Ciara's Song

by Andre Norton

  He grinned; he could imagine what Aisling would say if she saw Ruart, too. His head jerked up.

  “I have an idea. I don’t think it will put him off forever, but it can buy us time. Grandmother, would you be fit to ride to Kars?” His face became solemn. “After all, Aisling has been reared here in the provinces. She should know her prospective betrothed before any contracts are signed.” His voice became meaningful. “Perhaps he should meet her as well.”

  The two faces opposite him crinkled into identical grins. “You mean Ruart may not like a wild, uncouth girl from the far South?” Trovagh asked.

  “Either that or we can hold him off with tales of improving her. More—um—Kars city polish?” Keelan assured him grinning.

  Ciara smiled at them both. “It may work, but we’d have to tread a fine line between disgusting him, and angering him to where he’ll take her from spite to teach her once she’s in his hands.” She flattened her palm against the stone wall behind her. “If all else fails, we can stand siege. Aiskeep has outlasted many of those across the centuries.”

  “We stay with old Geavon, I presume?” Trovagh queried thoughtfully.

  “We do; write him now, love. Get the message off as fast as you can. As for Ruart, we can delay a few days before his messengers will grow too impatient. We have to play for time. Every move must be drawn out as far as possible. With luck, Ruart will become bored and drop the idea. We may find a way to refuse without war. Just let us buy time.”

  They did so. It was high summer before they arrived in Gerith Keep to an enthusiastic welcome from Geavon. Once the first excitement was done he looked at Aisling. Hmm. Her looks certainly wouldn’t put Ruart off the wedding. Aisling was slender, as lithe and supple as Ciara had been at that age. Like Ciara, the girl had eyes of a warm hazel. Her hair was a curtain of brown. An odd shade. There was fire under the darker hue. Her face was rounder than that of Ciara, but she had her grandmother’s long, swinging stride. The walk of a girl who was fit and healthy.

  Keelan hadn’t enjoyed the journey. He was too worried about Shosho. She’d vanished just before they left. Old Hanion had promised to look for her, and care for her once she was found, but Keelan was still worried. She was four and had never bred. What if she had chosen now to do so? She might need him. A cat took only a couple of months to bear her kittens. He’d still be here in Gerith Keep until long after that. Damn Ruart, and damn Kirion, who was undoubtedly behind it all. When would the eager bridegroom appear so they could get on with the farce?

  Ruart came a week later. Aisling was as rude as it was possible to be to a guest, and found her manners ignored. Ruart had expected no better. The girl was almost a peasant, after all, and she’d know no better. Her dress, too, was abysmal. That could be altered anytime he cared to buy the clothing. He was at his most pleasant, but Aisling could see the wolf snarl behind the charm. She was afraid of him. The idea of his touching her made her sick with disgust. She told that to Keelan the second time Ruart called.

  “I loathe him, Keelan, please think of something.”

  Ruart visited again and again, each time more insistent on a contract. A betrothal would be so suitable. Kirion stood on the sidelines of all this and smirked. He knew the difficulties his grandparents faced. They’d come around, they couldn’t hold off the ardent suitor forever, nor dare they refuse him outright.

  He was wrong in that. Trovagh faced Ruart four weeks later, making Aiskeep’s position clear. They would not force Aisling to a marriage she rejected.

  Ruart snorted. A touch of the whip and the girl would consent. Holding desperately to his temper Trovagh pointed out that a girl killing herself rather than wed Ruart would not add to his reputation.

  “There are ways to prevent that, My Lord of Aiskeep. I’d be happy to suggest a few.”

  “So I hear.” Trovagh’s tone was chilled over solid ice. “But we do not believe in dragging a girl to her wedding so drugged she cannot speak.”

  “That is your decision? Nothing will change it?”

  “That is the word of Aiskeep. Unless Aisling changes her mind, My Lord Ruart, there will be no wedding between you.”

  Ruart nodded. Kirion had warned him this was possible. His friend had suggested that there were other ways to reach his desire. He’d use them.

  Keelan was now bothered on two fronts. On the one hand, he worried over Shosho. Had she returned, was she all right? On the other, there was Aisling. Ruart had taken that final rejection too calmly for Keelan’s peace of mind.

  He went to Geavon in the end. Keelan had slowly developed a hearty respect for that astute old man. Geavon was careful. Nothing too open in his hints, just enough to assure the boy that Kirion wasn’t the only clever one about. Keelan left wearing a satisfied look.

  That changed abruptly three days later. Keelan had gone in search of his sister. They could ride with Geavon’s grandson who planned to circle some of the garths talking over the coming harvest. With him went several men at arms. Aisling would enjoy the ride and in safety. He was well aware that of late she had been fretting at her confinement within the Keep. And it would take Keelan’s mind off Shosho.

  To Keelan’s surprise, his sister was nowhere to be found. He hunted, growing more agitated until at last he went to Geavon. There, too, he found his grandparents as he blurted out the news.

  Geavon stared for a second absorbing the information. Then he rang his bell violently, shouting rapid orders at those who came. Questions were asked of all those in the Keep. Some had information, not all of it willingly given. In an hour they knew the truth.

  Geavon faced his distant cousin, noting the grim set to Trovagh’s mouth. “The girl is gone. A maid and one of the manservants are also gone. I believe them to have been hirelings paid to await their chance. It seems they bought a way in sometime back. Around the time Ruart first offered for the girl.” He held a hand up to still the outcry. “I have other ways of finding the truth of this. I am not so sure that it was Ruart’s doing. One thing is sure, however. Aisling has been taken.”

  13

  A isling had gone to her room to change. It had been one of those mornings, and now a maid had spilled a water can all down her skirt. It wasn’t the girl’s fault, but it just capped a long, boring morning so far as Aisling was concerned. She had the clothing over her head and was squirming out of it when she was seized. She tried to struggle, but muffled in folds of cloth she found it difficult. Then she was struck across her head. Blackness descended shot with red sparks.

  The next she knew she was head down still bundled in cloth. It felt like a pony under her. She moved a hand surreptitiously. Yes, that was a pony, with Aisling cross-tied over its broad back. She felt sick, all swimmy. Blurred voices nearby slowly resolved into a conversation she could understand.

  “. . . easy enough. The old fool of a housekeeper will be in trouble when it comes out.” That voice sounded vindictive.

  “You’re just mad because she made you really work. The coin’ll be worth it.”

  “It’d have to be. If I slaved up them stairs with one can of hot water for them lady-mucks I carried a thousand. All that washing. Rots yet brain.”

  There was a coarse laugh, “No fear of that fer you. Reckon you’m as smart as a pin. Letting m’lady here walk right into you, then spilling all that water down ’er. Gave us’n a chance to get her aside at last. Damn me, but how that family do stay around one another.” The other voice only grunted to that and there was a long silence.

  Aisling put what she’d heard together. Someone had paid this pair to abduct her. It had to be Ruart. She shivered. But her family would guess, and they’d not rest until they had her back. She could imagine the hue and cry they’d be raising.

  If she could have listened to the talk at Gerith Keep at the same moment she’d have been bewildered. No one was looking for her there. Instead, they were grouped in one room with Geavon, making rather labored small talk. Each was almost frantic but they were waiting. They trusted Gea
von, and he trusted those he had in other places. Moving too swiftly could risk everything. So they sat, ate food they did not want, making conversation they hardly heard.

  Aisling was feeling sicker by the minute. If she didn’t get off this pony soon, she’d be throwing up. She felt the small beast turn, and the sounds of its hooves change. It halted. She was untied and tossed over someone’s shoulder. Then she could feel herself carried up a short flight of stairs. Aisling was dumped on a floor. It would be Ruart’s home, she thought. There was sheepskin under her hands, a fire somewhere near as she felt the heat.

  Above her there was a chink of coin. Then the sound of a cork being pulled. An anticipatory mumble as wine gurgled into glasses. She could hear people drinking noisily. Probably the two who’d stolen her drinking to their success and payment. The next sounds puzzled her. A sort of choking, then a couple of muffled thumps followed by the sounds of coins again.

  She was lifted to sit in a chair, the cords unwound. She steeled herself to be unsurprised by whatever she saw. It was Ruart as she’d feared. She nodded politely.

  “My lord, an unconventional visit, I’m afraid.”

  He leered, an aroma of wine preceding him as he leaned close. “But I don’t mind that, my sweet. I have a bedroom awaiting you.” She saw he was very drunk and despaired. Her head still swam and her stomach rebelled.

  “So kind, but I do not plan to use it, my Lord Ruart.”

  “But I do. Here’s a token of it.” He drew her to him, kissing her with a wet, eager mouth.

  Aisling’s stomach finally revolted. She jerked her head to one side and vomited violently. As Ruart released her, she did so again. The sight and smell were too much for Ruart. He joined her and they threw up in miserable unison. From the door an urbane voice addressed the room at large.

  “Not an edifying sight. But don’t worry, I’ll take her off your hands, Ruart.”

  Ruart rose clumsily to his feet. “Changed my mind,” he said briefly. “Had a room made up for her. She’s staying here with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve changed my mind I told you. She’s too good for the games you play, Kirion. I’m not wasting a girl like this on a lot of chanting and spell-casting. You can have her afterward.”

  Aisling had glanced about the room in intervals between her misery. Two bodies lay twisted to one side, wineglasses beside them on the floor. The two who’d stolen her, she presumed, paid off in a more permanent way than they’d expected.

  It was Kirion in the doorway. His face bland but the beginnings of dangerous anger in his eyes. Ruart should be careful. He might think himself safe in his own home, but not for long if he crossed Kirion.

  She heard Ruart raise his voice. He’d moved over by the door to join her brother.

  “No. That’s my word on it. You can have her once I’m tired of the girl. D’you think I paid out for weeks just to watch you draw circles on a pavement? I want her first.”

  Aisling understood enough of that to turn her cold. Kirion was dabbling in real sorcery. It wasn’t anything she’d disbelieve of him, but it made her feel like a mouse between two cats. Of course he wanted her untouched.

  She felt sick again. She darted a glance about the room. No way out save past the two still arguing. She was badly cramped from the ropes and long journey. Her stomach rebelled whenever she moved, but she must try to find something to help her escape.

  She was unable to reach out to the table near her without being noticed. But she knew from experience that people often dropped things down the backs of this new kind of seat. The wife to Geavon’s grandson had a set of them. Astia had asked Aisling only a few days ago to help search down the upholstered back for a lost needle. She’d found it by running the point painfully into a finger. And before that they’d also discovered two walnuts and a gaming counter.

  Her fingers twisted downward, being careful not to let them see her moving. Her hand scrabbled slowly along the edges of the upholstery. Ah, no, it was only a coin. Still it might be of use in some way, she thought. She moved her hand up to drop it into her boot top. Another coin and then a third.

  Then her questing fingers touched something else. It was long, perhaps the length of her hand. Narrow, thin, pliable. At first she could not guess what it might be, then she managed a look down from the corner of her eye.

  She knew now. Yes, that really might be of use. She might be able to sharpen it on stone if she was ever left alone. Doubled for strength it would be perhaps three or four inches in length. But hadn’t Keelan once said you could stab to the heart in less?

  You could do other things with something like that, too. Hanion had taught her years ago as a kind of amusement one very cold winter when she was bored. The argument was growing more angry. She caught enough of it as it also grew louder to guess what might be the outcome.

  Kirion was furious. What? Were his plans to be thwarted by the tool of his, this womanizing idiot? He was unpleasantly surprised to find they were.

  Ruart was equally furious. His demands for anything he wanted hadn’t been refused since he’d risen to rule in his Keep. Now, and in his own home, mind you, this unpleasant little panderer was trying to keep the lord of his Keep from his desires.

  He was angered enough to press the demand. He was afraid of Kirion—well, not actually afraid, he told himself, just wary. The man did have some kind of power. But nothing could happen to Ruart here. He had only to call and fifty servants would appear. He could have them do whatever he wished with Kirion then. He could even have him tossed into the special cell below. That thought sparked another.

  His voice became quieter. “Listen, Kirion, are we to fall out over a female?” Soft talk never hurt, Ruart thought. “I can toss her in the cell downstairs. You know the one,” he said, leering. “No escape there. Then we can talk this over in comfort. I’ll throw dice against you for her if you like.”

  Kirion paused in midshout to consider. It was true his sister wouldn’t be escaping from that cell.

  “Very well. We could gamble for her, as you say, my dear Ruart.” My dear Fathead, his mind added. Something in your wine and you can sleep away a day and night. I’ll be long gone with her. You’ll get over it the next time you need me to persuade someone around to your way of thinking. Aloud, he added,

  “I’ll come down with you. Two will manage her more easily in case she tries to escape.” Or in case you try anything, either, he added silently.

  Aisling was dragged down stairs, stairs, and yet more stairs. She allowed herself to go almost limp, letting her feet stumble convincingly. The men were half carrying her and panting at the exertion. But with her head bent she was able to scan the levels she passed.

  Like some old Keeps, half of this one was underground. Three floors, she estimated. The lowest would be where siege supplies were stored. The wine racks would be here, and any dungeons. Here, too, would be at least one secret escape route.

  She had time for a quick look through a window slit as they dragged her from the original room. It was early afternoon. She calculated swiftly. She’d been taken soon after her morning meal, which she’d had quite early. She didn’t think she’d been unconscious long on the pony. Nor had Ruart and Kirion been fighting over her for much time—although it had seemed hours.

  So Ruart’s Keep couldn’t be more than three or four hours’ walk away from where she’d been taken. She knew the direction, too; on one of his visits, Ruart had gone on about his Keep. How convenient the location, just to the northeast of Kars. Gerith Keep was also northeast of Kars. If she managed to escape, she’d know which way to go.

  Her family wouldn’t have been twiddling their collective thumbs in that time, either. They probably had someone keeping an eye on the Keep outside right now. If she could get away, she was sure there’d be help waiting.

  Ruart shook her hard. “Take a look at this, Lady.” He pointed. “See, we drop this bar across the whole door when we leave.” He hauled her onward, halting aga
in, “See this? A good strong lock.” He grinned in an extremely unpleasant way. “I lock all the doors down here or the servants get into the wine—and maybe other things I don’t want broached.” He leered suggestively.

  Aisling felt sick again. Kirion snorted.

  “When you’ve finished showing off, Ruart, let’s get on with it.”

  His target grunted, pushing Aisling ahead of him through an open door. “You’ll be safe here. Just wait until I come for you. Don’t go running away now.” He bellowed with laughter as he slammed the door. A key turned with a loud clunk. Aisling flung herself at the door to listen. She heard a second lock clank and then in the distance a dull thud as the bar went into place. Her eyes flicked about her prison. A heap of moldy straw, a bucket, and an empty tin jug and plate. Nothing she could use.

  But in her clothing she had something that might aid her. Aisling still felt sick, and to that was added growing hunger and a tormenting thirst.

  She dug hastily into her boot to produce the item she’d found. At some stage a woman had been in the room upstairs. She’d been reboning a bodice in the fashionable way. One of the pliable strips of metal ‘boning’ had been dropped onto the chair, to make its way down the back out of sight. Probably the owner had never missed it.

  Aisling bent it into a right angle toward one end. Then, very slowly, very carefully, she began to pick the lock. The lock was old, hence it was clumsy with large, easily felt wards and only two of them. It had been kept well oiled as well. It had been a long time since Hanion had taught her this as a game. But in a short time she had the lock open.

  She glanced back at her cell. Play for time, Ciara always said. If you aren’t sure what to do, play for time.

  Aisling went back. She humped up the straw into a curl, then covered it with the outer skirt. She stared down. What else? She wrenched at one sleeve until the stitching tore at the shoulder. Then she stuffed the sleeve with more straw. She laid that over a small ball of straw. From the door it looked like Aisling asleep, an arm thrown over her head in despair. It would suffice if no one looked long or too closely. She found her head was whirling. She must have something to drink. Hadn’t Ruart boasted he kept his wine down here?