Renata came forward to greet them. She had covered her hair with a white kerchief, and wore a long, bibbed apron over her gown. “Dom Gwynn, you are looking much better. I’m glad to see Alayna has taken such good care of you.”
“I had not expected—” With a gesture that encompassed the enormous room, Gwynn stumbled to a halt.
“This is not the first time I have dealt with numbers of wounded men. Right here, in this very castle. I had hoped such dreadful times were behind us and I would never need those skills again. Sadly, some of these injuries are beyond my help. Two of your men died of their burns soon after arriving. Another may not survive. I think it would ease his mind if you spoke to him. Come, I’ll show you.”
She led the way down a passage between rows of tables toward a corner. “We’ve separated the burn patients, and within that group, those with the worst cases. That makes it easier to administer numbweed salve and sleeping draughts, and to keep the area as clean as we can.”
Alayna followed a pace behind, although she wanted to stop by every man she passed. Each one had a name, a history. A family. A reason for being in Gwynn’s army. Some appeared to be asleep, at least that’s what she hoped, but here and there others turned toward her as she approached.
“Lady Scathfell . . .” They murmured her name as if it were a talisman against pain.
Renata and Gwynn were getting ahead of her, but she could not pass by without a word. She turned back to the last man who had recognized her. His face brightened as she approached. She asked his name and where he was from, which turned out to be one of the herding villages in the hills surrounding the valley of Scathfell. He spoke of a wife and three children, and of hard times. She touched his hand and wished him a speedy recovery and safe journey home. From his look of surprise, she gathered that no one had told these men that they were not prisoners, that as soon as they had recovered, they were free to return home.
She reached Gwynn just as he was drawing a sheet over the face of the burned man. His jaw clenched, muscles visible through his stubble, and his eyes were bleak. Renata had withdrawn a short way and was attending a nearby patient. A man in dark, unadorned clothing sat on a stool beside the head of the table, a cane propped against one knee. When he glanced her way, she recognized Edric. He looked pale but alert. She saw then that he was in the process of tucking something small and radiantly blue into the front opening of his jacket.
“He held out long enough for me to—” Gwynn said in a voice she hardly recognized, it was so choked with emotion. “I don’t know what good I did.”
“You eased his passage with great kindness,” Edric said. “To die with such words in one’s ears . . . we cannot hope for better.”
“Unless it is to die peacefully in our own beds,” Gwynn said with a trace of bitterness.
He takes this upon himself as his fault. Alayna felt a surge of desire to assuage his guilt, but then paused. Why should she lessen the pain he ought rightly to feel, the consequence of his own choices? “The best way to honor this man’s death is to make sure that no other suffers a similar fate needlessly,” she said.
“I intended only to defend Scathfell, to protect its people,” he protested. “You know that.”
Renata glanced at them, her lips pursed. “Such conversations are best taken outside. The only thing that matters here is keeping these men alive. Blame and recrimination cannot do that.”
“My words were ill-timed,” Alayna admitted.
“As were mine,” murmured Gwynn. “Vai dom, vai leronis.” With a half-bow, he took his leave of Renata and Edric, and the man for whom he could do nothing more. Together with Alayna he proceeded up one aisle and down the next, stopping at each bed. She was surprised at how many of the men he knew, their names and the places they had come from. Men whose faces had been contorted in pain smiled, and their eyes lit up. For the few moments Gwynn attended to each, their spirits lifted visibly.
This is what a lord ought to do, she thought, go among his people and let them know his concern. Not recruit them for an army with no function except to drain food and resources from those who have little enough already. Not to send them off to be struck by a storm no man can stand against.
Eventually they came to the end of the last row and thence to the door leading out to the central hallway. One glance at his face, however, told Alayna that he was too keyed up to rest. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “If you have had enough of the sick room, perhaps you would like to meet the rest of the family?”
“I have already made your sister’s acquaintance, if that’s what you mean.”
“She is your sister now, and Edric is your brother,” Alayna pointed out. “But I will not impose on you to be amicable toward him, not when the thunderstorm is so vivid in your mind. I meant your nephews. It’s odd to say kinsmen when they have not yet got beyond thumb-sucking and creeping about, making purposeful but otherwise incomprehensible noises, but they too are your relatives.”
“Lord Aldaran’s get.”
Alayna came to a halt, tightening her grip on her husband’s arm. “Gwynn-Alar, you are not to refer to those little angels in such an odious manner! They are babes. The worst things in their experience are soiled breech clouts and having to share their favorite toys.”
At this, he threw his head back and laughed, sounding younger and more carefree than he had in a long time. He had laughed in just this manner when they were first wed.
At Alayna’s tap, the door to the nursery swung open and, feeling she need not stand upon ceremony with her own sister, she went in. Gwynn followed a pace behind. Although night’s chill had not yet settled fully into the stone walls and floor, a fire cast dancing orange reflections through the room, added to the soft light of the matched candelabra. An array of dishes on the sideboard gave off the delicious smells of roasted onions, herb-crusted poultry, and spiced apples. Alayna’s stomach rumbled in response. She could not recall when she’d eaten last.
Kyria sat in the rocking chair, a lap robe tucked around her legs, playing with Donal. Pietro sat on the rug, the wooden ball between his chubby hands. When Pietro noticed Alayna, he dropped the ball. Laughing, she caught him in her arms and swung him up in the air. He shrieked in delight. Donal, noticing the attention his brother was receiving, let out a cry and held out his hands to Alayna.
“Wait your turn, little man,” Alayna said. “There’s only one of me.”
Before Gwynn could protest, she thrust Pietro into his arms. Gwynn shifted the boy to a more comfortable position. Pietro snuggled close, laying his cheek against Gwynn’s chest.
“You see, I do know something about children,” Gwynn said.
“I can see that,” Kyria told him, “and am heartily glad of it. I am without a nurse at the moment. She’s down in the great hall, performing a different sort of nursing. Meanwhile, that lovely food has been sitting there, and every time I put these imps down, one or the other of them starts howling fit to wake the folk in Valeron, and then the other joins in. As a result, I’m famished.” She went straight to the side board and began helping herself.
Alayna had heard that breastfeeding created an enormous appetite, but until she saw the size of the servings her sister took, she had not quite believed it. Kyria made up plates for her and Gwynn as well, and for a time, they took turns holding the children and eating. Plate loaded with second helpings, Kyria sat while Alayna curled up on the rug. At Kyria’s insistence, Gwynn, still holding Pietro, took the rocking chair.
In between showing Donal how to pile up blocks—which he then took great delight in knocking down—Alayna watched her husband. He had the most peculiar, bemused, perhaps bewitched expression. It was the magic of babes, Alayna supposed, and most especially these babes. She would have thought them enchanting even if they were not Kyria’s. For a brief moment, he seemed to have forgotten the terrible events that had brought him to this
place and time, even the farewell to the burned soldier.
Alayna glanced at her sister and wondered if she should mention having seen Edric in the great hall. Although Alayna knew little of laran healing, besides what it felt like to be on the receiving end, she suspected that was what he had been doing. Perhaps he felt obliged to make amends for the harm he had caused, even as Gwynn did.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Edric entered the nursery. He moved stiffly, leaning on his cane, but he did not seem to be otherwise impaired.
“Ah, there you are, love,” Kyria said, in between mouthfuls of bread smeared with soft cheese. “We’ve left you a little food, although I’m afraid none of it is the usual for replenishment after laran work.”
“I have already dropped by the kitchen,” he said as he sank into a chair. “My mother has managed to use up a tenday’s worth of honey pastries in a single night.” He turned to Gwynn. “Lady Renata tells me you have recovered from your head wound.”
“Thank you for your concern, but it was not as serious as it first appeared,” Gwynn replied. Pietro, having given up on snuggling, took it upon himself to swat Gwynn’s chin, despite Gwynn’s attempts to get him to stop. When Pietro refused to desist, Gwynn attempted to continue speaking around the batting of little hands. The effect was not, Alayna thought, very warlike. “Vai dom, your lady wife has already accepted my surrender—”
“Blessed Cassilda,” Kyria exclaimed. “You’re not still harping on that nonsense.”
“It is not nonsense, dear wife,” Edric said. “These matters pertain to honor, and must be done in the proper manner.”
“If you say so.” Kyria returned to her spiced apple.
Edric shifted in his chair to face Gwynn directly. “I will of course accept your surrender if that is necessary, but I do so reluctantly. Surrender implies the forceful overthrow of one adversary by another, and I very much desire that we forge a different, more cordial relationship.”
“You have defeated my army. My men and I are your prisoners, at your mercy. What other word do you have for it?” Gwynn was growing impatient with Pietro’s antics now. Alayna glanced at her sister in mute appeal and Kyria, setting aside her plate, took the boy away.
“We have always been kin, and now we are brothers,” Edric said. “That is how I would have us treat one another.”
“Kin do not steal each other’s promised brides,” Gwynn pointed out.
Alayna’s throat clenched. There it was, the twist of fate that could never be remedied. Gwynn resented having the wrong wife, the barren wife. That Kyria was so obviously in love with her own husband did not matter. When had the opinions and desires of women ever mattered?
“I believe the women have something to say about that,” Edric remarked. “Kyria tells me that she had never laid eyes upon you when that contract was signed. Surely it is better to have a wife who knows and loves you? One willing to sacrifice her own happiness to keep you from harm?”
Alayna blushed at such praise. She had seen herself as desperate, not heroic. But Kyria was nodding, as if the truth was apparent to anyone who heard the tale.
“Other allegiances hold sway here,” Edric went on. “We see two devoted sisters who were heartbroken at their separation. Seeing them now, in such accord, how can we who profess to love them do anything less than mend our differences?”
“Promises of peace are easily made, and just as easily broken,” Gwynn said. “It is all very well to impose your idea of kinsmanlike relations upon a beaten man. But when these boys have grown to adulthood, assuming they have inherited the Rockraven storm Gift, what is to bind them to your fine words? What is to stop them from taking Scathfell for their own, knowing that neither I nor any heirs I may designate stand a chance against them?”
His words hung like fire in the room, and it seemed that Edric had no answer. For a long moment, for a handful of such moments, no one spoke. Even the babes fell still and silent, as if they sensed the gravity of Gwynn’s question.
Kyria got to her feet, holding Pietro on one hip. Alayna looked at her through tear-filled eyes and barely recognized her, for she seemed taller and more powerful, capable of anything, as if a second figure overlay Kyria’s: Evanda as the Eternal Mother? Blessed Cassilda cradling Hastur, son of Aldones, who was Lord of Light? I hardly know this woman.
But this was Kyria, after all, who’d wrestled with her brothers, gone out trapping against their father’s wishes, stolen buns from the kitchen, gotten kidnapped by brigands, fought a banshee, snuck into Comyn Castle to see her ailing sister, birthed not one babe but two, and taken charge of the remnants of the Scathfell army as Lady Aldaran.
“Lord Scathfell has the right of it,” Kyria said. They all looked at her in astonishment, but none more so than Gwynn himself. “It’s easy to dismiss a feud as a relic of the past, something best forgotten. But for those who have lived all their lives with the stories of loss and grief, it is no simple thing to replace suspicion with trust. At the moment, Gwynn has no power to pursue what he sees as the only way to prevent another such tragedy. That does not mean all is well. Defeated men eventually recover, unless they are slaughtered outright, and no one is willing to propose that as a solution. Scathfell is not going to disappear. Neither is Aldaran. Someday, in our lifetimes or the next, the question will arise: how can the Lord of Scathfell make his lands and people safe?”
She paused as her words sank in. Gwynn bent his head, casting shadows across his face so that his expression was unreadable. Edric nodded, his features thoughtful. Alayna stared at her sister for a long moment, feeling as if she’d been caught in a landslide that had suddenly reversed direction. What surprised Alayna most was how well her sister had grasped the situation, and how fitting that Kyria should make such a speech while holding a child in her arms.
But what were they to do? Gwynn was guest and family; they couldn’t imprison him or prevent him from returning home. And even if they could, it would not solve anything. It would only make the situation worse when whoever claimed Scathfell—doubtless it would be Nevin—took it upon himself to secure his realm.
“The heart of the matter is, I believe, the inequality in laran,” Kyria went on. “A generation ago, the Rockraven Gift of controlling storms determined the battle. Scathfell had no such weapon then, and certainly not now, nor has Gwynn any prospect of introducing it into his line in the future.” Her gaze flickered to Alayna. “Here at Aldaran, Edric possesses the talent, and Lady Renata, who is a Tower-trained leronis, assures me that Donal and Pietro do, too.”
“Fortunately, neither shows any sign of manifesting it yet, which gives us hope that their laran will emerge naturally, at the proper time, and in such a way that neither endangers their lives nor risks becoming uncontrollable,” Edric said.
“If I understand you,” Gwynn said, “Aldaran now has the advantage of not one but three storm-Gifted leroni. My people’s future is thus made all the more bleak.”
His voice all but broke Alayna’s heart.
Kyria, however, was gazing at Gwynn with an expression of kindness. “There is only one solution, although it is not a perfect one. It is not possible to divide three into two parts, so you must allow my husband to remain whole, trusting to the extent you are able that he will honor his word to refrain from using his Gift against you and yours in the future.”
Alayna permitted herself a glance at Gwynn. His expression seemed no less desolate, no less hopeless than before.
“What I propose is this,” Kyria said, taking a step toward Gwynn, “assuming it is acceptable to all of us.” She glanced at Edric, who gave her a small, encouraging smile. They seemed to be in communication, of the same mind. Then she crossed the remaining distance and placed Pietro back into Gwynn’s arms.
“Here is your son, to hold and to raise. To teach love for Scathfell, its people and customs. To remain ever tied to Aldaran by bonds of brotherhood.”
Alayna covered her mouth with her hands to keep from bursting into tears. Shudders passed through her body, part relief, part surprise, part wild rejoicing. She was to have a babe—Kyria’s babe!—to love and nurture as her own!
“I don’t understand,” Gwynn said, even as he folded the boy close to him. “You mean for me to foster one of your sons?”
“Not foster,” Edric said. “Adopt legitimately, so that the next Lord Scathfell will not only bear the Rockraven Gift you covet, but will share the strongest bonds with his twin brother here at Aldaran.”
“You would do this for me—for us?” Gwynn asked, his gaze going to Alayna.
“There is a condition, however,” Kyria said, and although her tone was severe, her eyes twinkled with merriment. “The boys are not to become strangers. They must grow up as brothers, with all that implies. I suspect their mothers will find many occasions to spend holidays together at your castle or ours.”
“It might be prudent to have them receive training for their laran together,” Edric said, “since it is likely to awaken in a similar time and manner. In the Towers, we say that an untrained telepath is a danger to himself and everyone around him. That may be doubly true for these two imps.”
“Which is the elder?” Gwynn asked. “Which takes precedence by order of birth?”
“Neither you, nor Edric, nor the twins will ever be told,” Kyria announced. “We shall treat them as equal in right and rank. And each must be taught to love the other as his younger—or older—brother.”
Thunderlord Page 45
