Daughter of Prophecy (22 page)

Keeping the anger off his face at the fat one's insult, Larbow settled stiffly into the chair.
They are only stupid clansmen.
His father had told him how this Heorot Seamere had been shockingly ignorant of civilized ways. But with great patience, Lugal had educated the merchant, who proved a willing and apt pupil. White Hair had progressed to the point where he could travel unescorted through Rosada territory and live. Would this new one be the same?

Demeanor solemn, Heorot said, “How fares your mother?”

“She grieves, but her health is fine.”

“Were I Rosada, after her time of mourning, I would tie five horses to your tent post for the right to court her. Her smile is as the sun breaking over the mountaintops and bestows even more warmth.”

This merchant had learned well. “Three horses would do her great honor. I will tell her of your words.”

Heorot formally introduced Ryce Pleoh, and then gave a thin smile. “My partner is in awe of the Rosadas' fearsome reputation. My apology for the two at the other table. No disrespect was intended.”

Larbow nodded acceptance, then looked at Ryce. The merchant tore a chunk of bread from the loaf. Sopping it in meat juice, he stuffed the piece into his mouth. Folds of fat hid most of the man's eyes, but what Larbow could see was hard and calculating.

“My apology,” Ryce mumbled around his chewing, tone flat and at odds with the words.

Larbow bristled outwardly. Time to start this one's training. He turned stiffly to Heorot. “Twice this man you brought uninvited has insulted me. Only my family's past association with your house keeps me from slitting his fat throat. Is Ryce Pleoh a fool, or is this deliberate?”

“I beg your indulgence.” Heorot's hands were clinched as they remained in plain view on top of the table. “My intention is to have him take my place for these meetings. But my partner has not been himself since paying betrothal price a fortnight ago at the wool sale.” Though his words were addressed to Larbow, White Hair looked straight at his fellow clansman and made no effort to hide his anger. “Unless he comes to his senses, I fear I will have to find another to treat with you Rosada.”

Ryce's chewing had ceased abruptly at Larbow's threat, and the merchant's jaw had dropped steadily during Heorot's speech until now his mouth hung wide open. Blinking, he closed it with a snap. His pig eyes darted between Larbow and Heorot. “Since this meeting is in our territory,” he said, “I thought precautions on our part would be in order.”

“We Rosada are responsible for the security of all meetings. You can bring guards for your travel.” Larbow's voice hardened. “But come to the chosen place alone.”

Ryce nodded. “I will not make that mistake again.” He looked down at his plate, swallowed, and then pushed it away. “The reason for this meeting is most pressing. And while it is a sudden request, Heorot is confident you are capable. A certain Arshessa lord has developed aspirations beyond his means. We intend to send a clear message about the consequences of treading on our trade.”

A quarter of a glass later, Larbow had drawn out all the two Sabinis knew about Lord Gillaon Tarenester, his young rhyfelwr, and the wagons of wool scheduled to head across the Ardnamur Mountains once the snow melted in the passes. More information was needed, but that would be gathered with an immediate trip into Arshessa territory.

White Hair passed a leather bag of gold under the table. “Attack where many eyes will see. That much again when we hear accounts of the wool burning.”

Larbow nodded, pleased at the bag's heft. “And the Tarenester warriors and wagon drivers?”

Ryce stiffened. “The rhyfelwr also has aspirations beyond his means. Kill him for sure. The others only as necessary.”

Watching the man's eyes go flat and reptilian, Larbow made a quick reassessment.
Never will I turn my back on this one.

He checked Nattily and Tam. They had finished their meal and awaited a signal from him. Time to leave while the tavern remained crowded.

Larbow said politely, “The Wind Giver's blessing on your betrothal. May your chosen present you strong sons.”

Heorot chuckled. “He has been thinking about that—but only the begetting, not the birthing.” He snorted. “The maiden's father proved as canny a bargainer as his daughter was desirable. In spite of mine and another's counsel, Ryce allowed lust to overcome good sense and agreed to an outlandish sum. Every day since, he has continually bemoaned the loss of his gold and the time he must wait until he . . . enjoys the girl's tender company.”

Ryce shot Heorot a sour look. Pulling back his plate, the fat clansman cut another piece of meat and shoved it into his mouth.

Larbow stood and brushed imaginary crumbs from this shirt, signaling Nattily and Tam “all clear.” Then he wove through the noisy crowd toward the door, mind racing.

At first light, he would send a pigeon to request every available raider. By the time they arrived, in groups of twos and threes, the mountain passes would be open, the wagon's trail would be thoroughly scouted, and Larbow would have a plan ready.

The raid would be a fitting start to his time as chwaer.

Chapter Eighteen

R
HIANNON

S
HE PARRIED THE
sword thrust with a flick of her wrists and slid forward, careful to keep her weight centered between her feet. Her sword hilt was slick with sweat. A damp strand of hair had worked loose from her leather headband and waved irritatingly in front of her eyes. She ignored it. Using her legs and back muscles she swung with a firm two-handed grip and rolled her wrists in preparation to—

Her blade was met with enough force to vibrate her arms. She winced as a wooden blade thudded into her ribs. Even through the protection of the heavy quilted vest, the blow hurt.

“You're dead!” Creag whooped, sweaty face glowing in triumph. He lowered his practice sword. “You're still leaving your side exposed with that maneuver. I wasn't strong enough before, but now I am and—”

“A warrior does not gloat, Master Creag.” Llyr turned to her, frowning. “Mistress, how many times have I told you about the hole left in your guard with that counter? You must batter the opponent's blade down far enough so that he cannot recover before you thrust. That will no longer work with Master Creag. He is thirteen and coming into his strength.”

Fighting the urge to rub her side, she tucked the wayward strand of hair behind her ear and regarded her half-brother with new eyes. Creag had grown and now stood only a half a hand shorter than her. His arms were more muscular and his shoulders wider than she remembered. And although she would die before admitting it, the gap between their skill level was narrowing at an alarming rate—as her throbbing ribs proved.

It was morning, and until today the weather had been unseasonably cool for late spring. That had been a blessing these last few days as workers toiled steadily on building the new hlaford. Rhiannon, Mererid, Lakenna, and Ove, the house servant, slept in the pavilion, now erected several paces from the main stable where Tellan and the boys slept.

At first staying in the pavilion had been an adventure. But now the close confines and inconveniences of tent living were getting on the women's nerves. Rhiannon longed for the privacy of a room to herself again—and the security of solid walls and a roof over her head.

Increasingly, her sleep was restless, with frequent wakenings from murky and fearful dreams. She could not shake the pervading sense that the Mighty Ones were gathering strength.

Maybe it was the aftermath of last week's thunderstorm. The rain and gusting winds had blown down one side of the pavilion and had torn a rent in the old fabric. Startling awake at the noise, Rhiannon had first thought winged horrors were upon her again. Heart pounding, she had groped for her sword, which she kept beside her even during the night, and had the steel blade halfway out of the scabbard before she'd realized what was happening. It was a wild, wet time as the women scrambled up and fled to the stables. Halfway there Ove fell and lay unseen in the downpour until Creag and Phelan got the stable lanterns lit and everyone realized the old servant was not present. Tellan dashed out to scoop her up and came running back with her in his arms, both of them soaked. Ove's lips were blue, her teeth chattering. The next morning she had awakened with a fever, and she still had a deep, racking cough.

Rhiannon fingered the hilt of the practice sword. If a thunderstorm could wreak such havoc on the pavilion, what could winged horrors do? Warriors stood guard from dusk to dawn, bows strung and nocked. But night after night had passed with no winged horrors appearing. Life was rapidly returning to normal.

The weeks of tension leading up to the wool sale were gone, as were many of the money worries Tellan and Mererid had always grappled with. Though grumbles still came from a few kinsmen about dealing with Lord Gillaon and the Broken Stone Land, most were glad for the extra coin. The busy time of culling and separating the herds was almost done. Next week the herds would be driven to the high summer pastures.

“That is all for you, Mistress,” Llyr announced, looking up at the sun. “Your lady mother awaits.” His weathered face came close to a smile. “M'lady made it plain yesterday that I have been keeping you too long.”

Rhiannon bit back a plea for one more try at Creag. Mererid had butted in, and that was that. Her stepmother was using the coming Presentation as a potent weapon in her campaign against Rhiannon's training.
It won't work. I'll just do more drills at night.

Harred could teach me . . .

She put him from her mind. Harred had
that girl.

Creag and Phelan engaged with wooden swords as she peeled off the wool-padded vest and hung it on a line stretched between two poles outside the armory. Wood clacked as Creag defended against Phelan's spirited attack. Since Lakenna had come, Creag actually looked forward to the afternoon sessions. Rhiannon had to admit that his whole attitude was changing. He was almost bearable to be around for short periods. And Phelan. He devoured everything Lakenna put in front of him.

“Mistress, a moment, if you please,” Llyr rumbled as her brothers continued to flail at each other. The old rhyfelwr took her practice sword and placed it in the rack with the others. The skin on his forearms was a crisscross of faint white scars from old cuts.

Before he could speak a group of men came into the armory, talking and joking among themselves. Her father struggled to keep eight warriors in full-time service, and they spent most of their day training Rogoth horses for sale. Beyond those eight, Tellan maintained a reserve of twenty trained kinsmen who received a small stipend to drill with Llyr one morning a week, and today was the day. In addition to swords, each man had a bow in a leather holder on his shoulders and a quiver full of arrows around his waist. Since the winged horror attack, their training was placing more emphasis on archery.

Llyr motioned to her, and she followed him out of range of the warriors' hearing. They walked a ways on the hard-packed dirt surrounding the armory. It and the two stables, the main one and a smaller foaling stable, resided on the second of three ridges rising from the valley floor. The structures, constructed mainly of rock gathered from the countryside, were sturdy and functional. The hlaford, its privy, smokehouse, and an underground root cellar rested on the uppermost ridge. Corrals for horse training and sheep pens comprised the broad lower ridge.

Even an untrained eye could see what a strong defensive position this was. Any attacker would have to fight up the steep slopes and take each ridge in succession. Not an enviable task.

But that means nothing to winged horrors—

She waited on Llyr to speak. Since returning from Lachlann, she had noticed subtle differences in the way her father's rhyfelwr treated her. They were having more of these one-on-one conversations—which thankfully were not about becoming more ladylike, as Mererid harped on morning, noon, and night.

Rhiannon recognized what her stepmother and Lakenna had done in Lachlann, using Harred—who only cared for someone else—to get her to primp and simper and drink punch while making inane conversation to a group of poison-mouthed ladies. Well, Lady Aigneis, anyway. But no more. High Lord Keeper Branor had confirmed it. She was to be “Protectoress of the Covenant” and fight winged horrors and siyyim.

Rhiannon lightly flexed her sore muscles. Next time the Mighty Ones' creatures came, she would be ready.

Her father strode up and joined them. Like his men, Tellan wore leather breeches and simple wool tunic. Normally he made appearances at these weekly training sessions every third or fourth time, but since the winged horror attack he was here at every one. His face had healed from the burn. His eyebrows were almost back to their normal thickness.

Tellan and Llyr exchanged a glance.

Something's coming,
Rhiannon thought.

Llyr cleared his throat. “For your time in training, you are as good with a sword as I have seen. But you see what is happening in your bouts with Master Creag.” The rhyfelwr folded thick arms across his chest. “Every day you grow more like your mother. Lady Eyslk was tall and lean and possessed a wiry strength that kept her going at the end of a long day when even Lord Tellan flagged.”

Tellan nodded. “Like your mother, your full-grown strength will be of a different type than a man's strength. From now on, we will concentrate on other aspects of what it means to be a warrior.”

Rhiannon relaxed. “For a minute I thought you were going to say something else.” She looked at her wooden blade in the rack. “Speaking of which, what do you think about forging me a sword with a longer, thinner blade, the better to thrust for a horror's eyes?”

A long moment passed before Tellan answered. “Interesting idea. I will talk to the master smith next time I am in Lachlann.”