by Miles Owens
Stunned, Branor turned to the warriors. “You’re in service to Tellan?”
“Aye,” the older of the two answered.
“And were present?”
“Aye. Both of us.”
“Four winged horrors. In the light of day?”
“As real as you and the good abbot.” Grim pride broke through. “We killed them.”
Branor realized his mouth hung open. He closed it with a snap. Rumors surfaced now and again, but it had been centuries since a verifiable account of winged horrors. This couldn’t have come at a worst time.
“They were after Mistress Rhiannon,” the older said matter-of-factly.
The icy hand squeezed tighter. “Tellan’s daughter, she must be, what, almost sixteen now?”
Both nodded. Branor quizzed them further, but as Tellan had stated in his letter, they were adamant the creatures had come for the girl.
Why now, after years of silence?
“Begging your pardons,” the older warrior said respectfully, his eyes darting between the five knots tied on the tassels of Trahern’s white rope belt and the six on Branor’s. “Lord Tellan was insistent we bring them that’s coming as soon as possible.”
Trahern nodded. “Of course.” He led Branor a few steps away. “This explains this morning,” he said quietly. “Several of us felt a call to special prayer. It must have been during this time.” He looked quizzically at Branor. “Did you sense the same summons, Your Grace? The Eternal blessed you mightily in that area before you left us.”
“Ah, yes. There did seem to be an . . . urgency . . . about that time.”
“And now this letter.” Trahern clasped his hands behind his back. “Can you not sense the hand of the Eternal? With infinite wisdom, he often uses one incident to accomplish many tasks.”
Branor kept his expression neutral, afraid of where this was heading.
“You return after fifteen years, and your bags are hardly unpacked before Tellan is asking for our help.” The abbot raised a bushy eyebrow. “Beyond the seriousness of the need, with your future plans . . . ”
“Future plans?”
“Come, now. Our Ruling Keeper lies infirm. All realize his time is near. Soon another will tie the seventh knot. You are not the first to visit us with that in mind.”
Branor nodded sagely. A majority vote of five- and six-knot Keepers was needed. With Abbot Trahern’s vote secured, Branor would be only two votes shy. Additionally, the future Ruling Keeper needed the support of four of the six clan High Lords.
“So,” Trahern said gently, “don’t you think it best to clear this cloud from your past?”
Branor put a thoughtful frown on his face while his mind raced. The path was fraught with danger. Tellan’s grief over Eyslk’s death had been a terrible thing to behold. Time could heal even the deepest of wounds, but if Tellan refused to be reconciled and if he made an issue of it, Branor’s rivals would have a potent story to whisper in the right ears. On the other hand, if Tellan did accept reconciliation, Branor would be no better off than he was now.
“Perhaps this is not the time. The Rogoths must be in turmoil over this terrible attack. After meeting with you tomorrow, I plan to visit High Lord Maolmin. On my way back, I will meet with Tellan after things have quieted down.”
Trahern smiled. “I received word earlier that the High Lord has arrived in Lachlann for the wool sale. You can accomplish both tasks at the same time.”
“I see.”
“There is more. Though Tellan has been faithful to bring his tithe every year, he neglects his children’s spiritual education and has recently dismissed our tutor for their formal education. My sources tell me an Albane is being seriously considered.”
Fixing him with the piercing stare that Branor remembered so well, the Abbot of Kepploch went on. “Here is a task worthy of an aspirant to the heavy burdens of the seventh knot: responding to an attack of winged horrors while healing a fifteen-year-old wound and bringing a kinsmen lord and his family closer to the Eternal’s love. All laid at your feet by impeccable timing that can only come from him. Surely you must accept.”
Branor had long ago learned when to cut his loses. “I am Keeper. I will respond.”
“May the power of the Eternal and the covering of the Covenant be with you,” Trahern finished. Then he sighed happily. “It is an astonishing sight to behold the workings of the Eternal.”
Chapter Nine
LAKENNA
“LADY MERERID AND I prayed until we felt a release. I do not know how long it will last,” Lakenna told Rhiannon frankly.
Four other people sat around the table in the sitting room of Lord Tellan’s suite at the Bridge Across: Lord Tellan, Lady Mererid, Loreteller Girard, and Llyr, the grizzled warrior who had driven the carriage back from Inbur.
Lakenna had been surprised to learn that the man was Lord Tellan’s rhyfelwr. The thick-armed, leathery-skinned man had not said a word in her presence, sitting silently through her interview with Mererid in Inbur yesterday, remaining silent during the ride to Lachlann today, and still not uttering a word tonight during Tellan’s description of the winged horror attack and Mererid’s recounting of the prayer on the road.
Lakenna noticed Llyr watching Rhiannon. The warrior had the weathered, ruddy look of a man much outdoors. Deep crow’s-foot wrinkles surrounded his eyes. Surely the man could talk. How else could he command others?
Lakenna brought her gaze back to Rhiannon. The girl’s dress was a practical woolen of a sturdy weave. Her hair, though clean, was a tangled red mane of heavy curls falling about her shoulders and down her back. Buckled around her waist was a sword enclosed in a plain leather scabbard.
The air in the room was stuffy, heavy with the odor of spicy food and a smell new to Lakenna: the oil used to sharpen steel-edged weapons. The mixture coated the inside of her throat. She would have welcomed fresh air, but the room’s one glass-paned window was closed with the curtain pulled across and a blanket hanging down from the rod as well.
“Have you felt a similar . . . urge . . . to pray since arriving here at the Bridge?” Rhiannon asked.
Lakenna thought the girl’s question seemed a touch too casual.
Tellan must have noticed the same. He turned to his daughter. “Did those two Arshessa . . . ”
“No, Father. If they had I would have told you. Besides, you met them with the stallion; they are true warriors with honor.”
Tellan’s eyes narrowed at the interruption. His face was red, his eyebrows singed from the winged horror attack. The lines around his mouth were deep, his weariness plain. But he sat erect in his chair, arms folded, attention focused. A small scroll lay open on the table between him and Lady Mererid, with a mug resting in the middle. Both ends of the scroll curled up against it. Sheets of parchment lay in a neat pile next to it, along with a quill, an inkwell, a blotter of sand, and a block of wax.
Tellan had been angry—rightly so in Lakenna’s mind—upon learning of Rhiannon’s unescorted trip to the stables. Lakenna had just followed Lady Mererid into the room to tell Tellan and the others about the prayer on the road when Rhiannon barged in with her news about the horse’s shoulder. Tellan had given the girl a stern lecture before going with her back to the stable. Now, the same look returned to his face.
“We need all the information we can gather,” Mererid said, lightly placing her hand on her husband’s arm. Mererid sat neat and composed in her chair. She had changed into a soft, rose-colored dress accented with a white border. Her hair was brushed, and it gleamed in the lantern light. And though there was no doubt Tellan was in charge, Lakenna could see that Mererid was second only to him.
“We must conclude that the horrors came after you,” Mererid told Rhiannon. “Girard says our lore mentions siyyim walking the Land. Unfortunately, there is no mention of what they look like. We are treading almost blindly through this. Any incident in the stable, no matter how trivial it seemed at the time, may have bearing on these discussions.”
Rhiannon nodded. “High Lord Maolmin came in after Elmar left to prepare the poultice. When he looked at me . . . I felt the same as when the horrors looked at me.”
“How so?” Girard asked. The loreteller sat directly across the table from Rhiannon.
“His eyes. They were . . . ” She bit her lower lip. “They reminded me of the winged horrors.”
“Tell me what happened once you entered the stable,” Tellan commanded.
Rhiannon did, then finished by saying, “I sensed Harred felt the same. He looked ready to engage High Lord Maolmin empty-handed.”
Lakenna thought something flickered on Rhiannon’s face when the girl said “Harred.”
“Tell us more about Harred,” Mererid urged. Her eyes met Lakenna’s, and a moment of understanding passed between them.
Rhiannon’s expression closed. “An Arshessa warrior. Not noble-born. He is Lord Gillaon’s rhyfelwr. As I said, I was glad for Harred’s presence around High Lord Maolmin.” She raised her chin slightly. “Harred and Elmar both treated me with the respect due one warrior to another.”
Bodies shifted in chairs. Girard cleared his throat, opened his mouth, then closed it quickly at Tellan’s glare. Mererid shot a meaningful look at Llyr.
Finally, the old warrior blinked, met his lady’s gaze, then rubbed a meaty hand through his hair. “I will talk to this Harred,” he rumbled in a voice like an earthquake. “We’ll see if he is a decorated scabbard or if he can handle steel.”
“Steel,” Rhiannon said flatly. She raised her chin a bit more.
Llyr glanced again at Mererid, then back at Rhiannon. He fixed the girl with a stare hard as winter ice. “I will talk to this Arshessa tomorrow and take his measure. ’Til then, you will stay with one of us, Mistress Rhiannon.”
Rhiannon withstood the rhyfelwr’s gaze for a moment, then nodded and dropped her eyes.
Lakenna exchanged another look with Mererid. In spite of Rhiannon’s apparent interest in a commoner, her stepmother seemed pleased. A faint twinkle danced in her eyes, making Lakenna think of the silver mirror set. She did not think Mererid had given it to the girl yet.
“What about High Lord Maolmin Erian?” Tellan asked. He gestured to the scroll and other parchments before him. “Our creditors have been patient, but it is time they be repaid. And the hlaford needs to be rebuilt and furnished. The Rogoth wool must sell tomorrow. Maolmin and the Sabinis merchants will strive to hinder any agreement we reach with Lord Gillaon. Was this . . . feeling Rhiannon had about Maolmin part of that, or could it be part of the attack by the winged horrors?”
Tellan looked at each of them. “I was caught unprepared this morning, and it was only by the grace of the Eternal that Rhiannon survived.” His lips firmed, and the lines around his mouth deepened. “We will not be caught unprepared again.”
The words were even, but they carried the impact of an ax hitting a tree. That, and the glint in Tellan’s eyes, sent a chill through Lakenna. Home seemed far away in the mist of this hard-edged warrior atmosphere.
Mererid spoke. “Teacher, this encounter in the stables would have been while you were eating in Rhiannon’s room. Did the Eternal . . . did you feel anything then like you felt on the road?”
“No, m’lady. But this is new to me.” Lakenna noted how everyone’s look turned to puzzlement. It was most disconcerting. What did they expect from her? She was awestruck with Tellan’s account of the horror attack. She sat in a room with people who had been face-to-face with the Mighty Ones’ creatures as had Destin Faber and Stanus Albane! Loreteller Girard said that her prayer and that of Mererid must have cut the beasts off from the Mighty Ones, allowing them to be killed.
Lakenna’s mind still boggled at that. True, she had responded in faith to the Eternal’s urging on the road. But at the time she had no idea it was as deadly serious as winged horrors of the night. And if the loreteller was correct, perhaps a siyyim as well! It was one thing to sit in the meetinghouses and hear Albane teachers of doctrine expound upon how the Eternal expects believers to fight the good fight of faith in the heavenlies. It was quite another to be engaged in that battle with actual lives at stake.
Now, aware that all eyes in the room rested on her, a wave of concern passed through Lakenna. It seemed the Rogoths were expecting her to issue warning of any new danger to Rhiannon.
I can’t do this! You don’t know what I did!
She reined in her thoughts. Lord Tellan and the others around the table waited to hear what she had to say.
“As with you, this is my first time involved in matters of this gravity. I am sure you are aware that during Stanus Albane’s day, outbreaks of winged horrors of the night began occurring as they had before the Founding. It was not surprising. Keeper monasteries were riddled with drunkenness and debauchery of every description. The Keepers who worked among the people were equally ineffective. Many people in the Land returned openly to the worship of the Mighty Ones. It was proclaimed widely that the Eternal had abandoned the Covenant.”
Lakenna strove to keep her voice level and matter-of-fact. “The Great Rising that Stanus Albane helped usher in resulted in a rebirth of faith, and the Mighty Ones’ bid to regain dominion over the Land was beaten back. Since that time Albanes have prayed faithfully for the Covenant and the Faber dynasty. There have been no similar outbreaks of these creatures—at least in our areas.” Then she could not help adding, “I assume Keepers still go about their rituals. To what effect, I do not know.”
She looked around the table. “I will strive to remain open to the Eternal’s leading. I will pray . . . ” she swallowed, her insides roiling. “I will pray for Rhiannon and for all of you daily. As far as engaging the Mighty Ones, I know the teachings, but the specifics of this are new to me.”
“All of us are thankful for your efforts this morning,” Girard proclaimed in a deep rolling tone so surprising in a man his size. “One day soon, allow me to take you to the Kepploch Monastery. In the courtyard there is a statue of Destin Faber killing a winged horror of the night. The base of the statue contains names of more than seven score Keepers who have died in battles against the Mighty Ones and their worshipers. Five have been chiseled there this century alone. How many Albanes have died for the Eternal since Stanus’ day?”
Lakenna detected neither anger nor reproach in the loreteller’s voice, just statement of fact. She stole a quick glance at Tellan. His expression was unreadable. She looked back at Girard. “Our prayers have prevented any need to battle thusly. We Albanes do not—”
A sharp knock sounded. Conversation ceased. Llyr rose to his feet, scabbard held in one hand, the other gripping the sword hilt. He walked to the door. After a muffled exchange he slid the latch back and swung the heavy door open.
A Keeper strode into the room with purpose and an air of command, black robe swirling around his long strides. Lakenna thought he was in his mid-thirties. Average height and thin, his face was freshly shaved but still showing the shadow of a heavy beard. A large hooked nose gave him a rugged, angular look. The Keeper’s black robe was of rich linen and finely tailored. She noticed the knots of white rope belt. Three each on the tasseled ends dangling beyond the large gold clasp. Six knots? Even she knew that only His Most High Excellency, the Ruling Keeper, wore seven.
Tellan’s chair scraped backward as he stood. A puzzled expression furrowed his brow. As everyone else followed Tellan’s example, Lakenna remained firmly in her seat. This was her first time in the same room with a Keeper, but as far as she was concerned, he was no different from anyone else.
“I am High Lord Keeper Branor. I have come in the Eternal’s name for your need.”
Girard’s eyes widened, and his head whipped toward Tellan. The Rogoth lord’s expression was a study of emotions: surprise, anger, uncertainty, and finally an inward longing that was gone in a flash. He stood ramrod straight and made no effort to welcome the Keeper.
Awkward silence filled the room. Mererid turned to Tellan, obviously
puzzled at this breech in manners. When her husband remained an unmoving statue, she stepped toward the Keeper. “Our deepest gratitude, Lord Keeper, for coming—”
“What is the meaning of this?” Tellan spat. “Am I mocked?”
Mererid’s hand came to her mouth. She stepped back, eyes darting between her husband and the Keeper.
Branor shook his head slowly. “Lord Tellan, fifteen years ago I wronged you. I hid behind the walls of my order instead of meeting with you so we could come to terms with the manner of Lady Eyslk’s death. I deeply regret that.” He lifted his hands, palms outward. “I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
Tellan’s face was a stone mask. But Rhiannon’s eyed widened. She opened her mouth and made to step forward, but Mererid placed a hand on the girl’s arm and gave a quick headshake.
Branor regarded Tellan with a level, yet pained look. “I wronged you then, and I have wronged you since by not seeking your forgiveness sooner. I ask again, will you forgive me?”
“My wife is dead because of you, and you ask forgiveness?”
Mererid’s face paled. She peered at Tellan for a long moment, then her eyes dropped, and she plucked at the folds of her dress with a shaking hand.
The Keeper shook his head. “I do not ask forgiveness for Lady Eyslk’s death. That is bound up in the mystery of the Eternal’s purpose, and its understanding is beyond me. I ask forgiveness for not meeting with you afterwards.”
When Tellan made no reply, Branor continued smoothly. “It is no accident I am here. This morning many at Kepploch were driven to their knees by the hand of the Eternal to pray. When your letter came, we realized why. We are bound together and must be one in the Eternal.”
Lakenna started. Keepers had been praying as well? Inexplicably, she felt betrayed. Quickly she dismissed the feeling—or tried to.
