It was as if they had become as fluid as the seas in storm. They rolled, beating down all in their path, turning to lift then crush all life within their boundaries. Tons upon tons of stone filled valleys, to be thrust up into new mountains in turn. The rocks screamed as they tumbled, grinding against one another. The bellow of earthsound was enough to stun those who heard. It was sound beyond sound, terror beyond terror. Within the millstones of power called by Witches, Pagar’s army ceased to exist. In Estcarp, the circle of Women of the Power strove. They bled all they had from them, mind and body to save their land. Their power tortured and twisted the mountains until the hills shrieked agony.
Women died, power wrung from them to the last drop and beyond. They died, willing sacrifices to a land that was theirs, as all along its border the landscape churned in torment. Pagar had believed Estcarp defeated, beaten. He had wondered casually if they could find anything at the end to halt his advance. He lived just long enough to know.
There were those in the invading army who died in crazed terror, others who died striving to live. But Tarnoor of them all died first, and he alone of all the thousands, died without fear. He had seen this, and accepted his fate. Like an old wolf he was content if his enemies died with him. Let the son of his body, the daughter of his heart rule Aiskeep. Pagar would trouble them no more.
BOOK TWO
If the Dream Is Worth the Príce
10
T he 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 owe 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 horse-woman 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.” r />
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?”