by Miles Owens
“Tell me, Keeper,” Tellan said, the title coming out almost as an accusation, “was a siyyim directing the horrors this morning?”
Branor’s expression remained neutral. “All the accounts I have studied say that where winged horrors act with purpose, they are controlled by a siyyim.”
“I would meet this siyyim . . . ” Tellan’s eyes flashed. “ . . . this monster who sends such creatures after a young girl. Can you assist me in that?”
“I am a Keeper. I am here to see this outbreak from the protection of the Covenant contained and your daughter safe again.”
“Help find the siyyim,” Tellan said. “Then you and Teacher Lakenna do like this morning and allow me to meet it with weapons.”
Branor looked at Lakenna. He took in her white blouse and brown skirt, and she could see “Albane” click in his mind. She returned his gaze evenly. He was not bad looking. His hairline receded slightly, but the remainder was thick and showed a hint of a wave combed straight back. For some reason, she sensed great turmoil inside the man, beyond the obvious tension with Lord Tellan. The Keeper’s brow seemed permanently creased with deep worry lines, his shoulders weighted down from a heavy burden.
He hides secrets as I do.
The thought startled her. She lowered her eyes.
Branor looked back to Tellan. “Siyyim cannot be killed. They are spirit beings, powerful creatures second only to the Mighty Ones.”
“Didn’t Destin Faber kill all the siyyim during the battles before the Cutting of the Covenant?” Rhiannon said.
Branor turned to the girl—and stared. He blinked, then gathered himself. “My pardon, I—”
“Please, my lord husband.” Mererid showed no evidence of anxiety on her face, but Lakenna heard the strain in her voice and saw that the woman’s fingers were white where they gripped her dress. “Let us take seats and make introductions. High Lord Keeper Branor says he is here to help. I am sure you agree we need all we can get.”
Tellan hesitated, then gestured for everyone to sit. The only free chair at the table was next to Lakenna. Branor looked at it and then at her. She kept her gaze straight ahead.
He inclined his head slightly, removed his cloak, and draped it over the back of the chair. The cloak was wool, expensive, and dyed black as his robe. Crisp linen rustled as he sat and crossed a leg over a knee. After arranging the folds of his robe, he clasped his hands in his lap. The fingers were long, the nails manicured, his palms smooth and free of calluses. A scholar’s hands. Everything about him was a far cry from Loane and the other weather-worn Albane farmers and herders in the fertile valley where she had spent most of her life.
Tellan formally introduced Mererid and Rhiannon. While Girard and Llyr were presented, Rhiannon seemed barely able to sit still in her eagerness to question the Keeper—then the girl suddenly jumped in her chair and glanced at Mererid. Lakenna suppressed a wry snort. The stepmother’s face remained unreadable, but Lakenna could imagine a busy foot under the table.
“And this is Lakenna Wen,” Tellan said. “She has taken service as tutor. When you arrived, Keeper, we were discussing her role in the happenings this morning. From what you said, it would seem both of you were . . . involved.” Tellan paused. “It is still unclear to me exactly how your prayers rendered the horrors vulnerable to our weapons and how long we can expect that to last. I need enlightenment. But more, we must know why. Why were the horrors so determined to kill the ‘red-haired girl’?”
Branor pursed his lips. “First, I suggest it would be beneficial to make sure we all have the same understanding of what we face. We dare not have any among us laboring under false assumptions.”
Lakenna ground her teeth. Make sure we all have the same understanding? False assumptions? As if Albanes needed teaching from Keepers!
The Keeper settled back into the chair and steepled his fingers. His cadence took on that of rote memory. He told of how Destin, born among the clans, had traveled to foreign lands to seek his fortune. There he encountered the teachings of the Eternal. His life was forever changed, and when he returned—full of zeal for his newfound religion and possessed of newly honed generalship skills—he led a campaign and an awakening that ended with the clans throwing off worship of the Mighty Ones of the North, South, East, and West. Although this information was basically the same as Lakenna had been taught as a young Albane, she nevertheless found herself borne along with the smoothness of Branor’s voice. She noticed that she was leaning forward.
“Destin gathered the High Lords of the six clans, and together those seven men cut a covenant with the Eternal,” Branor said, “pledging to rule the Land in accordance with Holy Writ and the character of the loving God they served. As Destin was crowned king, Fentuch, a holy man and the first Keeper of the Covenant, gave this utterance:
“‘Thus saith the Eternal. I have made this covenant with you for the ruling of this Land. I set up one shepherd over you, my servant Destin Faber. He shall feed you, and he shall be your shepherd. And his son and his son after him, even unto one hundred generations, will they feed and protect you with this covenant of my peace. Keep this covenant, and the Mighty Ones’ yoke of slavery shall be broken. The winged horror of the night and its brethren will cease out of the Land. You shall be safe in your homes and shall know that I am the Eternal. 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, saith the Eternal.’”
Branor paused. Those listening shifted in their chairs. Lakenna glanced at Rhiannon. The girl’s green eyes focused on the Keeper with single-minded intensity.
Branor uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “A covenant is a two-party contract. Each side must uphold its end. The Eternal is perfect and unchanging. His mercy endures forever. It is in our faithfulness to the Covenant where the problem lies. Our part details two specifics. First, the Faber dynasty. It is linked to the Covenant. ‘And his son and his son after him, even unto one hundred generations.’ King Balder’s health is suspect, but Prince Larien is young and vigorous, and although the betrothal has ended, surely he will marry one day and produce a male heir. That is vital.”
“You must not have heard about the Rite of Presentation,” Mererid said.
Branor stilled. “For Larien?”
Mererid nodded. “The announcement just reached us.”
“When?”
“In the fall.”
The Keeper’s eyes burned as he digested the news. Lakenna waited, as did the others. The room grew stuffier. Glancing at the blanket-covered window, she wished someone would open it a crack, but knew it wasn’t going to happen.
“That changes everything,” Branor said softly as he stared at the floor. “Whoever Larien chooses, she won’t be another Sabinis.”
Or Albane either, Lakenna thought. Since the Founding, every maiden marrying into the Faber dynasty had come from one of six clans. And for centuries almost exclusively from the wealthiest families of the three largest: Sabinis, Landantae, and Arshessa. Nonetheless, Lakenna found herself growing excited. The last Presentation had been two centuries ago. Maybe she would see this one. Or would it be clan members only?
Branor roused himself. He looked around the room as if seeing everyone for the first time. “Ah, yes. Back to our discussion. The inhabitants of the Land’s part of the Covenant is the second component.”
Tellan’s face was a closed mask as he listened. The Rogoth lord had not responded to Branor’s plea for forgiveness. Lakenna wondered where that was going to lead.
Again, Branor steppled his fingertips. “We all know that worship of the Mighty Ones did not—and has not—ceased. And while the Covenant greatly hinders the Mighty Ones’ power, we Keepers have long understood that their worship here in the Land can enable winged horrors and other such creatures to break past the barrier of the Covenant and rampage again.”
“Albanes have long taught this,” Lakenna said proudly. “More, we know tha
t while association with pagans does not hinder a person’s ability to commune with the Eternal, it does hinder that person’s protection from the Mighty Ones. Those battling such manifestations must be pure and free of sin.” She stopped. Then why had her prayers worked? She glanced at the Keeper. Maybe they hadn’t. No, the power she had felt on the road praying with Mererid was real. Something had happened.
“I see,” Branor said shortly. “As I was saying, after the Covenant and during the Cleansing, Keepers of the Covenant fought a long struggle against the ingrained worship of the Mighty Ones in all their different disguises. Even now, twelve centuries later, many pockets of pagan belief remain. During the past decades we Keepers have not been as vigilant in rooting them out, believing these remnants too small and insignificant to be worth pursuing.”
Mererid nodded. “Just fifteen years ago, all Dinari nobles were shocked to learn that our high lord at the time had been dabbling in the ceremonies of the old gods. Either knowingly or by accident, supposedly he enabled something to break past the restraints of the Covenant.”
“Supposedly!” Girard snorted. “Verified that was, m’lady. Verified by Gaelbhen, the late loreteller to the newly elected High Lord Maolmin, and brought before the loreteller assembly at the Dinari Fall Gathering that same year. It was duly investigated by three uninvolved loretellers and accepted as lore by our solemn body during the ensuing Gathering. After the reports had been given, not one of us had any doubts that something terrible had been called forth. It was only by the efforts of a group of monks sent from Kepploch, aided greatly by Maolmin himself, that it was bound and expelled from the Land. All but one of the Keepers died in the struggle.”
Again, Branor stiffened. Sweat beaded his brow. He opened and closed his mouth.
Lakenna watched his distress, puzzled. “Were you there?” The words were out before she realized it.
The Keeper almost jumped in his chair. “I had already left Kepploch. I . . . wasn’t there.”
Into the ensuing silence, Rhiannon asked, “Do you believe these things can take over someone’s body?”
Branor took a deep breath. “If siyyim, lilitu, or other such creatures ever inhabited people’s bodies, it should not happen now. But there is disagreement on this. Since the Covenant there have been accounts of death and destruction attributed to the Mighty Ones’ creatures—these attacks seem to have been human-directed.”
“And the winged horrors coming after Rhiannon,” Tellan stated.
“Yes, Lord Tellan,” Branor said. “It is time for specifics. ‘Kill red-haired girl.’ Does anyone have any idea why?”
Llyr asked, “Can it have anything to do with Rhiannon’s birthing prophecy? That deranged monk tried to kill her, and now winged horrors and perhaps a siyyim. There must be some connection.”
“I agree,” Girard said. He looked quizzically at the Keeper. “I have tried to remember what I could of that utterance. Do you still remember it, Your Grace?”
Branor remained silent. Mererid stared down at her hands clinched in her lap.
“Please?” Rhiannon asked. “May I hear it from you?”
Branor looked at the girl for a long moment, though his focus seemed far away. Finally, he closed his eyes and nodded.
“‘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. This babe at the breast will be a Protectoress of the Covenant. She will be a tool in my hands to strengthen it and return its fullness to the Land while bringing the Mighty Ones and their creatures to heel again.’”
Lakenna glanced at Rhiannon. The girl’s eyes were wide and round, her expression one of wonder—tinged with a touch of fear? If so, it was gone quickly. Rhiannon sat straighter in her chair while lifting her chin ever so slightly.
Mererid broke the silence. “What do those words mean to you tonight, Lord Keeper?”
Raw emotion twisted the man’s features. “With all that happened after those words left my mouth, I became convinced I had erred. Surely it was not from the urging of the Eternal that I spoke, I told myself, but rather out of my own admiration for Lady Eyslk and her oft-stated desire that the babe growing in her womb be used by the Eternal.”
Lakenna shifted in her chair, uncomfortable.
“And now?” Mererid probed.
Branor took a deep breath and let it out audibly. “It seems the Mighty Ones believe it. They sent a siyyim, a creature second in power only to themselves, and gave it four winged horrors of the night to kill Rhiannon.” He continued almost in disbelief. “I believe the prophecy was indeed of the Eternal.”
“What do I do now?” Rhiannon asked.
“What ‘Protectoress of the Covenant’ entails, I do not know. It may be what your mother was beginning to do before her untimely death: gathering information and encouraging a rebirth of the strong faith of Destin Faber and the Founders. It may be much more. Sometimes we get so stuck on doing the Eternal’s will our way . . . ” His voiced tailed off.
“Yes?” Rhiannon urged.
“We . . . we can become so focused on our way that we . . . don’t take the time to find what the Eternal’s way might be.” He swallowed. “Whatever the case, you will find that path opening before you one day, perhaps soon. The Eternal does not force anyone to follow him. You will have to choose to walk it or not. If you do so choose, it will unfold according to his timing.”
“And the siyyim?” Tellan said. “Will that unfold according to the Eternal’s timing, or is that in our hands?”
“All things unfold according to the Eternal’s timing,” Branor said. “But it has been given to us to battle the Mighty Ones’ efforts to end the Covenant and reestablish their rule here in the Land.”
“Is Rhiannon safe?” Tellan asked.
“I am here—for a time. Events are . . . I must return to Shinard.” Branor tilted his head toward Lakenna. “You have said that this woman was part of this morning’s effort. She must remain vigilant. You have your men and their weapons. Rhiannon is as safe as she can be until the siyyim is cast out of the Land.”
“How do we find the siyyim?”
“Mainly, Lord Tellan, Rhiannon needs but walk in the Eternal’s purpose.” Branor smiled grimly. “If she does, the siyyim will find her.”
Chapter Ten
RHIANNON
WHAT WAS SHE going to do with these? “Thank you, Mother,” Rhiannon said politely. “It is a beautiful set.” Mererid smiled. “Your father believes they come from Aunt Serilda’s estate. Please don’t tell him otherwise.” Mererid’s expectant look continued. Teacher Lakenna stood beside her and watched curiously as well.
Early morning light filled Rhiannon’s room at the Bridge Across, the bright shafts illuminating a multicolored rug in the middle of the floor. A red oak wardrobe with an inlaid vine design stood against one wall. A dresser and a ladder-backed chair were by the window. Lakenna’s bags lined one wall of the room.
When Rhiannon had awakened to sunlight beaming into the room, Lakenna had already been up and gone, but she had returned with Mererid to present the silver mirror set. The Albane was dressed for the day, her waist-length hair brushed and up in a neat bun. Mererid’s hair was hastily pinned, with several loose strands curling down about her neck. Her dress was old, surely not what she planned to wear to the wool sale.
Still holding the silver mirror, brush, and comb, Rhiannon felt the weight of the scabbard and sword hanging from her waist and breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that, against her stepmother’s protests, she had brought it to Lachlann. For the sword to have been ruined in the fire was unthinkable.
“We can hang the mirror here,” Lakenna suggested brightly, indicating a peg on the dresser by the window. “I can take the comb and work on the worst of the tangles if you want.”
Rhiannon glanced back and forth
between the two women.
Something was in the air. “It’s time for sword drills.”
“Llyr has decreed no training,” Mererid said. “He is with your father, Creag, and Girard checking on the wool. We must be ready when they return to escort us to the sale.”
Rhiannon suppressed a flash of irritation. Creag was with the men while she was to stay here and do her hair. Mererid would probably insist on ribbons in it as well! “I washed my hair yesterday. It’s fine as it is.”
Mererid’s expression firmed. “The morning promises to be most difficult, Rhiannon. As the family of the lord of the Rogoth kinsmen, our station demands we present ourselves as best we can. Today will be good preparation for the Rite of Presentation.”
Rhiannon ground her teeth. She would have no peace in the coming months. Mererid would be in full flood, demanding daily practice on how to walk upright and curtsy and simper and drink punch. All just to stand in line with twenty other noble girls, then spend fifteen seconds being introduced to the prince and have her hand kissed.
Mererid handed the comb to Lakenna. “Lord Gillaon and Harred will be present. Men are favorably impressed by a woman’s well-groomed appearance.” Mererid cocked an eyebrow. “I am sure you recognize the importance of impressing our new trading partners.”
Rhiannon conceded Mererid’s point. “I will wear my sword to the auction.” It was half statement, half question. After her father’s displeasure with the unescorted trip to the stables last night, she was on shaky ground indeed.
Frown lines crinkled Mererid’s brow. She opened her mouth—but Lakenna spoke first. “May I see your sword?”
Surprised, Rhiannon slid the blade from the scabbard. “Please don’t touch the metal.”
Lakenna stepped forward and inspected the weapon carefully, paying particular attention to the sharp edge. “Your sword is of superior steel.”
“Of course.” But Rhiannon wondered how to tell. Both Tellan and Llyr assured her it was a fine one, and she had accepted that fact without question.
