Lanlia had no time for her questions. “Take this one back, too. Hurry!” Ciara found another full carrysack pushed into her hands and obediently hurried. A third journey, but on the way back this time she could see riders. She dropped into her bedroom gabbling the news. Her father was there. It was he who asked quietly, “How many?”
“I couldn’t count, maybe twenty.”
“Are they riding fast?”
“No.” Ciara was puzzled. “They don’t seem in any hurry.”
Larian’s voice was suddenly savage. “No, they know we’re trapped if we’re here. Why tire the horses.”
Lanlia was practical. “Let them dawdle all they will. It gives us more time. Ciara, you remember what I told you, tell me again.”
“I’m to go to the cave and stay there five days or until you call me back. If you can’t… oh, Mother, I’m scared!”
She was hugged hard. “I know, now go on.”
“If anything happens I wait five days, then go to Lord Tarnoor. Only to him.”
“Yes. This time don’t come back from your cave. Be careful. Don’t let the riders see you.” One by one her family embraced her. At the last Larian placed two items in her hand. She looked down.
His hand closed hers upon them. “If we live, I’ll claim them from you, little sister. If I don’t, they’re yours.” He helped her through the window, watching as she vanished in the foliage.
He could have gone with her. From what his mother said there would be room in the cave for two. But his seventeenth name day had passed. It was for a man to defend his home and family, not to hide while others died.
He’d been fortunate. His father was only partly of the Old Blood, but his first wife had been wholly so. For that Falco and Merryon had both died, their faces too much of the ancient race. But both Larian and Ciara looked more like the incomers. Lanlia had been a half-blood orphan who wed the widowed farmer. Her children resembled her, dark-haired, but with rounder faces and eyes of a clear hazel.
It had saved the boy’s life as he thrust through blood-crazed men toward the stables. Once there he had swiftly saddled Falco’s relay. He’d guessed his brother would need them no more. That first two days he had ridden all three mounts into near exhaustion to stay ahead of the news. Then he had swung up onto the foothill tracks. In a tiny valley he had unsaddled the leg-weary animals, hobbling them carefully. He had allowed the horses to graze all day while he hunted. Two hares and several rabbits would be good rations for days. He ate ravenously, tearing the roast flesh from small bones.
That night he had slept until midday, risen to eat eagerly again, and then saddled his mounts. Now he kept away from any riders. Several times he dropped down to warn garths where the inhabitants were friends and of the Old Blood. Each time he had been given filled feed sacks for the horses, food for himself. He had been able to press on to the limits of his strength. Two horses had been left behind as he rode.
Larian clamped his teeth shut on a plea to join Ciara. He knew if he stayed he would die. He stared out of the window slit as the riders approached. He recognized the enemy, and accepted death. With the guards was a neighbor who’d always coveted Elmsgarth land. Under the new Karsten laws he could take it once all males in the family were dead. Ciara had no claim. Only if she had been adult and wed could she have held it.
The neighbor might overlook the child’s absence, but not Larian’s. He would see the lathered horse that stood head down by the fence and guess. Larian stood straighten If he was to die, then he would see to it their neighbor did not profit. He strung his bow and waited.
Far above Ciara had reached the cave with her last carry-sack. She huddled into the heavy gray wool of the cloak. It felt like home. Lanlia had woven it for herself only last year. Falco had sent a set of matching hareskins to line it as his Year-End gift. They’d been taken when the hares were in winter garb so that on one side the cloak was dark gray wool, and on the other pure white fur. It was far too large for Ciara, but it would keep her warm in her refuge if she must wait. It even had a hood with drawstrings to tighten it about her face.
She wiggled forward to look down. The riders had reached the garth. From her perch she could hear only a mumble until one raised his voice.
“Come out and you can go free.” She knew the man. He was Tylar from Sersgarth in the next valley. He had a pack of brawling sons all looking hard at their father’s garth. At least that was what her father had said once. Her mother had retorted that Tylar could look for land for his sons elsewhere. Below Tylar was shouting again.
“Come out and you can go. You leave everything and we’ll leave you.”
There was no movement from the house and Ciara whimpered. If Tylar was telling the truth it would be wonderful. They could just leave and they’d be safe. Then she wondered.
But where would they go if they had to leave everything behind? How would they live?
She squirmed back a little looking down at the treasures Larian had given her to hold for him.
They were treasures in truth. The slim-bladed dagger laying in her hand had never been sharpened. It had come down from the family of her father’s grandmother. Legend had it the dagger had been made by an adept in the Power. Be the story true or not it was true that the dagger remained razor sharp no matter what its usage. For that alone it was prized. Larian had been a favorite of his grandmother’s. She had given the weapon to him when he left at fourteen to study in Kars. She had died soon after and Ciara knew how Larian treasured it.
The other object she held was a pendant. It was drop-shaped in silver with small wings sweeping up in a curve on either side. Minute blue stones edged each wing feather. It had been wrought with a delicacy that was sheer beauty.
That had come from her mother’s side of the family. It was a bridal gift, held by each son in turn to give to his chosen. Ciara slipped the chain about her neck allowing the pendant to fall beneath her bodice. Then she wiggled back to peer out from the cave mouth again. What were they doing down there?
At first she could see no one. Then a small group of men on foot came into view. Leading them was neighbor Tylar. They carried a log from the wood stack. Ciara was puzzled; what did they plan to do with it? She gasped as below the log was swung forward to strike the door with a hollow boom. She stared blankly. Why, they’d break the door if they kept doing that. Then as the log struck again she understood. They meant to break in. Now that her family was thrice-horned anything could be done to them. There was nothing against the law. Small whimpers squeezed between her clenched teeth. All the stories she had ever heard rose up to remind her of what that ‘anything’ could be.
Larian sighted his arrow carefully. From among their neighbors, only Tylar was with the guards. If he was dead, there would be none to say Ciara lived. There was no hope for any within Elmsgarth, he knew that now. But his adored small sister might still survive. With Tylar dead his sons would be too busy squabbling over their own Sersgarth and the Elmsgarth land to bother about one small female child with no claim. He hung on the shot until Tylar moved clear. The arrow flew with deadly accuracy. Tylar fell soundlessly, heart pierced. The guards shouted with rage, redoubling their attack on the door.
Talyo nodded to his son in approval. He knew why the boy had shot. Larian had always been the best archer in the family. That had been a tricky shot but Tylar was silenced, and Ciara safer. His wife had vanished upstairs to the watchtower. It had been built by his great-grandfather when he took this valley for his own. The land had been more lawless then and it had been used often. It stood high above the garth. Very high. Anyone who leaped from that would not survive landing on the cobblestones below. Lanlia returned to stand beside her husband.