Harran smirked after them. It was a pleasure to serve a lord and lady who knew the score even against their own kinblood. He concentrated on finding the oldest, dirtiest, most-mended gear in the stable. But in mercy to the horse he used a thick, comfortable saddle blanket. Kirion was groaning his way back to consciousness as a servant arrived with two leather bags.
“The young lord’s clothing. How is the little—master?”
“He’ll live.” Harran tied the horse to the wall ring, then expertly added the filled saddlebags. “I’ve orders to see him on his way. Stay with me in case he tries to make trouble about it.”
The servant spat on his palms. “I hope he does.”
But Kirion knew when to lie low. One look at the two men told him they’d be only too delighted to tie him on his mount before chasing it through Aiskeep gates. He kept silence as he checked the bridle and saddle. It wouldn’t surprise him if they’d fixed those to dump him again, either. He mounted and rode off, still silent. But Harran catching a glimpse of Kirion’s eyes thought he’d seldom seen such a wicked look. If Harran were Lord Trovagh, he’d be keeping a very wary eye out for this one in the future.
Neither Trovagh nor Ciara were unaware of the dangers. Kirion had some powerful friends these days. Aiskeep had a long reputation as a Keep unlucky to attack. But if Kirion gained real power, there were no guarantees he’d care. Ciara remained with Aisling until the girl fell asleep, then she rejoined her husband.
“Bad news, love.”
He queried her with a look.
“The child used Power to make Kirion release her. From the sound of things, he may even have realized it.”
Trovagh swore. He spoke with a range and fluency that would have surprised any not familiar with his father in like mind.
“That’s just what we didn’t want any of that lot to know.”
“He may still be unaware. Apparently, Aisling called Power to burn his hand. It made him drop the whip and let her go. But from what she says, it would not have been great enough to leave marks. He may discount it. You know Kirion. He’d hate to think there was just one more thing Aisling could do that he could not.”
“That’s true,” Trovagh said slowly, “But he may also see her as a possible tool if he can force himself to accept it. I fear that she may be in danger if this is so.”
In an inn on the outskirts of a town a half-day’s ride to the North, Kirion brooded over wine. He’d been unjustly treated. First, because he preferred a decent city to a miserable chilly Keep, he was disinherited. Then because he attempted a jest on his sister he was attacked, despoiled of his property, and flung out of his own place. His grandparents had allowed a low-born servant to strike their grandson. Even more, they’d sent the same man to threaten him. He went over events again and again.
Soon he’d convinced himself the whole thing had been only a trick, a joke on his part. The girl had no right to laugh at him. His grandparents had no right to steal his best saddle and bridle to give to that brat. He’d show them, he’d pay them all out somehow. He slept heavily and woke with a sore head and surly of temper. He drank more wine before leaving.
The road was rough over the next day’s ride. Kirion was obliged to travel at a walk. It gave him time to brood, to count his wrongs, and swear revenge again. He found he was recalling the race. Damn, if only the girl’s horse hadn’t shied. He rapidly convinced himself that this had been an accident rather than riding ability. The brat had probably been about to fall off. Why his actions might even have helped her regain her balance as the horse shied back under her.
There was some vague memory teasing at the back of his mind. He couldn’t quite recall, but something nagged at him. Something had been wrong in the scenes as he considered them. He should have given the girl the beating of her life. More of those and she might have learned respect for the head of her house. He’d like to have the teaching of her for a year or two. She’d learn politeness and respect for Kirion then, and he’d see to that with pleasure. The feeling of having forgotten something continued to tease him. Oh, well, he’d remember it if it was important. But he was tired and his head ached. He fell into a half dream as he rode.
He found the reins chafing his fingers. They seemed to burn—burn—Sersgarth had burned. He’d known the story most of his life, though not the sequel. Only three now alive knew the why of Sersgarth. Pagar’s bid for power. It seemed unlucky to be duke in Kars. They said it harked back to Yvian who’d had the Old Race horned as outlaws. Once he and his friends raised that fool Shandro to the throne, things would change. And rumor had it that all Yvian’s luck went with the Old Race when they fled. Certainly Pagar hadn’t been fortunate.
Everything, a dukedom, three beautiful wives one after another, the most powerful clans backing him. Then Estcarp, and all at once everything was gone—including Pagar and Kirion’s father. That was the Witches. It was said they could do anything. Burn a man to death with their witchery. Blue fire to burn a witch’s enemies.
His breath caught. Yes! That was the memory he’d hunted. When he’d lifted the whip, the girl’s eyes had been so frightened that it had given him a delightful sense of his own power.
Then, all of a sudden, his hand had been on fire. He’d dropped his whip, the girl had fought free of him, and fled. Harran had arrived, preventing Kirion from following, and had struck him. But it was in that fraction of a second before Aisling fled that he’d seen her shine. A sort of faint bluish light from her skin. Power to burn their enemies. The brat was a Witch!
He knew there was Old Blood in Aiskeep. His mother had told him, primming up her mouth in disapproval, although it hadn’t stopped her family from offering her to Kirin, her son thought in amusement. And somewhere as a young boy he’d heard about his grandmother. She was said to have been a half-blood from the Old Race. Tarnoor had taken her in after the Horning, and wed her to his son for the dowry Ciara had to bring. An inheritance. She could have given another inheritance to the line. Something his young sister had just displayed. Aisling could have inherited abilities.
He smiled slowly. Power! It could be used in so many ways. He rode on, but now he sat straighter, a small unpleasant smile on his lips. There were ambitions he would accomplish. Those he could influence in his favor. Enemies he could be well rid of. Power can come in many forms, he mused. If he played this unexpected card well, he could have it all.
11
Kirion went to the records at the Kars shrine on his return. There he dug through documents until he found everything he could uncover. It made more interesting reading than he’d anticipated in the end. There was the document giving title of Elmsgarth to his great-grandfather. He noted the dates. Tarnoor had been no fool, by the Flame. He’d taken in an orphan and done well from it. He noted the price subsequently paid for the garth and whistled.
He discovered the Heir’s Rights paper Tarnoor had sent and was stunned. Witchery! His grandmother must have bewitched the old fool. This allowed her to disinherit any in direct line, naming whoever she chose in their place once Trovagh was dead. He then found that while he had been disinherited, Keelan had not. So! The little brother had ambitions above his station, did he? Kirion would have to teach him a lesson about that. He rechecked all the documents and saw this time a tiny notation on a corner of each. There was no way he could simply destroy everything, they’d thought of that. At least someone somewhere held copies.
It was likely to be Geavon, Kirion thought, as he replaced the papers. The man was a little younger than Tarnoor had been, although his way of talking made him appear ancient. But Geavon took care of himself; he was good for a lot longer yet. And he didn’t like Kirion. There was no way Kirion was going to get into the records at Gerith Keep to destroy any copies there. He left the shrine looking unpleasantly thoughtful.