by Miles Owens
While Branor gaped at Maolmin in bewilderment, Rhiannon’s heart thumped madly at the way her father and Maolmin regarded each other. If looks were swords, both men would be bleeding. From the light blazing in Tellan’s eyes, she had real fear he verged on launching himself at Maolmin.
The High Lord waited, a faint smirk on his lips, huge hands relaxed at his side. His blue coat swelled, and Rhiannon could almost hear the seams popping.
Harred must have sensed the same. He took a half step backward, right hand groping for a sword hilt as his eyes darted between the two men.
Then a thought struck Rhiannon. Could this be the High Lord’s plan? Was this the reason behind last night in the stables and now—to goad Tellan into an unheard-of personal attack on his High Lord? Then all Rogoth lands and titles would be forfeit.
Thankfully, Girard and Llyr appeared at Tellan’s side.
“Easy, m’lord,” Llyr warned in a low voice.
“Yes, m’lord,” Girard murmured. “You cannot do this.”
Tellan came back from the brink. The light in his eyes dimmed a bit. He took a deep breath.
Rhiannon let out her pent-up breath as well. She noticed everyone crowded shoulder to shoulder around them, watching and listening.
Maolmin smiled. “Lord Tellan, I am curious. Why do you seek to go against both my wishes and our clan’s long-standing obedience to the Covenant and begin trading with the Broken Stone Land?” He shook his head sadly. “Even before Destin Faber, the Dinari and the Broken Stone peoples were rivals. Our ancestors worshiped the Mighty One of the North while theirs followed the Lady of the West—as they do to this day.”
Branor’s eyes widened. He regarded Maolmin in puzzlement.
Tellan said, “I have seen how the Sabinis do business.” He lifted a hand to the three merchants, who were standing nearby. “Across the Great Sea they trade regularly with pagans, including those from the Broken Stone Land, and yet you do not accuse them of breaking the Covenant. The Sabinis and their friends grow richer while my kinsmen grow poorer. I will have no more of that.”
Maolmin’s face darkened. “What do you mean?”
“As kinsmen lord, my duty requires me to seek the best offer I can. Ask your Sabinis friends to explain why Lord Gillaon can pay two silvers more than they and then transport the wool across the Ardnamur Mountains instead of barging it down the Clundy River, and still make a profit.”
Maolmin turned to the Sabinis.
Ryce Pleoh stepped forward. He gave a greasy smile. “Markets go up and down, as I am sure my lords are aware. We are at the mercy of overseas demand.” His pig eyes darted among the three sets of kinsmen lords and their advisors. “Droughts, floods, wars, rumors of wars, pestilence—all these can drive prices down. Many times we have sold at a loss due to factors beyond our control. Worse, ships set sail and are never heard from again.” He looked directly at Lord Gillaon. “After such setbacks, those who overextend themselves by paying too much for their goods go bankrupt.”
“I have pledged my honor,” the barrel-chested Arshessa stated coldly, “that I will be back next year and the year after. Against that, you offer parchment and ink.”
“One’s honor lasts only as far as the grave.”
Gillaon’s hand dropped to his clan dagger. “Is that a threat, Sabinis?”
Raising his hands in mock apology, the fat merchant said, “You misunderstand me, m’lord. I simply meant even honor has its limits.” He turned back to Tellan. “By joining our resources, we three can spread risks that honor may not be able to withstand. If the markets are down, we lose money; if they are up, we realize a better profit as our reward.” Ryce pursed his fat lips and looked meaningfully at Tellan. “Without this contract the price we can pay and the amount we purchase next year will be volatile.”
Lord Baird Leanon had been drinking steadily, his lined face growing more flushed by the moment. Finally, he thrust his pewter tankard at Ryce, causing a cupful of mead to slosh out and splatter the carpet. “I hear a threat woven into those fine words, don’t I just.” At Ryce’s protest, Baird growled, “Don’t be insulting my intelligence, Sabinis. We understand what you are saying.”
He lifted the tankard, drained it, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he pointed a bony finger at Sihtric Averill. “Let us say I decide not to sign your contract, and that Lord Gillaon’s proposal with the Broken Stone Land proves unsatisfactory. And further, for reasons beyond your control, next year you cannot give us a fair price or even purchase our wool at all.” The lines around the kinsmen lord’s mouth deepened; his eyes flattened. “In that case, Sabinis, I would ask how you plan to get the wagonloads of wool you do purchase out of these highlands.”
Sihtric Averill stepped forward. He regarded Baird, his nose wrinkling as though smelling something rotten. “We depend on kinsmen lords to maintain safe passage through their lands—and for High Lords to deal with any not fulfilling their historic duty.” The weasel-faced merchant’s mouth quirked. “We are confident High Lord Maolmin will not be found lacking should his authority be challenged.”
All faces turned to Maolmin. The High Lord pulled his eyes away from where Branor and Lakenna stood next to each other talking—or rather, Lakenna was whispering to Branor, who still wore a dazed expression.
Maolmin seemed distracted for a few heartbeats, then brought his focus back to the discussion. “This has strayed from my purpose from coming. Let me state my position, then I will leave you to strike your deals.” He paused and gathered his thoughts, and when he spoke, Rhiannon was struck by the difference between this manner and the much more ominous one she had just seen.
“Beyond the Covenant,” he began, “I ask everyone to consider the balance of power between the six clans. We Dinari must ally ourselves with a larger, stronger clan or risk domination by the others. Hard choices must be made. This contract with the Sabinis meets with my approval. It will bring greater prosperity to each kinsmen group while benefiting the clan as a whole at the Raedel. And I say again,” he looked quickly at Tellan and then the others standing around him, “it allows us to remain under the covering of the Covenant.”
With that, the High Lord and his party took their leave.
To Rhiannon, the sale an hourglass later proved blessedly anticlimactic. When the three Sabinis wool merchants remained firm on their initial offer, her father and Bard Leanon accepted Lord Gillaon’s offer of four silvers per standard weight bale. Maolmin watched silently, his face set like stone. Seuman Fawr, after much hemming and hawing, sold to the Sabinis.
Chapter Fifteen
HARRED
THE WAGON MASTER maneuvered the quid to the other side of his mouth, then spat a streak of dark liquid onto the grass. “Tell your Lord Gillaon that nobody loads wool until the day after the sale. That way everybody has a chance to enjoy the fair. His wool will be right here tomorrow.”
It was past noon. Groups of empty wagons dotted the area farthest from the activities. Hobbled mules grazed the hillsides, enjoying a rare day of rest. Harred and Elmar stood beside the wagon.
“You’ll haul it then?” Harred asked, trying to keep the elation off his face.
They had done it: the wool was theirs! At least the Rogoth and Leanon wool. More importantly, the Sabinis monopoly was broken. Now Harred had to arrange to transport the wool safely to Lord Gillaon’s hlaford and then across the Ardnamur Mountains to the Broken Stone merchants. Accomplish those two tasks satisfactorily, and surely the position of rhyfelwr would be his permanently. Harred fervently hoped so. After being by Lord Gillaon’s side these days, the role of a common warrior would never be satisfactory again.
The wagon master raised a ham-sized hand. “Didn’t say nothing about hauling.” He propped a muddy boot on the spoke of a wooden wheel, worked his quid, and spat another liquid streak. “Never been to Arshessa land, much less across the Ardnamurs—”
“Not all the way. Only about half.”
“I heard you the first time
.” He cocked an eyebrow. “What will we haul back? Can’t make money hauling one way empty.”
“Furs and amber. Silks. Some jewelry and precious stones. You will receive a tenth.”
Greed flared in the wagon master’s eyes. “You have the King’s License for all that?”
Harred answered the way Lord Gillaon had instructed if the question was asked. “Your job is to haul the wool and then return with the other. The rest is in our hands.”
“You have a guide for the mountains?”
“We be passing through areas I hunted as a boy,” Elmar said. The wagon master chewed furiously, lost in thought. His face was the color of old leather; deep crow’s-feet wrinkles surrounded his eyes. “We’ll be a long way from anywhere in those mountains. A lot can happen.”
“My men and I will be with you every step, there and back,” Harred said.
The wagon master spat and chewed.
In the distance, Harred heard the din of happy clansmen. Their wool was sold, and the fair was in full swing. Eager buyers crowded merchants. Horse races and contests of strength and skill were underway. Acrobats, jugglers, acting troupes, and puppeteers plied their specialties as well.
Struggling to keep his features blank, Harred waited impatiently while the wagon master continued his contemplation of Lord Gillaon’s offer. If this one refused, then it was to do all over again with someone else—and that much longer before he tracked down Breanna in the crowd.
He had to find out why she had taken his breath away at the Rogoth pavilion. Never had a woman affected him like this. How could she so easily remove from his mind all thoughts of Rhiannon, who was clearly the more physically attractive of the two? He wanted to pick Breanna up, bring her face level with his, and gaze into those warm dark eyes from now until the sun went down—
The wagon master pushed away from the wheel and stood straight. “Tell your Lord Gillaon he has a deal. We will start loading his wool at first light.”
“She be so short,” Elmar said, head swiveling as they both dodged a group of running, giggling children, “we could walk right by and never know. You sure she be here and not back at the inn?”
“She’s here,” Harred stated with more confidence than he felt. They had checked the merchant booths, the sword bouts and archery area, and the cooking pits. Nothing.
“You eat anything yet?” Elmar half trotted to keep up with Harred’s long strides.
“Not enough to matter. You wouldn’t believe all that was going on inside that pavilion. I understood about a third of it.” Harred kept scanning the crowd. There!—no, it was a young girl about Breanna’s size wearing a yellow dress.
“Have one of these.” Elmar unrolled a cloth containing two fat links of sausage.
Harred took one. Elmar took the other but waited expectantly.
“Are they any good?” Harred asked, as if he didn’t know what would happen if he bit into it.
“As good as your mother’s,” Elmar said with exaggerated innocence.
“You’ve tried them?” Try as he might, Harred’s lips begin to twitch into a smile.
Elmar realized it wasn’t going to work. “These Dinari,” he snorted in disgust. “You’ve never seen such laughter. My mouth still be burning.”
They came to a large crowd standing in a semicircle around the puppet stage. Shrew Wife was onstage by herself, grousing loudly about her husband. The crowd roared at a particularly tart comment.
“I’ll look to the left,” Harred said. “You take the right.” They scanned the crowd once, then again. Breanna was not among the puppet watchers.
“If they be at the inn, packing to leave . . . ” Elmar said.
Harred sighed. She had to be here among the crowd where he could talk to her without her father intervening. At the inn, that would be next to impossible.
Then it hit him. “Have you noticed any loretellers?”
They found the loretellers in a quiet area behind the sprawling Fawr pavilion. Four loretellers, Breanna’s father included, sat in a row of chairs listening to apprentice loretellers. A smallish crowd had gathered behind the chairs to listen, but Breanna was not among them. Harred slapped his leg in frustration. At least when he did find her, she would be away from her father.
Then movement at the back of the Fawr pavilion caught his eye. Breanna entered carrying a tray of food and a mug. Watching her approach, Harred was again struck by the smooth grace of her movements.
As Breanna came closer, her gaze came to rest on him. She smiled full at him, and Harred felt the impact down to his toes. She stopped behind her father’s chair, handed the food and drink over his shoulder, then stood directly behind him.
A new apprentice got up and began the familiar tale of Destin and Meagarea at the first Rite of Presentation:
Unmarried when he took the throne, Destin knew he needed a queen and a male heir. He summoned all six High Lords. “Choose from among your noble women those you think suitable for a queen. Look not for comeliness alone. Seek maidens of pure heart and high intelligence who love the Eternal as I do . . . ”
Breanna eased back a step and caught Harred’s eye. Lowering her gaze, she made her way toward the edge of the small gathering.
Harred moved to join her. His feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. His heart pounded; his mouth was dry. How could a young woman—girl, really—have this effect on him? He sensed she possessed a sweet nature, but what had twisted her around his heart like no female before?
When you have gathered these maidens, I will come and have you present them . . .
He halted before her, and Breanna’s dark eyes searched his face. With her head tilted up to his height, her expression had an openness, a questioning wrapped in vulnerability.
I will trust the Eternal to show me the one he has prepared . . .
Again, Harred found himself tongue-tied. This was his chance, perhaps his only chance. But with her before him, he faltered. This was not the way of courtship. But something rare and precious was happening, and he could not ride away without an effort. She knew nothing of him and his family. Or he of hers. What to do? Something inside urged total honesty. And for the first time with a female, he found himself doing just that.
He stepped to her and led her a small distance back from the gathering. “I looked everywhere. I feared I would never see you again. Then it came to me about the loretellers.”
“I knew you would come.” Breanna continued to regard him with that same open vulnerability. “During my prayers this morning, I felt strongly this day would not end without us talking.”
Harred’s heart surged. He should have tried honesty sooner. He heard himself saying, “I intend to ask your father’s permission to bring suit.” Then he cringed inwardly, afraid she would think he was too forward.
But Breanna simply nodded. She cocked her head sideways. “Do you serve the Eternal, Harred Wright?”
For a moment, he was unnerved. “When I was a boy,” he began, “my grandmother and I prayed. I bowed the knee to the Eternal and, uh . . . ” he groped to remember the phrases, “asked him to indwell me. I pledged my life . . . I pledged to serve him.”
Breanna’s liquid black eyes searched his face. “My mother says once the Eternal puts his mark on a person, it cannot be removed. His presence seemed particularly strong on you in the stable. I have wondered what happened before my father and I came in.”
“High Lord Maolmin had just left. He was talking to Lord Tellan’s daughter . . . I interrupted them.” And came within a heartbeat of being run through, he finished silently, still in awe of how fast the man had whirled and drawn his sword.
At the mention of Maolmin, a shadow crossed Breanna’s features. “My father has changed so much since accepting the High Lord’s offer. Mother begged him not to, but he went against her wishes. She cannot bear to be in Maolmin’s presence. That is why I accompanied my father on this trip.”
Then Harred realized how quiet it had become. He turned back to the lore
tellers.
Breanna’s father, Abel, was striding toward them. Beside him waddled Ryce Pleoh, the big-bellied Sabinis merchant. The crowd had turned around and was watching with open curiosity.
“Leave this Arshessa!” Abel demanded, his thin face pinched. “And come with me. Now!”
Angered at the tone, Harred stepped between Breanna and her father. “I hear concern in your voice, loreteller. Do you fear I seek to dishonor you daughter?”
The look on Harred’s face halted Ryce in his tracks.
Abel came two strides further—but no closer. “Breanna. Now!”
As Breanna stepped around and went to her father, Harred raised his voice until it carried to the rest watching and listening. “The reason I ask, Loreteller Abel, is to make sure before we leave this place that honor has been satisfied. If you have ought against me, state it now before these witnesses that I might respond in like manner.”
Ryce fingered his cloak and sneered. Abel was opening his mouth when the bandy-legged Rogoth loreteller hurried up.
“I am Girard, Lord Tellan’s loreteller. Is there a problem . . . Harred, I believe it is?” He turned to face the loretellers and other people coming. Elmar’s was the only friendly face. “This Arshessa is here under Rogoth covering,” Girard said. “If there be ought against him, Lord Tellan will see justice done.” Then under his breath to Harred, “If there is, I’ll have your guts for bowstrings.”
“I have treated the maiden with honor, loreteller.”
Girard studied him long and hard. Then, seemingly satisfied, he spoke formally. “Loreteller Abel Caemhan, have you fear this man has harmed your daughter in action or word?”
Abel looked like he could have bitten a nail in half, but he turned to Breanna and followed the time-honored formula: “Breanna en Erian de Caemhan, do you have ought against this man? If so, state it plainly and know he will not be able to touch you now or ever.”
