Thunderlord

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Tell your mother I am making ready as quickly as I can.” Not waiting for Gwillim’s assent, Kyria hurried through the kitchen—in even more uproar than the rest of the house—and up the back passage of stairs.

  Alayna was just coming out of their room when Kyria hurried down the corridor. Alayna had dressed in her best gown, soft blue wool that set off her ivory skin and brightened the gold of her hair. She was so excited, her words tumbled over each other and her hands moved constantly. Kyria had never seen her sister so keyed up.

  “Blessed Cassilda, you’re back. What a day to go out riding!” Alayna darted back into the bedroom and opened Kyria’s clothes chest. “Don’t stand there. We must get you properly attired.”

  When Alayna reached for Kyria’s single good dress, cream-pale linex with darker green embroidery in the pattern of a trailing vine, Kyria shook her head. She’d worn the gown only a few times, for Midwinter and Midsummer Festivals, and last year on her eighteenth birthday.

  “Don’t you want to look your best?” Alayna said, dancing from one foot to the other.

  “This tunic will do very well.”

  “But it’s so plain.”

  “It’s not plain, it’s subtle.” Bands of embroidery in the same shade of dark green ran along the hemline and side seams. “I will disgrace no one by wearing it, especially if you help me with my hair.”

  Alayna relented, taking up a long-toothed wooden comb. The familiar task calmed her. “How do you get your hair so tangled?”

  “I stay up all night knotting it—ouch!”

  “Sit still.”

  “Well, if you wouldn’t jerk the comb through it—Ow! Ow!”

  “Do your own hair, then.”

  Kyria craned her neck to scowl at her sister. “I could always go down as I am.”

  “What, with that rat’s nest of curls?” Alayna sounded as if her own reputation would be irreparably damaged by Kyria’s lack of a proper coiffure. She returned to her task, only more gently, and within a short time, had reduced the wild tangle to a neat braid, coiled low on the neck.

  Kyria took a last moment to glance in the tiny, age-spotted hand mirror. She hardly recognized her own reflection, a woman with bright cheeks and dark-lashed eyes set in a perfect oval face.

  “You’ve made me look all grown up.”

  The rest of the family had gathered in the usual parlor, all except for Lord Rockraven and Valdir. When Kyria and Alayna entered, Ellimira and the nursemaid were making an effort to keep the two younger children in order. Alayna perched in her usual spot, a backless stool next to a wicker stand that held needlework supplies. She picked up her latest project, a sock that needed darning, and set to work. Kyria selected a chair cushion cover she’d been embroidering.

  “Who are they, these men Papa is meeting with?” Kyria asked Ellimira.

  “We’ll be informed at the proper time.” Ellimira sounded too distracted to be annoyed. From the downward turn of her mouth, Kyria suspected that the unborn babe was pressing on her back. For the first time, Kyria felt a twinge of sympathy for her sister-in-law, who did not have even an hour’s respite from supervising the servants, keeping track of the stores of food and the holes in the linens, and all her other duties.

  At the sound of a man’s heavy tread in the hallway, everyone came alert. Ellimira paused in mid-stride, Gwillim jumped to his feet, and his younger brother, Esteban, let out a yelp. Kyria felt as if her heart had just doubled in size, so that her chest could no longer contain its beating. Something akin to storm sense tingled along her nerves. The fine hairs on her arms stood up.

  Once, she’d overheard her father say that one of the Tower breeding experiments had resulted in a form of laran that allowed a person to see the future, but it had proven so unreliable that the poor wretches eventually went mad, beset by visions of catastrophes they had no power to prevent. She did not know whether such a power would be a blessing or a curse, but at the moment, she would have risked much for a hint of what was to come.

  Valdir entered the room. Although both his sons were on their feet now, his formal bearing and stern expression held them back from rushing to him. Alayna’s half-darned sock slid to the floor, but she made no attempt to pick it up. For a moment, the room fell utterly silent.

  “What news, my husband?” Ellimira asked.

  “We have received an emissary from the realm of Scathfell. I may not speak of his business here. Damisela Kyria is to accompany me for the rest of the interview.”

  Kyria had to jog to keep up with Valdir as he strode down the hallway. The strip of carpet was so worn that it hardly cushioned the sound of his bootheels. They soon arrived at the presence chamber. Valdir opened the door and indicated she should precede him.

  Inside, candelabra of their most expensive beeswax candles pushed back the gloom. Her father sat in his usual high-backed chair. A strange man, also seated, faced him. Kyria had only a moment to study him and the two others who stood at attention behind him. Even at a glance, she noticed the armor under their travel cloaks. Their hands rested on the hilts of their sheathed swords.

  Wear no sword at kinsman’s board, she recalled the old proverb. But these men were not kin.

  “Come here, daughter,” Lord Rockraven said, gesturing to her.

  Kyria drew a breath, determined that no matter what happened, she would not embarrass her family. She kept her gaze slightly lowered as befitted a gently reared young woman of her caste. Her mouth went dry, however, and her heart pounded in her ears. She felt the gaze of the Scathfell lord upon her, a prickling and a heat on her skin, as if she stood too close to a fire.

  Then her father was speaking again. “I present to you Kyria Marilys Rockraven, the eldest unmarried daughter of my house.”

  “Damisela, I greet you in the name of Gwynn-Alar, Lord of Scathfell. I am Ruyven Castamir, his proxy in these negotiations.”

  Kyria curtsied gracefully enough to satisfy even Ellimira’s standards, and looked up. Her gaze passed over Dom Ruyven’s fur-trimmed cloak with its silver clasps, and his robe of fine wool, belted with links of the same metal. These were only the trappings of his rank. She wanted to know what kind of man he was. He looked surprisingly ordinary, older than Valdir and younger than her father, with a neatly trimmed beard and a receding hairline. The look he gave her in return was measuring but not offensive.

  Dom Ruyven returned his gaze to Lord Rockraven. “You did not mention that she was a beauty.”

  Kyria almost glanced over her shoulder to see who he was talking about. She was not accustomed to being described in such terms. Alayna was far prettier and more ladylike.

  “My lord will be well pleased,” Dom Ruyven said.

  Lord Rockraven lifted a finger and stilled whatever Dom Ruyven was going to say next. “We have not yet accepted the offer. She has not yet accepted it.”

  “Papa,” Kyria said, “has Dom Ruyven come to make a marriage proposal with me and one of Lord Scathfell’s sons?”

  “Indeed not,” their visitor said gravely, “for he has no sons. My mission is to negotiate a betrothal to Lord Scathfell himself.”

  Kyria’s knees wobbled, threatening to give way under her. How could this be possible, that she should be wed to such a powerful lord? Thoughts tumbled around in her mind like pebbles in a storm-lashed stream. What could he want with someone like her, a penniless country-bred girl, when he could have a great lady and all the lands and herds she would bring him?

  Maybe he had no need of such wealth, maybe he was rich enough for twenty men, but why send his agent all this way to ask for her hand? He didn’t know her nor she, him—what if they hated one another on sight? She knew a wife’s duty; she would be obliged to lie with him, no matter how odious she found him. What if she displeased him and he beat her? She had heard of such things, although no man under her father’s roof would ever treat a woman so.

>   If she said yes, it would mean a place of her own, away from Ellimira’s scolding—but she would be alone, friendless except for her husband. Worst of all, she would have to leave Alayna.

  But she would not blurt out any of these things, lest she embarrass not only herself but her father. She lifted her chin with as much dignity as she could muster, given the turmoil inside. “I am honored by Lord Scathfell’s offer.”

  Dom Ruyven nodded, looking pleased, although not for his own sake but for his master’s, or so Kyria thought. The devotion, clearly born of love, spoke well for Lord Scathfell’s character.

  “Now as to the betrothal contract—”

  “My daughter has not yet agreed,” her father repeated. “What say you, Kyria? Shall it please you to pledge yourself to Lord Scathfell through his proxy and then journey to Scathfell Castle where you will be wed in person in the formal manner, di catenas?”

  Kyria gulped down a protest that this was all too sudden. She needed time—she hardly knew how to think about the proposal. “I—I would like to know the terms, sir. If I may.”

  She caught the twinkle in her father’s eye, as if he were saying, I told you she has a good head on her shoulders. No silly flibbertigibbet this, with no more brains than a banshee, but a young woman of sense.

  “I see no reason to involve the damisela in such matters,” Dom Ruyven responded, “but neither have I been instructed to keep them secret. She seems like a sensible girl, cognizant of the honor of such an offer.” He went on to describe, in terms simple enough for even Gwillim to understand, that Lord Scathfell sought an alliance with the Rockraven family, and what better way to accomplish that than by the bonds of marriage? He had learned that there were two daughters of marriageable age, and so determined to make an offer for the oldest, as was proper. It was never good when a younger sister married first, especially when the match was so, “if I may speak plainly, advantageous.”

  “You, Lady Kyria, are exactly the young woman he had in mind. You are comely, modest, and not without sense, or you would not have inquired. In yourself and in the alliance with your family, you are sufficient. Lord Scathfell requires no dowry. To the contrary, he has offered your father a bride-price.” He then named a sum, in gold and silver coins, that left Kyria speechless. She knew the expense of running Rockraven Castle, how much linex and oats cost, even how much a stable boy must be paid. Her bride-price would be enough to make all the necessary repairs, and dower not only Alayna but any daughters Ellimira might bear.

  I could do all this for my family. For Alayna. She will be able to marry for love.

  “What say you, Lady Kyria?” Dom Ruyven said. He kept calling her Lady Kyria, as if she were already wed. “Do these terms meet with your approval?”

  “They are very generous. But Papa—do you wish for me to accept?”

  “I wish for you to be happy, chiya. Nothing more than that. My marriage to your mother was arranged by our families in just such a fashion, and two people could not have been more content with one another. Romance is a thing of the moment, but a union begun with good will and the approval of both families will endure even the harshest winter storms. Lord Scathfell is by all accounts an honorable man. His generosity is proven beyond question. Clearly, he is greatly desirous of this match, and that bodes well for his treating you with respect. I believe you will have as good a prospect of a happy marriage as anyone.”

  “Then I—I accept. But with one condition. Or a request, if you will.” Kyria glanced from her father to Dom Ruyven. “I have never been parted from my younger sister, not even for a night. I ask—I beg you that she be allowed to accompany me until I am settled in my new home.”

  “That favor I can grant, and do so with joy. The damisela will be cared for as yourself and be welcome in Scathfell Castle for as long as it pleases her to remain our guest.”

  Lord Rockraven dismissed Kyria shortly thereafter, the two men to deliberate further.

  Kyria flew down the stairs and into the family parlor. “The man is an emissary from Lord Scathfell! He’s made me a marriage offer. With an enormous bride-price, enough to secure Rockraven’s future. And Papa has accepted. And Alayna is to accompany me.”

  Ellimira clapped her hands to her cheeks. Alayna jumped up from where she had been sitting and ran to Kyria. She gazed into Kyria’s eyes, blinking hard, clearly too overwhelmed to speak. Kyria took Alayna in her arms and held her tight.

  When at last Alayna had calmed and the embrace ended, Kyria became aware that her sister-in-law had lowered herself to a chair, sitting right on the edge. Ellimira normally held herself erect, but now she hunched over as much as her swollen belly would allow.

  Kyria dropped Alayna’s hands and ran to Ellimira. “I am so thoughtless—are you well, domna?” Is the babe well?

  Ellimira lifted her face from her hands, her cheeks wet with tears. She tried to speak, gave a hiccoughing sound, and nodded her head.

  I had no idea how very worried she was or what a relief this new wealth would be.

  “Layna, bring a cool cloth for our sister’s forehead—”

  “You will do no such thing,” Ellimira said in her usual brisk way as she stood and brushed her skirts into order. “’Twas a momentary reaction, nothing more, hardly worth fussing over. Now off with you. Good news is all very well, but it won’t get noses wiped, linens mended, or a dinner suitable for our noble guest prepared.”

  Alayna rolled her eyes at Kyria. Clearly, nothing had changed in the running of the Rockraven household. They escaped before Ellimira could assign them tasks.

  Once in their bedroom, Alayna took Kyria’s hand in her own. “You are truly to be married? And I am to come with you?”

  “I would not have it otherwise, sweetheart,” Kyria replied. “How could I go so far away and not have you with me? And listen, for this is the best part: you will have a good dowry out of my bride-price. I will make sure of it. You need not live in sufferance under our sister-in-law’s roof but may choose to marry where your heart chooses. Perhaps one of my husband’s handsome courtiers will fall in love with you.”

  “As long as you are happy. What did Dom Ruyven say about Lord Scathfell?” Alayna asked, a dreamy expression in her eyes. “Is he tall? Handsome? A mighty warrior? A divine dancer?”

  “I assume he can dance, like every other grown man. As for the rest . . .” Kyria sighed.

  “You don’t care? That’s the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard. Kyria, he could be as hideous as a toad, or have a squeaky voice like this, or—or be a coward, or a lover of men.”

  “Doubtless, you believe I should have questioned his agent thoroughly on these and other essential matters, like the color of his bed sheets and what he calls his favorite hound.” Kyria heard the fear in her own voice. Her marriage was to be a business arrangement that would save her family from poverty. Marrying for love was out of the question for someone in her circumstances.

  “You will find out all those things and more, soon enough,” Alayna conceded. “I truly hope he is everything you dream of.”

  “Papa gave me the right of refusal, but how can I judge wisely, never having met my prospective husband? He might be all those things you mentioned, adored by his entire court, and yet be someone I cannot love—and who cannot love me. What if we can’t stand each other?”

  “There, there,” Alayna murmured, drawing Kyria into an embrace. “You may not fall in love the instant you behold one another. Even I know that is not always possible. Yet if Evanda smiles, you and your husband will come to care for one another. When you bear him a son and heir, he will cherish you beyond words. All will be well, I promise it.”

  If only I had your confidence in the future, Kyria thought, and vowed to try her best to share her sister’s hope.

  3

  Now that negotiations had been completed, the formal betrothal ceremony would take place, to be followed by
the marriage itself at Scathfell. It took several days to prepare for the festivities, during which the entire household thought about very little else. Lord Scathfell’s men must be housed and fed, their mounts likewise, and the largest chamber in the castle cleaned and decorated as elaborately as if it were Midsummer Festival. Kyria’s holiday gown was not sufficiently grand for the occasion, according to Ellimira, so Ellimira herself altered her own second-best gown to fit Kyria. Its cut was old-fashioned by even Rockraven standards, having been her grandmother’s, but the emerald-hued spidersilk panels had survived the decades undimmed. It was by far the most beautiful thing Kyria had ever worn. She balanced on a stool in Ellimira’s parlor, arms slightly away from her sides, while Ellimira, Alayna, and the maidservant who was most skillful with the needle basted the hems of her sleeves and skirt.

  “This is so beautiful!” Alayna breathed, “Kyria will be able to wear it for her wedding gown as well, won’t she?”

  Ellimira furrowed her brow. “Mind your stitches, child. The gown will do well enough for a betrothal ceremony here, but it’s hardly suitable for a wedding di catenas to a man of Lord Scathfell’s standing.”

  “How do you know what is appropriate for the wives of great men?” Kyria asked.

  “I have not always lived at Rockraven. Now, enough chatter. Kyria, stand still. Cease waving your arms about like a scarecrow.”

  “I’m not waving—” Kyria halted herself in mid-protest. In that moment, she saw her sister-in-law not as the sharp-tongued chatelaine of Rockraven Castle or the mother of two rambunctious boys, but as a woman with her own family, a family she had not seen and only rarely mentioned since coming here as a bride.

  She could be me.

  The dress was finished in time, and the bodice fitted so snugly that Kyria could hardly draw a deep breath. Ellimira adjusted the laces even tighter, so that Kyria’s small breasts were half bared by the low neckline. It took several hours to arrange her hair, coiled low on her neck, with a few tendrils curling gracefully to frame her face. Ellimira brought out her precious store of cosmetics, carefully applying rouge to brighten Kyria’s cheeks, a hint of color on her eyelids and lips, and a touch of perfume on the pulse point at the base of her neck. Kyria knew better than to protest. In this mood, Ellimira was like the storm, sweeping over everything in her path. At last, she finished, and handed Kyria her own hand mirror. Kyria could not decide if it the face was that of an elegant lady, a terrified child, or a porcelain doll.