by Andre Norton
“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
K irion 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.
Over the months, he investigated. It would be convenient if he could come up with some kind of spell that would burn all the relevant papers at once wherever they were. He turned to reading. There were books still to be found on the subject of witchery if one searched hard enough. Kirion searched, ending up with a shelf full of volumes. All told him what he didn’t want to know. That witchery was not what he’d always believed. It wasn’t spells and chants so much as the focused will of the one working it.
This was not popular information. However, there were some vague, obscure references to other methods.
* *
*
Kirion settled to more research, pausing only to make Keelan’s life a misery. To escape, Keelan fled to Aiskeep, arriving more in charity with those there than he’d ever been. He was received dubiously; no one was forgetting Kirion’s action on his last visit. But Keelan was so clearly unhappy that they gradually allowed him some acceptance. The boy would have liked to respond but had long since learned to show nothing.
It was Harran who broke through some of the shell in which the boy had encased himself. Harran was Master at Arms since Hanion was finally past the harder, longer work. He was Hanion’s nephew, and was intent on following family tradition in service to Aiskeep. Harran hadn’t much liked what he’d seen over the years of Aisha or her sons. But finding Keelan ready to listen that first day, Harran was ready to teach. He found Keelan not ill-taught already.
It could be seen the lad had been given reasonable Arms-masters, but of the very conventional kind. Not for them the tricks and ruses that might be the difference between life and death in an alley brawl. Harran took the lad in hand.
Keelan learned as well as listened. He found it far more interesting than he’d have believed. For most of his life, Kirion had insisted that his younger brother was inferior. It was good to do something where Keelan was praised. He worked harder to earn what he knew to be honest comment.
Harran was slowly impressed. He knew the boy was unhappy, knew that this was in part why he was turning to hard work. In Harran’s opinion, that was good. Sweat and exhaustion tended to burn out misery. You were too tired to be emotional. He gave generous praise when it was due and until the noonday meal, worked Keelan until the boy was ready to drop. He was pleased to find the novice had a strong wrist, a good eye, and an excellent sense of point.
“That’s it, yes. Now lunge—and parry—lunge, yes! Good, lad.”
Keelan wiped sweat from his forehead as he relaxed back. Kirion had always said that a noble didn’t fight like this, but it was fun. It was also pleasant to know Keelan would be a lot more dangerous to bandits or back alley thugs now should he meet any. He grinned as the thought also occurred to him that Kirion didn’t know these methods. It would be a good idea to keep silent on the subject. If he and Kirion ever fought, it would be very pleasant to have a few tricks up his sleeves.
He spent the afternoon riding with Harran, too. For the first time, Keelan found himself mounted on one of the dun strain that Aiskeep had become known for. They had more endurance and more intelligence than ordinary mounts. He’d never known where they began. Now, riding down the valley, he asked to be rewarded with the tale of how his grandparents when mere children had beaten a bandit force with the aid of the garthspeople. He was surprised and impressed by the tale.
“So the horses were Torgians. What were they like; are they really that different?”
Harran was happy to expound. He followed that by taking Keelan out to the herd that ranged to the end of the upper valley and beyond into the foothills. The boy was awestruck. He’d never seen such beasts. It was not the looks so much but the intelligence that shone from their eyes. The feeling that even as he admired them, they were estimating Keelan’s worth. He was afraid that however such animals chose a rider, Keelan was unlikely to measure up. His gaze was wistful. To have a horse like that would be wonderful.
He returned to the evening meal tired, wind-burned, and unusually happy. He found the family in front of the hearth in the smaller hall. With them were assorted cats and a bevy of kittens all climbing merrily into any mischief they could find.
Keelan winced. His mother had always said of Aiskeep, that one of the things that had decided her to leave had been all those infuriating cats. She had claimed them to be dirty, flea-ridden, and dangerous. On subsequent visits, Keelan had ignored them. The cats had reciprocated. And since his usual visit was made in late fall to early winter, the kittens had mostly gone to their new homes.
Keelan didn’t know it but Aiskeep had been doing a brisk trade in kittens for years. Trader Talron brought in a new cat every so often from the Sulcar with whom he still did a good trade. But these were the only cats to enter Karsten. As a result, the Aiskeep kittens sold to almost every garth and Keep in the South. But few were sold in Kars or to the North.
Keelan had never met kittens until now. Not really young ones that were no more than balls of fluff with wide eyes and small, unsteady legs as they scrambled about the room.
He did notice that there were odd wire guards across the hearths. “What are those for?”
Ciara smiled. “Kitten prevention. They love to sit and watch the sparks go upward. But without the guards sometimes a kitten tries to go up with the spark.”
She saw the boy wince as he visualized one of the enchanting fluff balls landing back into the fire. Ciara was caught by that. Keelan had always been in Kirion’s shadow, but his brother hated cats. He would not have winced at the thought; more likely he’d try it out for amusement, Ciara thought. This boy could be worth a closer look. People did change.
The next morning she managed to drift silently by as Keelan was receiving his next arms lesson. To her surprise, once more he was taking quite a beating, without complaint and with hard work as he learned. She took Harran aside later that day.
“Have you found out why he’s here? It isn’t his usual time, and he’s not indicating he intends to leave anytime soon. I think he was unhappy about something when he arrived.”
The Armsmaster nodded. “He’s let the odd word slip. Some girl he was crazy over. Apparently, Kirion took her away from him just to prove he could.”
Ciara blinked. “Is that it?”
“No, Lady. The truth is that I think the lad’s taken a good hard look at his family for the first time in his life because of that. He’s found he doesn’t even like his mother, doesn’t trust his relatives in the Keep there, and hates his brother along with not trusting him, either. He’s in a state of confusion. He’s always come second to Kirion and he’s been brought up to believe he’s less than Kirion because he’s smaller, knows less, and can’t keep up. Suddenly it’s dawning on him that anyone three years younger would have those problems. It doesn’t make him inferior.”
“No, it doesn’t. How would you rate him?”
Harran snorted. “He isn’t the stylist that his brother is. But that’s fine for formal duels. I’d back this one against Kirion in any knockdown, drag-out sword fight where the rules don’t apply. Give me a while longer with him and I might even back him in a duel as well.” He looked at her. “You know, Lady, the boy’s never had anything he could really call his own. Any time he has Kirion makes it his job to get it away again. Now Keelan’s afraid to care about anything in case he loses it.” Harran snorted. “And that mother of his sees all this but does nothing. There isn’t a cat here who isn’t a better mother than that woman.”
Ciara laughed. “I’d agree.” She strolled slowly away, thinking as she went. Later she talked to Trovagh.
“I don’t know how long he’s going to stay. I’d like him to have a pet of some kind. It seems to be what he needs, but if he leaves he won’t be able to take it. Not with the kind of things Kirion does. What do you think, Tro?”
“Hmm. We could perhaps let him have an Aiskeep horse. Say it’s on loan. That it can’t be wagered, given away, or ridden by any but Keelan. It would bring down untold wrath from Aisha, though, probably mostly on Keelan from what you say. Would he think the horse worth it?”
“I think so, but there’s another fear there. From what he’s told Harran, Kirion doesn’t just stop at taking anything Keelan has. Sometimes he ruins it in spite as well. If we let the boy have an Aiskeep horse and Kirion lames it or has it stolen, what will that do to Keelan?”
Trovagh grunted. “Umph. I see what the problem is. Leave it, love. Let’s wait; once we have an idea of how long the lad will stay, we may be able to make better plans.”
Keelan did stay. He was finding that being part of a family who were kind to you was an unexpected pl
easure. It was summer, the weather mostly good enough to ride, and when it wasn’t, there was always the lessons with Harran. Imperceptibly, Keelan was being guided to learn about more than fighting. With Trovagh, he met the garthspeople, hearing their problems and listening to Trovagh’s suggestions and solutions. He saw to his surprise that there was a very real and solid affection between lord and the garth families.
He heard the garthspeople argue with Ciara, and saw she listened. It wasn’t so at Clan Iren. There if a lord spoke, a servant shut up and obeyed. He heard the story of the bandit raid from old Jontar, this time from the garth side. The pride was unmistakable. Pride not only in beating the outlaw group, but also in the leadership the garths had followed. He hid a grin at the differing attitudes. One minute Jontar was praising his lord and lady for their leadership, the next muttering about foolish children endangering themselves.
Gradually he came to understand the ties between the rulers and the ruled. This was how it should be. Mutual respect and balance. He saw that the garth houses were all warm and weatherproof. There’d be no one dead from cold or hunger here. No lord taking what he wanted and letting the people manage how they could. He considered the story of the bandits afresh. In many Keeps he could name, the bandits might have had the lord’s children with the people’s goodwill, and in some cases their active assistance.
The people certainly wouldn’t have fought like that. Not because they wanted to at least. They would have fought from terror at what their lord would do if they did not fight. Or because they were given direct orders. Or because it was the only way to survive the outlaws. They’d probably have made a mess of it, being without arms or initiative.
Weapons. That was another thing that had stunned Keelan. In Aiskeep, the garthspeople all had weapons. Not just the odd dagger, but bows and swords.
Keelan had almost leapt out of his skin the first time he realized. One of the women had come out bearing a bow and filled quiver as Trovagh rode up with his grandson. Trovagh had simply nodded.
