stupid than evil. But his son—Talron was afraid there could be real evil there. Of course it hadn’t helped that Aisha had spoiled the older boy all his life. Kirion had only to whine and whatever he wanted was his. The younger lad was less indulged. To some extent, the way he’d been handled on his visits to Aiskeep had also helped to counteract his spoiling. Still, it was quite possible Trovagh was right and neither boy was Keep Ruler material.

A pity that would be. Geavon was some sort of cousin, but a grandson would keep the rule within the family more or less. Talron sighed again. It was none of his business. But he’d give a lot to be a fly on the wall if Kirion found out about all this.

Kirion did. Being Kirion he jumped to several additional conclusions. The first being that Keelan would have been disinherited as well, the second that it would be Aisling who received Aiskeep and all that the inheritance carried. He’d never liked her, now he hated. He arrived at the Keep on his next visit seething with rage.

Since he could not legally know any of this, he kept silent. It made his anger rise even higher until just the sight of his small sister made him feel sick. He’d never felt any affection for her. He’d been nine when she was born. Almost at once his mother had packed up to live nearer Kars in the Keep of her father’s clan, leaving the unwanted baby to be fostered by Ciara. It had been another three years before Kirion had returned to Aiskeep to visit. Aisha had simply made excuses each year until Trovagh had made it clear he would accept no more. But as a result, Kirion had known nothing of Aisling until he arrived that first time. For several years more, he had barely seen her on these trips. It was only over the past three or four years that she’d been in evidence.

By then Kirion regarded himself as a man. It had infuriated him that a girl of eight could outride him. That she knew more about Aiskeep, its people and its needs than he did. Twice during the last visit she’d made him look foolish. It did not occur to him that it had been his eagerness to impress those about him that had done that. He’d taken responsibility for little in his life before, and it was natural to him to seek a scapegoat.

In Kars he’d made friends with one who had the run of the great records rooms at the shrine. Kirion kept a watchful eye on anything filed that might affect himself. Thus he had known at once when he was disinherited. But his access was illegal. He could not speak of what he knew. It made him savage.

It was in this mood he ordered his horse saddled and rode to the upper valley. There he found Aisling discussing a sick child with Jontar’s granddaughter. He hid a sneer. So the brat thought herself to be Keep’s Lady already, did she? He waited until the talk was done before he approached.

“Ride back with me, sister?”

Aisling eyed him warily. She was well aware of his dislike for her. But what harm could come of a ride beside Kirion? They were only riding up her own valley toward the Keep where Trovagh and Ciara waited for her. She accepted politely when Kirion continued to wait. The horses walked side by side, their riders silent. Kirion was calculating. As they reached the stand of oaks that marked half of the valley’s length, he began to talk. He could be amusing and entertaining when he wished. For some miles he beguiled Aisling with his tales of life in Kars, funny incidents and people he knew.

He glanced around as he spoke, and saw no one. Good. It never occurred to him that just because he could see no one it did not mean that there were no watchers within the garth houses as he passed. The brat was laughing loudly. No training as a lady for all her pretensions. A lady would titter, hand over her mouth, eyes flirting over the edge of that hand. But then a lady would respect Lord Kirion of Clan Iren. He waited, as the laughter died a little, then he suddenly stared at her, face twisted into a sweetly winning smile. Above the smile his eyes were brightly challenging.

“Race you to the Keep, sister. A new bridle if you win.”

Before she could reply he was gone, leaning low over the withers of his mount. Aisling signaled her horse to follow. That hadn’t been fair, Kirion had started before she’d understood what he was saying. It would be fun to beat him anyway and win a new bridle. She was lighter, astride a mount that knew her every touch. Kirion was heavier, riding a horse that was good but never the equal of the Torgian strain. They thundered down the road, Aisling gradually pulling up alongside her brother.

She looked across at him and grinned happily. It was not intended to infuriate. To the child, it was no more than an expression of her delight in the race. But to Kirion, it was a look of gloating triumph. He lashed his mount, but could not draw ahead; indeed he was starting to fall inch by inch behind the other beast. It was intolerable. All of it. This brat had stolen Aiskeep from him, now she was even stealing Kirion’s pride in his own horsemanship. Aisling turned a little to smile.

“I think you may ewe me a new bridle, brother,” she called.

It was the last straw. Kirion glanced about again, but he could see no one. He goaded his horse into a final burst of speed so that the two beasts were level momentarily. Then he slipped his foot from the stirrup. It was an old trick but the Armsmaster who had taught him had said it could be lethal when it worked. The word Kirion had not remembered had been ‘when.’

He reached out his foot to hook it under Aisling’s boot. One swift heave and she’d be flung from the racing back of her mount. At this speed and on hard ground, with luck the brat would be no bar to his inheritance. At the least she’d be injured, enough to show her what it meant to laugh as she cheated Kirion from his dues. His foot thrust upward.

In the stable Harran was standing watching the race with amusement. If that city fop thought he’d beat a fine horsewoman riding an Aiskeep horse against one of a very ordinary line, then the man was a bigger fool than Harran had thought. And the Gods knew he thought Kirion a witling anyhow. He was in the shadow of the stable; Kirion’s glance had passed over the motionless figure. But Harran was in a direct line between the horses as they raced up the road toward him. He had long vision. Enough to see what was about to happen, though he was too far away to intervene.

He waited in horror for Aisling to fall. It was natural for Kirion to underestimate his sister. Harran should have known better; part of her training with her horse had been under his teaching. She felt the foot hook under hers. Automatically she shied sideways, her mount obeying the sudden body shift. Caught suddenly off balance, Kirion felt himself falling. He clutched for the neck of his mount as it slowed, then, with slow, slithering grace Kirion swung around and under his horse’s neck until he landed sitting below it.

It was unfortunate that the horse had moved across the road. Toward the edge where it had halted there was a long soft patch of mud. Kirion landed in this, then went to rise and lost his footing. He measured his length forward, rising with muddy seat and mud-covered front from toes to hairline. Aisling had reined back to see he was uninjured. Childlike she broke into peals of laughter at the spectacle.

If she had ever thought Kirion’s friendship of the past hours to be real, she was disabused in seconds. His face twisted into a snarl of rage so savage that she was momentarily frozen. He took a step toward her as she stood too terrified to move. His hands came up for her throat. He’d show her what it was to laugh at him. Fingers fastened in her clothing as he shook her slowly, the intensity increasing. Harran was running toward them shouting. Kirion heard nothing. He’d teach the girl to make a fool of him. He’d show her. He stooped still holding her, for his whip.

In utter panic, Aisling reached within herself. Ciara had taught the child to find the mists, to use them for healing. Now, instinctively the girl reached for the only thing she could use to defend herself.

Kirion lifted the whip. His fingers burned suddenly as if he’d thrust them into a fire. He shouted with pain, releasing the whip and clutching at his reddened hand. Aisling twisted loose, blue fire still outlining her body. Crying in fear she ran for the stables. Harran passed her even as Kirion, face almost inhuman with fury, moved to follow her.

“No, my lord.”

He was thrust aside. “Out of my way, you fool. By the Gods, I’m going to kill her.”

“No, my lord.” Oh, Lord Trovagh understand, Harran thought as he drove a swift skilled blow and watched Kirion crumple. Voices reached him then. Ciara and Trovagh were coming at a run. He drew himself up to explain but there was no need.

“Good man!” Trovagh dealt him a gentle buffet on the shoulder. “We saw most of that from the door.” Ciara arrived with an arm about a weeping Aisling.

Ciara stooped to check Kirion, then straightened. “Only stunned,” she noted. “Haul him into the stables. Call a couple of the men, Harran. When he comes to, tell him to get on his horse and go before I forget myself. And tell him not to come back unless one of us sends for him.”

Trovagh walked over to where Kirion’s richly ornamented horse gear was hanging from pegs. He chose a bridle lavish with silver on black leather. This was handed to Aisling. Then Trovagh paused, looking down the line of pegs. He added the saddle and lush-furred blanket that matched it.

“After that you can tell him I picked out his wager to pay Aisling. The saddle is a forfeit. Bad enough he would have injured his sister, but I do not forgive what followed. Tell him to think about events as he rides home. And to help that, give him the oldest bridle and saddle you can find that’ll hold together.”

He strolled off carrying the saddle, Ciara in his wake with her arm about her granddaughter. Aisling was still sniffing, but she held the bridle tightly.

Harran smirked after them. It was a pleasure to serve a lord and lady who knew the score even against their own kinblood. He concentrated on finding the oldest, dirtiest, most-mended gear in the stable. But in mercy to the horse he used a thick, comfortable saddle blanket. Kirion was groaning his way back to consciousness as a servant arrived with two leather bags.

“The young lord’s clothing. How is the little—master?”

“He’ll live.” Harran tied the horse to the wall ring, then expertly added the filled saddlebags. “I’ve orders to see him on his way. Stay with me in case he tries to make trouble about it.”

The servant spat on his palms. “I hope he does.”

But Kirion knew when to lie low. One look at the two men told him they’d be only too delighted to tie him on his mount before chasing it through Aiskeep gates. He kept silence as he checked the bridle and saddle. It wouldn’t surprise him if they’d fixed those to dump him again, either. He mounted and rode off, still silent. But Harran catching a glimpse of Kirion’s eyes thought he’d seldom seen such a wicked look. If Harran were Lord Trovagh, he’d be keeping a very wary eye out for this one in the future.

Neither Trovagh nor Ciara were unaware of the dangers. Kirion had some powerful friends these days. Aiskeep had a long reputation as a Keep unlucky to attack. But if Kirion gained real power, there were no guarantees he’d care. Ciara remained with Aisling until the girl fell asleep, then she rejoined her husband.

“Bad news, love.”

He queried her with a look.

“The child used Power to make Kirion release her. From the sound of things, he may even have realized it.”

Trovagh swore. He spoke with a range and fluency that would have surprised any not familiar with his father in like mind.

“That’s just what we didn’t want any of that lot to know.”

“He may still be unaware. Apparently, Aisling called Power to burn his hand. It made him drop the whip and let her go. But from what she says, it would not have been great enough to leave marks. He may discount it. You know Kirion. He’d hate to think there was just one more thing Aisling could do that he could not.”

“That’s true,” Trovagh said slowly, “But he may also see her as a possible tool if he can force himself to accept it. I fear that she may be in danger if this is so.”

In an inn on the outskirts of a town a half-day’s ride to the North, Kirion brooded over wine. He’d been unjustly treated. First, because he preferred a decent city to a miserable chilly Keep, he was disinherited. Then because he attempted a jest on his sister he was attacked, despoiled of his property, and flung out of his own place. His grandparents had allowed a low-born servant to strike their grandson. Even more, they’d sent the same man to threaten him. He went over events again and again.

Soon he’d convinced himself the whole thing had been only a trick, a joke on his part. The girl had no right to laugh at him. His grandparents had no right to steal his best saddle and bridle to give to that brat. He’d show them, he’d pay them all out somehow. He slept heavily and woke with a sore head and surly of temper. He drank more wine before leaving.

The road was rough over the next day’s ride. Kirion was obliged to travel at a walk. It gave him time to brood, to count his wrongs, and swear revenge again. He found he was recalling the race. Damn, if only the girl’s horse hadn’t shied. He rapidly convinced himself that this had been an accident rather than riding ability. The brat had probably been about to fall off. Why his actions might even have helped her regain her balance as the horse shied back under her.

There was some vague memory teasing at the back of his mind. He couldn’t quite recall, but something nagged at him. Something had been wrong in the scenes as he considered them. He should have given the girl the beating of her life. More of those and she might have learned respect for the head of her house. He’d like to have the teaching of her for a year or two. She’d learn politeness and respect for Kirion then, and he’d see to that with pleasure. The feeling of having forgotten something continued to tease him. Oh, well, he’d remember it if it was important. But he was tired and his head ached. He fell into a half dream as he rode.

He found the reins chafing his fingers. They seemed to burn—burn—Sersgarth had burned. He’d known the story most of his life, though not the sequel. Only three now alive knew the why of Sersgarth. Pagar’s bid for power. It seemed unlucky to be duke in Kars. They said it harked back to Yvian who’d had the Old Race horned as outlaws. Once he and his friends raised that fool Shandro to the throne, things would change. And rumor had it that all Yvian’s luck went with the Old Race when they fled. Certainly Pagar hadn’t been fortunate.

Everything, a dukedom, three beautiful wives one after another, the most powerful clans backing him. Then Estcarp, and all at once everything was gone—including Pagar and Kirion’s father. That was the Witches. It was said they could do anything. Burn a man to death with their witchery. Blue fire to burn a witch’s enemies.

His breath caught. Yes! That was the memory he’d hunted. When he’d lifted the whip, the girl’s eyes had been so frightened that it had given him a delightful sense of his own power.

Then, all of a sudden, his hand had been on fire. He’d dropped his whip, the girl had fought free of him, and fled. Harran had arrived, preventing Kirion from following, and had struck him. But it was in that fraction of a second before Aisling fled that he’d seen her shine. A sort of faint bluish light from her skin. Power to burn their enemies. The brat was a Witch!

He knew there was Old Blood in Aiskeep. His mother had told him, primming up her mouth in disapproval, although it hadn’t stopped her family from offering her to Kirin, her son thought in amusement. And somewhere as a young boy he’d heard about his grandmother. She was said to have been a half-blood from the Old Race. Tarnoor had taken her in after the Horning, and wed her to his son for the dowry Ciara had to bring. An inheritance. She could have given another inheritance to the line. Something his young sister had just displayed. Aisling could have inherited abilities.

He smiled slowly. Power! It could be used in so many ways. He rode on, but now he sat straighter, a small unpleasant smile on his lips. There were ambitions he would accomplish. Those he could influence in his favor. Enemies he could be well rid of. Power can come in many forms, he mused. If he played this unexpected card well, he could have it all.

11

Kirion went to the records at the Kars shrine on his return. There he dug through documents until he found everything he could uncover. It made more interesting reading than he’d anticipated in the end. There was the document giving title of Elmsgarth to his great-grandfather. He noted the dates. Tarnoor had been no fool, by the Flame. He’d taken in an orphan and done well from it. He noted the price subsequently paid for the garth and whistled.

He discovered the Heir’s Rights paper Tarnoor had sent and was stunned. Witchery! His grandmother must have bewitched the old fool. This allowed her to disinherit any in direct line, naming whoever she chose in their place once Trovagh was dead. He then found that while he had been disinherited, Keelan had not. So! The little brother had ambitions above his station, did he? Kirion would have to teach him a lesson about that. He rechecked all the documents and saw this time a tiny notation on a corner of each. There was no way he could simply destroy everything, they’d thought of that. At least someone somewhere held copies.

It was likely to be Geavon, Kirion thought, as he replaced the papers. The man was a little younger than Tarnoor had been, although his way of talking made him appear ancient. But Geavon took care of himself; he was good for a lot longer yet. And he didn’t like Kirion. There was no way Kirion was going to get into the records at Gerith Keep to destroy any copies there. He left the shrine looking unpleasantly thoughtful.

Over the months, he investigated. It would be convenient if he could come up with some kind of spell that would burn all the relevant papers at once wherever they were. He turned to reading. There were books still to be found on the subject of witchery if one searched hard enough. Kirion searched, ending up with a shelf full of volumes. All told him what he didn’t want to know. That witchery was not what he’d always believed. It wasn’t spells and chants so much as the focused will of the one working it.

This was not popular information. However, there were some vague, obscure references to other methods.

Kirion settled to more research, pausing only to make Keelan’s life a misery. To escape, Keelan fled to Aiskeep, arriving more in charity with those there than he’d ever been. He was received dubiously; no one was forgetting Kirion’s action on his last visit. But Keelan was so clearly unhappy that they gradually allowed him some acceptance. The boy would have liked to respond but had long since learned to show nothing.

It was Harran who broke through some of the shell in which the boy had encased himself. Harran was Master at Arms since Hanion was finally past the harder, longer work. He was Hanion’s nephew, and was intent on following family tradition in service to Aiskeep. Harran hadn’t much liked what he’d seen over the years of Aisha or her sons. But finding Keelan ready to listen that first day, Harran was ready to teach. He found Keelan not ill-taught already.

It could be seen the lad had been given reasonable Armsmasters, but of the very conventional kind. Not for them the tricks and ruses that might be the difference between life and death in an alley brawl. Harran took the lad in hand.

Keelan learned as well as listened. He found it far more interesting than he’d have believed. For most of his life, Kirion had insisted that his younger brother was inferior. It was good to do something where Keelan was praised. He worked harder to earn what he knew to be honest comment.

Harran was slowly impressed. He knew the boy was unhappy, knew that this was in part why he was turning to hard work. In Harran’s opinion, that was good. Sweat and exhaustion tended to burn out misery. You were too tired to be emotional. He gave generous praise when it was due and until the noonday meal, worked Keelan until the boy was ready to drop. He was pleased to find the novice had a strong wrist, a good eye, and an excellent sense of point.

“That’s it, yes. Now lunge—and parry—lunge, yes! Good, lad.”

Keelan wiped sweat from his forehead as he relaxed back. Kirion had always said that a noble didn’t fight like this, but it was fun. It was also pleasant to know Keelan would be a lot more dangerous to bandits or back alley thugs now should he meet any. He grinned as the thought also occurred to him that Kirion didn’t know these methods. It would be a good idea to keep silent on the subject. If he and Kirion ever fought, it would be very pleasant to have a few tricks up his sleeves.

He spent the afternoon riding with Harran, too. For the first time, Keelan found himself mounted on one of the dun strain that Aiskeep had become known for. They had more endurance and more intelligence than ordinary mounts. He’d never known where they began. Now, riding down the valley, he asked to be rewarded with the tale of how his grandparents when mere children had beaten a bandit force with the aid of the garthspeople. He was surprised and impressed by the tale.

“So the horses were Torgians. What were they like; are they really that different?”

Harran was happy to expound. He followed that by taking Keelan out to the herd that ranged to the end of the upper valley and beyond into the foothills. The boy was awestruck. He’d never seen such beasts. It was not the looks so much but the intelligence that shone from their eyes. The feeling that even as he admired them, they were estimating Keelan’s worth. He was afraid that however such animals chose a rider, Keelan was unlikely to measure up. His gaze was wistful. To have a horse like that would be wonderful.

He returned to the evening meal tired, wind-burned, and unusually happy. He found the family in front of the hearth in the smaller hall. With them were assorted cats and a bevy of kittens all climbing merrily into any mischief they could find.

Keelan winced. His mother had always said of Aiskeep, that one of the things that had decided her to leave had been all those infuriating cats. She had claimed them to be dirty, flea-ridden, and dangerous. On subsequent visits, Keelan had ignored them. The cats had reciprocated. And since his usual visit was made in late fall to early winter, the kittens had mostly gone to their new homes.

Keelan didn’t know it but Aiskeep had been doing a brisk trade in kittens for years. Trader Talron brought in a new cat every so often from the Sulcar with whom he still did a good trade. But these were the only cats to enter Karsten. As a result, the Aiskeep kittens sold to almost every garth and Keep in the South. But few were sold in Kars or to the North.

Keelan had never met kittens until now. Not really young ones that were no more than balls of fluff with wide eyes and small, unsteady legs as they scrambled about the room.

He did notice that there were odd wire guards across the hearths. “What are those for?”

Ciara smiled. “Kitten prevention. They love to sit and watch the sparks go upward. But without the guards sometimes a kitten tries to go up with the spark.”

She saw the boy wince as he visualized one of the enchanting fluff balls landing back into the fire. Ciara was caught by that. Keelan had always been in Kirion’s shadow, but his brother hated cats. He would not have winced at the thought; more likely he’d try it out for amusement, Ciara thought. This boy could be worth a closer look. People did change.

The next morning she managed to drift silently by as Keelan was receiving his next arms lesson. To her surprise, once more he was taking quite a beating, without complaint and with hard work as he learned. She took Harran aside later that day.

“Have you found out why he’s here? It isn’t his usual time, and he’s not indicating he intends to leave anytime soon. I think he was unhappy about something when he arrived.”

The Armsmaster nodded. “He’s let the odd word slip. Some girl he was crazy over. Apparently, Kirion took her away from him just to prove he could.”

Ciara blinked. “Is that it?”

“No, Lady. The truth is that I think the lad’s taken a good hard look at his family for the first time in his life because of that. He’s found he doesn’t even like his mother, doesn’t trust his relatives in the Keep there, and hates his brother along with not trusting him, either. He’s in a state of confusion. He’s always come second to Kirion and he’s been brought up to believe he’s less than Kirion because he’s smaller, knows less, and can’t keep up. Suddenly it’s dawning on him that anyone three years younger would have those problems. It doesn’t make him inferior.”

“No, it doesn’t. How would you rate him?”

Harran snorted. “He isn’t the stylist that his brother is. But that’s fine for formal duels. I’d back this one against Kirion in any knockdown, drag-out sword fight where the rules don’t apply. Give me a while longer with him and I might even back him in a duel as well.” He looked at her. “You know, Lady, the boy’s never had anything he could really call his own. Any time he has Kirion makes it his job to get it away again. Now Keelan’s afraid to care about anything in case he loses it.” Harran snorted. “And that mother of his sees all this but does nothing. There isn’t a cat here who isn’t a better mother than that woman.”

Ciara laughed. “I’d agree.” She strolled slowly away, thinking as she went. Later she talked to Trovagh.

“I don’t know how long he’s going to stay. I’d like him to have a pet of some kind. It seems to be what he needs, but if he leaves he won’t be able to take it. Not with the kind of things Kirion does. What do you think, Tro?”

“Hmm. We could perhaps let him have an Aiskeep horse. Say it’s on loan. That it can’t be wagered, given away, or ridden by any but Keelan. It would bring down untold wrath from Aisha, though, probably mostly on Keelan from what you say. Would he think the horse worth it?”

“I think so, but there’s another fear there. From what he’s told Harran, Kirion doesn’t just stop at taking anything Keelan has. Sometimes he ruins it in spite as well. If we let the boy have an Aiskeep horse and Kirion lames it or has it stolen, what will that do to Keelan?”

Trovagh grunted. “Umph. I see what the problem is. Leave it, love. Let’s wait; once we have an idea of how long the lad will stay, we may be able to make better plans.”

Keelan did stay. He was finding that being part of a family who were kind to you was an unexpected pleasure. It was summer, the weather mostly good enough to ride, and when it wasn’t, there was always the lessons with Harran. Imperceptibly, Keelan was being guided to learn about more than fighting. With Trovagh, he met the garthspeople, hearing their problems and listening to Trovagh’s suggestions and solutions. He saw to his surprise that there was a very real and solid affection between lord and the garth families.

He heard the garthspeople argue with Ciara, and saw she listened. It wasn’t so at Clan Iren. There if a lord spoke, a servant shut up and obeyed. He heard the story of the bandit raid from old Jontar, this time from the garth side. The pride was unmistakable. Pride not only in beating the outlaw group, but also in the leadership the garths had followed. He hid a grin at the differing attitudes. One minute Jontar was praising his lord and lady for their leadership, the next muttering about foolish children endangering themselves.

Gradually he came to understand the ties between the rulers and the ruled. This was how it should be. Mutual respect and balance. He saw that the garth houses were all warm and weatherproof. There’d be no one dead from cold or hunger here. No lord taking what he wanted and letting the people manage how they could. He considered the story of the bandits afresh. In many Keeps he could name, the bandits might have had the lord’s children with the people’s goodwill, and in some cases their active assistance.

The people certainly wouldn’t have fought like that. Not because they wanted to at least. They would have fought from terror at what their lord would do if they did not fight. Or because they were given direct orders. Or because it was the only way to survive the outlaws. They’d probably have made a mess of it, being without arms or initiative.

Weapons. That was another thing that had stunned Keelan. In Aiskeep, the garthspeople all had weapons. Not just the odd dagger, but bows and swords.

Keelan had almost leapt out of his skin the first time he realized. One of the women had come out bearing a bow and filled quiver as Trovagh rode up with his grandson. Trovagh had simply nodded.

“Deer or rabbits, Marina?”

“Rabbits, my lord.” She grinned widely. “Though I’d not hold my arrow should a deer pop up.” She strode away as Keelan gaped. Once she was out of earshot, he glanced at his grandfather.

“Will she hit anything?”

“Oh, yes. Marina’s a very good shot.” Trovagh was hiding a smile at the look on the boy’s face. Let him think over all the implications. Keelan did.

First—that if a garthswoman could carry a bow freely, either Trovagh and Ciara were incredibly casual about their own safety, or their people were incredibly trustworthy. Second—that if a woman carried a bow, presumably so did the men. If she was a good shot, so presumably were the men. Why, at a pinch Trovagh had an army of archers here, he realized. No wonder Aiskeep had never been taken. That led to him questioning Harran.

“They say Aiskeep has never fallen?”

“Humph! Don’t let that make you overconfident, lad. There’s no Keep that can’t be taken if you’re prepared to spend enough time, men, and coin. But it’s true doing so here would ruin most lords.” He took the boy out to study the walls. “See, our lord doesn’t spend his money on fancy clothes. It goes into stone; see here—and here. That’s where we strengthened it after Yvian’s death. And here, that’s where we added the curtain-wall inside the main one a few years before Pagar came to the throne in Kars.”

Keelan was amazed. The walls were massive, the most impressive structure he’d ever seen. Somehow he’d never really looked at them before. He went quiet, staying that way for days as he summed up what he was learning. He’d always felt that his clan was somehow wrong. Everyone in the Keep seemed unhappy, or happy in the wrong ways. The servants cringed when spoken to, the dogs cowered, and the inhabitants seemed to be plotting whenever they had a spare moment from drinking, or wenching.

He’d seen that no one got drunk here. Ciara and Trovagh drank wine with meals. Watered wine and only a reasonable few glasses. They treated each other with respect and a love that was evident in every word. His small sister wasn’t the brat Kirion had described. He took that one to Harran, too, who promptly and very forcefully gave the true story. Keelan was unhappily convinced by it. He knew his older brother too well not to believe. It also made sense of some of the more obscure comments Kirion had snarled while giving his version of events. Keelan snorted; no wonder his own arrival had been received with doubt.

The summer wore away slowly into an even better fall. Keelan was beginning to feel an acceptance here. As if it was home, a place to be yourself. A place where people might even like the self he was discovering. He’d heard that Kirion was barred from Aiskeep. That knowledge helped him relax further. Whatever else Kirion spoiled, he could not reach Keelan here. Gradually, Aisling had unbent toward this new brother. Ciara had spoken quietly to the girl, giving her a suggestion.

Aisling had acted on this, asking help of Keelan anytime there was something she could legitimately request.

“Keelan, could you reach that halter for me, you’re much taller?” He could and did, with a tiny feeling of pride.

“Can you open this salve, my wrists aren’t strong enough?” Keelan twisted the top open, handing it over with a pleased grin. The admiring look he received made his grin widen. Having a little sister was—why, it was pleasant. He almost strutted as he left the stable. He learned slowly that Aisling was intelligent, and interesting to talk to. That she listened to his own ideas with flattering attention. He fell into the habit of talking with her quite often. They began to ride together. Trovagh nodded to his wife at that.

“Nice job, dearling. The boy’s found Aisling to be real company once he’s got to know her. Plan one, I suppose?”

“Why not?” Ciara laughed softly. Her glance was affectionate. “He isn’t really bad, Tro. Not like Kirion. In fact, they have that in common, so Aisling tells me. Kirion’s played some pretty dangerous and vicious tricks on Keelan over the years. Aisha has always ignored it, but the boy’s been bullied within an inch of his life by his brother, spoiled rotten by his mother, and despised by just about everyone who dislikes Kirion and assumes Keelan is the same. I think a lot of his change here has been the knowledge that Kirion isn’t welcome. He feels as if Aiskeep is the one refuge he can’t be tracked to and made miserable in again.”

Trovagh agreed. “I’ll tell you something else, too, beloved. A man needs something to protect. What has the boy ever had? Anything he’s cared for his brother has taken away. That makes Keelan feel bad for losing it and helpless because he couldn’t prevent the loss. With Aisling he’s being a big brother at last.” He grinned as he looked over at Ciara. “Harran tells me the boy is really working at weapons training. He’s let it slip that if bandits come again he’s going to be sure Aisling is safe.”

Ciara looked up. “He’d do better to protect her from Kirion.”

“I’m not so sure he wouldn’t now. Harran says that with a few more months’ work the boy will be better with a sword than his brother. Apparently, Kirion is mostly style with no stamina. Good for short, flashy duels. Not good for a real grudge fight. I wouldn’t wager Keelan couldn’t take him if Harran thinks so.” He watched her brows rise. “Yes, I think now you should put plan two into action, my cunning love.”

“Plan two?” Ciara looked innocent.

“Plan two! I’ve known you too long not to know there’s a plan two.”

His wife grinned but said nothing. It was true, but she didn’t want Tro to let something slip. Keelan had sharp eyes. A knowing look at the wrong time might spoil her schemes.

She waited with as much patience as she had ever been capable of finding. One of the cats was due to kitten. Her last two litters had each contained a spare: one the mother decided to discard for reasons unknown to humans.

It happened again, to Ciara’s secret satisfaction. The kit was a female, tiny and pathetic. She brought it to Keelan quite casually.

“The mother doesn’t want it. If someone doesn’t look after it, the poor little thing will die.” She unloaded the tiny, shivering scrap into his hands.

She saw the uncertain glance up from the corner of his eye. From all she had pieced together, she could guess at his fear.

“If you can raise her, she’s yours. Not to be sold or given to anyone else. She can stay here or go with you, whatever you choose. She is unlikely to have kittens herself. We’ve found those we rear this way are often infertile.” She shrugged, “I’ll leave you to it. If you can’t be bothered, take it down to the stable and kill it. A quick, clean death. All right?” She registered the involuntarily protective movement of his hands with blank face but elated heart. “If you decide to rear it, talk to Aisling. She helped me with one of the others.” She strolled out, leaving Keelan to sit holding the faintly ‘yeeking’ baby.

He reared it. There were times when he considered that quick, clean death. Then he would look down at his troublesome, time-consuming charge and fall in love all over again. She needed him. In weeks she was stumbling on unsteady furry legs all about his room. A few weeks more and she was a skittering racing ball of fluff into everything and under his feet. He adored her. After long consideration, he’d named her Shosho. It was a dialect word for something that was everywhere, ubiquitous. She was certainly that.

At times he wondered despairingly if all kittens were this bad. That was after Shosho had fallen down the jakes. Luckily, it was immediately after the first hard frost. The muck at the bottom of the shaft was solid enough to bear her weight so she didn’t drown. But Keelan had to climb down a rope after her. The muck at the bottom hadn’t borne his weight. He appeared at the top of the shaft with a kitten that refused to know him any further until he bathed. The waiting humans made it clear they agreed. Keelan left grinning to seek a hot bath with plenty of soap.

Shosho forgave him once he was in the hot, soapy water. She demonstrated that by falling in with him, then climbing out using small frantic claws on some tender places.

His howls brought Ciara running, only to be passed by a very wet, virtually airborne kitten, which explained it all to her. She stifled her giggles and left again without Keelan’s being aware. That had happened to Ciara a few times before she started shutting her cats out when she bathed. She’d suggest it to Keelan sometime.

The boy was happy all that winter. Shosho grew steadily. She was going to be a magnificent cat with eyes of deep amber, and a thick plush coat of glossy black. She slept on his bed, brought her kills to him, and generally made it clear that Keelan was her human.

Slave might have been a better word. Not that Keelan minded. He was a lap whenever she wanted one, trailed string for her on demand, and loved her with all his heart. In loving her, he found the capacity to love others, too. He was Aisling’s lieutenant in many things that winter. Often now he would take a job away from her.

“That’s too heavy, let me lift it.”

Aisling graciously permitted him to help. Keelan discovered the joys of shared jokes, harmless tricks, and a family circle elastic enough to admit another one in.

Back in Iren Keep, Kirion had vaguely noticed that his younger brother was nowhere to be found. It did not matter. Kirion was too busy with his studies into forms of power. When he wanted Keelan, he’d find him. Right now he wanted only peace to read and privacy to experiment with some of what he learned.

When winter was over Keelan was still at Aiskeep. He was afraid to talk about it. If he said he wanted to stay here for good, perhaps they’d say he couldn’t. He said nothing, just in case. If he didn’t ask, he couldn’t be refused. He’d grown to love the Keep and his family here. Anyhow, he couldn’t leave. What would happen to Shosho? If he took her back to Iren, Kirion would find some way of hurting her. Keelan might be able to beat him in a fight now, but that wouldn’t heal Shosho if Kirion had injured her.

Apart from her, there was Aisling, Ciara, Trovagh, Harran, and old Hanion who told him stories about Keelan’s greatgrandfather. Jontar, who was always happy to talk about the bandits, and the host of garthspeople who greeted him now as if they were pleased to see him. They were. The consensus on the land was that the lad was training up quite well, and would make a reasonable lord one day. Had Kirion known any of this, he’d have spat blood. Since he did not, all was peaceful both at Aiskeep and at Iren Keep.

Aisling, too, was happy. She’d always wanted an older brother. A real one, not like Kirion. She celebrated her twelfth name day with Keelan assisting.

His name day would come in early spring. He would be eighteen. He hoped they’d mark it in some way, but he’d say nothing just in. case. There was an air of subdued excitement around, he thought some weeks later. But it was probably because spring was on the way. He noticed Aisling vanishing into her room a lot with the door shut. She appeared flushed when he knocked and the door was opened. He hoped harder. Always at Iren Keep his name days had been miserable with Kirion resenting the attention focused elsewhere.

Two days before Keelan’s name day, Kirion arrived. He’d run out of books he hadn’t read. Then it occurred to him that if the brat did have the power he believed, there might well be books on witchcraft in the old Aiskeep library. He rode there, casually confident that his grandparents hadn’t meant his banishment to last. He was disabused on arrival. It was Harran who glanced out, to recognize the approaching rider. By the time Kirion reached the gates, Ciara and Trovagh were there with their Armsmaster.

“Hail the gates, open for Kirion, Kirin’s son of Aiskeep.” Kirion slouched on his weary horse, waiting for the gates to swing open. Instead, a tart voice addressed him from above.

“You were told not to return unless we asked for you. You have not been asked here, you have our leave to depart.”

Kirion gaped upward. “You can’t do that!”

Trovagh took over. “We can, we have, and we like it that way. Take yourself and that poor animal to Teral, to Kars, or to Hades. You aren’t welcome here. Do I have to make it any plainer?”

He did. Kirion sat his mount, his voice rising to an infuriated whine as he pleaded, protested, and then ordered.

“I’m heir now that my father’s dead. You can’t keep me out.” That should get the truth told, he thought. Ciara eyed him. Something in the tone told her the boy knew he’d been formally disinherited. But then she didn’t have to confirm that. She leaned out.

“An heir has certain rights, that’s true. But automatic entry to his family Keep is not one of them. Not when all are in agreement he isn’t welcome. Go away, Kirion. Shut your mouth before you get snow in it.”

Aisling heard that last comment. She had been listening, seeing the man who’d become an ogre in her mind so discomforted. She stooped, rolled snow into a loose snowball, then flung it. The snowball took Kirion square in the face as he began another plea. He spluttered, choking on snow, wiping it in fury from his face and neck. Behind the wall he could hear the howls of laughter. Even his grandmother had a broad grin. Kirion tightened his grip on the reins, swinging his unwilling beast away from the Keep.

It would do no good to remain. Mentally he notched up another score against Aisling. He spent the days riding back to Iren Keep in a foul mood. Some of that he worked off on his mount, some on oaths of what he would do if he ever got Aisling into his hands. He returned to study, paying more than his mother could afford for moldering books and documents that might give Kirion the power he craved. He continued to cultivate Shandro. The man was an idiot, but a very well-connected one. He’d make the perfect figurehead duke if Kirion ever unlocked power to raise the fool to that position.

It did occur to him several times that he hadn’t seen his younger brother at all of late, not for months, in fact. Kirion ignored that. He’d found what he felt was a promising trail to the knowledge he sought. Whatever Keelan was doing, he’d come to heel as soon as he was called. Kirion persuaded more coin from his mother and vanished into increasingly unsavory places in his search. As he saw it, he was having quite a good—and possibly profitable—time.

12

Keelan’s eighteenth name day was a success. Ciara had made one of her hangings for his room. If you looked at it up close it was merely color. But from the doorway across his room it became Keelan, with Aiskeep in the background. Shosho was included in the work, sitting at his feet gazing up. Aisling produced a saddle and bridle. They were plain, but the leather work was of the finest quality. Elanor marched in with several packages, which proved to contain her usual offering of robe and slippers in the Keep colors of gold and mulberry. To these she’d added a saddle blanket of rabbit furs, winter ones dyed the same colors. It looked magnificent.

Hanion appeared with Harran. Their gift was a joint one of a fine bow in a bow case of oiled gut, and a matching quiver of arrows that were examples of the fletcher’s art. Keelan found he was standing there, gifts scattered about him, tears in his eyes, and quite unable to speak. These were the people his mother had always condemned as mean, arrogant, and provincial. If Aiskeep was mean, what did that make her? he wondered. He’d never had gifts like these from his mother. If they were arrogant, how was it they’d accepted him?

As for provincial… He looked at them. Maybe they were, by her standards. Their clothes were warm and comfortable, not the gaudy fashions of Kars. Their skin was browned by sun, burned by wind, not the pallid shade favored by the fashionable. Their eyes were alive with life and interest in life. He found his face stretching into a slow, wide grin. Provincial? If that was provincial, then he’d take the provinces any day. Aisha could have Kars, she could have dear Kirion, and she could do what she pleased with both. Keelan would stay here, forever, if he was permitted.

It took him several days to come down from the delights of that day. When he did, he shut himself away for the afternoon to think. He feared asking if he could remain permanently. What if they refused? Ciara and Trovagh guessed, both at his desire and his fears. They left him alone. They, too, had thought much about this. Their decision had been made so long as Keelan plucked up enough courage to ask. That would be the final test.

The boy spent the night thinking. He must know. He marched down to the hall the next morning, terrified but resolute. It was silly in a way. His grandparents had shown no signs of wanting him to leave. Why then did he have this need for a formal permission and agreement?

He found Trovagh and Ciara alone. Elanor always broke her fast in her room these days. She was becoming frail and slept late. Aisling had been and gone, encouraged by Ciara to an errand in the upper valley.

Keelan arrived with the air of one who goes to the stake bravely. “Grandmother, Grandfather.” He bowed politely. “I would speak with you.”

Trovagh nodded, “Sit then and speak.”

Neither of them would have betrayed it for anything, but those Keelan faced were deeply amused by the scene. The lad was trying so hard to be formal. Instead, he gave the impression of a badly strung puppet. Keelan talked. He managed to make it brief, just that he’d like to remain here, to make his home at Aiskeep.

Ciara spoke gently. “Have we made you feel you may not?”

“No, Grandmother. But in view of the way Kirion acted, I’d prefer to have everything clear before I send for my belongings. I don’t wish you to feel I am taking Aiskeep for granted.”

It was a good point, Trovagh considered. The Gods knew that Kirion had done so… until a snowball made it clear how wrong he was. The memory almost made him smile, but he must not. The boy would think it was aimed at him. He collected Ciara with a glance and they both stood. Trovagh spoke as Keelan waited.

“It is our decision that you may remain for so long as you wish to live at Aiskeep. It would please us that you learn of the land and the people. We shall make you an allowance for necessities.” He broke into a grin as Keelan stared. “What, boy, did you think to be tossed out? Are we both so frightening?”

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

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

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

“Do you mean that much?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With Trovagh gone, Keelan had seized the opportunity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready, lad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

This news would serve very well to divert Kirion. She could mention that the separate—and increased—allowance for him had been at her suggestion. He’d take the coin, but it would also help convince him that Aiskeep was trying to buy him off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grinned; he could imagine what Aisling would say if she saw Ruart, too. His head jerked up.

“I have an idea. I don’t think it will put him off forever, but it can buy us time. Grandmother, would you be fit to ride to Kars?” His face became solemn. “After all, Aisling has been reared here in the provinces. She should know her prospective betrothed before any contracts are signed.” His voice became meaningful. “Perhaps he should meet her as well.”

The two faces opposite him crinkled into identical grins. “You mean Ruart may not like a wild, uncouth girl from the far South?” Trovagh asked.

“Either that or we can hold him off with tales of improving her. More—um—Kars city polish?” Keelan assured him grinning.

Ciara smiled at them both. “It may work, but we’d have to tread a fine line between disgusting him, and angering him to where he’ll take her from spite to teach her once she’s in his hands.” She flattened her palm against the stone wall behind her. “If all else fails, we can stand siege. Aiskeep has outlasted many of those across the centuries.”

“We stay with old Geavon, I presume?” Trovagh queried thoughtfully.

“We do; write him now, love. Get the message off as fast as you can. As for Ruart, we can delay a few days before his messengers will grow too impatient. We have to play for time. Every move must be drawn out as far as possible. With luck, Ruart will become bored and drop the idea. We may find a way to refuse without war. Just let us buy time.”

They did so. It was high summer before they arrived in Gerith Keep to an enthusiastic welcome from Geavon. Once the first excitement was done he looked at Aisling. Hmm. Her looks certainly wouldn’t put Ruart off the wedding. Aisling was slender, as lithe and supple as Ciara had been at that age. Like Ciara, the girl had eyes of a warm hazel. Her hair was a curtain of brown. An odd shade. There was fire under the darker hue. Her face was rounder than that of Ciara, but she had her grandmother’s long, swinging stride. The walk of a girl who was fit and healthy.

Keelan hadn’t enjoyed the journey. He was too worried about Shosho. She’d vanished just before they left. Old Hanion had promised to look for her, and care for her once she was found, but Keelan was still worried. She was four and had never bred. What if she had chosen now to do so? She might need him. A cat took only a couple of months to bear her kittens. He’d still be here in Gerith Keep until long after that. Damn Ruart, and damn Kirion, who was undoubtedly behind it all. When would the eager bridegroom appear so they could get on with the farce?

Ruart came a week later. Aisling was as rude as it was possible to be to a guest, and found her manners ignored. Ruart had expected no better. The girl was almost a peasant, after all, and she’d know no better. Her dress, too, was abysmal. That could be altered anytime he cared to buy the clothing. He was at his most pleasant, but Aisling could see the wolf snarl behind the charm. She was afraid of him. The idea of his touching her made her sick with disgust. She told that to Keelan the second time Ruart called.

“I loathe him, Keelan, please think of something.”

Ruart visited again and again, each time more insistent on a contract. A betrothal would be so suitable. Kirion stood on the sidelines of all this and smirked. He knew the difficulties his grandparents faced. They’d come around, they couldn’t hold off the ardent suitor forever, nor dare they refuse him outright.

He was wrong in that. Trovagh faced Ruart four weeks later, making Aiskeep’s position clear. They would not force Aisling to a marriage she rejected.

Ruart snorted. A touch of the whip and the girl would consent. Holding desperately to his temper Trovagh pointed out that a girl killing herself rather than wed Ruart would not add to his reputation.

“There are ways to prevent that, My Lord of Aiskeep. I’d be happy to suggest a few.”

“So I hear.” Trovagh’s tone was chilled over solid ice. “But we do not believe in dragging a girl to her wedding so drugged she cannot speak.”

“That is your decision? Nothing will change it?”

“That is the word of Aiskeep. Unless Aisling changes her mind, My Lord Ruart, there will be no wedding between you.”

Ruart nodded. Kirion had warned him this was possible. His friend had suggested that there were other ways to reach his desire. He’d use them.

Keelan was now bothered on two fronts. On the one hand, he worried over Shosho. Had she returned, was she all right?

On the other, there was Aisling. Ruart had taken that final rejection too calmly for Keelan’s peace of mind.

He went to Geavon in the end. Keelan had slowly developed a hearty respect for that astute old man. Geavon was careful. Nothing too open in his hints, just enough to assure the boy that Kirion wasn’t the only clever one about. Keelan left wearing a satisfied look.

That changed abruptly three days later. Keelan had gone in search of his sister. They could ride with Geavon’s grandson who planned to circle some of the garths talking over the coming harvest. With him went several men at arms. Aisling would enjoy the ride and in safety. He was well aware that of late she had been fretting at her confinement within the Keep. And it would take Keelan’s mind off Shosho.

To Keelan’s surprise, his sister was nowhere to be found. He hunted, growing more agitated until at last he went to Geavon. There, too, he found his grandparents as he blurted out the news.

Geavon stared for a second absorbing the information. Then he rang his bell violently, shouting rapid orders at those who came. Questions were asked of all those in the Keep. Some had information, not all of it willingly given. In an hour they knew the truth.

Geavon faced his distant cousin, noting the grim set to Trovagh’s mouth. “The girl is gone. A maid and one of the manservants are also gone. I believe them to have been hirelings paid to await their chance. It seems they bought a way in sometime back. Around the time Ruart first offered for the girl.” He held a hand up to still the outcry. “I have other ways of finding the truth of this. I am not so sure that it was Ruart’s doing. One thing is sure, however. Aisling has been taken.”

13

Aisling had gone to her room to change. It had been one of those mornings, and now a maid had spilled a water can all down her skirt. It wasn’t the girl’s fault, but it just capped a long, boring morning so far as Aisling was concerned. She had the clothing over her head and was squirming out of it when she was seized. She tried to struggle, but muffled in folds of cloth she found it difficult. Then she was struck across her head. Blackness descended shot with red sparks.

The next she knew she was head down still bundled in cloth. It felt like a pony under her. She moved a hand surreptitiously. Yes, that was a pony, with Aisling cross-tied over its broad back. She felt sick, all swimmy. Blurred voices nearby slowly resolved into a conversation she could understand.

“… easy enough. The old fool of a housekeeper will be in trouble when it comes out.” That voice sounded vindictive.

“You’re just mad because she made you really work. The coin’ll be worth it.”

“It’d have to be. If I slaved up them stairs with one can of hot water for them lady-mucks I carried a thousand. All that washing. Rots yer brain.”

There was a coarse laugh, “No fear of that fer you. Reckon you’m as smart as a pin. Letting m’lady here walk right into you, then spilling all that water down ’er. Gave us’n a chance to get her aside at last. Damn me, but how that family do stay around one another.” The other voice only grunted to that and there was a long silence.

Aisling put what she’d heard together. Someone had paid this pair to abduct her. It had to be Ruart. She shivered. But her family would guess, and they’d not rest until they had her back. She could imagine the hue and cry they’d be raising.

If she could have listened to the talk at Gerith Keep at the same moment she’d have been bewildered. No one was looking for her there. Instead, they were grouped in one room with Geavon, making rather labored small talk. Each was almost frantic but they were waiting. They trusted Geavon, and he trusted those he had in other places. Moving too swiftly could risk everything. So they sat, ate food they did not want, making conversation they hardly heard.

Aisling was feeling sicker by the minute. If she didn’t get off this pony soon, she’d be throwing up. She felt the small beast turn, and the sounds of its hooves change. It halted. She was untied and tossed over someone’s shoulder. Then she could feel herself carried up a short flight of stairs. Aisling was dumped on a floor. It would be Ruart’s home, she thought. There was sheepskin under her hands, a fire somewhere near as she felt the heat.

Above her there was a chink of coin. Then the sound of a cork being pulled. An anticipatory mumble as wine gurgled into glasses. She could hear people drinking noisily. Probably the two who’d stolen her drinking to their success and payment. The next sounds puzzled her. A sort of choking, then a couple of muffled thumps followed by the sounds of coins again.

She was lifted to sit in a chair, the cords unwound. She steeled herself to be unsurprised by whatever she saw. It was Ruart as she’d feared. She nodded politely.

“My lord, an unconventional visit, I’m afraid.”

He leered, an aroma of wine preceding him as he leaned close. “But I don’t mind that, my sweet. I have a bedroom awaiting you.” She saw he was very drunk and despaired. Her head still swam and her stomach rebelled.

“So kind, but I do not plan to use it, my Lord Ruart.”

“But I do. Here’s a token of it.” He drew her to him, kissing her with a wet, eager mouth.

Aisling’s stomach finally revolted. She jerked her head to one side and vomited violently. As Ruart released her, she did so again. The sight and smell were too much for Ruart. He joined her and they threw up in miserable unison. From the door an urbane voice addressed the room at large.

“Not an edifying sight. But don’t worry, I’ll take her off your hands, Ruart.”

Ruart rose clumsily to his feet. “Changed my mind,” he said briefly. “Had a room made up for her. She’s staying here with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve changed my mind I told you. She’s too good for the games you play, Kirion. I’m not wasting a girl like this on a lot of chanting and spell-casting. You can have her afterward.”

Aisling had glanced about the room in intervals between her misery. Two bodies lay twisted to one side, wineglasses beside them on the floor. The two who’d stolen her, she presumed, paid off in a more permanent way than they’d expected.

It was Kirion in the doorway. His face bland but the beginnings of dangerous anger in his eyes. Ruart should be careful.

He might think himself safe in his own home, but not for long if he crossed Kirion.

She heard Ruart raise his voice. He’d moved over by the door to join her brother.

“No. That’s my word on it. You can have her once I’m tired of the girl. D’you think I paid out for weeks just to watch you draw circles on a pavement? I want her first.”

Aisling understood enough of that to turn her cold. Kirion was dabbling in real sorcery. It wasn’t anything she’d disbelieve of him, but it made her feel like a mouse between two cats. Of course lie wanted her untouched.

She felt sick again. She darted a glance about the room. No way out save past the two still arguing. She was badly cramped from the ropes and long journey. Her stomach rebelled whenever she moved, but she must try to find something to help her escape.

She was unable to reach out to the table near her without being noticed. But she knew from experience that people often dropped things down the backs of this new kind of seat. The wife to Geavon’s grandson had a set of them. Astia had asked Aisling only a few days ago to help search down the upholstered back for a lost needle. She’d found it by running the point painfully into a finger. And before that they’d also discovered two walnuts and a gaming counter.

Her fingers twisted downward, being careful not to let them see her moving., Her hand scrabbled slowly along the edges of the upholstery. Ah, no, it was only a coin. Still it might be of use in some way she thought. She moved her hand up to drop it into her boot top. Another coin and then a third.

Then her questing fingers touched something else. It was long, perhaps the length of her hand. Narrow, thin, pliable. At first she could not guess what it might be, then she managed a look down from the corner of her eye.

She knew now. Yes, that really might be of use. She might be able to sharpen it on stone if she was ever left alone. Doubled for strength it would be perhaps three or four inches in length. But hadn’t Keelan once said you could stab to the heart in less?

You could do other things with something like that, too. Hanion had taught her years ago as a kind of amusement one very cold winter when she was bored. The argument was growing more angry. She caught enough of it as it also grew louder to guess what might be the outcome.

Kirion was furious. What? Were his plans to be thwarted by the tool of his, this womanizing idiot? He was unpleasantly surprised to find they were.

Ruart was equally furious. His demands for anything he wanted hadn’t been refused since he’d risen to rule in his Keep. Now, and in his own home, mind you, this unpleasant little panderer was trying to keep the lord of his Keep from his desires.

He was angered enough to press the demand. He was afraid of Kirion—well, not actually afraid, he told himself, just wary. The man did have some kind of power. But nothing could happen to Ruart here. He had only to call and fifty servants would appear. He could have them do whatever he wished with Kirion then. He could even have him tossed into the special cell below. That thought sparked another.

His voice became quieter. “Listen, Kirion, are we to fall out over a female?” Soft talk never hurt, Ruart thought. “I can toss her in the cell downstairs. You know the one,” he said, leering. “No escape there. Then we can talk this over in comfort. I’ll throw dice against you for her if you like.”

Kirion paused in midshout to consider. It was true his sister wouldn’t be escaping from that cell.

“Very well. We could gamble for her, as you say, my dear Ruart.” My dear Fathead, his mind added. Something in your wine and you can sleep away a day and night. I’ll be long gone with her. You’ll get over it the next time you need me to persuade someone around to your way of thinking. Aloud, he added,

“I’ll come down with you. Two will manage her more easily in case she tries to escape.” Or in case you try anything, either, he added silently.

Aisling was dragged down stairs, stairs, and yet more stairs. She allowed herself to go almost limp, letting her feet stumble convincingly. The men were half carrying her and panting at the exertion. But with her head bent she was able to scan the levels she passed.

Like some old Keeps, half of this one was underground. Three floors, she estimated. The lowest would be where siege supplies were stored. The wine racks would be here, and any dungeons. Here, too, would be at least one secret escape route.

She had time for a quick look through a window slit as they dragged her from the original room. It was early afternoon. She calculated swiftly. She’d been taken soon after her morning meal, which she’d had quite early. She didn’t think she’d been unconscious long on the pony. Nor had Ruart and Kirion been fighting over her for much time—although it had seemed hours.

So Ruart’s Keep couldn’t be more than three or four hours’ walk away from where she’d been taken. She knew the direction, too; on one of his visits, Ruart had gone on about his Keep. How convenient the location, just to the northeast of Kars. Gerith Keep was also northeast of Kars. If she managed to escape, she’d know which way to go.

Her family wouldn’t have been twiddling their collective thumbs in that time, either. They probably had someone keeping an eye on the Keep outside right now. If she could get away, she was sure there’d be help waiting.

Ruart shook her hard. “Take a look at this, Lady.” He pointed. “See, we drop this bar across the whole door when we leave.” He hauled her onward, halting again, “See this? A good strong lock.” He grinned in an extremely unpleasant way. “I lock all the doors down here or the servants get into the wine—and maybe other things I don’t want broached.” He leered suggestively.

Aisling felt sick again. Kirion snorted.

“When you’ve finished showing off, Ruart, let’s get on with it.”

His target grunted, pushing Aisling ahead of him through an open door. “You’ll be safe here. Just wait until I come for you. Don’t go running away now.” He bellowed with laughter as he slammed the door. A key turned with a loud clunk. Aisling flung herself at the door to listen. She heard a second lock clank and then in the distance a dull thud as the bar went into place. Her eyes flicked about her prison. A heap of moldy straw, a bucket, and an empty tin jug and plate. Nothing she could use.

But in her clothing she had something that might aid her. Aisling still felt sick, and to that was added growing hunger and a tormenting thirst.

She dug hastily into her boot to produce the item she’d found. At some stage a woman had been in the room upstairs. She’d been reboning a bodice in the fashionable way. One of the pliable strips of metal ‘boning’ had been dropped onto the chair, to make its way down the back out of sight. Probably the owner had never missed it.

Aisling bent it into a right angle toward one end. Then, very slowly, very carefully, she began to pick the lock. The lock was old, hence it was clumsy with large, easily felt wards and only two of them. It had been kept well oiled as well. It had been a long time since Hanion had taught her this as a game. But in a short time she had the lock open.

She glanced back at her cell. Play for time, Ciara always said. If you aren’t sure what to do, play for time.

Aisling went back. She humped up the straw into a curl, then covered it with the outer skirt. She stared down. What else? She wrenched at one sleeve until the stitching tore at the shoulder. Then she stuffed the sleeve with more straw. She laid that over a small ball of straw. From the door it looked like Aisling asleep, an arm thrown over her head in despair. It would suffice if no one looked long or too closely. She found her head was whirling. She must have something to drink. Hadn’t Ruart boasted he kept his wine down here?

The locks on the other doors nearby were also of the older, more simple type. She shut the door of her cell, locked it with her pick, then started on another door. Behind that was the wine. She chose a bottle of a lighter wine and drank carefully. Being drunk certainly wouldn’t help, she mused. She tucked two of the bottles in a corner and tried a third door. Thank Cup and Flame for that. The siege supplies, some of them anyway. She took a round of bread and a small cheese. Both went to join the bottles in a corner in the main part of the outer room. Then she locked both doors again.

She sat quietly for almost half an hour. With bread and cheese inside her, a quarter bottle of the wine on top wouldn’t make her drunk. Somewhere there’d be water, probably the next level up. Now if she could just get that door open, too—

The lock on this was newer. More wards. More time. By the time it opened, she was sweat-soaked and shaking, knowing that any minute a triumphant gambler could reappear to collect his prize.

Still no one. She dodged through the door and turned to work on the lock again with growing hope. If only one man came to get her, she might be able to shut him in. She’d seen Ruart leave the key in each lock as they took her down. She could wait until whoever it was entered the cell. Then he’d be too far down for any to hear his yells for release.

She opened doors hurriedly. Water. It was in large barrels and stale, no doubt, but with a little wine it would do. She opened a barrel to check. Yes. Her hands were shaking. Keep them steady, she told herself. Within seconds she had poured out most of the remaining wine, filled the bottles with water, and recorked.

She had enough to drink for as long as it might be before they came for her now. The bread and cheese had put new energy into her, too. She studied the situation. She’d come back up two of the three levels. The problem would be this last level. That was the one with the door barred instead of locked. She wiggled her metal strip through the gap, lifting upward. The metal bent. It was strong enough for its original purpose, strong enough to turn a single ward at a time. But raising a heavy bar was beyond it.

Aisling said several words she’d once heard Grandfather Tro say. All of a sudden she found she was kicking frantically at the door. She must get out of here, she must! Fear that she would be heard stopped her attack on the wood. She slumped to the floor beside the planking. Where were all the heroes when you needed one? Did she have to do it all herself?

It seemed she did. She ate a little more of the bread and cheese as she thought.

It was clear why Ruart wanted her. She’d wondered about Kirion, but something he’d said had given her a hint. Some half-caught comment about her being of the Old Race.

Aisling knew the story. Centuries ago only the Old Race had lived in Karsten. Then incomers had arrived. People from elsewhere who joined them to live in the mostly empty lands. The two races had lived in peace a long time. Then in the time when Grandmother was a little girl the current duke had gone crazy. He’d called the three-times Horning on all of the Old Race. That was a form of outlawing. After that anything could happen to them and it was lawful. It had been a bad time.

Many had died, and most of the others had left Karsten to live over the border mountains in Estcarp where it was said all women were Witches. It was also said that one day there’d be a blood debt called in. That was why most of Karsten was still against the Old Blood. They were afraid.

And guilty, her grandmother had always added. Too many families had got a start up on the backs of those they’d murdered, with the goods and stock they’d stolen from them.

Ciara was half of the Old Race. Aisling had always known vaguely that she must be partly of the blood, too. Lately it had been difficult. It was as if something inside her stretched, awoke, and demanded from her things she didn’t know how to give. Grandmother had taught her to use some of the power. Aisling could drop into the mists when she wished. Once she’d been allowed to help heal an injured horse. Grandmother said horses didn’t talk at least, or fear you afterward. It had felt good to do that. To use what she was.

Kirion wanted to use her, too. She remembered his grasp on her the time she’d beaten him in a race. She’d used her power then. Called fire from the mist to his hand so he’d let her go.

The two events came together with a mental crash. She could help a healing, and call a kind of fire. Was there any way she could use her powers to get her out of here?

The simplest and most obvious use was to open the door. She’d seen the bar as they dragged her by.

She stood against the door, palms flat to the wood. The bar had been held on two brackets, one on either side of the door. There were two more on this side and a bar leaning against the wall. That would be to bar the door against invaders if you escaped down here. Good. She could use that to give her a position. She lifted the bar into place. Now, if she was right, the other bar would be here. Dropped into a bracket just—her finger touched lightly—there!

She drank a little more of the watered wine. Then she stood, hands touching the door just where the bar should be in the bracket. She imagined it, and made a picture of it in her head. She gathered herself, then allowed the silver mist to rise in her mind. Now! She strained; the bar had to rise up, then fall so she could be free. That desire grew. The bar had to let her go. Up. Up. Up!

She could not have said later how long that struggle went on. It seemed forever, timeless. But at last there was a feeling as if the bar yielded to her demand. In her mind it rose, just far enough to clear the metal that held it. She thrust outward using the dregs of her strength. Beyond the door there was a dull thump as the bar fell. Aisling fell, too. She slid down the wooden planking until she rested sitting against the door. It swung partway open before the movement halted. She could see out. She sagged back.

So that had been what Grandmother meant when she warned using power demanded a price. Aisling managed a tired grin. It would be ironic if she was now too exhausted to leave. She reached for the wine bottle, draining it. She still had a bottle left.

It would be wise to look for a place to hide. Still sitting, she studied the area outside the door. There was a short stairway leading down to here, a good-size landing in front of this door. A pity she didn’t have sufficient strength to bar the door from the inside again. That would baffle everyone. No use in wishing, though.

Aisling forced herself to her feet, then dropped the outer bar back into its brackets. After that she collected her bottle and food into a fold of her petticoat. She must look quite mad, she thought. In her petticoats, with a sleeve torn from her bodice, probably reeking to the skies, and straw sticking out of odd bits of her clothing.

She looked down at her boots. They’d make a noise on the stairs. Better get them off, she told herself. She could carry her food and wine inside them. Removing them reminded her of the coins she’d found. She tipped them into her hand and blinked. Two gold and a silver. Very nice.

But she hadn’t time to think of that. With her footwear tucked under one arm, Aisling scooted silently up the stairs. No one appeared to announce her escape. She stared out of the window slit as she passed by. It was almost dusk. If she could get out of here into the countryside there was a chance she could elude any possible pursuers.

She checked a couple of the rooms at this level. There were ample places to hide from anyone just walking about. She prowled cautiously to where she thought the front entrance had been. Two servants were there energetically polishing. From the look of it, they’d be there some time. She picked a place to watch them, then tried to relax.

Somewhere upstairs Ruart and Kirion must still be gambling. If the servants finished before the gamblers did, Aisling might be able to slide out of the door to freedom. She crouched waiting, wondering what was happening at Gerith Keep. Old Geavon would have been furious when he found out. He’d take it as a personal insult. He’d never liked Ruart, with this business he’d be almost ready to call feud.

Aisling hoped she’d be able to tell Geavon it had been mostly Kirion from what she knew. It would be satisfying to know she’d brought trouble to her older brother. At least as much trouble as he’d brought to her if luck continued to hold.

It was holding better than she knew. Upstairs both men no longer gambled. Instead, they lay sprawled on the floor, faces each wearing an identical look of frustrated fury. Between them a small table had been upended, dice and glasses spilling onto the sheepskins. The fire was almost burned out. Ruart had given instructions that no servant was to interrupt him as they gambled., None would dare go against that order. Kirion had agreed. It suited him to be private. He hid a sly smirk. Ruart was being far more helpful than he realized.

Unseen by his comrade Kirion had slid open a tiny compartment on his wrist ornament. It opened with a twist of his thumbnail to allow a pinch of grayish powder to drift down. He turned, proffering a glass as he drank from his own.

The powder would take a short time to work. Ruart would only think the wine unusually effective at first. By the time he knew otherwise, he’d be helpless. Not that Kirion intended him any harm; he’d just collect Aisling and head back to Iren Keep.

In the solitude of his tower he could wring her power from her. Use it to buy more of his own. He’d found a way to do that without risking anything himself. Aisling would lose a lot, including her life and soul—if there really was such a thing.

He grinned as he rolled the dice again, accepting more wine from Ruart. Was the man beginning to look dizzy? He thought so.

Ruart had eyed Kirion thoughtfully. That powder he’d dropped in his third cup of wine would take a while to work. It cost, too. The old woman by the Kars gate charged high.

He hid a leer. But you got what you paid for. The stuff would work quite swiftly. Another minute or two and the girl would be his. By the time Kirion revived it would be too late.

This wine was strong. He drank off the remainder of his glass, finding himself staggering as he walked to open another bottle.

It shouldn’t be that strong, though. He’d ordered the lighter wine. Better not to be too drunk, he thought. He focused on the bottle. Strange, it was the lighter wine he was drinking—why then did he feel so dizzy, so weak?

He understood just as his knees gave way. His face creased into helpless rage as blackness enveloped him.

Kirion watched Ruart slump to the floor. He rose to stand over him watching the glaring eyes slide closed. That was that. Now he’d just have one last glass like a lord should. No need to hurry now. He had all the time in the world; it would be tomorrow evening before Ruart awoke. By then Kirion would be back in his tower, his sorceries completed.

He drank his wine. Strange, that may have been one too many. He felt dizzy, weak at the knees. He leaned on the table as it gave way, dropping glasses, dice, and Kirion to the floor beside it. Kirion’s face wrenched into a snarl of frustrated fury. Damn false comrades. The bloody man had drugged him! His mind slipped into night still yelling its surprised indignation.

Aisling crouched by her door. Through the door curtain she could see the servants had almost finished their polishing. She’d spent part of her time checking for anything that might help her here. She’d found an old cloak dropped in a corner. That would help to hide her unconventional attire. The cloak was dusty and mouse-smelling, but anything was better than trying to march through the door in her petticoat. That betrayed too much to anyone who saw her. The cloak betrayed less—unless they got close enough to smell it.

Kirion and Ruart must be gambling-mad up there, she mused. It had taken her hours to get this far and still no sign of either.

She had finished her drink. If she didn’t get out of here shortly, she was going to be in the very unladylike position of having to use a corner. It would be just her luck to have someone walk in at that moment.

The servants were actually leaving. Aisling gathered herself by the door curtain. One was gone, then the other. She dived for the door just as the first returned.

It was a woman. Not young, not old, but her face was lined, bitter and weary. Aisling held a finger to her lips imploringly.

The woman’s eyes summed the girl up. Another of his lordship’s playthings. Not a willing one, either. Somehow she’d escaped. The servant nodded to herself. She’d call for help to stop the girl; his lordship had given one of the men a whole silver piece for that last time. She opened her mouth to yell, then paused as the girl moved.

Aisling dug frantically into her boot. Where had she put the coins she’d found? They slid into her hand and she held out the two gold ones. Gold! The servant gaped. That was more than Ruart would give her. Aisling smiled and held out her hand offering both gold pieces. The servant edged close enough to snatch them from her.

She could still call for help but she had grudges of her own against Ruart. More silver was a temptation, though. Aisling guessed her thought. There was one coin remaining; she tossed it to the cupped hands.

“Call, and share them, or have to give most of it back to Ruart. Keep silent, keep it all.”

Before the servant could make up her mind the girl was gone. Oh, well. Gold was gold. One piece was a year’s wages. Two would buy her a different life. Even the silver was a month of hard labor.

Ruart would never know she’d seen anything. She would leave at the end of the year when she was paid her wages. With those and what the lass had given her, she had a way of making something better of herself. Good luck to the girl, whoever she was. She tucked the gold into her bodice carefully, returning to her work.

Outside it was dark. Aisling looked up at the stars, southwest would be Geavon’s Keep. She found a bush and used it urgently. Then she began to walk in her chosen direction. She could be home before dawn if all went well.

14

Behind Aisling a spy padded silently along. He had no idea how the girl had freed herself. It had taken him hours to gain access to the keys, and now he, too, had to be gone quickly. Just as Lord Geavon had sniffed out spies in Gerith Keep, so, too, would Lord Ruart once he woke.

The spy grinned to himself. That had been a great sight. Both of them fast asleep and the girl gone. He wondered where she’d got the money for that last part of her escape. But wherever it had come from she’d handled it just right.

He’d follow her. It was a pity she hadn’t got free earlier, before he’d gained the keys. Then he could have stayed in Ruart’s Keep? watching for the old lord. Geavon was a good master. A fair man, and he paid promptly—in coin. Not the way Ruart had paid off his own pair of spies.

He slid through the darkness listening to Aisling as she stumbled through the brush. At least she had some idea of direction. Another half hour and she’d arrive at the road.

The thought occurred to him then that the road might be dangerous. Not from Kirion and Ruart, but there were others as bad out in the dark of night. He stepped up his pace. With luck he’d find someone before she arrived on the road. His pockets had coin enough to buy a mount if he must.

He was fortunate. A drunken garthsman heading home gleefully sold the spy the farm pony. It was fat, shaggy, and lazy; he’d paid half as much again as it was worth, but it would do. He left the farmer to walk while the spy swung into the old saddle.

He walked the beast a short distance, then halted it to strain his ears. There! The sound of someone pushing through the head-high brush near the road. He called out, keeping his voice low and gentle,

“Is someone there, do you need help?”

Aisling hesitated. It wasn’t anyone she knew, but at least it wasn’t Kirion or Ruart, either. If she crouched it would be hard for them to place where the voice came from. She called back softly.

“Who are you?”

Good girl, the spy thought. He answered softly, “One who’s been sent to look for you, I think, Lady. Make no attempt to see my face, it could be dangerous for me. I have a pony that will carry two.” He waited. There was no sound. She was still waiting for more. He nodded. Geavon’s kinblood, all right. He lifted his tones to an approximation of the old lord’s voice.

“I say I don’t trust him. Boy’s a rogue however you look at it.” He heard the light patter of footsteps in his direction.

Aisling arrived panting. It was almost an hour since she’d escaped, and she was tiring again. Even the delights of freedom were not able to keep her going much longer. She could see nothing of the man in the dark, but it didn’t matter. That mimicking of Geavon was only likely to be done by one of his men.

She held up her hands, sagging exhausted by the pony. The spy aided her up behind him. In a mile she was asleep. He kept the pony to a steady walk drawing Aisling’s arms about him to keep her in place. It felt good to know she was safe.

He’d watched Ruart for years now. One of those who’d vanished in the witch-hunts then had been his betrothed. Later he’d heard a rumor. He’d known it for truth in the end, after that he’d followed a trail. It had never mattered to him what blood she bore. He’d loved her.

Things like that spread. There were those who died, those who’d spurred on the killing, those who used it for their own ends—and those who mourned their dead and swore revenge. He’d heard Geavon was keeping an eye on Lord Ruart. The spy had gone offering all he knew. He’d been taken in, treated honestly. He’d talk to the old lord once he’d got the girl back. It would be a pity to lose his chance at Ruart and his companion now.

He walked the pony in through the small postern gate. He had the right words for it to be opened to him. He had others once he was inside. Geavon arrived to look at the still sleeping Aisling.

“I owe you blood debt for this.”

“Nay, Lord. It’s Ruart who owes the blood. This is just some of the payment.”

Geavon whistled to one of his men softly. “Call Lord Trovagh and his lady. Tell them the news is good.” He handed over Aisling to Trovagh when they appeared. She murmured sleepily but did not wake.

“Take her to bed, Tro. Stay with her. I have things to do here as yet. I’ll join you once I’m done.” He turned to his spy once they were gone with Aisling. “Tell me, what occurred? Was Kirion there?”

The tall, scarred man he questioned nodded. “He was there, Lord. But it was to Ruart’s Keep they took her.” He told the tale as he knew it from the beginning. “Likely I can’t go back. I’ve racked my brains and can think of no tale they’d swallow. A pity.”

“A pity as you say. But with what you’ve discovered over the time I can get another into Ruart’s confidence. I’d rather have her back safe than bring down that pair if I must choose. As for you, a gift from her kin.” He thrust a fat purse into the man’s hand. “I still have work for you though. Just of a different kind.” The spy found he was holding a roll of parchment.

“What’s this, Lord?”

“Your own land, the purse will stock it.” He smothered protest. “No! It’s a wage. You’ll understand when you see where the holding lies. I’ll risk you no further with Ruart, but there’ll be others you can shelter. Go now and my thanks go with you. Send word once your garth is established.”

He heard the hooves plod away and sighed. A very good man. He could still use him as he’d said. He looked up at the stars. Thank the Gods for good men when so many bad ones were nearby.

He walked slowly back inside. It was late and he was an old man. Too old for many more nights like this. He halted at the room where Aisling lay. She still slept. Ah, well. The tale would be the same in the morning. He retired to sleep himself after leaving orders with those he trusted. It was always better to be careful than regretful.

Aisling woke in her own bed early. She looked around as events rushed back into her mind. Her grandmother slept on a bed beside her. Ciara’s face was tired, she looked older than Aisling had ever seen her appear before.

On the table between them rested a jug of fruit juice, a platter of bread and cheese. Aisling ate, drank, and lay back once more. She fell asleep almost before she had pulled the covers up.

This time she woke soon after sunhigh. Beside her Ciara stirred, turning to smile at her granddaughter.

“Bright sun to you, dearling. Are you hungry again?”

Aisling was suddenly aware that she was starving. “Yes. Where’s Grandfather Tro?”

“Sleeping. He’ll come now that you’re awake. Just let me call for something to eat for us all.”

She did so. Trovagh and Geavon arrived with the meal, Keelan strode in a few minutes later to hug his sister savagely.

“Praise Cup and Flame you are unhurt. Something that will not be said for very long about that pair who took you.”

Aisling eyed him over a succulent honey-coated bun. “If you’re thinking of the two servants, you can forget them. Ruart poisoned them. I’m not sure why. It might have been so he didn’t have to pay. I know he took the money back when they were dead.”

Geavon grunted. “More likely to make sure they couldn’t give evidence against him. Shandro is duke. Kirion may have a lot of influence there, but the duke would have to listen if we made a formal complaint through the shrine at Kars.” His mouth stretched into an unpleasant smile. “His own clan don’t much like Ruart. If we took a complaint to Kars courts about this, the clan wouldn’t support him.”

Ciara shook her head. “We can’t afford to risk that and well you know it. Opening a bag usually lets all the cats out that are inside, not just the one. Shandro fears the Old Race about as much as he likes Ruart. Tro and I have talked this over. We shall leave for Aiskeep tomorrow. As soon as we found Aisling gone, I sent a swift rider relay to the Keep. Half our men ride hither, Harran leading them.” She touched Geavon’s arm gently. “No reflection on you, kinsman. If you can provide a few of your men to escort us until we meet those who ride to our aid, I would be grateful.”

Geavon agreed without protest. “But leave it to me to deal with Ruart should he return to speak of a betrothal again.”

Trovagh smiled wryly. “I do not think he will be so bold. But yes, to you the handling of him if he dares.”

The following day they rode out without fuss at first light.

Geavon’s men, headed by his grandson, escorted them, acting as if they expected bandit hordes to descend ravening at any moment. Harran met them halfway to Aiskeep. Aisling was delighted to see him. She listened to all the small news of home before Keelan interrupted urgently.

“Did Shosho return, Harran?”

The Armsmaster grinned. “She did indeed, Lord Keelan. Where she had been I know not. What she had done there I can tell you. She’s heavy in kitten. She seems well enough but she is missing you, I believe.”

Keelan gulped, looking hopefully across at his grandmother. It would be Shosho’s first litter, and his cat was already four. He knew it could be dangerous for a cat to bear kittens for the first time when she was older. Ciara nodded to him.

“I’ll look her over at once when we’re back at Aiskeep. Don’t worry. Most cats kitten easily. They know what to do, they’ve been doing it without humans for a very long time.”

Privately she wondered. No use telling the boy all that could go wrong, though. They’d be home soon enough. She stretched, she was so tired. Her own bed at Aiskeep with Tro beside her would look wonderful. For now they’d have to make do with the tent.

Being home was one of the best things in the world, Ciara thought a week later. Of course there were problems. Shosho would kitten any day now and Ciara didn’t like the look of things there. Then there was Aisling. Using her gift so frantically to open that door seemed to have started something.

Twice Aisling had given someone a shock. Keelan had been the first, the day after they got back. The girl had been tearing from place to place and finally Keelan had seized her hands and whirled her around.

“Slow down, you’re making me giddy.” Then he’d released her with a surprised yelp. “Ouch! What was that for?”

Ciara had been close enough to see silver fire glimmer briefly about their clasped hands. Aisling had been upset and apologetic. It had just happened, she insisted. She hadn’t willed it, hadn’t even been thinking of it. Two days later it had happened again when Trovagh hugged her good night.

Ciara had wondered if it was some kind of overflow effect. Use it or it uses itself. She had taken her granddaughter out quietly the next morning at dawn. There she’d thrown most of the work of healing a sick lamb onto Aisling. It appeared to have worked.

For a few days. But today Ciara had hugged her good morning and felt the sudden flare. There seemed to be a circle. Use the power to damp it down. But the more it’s used the faster it builds. The more you damp it down with use, the faster it returns and at higher levels.

Ciara had an unpleasant feeling that it could end in Aisling burning up. There must be controls, but she’d never learned them. Those in Karsten who might have known and been able to teach were gone, either by death or departure.

Ciara sighed. Life! Just whenever you thought things were going better, something came along to prove you wrong. From the sound of pounding footsteps racing down the passage toward her room, that was about to be verified. Keelan arrived through the door opening already yelling.

“Come quick, come quick, Shosho’s started.”

The small cat had. What was worse, Ciara thought an hour later, they did have a real problem. From careful investigation she could find only one kitten present. It was huge. Keelan was getting under her feet, Aisling had vanished. And right now Ciara wanted one and not the other.

“Keelan, listen to me. I need Aisling. Go and find her as fast as you can.”

That got him out of the way. Ciara soothed Shosho. “Steady, my sweet. I don’t know what you found out in the hills but you should have thought twice. I know what needs to be done, but I need Aisling’s power to do it. Pray Cup and Flame she hasn’t used up her gift on something already.”

Keelan arrived back with Aisling in tow. “I found her. What now?”

Ciara had had enough. “Now, my lad, you go out to the stables. I want a comfortable nesting box for Shosho and her baby when it arrives. Make a step half height at the door. That way she can go out but the kitten will stay in for a few weeks. Pad it inside with carded wool. Eshwin’s garth may spare you some. When you get that done I want a fire in the smaller hall and water heated there. Now get on with it.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll get it done at once.” He was bustling out of the door leaving Ciara and Aisling in peace.

Aisling grinned. “How much of that is necessary?”

“Well, the nesting box will be useful. But Elanor probably has carded wool. He doesn’t have to go half an hour’s ride to find that.”

“What about hot water, we don’t need that, do we?”

Ciara snorted inelegantly. “Oh, yes we do. Once we’re finished here we’ll all enjoy a rest and a hot drink.” Aisling giggled. “Now, I want you to relax, slide into the mists, and let me use your power. You can watch what I do. But try not to tighten up or stop the outflow. I know what needs doing, but I just don’t have enough of my own gift. If Shosho dies, Keelan will be devastated. Are you willing to do this?”

“Of course.”

“Then begin.” She watched Aisling’s breathing slow. She reached out to take the young hand, placing it on her shoulder, positioning the girl just behind her. “Keep your hand there until I say you can remove it.”

She called her own mists, dropping into them with the ease of long familiarity. She turned her concentration to the cat. The kitten lay in the right position, it was just too large to be birthed normally.

What she was about to do was unorthodox. But it was all she could think of. She drew on Aisling’s power, mind sinking deeper into the small cat’s tissues. She gathered the process up, she must do this and this. Then she drew hard on her granddaughter’s gift.

The silver mist came to her calling, and poured into the cat. Under that demand, that impact of power, tissues became elastic, almost fluid. They stretched far beyond normal. She held them, then nudged the contractions.

Shosho strained. Slowly her kitten appeared; it gasped, squirmed, and came free. Ciara reached again, drawing more power. They might pay for this once she was done, but for now she would use what they had. She poured more power into the stretched tissues as they returned to normal slowly, then she added strength to the exhausted cat. She monitored her granddaughter. The girl was power-drained but not exhausted. Ciara was the same.

It was well. Finally she withdrew, touching Aisling’s hand.

“You can let go now.”

Aisling did so, folding abruptly to the rug. “Phew. I didn’t know power could be combined like that.”

Ciara’s voice was dry. “Nor did I, but we had to do something. I thought I’d heard my grandmother say once that this was possible. I was very young so I could have misheard.” Her voice was suddenly wistful. “We lost so much when Yvian ran mad. My own mother’s gift was small and only for healcraft. But she at least was trained. She’d begun to teach me a little, but sometimes it seems that with less than full-blood the gift comes later. I’d barely begun to learn before everything was gone.”

And that, she thought silently, may be your trouble. You read as a woman of the Power to me—full power. But it’s come late, you’re untrained, and I know of no one who may help. But I do also recall Grandmother saying that was dangerous to the one untrained where the power comes suddenly. There’s no growing into it.

She thrust away her fears, helping Shosho care for the kitten. As his fur dried Ciara admired him. But looking down at the squeaking kitten she wondered again who Shosho had found as a mate.

The kit was large. Dried now, fur fluffed, he looked even bigger. It was impossible to believe Shosho had carried him. Why he was almost half the size of the small cat. Nor was he the usual color or markings. His fur had dried a sort of brownish-yellow. There was a dark-furred V on his forehead, and another like a necklace upon his breast.

The Aiskeep cats were all of Sulcar breeding, tabbies in differing shades but mainly black or silver. Their heads were broad and their bodies stocky. The kitten’s head was more wedge-shaped, his body longer and leaner even so new born. Ciara thought it likely that fully grown he’d be near twice normal size.

Keelan returned then, agog to admire his cat and her achievement. He gaped at the kitten incredulously.

“It’s huge! Is Shosho all right, will she have enough milk for it? I have the box for them, and the fire’s blazing downstairs.”

Ciara eased her shoulders, “Good. Put them in the box and leave them. Shosho would like a bit of peace and privacy now. Stay away for a couple of hours. You can come down with us and make us something to drink. I’m not as young as I was for this sort of afternoon.”

The kitten thrived. Shosho had milk but the baby turned to meat earlier than usual. He grew fast. In four months, he was as large as any cat at Aiskeep. At the same time he made his choice of human. To Aisling’s pleasure it fell on her.

“I don’t know what to call him, though.” She giggled, “Maybe I should leave it up to him.” She nudged the kitten sprawled on her stomach. “What do you want to be called? Half—a-Horse might be appropriate.”

The kitten sat up with dignity. Into Aisling’s surprised mind came a picture. The kitten whirled in pursuit of a leaf. Spun, leaping high into the air to land with soft paws on the captured prey. Wind ruffled his fur. He leaped at the breeze as it passed, patting out with hopeful paws. Dancing with the stir of air. The girl smiled, touching the soft fur between his ears.

“Wind-Dancer? I’ll call you Dancer for short.” The kitten purred approval.

Ciara watched. She, too, had seen. That was interesting. She could receive some emotions from animals as could her granddaughter. But that had been more, a strong, clear picture in reply to a question. More and more she wondered who or what Shosho had found as mate.

When Dancer was a year old, Aisling’s gift began to wear on her. At the same time Kirion made another attempt to lay hands on his sister. His studies were no longer gray. Now they were black sorcery. He’d discovered ways to power yet he remained cautious. He had also learned too many of the things that might happen to those who were casual.

Ruart, too, had not forgotten Aisling. The girl was seventeen. He’d offered marriage once. Ruart had been ill that winter. For the first time he’d realized that no one lives forever. A man should leave sons behind him. To do that he needed a respectable wife of good family. Aisling would be just right.

To the fury of all at Aiskeep, he renewed his offer. It was rejected firmly. Then two weeks later as Aisling rode alone in the upper valley, two men appeared from the trees. She was seized. In her terror she drew on her gift without restraint. One man died on the spot, the other a day later. But he survived long enough to confirm that Kirion had been his master.

Trovagh called the family together. “I have bad news. Geavon writes that Shandro is favoring Ruart more and more. He has enough influence lately to receive almost anything he asks to have.

“We have just sent word to Ruart that Aisling refuses him. How long before the duke intervenes and insists? Aiskeep can still refuse, will still refuse. But what will Shandro do if he is openly flouted?”

Ciara glanced around. “There is also Kirion. As he has shown us, there are ways into Aiskeep other than the main gates. I doubt many men could enter through the hills as that pair did. But what if we were held in siege at the gates, while others attacked in a steady pattern of twos and threes through the hill tracks? We might not be taken by storm through the gates, but we could be worn down over time.”

Trovagh nodded. “For that reason I plan to fill the lower storerooms again. Trader Takon arrives in three days. Aiskeep has always held siege supplies, but I will double them.”

“We pay with what, my love?” Ciara questioned.

“With horses of the Aiskeep strain. Talron has a Sulcar master who will take them aboard to sell in Es City. If we are besieged, we will be unlikely to sell our beasts, so I am stripping the herd. All trained mounts will go save for one mount for each of us.”

Elanor had been carried down to join them. She was in her nineties but while frail of body, her mind was as keen as ever.

“Sell all the Keep’s ordinary horses, too, Tro,” she said now. “They eat as much as the better beasts. Replace them with the Torgian strain as we train the young ones.”

Trovagh agreed. It was something he had not thought about. The Keep had always used ordinary beasts for the work in harness.

His glance touched Aisling. She’d been so quiet lately, ever since she’d killed the men who would have stolen her. He thought the worst of it for the child was that she had not intended to strike. Now she was afraid to touch or allow the touch of those she loved. Ciara said that the girl alternated between refusing to use her overflowing power until her skin shone with it—or using it over and over until she was dangerously exhausted.

Keelan moved to the table to pour wine. He didn’t like any of this. His brother Kirion was a danger to Aisling. Ruart would be more easily handled. Shandro would sit at Aiskeep’s gates for months, maybe a year. Once he found what a siege cost, he’d think up some reason to save his reputation and leave, and if he didn’t, the merchants would have something to say about it. They wouldn’t appreciate being taxed to pay for Ruart’s choice of wives.

But Kirion would cling on. There’d be more of his creatures slipping into the upper valley. More people dead. Knowing Kirion, it wouldn’t be long before he hit on the idea of hostages. What would that do to Aisling?

If she refused to go to Kirion and people died for that? If she went and Kirion could use her power for himself and his sorceries? How long would it be before Aisling came to a conclusion that her own death would solve everything for those she loved?

She’d been hard hit by the death of two men—men who, Keelan thought, were probably better dead for the sake of others anyhow. The one who’d survived most of a day had talked deliriously. His descriptions of what his master had done with those stolen had almost made Keelan sick. The brute had been Kirion’s supplier and had a lot to tell.

Talron came and went. The lower storerooms bulged with what he left. Dancer had a wonderful time assisting, being shut into every room in turn and bawling to be released, only to be shut in the next and the next. He kept Aisling distracted for several days.

But once the, supplies were in, the horses handed over, Talron and his men left. Now she had time to brood again. Dancer did his best, but Aisling was too unhappy to be distracted.

The truth was that she feared her gift now. She had killed with it. She’d been terrified when she was seized, but she might still have kept the fire under control. Then one of the men had twisted her arm, the pain had sickened her. With the pain she lost control. Her skin had flared with silver light, both men had fallen screaming, one was dead in seconds. The one who had hurt her. The other died before the morning. She intended none of it.

If it came without her willing it there, what of her grandparents? What of Keelan, old Hanion—any of them might touch her. Hanion always liked to throw her up onto her mount if he was by. It was his privilege. He was almost too old to lift her now, but he’d taught her to ride. How could she tell him to stand away from her? Keelan, Grandmother Ciara, Grandfather Tro, Great-Aunt Elanor, they all hugged her often. Was she to thrust them back? Demand they never come too close to her?

Worse yet, she’d begun to dream. She guessed where the place was the third time. Mountains like that weren’t natural. They had to be the border where the witches had turned all the land between Karsten and Estcarp. What were the dreams saying? That she should go to Estcarp? She probably had far kin there, distant cousins or something. Ciara’s grandmother had been of pure blood. There were sure to be kin of some degree there. Was she to go to them? But she didn’t want to leave Aiskeep.

It was midsummer when the duke arrived. He sent polite messages. He would be pleased to meet with Trovagh and his lady when it was convenient. There was a hint of steel in that: it had better be convenient quite soon. They went the following morning.

Shandro was still polite but firm. There was no good reason why their granddaughter should not wed the duke’s most loyal and trusted Ruart.

They mentioned the scandal of the witch-hunts some years ago. Shandro scowled. Ruart had been much younger. Rumor had greatly exaggerated events.

Ciara leaned forward. “We do not believe it did. Aisling is unwilling to wed Ruart. To be blunt, my Lord Duke, she says she would prefer death as a bridegroom. We do believe that. We are prepared neither to drag a drugged girl before the priestess, nor to attend her funeral. Apart from which,” she added tartly, “you are talking of a large and respectable wedding. Not some affair in the dead of night with a priestess and the couple alone. What priestess would consent to officiate in such pomp where a bride is clearly drugged until she cannot stand?”

Shandro shrugged. “You will persuade the girl it is in her best interests to wed. In the best interests of all of you. I will hear her reply in two days. If it is a refusal still, then all Aiskeep shall regret it.”

They left wordlessly. Once they were back in their rooms Trovagh stared down at the wineglass he turned in his fingers.

“A winter siege and Shandro will change his mind. Geavon’s last letter dealt with this. Once full winter closes in, the duke and his lords will be back in Kars in the warm. Geavon has a girl in mind then. He’ll aim her at Ruart. If all goes well by spring, it will be her Ruart wishes to wed.

“That’ll call off Shandro. But not Kirion. Geavon’s sure this latest business had Kirion behind it.”

Ciara snorted, “Almost certainly.”

“So what do we do?”

“What Aiskeep has always done. Play for time. If we can get Ruart and the duke off our backs, then we can turn all our resources to Kirion.”

Trovagh sighed. “Meanwhile we’re under siege—again. I must find something important for Keelan to do. He’s fuming so much I fear he may start taking risks.”

The siege began two days later when a message was sent to the duke. It was a polite but very final refusal of Ruart’s offer.

Over the next few months, summer faded into fall, and fall toward winter. With them Elanor also faded. Aisling said nothing, but privately she feared it was the worry of being under siege. If so, then it was all her fault. Elanor died as the first snow of the winter fell. They buried her in the Aiskeep graveyard. All of them wept. None had ever known an Aiskeep without her; she would be greatly missed.

But it made up Aisling’s mind finally. If she stayed here, she would only bring more trouble or death to her family. It would be best if she went away. Not to Ruart, she couldn’t. Nor to Geavon and risk yet another Keep.

Her gift ached at her. It made the decision easier. She’d go over the mountains to where she could learn to use it properly. To where they could train her to control it.

Her decision firmed. She’d go in secret, leave a note for her family. She’d go alone from the upper valley through the hills; on foot with a pack no one would know her.

She’d have to leave Dancer behind. That would hurt. In the year and a half since his birth, she’d grown to love him as much as Keelan loved Shosho. To leave Dancer behind, to turn her back on Aiskeep would tear her heart. She would never forget them, never be as happy anywhere else. But she must go.

She began to gather the things she would need. A pack she could carry, a spark striker to light fires, cooking gear, bedding, heavy clothing, and her weapons. She would need a sword, bow, and dagger. It was a long journey, and she would have to hunt some of her food as she went. Aisling hoped she would be able to carry everything she’d need. Winter was closing in. She must act soon or it would be too late. No one must know what she planned until she had gone. She reckoned without Ciara.

15

Aisling had her pack prepared. She could lift it—just. That was no good. The pack was emptied and Aisling stared in despair at the contents. Dancer sat on the bed glaring at her. Now and again he gave a small growl. There was a light tap at the door, Aisling turned to toss a blanket over the pack but it was too late. Ciara was already looking at both pack and her granddaughter, knowledge and gentle amusement in her face.

She walked to the bed, pushed Dancer up gently, then sat. “I guessed you had this in mind. Where do you plan to go?”

“To Estcarp, I keep dreaming of the mountains where they turned.” She looked at Ciara. “Are you going to stop me?”

Her grandmother shook her head slowly. “No, dearling. But I have a tale to tell you. You know how I came to live at Aiskeep?”

Aisling nodded. She’d grown up knowing the story of that time when all was death and destruction for the Old Race in Karsten.

“I saw my mother Lanlia die. At the time, I saw only that she fell in silence from our watchtower, no cry of fear or horror. Some years later, I dreamed of it. A true dreaming. My father’s mother lived with us until she died two years before our blood was named outlaw. She loved us all deeply. She was of the old pure blood and held Power in her time. I dreamed that my mother stood waiting at the tower’s edge. Then Grandmother spoke to her.”

Aisling was engrossed. “What did she say?”

“She said ‘The blood shall come full circle. It shall rise to flower again.’ Then she called. I was in my mother’s mind as she fell. Her spirit was taken before she reached the ground.”

“What does that mean, about the blood coming full circle?”

“Wait. I dreamed again, many years after that. I saw the mountains turn. I heard the same voice repeating those words. But when I assumed it meant the blood should go over mountains to Estcarp, it said no. It added then ‘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.’ ”

“East—but there’s nothing east, is there?”

“There is far more to the East than any once believed. You were too busy at Gerith Keep. But Geavon has long ears. So, too, does Trader Talron. Between the tales both have heard, I can say that eastward there is another land. Old, not new. It was from there that those in Estcarp once came. And since we, too, are of their blood the land may yet welcome you. I have dreamed of mountains even as you. And more.”

Ciara held up a hand. “Last night I dreamed a third time. I saw you ride out with Keelan and Dancer.” At her side the cat gave a short chirp of approval. “I looked close, my child, I saw, too, the treasures you shall bear.”

Aisling bowed her head a moment, then she looked up. “I can’t take Dancer. It’s winter and getting colder every day. How is he to keep up with horses if we ride?”

The cat rose on his hind legs patting at her braids. Ciara smiled. “I think you may not find it so easy to leave him behind. As for his being able to keep up, once you reach the mountains it may be best to go afoot. Until then, he can ride with you in a carrysack the way babies do. Let us look over your pack.”

Aisling opened her mouth and shut it again. No one ever bested her grandmother once Ciara was determined on something.

In the end it was several more days before Aisling departed. When she did, they left by the upper valley, both she and Keelan astride horses of the Aiskeep strain. Dancer rode her shoulders in a padded baby sack. But before they were gone, Ciara took Aisling aside.

“Give me your dagger.” She accepted it, producing a second knife, which she offered. “This belonged to my own line. Legends say it was made by an adept so long ago the years themselves are dust. Whatever the truth of that, it will never require to be sharpened. Where you go, that is of more use than legends. There is also this. It was my mother’s. Elanor laid it away in a chest. I found it after her death.”

Aisling gasped at the cloak. It was of riding length. Astride it would hang almost to her stirrups, knee-length when she walked on foot. It was woven of a fine gray wool, lined with white fur, and made skillfully so it could be worn either side out.

Ciara stroked it as she held it out. “I remember my mother making that, spinning and weaving the length of wool half of the previous winter. I wore it when I left Elmsgarth with Tarnoor and Trovagh—afterward.” Aisling did not ask after what. She knew it had been after the deaths of all her grandmother’s family.

She saw that Ciara still held something. It was within a small bag of embroidered silk, A finely wrought tempered-steel chain hung from the bag’s opening at the top.

“Is that for me, too?”

“Yes.” She lifted it toward Aisling as she lowered her head. As it settled on her breast the girl felt a surge of warmth.

“Oh, what is it?” Her fingers widened the opening as she peered down. “Grandmother, I can’t take this. It’s your pendant. The one your brother gave you.”

“And now I pass it on. In my dream I saw you ride, child. My mother’s cloak about you, Dancer at your shoulder. Fire shone at hip and breast where dagger and pendant hung. I do as I was bidden once. I give what I treasured, that one I love may fly free.”

Aisling bent to hug Ciara hungrily. This would be the last time she’d see Aiskeep, the last time she saw the love in her grandparents’ eyes, felt their arms about her. Trovagh saw his wife was done and joined them, hugging Aisling lovingly.

“Take care, my dear. May you find your dream.”

Aisling nodded, her throat aching too much for her to speak. She turned her horse toward where Keelan waited. Behind her Ciara whispered.

“Fly free. Find your dream and be happy.”

She linked her arm with that of her husband. They stood watching until there was nothing more to see. Then they sought the shrine to pray.

The air was cold but not the icy chill that would grip later in winter. At first Aisling was somber but then her mood lightened. It was an adventure. Besides, she had to go. She couldn’t be miserable all the way to the border and make poor Keelan unhappy, too. She began to sing, then choked off the sound hurriedly.

Keelan laughed. “Yes, sing, little sister. There are no enemies about to hear you.”

“How do you know?” Despite her resolutions her tone was sharp.

“Grandmother leaves no more to chance than she must. Six of the guards rode out yesterday. They travel in a screen ahead for the next few days. Once they turn back, we’ll disguise you and the horses. It’s mostly their color people remember. With you, they remember you’re a girl.” Aisling looked at him in surprise.

“I’m going to be a boy?”

“Yes. I’ll be a blank shield, you’ll be my younger brother learning the trade.” His voice dropped in regret. “We’ll have to cut your hair and both of us will be bleached blond.”

“Why didn’t we do this before we left Aiskeep? It would have been easier.”

Keelan nodded. “And people would know. Kirion’s still about. He’s very good at persuading people to talk one way or another. You’ll notice Ciara didn’t give you the cloak until we were past all the garths.”

He glanced up at the sky. “It’s going to snow again. We’ll keep moving until we get to shelter. I’ve kindling in my pack.”

They rode in silence then, Aisling thinking as she moved automatically to the swing of her mount’s steps. In a way she supposed she’d been naive. She’d somehow imagined that she would just walk out of the valley alone. Walk all down the line of hills to Geavon’s Keep, then up along the border to some place she could cross into Estcarp. Just as if she was out for a ladylike stroll in her own Keep.

She gave a slightly bitter smile. And she had probably expected a complete Keep of relatives to be waiting at the pass to greet her. She took a deep breath of the cold air. Thanks be to Cup and Flame for her grandmother. Without her, Aisling would still have been walking to the border a year hence.

They camped in a shallow cave that night. It was quite comfortable, Aisling thought, if you didn’t mind sleeping on rock in a draft. It reminded her all over again that even so, this would be easier than the trip she’d planned. Keelan was quietly confident.

“If there was any trouble ahead, one of the men would have come back to warn us. Sleep all night. Later on we’ll have to take it in turns to stand watch.”

Five days passed in peace as the horses plodded through the light snow. On the fifth night one of the guards from Aiskeep appeared. Keelan looked up in query.

“No sign of anyone, my lord. A couple of the others have gone another day ahead just in case. They’ll watch the road you’ll be joining then. They can tell you who’s ahead of you. I’ve sent others back to see who comes up the road behind you.”

“Good. Share the fire, tell Keep’s lord and lady we were well when you saw us last.” The man nodded agreement. When Aisling woke, he was already gone.

They found the other guards at the road. Harran greeted them, quietly waving them to camp in the lee of a large lawleaf thicket.

“Very little traffic on the road,” he told them over stew. “Ahead, there’s a small group of merchants hurrying to winter over in Kars. Coming up behind you there’s several single travelers. None look to be a danger.” He looked at Dancer. “Just don’t let any of them see that cat. It isn’t exactly the sort of companion mercenaries ride with. Move along briskly, though, and likely they’ll never catch you up.”

Keelan and Aisling did so. The roads were wearying since they kept more to the lesser trails and stayed from the main road direct to Kars city. They arrived at Geavon’s home to good news once the old man had them alone.

“Ruart has taken the bait I have dangled before him. He will wed the girl and Shandro will call home his soldiers before the winter is done. But be wary. I have heard nothing of Kirion of late; that I dislike.”

Keelan looked thoughtful. “Did you not have a spy in Iren Keep?”

“I did. He vanished,” Geavon said briefly.

Keelan whistled. “I dislike that myself. How much could he have said if forced to speak?”

“Too much. Yet he disappeared on the way here. It may have been bandits. His horse was a good beast.”

“And if it was not?” Keelan queried, leaning over to stroke Dancer.

“Then he could have said you were on the way here. That you were expected before the worst part of the winter. I made inquiry when I discovered he was nowhere to be found. He should not have known these things, but someone spoke too carelessly.” Geavon gathered himself to stand slowly. “I think it best that you, Keelan, remain here. If there are watchers, let you appear careless just once. They will believe Aisling remains here with you.”

“But she does not?”

“No, there is a garth along the river. It is well on the way to the mountains and east. She may spend the remainder of the winter there in safety. In spring, she can travel on as she wishes.” He bowed toward Aisling. “That is, if this accords with your desire, my dear.”

She had been listening carefully. Now she bowed in return speaking formally, “It accords with my wish in all ways save that I may have brought trouble to Gerith Keep and its lord.”

Geavon chuckled harshly. “The trouble is an old debt, child, and none of your making. Tarnoor whom you never knew was like a brother to me and distant kin also. I may not live to see the end of this, but when our spirits meet I would not have him feel £had done less than he would have done for one of my children in need. Go now and rest. I will see that messages are sent.”

He smiled as they trotted obediently away. They were good children, healthy twigs from a rotten branch. He’d always known the father would bring death or disaster, but these two were sound stock.

Messengers left before dark and a watcher saw. He went to report, not to Kirion but to Ruart, who found it interesting. He listened and smiled slowly.

One messenger to the south road. That would be to let Aiskeep know their lambs had arrived safely. The other messenger to the hills, luckily there had been two watchers. The leader was intelligent, and he’d sent his companion to follow the hill rider. Ruart had long suspected that Geavon had some holding there. The old man had been clever, but not quite as clever as he thought.

Ruart had guessed that Aiskeep might find a way to get Aisling out of their hold. The watcher had recognized Keelan. From the description, the other with Keelan could well be the sister in disguise. Ruart grunted to himself. The border was wide and lawless. Who would know what had happened there to a girl who vanished in the hills? Certainly none had known what happened to a spy riding back to his lord. And that had been in more populated lands.

Ruart’s smirk widened. He’d been visiting Kirion at Iren Keep when he’d seen the man where he should not have been. He’d said nothing to Kirion, but had the man watched. When the time was right he’d had him taken.

The spy had talked. From that Ruart knew more than Kirion for once. Let his friend find his own trails to hunt. Ruart would follow this one.

Besides that, Ruart had a grudge. He’d gone to his clan head to ask for aid in forcing Aiskeep to give up Aisling. He’d been told briefly that the clan did not care to become involved. Ruart was making himself a laughingstock, now he was making his clan a laughingstock as well. Nor did they like other comments that were said of him. Flung mud stuck—to his clan as well as Ruart. Let him choose another wife and be less obvious in his dealings.

For most of his life Ruart had had his own way. To be scolded like a naughty child drove him to utter fury.

He left, determined to have all he wanted. The girl Geavon dangled before him—and Aisling. He spent coin to hire men who would watch. They had done so to some purpose.

Aisling rode out quietly a day later just as the sky brightened. There were none to see her go. Ruart had spread his watchers along the hill trail the messenger had taken. They told him swiftly enough when she passed, though they did not see the cat, deep in his baby sack.

Ruart would have followed at once but for Shandro who insisted his favorite remain at court another few days. By then the girl would have reached her shelter. Well enough. Ruart would wait a while. There was usually a lull in the weather around midwinter. When that came, he would ride swiftly.

Meanwhile, Aisling had ridden three days along the river before turning up along the left fork that led to the higher hills. During her halts to camp, Dancer was free, returning often with some prey to eat alongside Aisling as she cooked for herself.

Geavon had drilled her in the landmarks and in what words to use when she came to the garth at last. She rode in with failing light, sitting her mount in the yard as she watched a bobbing lantern approach.

“I come from an uncle,” she said softly to that haze of light. “An uncle who dislikes a rogue.”

The light jerked sharply as the spy recognized the girl he had aided to Gerith Keep. He collected himself to reply. “All who dislike rogues are safe here,” he said clearly.

Aisling peered at the figure behind the lantern. The voice was somehow familiar. She dropped from her weary horse to walk it toward the stables. The spy spoke again and the scent of the horse, the dark, and his tones came together.

“I know you,” she said slowly. “You’re the man who helped me the night I got away from Ruart.”

In the edge of lantern light she saw him nod. “That I was, my lady. Pleased to do it, too. I have an old score against the man. I’d have aided you for that alone even had I not been Geavon’s man. Let us get the beast inside, and a meal on the table. Time for talking then and longer than we may want.”

“Why?”

“Storm’s coming. Up here they can last for days, even weeks.”

It lasted only days. By then Aisling had his story from him. A decent man, she believed. One who’d been cruelly wronged by Ruart, too. They had that in common. She liked him, trusted him even here alone on the garth with no other.

It pleased her that he liked Dancer. The cat had refused to be left again, despite all Aisling could do to persuade him. He’d arrived in his baby sack, much to the spy’s amusement once they reached the house and the cat had emerged.

That Dancer made it plain he liked this human was good enough for Aisling. The cat had proved to be a good judge of character in the past. After a short time, she liked the man for himself. But this past week Dancer had been fussing. He would run to the door wailing urgently. Aisling would allow him out, only to be howled at in exasperation. It was not that which he wanted of her.

Temon watched the cat thoughtfully. “I think, my lady, he wishes to warn you in some way.” He left her with the cat, vanishing into his storeroom to collect supplies. These he sorted slowly into a shoulder pack. Into that went all the small odds and ends that can make a camp comfortable. He added bedding, lightweight but very warm and proof against any but the longest, most driving rain. He hefted the pack then, scarred face expressionless.

He reached down journeycakes, each wrapped twice over and sealed. Two water bottles were stowed, each into a different pocket on the outside of the pack. One was empty, but a fiery cordial went into the other. Taken in sips, it was a restorative. Poured over a wound, it would cleanse. She’d come with a short bow and arrows, that would do well.

Should he add a sword? he wondered. But to carry one she could not use would be of no help, only useless extra weight.

He tipped the pack empty, checking all it had contained once more. Then he stowed the items one by one. He’d done the best he could do for her. The cat was a canny beast. If it saw danger coming, it was likely right.

He sighed quietly. She reminded him of the girl he’d loved so many years gone. This one, too, had power, fleeing Ruart. But he would see that this time Ruart did not catch her. That he swore by the Lady of the Hills. He’d hunted deep into them. He could put her on the path as far as the ancient ruined Keep far into the mountains. After that, she must make her own trails.

He walked back to give her the landmarks. He made her repeat them again and again. Then he showed her the pack made ready. Aisling added her bow and quiver to it. Dancer still fussed; indeed, as midwinter approached he became still more insistent.

Temon made up his mind. “I think the beast senses danger. In midwinter, there is often a time when the weather clears here in the mountains. The wind blows from the North then so this side of the hills is sheltered. Be ready. You know the way as best I can tell you. Your pack stands waiting. If danger comes, get you gone. I’ll do my best to delay it.”

It was well planned, but Ruart was already riding. Nearer Kars the weather had cleared earlier. He had ridden out at once.

He had no way of knowing that his spies were not the only men to sell their service in odd places. One of them had sold word to Kirion. Ruart rode hard upriver heading for the garth deep into the hills. Kirion was two days’ ride behind but in more haste on a better horse.

Ruart came in sight of the garth in late morning. The snow had only cleared this high up that day. He knew his prey would still be here, he was sure of it. He watched as Temon walked across to the stables. Ruart’s breath hissed from him. That was the man who’d freed the girl before. By Alizon’s hounds, he had both of them now!

He moved to his horse, mounting quickly to set the horse down the slope. Below Aisling had just walked out into the yard. He made for her. Temon was a garthsman, not a fighter. A sneaking tricky spy. If he tried to interfere, Ruart would know how to deal with him.

Temon was in the barn when he heard Aisling scream. Over Ruart’s shoulder she saw him running toward them, a terrible look on his face.

Her powers were almost to nothing. She made a habit of using them as much as was possible when she was near people. It ensured, or so she hoped, that she would not accidentally harm a friend. That morning while Temon was cutting wood she’d used her gift in various small ways, just enough to empty most of it without tiring Aisling too badly. Now she called the silver fire desperately, just as Ruart struck her across the side of the head.

The garthsman arrived as Ruart screeched and dropped Aisling. Temon raised the hammer he still held, then halted, collapsing slowly to the ground. Ruart stared in satisfaction. The fool had underestimated a man who’d fought a score of duels. A dagger in the sleeve had been useful in the past and Ruart always had one ready.

Ruart smiled, a slow, anticipatory smile. From behind him came a low, vicious snarl. Dancer had arrived.

The cat attacked in a flurry of feints and evasions. Ruart wove steel before him, but this was no short duel. The brute seemed tireless. Behind him Aisling staggered to her feet. She felt dizzy, but she would not let Dancer fight alone. She scrabbled in the snow finding stones beneath the whiteness. Then she began to fling them. One at a time, each carefully aimed. The second crashed into Ruart’s leg, he yelped, stepping further back from her. Before he recovered, Dancer scored home on flesh beneath the clothing.

Ruart slid back again. Behind him a terrible figure arose. Blood poured from Temon’s chest to redden his clothing. His eyes glared with the effort as he dragged himself to his feet. The hammer lifted—and swung down. Ruart went soundlessly to the ground, his head broken open in that single, awful blow.

Temon slid quietly down to lie beside his victim. A long hatred was assuaged at last.

Aisling stumbled toward Temon, Dancer at her side. She would have fumbled his clothing open but he shook his head.

“No use, girl. I know where the blade went. You’d exhaust yourself for nothing. Listen to me. You wouldn’t take Geavon’s horse on because you could not bring it back. Take Ruart’s.” Temon’s face twisted into a wry smile. “He won’t be needing it. When you’re as far as you can go afoot, strip the beast and let him go.”

Aisling was crying now. “And don’t cry for me. I only stayed alive for this. Leave the barn door open, the cow will have enough hay to last until spring.”

He paused to gasp for breath. “Let Lord Geavon’s horse go. The beast will go home as soon as you do. Geavon will send someone to sort things out. You can leave a message for him in the secret place. Whoever comes will know where to look.”

His voice was weakening. Perhaps the lass could have saved him if he’d let her, but he hadn’t wanted her to try. He’d known what happened to his betrothed, his beautiful Ismene. At first he’d only known that she was dead, and that she’d been in Ruart’s hands. Later, after he’d joined that household, he’d heard it all. A comment, a few sentences at a time. He’d planned to kill the man one day but by the time he knew it all Aisling had escaped and Temon could not return to Ruart’s Keep.

He smiled up at her. It hadn’t mattered. After all, she’d brought his enemy to him in the end. He lifted a hand to wipe her tears. It was so heavy, so hard to raise. He felt oddly light though, as if he was floating above the snow. Beside him a figure slowly came into focus. He looked up, his voice a glad cry,

“Ismene!”

*Yes, beloved, come with me, now we are together again.*

He rose to follow, the heavy weakness gone. Behind him Aisling closed the open eyes with gentle fingers.

Moving slowly throughout the remainder of the morning, she did as Temon had requested. But first she dealt with his body. It was difficult, but she managed to bring it into the storeroom against the side of the house. There she laid him out on a table on the coverlet that was all he had of his betrothed. Aisling placed ice-flowers in his hands, the hammer she laid at his feet. Let the Gods know he had died as a warrior fighting to protect the innocent.

She mourned for Temon as she stood there. He hadn’t deserved to die that way, but then she remembered his words. He hadn’t needed to live on. Hadn’t even wanted to once he’d paid the debt. And he was with his Ismene now, that she never doubted.

The cow was given access to hay. The Gerith Keep horse was freed. It wandered off to the West at once, stopping to graze now and again but always heading back. She wrote a hasty letter, placing it carefully within the secret cavity in the wall.

Dancer was fussing again. Aisling glanced over to where Ruart still lay rumbled in the snow. She could do nothing for him. Let him lie. If Geavon’s man arrived before thaw he could do whatever appeared seemly for Ruart. If thaw came first, let the foxes have the body. She didn’t care.

She dug out Dancer’s baby sack. According to the landmarks and places to shelter Temon had drilled into her, there was a good place she could reach on horseback before nightfall. Last time Dancer had fussed, Ruart had been on the way. Who was coming now she had no idea, but she’d trust Dancer.

She emptied the pack into two saddlebags, added the empty pack, then swung into the saddle. From the baby sack on her shoulders Dancer gave an approving chirp.

Aisling halted the horse at the top of the small hill. From there she could look back over the deserted garth. It looked no different.

She lifted her hand in a blessing, the last part of the sign leaving a faint glint of silver in the air. But Aisling noticed nothing; she had already turned the horse away to plunge down the slope. She prayed for Temon again as she rode.

The shelter was rough but it did well. Aisling found the crude windbreak at the back of the shelter. She stood it up carefully again by the entrance against the prevailing wind. Snow packed against it swiftly. Behind that Aisling lit her fire, keeping the circle of coals small. Dancer moved to sit by the flames at once, his purr amusing Aisling.

“You might well purr. You insisted on coming along. There may not be a fire every night, you know.” She laughed as he thumped her with his head. “All right, all right. Food next.”

The weather continued fine and she made distance at her mount’s steady walk. She had taken all the oats Temon had. It meant she could ride the whole day and let the animal feed well at night without the need to stop and graze. She was pleased she’d thought of it. In a couple more days, she’d have reached as far as it would have taken in weeks on foot.

After that she would have to leave the horse. A pity, but Temon had said there was a place there where he’d manage. Come spring he’d probably start back, too. She fell asleep that second night listening to Dancer’s purr and the sound of crunching teeth as her mount relished the hard feed.

Kirion had drawn up at the garth the previous morning. He’d looked down at Ruart’s sprawled body and snorted. The man had been a fool but useful. Still, there were other useful fools to be found.

He stamped inside the house, checking each room. There was only the body of the garthsman. From the look of it, he and Ruart had killed each other. But the girl had been here all right. Ruart hadn’t moved after the blow that had killed him. Someone had laid the garthsman out. Someone who’d cared.

He’d seen the Gerith Keep horse, too, as it headed west. He’d tried to catch it, but the animal was too wary.

Kirion considered. Ruart’s beast was missing; she must have gone ahead on that. He could follow. If he pushed, he could probably catch up in a day or so. He checked the barn, he was out of grain. He found none and grunted irritably. His mount would just have to manage.

He pushed his horse all that day but he had to pause in time for the hungry animal to graze. Nor did he know the landmarks Aisling had been taught. He wasted time in dead ends, in following trails that led nowhere.

All the time a light snow fell. Not enough to slow a rider greatly, but it erased hoofprints in hours. He found her second shelter, but by then he was a day further behind and he knew it. Kirion spent the night there, but in the morning he turned back.

He’d lost his chance at gaining stolen power from his sister. But there’d always be others. He was learning all the time. It was sorcery, but what matter. It was also power.

Aisling followed the river. Even here it was a rush and tumble of powerful current coming down from the mountains from the East. She wondered if it could speak what tales it would tell of that mystical land she sought.

Geavon had learned patches and tatters of news from traders and merchants who gossiped more than women ever did. The land was called Escore, ancient, holding powers unknown in Karsten. They said that there those rode to war, some not even of humankind.

Her hand stole up to clasp the pendant. Her fingers dropped to touch the dagger hilt. They said that those of the Old Blood had come from that place. Could these have come with them?

Did she but return them to an ancient home? The trip thus far had been tiring, but apart from Ruart, not so impossible. Would that change when she went afoot? She scanned the landscape.

Light snow continued to fall. Ahead lay a wood and into it led the old trail. Aisling shivered. There was a menace in the lowering trees, as if something within watched and waited. There was the feeling of eyes, unfriendly ones. The idea of entering the wood, moving beneath those dark trees, was unpleasant.

Dancer, too, seemed uneasy. The cat had senses one who journeyed would do well to heed.

Aisling considered. It was within an hour or two of dusk. If she must dare the trees, better to have daylight. She knew not how far it might be to ride through such a wood.

She turned her tired horse. Back a mile she had seen a place to shelter: out of sight of the wood and with half a roof yet remaining. Maybe it had been some sort of way station once. Now it was ruins, but it would suffice.

The shelter was large enough for her to bring in her mount under cover. The wood gnawed at her mind. She had liked nothing about it She must now decide in how much haste she traveled.

Temon had said there were two roads. One was a mere trail that skirted the wood and took an extra day. The other ran through the center of the wood and time would be saved. She might not have much of that to spare. The midwinter lull in storms would soon come to an end. Also she had little grain left: three days, no more. If she wasted a day circling the wood, that was a day she could not ride without time spent letting her mount graze.

In the event it was not she who made the decision. The horse was more nervous the closer they approached the wood with the morning light. Finally he balked. Aisling let Dancer jump from his carrysack. He, too, eyed the wood suspiciously. He approached sniffing dubiously, then led her onto the narrower fainter trail that circled to the left.

The girl sighed. “I understand. You both think there’s something in there, too.” She shrugged. Animals sensed things people didn’t. All knew that. She’d believe they were warning her.

Dancer showed no sign just now of wishing to be riding again. He pranced happily ahead, first chasing a windblown leaf, then pouncing on something small and squeaking. Aisling laughed and Dancer looked up at her. She grinned down, addressing him softly.

“I hope you won’t regret coming along, but right now it’s very good to have company.” He churred in agreement, moving on ahead of the ambling horse.

They skirted the wood over the next two days as Temon had said. The trail swung out around the trees a good distance before it looped back to the older, well-worn trail. Even as she rode on Aisling had the impression that eyes glared after her from its cover, as if she was prey who should not have escaped. She shivered, nudging the horse to a swifter pace.

The road turned around a long, sweeping bend in the river and there before her lay the last landmark Temon had known.

It must have been a great Keep in its time, she thought. It was at least as large as Aiskeep. She wondered who had lived there. She had no need to ask how it had fallen. Here in the North none of the Old Race—Keep, garth, or hovel—had escaped.

Aisling sat on her restless horse, gazing at the building. No breaks showed in its walls, though the major portion of the drawbridge had gone. Near the end of that a small building still stood. Temon had thought it to be a shine of some kind. But whoever or whatever might have once dwelled within, there was only emptiness now.

She slept the night in peace, untroubled by dreams or watching eyes. In the morning she peered up at the sky. Clouds were drifting very slowly into clumps that heaved up into fluffy masses along the mountaintops. It might not snow more heavily today, but snow was surely on the way. Here in the abandoned fields there was ample shelter for her mount. Grass, dry now but still nourishing, remained. She had one more small feed of grain before that was gone. She sat a moment making up her mind.

She would ride, and ride hard for this final day. Then she would let the beast have the last of the grain. She would go on foot after that. The horse would drift back to the empty fields for food and shelter. She called Dancer, tucked him comfortably into his carrysack, and nudged her mount with a firm heel. Where she had level footing, she heeled the horse to a canter. In the course of a day she came high into the foothills, all the time striving to see a way she might take across the mountains looming before her.

Toward the close of light she seemed to see a place where two mountains stood apart. It was possible there was a pass there. She halted, offering the horse the last of the grain. There was a half cave in the hillside that would do. She was too weary to seek a better refuge. Her mount ate eagerly before wandering .off to graze on the smaller patches of grass still to be found under the snow. She had stripped him of saddle and bridle. Now she emptied the saddlebags, and sorted the contents into her pack.

She must leave something. The saddlebags were of leather, and heavy. She had no need of them. But Dancer’s carrysack was light despite the padding. In the morning she must move upward, seeking the pass she hoped to find. Perhaps she could add the carrysack to her pack for so long as the weight was not too burdensome. It meant that Dancer would sleep warmer if there was no shelter to be found.

She weighed the object in her hand. Let her take it. A thing could always be discarded, but not taken up again if it was left far behind.

The cat sat watching her before claiming his sack to sleep. Aisling placed her pack close at hand, then laid out her bow with an arrow by the string. Wood had been laid in a half circle before her. Temon had told her that she should light a fire. There were strange beasts in the mountains since they had changed. Long ago, too, old Hanion had talked of campaigns when he rode as a lad with Aisling’s great-grandfather, Tamoor. A fire could be a weapon at need.

Tonight she laid out the small core of it, but to either side she added more to make a half circle before her, of the driest wood she could find. She sorted out several very long branches. There was a feel to the night. Hanion had said never to ignore that feeling. It was often all the warning a soldier would have.

Aisling smiled. She wasn’t a soldier, but good advice was good advice. She lay down to sleep, her mind turning to her family. Keelan would stay the winter with Geavon. With Ruart vanished, the siege on Aiskeep would be lifted. She prayed silently for those she loved. Let them walk in the light and be well. Then she curled into her blankets. She slept.

She woke several hours before dawn with Dancer patting anxiously at her face. There was a feel to the night. As if it waited.

Moving with silent caution, Aisling sat up reaching for her bow. She’d learned healcraft from Ciara for most of the girl’s life, and had listened to tales of herbs that repelled those of the true Dark. Once well onto the trail from Temon’s holding she had smeared such herbs over each arrowhead. It might even be that the scent of them would help ward off anything evil. She slid quietly from her bedding, laying her other hand upon the end of one of the long branches left in the fire.

There came a snuffle from the darkness, then her mount cried out in terror. The big horse came blundering toward her, something leaping at its side.

Aisling screamed, a sound half of rage, half of fear. She whipped the branch across the fire, seeing the flames stirred to life. In the firelight she could still not make out what attacked the horse, but the outline of it was there. She shot. Immediately there was an outcry. The thing rolled howling and screeching to free itself from the shaft. Others of its kind set out screams that rent the night.

The terrified horse seemed to understand that here was help. It leaped past the fire to stand partly sheltered. Aisling waited. Out in the darkness whatever she had hit was still wailing.

It may have been that which incited the second attack. They came toward the fire, circling from either side. Dancer rose to send a long, challenging shriek raw with fury into the night. The creatures paused. Then Aisling caught up her branch. She ran the flaming end along the dry wood laid ready. In seconds it flared into a half circle about their refuge. She had rubbed herbs along a branch at each end of that and added a bunch of angelica. There had once been a herb garden by the drawbridge shrine where herbs still grew.

The fire and smoke from the herb maddened the attackers. They raced howling back and forth in the darkness, but it seemed none dared face her defenses. The girl found she was shivering. The sound of their cries was terrifying. Perhaps that was their intent? She waited, an arrow half strung. From the dark came an outcry that made Aisling jump before she understood. Balked of their chosen prey, the attackers had turned on the one she had injured. Its wailing ceased abruptly to be replaced by the sounds of feasting.

She was sickened, but it was better they killed their own than Aisling or one of her companions’. The horse crowded against her. She patted it comfortingly before adding wood to the fire. She might as well use it all. She could hardly drag it with her. The flames brought another irritable chorus of shrieks, which she ignored. She leaned against her pack, half drowsing. The beasts would warn her at need.

Morning came reluctantly in clouded skies. She eyed that with foreboding. Tomorrow it would snow for certain. Best be on her way. She patted the horse, then chased him back down the trail. He got the idea after a few yells, and trotted off, heading steadily to the West. She hoped he had a peaceful winter back in the fields of the deserted Keep.

She ate swiftly, tied the gear she was leaving up into a tree nearby. Someone might find it useful. Then she shouldered her pack. Ahead of her lay the two mountains. She could only pray that a pass lay between them.

Dancer galloped ahead leading the way. He appeared to have no doubts. She admired his lithe form as he bounded upward. He’d grown to look quite different from the ordinary Aiskeep cats. They were round and comfortable. He was leaner, more rangy. His eyes were not the amber of the Aiskeep cats, but a clear chartreuse green. Even more than other cats, Dancer gave the impression of knowing secrets he wasn’t telling. Aisling loved him as she knew he loved her. But there were times when she wondered just who or what Shosho had found as a mate in the Karsten hills.

She halted to stare up at her path. Her feet seemed to be finding some kind of a trail under the snow. Probably a deer trail. She would keep to that so long as it lasted and give thanks. She plodded on, the pack heavy as she toiled upward. At her breast the pendant gave a sudden throb of heat.

Aisling halted at once. Her hand went up to close about the silken bag. Gently she freed the pendant holding it out in front of her. It flared into light, the tiny blue gems seeming to catch fire. It flamed higher. Now a noxious scent met Aisling’s nostrils. She gave back hastily as Dancer leaped to her side.

Ahead of them a jumble of snow-covered boulders loomed. She could circle those. She moved to do so. From the boulders something that looked like one of them moved downward. It leaped at her, teeth in a suddenly open mouth clashing and reaching. Aisling screamed, dodging as it swung toward her. It swept back, halted and returned. The pendant was hot against her skin. Dancer was howling his battle cry; Aisling felt besieged.

Dancer’s carry sack was coming loose. She remembered that it was padded. It would help to ward off that thing’s teeth. She snatched the sack from the pack strap, wrapping it around her arm. It would act as a shield at need.

The boulder leaped for her. Aisling swung her arm hard, thrusting it away, feeling the creature’s teeth clamp home in the padding. It spat that out, springing in again at her. She dodged, but felt teeth score her ankle. Dancer lost fur but no skin as the false boulder snapped at him in passing.

The girl stumbled, her leg felt numb, her feet kicking at dangerously rough ground. She glanced down. The thing was driving them to the boulders. Why? Judging by the pendant it could be for no good reason. Maybe the boulders were all of its kind, a nest. She preferred to die in some way other than being devoured alive by boulder creatures. In bed at a hundred and fifty surrounded by adoring family would be nice. Dancer was moving to the right away from the rocks. With grim determination, she fought her way across the slope following his path.

The boulder leaped, slashing more savagely, but somehow she held it back. It bounced high, teeth obtaining a sudden grip on one sleeve. As she jerked away her hand fell to her dagger. It burned even as the pendant. Without thinking, Aisling drew the blade, swinging it around at the boulder thing.

To her amazement, it bit in. The boulder uttered its first sound, a cry that she felt in the pit of her stomach, more a vibration than a sound. Then it retreated hastily. It merged into the jumble of rocks to become just one more.

The girl stood panting. From the dagger a gray stinking ichor dripped slowly. Dancer’s carrysack was ripped almost to shreds. It would be of no use now. But she was grateful she’d carried it this far. It had certainly saved her arm.

Aisling moved on hastily. She’d like to be farther away from that thing in case it decided to try for her and Dancer again. Dancer! She halted to be certain he was unharmed. He purred up at her smugly. It would take more than a live, leaping, tooth-gnashing boulder to faze him.

The delayed promise of snow was fulfilled the next day. From leaden skies it came, softly at first, then more heavily, turning into a blizzard in which it was impossible to see more than a foot or two before them. Aisling plodded forward, eyelashes frozen with the tears the cold brought forth. Temon had told her to use wood ash and a scarf for the glare. It helped, but the bite the false boulder had given her ached painfully. She’d cleansed it, smeared on salve, but with each step the ache grew.

Around her the snow deepened, heaping up into drifts in the hollows, scouring from the ridges. There was no great amount of wind, but the snow was enough—as was the growing, bone-deep chill. Aisling plunged and plowed her way through the drifts. Dancer was able to run across most of them, although every so often he had to be rescued when he misstepped to one deeper than he’d expected. His expression was comical at such times. But her ankle ached. It had gone from numb to first the ache, then real pain at each step. She was worried about it, but could do nothing. She needed shelter.

Dancer found her a little as afternoon darkened. Two rocks lay in a slight depression and a third had fallen to produce a partial roof. Around and across these earth and snow had gathered to make the half cave windproof so far as it went.

Before the light was gone Aisling heaped and packed snow. It extended the half cave into something that would give her enough warmth and shelter once she had a fire. Nearby was an ancient tree; she dug around the foot of it finding a heap of dry twigs and branches. Some she saved. With the remainder, all she could salvage, she lit a small fire.

Dancer snuggled blinking happily in front of the flames. From her pack Aisling dug a small packet of herbs and dried meat, pounded together. In water it could become a nourishing stew. She was strangely not hungry, but she forced herself to eat. Once the shelter had warmed a little, she gingerly removed her boot to dress the slash across her ankle.

The marks were red, the flesh puffy. She smeared on more salve, donned her boot once more, then fed the fire.

She dozed through the night, dimly conscious that Dancer joined her, his body making a much warmer spot against her stomach. The next day snow fell again. It was hard to find any trail, let alone keep to it, Aisling thought, as she forced her way through yet another drift.

Fear was breaking into her mind more often as she plodded her way upward. If anything happened to her, she would die here without help. If she died here, Dancer would be alone. He’d die, too. Her mind was beginning to blur. It made her more afraid each time she realized she had lost track of her march. The pain in her ankle was worse and she was so tired she could barely force herself onward.

There was no shelter to be found that evening. She heaped snow as Temon had taught her, thanking the Gods for those weeks with him. He had spent much of his time warning her of the mountain’s dangers, teaching her how to overcome them. She saved her small bundle of twigs. The bunches of dried moss she had scraped from inside the rock shelter of the night before would burn for only a few minutes. Better to save them until she could find more fuel. Otherwise, she might have that but no tinder with which to catch a spark.

Her ankle hurt now whether she moved or not, so much so that she did no more than doze occasionally through the dark hours. Dancer snuggled close eyeing her with worry. She smelled of pain and illness. Of exhaustion and fear. With morning light she staggered to her feet, moving on grimly. Dancer stayed close to her, lifting his nose to check the breeze. The pain was teeth, slashing anew at every step. She was hot, she was cold, her head hurt, and every step was an effort against the dizziness she now felt all the time. Aisling shivered as she walked.

She found she was repeating words over and over in her mind. They fitted the slow thud of her steps. They were part of a song that Ciara had loved. Her own mother had sung her to sleep with it and in turn Ciara had used it for Aisling.

The song was very old, it had arrived with the incomers to Karsten. There, as they cleared land, built new homes and great Keeps, it had become almost an anthem. It was called “If the Dream Is Worth the Price.”

Aisling sang the words in her mind. She, too, had a dream, of freedom in a land where it wasn’t death to have the Power. A land where someone would teach her to use the gift that pulsed within her.

Ahead Dancer called. She stumbled toward him alarmed in a few clear moments by her growing weakness. He’d found a cave. It appeared to cut far into the mountain, but she had no time to explore. Her ankle failed under her, throwing her painfully to the rocky floor. Outside of the cave the blizzard was worsening. Aisling sat drawing up her leg to peel away sock and boot. She looked down and stifled a gasp of fear. The ankle was swollen, livid marks showed where the boulder creature had slashed the flesh. The marks were darkening to a green-tinged black. She had never seen anything so horrible.

The pain came in sickening waves. With a frightened determination she dragged herself to her pack. She found the small bundle of dry kindling from the camp at the tree from two nights ago. There was more wood at the side of the cave. It looked like a tangled nest, though nothing would build one so large. She laid scraps of dry moss carefully, snapped sparks from her striker into that. It caught slowly. Forcing herself to keep moving, Aisling produced her water pot, filled it with snow drifted into the cave mouth, then set it to melt the snow.

Her weakness terrified her. She must think out each move, then force herself to it. She steeped herbs in the water once it heated. She drank avidly but put her food aside.

Dancer came to sit by her, his eyes anxious. Aisling leaned back against the rock. She was so tired, so weak. She’d rest, just for a moment. She did not see the cat vanish down the length of the cave. Did not hear his imperative howl. Only when he sank claws into her jacket and began to tug her toward the rear of the dark cavern did she rouse.

“Dancer, what… ?”

Urgency. Determination. A demand that his human act.

She felt tears of pain and weakness well into her eyes. “I can’t. Maybe when I’ve rested.”

Again the urgency. With it this time came a picture. Sharp, clear, of Aisling dead in the cave, of Dancer crouched dying of cold and starvation beside her. She must move now—to save them both. The girl allowed the slow tears to slide down her cheeks. She couldn’t move, it hurt so. But she couldn’t let Dancer die. She couldn’t let herself slide into death knowing she condemned him also.

Making a great effort, she began to crawl. Dancer followed, teeth firmly gripping the pack. Finally she reached the back of the cave. There she slumped. What was she to do, burrow like a rock-mole? Her mouth curved in an hysterical grin. Rock-moles were a legend, more was the pity. She could use one right now.

Dancer sat up to look at her eye to eye. Then, as her gaze followed him, he rose on long, graceful hind legs to pat at a portion of the wall.

The girl gaped at him. Was it some sort of secret passage? All Keeps had those, but what would one be doing in a cave halfway up a mountainside? Dancer yowled loudly, patting at the rock.

Aisling hitched herself up a little. Her fingers traced the rock where his paws struck. Something was carved there. So mazed was she by the pain from her ankle that it took several tracings before Aisling realized that the figure beneath her hand was familiar.

She blinked. It felt like her pendant, but the shape was carved as a hollow into the rock. Dancer struck at her in exasperation, his claws stinging her from her daze. His head butted at her; she must take her pack, use her pendant. Gather him to her and now!

Every move a terrible effort, Aisling lifted her hand. If she forced herself to sit up just a little higher she could lay the pendant in the carved hollow, which fitted it. Dancer hurled himself into the crook of her other arm, bringing a gasp of pain from her.

One of the pack straps was over the arm. Well, what was she to do now? She began to slump again, her hand dragging at the pendant.

Within the rock it turned. There came a slow, soft grating as the rock wall revolved. With its turning it swept girl, cat, and pack within. In the dark something flared to light, a warm silvery glow as the inlaid star on which she now curled came to life.

It was too much for Aisling. She fell into darkness in which someone with a quiet, gentle voice questioned her over and over. She swam in limbo, a place not of her world or any other, where all things were possible.

With the questions done it was as if she was sifted, winnowed for judgment. But when the winnower might have rejected her, Dancer was by her side. His voice was insistent, demanding. Was she the only one to be considered? At last amusement came. Since he wished it greatly it should be so. Both should pass through.

After that the sensations were strange. It was as if she was flung back into the pain-filled, exhausted body, then swept away in a whirl. She could not breathe. Chill air beat at her, a feel of fluttering wings about her cringing body. Then she landed with a groan as she felt the rock beneath her once more. Had passage been denied her, after all? Was she to die in the cave?

Aisling woke finally to the cat as he dragged her once more, muffled growls coming through his clenched teeth. The pain was white fire that consumed her as she managed to crawl a little further. Her pack remained. But she herself must move, one last effort.

She obeyed, tumbling over the edge of a shallow saucer into something soft, which gave way under her. She could go no further. She hoped with the last flicker of consciousness that Dancer would be all right here—wherever “here” was. And wherever it was, at least it was no longer the mountain cave. The questioner had granted her that much. She opened her eyes far enough to see Dancer was safe, then she allowed the dark to rise up and take her.

She roused hungry and thirsty. She would have moved but could not. Fear woke to be dispelled by a soft purr in one ear.

“Dancer?”

The cat purred again, then she felt some vibration as if he tore at her prison. The sounds he made were reassuring; whatever was here Dancer did not fear it. Gradually the stuff encasing her broke away under the impact of eager claws.

Aisling moved to see. Mud. It had been mud that held her.

She scrabbled to sit up, peering down at her ankle. There was no longer pain, the flesh showed white, fully healed scars.

The mud appeared to fall away cleanly, none showed on her clothing; but oh, she felt so grimy. Still unsteady, Aisling staggered to her feet. A small call from the cat led her first to her pack laying within the cave where she had arrived, then to a pool. The water was warm, and silky-feeling. She bathed, luxuriating in being fully clean again after so long. Aisling donned clean clothing, then sat on sun-warmed grass to hug her cat.

“I owe you, Wind-Dancer. I’d have just lain down and died in that cave if it hadn’t been for you. Now all I need is someone who can tell me where to go from here. You seem to have found everything else I needed. What about a guide?”

From behind her there came a polite cough. “Will I do, my child?”

Aisling gulped turning quickly to face the speaker. “Who are you?”

He didn’t look dangerous. But then neither had her brother Kirion. She eyed the man. He was of medium height, slender, and fine of bone. He was dressed in gray, and his eyes were kind. Dancer was stretching up to the fingers that caressed his ears. The man spoke gently as if understanding her fear and confusion.

“I am often called “Neevor. Call me that if you wish.”

“Neevor. Where am I, how did I get here, is… ?”

He held up a hand laughing quietly. “You are where you sought to be. One who holds a gate chose to open it for you in your need. Your third question was going to be, I believe, is there a place for me? That shall depend on you and on what you are. On what you may choose to be.”

Aisling remembered Yvian, Pagar, those who had died in the Horning. This man might distrust her but she would not begin her life here with a lie. Her voice quavered a little as she spoke.

“I’m not wholly of your race. Part of me is from the incomers in Karsten.”

Neevor smiled, and his hand went out to her. “Child, many are accepted here who are not wholly of our kind. The Guardian passed you in.” He reached out to touch the pendant. “It has been so long, but the blood answers the call. There are those who will welcome a daughter in power, teach you what you must know. Come.”

Aisling caught up her pack, and Dancer fell in beside her as she followed her guide. At the top of the small rise she halted staring down the land before her. The wind lifted small tendrils of her hair.

A new land, a new beginning. Behind her lay everything she had ever known: her home, her family, her friends, even her land. She found she was humming Ciara’s song. She’d never been certain, but she’d paid the price. Her dream stretched before her and in that moment she knew. No dream is ever quite ended, there is always another.

She smiled down at Dancer. They would share their dreams.

Below her the land spread out. There would be a new home, new friends, and the learning she craved. She followed Neevor down the slope. She would not forget those behind her, but they had their own dreams, which were different. She must seek her own. With Dancer to help, she would not fail.

She swung down the slope singing softly. Beside her the big cat pranced. He, too, had come full circle. It was good to be home.

Ciara’s Song