“A Gift that would offer a means of revenge against the defeat his father suffered at the hands of mine, a generation ago.”
Revenge makes monsters of us.
Kyria’s cheeks went very pale. “Children should be cherished, not sacrificed to an endless feud.”
In this, at least, he could reassure her. “The truce has lasted since before I was born, but it’s uneasy at best, a result of Scathfell’s inability to wage war and my own disinclination to do so. That hardly constitutes a stable peace, although it is better than open conflict.”
“Then you must promise not to assault him, if not for his sake, then yours.” She paused, her cheeks flushing. “Forgive my, my lord. I had no right to dictate how you must manage your own affairs.”
“You need not apologize, for you spoke the truth: I must take steps to mend the old breach, although I do not yet know what I might do.” If he had never provoked Scathfell, neither had he done much to promote better relations. There hadn’t been much he could do while at Tramontana, but now he must make overtures of friendship and find a way past this festering stalemate.
“As for myself, I will never provide Lord Scathfell with a brood of storm-Gifted warrior sons,” she said. “Yet that might not be so simple. When he learns I have escaped from Sain Erach, he will come after me. He’ll search everywhere. If what you say is true, I’m too valuable for him to do anything less. Where can I hide? If I go home, he’ll hear of it and demand my return. Papa could not give me sanctuary, even if it were lawful for him to do so. The betrothal contract is binding. And Rockraven is no fortress. If Lord Scathfell sent armed men, as his father did against Aldaran, we could not mount anything like an effective defense. If we tried—” Her voice rose with her emotions. “Papa might be hurt—killed. Or my brother, Valdir, and then what would Ellimira do? And the children? Or Rakhal and my other brother, Hjalmar, rushing home to defend them? All for my sake? No, I will not allow that to happen!”
She drew herself up straighter. “There is only one way out for me. The world must believe I am dead. My family will mourn me, but we would have likely never seen one another again, anyway, Scathfell is so far.” She stumbled to a halt, her eyes very bright. “It is better for my family this way. They will not risk Lord Scathfell’s wrath and yet will enjoy all the benefits of the match. Under the terms of the contract, Papa will not be obliged to return the bridal gifts.”
Edric nodded, impressed by her grasp of the situation. Before he could say anything, she went on.
“As for my—for that man, let him find another wife. A fat, rich one with no laran at all.”
Edric chuckled despite himself. “That would be a fitting match.” Then he felt a sudden, icy chill at the realization that Alayna carried those same genes and she was now on her way to Scathfell under Ruyven’s solicitous care. He saw in Kyria’s face, in the dismay that flared up in her eyes, and sensed through their psychic rapport, that she had reached the same conclusion.
“If Lord Scathfell thinks I am dead,” she said, “he will marry Alayna in my place. She’ll be lost without me, will have nowhere to turn. She’ll be in his power. Edric, this is terrible—we can’t let that happen! But what can we do? I can’t very well march up to his castle gates and demand her release. I do not want be the cause of yet another conflict between your two families, yet it seems that one way or another, Scathfell’s dreadful plan may yet succeed.”
Edric took her in his arms, a reaching out to her with mind and heart. Her hair smelled of snow. For a long moment, he could not think of anything that would make the situation more bearable. Then he remembered his mother saying that nothing was certain but death and next winter’s snows.
“Take heart,” he murmured. “Scathfell has not succeeded yet, and many things may happen, things we cannot imagine now. As you yourself said, the betrothal is binding, not only upon your family but upon him. He must make an effort to negotiate your release. He cannot look elsewhere for a bride until your death is confirmed. Who knows how long that may take? And Alayna may refuse him. She’s not as outwardly strong as you, but I believe she has hidden wellsprings of determination. She found a way to speak with me privately, to beg me to come after you, and this despite Dom Ruyven’s chaperonage.”
Kyria nodded, sniffling. “She does have a mind of her own under all that sweetness. And if he does not fulfill her notions of a romantic suitor, she may very well refuse—no, she will be his guest, vulnerable to pressure he might bring to bear on her. He can lock her up until she agrees—”
Almost unawares, Edric sent Kyria a pulse of mental calm and felt her panic abate. He held her at arm’s length, forcing her to meet his gaze. “None of those things has happened, and may not. Scathfell cannot court your sister while you are presumed alive, and then nothing else can be done during the mourning period. Even if everything transpires as you fear, it might be a happy match for both of them. It is not certain that their children, if they have any, will have the storm laran. Meanwhile, I promise you I will do everything in my power to mend relations with Scathfell. If he no longer feels threatened, it will not matter which of us has the storm Gift, except to warn the farmers about rain.”
She responded with a brave attempt at a smile. “That plan does not offer much hope, but I cannot think of a better one.”
“In time, one may present itself.”
“Or, as they say, Durraman’s donkey will learn to sing.” As the moment of levity passed, Kyria’s expression turned sorrowful. “I suppose this means Alayna, too, must believe I am dead. I do not see how we might get a message to her without the risk of it going astray. If Scathfell finds out and thinks she conspired against him or—who knows what he might think? From all accounts, he has grown up in the shadow of that old feud, and that may well make him suspicious of everything and everyone. It’s simply too dangerous. But it will be like ripping out my heart to never see her again.”
In a quiet voice he said, “I would lift this burden from you if I could.”
“Thank you, but there is nothing to be done. I shall grieve for a time but not nearly as long as she will. At least I know that she is alive and well. But now I must disappear. Edric, will you help me?”
“You will always have a place with me. I wish I could marry you—I would do so in an instant. But I have lived my life with the hard truth that the Lord of Aldaran must make a powerful alliance.”
“And I am penniless and now House-less, a true nobody.”
He considered asking her to become his barragana, but the next moment, his mind churned with what the Tower healers had taught him about genetic lines and lethal recessives and how the old breeding programs concentrated laran traits by matching close relatives. If he took Kyria as his mistress, sooner or later they would want children; he certainly would, and from the way she had talked about children being cherished, she would, too. If those children inherited the storm Gift from both parents, what might it do to them? Kill Kyria in childbirth as Dorilys had killed her own mother? Become so unstable as to be a danger to themselves and everyone around them? As a trained leronis, his mother might know, but she was not here to consult. He told himself he ought not to inflict such harsh possibilities on a gently reared young woman—the same woman who hurled herself at the banshee, the same woman who’d saved his life.
“I love you,” he said. “Even if I can promise you nothing else, I will always love you. Will you accept my protection, since that is all I can in honor offer you?”
Kyria gazed into his face as if she were casting truthspell in order to read his heart. “And I love you,” she said in a voice that seemed to arise from the very core of her being. “Before Lord Scathfell’s offer, I had never thought to marry at all, having nothing for a dowry, so that is hardly a disappointment. But—” and here her voice trembled in a way that sent shivers through his heart, before she steadied herself, “—I would a thousand times rather be with
you, as your companion or friend or anything else you want of me, than to marry the richest lord in Shainsa.”
13
They climbed, and climbed, and made it to the highest point of the pass with an hour or two of daylight left. It was a good thing, too, for the winds were already whipping the falling snow so hard it dashed into their eyes and between the folds of their clothing. Star was near done in from the long, hard ascent, but they dared not pause, not even to catch their breaths, before stumbling down the far slope.
Once past the summit, the snow came at them even harder, but the wind at least was not so wild. He saw then that they had come up the easier slope. At times, it felt as if he were falling rather than walking. Grit and loose stones combined with the snow to make the trail slippery. Once Kyria lost her footing entirely and would have gone tumbling headlong down the slope if she had not held on to the mare’s stirrup. She twisted sideways, almost going to her knees. Edric caught her up and held her for a moment. Her face had gone ashen with exhaustion and cold.
“We have to keep going,” he said. “This snow will be the end of us if we don’t find shelter.”
Nodding, she gathered herself. “I’m all right. I can go on.”
“Not on foot, you can’t. Here, I’ll boost you onto Star’s back.”
Kyria set her lips together, and he feared she would refuse, and they’d end up in a useless debate when they most needed their strength for the trail. But she let him give her a leg up into the saddle. He took the reins and went on as fast as he could trust his footing.
He felt the waning of the day even before the light began to fail. Shadows took on a subtle violet hue. Soon the temperature would drop, and still they had not found a place out of the elements. The snow gave way to mist, reducing visibility even further. It grew thicker, and he feared that between the oncoming night and the mist, he would lose sight of the trail. Then the bulk of a tree, twisted and stunted but unmistakably a mountain pine, loomed out of the mist. A short time later, the mist lifted, and they looked down on a vale. The land looked poor but not barren. Rocks and copses of the same pines dotted the slopes. At the very bottom, shrouded in twilight shadows, lay a cluster of buildings, and pinpoints of yellow light gleamed in their windows.
Kyria gave a wordless cry of relief. Edric’s eyes stung, and he bit his lip to keep from sobbing. They were going to live, after all. He had not realized until that moment how frightened he’d been that the mountains would be their death. Her death.
Dark had almost fallen by the time they reached the farmstead. They traveled the last stretch by the light of stars and moon, always guided by those beckoning motes of flame. As Edric walked Star past pens of rangy goats, a dog barked. A man came out, lantern in hand, to investigate.
“Hallo, the house!” Edric called.
“Who goes there, in the night?” The man sounded wary but not hostile.
“Myself and my . . .” Edric hesitated, then decided that a small lie was worth giving Kyria the additional protection. “ . . . my wife, travelers though these mountains.”
Kyria’s glance flickered in his direction, but she looked otherwise composed. He imagined her doing her best to resemble a dutiful wife and deciding the best way to accomplish that was to not speak at all.
“Just the two of ye? Come closer, then. Show yer faces.”
Edric led the mare into the illumination of the lantern. The man was of middle years, dressed in a long jacket of what looked like goatskin with the hair side worn facing the body. Edric saw no suggestion of deceit in the man’s face, only the fierce pride of the mountain folk.
Keen eyes measured Edric in return. “Ye look like decent enough folk, and I’d not turn away nor man nor beast what comes to me for shelter. We hold by the old ways here.”
“We have no weapons,” Edric said, holding his hands away from his body. Mountain hospitality, once extended and accepted, meant a complete cessation of any previous animosity. Feuds, no matter how bitter, could not pass the threshold.
“Do I have yer oath ye’ll harm none here and will ye take mine in return?”
“Gladly I give you my word of honor.”
“That’s it, then. Come on, get ye inside. Anndra! See to the horse!” The man swung the lantern toward the house as a younger man, almost as tall but with the slender build of a teenager, trotted forward.
A few minutes later, Edric and Kyria found themselves seated before a patchstone hearth. He gave only their first names. In return, their host named himself Rannirl, his wife Nira, his younger son, two daughters, and a babe still in Nira’s arms, and the other members of his household, his widowed aunt and her two sons, strong men a little older than Edric, who lived in the second house. With four men to work the land and enough children to mind the goats and barnfowl, they enjoyed a degree of prosperity. Eventually, the men would want wives of their own or go off to work for one of the larger estates or even become soldiers, but for the time, they all seemed content. The women clustered around Kyria, while the men and the younger children held back.
The evening meal was a simple one, rounds of tangy goat cheese, roasted root vegetables, and a dense, surprisingly filling pudding of barley and nuts. Everyone ate in silence, as the children darted shy glances at Edric and Kyria.
“What is this place?” Edric asked.
“Thyra’s Meadow,” Rannirl answered with a hint of a blush. “She was me mam, none finer, fierce as an eagle. ’Twas once known as Three Goat Meadow.”
“It’s good to honor your mother,” Edric said, his heart lifting. Three Goat Meadow was one of a series of farms on the borders of Aldaran lands. They were closer to home than he’d dared hope.
“Aye, that it is. Ye’re welcome to bide here awhile, for yon fine mare looks near dead in.”
A day or two of rest would not cause an undue delay. No one was on the hunt for them, not here. “We thank you for your hospitality. Depending on how the horse recovers, we’ll bide here, as you so generously offer.”
“’Tis no more than decent folk offer travelers. Nor snow nor hunger care aught for a man’s loyalties.”
The older of the girls tiptoed to Edric’s side and held out a hand for his wooden trencher. He remembered the ways of the mountains, how Rannirl and the other men would not look directly at Kyria, and kept his own gaze averted. The last thing he wanted was to insult his host’s daughters. Murmuring among themselves, the women of the household gathered up the dishes and took them to the corner of the main room that served as a kitchen.
“Can you show us the nearest road to Aldaran Castle?” Edric asked. “We lost our way and found you only by fortune.”
“The mountains’ll play tricks on even the canniest traveler,” Rannirl agreed, “hard-ice and avalanches, not to mention banshees and wolves, both the two-footed and the four-footed kind. Ye’ve the blessings of the gods to have made it safe this far. As for the way to Aldaran, we’re but a half-day’s easy pace from the Haverford Road, that loses no man. Anndra’ll guide ye when ye’re ready. Nay, nay, ’tis no pother. ’Twill be a holiday for the boy.”
No thanks were necessary for what was demanded by the laws of hospitality. Indeed, as Edric was coming to understand, it would be embarrassing to shower his host with praise for only doing what honor required.
“So ye’re bound for the castle?” Rannirl asked. “Do you have folk there?”
“We are . . . we have a place in the household,” Edric answered.
“That’s it, then, for the old lord ever dealt well with us, his lady regent as well, and I hear the young ’un’s a fair copy.”
“I have never heard anything to his discredit,” Edric said, which was true enough, for no one at home or the Tower had ever criticized him to his face.
Nira and the girls brought out blankets, which they set about turning into a bed on the floor in front of the hearth. Rannirl, looking a bit flummoxed b
y all the feminine activity, excused himself to go check on the horses, and Edric went with him. They worked in silence, making sure of water and fodder, and Edric examined Star with special care. She had her nose deep into a net of hay and barely twitched as he ran his fingers on either side of her spine, pressing to detect sore muscles. Rannirl, having seen that his own animals were eating contentedly, nodded to Edric and headed back to the house.
When Edric returned, the house lay silent except for the hush of embers falling into ash. The hearth gave off a gentle glow, and by its light he saw that the bed had been made up, piled high with comforters. One bed, he noticed, and Kyria had curled up on the side away from the hearth. He didn’t think he could sleep with her so close . . . so warm. It was his own fault, he told himself, for saying they were married. At the time, it had seemed a good idea; he’d heard a fair amount about the prudery of mountain folk. An unmarried man and woman traveling together would either be turned away as immoral or else cease to be unmarried via the informal nuptial customs of the mountain folk, which involved only sharing a meal, a fire, and a bed.
Lord of Light, by the next morning we’ll be considered married, even if we lay there like lumps.
The temperature was already falling, except for a narrow area directly in front of the hearth. He pulled off his boots and outer clothing, leaving only his body linens. Moving carefully, so as to not waken Kyria, he slipped between the covers. The coverings of the comforters were coarse enough that their feather stuffing—chicken feathers, no doubt—poked through. After only a few minutes, his skin prickled with them. He stretched out, trying to focus his mind on each and every place he was being stuck by a chicken feather. His ears caught the sound of Kyria’s breathing, and the rustle of the comforters with the rise and fall of her ribs . . . her chest . . . her breasts . . .
He was definitely not going to get any sleep at this rate. But he would get through this night if he had to practice every single exercise taught to entering students at Tramontana, over and over again.