Daughter of Prophecy (4 page)

It was spring in the highlands. In the sky, birds roamed the air currents with deft dips and weaves, their calls seeming to urge greater efforts from each other as they celebrated winter's retreat. Even so, the wind still carried a hint of a chill with the sun only halfway above the horizon.

Rhiannon and her brothers rode behind their father and Girard. Kinsmen lord and loreteller were in heated discussion about the attack. Two warriors rode a stone's throw ahead as forward scouts; the third brought up the rear several paces behind the party. The rocky trail was barely wide enough for three horses to walk abreast.

Rhiannon listened to Creag and Phelan discuss the winged horrors and the sheepherders' actions.

“The herdsmen should have been dismissed,” Creag pronounced with iron conviction. “I would have done so first thing.”

“Why?” Phelan asked, puzzled.

“Now they will think they can get away with not doing their duty.”

“How can they be expected to fight winged horrors with just their staffs? You heard Father say they would have been foolish to do that.”

Creag's lip curled. “Next time they see danger, they will run away again.”

“They will stay and fight next time,” Rhiannon said. “They will walk barefoot over hot coals if Father asks it of them.”

Creag shook his head, snorting in disagreement. They passed a mound of grass-choked ruins. Loreteller Girard claimed it was a former temple dedicated to the old gods pulled down centuries ago during the Cleansing when Destin Faber led the effort to rid the Land of pagan worship.

A fresh wind gust molded Rhiannon's dark green cloak to her back. The front edge tangled around the hilt of her sword and flapped maddeningly. When she tugged it loose, the wind snatched it out of her grip, blowing the cloak before her, held on only by the clasp at her neck.

Her filly, Nineve, broke into a fast trot, startled at the sudden appearance of the material waving above her head. Rhiannon grappled with the cloak with one hand while reining back her mount with the other. Nineve was still green and needed at least another year of hard training. Rhiannon was growing weary of the constant struggle.

Creag snickered. “If you put your arms through the straps inside your cloak the wind couldn't blow it loose.”

“The straps hinder drawing my sword,” she snapped, fighting to rearrange the cloak.

“You make just one swing, and it will be all you can do to keep Nineve from running off. Then the cloak will be in your face and your sword will be—”

“At least I hit what I swing at instead of missing the gourd by two handsbreadth and breaking a good sword on the post.”

“Not on Nineve. Last time you tried that on her, she threw you. While you were trying to catch her, I knocked off every gourd—”

“At a trot. I knocked them off at a canter—”

“Only the last two. You were so busy trying to control her that you missed the first three!”

“I will hear no more of this mindless chatter,” their father growled. He looked back over his shoulder. “Rhiannon, join me and Girard. There are things you need to know. Creag, we will discuss the same with you next.”

She gave her brother a sour look, then urged the filly up to squeeze between the two men. Her being called first would put Creag in a pout the rest of the day.

“Lord Tellan has asked me to be sure you understand our lore about winged horrors,” Girard said.

“I listen to learn, loreteller.”

“Before Destin Faber and the Cutting of the Covenant, winged horrors of the night and other such creatures could be loosed by the Mighty Ones.”

Rhiannon nodded. This was common knowledge—and the subject of many nighttime stories told by Ove, their household servant.

“The Covenant,” the loreteller continued, “severely limited the Mighty Ones' power, and the appearances of those creatures virtually ceased.”

“That is what the Keepers of the Covenant assure us each year when we bring our tithe.”

A flock of birds flew across the path, then wheeled abruptly away from the ridge to the right and the drop-off beyond. Nineve turned her head that way; her ears flicked forward. Rhiannon pulled her around, but the filly pulled against the bit to look right again. The birds' calls faded into the distance.

“Less commonly known,” Girard said, “are the reports of appearances through the centuries. Keepers respond to them and keep their own records. But no one among the six clans has produced a carcass verified by a Loreteller Assembly. Most such incidents are considered flights of fantasy.”

Tellan spoke. “But you believe last night's attack to have been winged horrors?”

“Yes, m'lord. Strongly.”

“So advise us, loreteller. If winged horrors were sent to ‘kill red-haired girl,' who loosed them? And why?”

Nineve stumbled, her gaze fixed at the low ridge to their right. Rhiannon pulled the filly's head around, but the horse tossed her head and looked back. Her father's roan kept turning its head to the right as well. Girard's old gelding, however, plodded along unconcerned, with relaxed ears and droopy eyes. Rhiannon had never seen the animal excited over anything. She glanced again at the ridge, chewing the inside of her lip thoughtfully. It was daylight, many turns of the glass before nightfall. Still . . .

“Only Serous claims to have heard that,” Girard was saying. “Our lore makes no mention of the Mighty Ones' beasts talking. None of the other herders heard anything. I asked them out of Serous's hearing. They were as surprised with that as the rest of us.” Girard shook his head. “If you are thinking of the incident by that deranged monk after Rhiannon's birth—”

“It has been almost sixteen years without any further attempts on Rhiannon,” Tellan said. “Like you, I think we can discount what Serous said.” He leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering. “But my questions remain: Why were winged horrors sent to destroy the Rogoth hlaford? And who sent them?”

Chapter Three

L
AKENNA

“M
Y LORD HUSBAND
indulges Rhiannon shamefully,” Lady Mererid said as they jostled about in the carriage. “It is my hope that your presence will help me lead her to put aside this warrior obsession.”

Lakenna retied the scarf that secured her hair against the stiff breeze. “This time can be difficult for young ladies.”

They were half a day's journey from Lachlann. The road was muddy and rocky. More than once Lakenna had determinedly kept her eyes focused inside the carriage, trying not to speculate on how much room the wheels had before the road gave way to air and the breathtaking scenery beyond. Foothills, Lady Mererid had called them. To Lakenna, they were small mountains. A long valley stretched below the winding road, blue with morning mist. She could see tops of trees, some type of evergreens judging by the foliage and the crisp scent.

Lakenna brought her gaze back inside the carriage where she sat across from her new employer. The seats were bare wood. Every bump in the road pounded through the tutor's hips, coursed up her spine, and rattled the top of her skull, which made talking risky. Several times her teeth had clacked together, once catching the side of her tongue painfully. A faint metallic taste of blood still lingered.

The wind blew wisps of hair across Lady Mererid's face. Lakenna envied the noble lady's long elegant fingers as Mererid tucked the wayward strands back under the hood of her cloak. A deep wine-red, the cloak was made of the highest quality wool embroidered in a flower and leaf pattern. Mererid's dress was a lighter shade of red with the bodice and hem outlined by delicate lace. Around her neck she wore a necklace of gold links with a small cameo pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat.

“I never met my lord husband's first wife, but I am told that Rhiannon favors her strongly. Lady Eyslk died during Rhiannon's birth.” Mererid fussed with another windblown strand of hair. “This is my second marriage as well. I lost my first husband and year-old son to lung fever only weeks after Lady Eyslk's death.”

Lakenna's insides roiled. She had lost her father to this dread disease years ago. And just six months ago her betrothed had succumbed to it. He had just finished building their cottage when the constant clearing of his throat started. The next day, his flushed face and chills confirmed . . . Lakenna firmly put those thoughts aside.

Another strong jolt bounced her on the hard seat. The carriage was well made but unadorned. It had no sides or top, and the wind had a bite that made Lakenna glad for the wool blanket she had wrapped around her legs and feet. Two bench seats faced each other. She sat behind the driver, directly across from Mererid. A grizzled warrior handled the reins of the pair of horses that pulled the carriage along at a fast clip. Two warriors rode ahead and two behind, all mounted on shaggy-haired, sturdy horses. Each rider had a broadsword strapped behind his back and a strung bow and quiver of arrows in leather sheaths hanging from the saddle. A pack mule tied to the rear of the carriage carried Lakenna's bags and her precious hoard of hand-copied sections of Holy Writ carefully wrapped in waxed parchment.

Lakenna Wen was twenty-five, slender, with an angular face dominated by a bold nose between eyes recessed in their sockets. Her dark hair was in a bun and covered by a scarf that the gusts kept trying to rip off. Her skirt was farmer brown wool, her blouse a crisp white linen with a double row of pleats. A gray cloak that was too thin for the chilly highland spring barely kept her teeth from chattering.

Squinting at the rocky hillsides through wind that made her eyes water, Lakenna tried not to question her reason for being here. Lord Tellan's letter inquiring into her services had been well written, his offer of payment in coin adequate, and the proposed duties he outlined reasonable.

But there was the difference in faith. The conservative Dinari clan was well known to be a stronghold of the most orthodox of Keeper monks. The Kepploch Monastery was the most famous in the Land and was close to Rogoth lands. The Keepers of the Covenant were enemies with her own breakaway sect of believers, called Albanes, their differences longstanding and irreconcilable.

And she was single, only months removed from burying the man she had been days away from marrying. Another pang rippled through her stomach. Mercifully, the lung fever outbreak had been a mild one, with Loane only one of a double handful succumbing to the disease before the outbreak ended as mysteriously as it begun.

Lakenna shifted on the hard seat and glanced out at the countryside without seeing it, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Most Albane maidens were married by fifteen or sixteen. Being single at twenty-five was beyond the point of embarrassment. It bordered on hopeless.

Loane had been three years her junior, and many had considered him no prize: under average height and beanpole thin, with a face that was all misplaced parts—a mouth too small for his teeth, potato nose, and long, pointed chin. But he loved her, and she had grown to love him.

When Lord Tellan's letter came, she tried to dismiss it—and found that she could not. She had been unable to commune with the Eternal since Loane's death. Even more so since . . . the other. So when the letter arrived, she had not been able to pray and seek guidance about such a major change. Albane teachers of doctrine proclaimed that the Eternal's forgiveness was available to all, and Lakenna knew they spoke truth. Still . . . her guilt kept her from accepting this truth for herself.

Even so, something kept prodding her to accept Lord Tellan's offer. She had met with Lady Mererid yesterday in the large trading center of Inbur on the border of Dinari lands. The interview had gone well, and Lakenna had agreed to one year of service tutoring the three Rogoth children plus no more than five others from Lord Rogoth's retainers.

“Tell me more about my charges,” she said. Noble children could be difficult.

Mererid smiled a mother's smile. “Of the three, Phelan is the best student. He is the youngest and has been a sickly child. On two different occasions the Healer feared the poor boy would not survive the latest bout of fever and advised us to call a monk to prepare for the funeral. However, Phelan always rallied. He has not been seriously ill for more than a year.” She paused. “Then there is Creag. He is thirteen. He is so serious, so determined to be found worthy. He counts the days until he turns sixteen and can take his place in the adult world.” Lakenna could tell Mererid chose her next words carefully. “He is the slowest at learning and . . . feels it keenly.”

“What do you mean, m'lady?”

“Our previous tutor, an older monk, was determined that the heir should excel. He was hard on the boy. Creag does not learn at the same pace as Phelan or Rhiannon—when she tries. But once Creag finally grasps it, he does not forget. Loreteller Girard is impressed with Creag's memory for dates and names. But the boy has trouble reading even the simplest passages from Holy Writ, and his writing is atrocious. It drove Keeper Astwin to despair.”

“But Creag learns well mouth-to-ear?”

“Pardon?”

“If you read to him or explain it to him with words, he does better?”

“Well, that is how Master Girard teaches clan lore. He keeps saying how pleased he is with Creag. Without the loreteller's praise, I don't know what the boy would do.” Mererid regarded Lakenna frankly. “Girard joined with me to convince Tellan to search for a tutor who was not a monk. It was his loreteller contacts that led us to you.”

Lakenna was surprised. “I wondered why a Dinari lord living so close to the Kepploch Monastery was interested in engaging my services. As I understand it, clan loretellers and the Keepers work closely together. And yet your loreteller recommended me to take the place of one of their monks?”

“We are familiar with the Albanes' reputation for producing gifted teachers. And everyone Girard talked to had nothing but the highest praise for you in particular. I am so pleased you decided to accept our offer.”