Ciara's Song

by Andre Norton

  Ruart had guessed that Aiskeep might find a way to get Aisling out of their hold. The watcher had recognized Keelan. From the description, the other with Keelan could well be the sister in disguise. Ruart grunted to himself. The border was wide and lawless. Who would know what had happened there to a girl who vanished in the hills? Certainly none had known what happened to a spy riding back to his lord. And that had been in more populated lands.

  Ruart’s smirk widened. He’d been visiting Kirion at Iren Keep when he’d seen the man where he should not have been. He’d said nothing to Kirion, but had the man watched. When the time was right he’d had him taken.

  The spy had talked. From that Ruart knew more than Kirion for once. Let his friend find his own trails to hunt. Ruart would follow this one.

  Besides that, Ruart had a grudge. He’d gone to his clan head to ask for aid in forcing Aiskeep to give up Aisling. He’d been told briefly that the clan did not care to become involved. Ruart was making himself a laughingstock, now he was making his clan a laughingstock as well. Nor did they like other comments that were said of him. Flung mud stuck—to his clan as well as Ruart. Let him choose another wife and be less obvious in his dealings.

  For most of his life Ruart had had his own way. To be scolded like a naughty child drove him to utter fury.

  He left, determined to have all he wanted. The girl Geavon dangled before him—and Aisling. He spent coin to hire men who would watch. They had done so to some purpose.

  Aisling rode out quietly a day later just as the sky brightened. There were none to see her go. Ruart had spread his watchers along the hill trail the messenger had taken. They told him swiftly enough when she passed, though they did not see the cat, deep in his baby sack.

  Ruart would have followed at once but for Shandro who insisted his favorite remain at court another few days. By then the girl would have reached her shelter. Well enough. Ruart would wait a while. There was usually a lull in the weather around midwinter. When that came, he would ride swiftly.

  Meanwhile, Aisling had ridden three days along the river before turning up along the left fork that led to the higher hills. During her halts to camp, Dancer was free, returning often with some prey to eat alongside Aisling as she cooked for herself.

  Geavon had drilled her in the landmarks and in what words to use when she came to the garth at last. She rode in with failing light, sitting her mount in the yard as she watched a bobbing lantern approach.

  “I come from an uncle,” she said softly to that haze of light. “An uncle who dislikes a rogue.”

  The light jerked sharply as the spy recognized the girl he had aided to Gerith Keep. He collected himself to reply. “All who dislike rogues are safe here,” he said clearly.

  Aisling peered at the figure behind the lantern. The voice was somehow familiar. She dropped from her weary horse to walk it toward the stables. The spy spoke again and the scent of the horse, the dark, and his tones came together.

  “I know you,” she said slowly. “You’re the man who helped me the night I got away from Ruart.”

  In the edge of lantern light she saw him nod. “That I was, my lady. Pleased to do it, too. I have an old score against the man. I’d have aided you for that alone even had I not been Geavon’s man. Let us get the beast inside, and a meal on the table. Time for talking then and longer than we may want.”

  “Why?”

  “Storm’s coming. Up here they can last for days, even weeks.”

  It lasted only days. By then Aisling had his story from him. A decent man, she believed. One who’d been cruelly wronged by Ruart, too. They had that in common. She liked him, trusted him even here alone on the garth with no other.

  It pleased her that he liked Dancer. The cat had refused to be left again, despite all Aisling could do to persuade him. He’d arrived in his baby sack, much to the spy’s amusement once they reached the house and the cat had emerged.

  That Dancer made it plain he liked this human was good enough for Aisling. The cat had proved to be a good judge of character in the past. After a short time, she liked the man for himself. But this past week Dancer had been fussing. He would run to the door wailing urgently. Aisling would allow him out, only to be howled at in exasperation. It was not that which he wanted of her.

  Temon watched the cat thoughtfully. “I think, my lady, he wishes to warn you in some way.” He left her with the cat, vanishing into his storeroom to collect supplies. These he sorted slowly into a shoulder pack. Into that went all the small odds and ends that can make a camp comfortable. He added bedding, lightweight but very warm and proof against any but the longest, most driving rain. He hefted the pack then, scarred face expressionless.

  He reached down journey-cakes, each wrapped twice over and sealed. Two water bottles were stowed, each into a different pocket on the outside of the pack. One was empty, but a fiery cordial went into the other. Taken in sips, it was a restorative. Poured over a wound, it would cleanse. She’d come with a short bow and arrows, that would do well. Should he add a sword? he wondered. But to carry one she could not use would be of no help, only useless extra weight.

  He tipped the pack empty, checking all it had contained once more. Then he stowed the items one by one. He’d done the best he could do for her. The cat was a canny beast. If it saw danger coming, it was likely right.

  He sighed quietly. She reminded him of the girl he’d loved so many years gone. This one, too, had power, fleeing Ruart. But he would see that this time Ruart did not catch her. That he swore by the Lady of the Hills. He’d hunted deep into them. He could put her on the path as far as the ancient ruined Keep far into the mountains. After that, she must make her own trails.

  He walked back to give her the landmarks. He made her repeat them again and again. Then he showed her the pack made ready. Aisling added her bow and quiver to it. Dancer still fussed; indeed, as midwinter approached he became still more insistent.

  Temon made up his mind. “I think the beast senses danger. In midwinter, there is often a time when the weather clears here in the mountains. The wind blows from the North then so this side of the hills is sheltered. Be ready. You know the way as best I can tell you. Your pack stands waiting. If danger comes, get you gone. I’ll do my best to delay it.”

  It was well planned, but Ruart was already riding. Nearer Kars the weather had cleared earlier. He had ridden out at once.

  He had no way of knowing that his spies were not the only men to sell their service in odd places. One of them had sold word to Kirion. Ruart rode hard upriver heading for the garth deep into the hills. Kirion was two days’ ride behind but in more haste on a better horse.

  Ruart came in sight of the garth in late morning. The snow had only cleared this high up that day. He knew his prey would still be here, he was sure of it. He watched as Temon walked across to the stables. Ruart’s breath hissed from him. That was the man who’d freed the girl before. By Alizon’s hounds, he had both of them now!

  He moved to his horse, mounting quickly to set the horse down the slope. Below Aisling had just walked out into the yard. He made for her. Temon was a garthsman, not a fighter. A sneaking tricky spy. If he tried to interfere, Ruart would know how to deal with him.

  Temon was in the barn when he heard Aisling scream. Over Ruart’s shoulder she saw him running toward them, a terrible look on his face.

  Her powers were almost to nothing. She made a habit of using them as much as was possible when she was near people. It ensured, or so she hoped, that she would not accidentally harm a friend. That morning while Temon was cutting wood she’d used her gift in various small ways, just enough to empty most of it without tiring Aisling too badly. Now she called the silver fire desperately, just as Ruart struck her across the side of the head.

  The garthsman arrived as Ruart screeched and dropped Aisling. Temon raised the hammer he still held, then halted, collapsing slowly to the ground. Ruart stared in satisfaction. The fool had underestimated a man who’d fought a score of du
els. A dagger in the sleeve had been useful in the past and Ruart always had one ready.

  Ruart smiled, a slow, anticipatory smile. From behind him came a low, vicious snarl. Dancer had arrived.

  The cat attacked in a flurry of feints and evasions. Ruart wove steel before him, but this was no short duel. The brute seemed tireless. Behind him Aisling staggered to her feet. She felt dizzy, but she would not let Dancer fight alone. She scrabbled in the snow finding stones beneath the whiteness. Then she began to fling them. One at a time, each carefully aimed. The second crashed into Ruart’s leg, he yelped, stepping further back from her. Before he recovered, Dancer scored home on flesh beneath the clothing.

  Ruart slid back again. Behind him a terrible figure arose. Blood poured from Temon’s chest to redden his clothing. His eyes glared with the effort as he dragged himself to his feet. The hammer lifted—and swung down. Ruart went soundlessly to the ground, his head broken open in that single, awful blow.

  Temon slid quietly down to lie beside his victim. A long hatred was assuaged at last.

  Aisling stumbled toward Temon, Dancer at her side. She would have fumbled his clothing open but he shook his head.

  “No use, girl. I know where the blade went. You’d exhaust yourself for nothing. Listen to me. You wouldn’t take Geavon’s horse on because you could not bring it back. Take Ruart’s.” Temon’s face twisted into a wry smile. “He won’t be needing it. When you’re as far as you can go afoot, strip the beast and let him go.”

  Aisling was crying now. “And don’t cry for me. I only stayed alive for this. Leave the barn door open, the cow will have enough hay to last until spring.”

  He paused to gasp for breath. “Let Lord Geavon’s horse go. The beast will go home as soon as you do. Geavon will send someone to sort things out. You can leave a message for him in the secret place. Whoever comes will know where to look.”

  His voice was weakening. Perhaps the lass could have saved him if he’d let her, but he hadn’t wanted her to try. He’d known what happened to his betrothed, his beautiful Ismene. At first he’d only known that she was dead, and that she’d been in Ruart’s hands. Later, after he’d joined that household, he’d heard it all. A comment, a few sentences at a time. He’d planned to kill the man one day but by the time he knew it all Aisling had escaped and Temon could not return to Ruart’s Keep.

  He smiled up at her. It hadn’t mattered. After all, she’d brought his enemy to him in the end. He lifted a hand to wipe her tears. It was so heavy, so hard to raise. He felt oddly light though, as if he was floating above the snow. Beside him a figure slowly came into focus. He looked up, his voice a glad cry,

  “Ismene!”

  *Yes, beloved, come with me, now we are together again.*

  He rose to follow, the heavy weakness gone. Behind him Aisling closed the open eyes with gentle fingers.

  Moving slowly throughout the remainder of the morning, she did as Temon had requested. But first she dealt with his body. It was difficult, but she managed to bring it into the storeroom against the side of the house. There she laid him out on a table on the coverlet that was all he had of his betrothed. Aisling placed ice-flowers in his hands, the hammer she laid at his feet. Let the Gods know he had died as a warrior fighting to protect the innocent.

  She mourned for Temon as she stood there. He hadn’t deserved to die that way, but then she remembered his words. He hadn’t needed to live on. Hadn’t even wanted to once he’d paid the debt. And he was with his Ismene now, that she never doubted.

  The cow was given access to hay. The Gerith Keep horse was freed. It wandered off to the West at once, stopping to graze now and again but always heading back. She wrote a hasty letter, placing it carefully within the secret cavity in the wall.

  Dancer was fussing again. Aisling glanced over to where Ruart still lay tumbled in the snow. She could do nothing for him. Let him lie. If Geavon’s man arrived before thaw he could do whatever appeared seemly for Ruart. If thaw came first, let the foxes have the body. She didn’t care.

  She dug out Dancer’s baby sack. According to the landmarks and places to shelter Temon had drilled into her, there was a good place she could reach on horseback before nightfall. Last time Dancer had fussed, Ruart had been on the way. Who was coming now she had no idea, but she’d trust Dancer.

  She emptied the pack into two saddlebags, added the empty pack, then swung into the saddle. From the baby sack on her shoulders Dancer gave an approving chirp.

  Aisling halted the horse at the top of the small hill. From there she could look back over the deserted garth. It looked no different.

  She lifted her hand in a blessing, the last part of the sign leaving a faint glint of silver in the air. But Aisling noticed nothing; she had already turned the horse away to plunge down the slope. She prayed for Temon again as she rode.

  The shelter was rough but it did well. Aisling found the crude windbreak at the back of the shelter. She stood it up carefully again by the entrance against the prevailing wind. Snow packed against it swiftly. Behind that Aisling lit her fire, keeping the circle of coals small. Dancer moved to sit by the flames at once, his purr amusing Aisling.

  “You might well purr. You insisted on coming along. There may not be a fire every night, you know.” She laughed as he thumped her with his head. “All right, all right. Food next.”

  The weather continued fine and she made distance at her mount’s steady walk. She had taken all the oats Temon had. It meant she could ride the whole day and let the animal feed well at night without the need to stop and graze. She was pleased she’d thought of it. In a couple more days, she’d have reached as far as it would have taken in weeks on foot.

  After that she would have to leave the horse. A pity, but Temon had said there was a place there where he’d manage. Come spring he’d probably start back, too. She fell asleep that second night listening to Dancer’s purr and the sound of crunching teeth as her mount relished the hard feed.

  Kirion had drawn up at the garth the previous morning. He’d looked down at Ruart’s sprawled body and snorted. The man had been a fool but useful. Still, there were other useful fools to be found.

  He stamped inside the house, checking each room. There was only the body of the garthsman. From the look of it, he and Ruart had killed each other. But the girl had been here all right. Ruart hadn’t moved after the blow that had killed him. Someone had laid the garthsman out. Someone who’d cared.

  He’d seen the Gerith Keep horse, too, as it headed west. He’d tried to catch it, but the animal was too wary.

  Kirion considered. Ruart’s beast was missing; she must have gone ahead on that. He could follow. If he pushed, he could probably catch up in a day or so. He checked the barn, he was out of grain. He found none and grunted irritably. His mount would just have to manage.

  He pushed his horse all that day but he had to pause in time for the hungry animal to graze. Nor did he know the landmarks Aisling had been taught. He wasted time in dead ends, in following trails that led nowhere.

  All the time a light snow fell. Not enough to slow a rider greatly, but it erased hoofprints in hours. He found her second shelter, but by then he was a day further behind and he knew it. Kirion spent the night there, but in the morning he turned back.

  He’d lost his chance at gaining stolen power from his sister. But there’d always be others. He was learning all the time. It was sorcery, but what matter. It was also power.

  * * *

  Aisling followed the river. Even here it was a rush and tumble of powerful current coming down from the mountains from the East. She wondered if it could speak what tales it would tell of that mystical land she sought.

  Geavon had learned patches and tatters of news from traders and merchants who gossiped more than women ever did. The land was called Escore, ancient, holding powers unknown in Karsten. They said that there those rode to war, some not even of humankind.

  Her hand stole up to clasp the pendant. Her fingers dropped to t
ouch the dagger hilt. They said that those of the Old Blood had come from that place. Could these have come with them?

  Did she but return them to an ancient home? The trip thus far had been tiring, but apart from Ruart, not so impossible. Would that change when she went afoot? She scanned the landscape.

  Light snow continued to fall. Ahead lay a wood and into it led the old trail. Aisling shivered. There was a menace in the lowering trees, as if something within watched and waited. There was the feeling of eyes, unfriendly ones. The idea of entering the wood, moving beneath those dark trees, was unpleasant.

  Dancer, too, seemed uneasy. The cat had senses one who journeyed would do well to heed.

  Aisling considered. It was within an hour or two of dusk. If she must dare the trees, better to have daylight. She knew not how far it might be to ride through such a wood.

  She turned her tired horse. Back a mile she had seen a place to shelter: out of sight of the wood and with half a roof yet remaining. Maybe it had been some sort of way station once. Now it was ruins, but it would suffice.

  The shelter was large enough for her to bring in her mount under cover. The wood gnawed at her mind. She had liked nothing about it. She must now decide in how much haste she traveled.

  Temon had said there were two roads. One was a mere trail that skirted the wood and took an extra day. The other ran through the center of the wood and time would be saved. She might not have much of that to spare. The midwinter lull in storms would soon come to an end. Also she had little grain left: three days, no more. If she wasted a day circling the wood, that was a day she could not ride without time spent letting her mount graze.

  In the event it was not she who made the decision. The horse was more nervous the closer they approached the wood with the morning light. Finally he balked. Aisling let Dancer jump from his carrysack. He, too, eyed the wood suspiciously. He approached sniffing dubiously, then led her onto the narrower fainter trail that circled to the left.