Tarnoor looked at the girl. Now they both knew what could have happened. He signaled the children to him. “The bandits are your prisoners. It is for you now to decide what you will do with them. Speak together as we return. Tell me your choice once we are at the garth.” It was not a pleasant lesson, but both had to learn that wars had aftermaths. The decisions there, too, fell on the Keep Rulers. From the corner of his eye he watched as the pair talked, falling back in their concentration. Then they were riding into the valley. Ciara rode up to his left, Trovagh to his right. Both young faces were stern with decision.
At Jontar’s garth Tarnoor stood and looked down at the bandits. He glanced about; there was a line of trees by the stream that would do at need. He motioned to his men.
“As my son and his lady judge, so will you do.” It was Ciara who stepped forward, Trovagh at her shoulder. She spoke in a clear voice for all to hear.
“In winter the wolves come, we meet them with fire and sword, nor do we mourn their deaths. Yet they come to feed their cubs, to eat instead of starving. If we give them death and it is just then these men, too, should die. They came to plunder, to rape and burn, for nothing but pleasure in their own evil. So have we judged them.” She fell silent.
Trovagh took a pace forward, he breathed in once hard, then spoke. “Hang them!” When they rode out an hour later, it had been done.
7
That winter was hard. Bitter chill, an early snow that stayed late, and wind that whipped up the air to blizzard frenzy. Within the garths of Aiskeep there was no great hardship. The houses were strong, well chinked between the logs that formed their structure. The Keep itself was warm from the large hearths, although drafts abounded in the main hall in which all shared meals. Ciara had noticed that long since and planned for almost two years to surprise her uncle.
The sheep of Aiskeep were white, small hardy creatures that lived in two flocks in the foothills above the valley end. With the death of Ciara’s family, the flock of black and brown beasts her mother had reared were added. They grazed separate from the others with their own shepherd. The girl visited them every week; Ysak, the flock ram, was an old friend. The sheep were shorn in rotation by flock. It was a tiring business but wool was one of a Keep’s staples. Even the poorer garths had a few sheep. How else were they to have clothes to wear. The colored sheep remained Ciara’s. Quietly over the past two years she had taken possession of several of the fleeces after the shearing was completed. Some she traded with the garths. Others she retained. With all three colors she had worked busily on evenings when Tarnoor was away. Elanor and Trovagh had known her plan, of course; often they had found time to help. The kittens, too, had assisted—at least that was probably how they thought of it. Now this winter, it looked as if the end was in sight.
It would be Tarnoor’s name day in another few weeks. Since that was only a few days from the midwinter feast, it was usual to combine the two. Trovagh had found a small sheet of parchment, well used but capable of being cleansed. He scraped it patiently until all the old message had been removed. Then with painstaking care he lettered a name-day blessing on the whitened surface. From the Keep’s priestess he persuaded tiny pots of blue, green, and gold, these being the colors of good wishing. The blessing was a work of art when it was done.
Trovagh went in search of Ciara when he finished. “What do you think?”
She studied the parchment. “I think it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, Tro. I wish I could letter like that.”
“You can write.”
Ciara sighed. “I know. But that’s just writing. What you do is art.” She pointed. “Look at the kitten peering out around the capital letter. Look at the lawleaves along the border, and the quarewings eating them.” She laughed. “That bird is winking. I always thought quarewings were cute. It’s just so beautiful, Tro. Uncle Nefhyn will love it.”
“What’s Elanor giving him?”
The girl grinned. “A new robe and slippers. She used some of my brown and black wool, then she dyed more of the white. It’s in the house colors.”
Trovagh whistled softly. “You mean she managed to get that mulberry shade right at last?”
“Yes. Don’t let her know I told you. But it’s perfect. She’s done it with two different lots of wool now. It wasn’t the color so much. It’s setting it; mulberry usually doesn’t hold once it’s washed. Now that she’s found a way to make it fast, I expect we’ll have something else to trade next market. The gold was easy, that’s just onionskins. She got the mulberry just right, so I expect we’ll all be wearing it after a few more name days.”
The preparations continued whenever Tarnoor was absent. There was much muffled giggling and hasty whipping of things from sight whenever he returned. Tarnoor played his part by carefully seeing nothing. The servants contributed their help with enthusiasm. The Keep Lord was loved and besides, it wouldn’t do to miss out on any fun going in a long, hard winter. When the day came, Tarnoor obligingly found work he must do away from the main Keep rooms.
In the large banqueting hall there were loud voices. “To one side—no, the other one, you fool. Higher. More. Yes, that’s it. Secure that there. Shift the other over a handsbreadth. Ah, yes. That’s perfect.”
Elanor stood back to beam in approval. “They look wonderful, Cee. Now go quickly and change, you, too, Tro. I’ll just make sure all is well in the kitchens, then Tarnoor will be back. Go, go!” She chased them from the hall so that they ran giggling before her. Feet pounded up the stone stairs. Young voices called back and forth as they changed to festival clothes. Ciara swept from her room to join her friend. He took her arm and they drifted regally back down the great stair, the elegant effect slightly spoiled by quiet giggles. Tro was telling her how an overfresh mount had dumped Hanion in a snowdrift that morning.
Tarnoor arrived to find his family clustered at the hall entrance.
“What’s this? Are we to eat standing out here?”
Ciara danced up. “No, Uncle Nethyn. But we have a surprise for you. Now you have to promise to shut your eyes and not open them until we say.” Tarnoor shut his eyes obediently. With a child on either side to guide him, he was piloted to his seat.
“You can open your eyes now.” Tarnoor did so.
Before him there was the usual pile of name-day gifts. But there’d been no need to hide those from him. He glanced around, his eyes suddenly caught by new color where none had been in the old hall. He stared before walking over to touch, to examine. By the Flames but this must have been work for the child. It was something new, too. The hall had wall hangings, old tapestries woven and sewed by his mother, his grandmother, and earlier ladies. Such tapestries were not only to brighten a hall, they also kept drafts from those who ate there. Many years gone there had been two more tapestries. But the years and the moth had conquered.
The drafts had been fierce of late where those two had once hung. Now two new hangings were in place. Tarnoor fingered them. Felt! No one had ever done wall hangings of felt before. The hangings had a strong, primitive look to them. The colors were clear and brighter, hard edged on each piece. He stepped back to look again. Aiskeep in spring, gray stone under soft blue skies, with green grass and the stream. Thickets of lawleaves, and a flock of sheep grazing nearby.
The other hanging was Aiskeep in the fall. The same gray stone Keep, but with the glowing hues of almost winter. He moved forward once more. It was interesting. Up close the picture vanished into no more than odd-shaped pieces of felt. Step back and you could see Aiskeep again. Ciara waited anxiously. Trader Tanrae had told her of this method of making hangings two years ago on one of his visits. It was quicker than tapestry, warmer, too. It might also last better, but only time would demonstrate that.