Ciara's Song Page 4

  “The market I want won’t be for two more weeks. Tell Ciara she may go with you if she is better by then.” He smiled as the boy raced away to share the promise. It reminded him, he must look at the boxes found in Elmsgarth. Thus far they had been stowed away unopened. The only action he’d taken had been to record the transfer of Elmsgarth to himself. It had been done quietly so far as he knew, none but he and a clerk in faraway Kars had knowledge of what had been written. Of course he had also taken the bag of coins. That was going toward mending the Keep walls, and gathering extra supplies. It was fair. Walls would help to protect Ciara, while supplies would be shared with her as well.

  He watched the girl over the days. She might force herself to eat. It did no good, all that she ate returned, weakening her further. Tarnoor guessed that something within her revolted at living. Unless one of those who cared for her could find the secret and convince her otherwise, Ciara would go to join her slain kin. He would not have that happen. He loved his son as a strong man loves one who will follow him. But Ciara he had come to love as one who protects responds to the need of one weaker. For her his love was a sheltering roof to her frailty. He watched helpless and raging as she failed.

  In another ten days she was too weak to leave her bed for more than a handful of hours. Trovagh stayed with her. He brought games, stories, ideas, anything that would divert her. Elanor played and sang to both children. She had a soft voice, but clear and true, and some small skill with the hand harp. Ciara in particular loved the old songs, begging them over and over. Nightmares still plagued the girl. She woke crying out more than once most nights, the lack of sleep also wearing hard on her.

  She refused Elanor’s offer to share the bed. She did not wish any to know the shape of her dreams. They seemed to her to be a monstrous wrong and wicked. It was Trovagh at last who broke through the wall of her grief and pain to understand what tore at her. Ciara was sleeping but the boy was awake. As he lay quiet he heard the whimpering from her room. On silent feet he stole through the door. Ciara slept, yet in that sleep tears ran down her face. Now and again her mouth shaped a name.

  “Mother, Father, Larian?” Her words became loud enough for the listening boy to understand.

  “Mother, please, I’m lonely. Mother, where are you?” Her hand slid out, fingers curled as if they sought for another clasping hand. “Father?” Her voice was a moan. “Larian, why am I alone? Why did you all leave me here?” Her voice trailed off into soft weeping once more. Trovagh took the reaching hand in his. With his left hand he shook her gently by the shoulder.

  “Cee? Cee, wake up. You aren’t alone. You have me and Father, and Elanor now. Cee!” She opened vague eyes to stare at him. The fingers gripping his convulsed. Still half asleep, she spoke her horror for the first time.

  “They all left me. There’s no one now. I don’t have anyone. No family, everything is cold and empty. When you and Lord Tarnoor came I was afraid. Mother always said Yvian dealt justice, and the guards were there to protect us. But they killed everyone by the duke’s order. Why? What did we do that was so evil? I was afraid you would kill me, too, so I hid. I’m afraid all the time now and I have no one. Lonely, so lonely . . .” Her voice shuddered to a halt. Trovagh did the only thing he could think of.

  His voice became coaxing, “Listen. You can have a family.” Behind him Tarnoor stood motionless and silent in the doorway. He, too, had wakened and come to the child’s cries, just in time to hear her confession. He could understand it. Older, stronger people than this girl had been broken by the knowledge they stood alone. Children often understood other children better than any adult. He waited to hear what his son would say.

  “Honest, Cee. You can have a family.”

  “How?” Her interest was caught.

  “You do like me, don’t you?”

  Her hazel eyes gazed at him. “You’re my best friend.”

  He stammered a little on the next question, “D-do you love me, Cee?”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation.

  Trovagh drew in a deep breath. “Then you can have a family.” In bemused wonder, Tarnoor listened as his son proposed marriage.

  “If we’re betrothed, then my father is your father, too. And I’m sort of a brother until we marry. Elanor’s cousin to my mother so she’d be your cousin, too. That way you’d have a real family again. All you have to do is say the words, Cee.”

  For the first time in many years, Tarnoor felt tears prick his eyes as his son led Ciara through as much as he understood of a betrothal ceremony. Somewhere along the line the boy had also heard of knife oath. He added that in, solemnly bringing out his knife to draw a bead of blood from a finger of each of them. The blood was then mingled. Trovagh reached for the cup of water beside her bed.

  “Drink a little.” She did so obediently. Trovagh drank after her. He took Ciara’s hands. “That’s it. By the Cup we shared, by the Flame to witness, by the Blood joined. We’re betrothed and my family is yours. You don’t have to be alone again.” He leaned forward to kiss her very gently on the forehead. “That’s my right as betrothed.”

  Then, as Tarnoor shrank further out of sight, the boy stretched. “Gods but I’m sleepy. You’ll be all right now, Cee?”

  She nodded, her small face happier. Tarnoor watched as his son trotted back to his own room. When he could again peer through the door, Ciara was asleep. The Keep Lord was thoughtful all of the next day. Without her noticing, he kept an eye on the girl. The ceremony, odd mixture though it had been, seemed to have worked. Ciara kept her meals down, slept without dreaming, and woke to eat heartily. She blossomed. Tarnoor spent a week thinking it over, then he made a decision.

  It would not be a bad idea to allow the ceremony legal status. He’d never lose Ciara. His son could have a far worse wife and the girl had brought a fair dowry—by now he’d had sufficient time to check all her belongings and the boxes. He quietly called Elanor, confiding what he had seen.

  “The child adores him. I think it an excellent idea, Nethyn. Trovagh will never be strong physically. The girl won’t hold that against him as another might. Nor will she seek to take power for herself. She is of decent family, is she not?”

  Tarnoor nodded. “Her mother Lanlia was orphaned. But her grandmother was of a very old family. That pendant the child wears is from that line. There’s more. When I opened the boxes, I found a complete setting in solid silver for the table.” He whispered the crest and watched her eyes widen. “Yes, that’s no line to be scorned. There were plates and bowls with it, all in silver. The carrysack Lanlia gave the girl to hide in the cave had jewelry. Fine work with rare gems from Estcarp. Another of the boxes had gold and silver coins. A goodly sum. Ciara does not come empty-handed to a betrothal even as Karsten would count it.” He thrust a paper at her. “Sign this as a witness. It says I approve the match. I’ll have the priestess in tomorrow.”

  Elanor signed, smiling.

  The next day the children were called to Tarnoor’s study. When they left both were beaming. On one slender finger Ciara bore a ring. They’d spoken words all over again, this time before a Priestess of Cup and Flame. They hadn’t cared. Both knew that it was the earlier ceremony that bound them. It would for all of their lives.

  3

  F or a time Aiskeep was quiet after that. Ciara grew strong. The nightmares troubled her no more. That winter it was Trovagh who was ill. His chest troubles flared with the coming of a cold that made him cough painfully. Ciara vanished industriously into the herb room to brew. She returned with a concoction that he swallowed trustingly. Then he smiled.

  “That tastes just the same as your mother used to give me.”

  “It is the same.” It helped the boy until he was careless enough to escape from his bed.

  A messenger had come, there was commotion, loud, excited talking, all the fuss guaranteed to bring a boy from his bed in the middle of a night that was chill by any standards. Boylike, too, he ignored it, wearing no more than his slippers and night
gown. By the time he had crouched long on the stairs to hear all that was said, he was chilled to the bone. After all that it hadn’t been so interesting anyhow, Trovagh muttered to himself. He hunched back into his cold bed and shivered. He felt so cold.

  By the early hours of the morning he was hot, tossing off his bedding only to drag it back again as he shivered once more. Something woke Ciara then. She sat up listening. There was nothing to be heard. She would have laid down again but for the tugging at her attention. She dressed quietly. Lanlia had always said to pay attention to feelings such as these. Silently the child drifted from her room. She would look at her family, see that all was well.

  She came first to Trovagh’s room and stood listening. There came a faint moan, a soft sound of jumbled words. Then she knew. Ciara wasted no time in entering to reach him. The boy thrashed, burning with fever, already delirious. Ciara looked once, then raced from the room to call Elanor. She burst into the Keep mistress’s room without ceremony. Elanor woke abruptly to someone who shook her savagely calling her name. Scared half out of her wits she screamed. This brought Tarnoor bellowing questions as he burst through the door in turn. Ciara had no time for any of them.

  “Shut up!” she yelled. “Listen! Tro is sick. He’s feverish and his chest is rattling when he breathes. Come quickly.” She did not pause to see if they obeyed. By the time they found her she was back with her friend sponging his face gently.

  Elanor turned to build up the fire. Heat would help to break the fever. It was then that Trovagh coughed. She heard the rattle and winced inwardly. That was pneumonia, she’d heard it before. Many died from it. They labored for two days as Trovagh grew no better.

  Ciara sat with him constantly, her herb concoctions seemingly the only thing that helped. Her presence always able to calm him. The whole of Aiskeep prayed. They’d known the lad since his father brought him out in swaddling clothes to be shown to those he would rule. They were aware that Tarnoor’s rule was fair and kind by any standards, far more so than the rule in many Keeps. Trovagh would continue that. The heir after him would not. Tarnoor prayed most fervently. He begged for the life of his son—for several reasons. The foremost was love of the boy. The next was love of his people and the great grim gray Keep they shared.

  Like the people he knew the habits of the next heir. A corrupt lad. Barely twenty, he was a third cousin in a cadet branch of the line. The boy lived mostly in Kars, and was a hanger-on to Yvian and worshiper of Aldis. If Risho ever came into power he would be ruthless for his own pleasure. Tarnoor prayed harder, on his knees in the small shrine until his back ached. It was all he could do. Upstairs Ciara labored with all the aid Elanor could give. The fire blazed, and blankets were piled on the bed. Trovagh was dosed with every medicine Ciara had learned that might help. None of it broke the fever.

  Elanor sat back on her heels. The fire was pouring heat into the room. She glanced at Trovagh, noting the fever flush, the wasted look. They were losing him. The thought was intolerable. She found herself shaking Ciara by the shoulders.

  “You’re of the Old Blood. Help him! Use it to do something. He’s dying!”

  The girl’s head whipped to and fro. Do something? She’d tried everything she knew. But she couldn’t lose Tro, he was her best friend, her family. Her betrothed. She hadn’t been able to save her kin once. This time she would rather go down into the dark with Tro than lose him. She freed herself ruthlessly.

  “Go and get more drinking water. When you come back don’t speak or touch me. Keep anyone else to that, too.” Her eyes came up to stare hard into Elanor’s. “I don’t know if I can help, but I’ll try.”

  She set herself to remember as she sat on the stool beside the bed. Her mother’s mother had died when Lanlia was only sixteen. But Talyo’s mother had lived with them until Ciara was seven. Larian had been her favorite but she’d been kind to Ciara, talked to her. Larian! The pendant! Could that help her now? She freed it from her bodice, staring down at the perfect tear shape, the tiny flickers of blue gems that edged the flanking wings. She cupped it in her small hands. It seemed right then to reach out. Tro’s hands slid into hers to lie cupped above them. Into that double cup she allowed the pendant to rest.

  She was afraid, so afraid. The maids had talked when Ciara was unnoticed. She understood vaguely that it was the gifts of the Old Race that had brought death to them. They said Yvian hated the Witches. That use of the Power was evil and witchcraft. But if she didn’t do this Tro would die. She struggled for a time before she could force herself to try. She would not let Tro die because she was afraid.

  She allowed her mind to relax, to slow into a gentle calm. The pendant helped with that. It radiated peace, warmth. She felt her breathing slow, her heart cease the nervous pounding. She was no longer aware when Elanor returned. Above the cupped hands her face was a serene mask, while within them the pendant gave off a soft silver light shot with blue. Elanor bit back a gasp. Silently she moved to sit in the doorway. She would keep the quiet Ciara had demanded. Tarnoor would have spoken but her gesture was so fierce he, too, joined her without speaking. Motionless, praying, they waited.

  At the bedside Ciara slipped deeper into the trance. From the hands cupped in hers she could feel something. All her thoughts appeared slowed, it was—it was—tightness! Ah, yes. Something bound with many ropes that must be unknotted, unwound to free the captive. Patiently she did so. She could not have said how she managed, only that she felt the ropes loosen and fall away one by one. She flung the last of them aside. Rightness returned. But the silver mist in which she walked was peaceful. She could remain here.

  From the door Elanor saw the child’s face grow strange. It was a mask now, as if the life slowly drained from her. At the same time the rattle of Trovagh’s breathing ceased. Now he breathed in and out quietly. His face flushed, but with the normal pink of returning health. Ciara grew paler, more mask-like. Elanor panicked. The girl was exchanging her life with that of the boy in some way. If she went too far down that path they would have Ciara dead instead. Without pausing to reflect she flung herself to where the girl sat.

  Hard hands struck the link. The two sets of cupped hands were thrust away as the pendant fell free touching neither. Ciara fell limply from her stool. Tarnoor leaped forward in time to catch her as from the bed Trovagh spoke.

  “What’s all the fuss? Cee? What’s wrong with Cee?”

  There was instant commotion.

  It resolved into Elanor tucking the wilted Ciara into the bed by Trovagh’s. It was there the girl had chosen to sleep as she cared for her friend. Now it would be most convenient to have them together and damn the conventions. Tarnoor held his son’s hand thanking every power whose name he could recall.

  Tro was insistent, “Is Cee all right?”

  By now Elanor had been given time to check this. “Yes, she just seems to be completely exhausted. I don’t know what she did, but it’s drained all her strength. A long sleep, a good meal or two, and she should be well again.”

  Tarnoor heaved a sigh of relief, then another of exultation. He’d done right to make the betrothal legal. With Ciara at his side to keep him well, Trovagh would live to rule for many years. His face twisted into a snarling grin. Now let that debauched cousin of his try to claim Aiskeep. His son was alive, his people were safe . . . and Gods but he was tired. He sat in the large chair beside Trovagh’s bed. When next anyone looked at him, Tarnoor was deeply asleep.

  A week later things were back to normal for all but Ciara. She had no idea of how she had saved Tro. That worried her. What if she couldn’t do it again? Perhaps if she looked at the pendant again, without needing to help? She closeted herself in her room while Tro rode with his father. Elanor was busy in the stillroom with an infusion of herbs that must not be left.

  Ciara pulled the pendant free, then sat looking at it thoughtfully. It was old, that she knew. Grandmother had said it was a bridegift. Somehow Ciara felt that it was very old. There was a feel about it, as if it also
had a power of its own. Maybe it did.

  She cupped it in her hands, reaching again for the stillness and silver mist. It closed around her, warmly welcoming. It reminded her of Grandmother, like a soft lap and comfort. She could have stayed here forever but when she thought that the mist changed. No longer was it so warm nor so welcoming. She understood. She must not stay, though as a visitor she was permitted. She drifted timelessly before resurfacing to her own room.

  Ciara was fascinated. After that she used her pendant most nights, just for a short time. Her ability to reach the mist improved until in a few months she could fall into it at will. She had half forgotten how she had used the pendant with Trovagh. It was only remembered when he came running one late afternoon.

  “Cee? Cee!”

  She bolted from the door, there was desperation in his voice.

  “What is it, what’s wrong?”

  Trovagh was white with horror. “Boldheart—Father jumped him over a wall and he fell.”

  “Is he badly hurt?”

  “His leg’s broken.”

  Ciara snorted, “That’s bad but it’ll heal in a few weeks. There’s no need to get that upset.”

  Trovagh stared at her, then his voice went higher, “Not Father, Boldheart!”

  Ciara gasped, then acted. She dived for the stillroom seizing her healer’s satchel. “What about Uncle Nethyn, he isn’t hurt at all?”

  “Just a few bruises,” Trovagh panted as they ran. “Here, up behind me.” He held the overexcited pony still as she mounted, before kicking it to a gallop. They raced across pasture, up the hillside, and around the curve of brush. Before them Tarnoor sat, Boldheart’s great head in his lap. Tarnoor’s hand stroked the sweat-streaked neck. He glanced across as the children galloped up.