Daughter of Prophecy (17 page)

Rhiannon's skin crawled remembering the formal introduction and Peibyn's eyes on her. Looking at the ladies gathered around the table, her jaws ached from the effort to keep anger off her face. Was this what she had to look forward to the rest of her life? With the overwhelming importance of the wool sale looming, why were they spending so much time on this inane discussion?

Aigneis laughed gaily. “Peibyn may show interest today. Tomorrow, someone prettier will come by and he will be off again. Certainly, many young men already talk about Rhiannon and her prowess with a sword.” She arched an eyebrow. “Tell us, Mererid, does Tellan foresee that training as help or hindrance to courtship?”

That did it. “Sparring is an activity many find enjoyable, Lady Aigneis,” Rhiannon said. “Of course, if it goes too far, blood may be spilled.”

Aigneis's eyebrows rose to her hairline. Her cup clattered on the saucer, and punch sloshed out.

Mererid blinked with a mixture of wonder and delight.

A gurgling sound emerged from the loreteller's wife. She covered her mouth and cleared her throat several times.

“Well . . . I . . . ” Aigneis sputtered, drawing to her full height, eyes flashing.

Calmly, Lady Lola took a sip of punch while giving Rhiannon a sharp look of reappraisal.

A seasoned campaigner, Aigneis rallied quickly. She smiled, and it reminded Rhiannon of winter frost. “I must—”

“Here comes Lord Gillaon,” Mererid said brightly, relief plain in her voice. “Aigneis, let me introduce you and Lola. He is most charming.”

Gillaon proved her correct. Smiling and radiating energy and purpose, he bowed and kissed Lola's hand, then did the same to Aigneis. He chatted with them as his sharp gaze darted around the pavilion, missing nothing. Harred stood at his right shoulder. Aigneis's eyes kept traveling across the warrior's tall frame.

“Greetings, Mistress Rhiannon,” Lord Gillaon said after finishing with the other ladies. He brought her hand to his lips. “I have never seen you more beautiful.”

She acknowledged his compliment with a tilt of her head. “You do me too much honor, kind sir,” surprising herself as Mererid's lessons came easily off her tongue. “I pray the Eternal's blessings on the day's endeavors.” Responding to his gentle pressure on her elbow, she allowed him to guide her a few steps from the table, glad to be away from Aigneis's dark glare. Harred moved with them.

Gillaon regarded her with keen interest. “I am pleased yesterday's tragic event has left no pall over you.” The intensity of his stare increased. “If there is assistance we Tarenesters can lend with . . . anything . . . rest assured we will provide it.” He paused. “I understand you have met my rhyfelwr, Harred Wright.”

Harred nodded formally. “Mistress. How fares the stallion?”

“Much improved. We checked him before leaving the Bridge Across. Please convey my thanks again to Elmar.”

“Of course.”

A wave of disappointment swept her as she searched Harred's face. He did not have the same look in his eyes as had been there for that brief time last night. Had she imagined that?

Girard's wife waddled in at the head of a group of young boys and girls bearing more trays of food. Rhiannon's stomach rumbled at the smell. Girard's youngest daughter, a giggling, gappedtoothed girl, brought plates with sausage, bacon, and slices of buttered bread. Rhiannon and Harred each took a plate while Gillaon declined.

Rhiannon watched expectantly as Harred lifted a sausage, but he hesitated halfway to his mouth. He glanced at Gillaon, whose face was a blank mask. Touching the end to his tongue, Harred quickly returned the link to his plate.

“Are you sure you don't want any of this Dinari sausage, m'lord?” he deadpanned. “It is seasoned to your liking.” At Gillaon's snort, they all three laughed out loud.

“Our seasoning takes getting used to,” Rhiannon chuckled, more pleased than ever to be away from the ladies. “The bacon is safe.”

Nonetheless, the big warrior took a small, cautious bite of the bacon before risking a larger one. After swallowing, a slow grin split his features. “I will save the sausages for Elmar. He is coming to appreciate your food.”

Movement at the front of the pavilion caught her attention. High Lord Maolmin had arrived. Even with all her preparation for this moment, Rhiannon's stomach curdled as she remembered the encounter with Maolmin in the stables.

The High Lord and his party of three entered just as Branor was hurrying out—but the Keeper halted in mid-stride as if hitting a wall. He turned and regarded Maolmin with a puzzled frown.

The noise level dropped noticeably as every eye in the pavilion was drawn to the High Lord's commanding presence. Darkly handsome, his patrician face possessed an ageless quality; he could have been in his early forties or ten years older. Hesitating for a moment in silent acknowledgment of the attention, Maolmin moved toward the table where the ladies were hastily joining their kinsmen lords.

There was no High Lady at Maolmin's side. His wife had died mysteriously fifteen years previous, soon after he became High Lord. Rhiannon had heard it muttered the death had been suicide. For whatever reason, Maolmin had not remarried.

His party was small for a clan High Lord. The rhyfelwr was a wiry, gray-haired man whose strutting walk and darting eyes reminded Rhiannon of a banty rooster. Next came the new loreteller, dressed in the multicolored vest of his office. Rumor had it the man was as silver-tongued a storyteller as was Girard. High praise indeed. A young woman was on the loreteller's arm. From the close resemblance, Rhiannon figured her to be his daughter. She was raven-haired, small in stature, and wore an unadorned yellow gown. She moved with an understated grace that made Rhiannon envious.

Rhiannon glanced back at Harred. Irritation flashed when she saw his focus riveted on the woman. Miffed, Rhiannon looked closer at the loreteller's daughter. They were about the same age. She didn't seem all that attractive. And she was much shorter.

I'd fit better on Harred's arm . . .

Rhiannon raised her chin in irritation.
It does not matter where this Arshessa's interest lies! He can have that woman—or any other—once our wool is sold. That's the most important thing.

Even so, the inward pang did not go away.

She was sick of inner turmoil! Life had seemed so simple a few weeks ago. But then the winged horror attack. And now this strange feeling for Harred and the encounter with Maolmin. Along with the tension over the wool!
Why
didn't the Eternal make everything right?

She glanced around the pavilion. Was the Eternal interested in any of this? Was he involved in the Land now as he had been during the Founding? And if he wasn't, how could she—or anyone—serve him? Or the Covenant?

It has been given to us to battle the Mighty Ones' efforts to end the Covenant and reestablish their rule here in the Land,
Keeper Branor had said.

But how? When? And at what cost?

She brought her thoughts back to the coming confrontation between her father and their High Lord. Branor was back inside the pavilion and standing next to Lakenna. The Lord Keeper's mouth hung open. Lakenna's face showed growing apprehension as she followed the Dinari High Lord's progress across the pavilion.

Maolmin greeted Baird and Lola Leanons first, talked to them pleasantly for a time, then moved on and stopped in front of Tellan and Mererid. All in the pavilion held their breath while straining forward to hear. But the three had only smiles for each other. After kissing Mererid's hand and nodding formally to Tellan, Maolmin said something that elicited a burst of laughter. They chatted affably before the High Lord turned to Seuman and Aigneis Fawr. The collective sigh of relief was audible.

More movement at the front of the pavilion caught Rhiannon's eye. The three Sabinis merchants came striding in. Ryce Pleoh led the way with ponderous dignity. A large double chin spilled over his collar, and an impressive belly stuck out from the folds of his plum-colored cloak. A heavy chain of gold links fastened the cloak around his shoulders. His hairline receded sharply on both sides, leaving a narrow strip of dark hair in the middle.

Half a step behind strode Heorot Seamere. He was of late middle years with coarse white hair cut close to the scalp. The skin on his face was deeply pockmarked. He wore a cloak of dark velvet with a silver-framed emerald clasp. Sihtric Averill was last: narrow shoulders hunched, bald head scrunched down into his neck as if he expected the roof to fall at any moment.

The three merchants fell in behind Maolmin's party, greeting the lords, ladies, and advisors with a practiced combination of deference and familiarity.

Three mercenary bodyguards sauntered to a halt just inside the shade of the pavilion. The biggest one sported a three-day growth of black whiskers. Hooking his thumbs into his broad leather belt, he slowly perused the crowd. His gaze crossed Rhiannon, Gillaon, and Harred, then cut quickly back. His eyes honed in on Harred while his lips curled in a semblance of a smile, though to Rhiannon it seemed more like a wolf showing its teeth.

Then the man's eyes slid to her and remained a long, lingering moment. She felt stark naked. Peibyn's looks were one thing, but this was something beyond—an appraisal so raw and frank it caused her face to heat in embarrassment.
How dare this commoner look at me like this!

Unbidden, her hand dropped to her sword hilt—which was not there, of course! But even as her hand grasped air, she realized she would be no match for the man. If her father or Llyr saw this—but Harred had. His plate clattered onto hers as he brushed by, a low growl rumbling deep within his throat—

“Well, Mistress Rhiannon,” Lord Gillaon reached a hand to restrain Harred. “It seems the business of the day is about to begin.” He squeezed Harred's arm. “Agreed, rhyfelwr?”

Harred actually quivered as the mercenary turned contemptuously away and began talking to one of his fellows. Finally, the tension in Harred's body relaxed somewhat. “Yes, m'lord,” he said hoarsely, hands clenching and unclenching several times. “My apol—”

“No apologies, kinsman. I saw it, too.” Gillaon's voice hardened. “Just recognize the tactics and remember what we are about. That one's accounting will come another day.” After Harred's reluctant nod, Gillaon turned to her. “Agreed, Mistress? Unfortunately some things must wait—”

“Lord Gillaon,” Lord Baird's ancient loreteller said in a raspy voice, “my lord and lady request the pleasure of your company.”

Gillaon nodded, then followed the loreteller, leaving Rhiannon and Harred standing alone in the middle of the pavilion.

In the resulting silence, she watched Harred struggle to keep from looking at the guards. Finally, she blurted, “Are all Arshessa rhyfelwrs as young as you?” then cringed at how foolish the question sounded.

Harred shook his head. “No, Mistress. Most are seasoned warriors like Llyr. Actually, this trip is my first experience as rhyfelwr. Whether I will remain so after we return home, I do not know.”

Another stretch of silence. They watched Lord Gillaon talk to the Leanons and the Sabinis merchants mingling among the advisors.

When she thought Harred had regained control, she lifted her chin in the direction of the three guards. “Thank you for . . . ” She let her voice trail away.

Harred looked full at her. His eyes twinkled as his features split into that slow grin. “You are welcome for . . . ”

Her insides turned to mush. She foundered under a cascade of unfamiliar emotions. For some reason it was hard to breathe. Her knees seemed weak. What was happening to her?

Then she noticed how his eyes kept darting over her shoulder. Turning that way, she saw the loreteller's daughter. The woman stood quietly by her father, who was in animated conversation with Ryce Pleoh. The fat merchant's eyes traveled up and down the raven-haired maiden, taking in every contour and curve.

As Rhiannon watched, the woman glanced toward Harred, caught his eye, then quickly looked back to the discussion. The expression flickering across her face spoke volumes.

Rhiannon's inward mush coalesced into hot anger.
They can have each other! Why do I still hold this Arshessa's plate like some servant!
She turned to hand it back—

“Greetings, Mistress Rhiannon,” High Lord Maolmin said, suddenly before her. “This must be Lord Gillaon's rhyfelwr. Please introduce me.”

She kept from dropping the dish, but it was a near thing. Heart galloping like a runaway horse, she turned to her High Lord—and was greatly relieved not to see the same look in his eyes as had been there in the stables last night. “Greetings, High Lord,” she managed, pleased at how calm her voice sounded.

Maolmin Erian radiated power. He had thick dark hair and coal black eyes that seemed to look inside her. A blue embroidered coat laced at the waist emphasized wide shoulders that appeared to be straining to burst through the garment. His hands were large and powerful with fingers easily twice as long as hers.

She introduced him to Harred, then watched the two men measure each other at a greater length than had happened at the stables. They were well matched. Where Harred was half a hand taller, Maolmin was more solid, with a grown man's heft.

Where the young Arshessa was raw strength and ability still being refined, the High Lord possessed a self-confident air that came from long experience and many vanquished foes.

Finally, Maolmin broke the staring match. “Lord Gillaon must see great potential to select such a young man for rhyfelwr.”

“I believe, High Lord, it is more confidence in his own abilities.”

Maolmin continued to regard Harred like an artist deciding where to place the first brush strokes on a canvas. “A Tarenester won the sword bouts handily at the last Arshessa Gathering, correct?” He cocked a dark eyebrow. “Would that skilled swordsman have been you, Harred Wright?”