“Aye, that we are.” With a nod, the woman went on her way, buckets swinging.
Alayna reached the house the woman had indicated. Smoke curled from the fieldstone chimney and the oiled cloth of the windows glowed from the light within. She tapped on the door and heard voices inside, a woman’s, a bit quavery, and then a man’s. The door swung open and a tall, well-built man stood silhouetted against the brightness of the room.
“Good—” he began, then broke off. “Zandru’s hells!”
His voice gave him away, the one voice Alayna had thought to never hear again. For an instant, she stood there, dumbfounded.
“Francisco? What are you doing here?”
The last time she’d seen Francisco, Gwynn had railed and roared and sent him into exile. She felt as if the world had turned inside out. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Francisco stood back for Alayna to enter. She noticed the lines in his face, although he looked more careworn than old. He was thinner than she remembered, but not as much as the goat boy, and more warmly dressed than the villagers she’d seen. His garb looked as if it had seen hard usage, shiny at the seams and patched in places. Wherever he’d gone after Gwynn had banished him from Scathfell, he had survived but not prospered.
Alayna stepped over the threshold into a single large room, partitioned with hanging drapes. The hearth filled one wall of the central room, furnished with a table, several crude chairs, and a spinning wheel. Shelves held baskets and pottery jars. Bundles of dried herbs and roots hung in one corner.
Tarva, stirring a cauldron by the fire, was bundled like the other village women in a shawl that criss-crossed her body.
Alayna started to curtsy, for she was an uninvited guest in this woman’s home, but caught herself. “I bid you good morning, Mestra Tarva.”
“S’dia shaya, my lady! I member ye from when I went up to the castle to tend that poor woman. May all the gods have mercy upon her, for there was nawt I could do. I pray her passing was easy.”
“Have you not heard, then? Lord Edric Aldaran, who trained in a Tower, tended her himself. I saw her not two hours ago, and she was quite well.”
“Ah!” Tarva exclaimed, settling her shawl around her shoulders. “’Twas kindly done, that.” She said it as if she approved of his actions, one healer to another.
“You did not come all the way, and on foot,” Francisco said, “just to tell us of the gracious condescension of Lord Aldaran.”
“And you have not explained what you’re doing here. Have you lost your wits? If my husband finds you’re here—but he will not hear that from me,” she said. “I beg your pardon for my hasty words. You were the last person I expected to encounter here.”
“Who exactly were you expecting, then?”
“Manners, young pup!” Tarva interrupted. “’Tis a time for explanations and a time for hospitality. Were yer brains not so addled by living in strange lands, ye’d know which comes first.”
Francisco glanced away, his posture softening. “It is I who should beg your pardon, Lady Scathfell. Grams.”
Grams? “You are Mestra Tarva’s grandson? I thought the headman was.”
“Surely a person can have more than one grandchild?” Francisco answered with a hint of humor. “Arryl, who is headman here, is my cousin and a fair bit older than I. He recommended me for training in Lord Scathfell’s guards, and so I left this place. I return from time to time,” with a glance at his grandmother that revealed his affection for her, “although not recently. But this winter has been hard and food scarce, and then I heard she was ill.”
“Hale enough to manage, winter or no, and yet if a trace of the cough will fetch ye here, laddie, I’ll not begrudge it.” Tarva turned to Alayna. “Lady, I have no jaco to offer, but there’s still some mint tisane.”
“I thank you, but no. It isn’t safe for me to linger.” She glanced at Francisco. “My husband doesn’t know I’ve gone, but when he does, it’s likely he will search the village. He must not find Fran—Captain Francisco. I’m sorry, I don’t know what to call you now.”
“Francisco will do. Nobody but Grams calls me Cisco.” A scowl darkened his face. “So you’ve run away, without any thought to who you would put in danger.”
“I am not so feckless as that, and I have no intention of putting anyone in danger,” she retorted. “And I will be happy to leave as soon as I’ve found someone to act as my guide. That’s why I’ve come, for if anyone knows a likely person, one who has the skill to guide me through the mountains and the discretion to keep our departure secret, it is you. I’ve left the castle, yes, but I’m not running away. I’m running toward.”
Francisco’s tone remained guarded. “Toward what?”
“Aldaran. I’ve got to warn them that Scathfell is about to attack them with an army.”
This statement resulted in so many exclamations and questions that Alayna, despite her repeated insistence that she must hurry, ended up sitting down to a cup of mint tisane and telling the whole story. Tarva’s face tightened, and by the time Alayna had finished, she looked a decade older. Alayna supposed she was thinking of how little the village had to spare, and counting the wounded and dead.
“Francisco,” Alayna began. “You know these mountains. You served Scathfell for many years . . . you grew up here. I hardly dare ask—I have no right—but there is no one I would trust more. You got us all through the journey from Rockraven, even when it was snowing so badly. And you are a man of honor.”
“Some might say that you are mad to think you can accomplish this.”
“I may be mad, but I must try my utmost, and that includes finding the help I need.”
“You do not know what you are asking,” he said.
“You and your family,” there, she had said it, “may be able to flee beyond the reach of this war. Most definitely, your grandmother and cousin and all the people in the village, and in the valley and the farms and pastures—they will not be able. They will bear the cost of this war. In taxes, in food, in conscripts. In lives. If you will not do this for our old friendship, will you not do it for their sakes?”
Francisco’s expression hardened but not, Alayna thought, with refusal. She remembered how they had ridden through the valley when she first came to Scathfell, when she still fancied herself in love with him, and he had spoken about how the richness of the valley was continually drained by Lord Scathfell’s standing army. How much worse was the plight of those people now.
In a voice resonant with emotion, he said, “My family no longer exists.”
Alayna’s heart went out to him. “I am sorry to hear it. Forgive me, I had no wish to bring up a painful subject.”
“You meant no offense, my lady. They have been gone this past year from a lung fever,” he said. “It was a bad winter.”
“It seems that all winters are bad now,” Alayna said, “and likely to become more so if this war comes about. I am very sorry for your loss, Francisco, but surely you would not want anyone else to suffer as you do, when it might be prevented.”
“Seems ye have a choice, laddie,” the old woman said. “Go back to the safety ye’ve made for yerself. Stay out of this, do not risk yerself, for Avarra knows ye’ve suffered enough. Ye’ll be of no use to me if ye’re dead. Or ye can serve this lady, for ’tis clear she herself hopes to serve us all.” She went to Francisco and reached up to pat his cheek. At her touch, a change rippled through his body, although he did not move. He seemed to be not breathing. “I’ll love ye no less for it,” Tarva said, “whatever ye choose. But choose ye must, and ye linger on peril of yer life.”
He spoke softly, the village accent roughening his voice. “Grams, ye cannot survive another such winter.”
“That’s for the Dark Lady Avarra to say, not any mortal man nor woman.”
He slipped his arms around her, bending to hold her close despite the d
ifference in their heights and the curvature of her spine. For what seemed like many long moments, Francisco held her. Then with a lift and fall of his shoulders, he stepped back. Her eyes were bright as stars. He turned to Alayna. “Vai domna, I am yours to command.”
Once those words would have filled her with elation, but now they brought only the sickening feeling of destiny closing in around her.
36
Gazing down at his wife and sons, Edric thought there could be no greater happiness. Kyria had fallen asleep while nursing them, a babe cradled in each arm, her skin a pearly glow in the morning light. Her head had fallen to one side, facing little Donal, whose mouth was still attached to her breast. He was almost asleep, but now and again his lips would move. Edric could not decide if the babe were actually suckling or only dreaming of it. Baby Pietro snuggled up to Kyria’s other side. He must have finished nursing while she was still awake, for she had covered her breast and tucked her blanket neatly around both of them. It amazed Edric that she could nourish both of them and that they could now sit up by themselves. Although born early, they had thrived.
Seeing the three of them in the abandon of sleep stole his breath away. He had not guessed that such tenderness as he felt now existed.
Even as she slept, he sensed Kyria’s mind with his own. Once the barriers between them had been lowered, they were always in light rapport. As if the words of the marriage ceremony had been literally true and they had become one person, one flesh. One spirit. Then he caught himself about to reach out and caress her cheek, but she needed sleep. For the hundredth time, he blessed the gods for bringing Kyria into his life and for giving him the sense to listen to his mother and make her his wife di catenas.
Although the boys were twins, born within the space of an hour, Edric had learned to tell them apart. He knew the curve of their cheeks, the sweetness of their scent. What he did not know, and what both Kyria and his mother, who had assisted at their birth, refused to tell him, was which was the elder. Kyria informed him, with that disarming frankness of hers, that if it ever became necessary to the fate of Darkover, she would reveal the order of their birth. But until that time, she would not have her sons subjected to this eldest and heir nonsense.
“Would you have them rule Aldaran together?” he had joked.
She’d favored him with a lift of one eyebrow. “That would be an excellent idea.”
The quiet lifting of the door latch heralded his mother’s arrival. Lady Renata still held herself with the poise of a leronis who had trained at Hali Tower and worked there for many years. Now a light frosting of silver highlighted her copper-bright hair. The freckles of her youth had faded, leaving her most pronounced facial feature her large gray eyes. On this winter morning, she wore a loose, fur-lined overdress on top of a high-necked gown. A cowl of dainty knitted lace in the same soft blue draped her from head to shoulders. In no small measure due to Kyria’s cosseting, her health had recovered from the lung fever that had summoned him home. But she still took extra care against the cold.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she said, her gaze going to the sleeping mother and babes. Edric had never thought of his mother as the doting type. Loving, certainly, and endlessly patient, but practical and level-headed. It was evident, however, that she would very likely spoil her grandsons to a legendary degree.
“You came looking for me?” he said, trying to remember if they had an appointment.
“’Tis a good candlemark past when we were supposed to meet,” she replied, keeping her voice low. Her sigh conveyed how much she would like to linger. “Come now, for if the business of the world waited on the slumber of babes, then nothing would ever get done.”
Edric followed his mother from the bedchamber and nodded in passing to the nurse who sat knitting before the parlor fireplace, ready when Kyria needed her. “I can think of many things that would be far less desirable than watching such angels sleep.”
“It would indeed be a blessing if quarrels waited upon such simple joys,” Renata replied as they proceeded down the hallway. “Can you imagine an army forced to stand about while an infant finishes nursing?”
“Yes, that would be the proper ordering of the world.”
She opened the door leading to the sunny chamber they used during the winter for estate business. Tapestries shielded the air from the cold stone of the walls. A carpet of Ardcarran weaving, old but still colorful, cushioned their feet. Renata had taken over the room when she assumed administration of the castle during Edric’s minority and then in his absence at Tramontana.
Ledgers and loose sheets of paper covered the surface of the table, except for a tray with a pitcher of jaco, a pot of honey, and a platter of Renata’s favorite nut-studded pastries. She was wont to treat business discussions as if they were as taxing as matrix circle work, and therefore requiring the same sustenance.
Kermiac, the castle coridom, rose. “Vai dom.”
“Be at your ease, for it is I who am remiss in my duty.” Edric took his seat. “What’s to do this morning?”
Renata sat back in her chair, watching over the rim of her cup as Kermiac went through his summary of the castle accounts. Edric listened with as much of his thoughts as he could tear away from Kyria and the boys. Kermiac was a good steward, meticulous if dull.
Edric felt a rush of appreciation for the tactful way Renata made it seem he was making decisions, all the while managing the various items of business herself. For example, the tally of food supplies—both for the household itself and for those dependents who required assistance during the winter months until the earliest crops were ready for harvest—fell under the purview of the chatelaine. Kyria would assume these duties as she was able, but for the time being, both she and Edric were just as happy to have Renata continue her capable administration. Aldaran had flourished in Renata’s hands during the years Edric was at Tramontana, and it would be a pity to lose her guidance now.
I must start paying more attention to the administration of the smaller estates, Edric thought. One way around the difficulty of succession would be to ensure that whichever son did not rule had lands enough to provide a good living. It is a terrible thing when brother is set against brother. It would never happen, he swore to whichever god might be listening.
“Edric?” Renata was staring at him, not unkindly, while Kermiac waited, his hands full of account books.
“Thank you for your service,” Edric murmured.
“Vai dom.” Kermiac bowed and left them.
Renata favored Edric with an oblique smile. “It was a lucky thing that all he’d asked was if there was anything else you needed.”
“Seemed reasonable.”
A light tap sounded, and the door swung open. Edric’s heart beat faster at the sight of his wife. In the short time since he’d seen her asleep in bed, she’d dressed, tidied her hair, and looked alert and composed.
Her eyes flickered from Edric to Renata. “I’m sorry, have I interrupted you? I saw Kermiac heading down the corridor and assumed you had finished.”
“And so we have, my dear,” Renata hastened to reassure her. “Would you care for some jaco? I think it’s still warm, or I can ring for a fresh pitcher.”
Kyria declined with thanks, for as she’d confided in Edric she thought jaco made the babes fussy. “I will have one of these, however,” Kyria said, reaching for one of the pastries.
“We used to eat them by the platterful after a night’s work in the matrix circle,” Edric said. “I’m afraid I can’t stomach the sweetness under other circumstances.”
“I, on the other hand,” said Renata, “never tire of them. It’s a wonder I’m not the size of a cart horse.”
“I couldn’t imagine that,” Kyria murmured in between nibbles.
“I’m lucky. It is said that the same genes that give rise to our Gifts also prevent our bodies from storing extra fat. This is a good thin
g. It means I can continue to wear the same gowns as when I first came here.”
Glancing down at her own figure, still rounded with breastfeeding, Kyria sighed. Edric, meeting her eyes, spread his hands in surrender.
“Well,” Renata said, “perhaps we should spare my son’s tender ears from further discussion on this topic.”
“My tender ears—” Edric began, but halted at another sound at the door, not Kyria’s light tap but a more forceful knock. “Come,” he called.
Roderic, the captain of the castle guards, entered. Aldaran had no army and little enough need for guarding, but such need as there was, he and his cadre of men filled. They carried swords but wore no armor, only tunics emblazoned with the Aldaran double eagle, warm and serviceable.
Roderic bowed first to Edric and then to each of the ladies. “My lord, there’s a matter requiring your presence. If you would come, please.”
Normally Roderic was so placid of temper as to be imperturbable. It was one of the qualities, besides his skill with a sword and his patience in instilling that same skill in others, that made him a good captain. Although Edric could find no fault with the man’s tone or bearing, he sensed that something had rattled his captain. He got to his feet, bade the women a good morning, and followed Roderic down to the entrance hall.
“Two people—a man and a woman—just arrived,” Roderic explained as they hurried along. “They rode in out of the snow, their mounts half dead and them not much better.”
“They must have been desperate to travel at this season. A woman, you say?” At least the weather had been relatively clear. Edric had sensed a storm—a blizzard—gathering on the heights, but if it had not dissipated, it had come no closer.
“My lord, they say they are here to warn you of an impending attack.”
“Attack? As in military attack?” Edric could not believe he’d heard correctly. “As in war?”
Roderic paused, meeting Edric’s eyes. “That’s what they say.” It was a measure of how shaken he was that he did not add my lord.
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