He had not always been able to summon lightning and command winds with his mind. The talent had come upon him with the equally tempestuous onset of puberty. He had lain abed, ravaged with fever and so disoriented he could not tell if he were awake or dreaming. He remembered his mother, Lady Renata Aldaran, sitting beside him, singing wordlessly, her face bathed in the blue light of her starstone. Afterward, the servants told him that she had not left his side for more than a few minutes all the three days of his crisis.
“At least your laran came upon you at the usual time,” she had said once he was past danger, although it was years before she explained what she meant. Only when it was clear that his Gift involved controlling thunderstorms did she take him aside.
“Dorilys had such a talent, but hers manifested before she was born, poor thing,” Lady Renata told him, alone in her bower with the door firmly bolted. “Had her pregnant mother, Aliciane of Rockraven, been in the care of a Tower healer, we might have delayed or modified the baby’s laran. But as Aliciane did not have our help . . . ’Twas said the babe killed her own mother in her birthing. I do not know the truth of that, for I did not come to Aldaran until Dorilys was on the brink of womanhood.” She turned pensive, and that sad look Edric knew so well passed over her still-beautiful face. “Donal believed it.”
“You mean to warn me,” Edric had said after a long pause, “that the same taint runs in my own blood. From my father, you mean.”
“From your father, yes.” And here, Renata had looked away, her eyes too bright. “But not from Lord Aldaran. That blood is safe enough.”
“I don’t understand.” Edric had felt as if the foundations of his life, his lineage as Lord Aldaran’s only son, his very identity, had been shaken. “Are you saying that Lord Aldaran was not my real father?”
“That is exactly what I mean. Your father was Donal Delleray, the legitimate son of Aliciane and her late husband. He came to Aldaran as a child, and she as a widow. When she became Lord Aldaran’s barragana, she bore him a daughter, Dorilys. Dorilys manifested the full-blown storm laran, but Donal had only the genetic potential. He in turn passed that potential to you.”
Edric had been incensed. “Then I am a—a—” He did not know how to accuse his mother, whom he dearly loved, of being unfaithful to the man he’d always considered his father.
Gently his mother had taken his hand. “Your father—your real father—died shortly after the battle between Aldaran and Scathfell. It was then that Dorilys used her power to summon lightning storms and worse, so that her brain became so overloaded that she lost all control. She became a danger to herself and to the people who loved her.” A pause, a pulse of grief, and then Renata continued, “Lord Aldaran knew that I carried Donal’s child. He loved Donal as a son, and so he married me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am sorry to have kept your parentage secret. I suppose I hoped that you would be spared the storm Gift and there would be no need. As long as Lord Aldaran lived, such a revelation would only cause him more sorrow, and the gods know he had suffered enough. We all had, from this dreadful war with Scathfell. Lord Scathfell had lost Dorilys and Donal, and his kinsmen at Scathfell. You may not like the reasons I kept silent, but you must allow that I had them.”
Grudgingly, Edric had nodded. Remembering the conversation now, he thought more kindly of his mother’s decision. But even then he had understood the fear behind her words—fear for him and even greater fear for them all, should his Gift be as powerful and as uncontrollable as that of Dorilys.
He swore then to never call upon that Gift, no matter how dire the circumstances. To that end, he had left his home for the arduous mental training of a Tower.
Now, as the winds coaxed with their alluring song, and the snow-laden clouds pleaded for him to join with them, Edric fled into the disciplined meditation he had learned at Tramontana Tower: let all things be as nature intends, and grant me the strength to remain apart from them.
Thunderheads glowered in his mind, taut with unspent lightning. The storm built and built, no longer cajoling but commanding, a vast, impersonal force. His heart quailed at the magnitude of its power and the frailty of human flesh. It would take but a thought to send the storm elsewhere. To shift the winds, to dissipate the clouds . . .
Grant me the strength to remain apart.
Cold woke him, and a wail like a banshee’s keening, and grayness. Below, the horses moved restlessly, even Edric’s roan mare and his otherwise imperturbable pack horse. Edric soothed them with word and touch, and then threw down more hay. Someone would have to muck out the floor, one duty he would happily turn over to Francisco’s men.
The horse with the sore back blew contentedly through its nostrils as Edric ran his hand over the affected area. He suspected that the horse would be ready to travel before the storm cleared. Giving the horse a final pat, he ducked outside, heading for the door to the main shelter.
Ice-laced wind slammed into him, almost knocking him off his feet. It cut through his woolen cloak and jacket. The fallen snow, which had been knee-high in places, was now piled as high as his chest against the stone walls. A channel of sorts ran from the stable door to the main shelter, where the snow was not so thick. As it was, he staggered and fell twice in the short distance.
The room felt like an oven after the brief exposure outside. The center had already been cleared, the blankets rolled and neatly stacked, and the men sat or stood at their ease. Blankets still curtained off the two sets of bunks.
“Your pardons,” Edric said, stamping and shaking off snow. “I seem to have brought the storm with me. Is that porridge I smell?”
“It will be, once it’s proper cooked,” Timas answered with a friendly grin. He handed Edric a mug of jaco, steaming hot. “Those groats must have been stored here at the beginning of time, they were so hard, even with soaking overnight.”
“How fare the horses?” Francisco asked.
“They’re snug enough. I fed them, but they’ll need water and mucking out.” Edric blew across the surface of the jaco and took a sip.
“I’ll see to it,” Francisco said, nodding to two of his men. “You and you, come with me.”
“Edric, I thought I heard your voice.” Kyria poked her head out from behind the blanket curtain. The next moment, she slipped out, clearly trying to avoid wakening her sister. “Was it wild out there? Or peaceful, because horses don’t snore?”
Why does she make me want to laugh?
“The accommodations were adequate, damisela. Thank you for your concern.” Not even Dom Ruyven could find fault with that reply. “I hope you rested well.”
She cocked her head, as if contemplating further mischief. “As you see.” Then, perhaps relenting her lightheartedness, she glanced back at the curtained bunks.
“Your sister—she has taken no hurt from the cold?”
“Nothing that sleep in a warm place will not cure.” She went over to the hearth, stepping around the seated men. It wasn’t possible to take more than a stride in any direction, the central room was so crowded. The shelter hadn’t been designed to hold so many. She stirred the porridge, examining the bits that clung to the spoon. “Hmmm. Not ready yet.”
“Could have told you that, damisela,” said Timas.
“I have some nuts and dried fruit—just trail food, you know—in my saddlebags,” said Edric. “If you’re hungry, that is.” Too late, he recalled his resolve to keep his distance.
She gave him another of those enchanting half-smiles. “I was hoping there would be something useful to do. I heard the captain say we were going to be snowbound, although he couldn’t say for how long.”
“Yes, the snow is already too deep to travel, and more is coming down.”
Kyria turned back to the porridge. “It would taste better with a bit of dried fruit, if you can spare it. Unless . . . if we might be here lon
ger than our food supply, and we can’t hunt or trap in the snow, then it might make better sense to save it.”
“We won’t use all of it,” Edric replied, going to where he’d left his saddlebags. “And your sister and your kinsman look as if they could use the extra nutrition.”
“My kinsman? Oh, you mean Dom Ruyven. He isn’t—” She broke off as the man himself emerged from behind his own hanging blanket. As usual, he was scowling.
“Vai damisela, I have warned you of the inappropriateness of speaking to strangers.”
Kyria’s expression turned mutinous, but she answered in an even voice, “We’re going to be cooped up together in this confined space for gods-know-how-long. It would be downright rude to refuse to speak to one another. Besides, Dom Edric has just offered his supply of fruit and nuts to make the porridge more palatable. Shall I pretend I didn’t hear him?”
With each phrase, Dom Ruyven’s face turned redder. Edric jumped in before the older man could respond. “Not Dom. Just Edric.”
Francisco and his two men came back in, bringing gusts of icy wind. Dom Ruyven made a grumbling sound and disappeared back behind his blanket.
Edric and Francisco settled down to discuss the weather and trail conditions, and when the storm was likely to pass. Edric knew it would be several days at least, but he agreed with Francisco’s assessment that the storm showed no signs of abating any time soon. Kyria listened from the other side of the room, her expression thoughtful and intelligent.
By the end of the morning, Francisco’s men had inventoried the shelter’s food and animal feed stores, and inspected the tack and personal gear for damage. They went over every stitch and buckle, and every place leather might have been rubbed thin or a button about to come loose. Kyria set to work with them, clearly knowledgeable about sewing leather. Edric, working on his own equipment, watched her, trying to not be obvious. He smothered the impulse to grin when she handed Francisco a headstall, throatlatch impeccably re-stitched, and said, “What else needs doing?”
“Lady, perhaps you might attend your sister,” Francisco replied, “since it would be improper for any of us to intrude on her.”
Kyria pushed her way into the makeshift sleeping alcove. A moment later, feminine murmurs could be heard from behind the blanket. A short time after that, both girls emerged. Alayna’s hair was mussed and her face rosy with sleep, but she looked well enough. Kyria wrapped her in both their cloaks and took her outside, presumably to the latrine.
Timas prepared a fresh pot of jaco. Just as it was ready, the girls returned, filling the shelter with their bright chatter. The men seated on the floor looked up, and a couple of them smiled. Comb in hand, Kyria sat Alayna down on one of the few chairs and proceeded to tease out the wind tangles from her hair, until the result was a shimmering golden cascade. Edric found himself staring, along with the other men. He was an only child, so he’d never watched women do this, and normally such an intimate task would never be witnessed, even by kinsmen.
Kyria braided Alayna’s hair, and then coiled the plaits low on her sister’s neck, deftly preserving modesty by keeping the nape covered. A few tendrils curled prettily around Alayna’s face. “There! You look very nice.”
“There’s no mirror—how can I trust what you say?” Alayna replied, but her voice was light and teasing.
“Oh, I’ve made you look horrible, just to play a trick on you,” Kyria said. “Ask anyone you like.”
Every one of Francisco’s men was captivated. As for Edric, he had always known he must ensure an heir for Aldaran, but he had never imagined what a pleasure it could be to see that gloomy old castle brightened by such love as he saw between the two sisters. At Tramontana, he’d had close women friends, sometimes lovers, but never one single woman who had reached into his heart. He had thought it was not possible, that somehow he was so flawed as to be incapable of it.
He had never realized how deeply he longed for it.
His reflective mood lifted as Alayna leapt up, dove behind the blanket, and emerged a moment later with a wooden flute, which she handed to Kyria. While Kyria played a simple melody, Alayna sang. Alayna’s voice was sweet, her manner vivacious. Her skirts swayed as she sang, so that she seemed to be dancing. A few of the men clapped their hands on their knees or tapped the wooden floor in time to the music.
Next, Alayna sang a lively courting song and then a lullaby that Edric didn’t recognize. If she were not of good birth, as she so clearly was, she might make an excellent singing-woman. He wondered what Kyria’s voice was like, for her speech was melodious without pretense, but she showed no sign of setting aside her flute.
Midway through the singing, Dom Ruyven joined them. He listened with a measuring expression, as if he were noticing Alayna for the first time. So Kyria was the one he was responsible for, Edric thought, and not her sister. Whatever the arrangement, neither young woman seemed to object, and at any rate, it was none of Edric’s business.
6
Early on the third day, the winds died down, as Edric had anticipated, and that evening, the sky was so clear, the swathe of stars filled the heavens with light. By the following morning, he accepted the logic of joining the other party. They were traveling in the same direction, over the only pass through these mountains, and he could not deny the safety to be found in numbers. As much as he disliked Dom Ruyven and mistrusted his own motives where Kyria was concerned, he got along well with Francisco. The captain was efficient but considerate, and he clearly had earned the loyalty of his men. Any party under his protection would be properly cared for.
Edric woke early and helped Francisco and his men put the shelter and stable to rights. They’d intended to let the two women sleep as long as possible, but Kyria pulled her blanket curtain aside and proceeded to pack hers and her sister’s belongings. Edric smiled at the sight of Alayna, curled up on the bunk like a kitten, covered by her cloak and fully dressed, even to her boots. Kyria helped Timas to fry the last of the porridge, doling it out to the men and then scrubbing the griddle stone clean.
They set out while shadows still lay blue and chill across the glen. Although the drifts of snow reached the height of a man’s chest against the buildings, it was not nearly so thick along the trail. The men took turns forging a path through the shallowest parts, changing positions to spare their horses. When Kyria expressed the opinion that she ought to be allowed to do her part. Dom Ruyven scowled at her, at which Kyria looked so fierce that Edric restrained himself from laughing aloud.
“Vai damisela,” Francisco intervened, “my men and I are charged with the safety of this party, and the snow is not our only obstacle. These mountains are home to fierce beasts, snow leopards and banshees, as well as lawless men. Should we be attacked, we must place ourselves between you ladies and the oncoming danger.”
Kyria opened her mouth, but then clearly thought better of it. “Good Captain, I thank you for your dedication to our welfare. I would in no way make your task any more difficult.”
“That was well said,” Edric commented once they were on their way again, riding directly behind her.
“I did not say it to please you, only because it was the truth.”
Oddly, that comment pleased Edric. “Are you always so forthright?”
“I have never mastered my sister’s pretty speech. I suppose that must be deemed a fault.”
“No man of sense would prefer artifice over honesty.”
A pause, then: “I pray you are right.”
By midafternoon, the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky and the air grew noticeably warmer. The horses’ hooves turned the snow to slush, but it would freeze again overnight. The trail began to rise, and in the lengthening shadows, Edric could make out the pass above them. It was well above the tree line, like a canyon between the barren mountainsides.
“We’ll make camp here,” Francisco announced.
“What?”
Dom Ruyven protested. “There’s no shelter.”
“There is a little,” the captain replied, indicating a ledge of rock, “and none whatsoever up there.”
The space beneath the ledge could hardly be considered a cave, but its floor slanted upward from the trail, so very little snow had accumulated inside. By placing the horses on the outside and by sharing blankets and body warmth, a party might pass the night without freezing. It wouldn’t be comfortable for the women and there would be little privacy, but it was their only option. Cold made no distinction between lord and commoner, men and women, even the most fierce enemies.
Francisco and his men set about preparing the cavity, gathering what downed wood might be found within a short distance, and heating a meal. Edric did his share of tending the animals, giving them an extra measure of grain because there was no hope of forage.
He approached the two women as Kyria, sitting beside her sister on a flat rock, tried to arrange her cloak to cover them both. Healthy color bloomed on Kyria’s cheeks, but Alayna’s face was pale, and her lips were starting to turn blue. Edric smoothed the unruly folds and drew the heavy wool snugly around their shoulders. “The camp will be ready shortly. Is there anything else I can do for your comfort?”
“Not unless you can conjure up an inn with a hot bath and a feather bed,” was Kyria’s reply.
Almost all the light had seeped from the western sky, and across the east, a scattering of stars burned cold and blue. The temperature had begun to fall, but at least Edric’s storm sense gave no warning of another snowfall.
Thunderlord Page 6
