Daughter of Prophecy (23 page)

By his expression she could tell they hadn't got to his real reason for talking. Mererid had been busy.

“Daughter,” Tellan said, “whatever your future as Protectoress of the Covenant, you are being called to lead, not draw steel. The men who bow the knee to you will expect some knowledge about tactics and other fighting skills, but it is their job to wield weapons when and where you bid them.”

“I take pride in my skills, Father. What I am learning will enable me to personally lead their training.”

“Your father is a master swordsman.” Llyr said. “But ask yourself: is that why we Rogoth kinsmen will follow him to the ends of the earth—or is there another reason?”

Rhiannon chewed the inside of her lip. The rhyfelwr spoke truth. Her father did not need a sword strapped around his waist to lead.

Tellan's eyes probed her gently, lovingly. “Have you noticed the difference in Creag now that he is beginning to hold his own against you? If he was in your service and you wanted him to become the best warrior he could be, how would you go about it? Best him continually? Wound his pride? Or encourage him—lead him—to grow better each day?”

“I will think on this,” she managed.

“Good.” He turned to Llyr. “Prepare the men for inspection.”

Aware that she was going to receive Mererid's sternest frown and a lecture for being late, Rhiannon lingered and watched her father move among the men of the reserve. He checked swords, bows, arrows, and other gear, and asked about wives and newborn babes or commiserated with another about the loss of a loved one.

He stopped in front a pudgy, round-faced kinsman only a year older than Rhiannon. Tellan examined the youth's bowstring and frowned. He took the bow, slid an arrow from the quiver, notched and drew the shaft back to his ear and let fly. The arrow flew barely half the distance expected.

Dead silence reigned among the men as Tellan turned slowly back. Instead of anger or open derision at the lad's failure to maintain his gear in suitable condition, Tellan's expression showed sadness tinged with disappointment. “I had a better opinion of you than this, Larris Werfl. Your father served me with distinction, and I never found him lacking. This string is old and frayed. If a fellow clansmen had been standing shoulder to shoulder with you, depending on your bow for his life, you would have let him down.”

Larris's face paled. He swayed, a stricken look on his features. For a moment, Rhiannon thought he might faint. After a moment, Larris opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Swallowing, he managed to croak. “I've been meaning to prepare new strings,

Lord Tellan, but you know how Da's been sick and all the extra work that I've—”

“When swords are drawn there are no excuses, only deeds.” Placing both hands on his hips, Tellan fixed the lad with an anvil-hard stare. “Go home and take care of your father. Think about what it means to be a Rogoth warrior. If you decide to seek service again as a reserve, present yourself to Llyr. When he is satisfied, your place will be waiting.”

Larris wilted. His head dropped, and he swallowed several times. Finally, he nodded and trudged off.

Before he got out of hearing range, Tellan addressed the remaining men. “Larris Werfl comes from good stock. He will be back.” A murmur of agreement came from the warriors.

Rhiannon looked at the young clansman. Larris raised his head slightly, and his shoulders showed he felt a trifle less dejected. When she looked back to her father, she found Llyr's eyes boring into her. The rhyfelwr held her gaze for a long moment. Finally, she nodded to herself and he returned the nod, satisfied.

She hurried to meet Mererid.

“A lady does not clump, Rhiannon. She glides.” Mererid placed the board on her head and demonstrated. “Chin level, shoulders square, and imagine a broom handle running through your middle and into the ground.” Mererid moved regally across the rugs placed in a line outside the pavilion. The sun shone brightly, and the air smelled of grass and flowers. “The rear foot moves in toward the front foot, but does not touch, and then moves out and forward. That gives just the right amount of sway.” Mererid turned and came back. The board stayed on as if was glued. “Now, try again.”

Blank-faced, Rhiannon took the board and positioned it on her head. She didn't know which was worse, walking or sitting and rising gracefully as they had just spent forever doing before Mererid got out the hated board again.

Rhiannon made it all of four steps before it tumbled off.

Mererid's lips tightened. “I have watched you doing sword drills. You move like a cat. If Llyr told you it would make you a better warrior, by now you'd be able to put a goblet of water on that board, walk thirty paces, turn around, and come back without spilling a drop.”

“Because that is where my future lies. Not this.”

“Your future lies with a husband and running his household.”

“But my prophecy . . . ”

Mererid raised a hand. “If you are indeed to battle the Mighty Ones' creatures, your husband will have to provide the funds for men and weapons. You must serve your husband even as you serve the Eternal's purpose.”

“The Eternal will provide what I need.”

“Most likely he will provide a husband to meet those needs.”

So, Rhiannon realized, the latest tactic was twofold: a frontal assault about a husband coupled with a rear action of sending her father to talk after sword practice. “I won't marry. I will be too busy.”

“No one will follow a woman alone in this world. Your husband and his station will determine your resources. That is a fact every woman must accept.” Mererid nodded to the board in Rhiannon's hand. “The Dinari Presentation is the time to attract the best—and richest—suitor for you.”

“Maolmin will never include me, not after Father went against his wishes at the wool sale.”

“We don't know that. And even if he doesn't, you will be there and be seen—and you will present yourself in a matter worthy of your mother's memory.”

Things were serious indeed for Mererid to mention Eyslk. All mementos pertaining to her were long gone. Not even a portrait remained. Rhiannon had mentioned that to Lakenna the other day in Ove's hearing. The old servant brought the silver hand mirror and said, “Look. Here is your mother's face.”

Rhiannon stared at the board in her hands. “Are we through for today?”

“We will continue until you walk to the end of the rugs with that board balanced on your head.”

Rhiannon sighed audibly.

Color bloomed on Mererid's cheeks. “Your father and I have talked. If you do not attend to my lessons and Lakenna's with the same diligence you show Llyr, your sword training will stop until she and I are satisfied.”

Lakenna, too? Rhiannon felt betrayed. “If I were born a man, none of this would matter. I could fight winged horrors anytime I wanted to!”

Mererid's face whitened. She opened her mouth—then reestablished control. She turned abruptly and stared up the ridge at the hlaford. Carpenters worked on the second story. The spaces left for the windows being built were twice as big as the previous ones, and each bedroom had two of them.

Rhiannon waited. Protectoress of the Covenant. What does that mean? It must lie with the last half of the Covenant:

Keep this covenant and the Mighty Ones' yoke of slavery shall be broken. The winged horror of the night and its brethren will cease out of the Land. They shall devour you no longer. You shall be safe in your Land and shall know that I am the Eternal.

But the more she tried to fathom that part of the Covenant, the more the first half kept nagging her:

I have made this covenant with you for the ruling of this Land. I set up one shepherd over you, my servant Destin Faber. He shall feed you, and he shall be your shepherd. And his son and his son after him, even unto one hundred generations, will they feed and protect you with this covenant of my peace.

She felt Maolmin's dark eyes bore into her again.
“Have you been to Faber Castle?”

“No, High Lord.”

“Have you met the prince?”

“I have not had that honor.”

“Of course not.”

She had not told anyone about that part of her conversation with Maolmin. Nor about the wrongness that had rolled off the man. From the way Tellan's eyes had blazed during his confrontation with the High Lord, Rhiannon knew her father had been a knife's edge away from a physical attack and the disastrous consequences that would have entailed.

But what to do?

An old clan maxim came to her: “Pray. Sharpen your sword. Then pray some more.”

Besides, she cared nothing for Faber Castle or Prince Larien. As Protectoress of the Covenant, she would have other things to do. Much more important things.

She had begun to read Holy Writ again. The more she read, the more she wanted to read. Her prayers had resumed. And she had questions for Lakenna. The tutor's strong faith should help uncover what the future held. Every day the feeling built that the Eternal was finally about to make something of her birthing prophecy. Rhiannon contemplated her hands and the calluses from gripping the sword hilt. Surely, the prophecy would entail her . . . But in her mind she kept hearing what Keeper Branor had said in the room at Lachlann:

We can become so focused on our way that we don't take the time to find what the Eternal's way might be.

Irritated, she shoved that nagging thought aside. Who better to understand what should be done than the one called to do it?

Finally, Mererid turned back. Her features had softened. “I understand your frustration, Rhiannon. But you are a woman. A beautiful young woman who will make a wonderful wife and mother.” She took both of Rhiannon's hands in hers. “You will not be as hindered as you may think.” Her eyes twinkled. “Can you think of anything I really wanted that did not come to pass? Anything that your lord father refused me, flatly and forever?”

In spite of herself, Rhiannon chuckled.

“I'll make you a deal.” Mererid held up the board. “Walk to the end of these rugs like I know you can, and we will sit and I will share some of my secrets until time for lessons with Lakenna.”

Rhiannon couldn't be bought that easily. But Llyr had always taught her that there was nothing wrong with a momentary retreat to regather one's forces. Rhiannon forced a smile. She took the board, placed it on her head, and glided down the rugs. Mererid had raised an unintended point. Moving this smoothly should indeed help in swordplay.

Chapter Nineteen

H
ARRED

“G
ET ON
!” T
HE
man flicked the reins smartly across the mule's rump. “Get on, now!”

The mule paid no heed. It stood two-thirds of the way across a one-lane bridge spanning a stream in full spate from snowmelt. In contrast to the bone-chilling water two spans below, the mule dripped sweat. Its head drooped and its sides heaved as it sucked the mountain air.

No wonder,
Harred thought as he reined in his black gelding, Coal. The rickety wagon behind the mule looked overloaded. Its canvas-covered contents rose head-high behind the two riders on the seat: a man and an older girl, his daughter perhaps.

Rising stiffly, the man took a long-handled whip from a holder on the side of the wagon and cracked the leather tip above his mule's head. “Get on, I say!”

The mule remained still. Its nostrils flared, and the sweat made more dark splotches on the hand-hewed planks.

Harred waited for the exhausted mule to gather its strength and pull the wagon the last few feet to clear the way. Behind him on the narrow trail bordered by steep-rising bare rock stretched twenty-eight wagons that contained Lord Gillaon's wool—and Harred's future as rhyfelwr.

It was a turn of the glass before dusk and the full night that descended so quickly at these elevations. The wagon train was in sight of Maude, the westernmost town in Arshessa territory. Harred intended to spend the night there and take on final supplies before heading into the higher regions of the Ardnamur Mountains. The white-capped peaks towered in the western sky. But the passes were open. Elmar had scouted ahead and had rejoined them midafternoon with that welcome news.

Now, trail-worn and needing a shave, Elmar eased his dun mare up beside Harred. They watched the little drama on the bridge. The man cracked the whip with increasing fury but with the same results.

Ard Gand, the grizzled wagon master, climbed down from the first wagon and ambled up. Harred and Elmar dismounted and stretched their legs.

Tilting his head toward the bridge, Elmar grinned. “If Lord Gillaon be here, know what be happening about now?”

Harred and Ard chuckled. The kinsmen lord had been a caged bear until the wagons had finally left the sprawling Tarenester hlaford only three days after arriving from Lachlann. “We must have the wool through the passes before the Sabinis organize an attack!” he had said.