Thunderlord

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  With those words, Francisco’s lips pressed together. He looked as if he repented having spoken so frankly. “Your sister will have the best once she is returned to us, and you, as her honored guest, will not lack for anything.”

  “We had little enough luxury at home,” she assured him. “I suppose it will be pleasant to not worry about the patches in my—” She was about to say, chemise, but was it proper to mention undergarments to a man not her kin? “—my skirts.”

  “My lord’s generosity will surely extend to a new gown or two.”

  “But I must take care to regard such things as special treats and not become accustomed to them.”

  As they talked, the trail wound through a cleft in the rock. It climbed steeply, narrowing so that the party was forced to go single file as a convoy of empty carts descended past them from the castle. Their way led straight into the mountainside, where a raised portcullis guarded the entrance. Armed men stood watch on either side. Here they all dismounted, for the tunnel was not tall enough to accommodate riders on horseback.

  Alayna delayed, hoping that Francisco would help her, would hold out his arms, and she would fall into them. And then, just for a moment, she would feel those strong arms around her. She might even rest her cheek against his chest. It was a silly notion, but harmless. And why should she not wish for such things? He was, after all, a man, and she was a woman. She had no aspirations of a match as grand as her sister’s. It would be a very fine thing to be married to a captain in the service of her brother-in-law. He found her beautiful, she was certain of it, and never before had she been so glad of the effect she had on men.

  As if her longing had summoned him, Francisco came around to her horse’s shoulder. “My lady,” he said as he held out his arms. Although she was perfectly capable of getting off a horse by herself, she allowed herself to slip into his arms. But the next moment did not come about as she had imagined. He did not press her to him. Instead, he set her on her feet and took a step back. Dom Ruyven had already proceeded into the tunnel, and Francisco went to organize the rest of their party. She had no choice but to go along.

  The tunnel floor rose steadily, the walls moist with condensation, and chilly as well. Sounds echoed weirdly in the confined space. Next came another raised gate, its pointed bars like the teeth of an open mouth.

  This must be the best-defended castle in the Hellers. She could not imagine any enemy—not the bandits of Sain Erach, nor even King Allart Hastur, come all the way from Thendara—foolhardy enough to attempt an assault. The mountain would throw them back as if they were straw.

  Alayna stepped into the sunlight beyond the tunnel’s mouth and peered up at the castle. Its walls loomed over her, straight and sheer. The tops, what she could see of them, were broken by openings—for archers, she supposed. A flight of steps led to massive doors of wood bound with straps of bronze. Armed guards waited to either side, their faces unreadable beneath their helmets.

  One of the doors swung open and a man in a garnet-colored robe emerged. His white hair was bound back from his face, and he carried a staff. A ring of keys jingled from his belt. He bowed deeply to Dom Ruyven and offered formal words of welcome. The two men then conversed in hushed tones, too low for Alayna to understand more than that Dom Ruyven was relating their encounter with the bandits. She wished beyond words that she could go to Francisco and shelter in his strength, but he had taken her horse and led it to the side, and there was no way within the bounds of proper deportment that she could approach him. When a couple of stablemen emerged from around the side of the castle and took the horses in charge, Francisco and the others went with them.

  Don’t leave me, she wanted to cry out. When will I see you again?

  Dom Ruyven, apparently satisfied, disappeared through the open door. The robed man swept down the stairs. “Vai damisela! On behalf of my master, I welcome you. I am Zefano, coridom to Lord Scathfell. You must be exhausted from your long journey, not to mention your many ordeals.”

  Alayna curtsied and followed him up the stairs and through the opened door. The chamber inside was so spacious, it could have housed half of Rockraven, but was clearly only an entrance hall. A large door opened at the far end, with smaller doors to either side. A boy of eight or ten emerged from one of these, bowed to Zefano, stared wide-eyed at Alayna, and bowed again.

  “Fetch Domna Dimitra, fast as you can,” Zefano commanded. When the boy sprinted back through the smaller door, Zefano turned to Alayna and explained, “She will be Damisela Kyria’s lady-in-waiting and is best equipped to see to your needs.”

  A short time later, a woman of Ellimira’s years bustled through the same door. She was no servant, for she wore a dress of pearly gray wool, edged with lace like frost on glass. Except for the color, which was elegant but boring, it was the most gorgeous dress Alayna had ever seen. Certainly, no one at Rockraven owned anything like it.

  “Welcome to Scathfell, vai damisela.” Without waiting for a response, the woman tucked Alayna’s hand into the crook of her elbow and drew her toward the main door. “Dom Ruyven said you were snow-bound and then assaulted by brigands. You must have had such a dreadful time! But you are safe with us now.”

  The main door led into an even grander chamber. Alayna had no time for closer examination, as they were now across the hall and through another door, up one corridor and another door, then up a set of wide carpeted stairs that doubled back on themselves, down another corridor and more stairs—wood, this time, glossy with age and polish—until Alayna lost all sense of direction.

  “Here we are!” Domna Dimitra paused before a door, one of several leading off a corridor, and flung it open. “This will be your suite, my lady.” She stood back for Alayna to enter.

  Suite?

  Alayna stepped into what must surely be the most charming room in the world. Honey-gold wood paneled the walls, and the tapestries and carpet had been chosen to enhance the color of sunshine. A divan and two chairs had been arranged around the fireplace where a small blaze burned. Some aromatic wood had been added to fill the room with a sweet smell. The bedroom beyond was, if anything, more lovely than the sitting room, with its dressing table and wardrobe, and the four-poster bed with draperies to ward off the night’s chill, all in shades of butter and caramel.

  “This cannot be for me,” Alayna protested. “Surely, such a grand chamber must belong to Lady Scathfell.”

  “This was to be your sister’s room, until her marriage di catenas is solemnized,” Domna Dimitra assured her. “But since you are here and she is not, there is no reason you should not enjoy all the comforts befitting your station. I will send a maid to help you undress and provide a bath.” She opened the door to the wardrobe. “And here you will find suitable clothing.”

  Alayna and Kyria used to borrow one another’s clothing. Well, she used to steal Kyria’s, usually whatever was newest and brightest. But they were no longer children, and Kyria, who was to be Lady Scathfell, was in the hands of those brigands. Heart aching at the thought of her sister’s situation, Alayna turned away from the open wardrobe. “If these were intended for my sister, I cannot wear them.”

  “More will be made for her upon her arrival. You will not be depriving her of her due, I assure you.” The lady-in-waiting paused, her lips pursed. “I understand your concern about Damisela Kyria, but we cannot have you going about the castle looking like you have been on the trail for a month of tendays.” She drew out an overdress of jade-hued wool, its front panel and sleeves touched with embroidery. “This should look very well with your coloring. There is a skirt to match, and a shawl to keep off the drafts.”

  Conscious of how grubby she was, Alayna touched the garments with only the tip of one finger. The tunic and under skirt were as soft as a puppy’s ears, and as for the colors, surely not even Queen Cassandra Hastur wore raiment so bright.

  Within a surprisingly short time, Alayna found herself
attended by a maid who helped her out of her trail-stained clothing while another filled a tub in the adjacent chamber with steaming water that smelled slightly of sulfur. Beside the tub, a rack held towels, a dipper for rinsing, various brushes and bottles, and a basket containing chunks of soap.

  The water was almost too hot to get into, but Alayna managed it, bit by bit. The maid took up a cloth, worked the soap into a creamy lather, and began washing Alayna’s back. The massaging movements felt surprisingly good. Alayna had dreamt of life in a grand palace, but her imagination had never before extended to being bathed by someone else.

  The maid brought in a ewer of hot water that smelled like apple blossoms. After lathering and rinsing Alayna’s hair three times, she poured the water over her head as a final rinse and worked the fragrant liquid in. Then she wrapped Alayna in several layers of towels, sat her on a stool, and worked through her hair with a long-toothed comb. To Alayna’s surprise, the comb slipped through without tangling.

  “’Twouldn’t do to rip out half that lovely hair,” the maid said.

  “I was dreading combing it out,” Alayna admitted. “What is that stuff?”

  “Slippery apple bark, with a little hawthorn,” the maid replied.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sadhi, vai damisela. If you would please sit here by the fire, I will dry and arrange your hair. We should have just enough time to get you ready.”

  “Have I somewhere to go?”

  “Indeed. You’re to be presented to Lord Scathfell himself.”

  Alayna examined her reflection in a mirror so large she could see herself, head to toe. Sadhi had braided and coiled her hair low on her neck, with a few tendrils framing her face. The green wool overdress flowed over her curves, cinched with a belt of green and yellow. She looked for all the world like the Blessed Cassilda in the springtime.

  She smiled, and her image smiled back, and she imagined how she would look to Francisco. He might even attend Lord Scathfell this very evening. She must manage to speak with him.

  Alayna followed the maid Sadhi back down a maze of corridors and stairs until at last they arrived at the dining hall. Dom Ruyven stood there, so regally attired that for a moment, she failed to recognize him. She halted the proper distance from him and dropped a curtsy. The green skirts swept gracefully around her, swirling as she rose.

  Dom Ruyven held out his arm for her, and they went in. A long table, glossy with polish and bedecked with beeswax candles, had been set for ten, with one place at the far end. Lord Scathfell’s, she assumed. Servants in livery stood here and there along the far wall. Men and a few women, dressed in the same splendor as Dom Ruyven, stood talking and drinking from goblets. Alayna’s heart faltered, for Francisco was not among them, and she had no idea who they were or what was expected of her.

  “Is one of them Lord Scathfell?” she whispered to Dom Ruyven.

  “They are courtiers and dependent kin, nothing more,” he replied. “They have donned their finery to meet the future Lady Scathfell. My lord will join us shortly, now that we are all assembled.”

  He introduced Alayna to the guests. She’d never met so many new people at once and doubted she would be able to remember all their names.

  When they finished the circuit of the room, one of the servants brought her a silver goblet on a tray. Its contents steamed lightly and smelled of winter spices. She took it, waited for Dom Ruyven’s nod of approval, and sipped. It was wine, which she had tasted only on holidays. It burned her throat, but she managed to not sputter. A subtle warmth spread throughout her body. Any more of this and my head will start spinning. Alayna had seen what too much hot spiced wine did to her older brothers, and she certainly did not want to behave that way in front of a great lord. Then she noticed how the ladies held their goblets but did not drink, so she copied them. Dom Ruyven, she noted, did not drink much, either.

  The large door at the far end of the hall opened, a pair of armed men took up stations on either side, and a man entered who she knew, instantly, must be Lord Scathfell. He had the same strong waist and broad shoulders as Francisco, undoubtedly from many hours at swordplay, and his attire was rich but not flamboyant. Until that moment, Alayna had not really thought what to expect, only that he was to be her brother-in-law, so of course she must do her best to be cordial to him. And he was rich and powerful, so she must be respectful. Now the courtiers and ladies parted as he approached, clearing a path straight to Alayna.

  Dom Ruyven bowed deeply. Alayna looked around for what to do with the goblet, but there seemed to be nowhere to put it, so she curtsied as best she could. By the time she straightened up, Dom Ruyven was saying, “Vai dom, allow me to present to you Damisela Alayna Rockraven, sister to your promised wife. Damisela, Gwynn-Alar, Lord Scathfell.”

  To Alayna’s surprise, Lord Scathfell held out his hand. She placed her own in it, and to her even greater surprise, he kissed the back of it. His hair was a rich chestnut color, as was his neatly trimmed beard. The bristles tickled a little.

  “You are most welcome to Scathfell Castle,” he said. “It gladdens my heart to see how well you survived your ordeal.”

  “Captain Francisco saw to our safety and comfort,” she said, then added, “as did Dom Ruyven.” And my sister? What news of her?

  Lord Scathfell’s gracious expression did not alter. “Let us save further discussion for the dinner table. You will sit at my right hand, Ruyven, and the lady will take my left.”

  The left side was traditionally reserved for the woman of the household. Dom Ruyven seemed to think nothing amiss, however, and before Alayna knew it, Lord Scathfell himself was escorting her to dinner while the others took their places.

  When they were seated, the servants brought in tureens of soup while Lord Scathfell engaged Alayna in conversation. He inquired if she found her quarters comfortable and if she lacked anything to make her easy and at home. He sounded genuinely concerned that she felt welcome and her needs be met. She stumbled through a reply, bewildered by the notion that the sumptuous chambers and even more luxurious bath, not to mention the elegant gown and now this delicious soup, could be in any way inadequate. She had nothing like this at home, and with that thought came a pang of longing for her family—Papa and Valdir and Gwillim, and even Ellimira, but most of all, Kyria. To say she was homesick and desperately worried about her sister seemed ungrateful, so she focused on her soup.

  “I see you are not one of these fashionable ladies who pretend to never consume more than a mouthful here and there,” Lord Scathfell said, “for fear that they will be thought overly robust.”

  “I suppose there are such ladies,” she murmured, “but being delicate is not always a good thing. I wish I had been stronger, or I would not have fallen so ill when we were caught by a heavy snowfall.”

  “You seem perfect to me, just as you are.”

  Blushing, she bent to finish the last bit of soup.

  The soup bowls were removed and platters of meat and root vegetables, baskets of bread, and bowls of stewed apples were brought out. Alayna was grateful for the diversion. Keeping her gaze lowered, she concentrated on the next course.

  “Ruyven has already rendered his account of the journey,” Lord Scathfell went on. “I would like to hear yours, if it is not too distressful.”

  Alayna set down her eating knife, considering how to answer. Her own discomforts paled by comparison to what had happened to Kyria. “I cannot remember having been so cold in my life, and I grew up in mountains very like yours. But Captain Francisco took good care of us all, as did Dom Ruyven, of course.” I’m repeating myself. What must he think of me? “The captain located a traveler’s shelter, where we passed the worst of the storm.”

  “So Ruyven told me. Also that you encountered a fellow traveler there.”

  Alayna glanced at Dom Ruyven, unsure how to answer. Her host had turned the conversation in this d
irection for a reason. Edric had been so kind, she did not like to violate his anonymity or divulge information that later might cause him difficulty. For all she knew, he might be a wrongfully accused outlaw with a price on his head.

  “Yes, and afterward we went on for a time together,” she said cautiously. Surely Ruyven would have told that much.

  “What sort of man was he?” Lord Scathfell asked.

  “My lord, I hardly know. He was of assistance with the horses, I believe.”

  “Not overly coarse in speech or appearance,” Dom Ruyven answered. “His horse had the look of quality, but he traveled alone. I concluded, therefore, that he was no one of consequence. We did not exchange full names or other information under the usual conditions of shelter truce.”

  “Of course.” As if that settled the matter, Lord Scathfell bent to his meal.

  Alayna picked at hers. The meat was too heavily seasoned for her taste. Finally she gave up, and forgot her resolution to remain insipidly silent. She didn’t care that Lord Scathfell had the power to throw her out. He also had the power to pay those hideous men what they asked, to have Kyria restored to her.

  “Please tell me, Lord Scathfell, if there is any news of my sister? Have the bandits sent a ransom demand?”

  “We have not yet made contract with her captors,” he replied, his tone gentle. “No message has arrived, but do not let that trouble you. Within an hour of your arrival, I dispatched riders to Sain Erach. One way or another, we shall soon hear.” He placed one hand on top of hers. “There is every reason to hope, vai damisela. We know the identity of the brigands and where they nest. They will not dare to harm a valuable hostage.”