Daughter of Prophecy (20 page)

“It is the same with Arshessa,” Harred said.

“Undoubtedly. Among Dinari, the next step is for the maiden to reaffirm her assent. If she refuses, that ends it, and she marries her father's choice. Only if she agrees and her other suitor does not withdraw does the combat take place.”

Girard spread the fingers on one hand. “Anyone demanding a
Wifan-er-Weal
must vanquish five warriors, one after the other without pause. The maiden's kinsmen lord is in charge and chooses the first three warriors. They must come from the father's kinsmen group, and since the bride price is equally divided among those three families, many vie to be chosen. The original suitor or his designate, as I am sure will happen with Ryce Pleoh, is the fourth.” The loreteller paused, then went on with more gravity. “The fifth must be the maiden's kinsmen lord.”

“In personal combat,” Harred said, “all rank is left behind once swords are drawn.”

“Of course,” Girard agreed. “Typically, if the suitor makes it that far, the kinsmen lord steps aside and the rite is over.” The loreteller's expression firmed. “Hear me out. If you decide to attend our Gathering and bring suit for Breanna Caemhan, understand that once her father became High Lord's Maolmin's loreteller, the Caemhans transferred their fealty to Maolmin, and he—Maolmin—is now their kinsmen lord.”

Harred's stomach turned, remembering the unbelievable quickness in the stable and the
power
that had rolled off the man in the Rogoth pavilion.

“Given the fact,” Girard was saying, “that the maiden will be going against his own loreteller's wishes, coupled with his well-known association with the Sabinis in general and Ryce Pleoh in particular, I do not see Maolmin Erian stepping aside.”

Girard regarded Harred frankly. “Examine yourself, son. Do you know this woman well enough to risk death? Do you know that you are truly compatible, or is this merely the wishes of youth rushing in your heads?” He shook his head and sighed. “If Breanna agrees to a
Wifan-er-Weal
, and your skill is such that you vanquish the first four warriors, know that your fifth and last opponent will be the man universally acknowledged as the greatest swordsman alive.”

Chapter Sixteen

B
RANOR

T
HE OUTLINE OF
the distant hills began to separate from the gray sky as dawn fought its age-old struggle against darkness. With exquisite slowness, the rugged landscape around Kepploch unveiled itself.

The first landmark the watcher recognized was the pale streak of the lane winding up the steep slope to the monastery's front gate. On either side scattered throughout the meadow indistinct shapes, with etiologies heretofore limited only by the watcher's imagination, revealed themselves as half-buried boulders thrusting through the grass. In the sky above, the growing light brushed vivid shades of yellow and rose-red on the low-hanging clouds as morning claimed its triumph.

High Lord Keeper Branor sat on a simple three-legged stool before the open window of his second-floor room, chin on hands and elbows on knees, watching this daily rite of nature unfold.

It was deathly quiet. Two turns of the glass previous, perched on the same stool and looking out the same open window, he had heard the coughs, throat clearing, and scuffs of leather-soled sandals on the flagstone path below as the monks of Kepploch made their way through the inner courtyard to the chapel. Morning prayers would be over soon, and the monks would be returning to the courtyard to file into the dining hall and break their fast.

Branor's stomach growled, but he ignored it. A large covered tray with food and a silver pitcher sat on the writing desk behind him. Delivered to his room last night shortly after his arrival back from Lachlann, it remained untouched where the novice had placed it.

After the encounter with Maolmin at the wool sale, Branor had realized he had to distance himself from the Rogoths to have any chance at the High Lord's endorsement. Mind still reeling from all that had happened, Branor had told Tellan that Rhiannon was safe enough for the moment, and then he had fled back to Kepploch and the solitude of his room.

Stark and unadorned, with a white plaster ceiling and dark wood paneling, it was perfect for contemplation. The narrow bed—its feather mattress the only concession to his rank—had a chest at its foot and wall hooks on either side for clothes. The writing desk and its stool were the only other furniture.

It had been a dark night of soul-searching. A night for harsh truths. Now, in the early light of day, Branor needed more of . . . something.

Any moment now a novice would be knocking on his door to relay Abbot Trahern's invitation to join the brethren in the dining hall. Branor ground his teeth. Trahern would also inquire, ever so politely, about yesterday's events.

Branor stood abruptly, muscles stiff, joints creaking. Removing his cloak from its hook, he threw it across his shoulders, walked to the door, and pulled it open. After checking both ways to make sure the hallway was empty, he headed to the stairs, boots loud on the polished wooden floor.

Boots, not sandals. Another marker—as if he needed more—of just how far removed he was from his days here at Kepploch. He could not remember the last time he had been awake two glasses before dawn, much less up that early to
pray.

Descending the stairs, he hurried across the marble floor of the front hall, out the arched entrance, and down the walkway to the ironbound gate. He lifted the metal latch and pulled the gate open with a rusty squeak of hinges.

A stiff breeze billowed out his cloak and molded his robe around his legs as he headed up and over the nearest ridge. At the bottom bubbled a small stream. He stepped nimbly across on exposed stones. A few paces beyond rose a knoll crowned by a circle of trees. The knoll had been a favorite meeting place of seven monks, of whom he had been the acknowledged leader.

“The Mighty Seven” they had called themselves, eager in their youth and foolishness for opportunities to take on the Mighty Ones. Branor had just tied the third knot and become the teacher of novices—five of whom had joined his effort to rediscover the outpouring of spiritual power that had occurred during Destin Faber's time. The seventh member had been a much older monk. Narlan his name was.

Besides Branor, Narlan was now the only one of the seven still alive—if the monk's current existence could be called that. Narlan was a mumbling shell of a man with a mind damaged during the encounter with the siyyim called forth by the former Dinari High Lord. Upon arriving the day before yesterday, Branor had seen the monk wandering about the monastery in an awkward, quick-stepping walk while carrying on a never-ending, disjointed conversation with himself. Thankfully, Narlan had given no evidence he'd recognized Branor.

Breathing heavily—yet another marker of his fifteen-year journey—Branor crested the top of the knoll. The circle of trees was taller than he remembered, the shadows long in the early morning sun. Birds flittered about from limb to limb, making wing noises and chirping.

He stood silently, soaking in the peace of the place, seeing the faces of the five dead novices. Their excitement of those early meetings had been contagious. Each new nugget unearthed from their study was endlessly discussed and debated. With Lady Eyslk's help, they obtained clan writings dating back to the Founding. They spent hours sifting through them and other old writings—some Eternal-based, some pagan—learning about the Mighty Ones and lesser demons: siyyim, lilitu, rabisu, and how it seemed that the lesser beings served the greater.

Of all the accounts in Kepploch's library about encounters against the creatures of the Mighty Ones, the Mighty Seven's favorite was the six-hundred-year-old
Night Watch
. Keeper Alock's simple words written in the beauty of the Old Tongue had held them enthralled.

While no record was ever found of his entering the Order, it seemed Alock spent his adult life in the fertile valleys of the Olablath clan traveling a circuit of farming villages doing the work of Keepers: blessing marriages, dedicating babes, comforting the sick, burying the dead, and educating those who expressed a desire to know more of the Eternal. Then a group of pagan worshipers who had gathered at an ancient shrine were somehow able to call forth the Mighty One of the East. An outbreak of winged horrors followed. For weeks the families who remained faithful to the Eternal lived in terror as the creatures destroyed their homes once darkness fell.

Alock beseeched the Eternal. The Eternal answered with a call to battle. With fear and trembling, the peasant Keeper and a few faithful followers marched into the night and met the enemy. Alock's fantastic tale of supernatural endowments that flowed through him as they fought desperately with farming tools and makeshift weapons seemed taken straight from the legends of Destin Faber and his anointed sword,
Asunder
. And as in the battles of the Founding, Alock's engagements with the East's fanatical, self-mutilating worshipers were fights unto death. In the moonlit fields, no quarter was asked or given.

After the defeat of the Mighty One of the East and the disappearance of the horrors, Alock rejoiced that most of the pagan worshipers repented, returned to the Eternal, and remained faithful. In the treatise's last sentence, the Keeper stated the greatest joy he had ever known was in being faithful to the Eternal's call to carry his light into the face of that darkness.

Brave words and even braver deeds. How Branor's blood had soared when he'd read them years ago, believing he was called to such a duty.

He sighed inwardly as the morning sun warmed the knoll. Those days seemed a lifetime ago. The battles he fought now were far subtler, though just as profound in their way. Certainly the weapons employed were far different from the crude farm implements Alock's peasants used.

How many more balls can I continue to juggle? I must have Maolmin's support! But how can I ally with the overwhelming foulness I saw in him—

Taking a deep breath, Branor reestablished control. He had dealt with clan lords and even fellow high-ranking Keepers who could tie the truth in knots, sell it to three different rivals, and make each think he was receiving a precious gift. His main rival for Ruling Keeper was a master at it, and Maolmin fit that description as well. Branor had no problem with that and welcomed the exchange of wits and hard bargaining Maolmin was known for. It was this other . . . aspect . . . of the High Lord that had kept Branor awake all night.

Fifteen years with every move planned. Everything focused and in subjection to the bright shining light of his ambition. Every small victory providing more fuel for the next one; every pitfall avoided providing more experience to sidestep the next one. Fifteen years without a major mistake—and Maolmin Erian the last victory needed.

Why was I given what must have been the lost gift of spiritual discernment those few moments? What am I to do with that insight? How can I use it to gain the seventh knot?

He had no answer to those questions. He had come too far to stop now. Nonetheless, he had the sense of being in a vice while someone slowly tightened the screw. A few more turns, and all of Branor's carefully laid plans would shatter like a clay pot squeezed in the vice.

And there was Rhiannon and winged horrors of the night! That had to be tangled up with the girl's birthing prophecy. She was about to come of age. Was that the reason for the sudden return of evil after no known attempts since her birth? This could become a major distraction. A great temptation to protect the daughter to honor the mother's memory. Is that why Trahern thought he could maneuver me into responding?

Then Branor fought mounting disgust at his cynicism.
Have I degenerated this far?

No, truth said, Trahern was correct to suggest I go. With all that study, he knows I am the best prepared—or the least poorly equipped—to respond to Rhiannon's need. What is going to happen with that? How long will it take?

That Albane tutor seems to know what she is about. She sensed the same thing about Maolmin. An Albane . . . ?

He shook himself.
Deal with one problem at a time.

He gazed at the circle of trees and grass on top of the knoll. It was the same, yet different. The grass in the open middle was only a handsbreadth tall, but it was the undergrowth, or rather the lack of it, that struck him the most. No brush or vines grew around the base of the tree trunks. No fallen branches or leaves marred the pristine purity of the scene. Clearly someone was expending a great deal of effort with a scythe, ax, and rake to keep this area clean.

And flowers. Branor noticed an area at the edge of the trees bursting with color. Red, gold, yellow, pink. Walking closer, he noticed the lush foliage of the plants in addition to their flowers. Someone must be carrying water and compost up the knoll for the distinct groupings outlined with rocks—

Five groups of flowers.

Branor felt as if a cold hand gripped his heart. For nights on end after hearing the manner of their deaths he had woken from nightmares, drenched with sweat and his heart pounding. Those dreams still visited him occasionally even now.

The Mighty Seven's last few meetings here on the knoll had been different. His zeal had been draining away. He had been afraid to admit to himself—much less to the other six—an inward questioning of the ultimate worth of their quest. Where was the power? Surely after their hard work the Eternal would pour out his power and send them forth to battle evil as he did Destin Faber and the Founders. The Land still had many pockets of pagan worship. The need was there.

Gradually, Branor had seen his hubris, realizing that he, at least, had been saying, in effect: “See me, Eternal? See how hard I have labored? Now, bless me with your power!” Frustration had turned into anger when it did not happen as quickly as Branor thought it should. Then came the final blow.