by Miles Owens
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DAUGHTER OF PROPHECY by Miles Owens
Published by Realms
A Strang Company
600 Rinehart Road
Lake Mary, Florida 32746
www.realmsfiction.com
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by studiogearbox.com
Cover illustration by Cliff Nielsen
Map design by studiogearbox.com
Copyright © 2005 by Miles Owens
All rights reserved
Published in association with the literary agency of Janet Kobobel Grant, Books & Such, 4788 Carissa Ave., Santa Rosa, CA 95405.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Owens, Miles.
Daughter of prophecy / Miles Owens.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-59185-799-6 (pbk.)
I. Title.
PS3615.W475D38 2005
813’.6–dc22
2005014488
First Edition
05 06 07 08 09 — 987654321
Printed in the United States of America
To Dr. Gwen Faulkner, 1947–1999. Glorious Christian lady, English teacher, drama director, and my first reader. Red-penciled margin notes and writing school were in session. Our last time together that poignant night less than a week before she succumbed to breast cancer, she rose in her bed and gripped my hands. “My greatest regret,” she whispered as we both cried, “is that I never wrote my novel. Finish yours.”
Here ’tis, dear lady. I believe you would have liked it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Grateful thanks to:
Crystal Miller, Wendy Lawton, and Audrey Dorsch, who took over the critiquing and editing chores afterwards. Thank you so much.
Len Goss, cherished friend and writing mentor. Bless you, dear brother. I owe you more than I can repay.
All my hometown encouragers for their unflagging support and prayers, especially: David and Debra Adams, Gary and Joan Brett, Rev. Eddie and Beth Blalock, Chet and Terry Thompson, Scott Barton, Lee McKinney.
Janet Grant, my agent. May our “marriage” continue to be a blessing.
Jeff Gerke, senior editor at Realms, who would not let Daughter of Prophecy be anything less that what it is now.
I saved the most important for last: Patti, my wife and love of my life. Her belief never wavered. I drew strength from that. Always will.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
THE ROGOTHS OF CLAN DINARI
Lord Tellan: kinsmen lord of the Rogoth family in the Dinari clan
Rhiannon: Tellan’s daughter
Lady Mererid: Tellan’s wife
Creag: Tellan’s elder son
Phelan: Tellan’s younger son
Girard: Tellan’s loreteller and advisor
Llyr: Tellan’s rhyfelwr (champion) and advisor
Serous: head herdsman
Lakenna: Rhiannon’s tutor; member of the Albane sect
Branor: High Lord Keeper and advisor to Lord Tellan
OTHER IMPORTANT CHARACTERS
Maolmin: High Lord of the Dinari clan; excellent swordsman
Abel: Maolmin’s loreteller
Breanna: Abel’s daughter
Gillaon: kinsmen lord of the Tarenester family in the Arshessa clan
Harred: Gillaon’s rhyfelwr (champion); master swordsman
Elmar: Harred’s brother-in-law
Ryce Pleoh: wool merchant from the Sabinis clan
King Balder: the current king
Queen Cullia: the current queen
Prince Larien: Balder and Cullia’s son; the only heir
Lady Ouveau: advisor to Queen Cullia
Lady Zoe: beautiful pagan woman from the Isle of Costos
Larbow: raider from the Rosada tribes; leader of his family group
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
“NOW YOU CAN push, m’lady,” Drysi the midwife announced in weary triumph. “The babe was coming sideways, but I’ve turned it. Push, and soon this one will be at your breast for its first meal.”
Sweat plastered Lady Eyslk Rogoth’s hair to her scalp, turning the red tresses a muddy brown. Her gown was drenched and clung to her bulging belly. She took several quick breaths around a rope of fabric clenched between her teeth, then bore down. The lines around her mouth deepened; her neck muscles bulged. A low groan accompanied the effort for several heartbeats. Then with a gasp the young woman fell back against the pillows.
The bedroom was sparsely furnished. Flanking Lady Eyslk’s canopied bed were two red oak wardrobes, sturdy and well made. Opposite the bed stood a washstand and a dresser with a hand mirror hanging from a peg. Several chests lined the far wall. Above them hung a tapestry with the Rogoth banner: a white ram with triple spiral horns.
Upon arriving, Drysi had ordered the bedroom’s two wooden shutters opened in hope of a breeze to cut the heat of the lanterns placed around the bed. The damp night air remained still. The only movement through the windows was moths. Their weaving about the lights threw darting shadows across the tapestries on the far wall. Two women, an elderly servant and the wife of the Rogoth loreteller, attended their lady, one standing on either side of the bed.
Drysi wiped the sweat from her brow. “Again. Push.”
Lady Eyslk’s throaty groan lasted several heartbeats before it too ended in a gasp.
The midwife frowned as a flow of dark blood began leaking out between the white legs. She glanced up at the noble lady’s face. It was pale—much too pale. “Bring me my bag,” Drysi snapped. “Hurry!”
The servant scurried over with the worn leather bag. Drysi quickly wiped the blood and fetal fluids from her hands, then rummaged in the bag’s depths for a small pouch tied with a rawhide string.
“Put a pinch of this powder in a mug of hot water and make the lady drink it—all of it!” She brought out her forceps. They were constructed of iro
n strips with the spoon-like ends fitted with leather covers. After coating the outside of the leather with an herbal salve, she deftly slipped them into the birth canal and maneuvered the ends on either side of the baby’s head.
Lady Eyslk lifted her lips from the mug and moaned. It was early for such a measure, but the amount of blood told Drysi to get this babe out now.
Lady Eyslk had been in labor many turns of the glass before Lord Tellan and his warriors had tracked Drysi down on the road as she returned from attending another birth. Lord Tellan himself had lifted her from the seat of her small two-wheeled cart and placed her in his open carriage. It had been a wild, careening ride back, with Tellan’s face a stone mask as he kept the horses at a killing pace.
Drysi had been surprised to see a group of monks kneeling in the main room of the Rogoth hlaford when Tellan hurried her straight to Lady Eyslk’s room. One looked up as they hurried by and said, “May the Eternal guide your efforts.”
She hoped the monks were still praying. Lady Eyslk and the babe were going to need all the help they could get.
“Has she drunk all of the mug?”
“Only half—”
“That’s enough. Give her something to bite on.”
The servant placed the cloth rope back into Lady Eyslk’s mouth.
“Hold her arms and shoulders. Keep her steady.”
Drysi waited as the servant took one arm. The wife of the Rogoth loreteller gripped the other. She was heavy-chested with wide hips and could drop babies as easily as making water. So unlike Lady Eyslk’s long, slender build. Drysi and the loreteller’s wife glanced at each other. The worry in the other’s eyes mirrored Drysi’s own.
The forceps were in place. Blood continued to pour out, creating a growing red pool on the sheets. It had to be now.
Drysi gripped the handles and braced herself. “Hear me, m’lady! You push with everything you have. For the little one’s life, push!”
Lady Eyslk’s grunt turned into a full-throated wail as her effort and Drysi’s brought the crown of the head into view.
“Again! For both of your lives, push!”
Eyslk’s scream filled the room as the entire head emerged. Drysi threw the forceps down, reached in, and helped rotate the tiny shoulders. The head was covered with a thick mat of hair; skin color was the normal whitish blue. The babe twisted its head and blinked. Good enough.
“Now, one last time. Give me one more long, hard push.”
The babe—a girl—came into the world. Drysi placed her on Eyslk’s stomach, then raced to stop the hemorrhaging. “Give Lady Eyslk the rest of that mug, then another. If she throws it up, give her more until she keeps it down!”
Reaching into her bag again, she took out several hand-sized pieces of brown moss. They had been steeped in broth concocted from a type of bread mold, then air-dried. She placed two inside the gaping birth canal. That helped. She placed another and watched the bleeding slow to a trickle.
Glancing up at Lady Eyslk’s pale, slack face, the midwife added her prayers to those of the monks. The young woman had been in intense labor for many hourglasses. That and the amount of blood she’d lost had killed many a new mother. Was she strong enough to come back, or would she continue on a downward spiral?
“Tell the monks to pray harder. I am doing all I can, but she needs more.”
Drysi inserted another piece of moss, then stood and stretched her back. Numb with fatigue, she walked to a stand, poured water into a basin, and washed her hands and arms. Then she went back to check the little one.
The newest Rogoth lay comfortably on her mother’s belly, cord still attached. The loreteller’s wife began sponging off the mucus and blood while cooing softly at the babe. “She is strong and hungry. Do we let her nurse? With all the bleeding, you want to pull the afterbirth now, or wait a bit?”
The midwife pondered. Nursing helped the mother expel the afterbirth. But in Lady Eyslk’s case, more bleeding would be sure to follow. Drysi checked her bag. Only three moss pads were left. From Lord Tellan’s face on the road, she had not dared ask to go home and replenish her supplies.
She eyed the mother. Lady Eyslk’s color was some better. Her breathing was rapid and shallow but already slowing down. The young mother was doing better than expected at this point. The monks’ prayers must have been helping.
The servant lifted the lady’s head and brought the mug to her lips. Eyslk swallowed, then opened her eyes. “Is it all right? Is my baby healthy?”
“Yes.” Drysi breathed easier. “You have a fine, healthy girl.” She made her decision. “Let it nurse now.”
The loreteller’s wife placed the babe at Eyslk’s breast, then showed the new mother how to place a finger to keep the little one’s nose free to breathe.
“Rhiannon. If it was a girl, it was to be Rhiannon,” Eyslk whispered, watching her daughter nurse with vigor. “I am sure your lord father and the others are anxious to see you,” she finished weakly before closing her eyes and resting back against the pillow.
“Be not in a hurry, m’lady,” the loreteller’s wife said. She placed both hands on broad hips and sniffed. “It does them good to wait until we allow entrance. As soon as you pass the afterbirth, we will sponge both you and Mistress Rhiannon clean and change the sheets. I will help you into a fresh gown and brush your hair. You dab on some perfume. Only then will it be proper for Lord Tellan to behold his lady wife and daughter. The monks can come after him.”
The afterbirth came out easily and in one piece. Drysi tied and cut the cord. Only two moss pads were needed to stop Eyslk’s new bleeding.
Drysi begin packing her supplies while the servant and the loreteller’s wife made ready. This was Drysi’s third time attending a noble birth. Labor brought women mercilessly to level ground. It was the same for all: a womb and a babe demanding to be born. And in the struggle to bring new life into the world, Death hovered over every bed, noble-born or commoner.
Tonight Death had almost won. But her skill and the monks’ prayers had beaten him back one more time.
The women finished their ministrations to mother and babe. Drysi waited patiently. She had learned it was best to wait until after the father saw the new one—especially a first-timer like Lord Tellan—before mentioning her fee. Although they were of noble status, the Rogoths were not wealthy. Even so, Drysi felt certain Tellan would give her beyond the normal amount.
Besides, she always found it interesting to watch fathers and their firstborn. With a girl some were openly disappointed; others were smart enough to try and mask it. Most were awestruck, girl or boy.
Tellan Rogoth came into the room walking on air. He stopped at the bed and gazed at Eyslk. As the two regarded each other, Drysi doubled the amount she had planned to ask.
Lady Eyslk’s eyes shone as she presented her babe. “A fine, healthy girl, my lord husband. Rhiannon de Murdeen en Rogoth, Clan Dinari.” Tellan received his daughter awkwardly, then held her out in midair as if examining a new tunic.
Drysi smothered a snort. Typical.
“Tsk, m’lord.” The loreteller’s wife stepped up. “Hold her thusly. Babes need warmth and closeness.” She soon had him cradling his daughter to his chest.
Then it was the loreteller’s turn. He had entered with Tellan but remained by the door until now. The Rogoth loreteller was a short stump of a man; his wife easily made two of him. He wore the multicolored vest of his office, a well-recognized garment that allowed loretellers to move unchallenged throughout the Land, inviolate even in the midst of battle, to chronicle the history of the six clans.
In a deep, rich voice Loreteller Girard intoned: “On this date, thirty days before the summer solstice, in the year twelve hundred and one after the Cutting of the Covenant, was Rhiannon de Murdeen en Rogoth born into the Rogoth kinsmen of Clan Dinari. Be it known to all that, I, Loreteller Girard, am a witness to that fact and find her a well-formed babe with no blemishes or defects.”
Girard held out his hand. Tellan r
emoved his clan dagger from the sheath at his waist, placed it the loreteller’s hand, and then held out his daughter’s right foot. Girard made a small nick in the babe’s heel; she promptly wrinkled her face and vented her disgust at the whole affair. Girard took a sheet of parchment and pressed it to the bloody heel.
“I will finish this by the noon meal, m’lord, and have it in the Annals for your inspection.”
Rhiannon’s wail stilled abruptly upon her return to Eyslk’s breast. Drysi was about to step forward when the monks came traipsing in, four of them. She bit back an exasperated sigh. What were Keepers of the Covenant doing here anyway? In all her years, this had never happened. It had been a long, demanding night: two babes delivered safely and a good hourglass’s travel to home yet ahead. She ground her teeth. If these monks started one of their interminable ceremonies, they could keep Tellan tied up well past dawn.
But no, the black-robed Keepers simply crowded respectfully around the bed. Three of the four looked in their late teens or early twenties. The fourth was older, late thirties perhaps. Tall and broad of shoulder, he had huge hands with the longest fingers Drysi had ever seen. The younger three took turns praising the babe and Lady Eyslk with a familiarity that bordered on family. The older monk remained quiet with a patient smile on his lips. He kept eying the bedroom door, giving Drysi the impression he was as eager to leave as she was.
Suddenly, the older monk’s placid demeanor changed. He stepped back from the others, frowning fiercely. His eyes darted between the other three monks and then rested on the one closest to Lady Eyslk at the head of the bed. The younger monk’s mouth hung open, and he had an unfocused gaze.
Drysi waited, but when nothing happened, she shouldered her bag and moved toward Lord Tellan. He stood away from the bed next to the loreteller, beaming with—
“Thus saith the Eternal!”
She froze in astonishment, as did everyone else in the room.
The young monk reached down and gripped Lady Eyslk’s hand. Face aglow in religious fever, he spoke again:
“Have I not given my word,’ says the Eternal, ‘that my covenant of peace will remain? Did I not say through my prophet these words: For the mountains shall depart and the hills be removed, but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall this covenant of my peace be removed?’”
