The entire family gathered in the presence hall, where the betrothal was to take place. Valdir and Ellimira escorted Kyria, one to either side. Alayna was already there, looking as radiantly happy as if this were her own betrothal, as were the two boys and their nurse, standing to either side of a central aisle that led to where Lord Rockraven sat in his usual chair. Dom Ruyven and two of his men, arrayed in the same colors, waited beside Lord Rockraven. Valdir and Ellimira brought Kyria to stand facing the Scathfell lord and then withdrew, leaving her alone.
Dom Ruyven wore a chain of precious copper around his neck. A sash of crimson and black crossed his chest, pinned by a brooch set with glittering stones. Kyria took this to mean that in these proceedings, he acted as the proxy for Lord Scathfell. She would promise herself to him through this man, and his oath would be as binding as if his master made it.
The next moment, her father was by her side, announcing his intention to offer his daughter in betrothal to Gwynn-Alar, Lord Scathfell, and calling upon everyone present to witness the binding contract. The phrases were formal and old-fashioned. She hardly heard the recitation of the obligations, the various declarations—that neither party was already married or promised, that she was the legitimate daughter of her parents, that Dom Ruyven was fully empowered to make this commitment for his lord, and so forth. At one point, her father asked if she freely consented to the betrothal, and she answered as Ellimira had schooled her. Then came the signing of the contract by her father and Dom Ruyven. Apparently women were not supposed to be able to even write their own names, although Kyria and all her siblings could read and write. She startled when Dom Ruyven embraced her and kissed her on the lips. His touch was so lacking in feeling, he might have been kissing a doorpost.
Of course, she thought, he isn’t kissing me for himself. Lord Scathfell—I’ve got to stop thinking of him as Lord Scathfell and as Gwynn-Alar, my promised husband—would not deputize a man to act in his place who might take advantage of his position.
She came back to herself at the sound of applause. Dom Ruyven gestured to one of his men, who brought out a chest as long as a man’s forearm and half that distance high, and held it out for her to open.
“Gifts from Lord Scathfell to his betrothed,” Dom Ruyven said, “a few small tokens of his regard, in promise of the richness of the life they are to share together.”
The chest itself was beautifully crafted of rich, red-tinted wood, the lid inlaid with silver wire. Pouches of brocade and velvet filled the interior, which was also lined with velvet. She tipped open the top pouch and slid out a necklace of river pearls set with tiny rubies. Alayna gasped aloud. Kyria did not know exactly how much it was worth, but it was far more than all the jewelry the entire household possessed. Numbly, she placed the necklace back in the chest and opened the next pouch, heavier than the first. At first she thought it was a brooch like the one worn by Dom Ruyven, but when she turned it over, she saw that it was a miniature portrait.
A smile lit Dom Ruyven’s face. “My lord is handsome, is he not?”
Kyria peered at the painted image. If the artist had been at all faithful to his subject, her promised husband was not handsome, he was beautiful. His face was perfectly proportioned, set in a mane of red-brown hair. Such a man, and one with Scathfell’s wealth, could have any woman he wanted for a wife.
“My daughter is stunned into speechlessness by the image of her promised husband,” Lord Rockraven said.
There was a smattering of laughter. Kyria flushed and murmured something about Lord Scathfell being a very comely man. Gratefully, she surrendered the chest to Ellimira, who would take charge of displaying the valuables and then safeguarding them until they could be transported to Scathfell along with their new owner.
Kyria took her seat next to Dom Ruyven at the dinner following the betrothal ceremony. He greeted her formally and then proceeded to eat his dinner, slowly and silently. Having discharged his duty, he apparently had no further interest in her. She swallowed her food without tasting and could not have sworn whether she’d eaten rabbit-horn or dead leaves. The wine warmed her belly and eventually she was able to draw an easy breath. At a sharp glance from Ellimira, she pushed away her goblet. It was one thing to become pleasantly relaxed at such a gathering and entirely another to drink more than was seemly. She glanced at her father’s pensive face as he sat isolated at the head of the table, then at Valdir on his right and Ellimira opposite her husband.
One more day, and then I will never sit at this table again.
The thought sent a pang through her breast. To distract herself, she turned to Dom Ruyven. “Thank you for the portrait of Lord Scathfell.”
“It was my duty, damisela. Gratitude belongs to my lord, who commanded its creation.”
“Tell me, what manner of man is he, beyond his appearance?”
“He is Lord of Scathfell.”
“I understand that. But as we have never met, and I hope to please my husband, will you not help me by telling me something of what I am to expect? Is he a hunter? A musician? A—” She could not think what else a great lord might do with his time, what interests or concerns he might have. Surely, he need not worry about how to feed his family and household, or where to get the materials to patch this wall or that window.
Dom Ruyven set down his eating knife, leaving only a few crumbs on his plate. For a long moment, he seemed to be considering his answer, and Kyria’s stomach clenched. If his own agent, so clearly devoted to him, could not think of anything good to say, what kind of monster was she betrothed to?
“You must understand that my lord has never known a time of true peace. He was but a child when the Witch-Child of Aldaran blasted all the lands around. His brother had perished some years before, also at the hands of Aldaran, and his father died not long afterward, leaving him alone to defend Scathfell. Everything he has done, everything he has hoped for, has been not for himself but to keep his people safe.”
The Witch-Child of Aldaran?
“He loves Scathfell above all other things,” Dom Ruyven went on, “excepting of course his newly betrothed lady. He would do anything and make any sacrifice to prevent Aldaran from perpetuating a second such outrage.”
4
“Wake up! Oh, Kyria, wake!”
Kyria reluctantly opened her eyes, squinting at the candle flame not two inches from her nose. The rest of the bedchamber lay dark and still. “Gods,” she murmured, pulling the bedcovers over her head, “it’s the middle of the night. Go back to sleep, Layna.”
Alayna yanked the covers back. “It’s an hour before dawn, Ellimira’s been up for hours, and breakfast’s waiting for us downstairs. How can you stand to stay in bed one instant longer?”
There was no help for the situation. Kyria knew all too well how determined her sister could be. Sighing, she sat up.
The night before, Ellimira had chosen traveling clothes for both Kyria and Alayna, and these were now spread atop their packed chests. Everything else was at hand, such as warm cloaks and saddlebags containing small items they might need during the day. The chest containing Kyria’s new jewels and her gifts for her bridegroom would remain in Ellimira’s keeping until their departure.
When Kyria came downstairs, Ellimira had laid out breakfast in the family parlor. Gwillim and Esteban were nowhere in sight, presumably still in bed under their nurse’s watchful care. Gwillim might remember her in years to come, but she’d be no more than a name to Esteban and the next baby: “Auntie Kyria,” who went away to be Lady Scathfell.
Alayna consumed her breakfast with a healthy appetite, chattering away the entire time. Kyria forced herself to chew and swallow, beset with visions of starvation on the road if she did not fill her stomach before setting out. The meal ended and she had no memory of having eaten, only an empty plate to prove that she had. All too soon, Ellimira herded her and Alayna toward the front door.
Dawn b
rightened the sky. In the paved area outside, Dom Ruyven and his men were already mounted. Their horses pawed and snorted plumes of water vapor, for night’s chill still clung to the morning air.
Lord Rockraven and Valdir waited on the steps, overlooking the leave-taking. Alayna paused to kiss her father on the cheek before hurrying down to the cortege, but Kyria paused, irresolute. Now that it was time to say farewell, there was so much she wished she had done or not done, said or not said. Now she had run out of time. Until that moment, she had not realized how dearly she loved her father.
“Go with my blessing,” he said. He had done his best to secure her future, and now there was nothing more to say or do. With a nod he looked away, over the heads of the men and horses. It seemed to her that he was blinking too fast.
“Lady Kyria, here is your horse, another gift from Lord Scathfell.” Dom Ruyven indicated a pretty gray mare with gentle eyes, a mount suitable for a lady. Kyria went to the mare and stroked her neck. She had never ridden such a fine animal.
Alayna was already sitting on a tall, strong-looking bay, arranging her split skirts to ride astride. Kyria thought the horse more appropriate for one of the guards, and a second glance told her she was right, for one of the Scathfell men looked very unhappy as he sat on what surely must have been a pack horse. It was a pity that air-cars, powered by laran-charged batteries and piloted by those skilled in their use, were prohibitively expensive, and at any rate could not manage the treacherous currents of the Hellers range. Alayna would have loved the luxury of riding in one instead of on a horse.
Kyria felt a touch on her sleeve and turned to face Ellimira. As usual, her sister-in-law’s face bore a harried expression. “We have never been on affectionate terms, as sisters ought,” Ellimira said, turning to put the gray mare between the two of them and the rest of the party. “If I have been unkind, I am sorry for it. I will not burden you with excuses. But I will offer this word of advice: be careful. Rockraven is set apart from the sorrows and strife of the world, and nothing out there is as it seems. We have never taken sides in the war between Aldaran and Scathfell. King Allart’s Peace may hold sway in the Lowlands, but I fear that any respect it commands in the mountains is no more than a gesture. Never forget that your bridegroom’s father was one of the parties in that war.” She finished by giving Kyria a long, searching look.
“I will remember,” Kyria said. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask about Great-Aunt Aliciane, but Dom Ruyven was summoning them all to depart. The Rockraven stable master took hold of the mare’s reins and led her to the mounting block.
While they were still on Rockraven lands, the day felt like a pleasure outing. The sky was fair and bright, the horses fresh, and Kyria found herself eager to get on with the adventure. Alayna chattered away happily, drawing more than a few smiles from the guards. Kyria was too busy taking note of how the captain managed the party, with men in front and to the rear, and she and her sister, whenever possible, surrounded by armed horsemen. There were no horse boys, no servants, just a band of men who acted as if they’d had plenty of experience wielding their swords, certainly sufficient to protect one lord and two young women.
The first night on the road passed pleasantly enough. The guards set up a tent for Kyria and Alayna, and a second for Dom Ruyven. They had fresh provisions from Rockraven, and one of the guards, a stocky older man named Timas, had a gift for cooking, for he prepared a meal at least as good as what Kyria was accustomed to at home. She was stiff from riding all day. If Alayna was uncomfortable, she gave no sign. She was probably too excited to complain.
Night fell swiftly, a hush sweeping down from the east and across the sky, leaving a web of stars in its wake. Alayna withdrew into the tent and very shortly commenced dainty, lady-like snoring. Dom Ruyven had retired, too. Kyria sat by the fire and sipped the tisane that Timas assured her would ease her sleep.
The captain, whose name was Francisco Alvarez, hunkered down beside her. “Damisela, you should follow your sister’s example and take your rest.”
Kyria studied the man responsible for her safety. Other than a formal greeting when they’d set off, they had not exchanged more than a few sentences. The firelight shone on his strong, regular features. She judged him to be akin to Valdir in age, a man accustomed to hard work and constant vigilance. His day would not end until he’d seen her safely to her tent. It would be churlish to delay his own rest simply because she wanted to savor a few moments of quiet.
She handed him the nearly empty cup. “Then I shall see you in the morning.”
The next day passed, and the one after that, until Kyria lost track. Twice they came across little villages, where Captain Francisco paid in coin for whatever was to be had—bread and bean soup, and once a goat, slaughtered and dressed, and a little grain for the horses, which were showing the effects of hard travel.
The road dwindled into a trail, winding through steepening mountains, often the party forced to go single-file. One afternoon, they followed a path that clung to the side of a mountain as clouds darkened overhead. Kyria sensed the approaching storm as a leaden weight, pressing down on her. The gathering clouds were dense and sodden, but without the taste she’d come to associate with lightning. But that did not mean they were harmless.
Before long, a wind whipped down from higher up in the pass, carrying an edge like ice. Kyra pulled on her mittens and drew her hood snug around her head. Alayna, riding behind her, let out a yelp as her horse jigged sideways. The nearest guard leaned out from his own saddle to grab her reins.
Then snow began, at first only a few flakes flying every which way, then more and more. The wind turned gusty, sometimes blowing the thickening snow sideways. It came in blasts, so loud that Kyria could hear nothing else. The snow blew into her hood and caught in the folds of her cloak. Within the hour, it was impossible to make out the terrain beyond the ears of her mount. She prayed the mare had the sense to follow the other animals or at least stay on the trail. Suddenly, her horse halted, head lowered and tail clamped to her rump. Kyria twisted around in the saddle but could not make out more than the dark blur that was the head and shoulders of Alayna’s horse. She called out, as loudly as she could, “What’s happening?”
“We cannot go on,” the captain called through the whirling snow in front of her. “We must find shelter.”
“Where?”
Kyria could not make out his response, for the wind picked up again, howling through the gap between the mountains. Her mittens were already soaked through, and her fingers and the tip of her nose were so cold they went numb.
I could die out here. Alayna could die!
If only she could command the storm to disperse. Or move off and dump its load of snow somewhere else. She concentrated, imagining the clouds thinning and the wind dying down. For a moment, it felt as if she were pushing against a mountainside with her mind. Then the feeling vanished, leaving her panting with exertion. She tried again, seeking a way to the heart of the storm, but it was no use. She must trust to the trail knowledge of the Scathfell men.
A moment later, one of those men emerged from the flurry, carrying a long rope. He made a loop and slipped it through the mare’s headstall, then continued on down the line. They were being tied together, so that they would not become separated in the storm. When he came back along the line of riders, Kyria raised her voice. “Where are we going?”
“Traveler’s shelter!” He gestured toward the trail ahead. “Trail branches a few miles ahead. Should cut the wind some. Stay close, though. We’re skirting banshee hunting grounds.” Then he turned and disappeared behind the curtain of blowing snow.
“Kyria!” came Alayna’s voice from behind. “What is it?”
“They’re taking us to a shelter!” Kyria shouted back.
The horses began to move off, so slowly it felt as if they were shuffling through the snow. Kyria shivered in her tightly wrapped cloak. With
every howling gust, she imagined the screech of a banshee, the hunters of the heights. The giant birds had neither wings nor eyes, tracking down their prey by body heat, and they were said to be able to disembowel a horse with a single slash of their talons. Unable to see more than a few feet, she and all the other people in her party would never realize they were being attacked until it was too late. Once she had regarded such tales as amusing ways to pass a winter’s evening, but now she wished she’d paid better attention to the various ways the hero had escaped being killed. Alayna, she thought ruefully, would be of no use whatsoever in such a struggle.
Kyria scarcely noticed the moment when the winds blew less strongly and the path was no longer bordered on one side by steep rock but by a more gentle slope where the leafless skeletons of trees grew thickly, acting as a windbreak. She caught glimpses not only of the rider in front of her, but also of the one in front of him. She turned around to see how Alayna fared and saw she rode huddled over, her hood and cloak pulled so snugly around her that the only things showing were a pink nose and a few stray locks of blonde hair.
“Have courage, dearest,” Kyria called over her shoulder. “We haven’t far to go.”
Alayna bobbed her head in response. At least that was what Kyria thought. Then Kyria went back to holding her cloak tight around her body while steadying herself on the pommel of the saddle.
Thunderlord Page 4
