At Aiskeep the years were quiet after Seran’s departure. They slipped by like beads on thread as unrest ruled Karsten. Yet it passed them by. The knowledge that twice other Keeps had tried Aiskeep walls nor found them wanting encouraged Aiskeep to be left in peace. Tarnoor started no feuds, and he lived quietly; he believed it was better not to stamp on the tail of a sleeping snowcat. Geavon continued to write from his Keep near the city. The news was rarely good as Keeps and clans warred, now with this one now with that.
Trovagh and Ciara were happy. The girl was seventeen, slim and round of face. Her eyes glowed a warm laughing hazel, her skin a sun-ripened peach. She was agile and supple, interested in everything and everyone. Trovagh was her friend and partner in it all. Sometimes his father wondered how long it would take the lad to wake up and look at his young friend. The lass was not beautiful, but there was an integrity there. A strength and pride. From towers to furthest valley she knew and loved Aiskeep.
One day the boy would open his eyes. Ciara was born to be Keep Lady. Elanor smiled to herself. Events would take care of themselves. She made sure that Tarnoor said nothing. In the Year of the Pronghorn they celebrated Ciara’s eighteenth name day. The Torgians had produced two foals in that time. The oldest had been carefully broken and trained for the girl at Tarnoor’s orders. Trovagh led the girl to the stables to show off the fine colt. Ciara clapped her hands.
“He’s lovely. Tro, let’s go for a ride?”
Her friend grinned cheerfully. “I guessed you wouldn’t wait to try out everything.” He patted the magnificent saddle that had been his own gift. Beside it hung the bridle Elanor had given and a beautiful saddle blanket of rabbit furs that was Hanion’s gift. Trovagh looked across at the stalled present.
“But it’s a pity you can’t use the colt. Father was so annoyed the poor beast picked up a stone bruise right on your name day. Never mind, you can take Quickfeet; she’s good in rough land.” He grinned at her. “You’d better change. The stable boy will have my horse ready by the time you get back here.” He added as she turned to go, “And tell Father that we’ll ride down to the cave and be gone all day. I’ll get food from the kitchen, then wait here.” He watched as she picked up her skirts to run lightly back up the inner stairs. It was only on feast days and when visitors were present that Cee ever wore real skirts. At other times she wore the shorter knee-length type divided for riding. She always said that she was too busy to drag about in skirts to the floor with all the weight of wool.
If pressed she recounted that tale of old Geavon’s about some Keep Lady who’d broken her neck by tripping over a long skirt. Anyway, he liked Cee the way she was. Most of their visitors didn’t mind. Geavon had been here twice in the past few years. He was a stickler for proper dress, but he’d smiled at Cee and said nothing. Geavon had been involved in some conspiracy in Kars before the first visit. It had gone wrong and Geavon had chosen to be out of sight and mind a few months. The second visit had been last year. The old man had complained that as Tarnoor never came to Gerith Keep, Gerith Keep must come to him. Trovagh was silently of the opinion that the man was lonely.
At least he had been. Elanor had mentioned that Geavon had hip pains from an old wound. That he was taking extract of poppy to ease the pains when they came. Maybe the old man was wanting to see his only friends while he could. Last time he’d arrived with quite a train of guards and a couple of travel wagons. It occurred to the boy as he remembered, that this was rather more than needed for a visit. Even for Gerith’s lord who liked to travel in style. He’d have pursued that idea but for the necessity of persuading Cook they must have food. Once the saddlebags had been filled he’d forgotten all about it.
Ciara joined him just as he returned to the stables. She wore her new riding clothes made by Elanor during the winter. Almost absently Trovagh noticed how well they suited her—and how well they fitted. He found he was admiring the supple sway of her body as she sat through the excited cavorting of her young mount.
“Hey, sleepy. Are you going to sit there all day or do we ride?”
Trovagh snorted. “Ride. Bet I can beat you to the first garth.” He kicked his horse into a gallop before he finished his words. Ciara was behind him though as his horse accelerated. They raced whooping and laughing down the valley. But at Mann’s garth, he and Jontar met them with grave faces.
“Lord, the Lady Ciara’s flock did not return to their barn last night. The boy with them has not come back.”
“Maybe one of the sheep became lost. If the lad was looking too late to return, he’ll have kept them in the cave for the night.”
“That’s likely, Lord. But we’d be happy if you could be sure.”
Trovagh glanced at Cee, and she nodded. The lad was Marin and Jontar’s grandson. It was natural the old men should be worried. But the day was bright, too nice to spend worrying. They followed the trail to the fork near the cave. One track led to the cave, the other deeper into the mountains. As they turned toward the cave, Trovagh halted.
“I can see something down there; look, Cee, just by that rock at the bottom.”
She stared over the small cliff. “It’s a lamb. That must be why the boy’s late. He’ll be up at the cave with the rest of the flock. You see if you can get the lamb. Even if it was killed yesterday it should be all right for eating. I’ll ride up to the cave to find Kiv and tell him.”
Trovagh nodded agreement, then dismounted to peer over the edge. It shouldn’t be hard to get down, but it puzzled him why Kiv hadn’t found the lamb. Maybe he had only lost it on the way home, then turned back to look. It was always wise to have some sort of rope on one’s saddle in rough lands. He unhooked the braided rawhide, fastening it to a stump near the cliff edge. Then he walked down the steep slope to gather the lamb across one shoulder. He was about to climb back when a flutter caught his eye. He glanced across. Something lying behind a larger boulder? But only cloth would flap that way.
He took two casual paces forward, to find he was staring at Kiv’s body as it sprawled on the ground. Trovagh dropped the lamb. Flames! The poor lad must have fallen trying to reach the lamb. His eyes focused on the boy. There was something sticking from the lad’s chest. Trovagh investigated. The stump of an arrow, the broken portion lay near the body. Bandits? The cave! If there were outlaws around the cave would be the most likely place for them to be. Oh, Gods, Cee had gone to find Kiv there.
Trovagh was on horseback and cantering before he thought. He had sense enough to slow before the final stretch to the hideaway. He dismounted, slipping through the brush on foot; luckily he had taken his bow, he thought. They usually hunted while in the foothills. Cee would have hers, too, but he feared she might not have had the chance to use it. That was her horse standing there. Damn, if only her name-day gift hadn’t bruised his hoof that way. The Torgian colt would have attacked on command, or even without if he saw his rider seized.
Quickfeet shied violently away from the cave as within it Ciara screamed. The girl came staggering back clear of the cave-mouth, her upper clothing torn. Her fingers hooked into claws, her eyes flaming fury as she fought in silence now against the man who held her captive. Trovagh glanced about swiftly. There was another horse past the cave. It was a typical bandit mount. Overridden, ill-used, but of originally good quality. Why steal poor animals when you can steal the best. But only one horse, most likely only one man, two at most.