His voice became coaxing, “Listen. You can have a family.” Behind him Tarnoor stood motionless and silent in the doorway. He, too, had wakened and come to the child’s cries, just in time to hear her confession. He could understand it. Older, stronger people than this girl had been broken by the knowledge they stood alone. Children often understood other children better than any adult. He waited to hear what his son would say.
“Honest, Cee. You can have a family.”
“How?” Her interest was caught.
“You do like me, don’t you?”
Her hazel eyes gazed at him. “You’re my best friend.”
He stammered a little on the next question, “D-do you love me, Cee?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation.
Trovagh drew in a deep breath. “Then you can have a family.” In bemused wonder, Tarnoor listened as his son proposed marriage.
“If we’re betrothed, then my father is your father, too. And I’m sort of a brother until we marry. Elanor’s cousin to my mother so she’d be your cousin, too. That way you’d have a real family again. All you have to do is say the words, Cee.”
For the first time in many years, Tarnoor felt tears prick his eyes as his son led Ciara through as much as he understood of a betrothal ceremony. Somewhere along the line the boy had also heard of knife oath. He added that in, solemnly bringing out his knife to draw a bead of blood from a finger of each of them. The blood was then mingled. Trovagh reached for the cup of water beside her bed.
“Drink a little.” She did so obediently. Trovagh drank after her. He took Ciara’s hands. “That’s it. By the Cup we shared, by the Flame to witness, by the Blood joined. We’re betrothed and my family is yours. You don’t have to be alone again.” He leaned forward to kiss her very gently on the forehead. “That’s my right as betrothed.”
Then, as Tarnoor shrank further out of sight, the boy stretched. “Gods but I’m sleepy. You’ll be all right now, Cee?”
She nodded, her small face happier. Tarnoor watched as his son trotted back to his own room. When he could again peer through the door, Ciara was asleep. The Keep Lord was thoughtful all of the next day. Without her noticing, he kept an eye on the girl. The ceremony, odd mixture though it had been, seemed to have worked. Ciara kept her meals down, slept without dreaming, and woke to eat heartily. She blossomed. Tarnoor spent a week thinking it over, then he made a decision.
It would not be a bad idea to allow the ceremony legal status. He’d never lose Ciara. His son could have a far worse wife and the girl had brought a fair dowry—by now he’d had sufficient time to check all her belongings and the boxes. He quietly called Elanor, confiding what he had seen.
“The child adores him. I think it an excellent idea, Nethyn. Trovagh will never be strong physically. The girl won’t hold that against him as another might. Nor will she seek to take power for herself. She is of decent family, is she not?”
Tarnoor nodded. “Her mother Lanlia was orphaned. But her grandmother was of a very old family. That pendant the child wears is from that line. There’s more. When I opened the boxes, I found a complete setting in solid silver for the table.” He whispered the crest and watched her eyes widen. “Yes, that’s no line to be scorned. There were plates and bowls with it, all in silver. The carrysack Lanlia gave the girl to hide in the cave had jewelry. Fine work with rare gems from Estcarp. Another of the boxes had gold and silver coins. A goodly sum. Ciara does not come empty-handed to a betrothal even as Karsten would count it.” He thrust a paper at her. “Sign this as a witness. It says I approve the match. I’ll have the priestess in tomorrow.”
Elanor signed, smiling.
The next day the children were called to Tarnoor’s study. When they left both were beaming. On one slender finger Ciara bore a ring. They’d spoken words all over again, this time before a Priestess of Cup and Flame. They hadn’t cared. Both knew that it was the earlier ceremony that bound them. It would for all of their lives.
3
For a time Aiskeep was quiet after that. Ciara grew strong. The nightmares troubled her no more. That winter it was Trovagh who was ill. His chest troubles flared with the coming of a cold that made him cough painfully. Ciara vanished industriously into the herb room to brew. She returned with a concoction that he swallowed trustingly. Then he smiled.
“That tastes just the same as your mother used to give me.”
“It is the same.” It helped the boy until he was careless enough to escape from his bed.
A messenger had come, there was commotion, loud, excited talking, all the fuss guaranteed to bring a boy from his bed in the middle of a night that was chill by any standards. Boylike, too, he ignored it, wearing no more than his slippers and nightgown. By the time he had crouched long on the stairs to hear all that was said, he was chilled to the bone. After all that it hadn’t been so interesting anyhow, Trovagh muttered to himself. He hunched back into his cold bed and shivered. He felt so cold.
By the early hours of the morning he was hot, tossing off his bedding only to drag it back again as he shivered once more. Something woke Ciara then. She sat up listening. There was nothing to be heard. She would have laid down again but for the tugging at her attention. She dressed quietly. Lanlia had always said to pay attention to feelings such as these. Silently the child drifted from her room. She would look at her family, see that all was well.
She came first to Trovagh’s room and stood listening. There came a faint moan, a soft sound of jumbled words. Then she knew. Ciara wasted no time in entering to reach him. The boy thrashed, burning with fever, already delirious. Ciara looked once, then raced from the room to call Elanor. She burst into the Keep mistress’s room without ceremony. Elanor woke abruptly to someone who shook her savagely calling her name. Scared half out of her wits she screamed. This brought Tarnoor bellowing questions as he burst through the door in turn. Ciara had no time for any of them.
“Shut up!” she yelled. “Listen! Tro is sick. He’s feverish and his chest is rattling when he breathes. Come quickly.” She did not pause to see if they obeyed. By the time they found her she was back with her friend sponging his face gently.
Elanor turned to build up the fire. Heat would help to break the fever. It was then that Trovagh coughed. She heard the rattle and winced inwardly. That was pneumonia, she’d heard it before. Many died from it. They labored for two days as Trovagh grew no better.
Ciara sat with him constantly, her herb concoctions seemingly the only thing that helped. Her presence always able to calm him. The whole of Aiskeep prayed. They’d known the lad since his father brought him out in swaddling clothes to be shown to those he would rule. They were aware that Tarnoor’s rule was fair and kind by any standards, far more so than the rule in many Keeps. Trovagh would continue that. The heir after him would not. Tarnoor prayed most fervently. He begged for the life of his son—for several reasons. The foremost was love of the boy. The next was love of his people and the great grim gray Keep they shared.
Like the people he knew the habits of the next heir. A corrupt lad. Barely twenty, he was a third cousin in a cadet branch of the line. The boy lived mostly in Kars, and was a hanger-on to Yvian and worshiper of Aldis. If Risho ever came into power he would be ruthless for his own pleasure. Tamoor prayed harder, on his knees in the small shrine until his back ached. It was all he could do. Upstairs Ciara labored with all the aid Elanor could give. The fire blazed, and blankets were piled on the bed. Trovagh was dosed with every medicine Ciara had learned that might help. None of it broke the fever.
Elanor sat back on her heels. The fire was pouring heat into the room. She glanced at Trovagh, noting the fever flush, the wasted look. They were losing him. The thought was intolerable. She found herself shaking Ciara by the shoulders.