Luckily there had been no more than beer brewed by the garthswomen, Tarnoor thought the next morning. The merrymaking had continued until the early hours. He’d found Ciara and Trovagh asleep huddled together in one of the barns well before Tarnoor himself had staggered to rest.
He’d smiled down at them. As yet they treated each other as brother and sister. Time enough for formal marriage when that changed. They were old enough, but he had never had a taste for breeding his stock too young. It paid to wait. Full-grown beasts produced healthier offspring with fewer losses of dam or baby. From what he’d seen over the years, he thought bitterly, that should be applied more to human marriages as well.
He remembered his own weddings. The first when he was sixteen, the girl had been barely thirteen. She’d died in childbed, the baby with her. It had been more than ten years before he’d wed a second time.
Wiser then, he’d wanted to wait to have children; his new bride was so young. It had been the fault of her mother. Seria must have told her that she was no more than a companion to him as yet. The woman had brewed some poisonous potion, sneaked it into his wine, then coached her daughter. He’d been muzzy, hot with desire when Seria came. He’d done what the drugs drove him to and his young wife demanded before collapsing into sleep.
In the morning he’d feared for her. Left her alone again until she came to him to say she was with child from that night. Then he’d gone to Lanlia begging help. She’d come to look over the girl and told him the truth.
“She’s too young to bear safely. Her hips are too narrow. She will die.” She’d hesitated. “I could give her a potion to free her of the child. In such cases my craft allows.”
Tarnoor would have agreed. It was his wife who refused. She’d been another of those who feared witchery, even the gentle healcraft. She was certain it was a son and she would bear him safely for Aiskeep. It had been a son for Aiskeep, she had been wrong in all else.
Once her labor began Tarnoor had been ruthless. He’d sent at once for her mother. Demanded she attend her daughter so she might see what she had done. For three agonizing days he waited. He’d wept when the babe was brought to him. Wept again when he bade his dead wife farewell. He had not wept when he drove her mother from his gates.
If it had not been for her folly he might still have had the girl he’d adored. He might have had many strong children growing up to name him Father. She’d cheated him of that. He’d wed no more. Nor had he. Trovagh would be his only child. Tarnoor had been panic-stricken when the toddler fell and was so badly injured. Lanlia had come with all speed, her strength poured out to save the child. For that he’d sworn blood debt. It was why she’d sent her child to him at the last. In that he had still paid nothing. He’d loved the girl from the first, loved hep as the daughter he’d hoped to have with his second wedding. It was an old saying: A son for the Keep, a daughter for the heart. He had both. What the Gods took with one hand they gave with the other.
Ciara slept. In her dream the familiar silver mist rose about her. On her breast the pendant took on life under the covering cloth. It glowed softly, the gem chips at the wing edges points of blue flame. Ciara saw her mother standing on the edge of the watchtower. Across the distance their eyes met. Love linked between. Someone was saying something as the girl strained to hear.
It was familiar, not her mother speaking but—she gasped in sudden recognition. It had been years but surely—surely it was her grandmother’s voice that spoke? She willed it louder. It was speaking to her mother. She watched the change of expression on that loved face. Saw the fear and grief fade to be replaced with an accepting serenity. Ciara felt the same emotion flow across the link. She watched quietly as she saw the tower door spring open, the Kars guards rush through. She looked as Lanlia fell and through the link she knew her mother’s spirit had fled before she struck the ground.
In her mind the words Lanlia had heard echoed softly. A promise from one who scorned to lie. “The Old Blood shall come full circle. It shall rise to flower again.”
Ciara smiled in her sleep. Estcarp. That was where most of her blood had fled. But the voice spoke again then, very quietly. “Not to Estcarp but to the east shall the blood seek. There it shall flower in freedom. When the time comes, give what you treasure that one you love may fly free. Remember!”
Ciara woke slowly. She’d dreamed something but she couldn’t quite recall. She’d heard someone speak, seen something. It didn’t matter. Under her bodice the glow faded from her pendant. The time for her to remember was not yet. Beside her Trovagh stirred, stretching and yawning sleepily. He staggered to his feet.
“Didn’t Father say we should go to the cave today? Let’s see if there’s anything to eat, I’m starving.”
So was Ciara; she ran with him to seek both food and drink. Then she saddled their horses while Tarnoor gave orders.
“Keep the captives unharmed until we return. They may have water. If they speak uncleanly, gag them again after they have drunk. I will return soon. Go about your work but leave men to guard them.”
He nudged his mount into a steady canter up the hillside trail. The boy and girl ranged up the line of riders to fall in behind Tarnoor and Hanion. By sunhigh they were at the cave, spreading out in silence to hunt. There was nothing within but the ashes of a fire, debris from several meals. They continued on to where horses had been pastured. There they found dung and hoofprints, cropped grass. Hanion stood up from inspecting these.
“I see the tracks of no more beasts than those we have already. There are footprints leading away, one set only. A woman, I think. Let you and I, my lord, follow with care.” Tarnoor agreed, pausing only to signal Trovagh that he should join them.
There was not far to trail the reeling steps. For much of the way the one ahead had gone dragging on hands and knees. Tarnoor guessed what they would find. They rounded bushes, then with a gasp Hanion stooped.
His fingers touched, seeking life. Then he looked up. “No use, my lord. She’s been dead for hours. I don’t know her, she must have been some traveler they stole along the way.” His hands gently straightened the twisted body, closed the staring, agonized eyes. Behind them there was a sound close to a snarl as Ciara thrust past.
Tarnoor caught her back. “Nothing you can do for her, lass. She’s gone beyond some hours, Hanion says.”
The girl ignored him, dropping to sit touching the pale face. Then she spoke. “She must have an honored grave by Cup and Flame.” She reached for twigs piling them into a small stack at the feet. Trovagh walked away to return with a cup made from a large leaf. In it was watered wine from someone’s flask.
“Will this do, Cee?”
“Yes.” She stood looking down at the woman as Tarnoor spoke the words of leave-taking. There was Cup and Flame but the dead spirit cried for more. Ciara could feel the rage and hate that still held the spirit bound. It needed the fire for cleansing that it might be freed. Slowly her hand moved to her pendant. Tarnoor saw the movement and spoke softly to Hanion.
“Go to the men, say we return shortly, we do but bury one misused by those sons of filth. Remain with them until we are done.”
Ciara had waited. Hanion marched away, then her hand lifted the pendant. She opened her mind to the silver mists. She did not know what to do, only that the spirit should have peace. That she willed with all her heart. To those beside her it appeared she did nothing, but a soft golden glow rose about the woman’s body. It thickened, closed tighter. Then as it cleared, it could be seen there were only ashes. A small breeze lifted them, and they were gone.