by Miles Owens
“Enough!” Branor spat hoarsely. He jerked his arm free. “I will hear no more of this!” But his feet remained planted in the grass. Cold dread froze his breath as again and again the faces of those young novices flashed before his eyes. All killed during the effort to bind the siyyim. All killed except Narlan, who had been damaged in the mind. Disaster had been averted only by—
Maolmin Erian!
Branor’s stomach heaved and hot acid seared his throat. He swayed, dumbfounded at how blind he had been. Why didn’t I put it together sooner?
But in the next breath, he knew the answer: He hadn’t wanted to see it. He hadn’t dared face the consequences of acting on what he seen inside Maolmin at Lachlann. He had been too busy thinking about his own advancement.
O dear Eternal, he wept inwardly, haunted by the specter of those poor, unprepared youngsters coming face-to-face with the unbound evil inside—
His mind reeled as the full impact washed over him. Maolmin was indwelt by a siyyim! That’s how it had been vanquished—by taking up habitation inside him! A siyyim had sent winged horrors to kill Rhiannon! That was the reason for the tension between Maolmin and Rhiannon at the pavilion! That was the reason the Albane tutor had moved rudely between them and stubbornly refused to stand aside until Branor had finally given in to what had seemed a steady push from an unseen hand and stepped between them himself! All the while wondering desperately how to salvage—
“Thus saith the Eternal!”
Branor started. Narlan stood straight and tall, his eyes full of a holy fire.
“Hear the word of the Eternal, you who strut so proudly with your six knots while your fingers itch to tie the seventh! Woe to you who takes the Eternal’s purpose and twists it for your own advancement. While you feed your ambition, the Covenant weakens and so the Mighty Ones stir, seeking to reestablish their rule upon the Land.”
Narlan flung out his arm, his index finger almost touching Branor’s breast. “To every person come moments to decide, clear forks in the road. This day the Eternal places such a fork before you. Will you continue to walk the path of your ambition? Will you strive to call evil good while trying to mold darkness into light?”
The words cut Branor to his joints, penetrating to the very marrow of his bones. Part of him wanted to run and hide, but a deeper part demanded he stay.
Narlan lowered his finger. “Or will you give your ambition to the Eternal and seek his purpose so you can become a vessel to pour his love and protection into the lives of his people?”
Something slammed Branor’s knees. Dimly, he realized it was the ground. He swayed back and forth, barely able to remain upright.
Narlan turned his palms outward and finished softly: “A desperate battle for the soul of the Land looms. Mighty warriors are needed. The decision lies before you. Choose you which path you will tread.”
Grass blades cut Branor’s face and dirt filled his mouth, muffling the sound of his bitter weeping. Tears ran hot on his skin as the ruin of fifteen years lay in shattered pieces around his prostrate body.
Chapter Seventeen
LARBOW
THE SUN WAS down in Inbur, and the Three Sisters Tavern held a lively crowd. A minstrel strummed a lyre and sang in a high-pitched raspy voice barely heard above the talk and laughter. The aroma of roasting lamb floated from the kitchen. Serving maids in ankle-length dresses and white aprons wove through the blue haze of pipe smoke, bringing food and drink to a steady stream of new patrons. Which was the reason Larbow had specified this hour.
He watched the two Sabinis merchants make their way to a corner table. The fat one pulled out a dowel-backed chair and settled ponderously into it. The older, white-haired merchant remained standing. Heorot Seamere glanced around the crowded room, his pockmarked face shouting to any who cared to notice that he was looking for someone.
Larbow sighed. White Hair should know better. But clansmen understood nothing of this. And so much the better. If they did, it would have hindered Larbow’s ability to pick them clean and then melt away unnoticed while stupid clan warriors scurried like yapping dogs unsure of the scent.
Lifting his mug to his lips but not drinking, Larbow followed the fat one’s eyes across the room to a table where two men in dark brown leathers sat with barely touched mugs. One of them, a large man with coarse features and a heavy beard shadow, met the merchant’s gaze and shrugged slightly.
Just so. Larbow had marked the two as bodyguards the moment they had sauntered in a bare quarter glass previous. Quarter of a turn! Not enough time to get a feel for the surroundings. Larbow had been here a full glass before the agreed upon time.
He made eye contact with an attractive young woman three tables down. She wore a deep blue linen dress with a high lace collar. The man sitting next to her had on a wool coat expensive enough for a prosperous tradesman. Holding the woman’s gaze, Larbow raised a forefinger from the mug held before him, then cut his eyes back to the coarse-featured man’s table. Nattily signaled confirmation by bringing a silk handkerchief to her lips. She turned to her companion and whispered in his ear. He smiled and placed his hand on hers.
Should anything happen while Larbow talked with the Sabinis, and the two bodyguards moved to intervene, Nattily and her erstwhile husband would bring out their blades and have both bellies slit open before the strongmen knew what happened.
That three quarters of a glass may get you killed, clansmen.
Not that Larbow expected trouble. His father—may the Wind Giver receive his spirit—had dealt with the white-haired Sabinis several profitable times in the Land. But this excursion from the Rosada homelands was final training for Nattily and two new raiders: the one posing as her husband and a fuzz-cheeked youth who looked three years younger than his last name day. Accordingly, Larbow decreed tonight’s meeting done with more attention to detail than the situation warranted. The youth was outside watching the street with an older Rosada warrior.
A serving maid scurried by with a tray perched on her shoulder and a pitcher in her other hand. She stopped at Nattily’s table, slid off two steaming pewter-ware plates and a loaf of bread, refilled each mug, and hurried back to the kitchen. Nattily removed a linen bundle from her leather bag, unwrapped forks and spoons, and she and her companion began eating with proper Land manners.
Perhaps too proper for a tavern, Larbow decided even as he grunted overall approval. Later, at the inn across town, all would gather to discuss tonight’s meeting. This minor detail and a few others would be discussed as they followed the maxim of Rosada raiders since time immemorial: we become trees in their forest.
Larbow glanced at the tavern doors. One of the two outside would step in and signal if the Sabinis brought more armed men beyond these two. Not an easy task to spot them. Inbur’s streets remained crowded after sundown, and even stupid clan warriors could filter in unseen. The city was a busy trading center and staging area for caravans and wagon trains traveling the Spice Road.
Larbow checked the front door again, then back to the Sabinis merchants, who had just been served. The short fat one attacked his food with relish, his attention on the plate. White Hair only picked at his food and continued to glance around the common room. His gaze passed the table with the two bodyguards—then whipped back to the fat one. White Hair whispered curtly to his companion. Fat One answered while continuing to eat. White Hair’s mouth firmed, not pleased.
So Heorot Seamere had not known the bodyguards would be present. Larbow breathed easier. White Hair had been the sole go-between for all of Larbow’s father’s dealings with the trading house, and in the pigeon-brought message requesting this meeting no mention had been made of a second Sabinis.
Larbow drummed his fingers on the scarred surface of the table. This was his first time as chwaer, family head and raid leader, and he was determined that tonight go smoothly. What to do? When the two Sabinis entered the tavern, they had moved easily and without the stiffness and subtle distance strangers—or adversaries—maint
ained. White Hair knew the “abort meeting” signal: a hand brought to the throat while giving a cough.
While Larbow pondered, the tavern door opened and Decart came in, his weathered face deeply lined and his thinning hair more gray than black. Like Larbow, he wore the thick wool pants and leather vest common among wagon drivers. Instead of giving a hand signal, Decart came straight to Larbow’s table and slid his lean frame into a chair.
“Only the one driving the carriage. Same man you and I watched last meeting. He put feedbags on the horses and stays with them.”
Larbow nodded, feeling better about the situation. Decart was his father’s younger brother and had been raiding when Larbow was still a suckling babe. By rights, the older Rosada should be the new chwaer. But Decart had firmly refused after his brother’s death, maintaining his nephew was best for the position. The other heads of the extended family readily agreed.
“Two guards inside.” Larbow indicated which table.
Decart turned to watch a serving girl move through the room and let his gaze flicker past the men. Looking back at Larbow, he lifted an eyebrow. “You want me to stay here or go back outside?”
“Stay a moment. What do you make of the fat one’s presence?” Larbow knew that was the reason his uncle had come to the table instead of signaling and silently blessed him for the consideration.
Decart pursed his lips. “Like me, White Hair grows old. He will introduce you to the younger one, and that is who you will deal with from now on.”
That squared with Larbow’s thoughts. “Go back outside with Chant. Nattily and Tam can handle anything here.”
Larbow rose from his chair and walked to the far side of the common room to approach the Sabinis table from a different direction. Decart would remain and not leave until Larbow sat with the merchants. After checking the crowd one last time and seeing no one paying any attention to him, Larbow made his way to the clansmen’s table.
“I am Larbow, son of Lugal, whose spirit now rides with the Wind Giver.”
A moment’s confusion flickered across White Hair’s ravaged face.
Strange, Larbow thought. It’s as if he doesn’t know who Wind Giver is. Barbarian. These ignorant clansmen call Wind Giver by a different name, the Eternal, but it is the same God. Which is more than could be said for the Broken Stone Land pagans who bow the knee to demons!
Finally recognition appeared on White Hair’s face. “Greetings, Larbow, son of Lugal. I am Heorot Seamere, Clan Sabinis. Your father was a great man and leader. You resemble him strongly. I will miss him.” In Rosada fashion, the clansman lowered his face for five heartbeats of silence.
The fat one shoveled another mouthful of lamb and chewed noisily, eyes darting from Heorot to Larbow then back to Heorot. Belatedly, he stopped chewing but did not bow his head in sorrow.
Heorot raised his head and gestured to an empty chair. “Join us, Larbow, son of Lugal. May we each be blessed by the other’s company.”
Keeping the anger off his face at the fat one’s insult, Larbow settled stiffly into the chair. They are only stupid clansmen. His father had told him how this Heorot Seamere had been shockingly ignorant of civilized ways. But with great patience, Lugal had educated the merchant, who proved a willing and apt pupil. White Hair had progressed to the point where he could travel unescorted through Rosada territory and live. Would this new one be the same?
Demeanor solemn, Heorot said, “How fares your mother?”
“She grieves, but her health is fine.”
“Were I Rosada, after her time of mourning, I would tie five horses to your tent post for the right to court her. Her smile is as the sun breaking over the mountaintops and bestows even more warmth.”
This merchant had learned well. “Three horses would do her great honor. I will tell her of your words.”
Heorot formally introduced Ryce Pleoh, and then gave a thin smile. “My partner is in awe of the Rosadas’ fearsome reputation. My apology for the two at the other table. No disrespect was intended.”
Larbow nodded acceptance, then looked at Ryce. The merchant tore a chunk of bread from the loaf. Sopping it in meat juice, he stuffed the piece into his mouth. Folds of fat hid most of the man’s eyes, but what Larbow could see was hard and calculating.
“My apology,” Ryce mumbled around his chewing, tone flat and at odds with the words.
Larbow bristled outwardly. Time to start this one’s training. He turned stiffly to Heorot. “Twice this man you brought uninvited has insulted me. Only my family’s past association with your house keeps me from slitting his fat throat. Is Ryce Pleoh a fool, or is this deliberate?”
“I beg your indulgence.” Heorot’s hands were clinched as they remained in plain view on top of the table. “My intention is to have him take my place for these meetings. But my partner has not been himself since paying betrothal price a fortnight ago at the wool sale.” Though his words were addressed to Larbow, White Hair looked straight at his fellow clansman and made no effort to hide his anger. “Unless he comes to his senses, I fear I will have to find another to treat with you Rosada.”
Ryce’s chewing had ceased abruptly at Larbow’s threat, and the merchant’s jaw had dropped steadily during Heorot’s speech until now his mouth hung wide open. Blinking, he closed it with a snap. His pig eyes darted between Larbow and Heorot. “Since this meeting is in our territory,” he said, “I thought precautions on our part would be in order.”
“We Rosada are responsible for the security of all meetings. You can bring guards for your travel.” Larbow’s voice hardened. “But come to the chosen place alone.”
Ryce nodded. “I will not make that mistake again.” He looked down at his plate, swallowed, and then pushed it away. “The reason for this meeting is most pressing. And while it is a sudden request, Heorot is confident you are capable. A certain Arshessa lord has developed aspirations beyond his means. We intend to send a clear message about the consequences of treading on our trade.”
A quarter of a glass later, Larbow had drawn out all the two Sabinis knew about Lord Gillaon Tarenester, his young rhyfelwr, and the wagons of wool scheduled to head across the Ardnamur Mountains once the snow melted in the passes. More information was needed, but that would be gathered with an immediate trip into Arshessa territory.
White Hair passed a leather bag of gold under the table. “Attack where many eyes will see. That much again when we hear accounts of the wool burning.”
Larbow nodded, pleased at the bag’s heft. “And the Tarenester warriors and wagon drivers?”
Ryce stiffened. “The rhyfelwr also has aspirations beyond his means. Kill him for sure. The others only as necessary.”
Watching the man’s eyes go flat and reptilian, Larbow made a quick reassessment. Never will I turn my back on this one.
He checked Nattily and Tam. They had finished their meal and awaited a signal from him. Time to leave while the tavern remained crowded.
Larbow said politely, “The Wind Giver’s blessing on your betrothal. May your chosen present you strong sons.”
Heorot chuckled. “He has been thinking about that—but only the begetting, not the birthing.” He snorted. “The maiden’s father proved as canny a bargainer as his daughter was desirable. In spite of mine and another’s counsel, Ryce allowed lust to overcome good sense and agreed to an outlandish sum. Every day since, he has continually bemoaned the loss of his gold and the time he must wait until he . . . enjoys the girl’s tender company.”
Ryce shot Heorot a sour look. Pulling back his plate, the fat clansman cut another piece of meat and shoved it into his mouth.
Larbow stood and brushed imaginary crumbs from this shirt, signaling Nattily and Tam “all clear.” Then he wove through the noisy crowd toward the door, mind racing.
At first light, he would send a pigeon to request every available raider. By the time they arrived, in groups of twos and threes, the mountain passes would be open, the wagon’s trail would be thoroughly scouted, and Larbow w
ould have a plan ready.
The raid would be a fitting start to his time as chwaer.
Chapter Eighteen
RHIANNON
SHE PARRIED THE sword thrust with a flick of her wrists and slid forward, careful to keep her weight centered between her feet. Her sword hilt was slick with sweat. A damp strand of hair had worked loose from her leather headband and waved irritatingly in front of her eyes. She ignored it. Using her legs and back muscles she swung with a firm two-handed grip and rolled her wrists in preparation to—
Her blade was met with enough force to vibrate her arms. She winced as a wooden blade thudded into her ribs. Even through the protection of the heavy quilted vest, the blow hurt.
“You’re dead!” Creag whooped, sweaty face glowing in triumph. He lowered his practice sword. “You’re still leaving your side exposed with that maneuver. I wasn’t strong enough before, but now I am and—”
“A warrior does not gloat, Master Creag.” Llyr turned to her, frowning. “Mistress, how many times have I told you about the hole left in your guard with that counter? You must batter the opponent’s blade down far enough so that he cannot recover before you thrust. That will no longer work with Master Creag. He is thirteen and coming into his strength.”
Fighting the urge to rub her side, she tucked the wayward strand of hair behind her ear and regarded her half-brother with new eyes. Creag had grown and now stood only a half a hand shorter than her. His arms were more muscular and his shoulders wider than she remembered. And although she would die before admitting it, the gap between their skill level was narrowing at an alarming rate—as her throbbing ribs proved.
