Daughter of Prophecy (10 page)

They looked at each other, then Harred shrugged and went back to applying the poultice.

As they finished, Elmar's stomach rumbled loudly. He put the sticks back into the pot, then glanced sourly at Harred. “You be enjoying your dinner with Lord Gillaon? Plenty to eat? You remember to pat your mouth with the napkin? A rhyfelwr have to do that just so.”

Harred remained silent, knowing more was coming.

“We men be having fine meals of stale bread and dried meat, what with Lord Gillaon's orders that we stay around our tents and not go anywhere.”

Suppressing a grin, Harred watched Elmar lead the stallion back into the stall, waiting to convey the good news of Lord Gillaon's coins in his pocket and orders to take any Rogoth warriors they could find to a tavern—when a soft voice came from behind him.

“Has High Lord Maolmin arranged stalls for our horses?”

Harred turned. The voice belonged to a petite young woman standing in the walkway. The hood of her cream-colored travel cloak was pushed back, framing a plain-featured face and raven black hair. She was not close to the Rogoth daughter's beauty, but she was comely, and something else about this one had him staring. She had a glow, an aura of serenity that pulled him.

As they gazed at each other in the soft lantern light, the maiden's hand crept up to the front of her cloak as slender fingers played along the edge. She seemed as affected as he was.

“I am Breanna.”

“I am Harred.”

She tilted her head slightly, then nodded at his clan dagger. “Could you be one of those foul Arshessas my father and High Lord Maolmin are so upset about?”

Harred fumbled to respond. His face felt flushed, his tongue thick and clumsy. Then he noticed the twinkle in her eyes. Could she be teasing him? Oh, my goodness.

“We are not that bad—”

“Breanna! Do we have stalls or not!” A man in a loreteller's multicolored vest led two horses through the wide doors.

“I was just asking.” She raised an eyebrow at Harred. “Well, do we?”

“Yes. This way.” He led them to the empty stall.

The loreteller frowned darkly when he noticed Harred's and Elmar's Arshessa daggers. He curtly refused Harred's offer to help unsaddle the horses. His frown deepened when he noticed the looks his daughter gave Harred. After the horses were unsaddled and fed, the man took Breanna firmly by the arm and led her to the inn.

Harred watched until they were swallowed by the darkness. Breanna did not walk—she floated across the ground.

“Have you ever heard such a sweet voice?”

“Huh?” Elmar squatted down to pick up the pot with the remains of the poultice.

“Her voice. Have you ever heard such a sweet one? When she spoke, I felt every word inside me.”

Standing, Elmar eyed Harred with puzzlement. “You be feeling all right?”

“How old do you think?”

“That lass? Fifteen, maybe sixteen.”

Harred nodded. “She's old enough.”

“Old enough!” Elmar hissed. “You think she be warming your bed tonight with her father right here?” Harred fixed him with an icy stare, and Elmar held up an apologetic hand. “All right, all right. But what do you mean she be ‘old enough'?”

“Old enough to stand at the Maiden Pole.”

“You saw the way her father looked at us! You think Maolmin's loreteller be accepting a suit from an Arshessa, from Lord Gillaon's own rhyfelwr?”

Harred sighed. “No.”

“You see her just now, she asks you about a stall, and you be ready to declare suit?”

“Not yet. But I—”

“It be finally happening!” Elmar spread both hands and lifted his face to the ceiling. “I be waiting to see if this rhyfelwr be changing you.” Lowering his gaze, he regarded Harred with speculation. “It must be that fancy food you be eating. You need more dried meat and stale bread.”

They walked toward the door to the inn. The warm glow inside reminded Harred of something else. “After we talk to Lord Tellan, I'll check the kitchen for a spare serving. We had a mutton dish you've got to taste to believe.”

Elmar's eyes widened as he licked his lips. “Something be smelling mighty good when I walk by.”

Chapter Eight

B
RANOR

H
IS GRACE, HIGH
Lord Keeper Branor, a Keeper of Cynerice rank, dipped the quill into the inkwell resting in its round hole in his lap desk. He paused to gather his thoughts, and then finished the last paragraph. He reread the letter. Satisfied he had given the Dinari High Lord enough hints without promising anything, Branor signed his name and sanded the letter. He folded the parchment and was rummaging inside the lap desk for the wax stick when there came a sharp knock at his door.

“Enter.”

The door squeaked open, revealing a pimply-faced novice. “Abbot Trahern's compliments, Your Grace. He humbly begs your presence in the front hall.”

Branor frowned. He had arrived at Kepploch midafternoon and had sent a message to the abbot pleading travel weariness and proposing a morning meeting. And when a six-knot Keeper proposed, lower ranks agreed. Was this a subtle message . . . ? No, not Trahern. The abbot was renowned for blunt speech. And the front hall was for visitors. Branor had used great precautions to keep this trip secret, but his rivals had informants, as he did. Who had learned of it? Friend or foe?

“One moment.” He took the wax stick and a candle and sealed Maolmin's letter. Standing, Branor straightened his robe and gestured to the young novice to lead the way.

The front hall was in the middle of the U-shaped main building. Constructed of gray stone with a red tile roof, the only such roof in leagues, the monastery's ground floor housed the abbot's office, the kitchen, storerooms, a scriptorium, and the huge library. Living quarters were on the second floor.

When the novice escorted Branor into the front hall, two Dinari clansmen waited impatiently at the end of a trail of muddy boot prints marring the white marble floor. Next to them stood Abbot Trahern. The abbot was well into his eighties. A few wisps of white hair covered a mostly bald dome sprinkled with age spots. His skin was thin, and spidery blue veins showed. Age had taken its physical toll, but the abbot's mind was sharp as ever.

“Greetings, Your Grace,” the abbot said. “How was your trip from Shinard?”

“Wet and muddy.” Branor gave his former abbot a brotherly kiss on the cheek. Trahern handed him a letter with the wax seal already broken. As he read, Branor felt an icy hand grip his heart. He glanced up. Trahern's watery blue eyes regarded him with keen interest.

Stunned, Branor turned to the warriors. “You're in service to Tellan?”

“Aye,” the older of the two answered.

“And were present?”

“Aye. Both of us.”

“Four winged horrors. In the light of day?”

“As real as you and the good abbot.” Grim pride broke through. “We killed them.”

Branor realized his mouth hung open. He closed it with a snap. Rumors surfaced now and again, but it had been centuries since a verifiable account of winged horrors.
This couldn't have come at a worst time.

“They were after Mistress Rhiannon,” the older said matter-of-factly.

The icy hand squeezed tighter. “Tellan's daughter, she must be, what, almost sixteen now?”

Both nodded. Branor quizzed them further, but as Tellan had stated in his letter, they were adamant the creatures had come for the girl.

Why now, after years of silence?

“Begging your pardons,” the older warrior said respectfully, his eyes darting between the five knots tied on the tassels of Trahern's white rope belt and the six on Branor's. “Lord Tellan was insistent we bring them that's coming as soon as possible.”

Trahern nodded. “Of course.” He led Branor a few steps away. “This explains this morning,” he said quietly. “Several of us felt a call to special prayer. It must have been during this time.” He looked quizzically at Branor. “Did you sense the same summons, Your Grace? The Eternal blessed you mightily in that area before you left us.”

“Ah, yes. There did seem to be an . . . urgency . . . about that time.”

“And now this letter.” Trahern clasped his hands behind his back. “Can you not sense the hand of the Eternal? With infinite wisdom, he often uses one incident to accomplish many tasks.”

Branor kept his expression neutral, afraid of where this was heading.

“You return after fifteen years, and your bags are hardly unpacked before Tellan is asking for our help.” The abbot raised a bushy eyebrow. “Beyond the seriousness of the need, with your future plans . . . ”

“Future plans?”

“Come, now. Our Ruling Keeper lies infirm. All realize his time is near. Soon another will tie the seventh knot. You are not the first to visit us with that in mind.”

Branor nodded sagely. A majority vote of five- and six-knot Keepers was needed. With Abbot Trahern's vote secured, Branor would be only two votes shy. Additionally, the future Ruling Keeper needed the support of four of the six clan High Lords.

“So,” Trahern said gently, “don't you think it best to clear this cloud from your past?”

Branor put a thoughtful frown on his face while his mind raced. The path was fraught with danger. Tellan's grief over Eyslk's death had been a terrible thing to behold. Time could heal even the deepest of wounds, but if Tellan refused to be reconciled and if he made an issue of it, Branor's rivals would have a potent story to whisper in the right ears. On the other hand, if Tellan did accept reconciliation, Branor would be no better off than he was now.

“Perhaps this is not the time. The Rogoths must be in turmoil over this terrible attack. After meeting with you tomorrow, I plan to visit High Lord Maolmin. On my way back, I will meet with Tellan after things have quieted down.”

Trahern smiled. “I received word earlier that the High Lord has arrived in Lachlann for the wool sale. You can accomplish both tasks at the same time.”

“I see.”

“There is more. Though Tellan has been faithful to bring his tithe every year, he neglects his children's spiritual education and has recently dismissed our tutor for their formal education. My sources tell me an Albane is being seriously considered.”

Fixing him with the piercing stare that Branor remembered so well, the Abbot of Kepploch went on. “Here is a task worthy of an aspirant to the heavy burdens of the seventh knot: responding to an attack of winged horrors while healing a fifteen-year-old wound and bringing a kinsmen lord and his family closer to the Eternal's love. All laid at your feet by impeccable timing that can only come from him. Surely you must accept.”

Branor had long ago learned when to cut his loses. “I am Keeper. I will respond.”

“May the power of the Eternal and the covering of the Covenant be with you,” Trahern finished. Then he sighed happily. “It is an astonishing sight to behold the workings of the Eternal.”

Chapter Nine

L
AKENNA

“L
ADY
M
ERERID AND
I prayed until we felt a release. I do not know how long it will last,” Lakenna told Rhiannon frankly.

Four other people sat around the table in the sitting room of Lord Tellan's suite at the Bridge Across: Lord Tellan, Lady Mererid, Loreteller Girard, and Llyr, the grizzled warrior who had driven the carriage back from Inbur.

Lakenna had been surprised to learn that the man was Lord Tellan's rhyfelwr. The thick-armed, leathery-skinned man had not said a word in her presence, sitting silently through her interview with Mererid in Inbur yesterday, remaining silent during the ride to Lachlann today, and still not uttering a word tonight during Tellan's description of the winged horror attack and Mererid's recounting of the prayer on the road.

Lakenna noticed Llyr watching Rhiannon. The warrior had the weathered, ruddy look of a man much outdoors. Deep crow's-foot wrinkles surrounded his eyes. Surely the man could talk. How else could he command others?

Lakenna brought her gaze back to Rhiannon. The girl's dress was a practical woolen of a sturdy weave. Her hair, though clean, was a tangled red mane of heavy curls falling about her shoulders and down her back. Buckled around her waist was a sword enclosed in a plain leather scabbard.

The air in the room was stuffy, heavy with the odor of spicy food and a smell new to Lakenna: the oil used to sharpen steel-edged weapons. The mixture coated the inside of her throat. She would have welcomed fresh air, but the room's one glass-paned window was closed with the curtain pulled across and a blanket hanging down from the rod as well.

“Have you felt a similar . . . urge . . . to pray since arriving here at the Bridge?” Rhiannon asked.

Lakenna thought the girl's question seemed a touch too casual.

Tellan must have noticed the same. He turned to his daughter. “Did those two Arshessa . . . ”

“No, Father. If they had I would have told you. Besides, you met them with the stallion; they are true warriors with honor.”

Tellan's eyes narrowed at the interruption. His face was red, his eyebrows singed from the winged horror attack. The lines around his mouth were deep, his weariness plain. But he sat erect in his chair, arms folded, attention focused. A small scroll lay open on the table between him and Lady Mererid, with a mug resting in the middle. Both ends of the scroll curled up against it. Sheets of parchment lay in a neat pile next to it, along with a quill, an inkwell, a blotter of sand, and a block of wax.

Tellan had been angry—rightly so in Lakenna's mind—upon learning of Rhiannon's unescorted trip to the stables. Lakenna had just followed Lady Mererid into the room to tell Tellan and the others about the prayer on the road when Rhiannon barged in with her news about the horse's shoulder. Tellan had given the girl a stern lecture before going with her back to the stable. Now, the same look returned to his face.