Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

  Creag’s progress was most satisfying. By this time next year, he would be where he should be compared to others his age.

  Phelan was a delight. The boy possessed a mind like parched earth, soaking up every drop of knowledge poured out and eager for more.

  She looked to the pavilion again. What does Protectoress of the Covenant entail? And how can I bring Rhiannon closer to the Eternal when I feel farther from him than I ever have?

  She realized how sheltered her twenty-five years had been within the cocoon of the Albane community. The stories of Destin Faber and Stanus Albane’s encounters with the Mighty Ones’ creatures were told frequently, both for their own sake and to illustrate points of doctrine. At the end of every Albane meeting, it was standard practice to offer up prayer binding the Mighty Ones and their creatures. All took pride in the fact there had been no outbreaks of winged horrors in Albane settlements in living memory.

  Those thoughts brought up Serous’s request for prayer. Here at the Rogoth hlaford she was surrounded by respect, both for her position as tutor and for her part in defeating the winged horrors. Yet deep inside Lakenna knew she was an imposter in the spiritual battles that undoubtedly must be fought if Rhiannon was to fulfill her birthing prophecy.

  Could prayer bind a clan High Lord? And if it couldn’t, then what?

  How she wanted to talk to someone about her insight concerning Maolmin. But aware of the privileged position a High Lord held within his clan, and fearing she might run afoul of some code of clan honor, she had not done so. As the budding relationship with Mererid continued, perhaps an opportunity would present itself.

  I need to talk to that Keeper. I am sure he sensed the same thing about Maolmin! But Branor had disappeared immediately after the wool sale, and as far as anyone knew, he was still behind Kepploch’s walls.

  Although it stuck in her craw, she remembered the relief that had flooded though her when Branor had edged her aside so he could come to grips with Maolmin, one nobleman to another. As a commoner and non-clan member, she knew she had been risking much by stepping between the High Lord and Rhiannon. But something had to be done. That she had actually done so, in spite of . . . everything, still amazed her. Her boldness must have come from the Eternal.

  Lakenna neatened a stack of cheap parchment. Every day it grew harder to make herself pray even a short morning prayer. She felt a hindrance, a heaviness. And when she did pray she felt the sense of a gathering storm that lingered long after she rose from her knees.

  Creag and Phelan stepped under the shade of the awning. Each greeted her, took a stool, and removed parchments from his leather folder. She put them to work on their handwriting.

  Finally, Rhiannon rushed in with her smooth, long-legged stride, red mane flowing behind her. “I was sketching a design for a new type of sword to fight winged horrors.”

  “Swords!” Creag set down his quill. “You need bows and arrows against winged horrors.”

  Rhiannon plopped her folder next to him on the plank. “Not if they are astride you like they were Father and me! The new sword will—”

  “Father’s sword got chewed up. If he couldn’t kill one with a sword, what makes you—”

  “That was before Teacher Lakenna began praying,” Rhiannon replied loftily. “If they come again, things will be different.”

  Lakenna’s stomach rippled. “That is quite enough about winged horrors,” she said. “Mistress Rhiannon, take out the map we are making. I want you to finish drawing out the course of the Clundy River from its beginning here in the highlands to its mouth at Shinard. Master Creag, listen to Master Phelan repeat the multiplication tables and tell me if he makes a mistake.”

  As the three went to work, Lakenna gnawed her lower lip. It seemed everyone from Rhiannon to Lord Tellan to Serous and his herders remained confident in her ability to keep the winged horrors from drawing power from the Mighty Ones.

  Her failure loomed ever larger. What did they think, that she was an anointed prayer warrior like the Founders? Able to stand in the gap and pray the fire of heaven down? That she would find herself clothed in supernatural armor and a flaming sword in her hands to battle siyyim and even the dread Mighty Ones as Destin Faber did with Asunder?

  He and Stanus Albane were pure, unsullied believers, giants of the faith. I am a woman alone, a sinner with innocent blood on my hands. I came here to escape, and here I am in the midst of it! Dear Eternal, take this burden from me!

  “Teacher?” Rhiannon asked.

  “Yes?”

  “What do you think ‘Protectoress of the Covenant’ means?”

  Creag groaned, but Lakenna almost jumped. A cold barb stabbed her heart. She found herself giving the only answer she could: “Tonight before bed let us read and discuss scripture, seeking to learn what it meant to serve the Eternal in general and some hint of what ‘Protectoress of the Covenant’ might entail specifically.”

  Rhiannon smiled. “I would like that.”

  Feeling an impostor, Lakenna returned the smile. “Back to work.”

  As Phelan finished reciting his multiplication tables, Rhiannon looked up from her map. “Phelan, would you open the geography text and read me the distances between Ancylar, Strath, and Shinard?”

  “I’ll do it,” Creag said.

  Frown lines creased Rhiannon’s brow. She opened her mouth, then closed it.

  Creag opened the heavy leather-bound book and turned the pages. “From Ancylar to Strath: thirty-eight leagues.”

  Rhiannon dipped her quill in the ink and entered the numbers. “And from Strath to Shinard?”

  Creag started at the page. His lips firmed. “Eighteen leagues . . . I think.”

  “No,” Phelan interjected. “It’s much farther than that.” He reached for the book. “Here, let me—”

  “I can read it!” Creag fumed. He blinked, looked away from the page, then back. “From Strath to Shinard is . . . ” He set his jaw and began yet again.

  Rhiannon raised her head, her expression thoughtful as she watched Creag’s distress.

  “Why can’t I do this!” Creag looked close to tears. “I must be stupid!”

  “You’re as smart as Phelan,” Rhiannon said quietly, setting down her quill. “You just learn differently, that’s all.”

  Creag’s jaw dropped open. Phelan’s eyes almost popped out of his head as he looked at his sister, astonished. Stunned silence reigned under the awning.

  Creag regarded Rhiannon warily. “What do you mean?”

  “Since Teacher Lakenna has come, you’re getting better every day.”

  Lakenna found her mouth open as well. What was this?

  “You found the distance from Ancylar to Strath,” Rhiannon went on. “What happened after that?”

  “The words moved and I couldn’t find them.” He looked down. “How can you keep them straight?”

  “What do you mean, ‘the words moved’?” Phelan snorted. “They’re written on the page.”

  “I have an idea.” Rhiannon took two pieces of writing parchment and placed them over the page so only one line was uncovered. “Read this line.”

  Creag did so perfectly. Rhiannon moved the sheets to uncover the next line only. Creag read it perfectly. With mounting excitement for them both, she did half the page that way.

  Creag took the sheets from his sister and read on. “I can read as good as you and Phelan!”

  Stunned, tears came to Lakenna’s eyes. I should have thought of this!

  Rhiannon nodded solemnly. “It won’t be long before you’re reading better than me.”

  “I’m getting better in sword drills, too!”

  Rhiannon’s eyes flashed green fire. “That was luck!”

  “You heard Llyr say how I’m—”

  “Tomorrow I will touch you every time—”

  “Tomorrow I’ll hit you twice as hard—”

  “Back to work!” Lakenna demanded, regaining control.

  Rhiannon flounced her head and returned to the ma
p, muttering under her breath. Creag went back to the book, face aglow. Phelan’s eyes flicked from one to the other, puzzled. Finally, he picked up his quill and started writing.

  Once everyone was back on task, Lakenna walked to the edge of the awning, pleased with the solution to Creag’s reading problem but still a bit chagrined that she hadn’t seen it herself. No matter. The important thing was that nothing would hold the boy back now.

  She glanced back at Rhiannon. The girl bent over the plank, carefully labeling the map. Long, elegant fingers gripped the quill, her beautiful face a study of concentration, unlined with the burdens of life.

  Rhiannon remained an enigma, the exchange with Creag a perfect example. One moment she was a young woman who showed signs of maturity and leadership that were startling, and then the next she reverted to immature squabbling with her brother.

  Lakenna sighed and looked out on the peaceful landscape. The scenery was breathtaking. The blue smudge of the towering Ardnamur Mountains dominated the west; immediately to the north rose the smaller Fea range, though their proximity made them seem larger.

  Then, without warning, a powerful sense of foreboding washed over Lakenna, much more potent than during her brief prayer this morning. Somehow she knew she was sensing the Mighty Ones stirring. Before her eyes, the landscape changed.

  Northward, where High Lord Maolmin resided, the sky seemed to darken and pulse with flashes of lightning. Westward, behind the Ardnamur Mountains, the sky turned an angry purple and black. Another presence brooded there, restless and sure of its power.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  HARRED

  WHITE-CAPPED PEAKS TOWERED all around them, glittering in the green-blue sky. In the Ardnamur Mountains, winter always released its grip with reluctance, but this year it had lingered well past the norm. Patches of dirty snow remained under the spreading branches of the evergreens. Small clusters of red flowers bravely bloomed on both sides of the road. A raucous birdcall rose and fell from the high forest, echoing among the bare rocks outlining the narrow wagon trail.

  Harred reined up and scanned both sides of the tract, all senses alerted. But he heard only rodents of various kinds scurrying amid the underbrush. He checked his horse. Coal waited patiently, ears relaxed, unconcerned. Harred breathed easier. There had been no further attacks since Maude, but he was taking no chances.

  A stone’s throw to his right—north—a granite cliff rose straight up for several hundred paces to a wide, treeless shelf of stone where they were to meet the Broken Stone party. Elmar had scouted ahead yesterday and confirmed their presence.

  It was an hourglass till dusk. The rendezvous was supposed to have taken place at noon today, but the wagons’ progress had been slowed by a long stretch of mud and clay sucking on the wheels. Frequent rests had been necessary for the mules. Their flaring nostrils and heaving sides showed the strain of the hard going in the thin air.

  Harred nudged Coal up by the front wagon. “Elmar says the ground turns rocky and it’s good footing once we start up to the meeting place.”

  Ard nodded. “Be glad to get out of this accursed muck.” He lifted his eyes to the sheer cliff. “The mules will need a full night’s rest before heading up there.” His cheek bulged as he maneuvered his wad of tabac from one side to the other. He spat a dark liquid stream, then wiped his mouth with a meaty hand. “Come first light, I’ll be wanting a saddle horse to ride the trail and see if there’s need to double hitch.”

  “Elmar rode it this morning. He said normal rigging should do.”

  Ard spat again. “Elmar’s a good man, and he knows these mountains. But it won’t be his wagons and mules sliding off that cliff if he’s wrong.” He cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Don’t imagine Lord Gillaon will be too happy, neither.”

  Harred grunted agreement. “I’ll ride with you.”

  He was learning everything he could from the wagon master. If tomorrow went well on this trip, Gillaon had told Harred he would want to send another shipment of goods before the autumn snows closed the passes. Without the bulky bales of wool, ten or so farm wagons fitted with heavier axles would suffice.

  It took another half glass of trudging through the mud around the base of the cliff before they came to where the narrow road began the winding ascent to the meeting place.

  Harred called halt for camp. The drivers pulled the wagons close together, unhitched their teams, and began rubbing them down. Harred sent four of his men out for first watch, then put the rest to building cook fires and hauling water from a nearby stream.

  After finishing the rubdown, the drivers put hobbles and feedbags on the mules. Once the animals had finished the grain and the bags were removed, they would graze on the grass between the road and the forest.

  It was deep twilight, and the smell of cooking mingled with the scent of evergreen and damp earth when Elmar came riding in from the west. Dismounting with a groan, he ambled stiffly up to Harred’s fire. The mountaineer had a three-day stubble of beard, and his face was etched with weariness. “Nothing be moving but tree rats and half-starved deer.”

  Harred nodded. He took a wooden bowl and filled it with stew from the steaming pot hanging over the fire. “Here.”

  A spoon materialized in Elmar’s hand. He took the bowl, sat down, and took an appreciative sniff. He dipped out a steaming spoonful and blew to cool it. “My papa and uncles dealt with Broken Stone smugg—traders—off and on. Tomorrow, we best keep one hand on our coin purses and the other close to our knives.”

  “Lord Gillaon spent some time talking to me about that.”

  After testing the spoon’s contents with his tongue, Elmar blew on it some more. He had lost weight from long days in the saddle and trail food. “Does Lord Gillaon think we be having any trouble?”

  “He says they are as eager for this as we are. The advantages for both sides are too great. Still . . . ”

  The night before you arrive, camp early if necessary, Gillaon had said. You and Elmar make yourselves presentable. Wash and shave. Bring new shirts and pants and keep them clean. Never enter negotiations tired and dirty. Puts you at a disadvantage. They will be traveling lighter and will most likely be there first, rested and clean, wits about them. You must not allow them to gain the upper hand.

  Elmar finished the bowl and filled it again from the pot.

  Harred stood and stretched saddle-stiff muscles. He looked up at the outline of the cliff and swallowed down his nervousness. The meeting with the pagans would be another test. Hopefully he would pass it as he had the others since becoming rhyfelwr.

  What had Gillaon said way back at the Bridge Across? Think upon this as a different type of battle, fought with different weapons. Just so.

  “When you’re finished eating,” Harred said, “we need to heat water to bathe and shave, then unpack those new clothes.”

  The wagons creaked slowly uphill. The roadbed, though damp, was rocky and firm. The incline remained acceptable as the narrow track zigzagged across the face of the cliff and finally reached their destination.

  The shelf of rock was covered with lush grass. The level clearing was not large, five hundred paces in circumference at the most. The mountainside bordered two sides and the hillside dropped away on the third. The Broken Stone wagons were arrayed straight ahead on the west side of the road that continued to the Cyodan Pass, a day’s journey deeper in the wilds of the Ardnamurs. Several paces from the wagons stood a large white tent on the grassy turf of the shelf, and a smaller blue tent beside it. Atop the larger tent’s center pole fluttered the universally recognized trading banner: a red field with a narrow white stripe in the middle.

  Harred remained mounted as the wagons lumbered up behind him. His eyes swept the pagan encampment. The shelf was grassy but treeless, and he saw no place for warriors to be concealed. Small groups of men lounged around campfires whose smoke hung in thin wisps close to the ground. When the men saw the Tarenester party, they began to bustle about, unhobbling mules and picking up harnesses
.

  Movement came from the large tent as well. The figure of a man emerged and strode across the grass toward Harred. Harred caught Elmar’s eye, and they dismounted.

  Wait for this Thoven to greet you, Gillaon had said. Who he sends will be informative. If it is his older white-haired retainer I have met with, it will show respect among equals. Someone else, and it will show he deems us inferior.

  The messenger neared. It was a lad sixteen years of age at the most. He wore pants and a plain, knee-length cotton tunic. Stopping five paces away, he spoke in a high-pitched piping voice without proper greeting or a bow. “You are later than expected. My master is anxious to be done here. Bring your wagons alongside ours to transfer the bales.”

  Opening move. A sharp, probing attack.

  “It has been a long trek,” Harred said. “I will be ready to meet at noon to make these arrangements.”

  “After the wool is loaded,” the servant continued as if Harred had not spoken, “my master wants to see you.”

  Harred warmed to the task. “I am rhyfelwr and advisor to Lord Gillaon Tarenester, Clan Arshessa.” Assuming his most fierce scowl, he strode three steps forward. “Am I summoned?”

  The young man’s face whitened, and he took a step backwards. He squared thin shoulders and tugged his tunic. “Er . . . no, m’lord . . . er, ah . . . ”

  “I am no nobleman. Rhyfelwr will do.”

  “Yes, ah, rhyfelwr. My master is most anxious to—”

  “I am sure your master does not want this to end before it begins. As we are new to each other’s ways, I will ignore the insult of this greeting. At noon, let us begin afresh.” He placed fists on his hips and let his gaze drill into the messenger. “If this is repeated, I will see honor satisfied.”

  Eyeing him warily, the servant gave a slight bow. “I will inform my master.” He pivoted smartly and retraced his steps back to the tent. Though his gait was steady, he seemed ready to break into a run.