“You’re of the Old Blood. Help him! Use it to do something. He’s dying!”
The girl’s head whipped to and fro. Do something? She’d tried everything she knew. But she couldn’t lose Tro, he was her best friend, her family. Her betrothed. She hadn’t been able to save her kin once. This time she would rather go down into the dark with Tro than lose him. She freed herself ruthlessly.
“Go and get more drinking water. When you come back don’t speak or touch me. Keep anyone else to that, too.” Her eyes came up to stare hard into Elanor’s. “I don’t know if I can help, but I’ll try.”
She set herself to remember as she sat on the stool beside the bed. Her mother’s mother had died when Lanlia was only sixteen. But Talyo’s mother had lived with them until Ciara was seven. Larian had been her favorite but she’d been kind to Ciara, talked to her. Larian! The pendant! Could that help her now? She freed it from her bodice, staring down at the perfect tear shape, the tiny flickers of blue gems that edged the flanking wings. She cupped it in her small hands. It seemed right then to reach out. Tro’s hands slid into hers to lie cupped above them. Into that double cup she allowed the pendant to rest.
She was afraid, so afraid. The maids had talked when Ciara was unnoticed. She understood vaguely that it was the gifts of the Old Race that had brought death to them. They said Yvian hated the Witches. That use of the Power was evil and witchcraft. But if she didn’t do this Tro would die. She struggled for a time before she could force herself to try. She would not let Tro die because she was afraid.
She allowed her mind to relax, to slow into a gentle calm. The pendant helped with that. It radiated peace, warmth. She felt her breathing slow, her heart cease the nervous pounding. She was no longer aware when Elanor returned. Above the cupped hands her face was a serene mask, while within them the pendant gave off a soft silver light shot with blue. Elanor bit back a gasp. Silently she moved to sit in the doorway. She would keep the quiet Ciara had demanded. Tarnoor would have spoken but her gesture was so fierce he, too, joined her without speaking. Motionless, praying, they waited.
At the bedside Ciara slipped deeper into the trance. From the hands cupped in hers she could feel something. All her thoughts appeared slowed, it was—it was—tightness! Ah, yes. Something bound with many ropes that must be unknotted, unwound to free the captive. Patiently she did so. She could not have said how she managed, only that she felt the ropes loosen and fall away one by one. She flung the last of them aside. Rightness returned. But the silver mist in which she walked was peaceful. She could remain here.
From the door Elanor saw the child’s face grow strange. It was a mask now, as if the life slowly drained from her. At the same time the rattle of Trovagh’s breathing ceased. Now he breathed in and out quietly. His face flushed, but with the normal pink of returning health. Ciara grew paler, more mask-like. Elanor panicked. The girl was exchanging her life with that of the boy in some way. If she went too far down that path they would have Ciara dead instead. Without pausing to reflect she flung herself to where the girl sat.
Hard hands struck the link. The two sets of cupped hands were thrust away as the pendant fell free touching neither. Ciara fell limply from her stool. Tarnoor leaped forward in time to catch her as from the bed Trovagh spoke.
“What’s all the fuss? Cee? What’s wrong with Cee?”
There was instant commotion.
It resolved into Elanor tucking the wilted Ciara into the bed by Trovagh’s. It was there the girl had chosen to sleep as she cared for her friend. Now it would be most convenient to have them together and damn the conventions. Tarnoor held his son’s hand thanking every power whose name he could recall.
Tro was insistent, “Is Cee all right?”
By now Elanor had been given time to check this. “Yes, she just seems to be completely exhausted. I don’t know what she did, but it’s drained all her strength. A long sleep, a good meal or two, and she should be well again.”
Tarnoor heaved a sigh of relief, then another of exultation. He’d done right to make the betrothal legal. With Ciara at his side to keep him well, Trovagh would live to rule for many years. His face twisted into a snarling grin. Now let that debauched cousin of his try to claim Aiskeep. His son was alive, his people were safe… and Gods but he was tired. He sat in the large chair beside Trovagh’s bed. When next anyone looked at him, Tarnoor was deeply asleep.
A week later things were back to normal for all but Ciara. She had no idea of how she had saved Tro. That worried her. What if she couldn’t do it again? Perhaps if she looked at the pendant again, without needing to help? She closeted herself in her room while Tro rode with his father. Elanor was busy in the stillroom with an infusion of herbs that must not be left.
Ciara pulled the pendant free, then sat looking at it thoughtfully. It was old, that she knew. Grandmother had said it was a bridegift. Somehow Ciara felt that it was very old. There was a feel about it, as if it also had a power of its own. Maybe it did.
She cupped it in her hands, reaching again for the stillness and silver mist. It closed around her, warmly welcoming. It reminded her of Grandmother, like a soft lap and comfort. She could have stayed here forever but when she thought that the mist changed. No longer was it so warm nor so welcoming. She understood. She must not stay, though as a visitor she was permitted. She drifted timelessly before resurfacing to her own room.
Ciara was fascinated. After that she used her pendant most nights, just for a short time. Her ability to reach the mist improved until in a few months she could fall into it at will. She had half forgotten how she had used the pendant with Trovagh. It was only remembered when he came running one late afternoon.
“Cee? Cee?
She bolted from the door, there was desperation in his voice.
“What is it, what’s wrong?”
Trovagh was white with horror. “Boldheart—Father jumped him over a wall and he fell.”
“Is he badly hurt?”
“His leg’s broken.”
Ciara snorted, “That’s bad but it’ll heal in a few weeks. There’s no need to get that upset.”
Trovagh stared at her, then his voice went higher, “Not Father, Boldheart!”
Ciara gasped, then acted. She dived for the stillroom seizing her healer’s satchel. “What about Uncle Nethyn, he isn’t hurt at all?”
“Just a few bruises,” Trovagh panted as they ran. “Here, up behind me.” He held the overexcited pony still as she mounted, before kicking it to a gallop. They raced across pasture, up the hillside, and around the curve of brush. Before them Tarnoor sat, Boldheart’s great head in his lap. Tarnoor’s hand stroked the sweat-streaked neck. He glanced across as the children galloped up.
“I can’t leave him. If I do he tries to stand.” Ciara saw the pain in his eyes. She dropped lightly to the ground studying the injured leg. For a horse to break a leg meant he must die, but perhaps it wasn’t really broken. She ran light fingers down the foreleg. There was a break but it was clean. Maybe, just maybe…
“Keep him still, don’t talk to me for a while.” She pulled her pendant free, cupping it in one hand while she laid the other across the injured leg. She didn’t know if she could do this. She knew she would try. Boldheart had been the best of all the foals of his year. He’d come to a call, proud but friendly. Uncle Nethyn had chosen him when his previous horse got too old for the harder riding. Boldheart was beautiful, dapple-gray over a silver white mane and tail a cascade of pure silver. He was so gentle that once or twice she and Tro had stolen a ride on him, yet he was warhorse trained. She could feel his pain, his fear, but his trust in his rider, and in the humans who had always been kind to him, kept him lying there.