Ciara's Song by Andre Norton
The locks on the other doors nearby were also of the older, more simple type. She shut the door of her cell, locked it with her pick, then started on another door. Behind that was the wine. She chose a bottle of a lighter wine and drank carefully. Being drunk certainly wouldn’t help, she mused. She tucked two of the bottles in a corner and tried a third door. Thank Cup and Flame for that. The siege supplies, some of them anyway. She took a round of bread and a small cheese. Both went to join the bottles in a corner in the main part of the outer room. Then she locked both doors again.
She sat quietly for almost half an hour. With bread and cheese inside her, a quarter bottle of the wine on top wouldn’t make her drunk. Somewhere there’d be water, probably the next level up. Now if she could just get that door open, too—
The lock on this was newer. More wards. More time. By the time it opened, she was sweat-soaked and shaking, knowing that any minute a triumphant gambler could reappear to collect his prize.
Still no one. She dodged through the door and turned to work on the lock again with growing hope. If only one man came to get her, she might be able to shut him in. She’d seen Ruart leave the key in each lock as they took her down. She could wait until whoever it was entered the cell. Then he’d be too far down for any to hear his yells for release.
She opened doors hurriedly. Water. It was in large barrels and stale, no doubt, but with a little wine it would do. She opened a barrel to check. Yes. Her hands were shaking. Keep them steady, she told herself. Within seconds she had poured out most of the remaining wine, filled the bottles with water, and recorked.
She had enough to drink for as long as it might be before they came for her now. The bread and cheese had put new energy into her, too. She studied the situation. She’d come back up two of the three levels. The problem would be this last level. That was the one with the door barred instead of locked. She wiggled her metal strip through the gap, lifting upward. The metal bent. It was strong enough for its original purpose, strong enough to turn a single ward at a time. But raising a heavy bar was beyond it.
Aisling said several words she’d once heard Grandfather Tro say. All of a sudden she found she was kicking frantically at the door. She must get out of here, she must! Fear that she would be heard stopped her attack on the wood. She slumped to the floor beside the planking. Where were all the heroes when you needed one? Did she have to do it all herself?
It seemed she did. She ate a little more of the bread and cheese as she thought.
It was clear why Ruart wanted her. She’d wondered about Kirion, but something he’d said had given her a hint. Some half-caught comment about her being of the Old Race.
Aisling knew the story. Centuries ago only the Old Race had lived in Karsten. Then incomers had arrived. People from elsewhere who joined them to live in the mostly empty lands. The two races had lived in peace a long time. Then in the time when Grandmother was a little girl the current duke had gone crazy. He’d called the three-times Horning on all of the Old Race. That was a form of outlawing. After that anything could happen to them and it was lawful. It had been a bad time.
Many had died, and most of the others had left Karsten to live over the border mountains in Estcarp where it was said all women were Witches. It was also said that one day there’d be a blood debt called in. That was why most of Karsten was still against the Old Blood. They were afraid.
And guilty, her grandmother had always added. Too many families had got a start up on the backs of those they’d murdered, with the goods and stock they’d stolen from them.
Ciara was half of the Old Race. Aisling had always known vaguely that she must be partly of the blood, too. Lately it had been difficult. It was as if something inside her stretched, awoke, and demanded from her things she didn’t know how to give. Grandmother had taught her to use some of the power. Aisling could drop into the mists when she wished. Once she’d been allowed to help heal an injured horse. Grandmother said horses didn’t talk at least, or fear you afterward. It had felt good to do that. To use what she was.
Kirion wanted to use her, too. She remembered his grasp on her the time she’d beaten him in a race. She’d used her power then. Called fire from the mist to his hand so he’d let her go.
The two events came together with a mental crash. She could help a healing, and call a kind of fire. Was there any way she could use her powers to get her out of here?
The simplest and most obvious use was to open the door. She’d seen the bar as they dragged her by.
She stood against the door, palms flat to the wood. The bar had been held on two brackets, one on either side of the door. There were two more on this side and a bar leaning against the wall. That would be to bar the door against invaders if you escaped down here. Good. She could use that to give her a position. She lifted the bar into place. Now, if she was right, the other bar would be here. Dropped into a bracket just—her finger touched lightly—there!
She drank a little more of the watered wine. Then she stood, hands touching the door just where the bar should be in the bracket. She imagined it, and made a picture of it in her head. She gathered herself, then allowed the silver mist to rise in her mind. Now! She strained; the bar had to rise up, then fall so she could be free. That desire grew. The bar had to let her go. Up. Up. Up!
She could not have said later how long that struggle went on. It seemed forever, timeless. But at last there was a feeling as if the bar yielded to her demand. In her mind it rose, just far enough to clear the metal that held it. She thrust outward using the dregs of her strength. Beyond the door there was a dull thump as the bar fell. Aisling fell, too. She slid down the wooden planking until she rested sitting against the door. It swung partway open before the movement halted. She could see out. She sagged back.
So that had been what Grandmother meant when she warned using power demanded a price. Aisling managed a tired grin. It would be ironic if she was now too exhausted to leave. She reached for the wine bottle, draining it. She still had a bottle left.
It would be wise to look for a place to hide. Still sitting, she studied the area outside the door. There was a short stairway leading down to here, a good-size landing in front of this door. A pity she didn’t have sufficient strength to bar the door from the inside again. That would baffle everyone. No use in wishing, though.
Aisling forced herself to her feet, then dropped the outer bar back into its brackets. After that she collected her bottle and food into a fold of her petticoat. She must look quite mad, she thought. In her petticoats, with a sleeve torn from her bodice, probably reeking to the skies, and straw sticking out of odd bits of her clothing.
She looked down at her boots. They’d make a noise on the stairs. Better get them off, she told herself. She could carry her food and wine inside them. Removing them reminded her of the coins she’d found. She tipped them into her hand and blinked. Two gold and a silver. Very nice.
But she hadn’t time to think of that. With her footwear tucked under one arm, Aisling scooted silently up the stairs. No one appeared to announce her escape. She stared out of the window slit as she passed by. It was almost dusk. If she could get out of here into the countryside there was a chance she could elude any possible pursuers.
She checked a couple of the rooms at this level. There were ample places to hide from anyone just walking about. She prowled cautiously to where she thought the front entrance had been. Two servants were there energetically polishing. From the look of it, they’d be there some time. She picked a place to watch them, then tried to relax.
Somewhere upstairs Ruart and Kirion must still be gambling. If the servants finished before the gamblers did, Aisling might be able to slide out of the door to freedom. She crouched waiting, wondering what was happening at Gerith Keep. Old Geavon would have been furious when he found out. He’d take it as a personal insult. He’d never liked Ruart, with this business he’d be almost ready to call feud.
Aisling hoped she’d be able to tell Geavon it had b
It was holding better than she knew. Upstairs both men no longer gambled. Instead, they lay sprawled on the floor, faces each wearing an identical look of frustrated fury. Between them a small table had been upended, dice and glasses spilling onto the sheepskins. The fire was almost burned out. Ruart had given instructions that no servant was to interrupt him as they gambled. None would dare go against that order. Kirion had agreed. It suited him to be private. He hid a sly smirk. Ruart was being far more helpful than he realized.
Unseen by his comrade Kirion had slid open a tiny compartment on his wrist ornament. It opened with a twist of his thumbnail to allow a pinch of grayish powder to drift down. He turned, proffering a glass as he drank from his own.
The powder would take a short time to work. Ruart would only think the wine unusually effective at first. By the time he knew otherwise, he’d be helpless. Not that Kirion intended him any harm; he’d just collect Aisling and head back to Iren Keep.
In the solitude of his tower he could wring her power from her. Use it to buy more of his own. He’d found a way to do that without risking anything himself. Aisling would lose a lot, including her life and soul—if there really was such a thing.
He grinned as he rolled the dice again, accepting more wine from Ruart. Was the man beginning to look dizzy? He thought so.
Ruart had eyed Kirion thoughtfully. That powder he’d dropped in his third cup of wine would take a while to work. It cost, too. The old woman by the Kars gate charged high.
He hid a leer. But you got what you paid for. The stuff would work quite swiftly. Another minute or two and the girl would be his. By the time Kirion revived it would be too late.
This wine was strong. He drank off the remainder of his glass, finding himself staggering as he walked to open another bottle.
It shouldn’t be that strong, though. He’d ordered the lighter wine. Better not to be too drunk, he thought. He focused on the bottle. Strange, it was the lighter wine he was drinking—why then did he feel so dizzy, so weak?
He understood just as his knees gave way. His face creased into helpless rage as blackness enveloped him.
Kirion watched Ruart slump to the floor. He rose to stand over him watching the glaring eyes slide closed. That was that. Now he’d just have one last glass like a lord should. No need to hurry now. He had all the time in the world; it would be tomorrow evening before Ruart awoke. By then Kirion would be back in his tower, his sorceries completed.
He drank his wine. Strange, that may have been one too many. He felt dizzy, weak at the knees. He leaned on the table as it gave way, dropping glasses, dice, and Kirion to the floor beside it. Kirion’s face wrenched into a snarl of frustrated fury. Damn false comrades. The bloody man had drugged him! His mind slipped into night still yelling its surprised indignation.
* * *
Aisling crouched by her door. Through the door curtain she could see the servants had almost finished their polishing. She’d spent part of her time checking for anything that might help her here. She’d found an old cloak dropped in a corner. That would help to hide her unconventional attire. The cloak was dusty and mouse-smelling, but anything was better than trying to march through the door in her petticoat. That betrayed too much to anyone who saw her. The cloak betrayed less—unless they got close enough to smell it.
Kirion and Ruart must be gambling-mad up there, she mused. It had taken her hours to get this far and still no sign of either.
She had finished her drink. If she didn’t get out of here shortly, she was going to be in the very unladylike position of having to use a corner. It would be just her luck to have someone walk in at that moment.
The servants were actually leaving. Aisling gathered herself by the door curtain. One was gone, then the other. She dived for the door just as the first returned.
It was a woman. Not young, not old, but her face was lined, bitter and weary. Aisling held a finger to her lips imploringly.
The woman’s eyes summed the girl up. Another of his lordship’s playthings. Not a willing one, either. Somehow she’d escaped. The servant nodded to herself. She’d call for help to stop the girl; his lordship had given one of the men a whole silver piece for that last time. She opened her mouth to yell, then paused as the girl moved.
Aisling dug frantically into her boot. Where had she put the coins she’d found? They slid into her hand and she held out the two gold ones. Gold! The servant gaped. That was more than Ruart would give her. Aisling smiled and held out her hand offering both gold pieces. The servant edged close enough to snatch them from her.
She could still call for help but she had grudges of her own against Ruart. More silver was a temptation, though. Aisling guessed her thought. There was one coin remaining; she tossed it to the cupped hands.
“Call, and share them, or have to give most of it back to Ruart. Keep silent, keep it all.”
Before the servant could make up her mind the girl was gone. Oh, well. Gold was gold. One piece was a year’s wages. Two would buy her a different life. Even the silver was a month of hard labor.
Ruart would never know she’d seen anything. She would leave at the end of the year when she was paid her wages. With those and what the lass had given her, she had a way of making something better of herself. Good luck to the girl, whoever she was. She tucked the gold into her bodice carefully, returning to her work.
Outside it was dark. Aisling looked up at the stars, southwest would be Geavon’s Keep. She found a bush and used it urgently. Then she began to walk in her chosen direction. She could be home before dawn if all went well.
14
B ehind Aisling a spy padded silently along. He had no idea how the girl had freed herself. It had taken him hours to gain access to the keys, and now he, too, had to be gone quickly. Just as Lord Geavon had sniffed out spies in Gerith Keep, so, too, would Lord Ruart once he woke.
The spy grinned to himself. That had been a great sight. Both of them fast asleep and the girl gone. He wondered where she’d got the money for that last part of her escape. But wherever it had come from she’d handled it just right.
He’d follow her. It was a pity she hadn’t got free earlier, before he’d gained the keys. Then he could have stayed in Ruart’s Keep, watching for the old lord. Geavon was a good master. A fair man, and he paid promptly—in coin. Not the way Ruart had paid off his own pair of spies.
He slid through the darkness listening to Aisling as she stumbled through the brush. At least she had some idea of direction. Another half hour and she’d arrive at the road.
The thought occurred to him then that the road might be dangerous. Not from Kirion and Ruart, but there were others as bad out in the dark of night. He stepped up his pace. With luck he’d find someone before she arrived on the road. His pockets had coin enough to buy a mount if he must.
He was fortunate. A drunken garthsman heading home gleefully sold the spy the farm pony. It was fat, shaggy, and lazy; he’d paid half as much again as it was worth, but it would do. He left the farmer to walk while the spy swung into the old saddle.
He walked the beast a short distance, then halted it to strain his ears. There! The sound of someone pushing through the head-high brush near the road. He called out, keeping his voice low and gentle,
“Is someone there, do you need help?”
Aisling hesitated. It wasn’t anyone she knew, but at least it wasn’t Kirion or Ruart, either. If she crouched it would be hard for them to place where the voice came from. She called back softly.
“Who are you?”
Good girl, the spy thought. He answered softly, “One who’s been sent to look for you, I think, Lady. Make no attempt to see my face, it could be dangerous for me. I have a pony that will carry two.” He waited. There was no sound. She was still waiting for more. He nodded. Geavon’s kinbloo
“I say I don’t trust him. Boy’s a rogue however you look at it.” He heard the light patter of footsteps in his direction.
Aisling arrived panting. It was almost an hour since she’d escaped, and she was tiring again. Even the delights of freedom were not able to keep her going much longer. She could see nothing of the man in the dark, but it didn’t matter. That mimicking of Geavon was only likely to be done by one of his men.
She held up her hands, sagging exhausted by the pony. The spy aided her up behind him. In a mile she was asleep. He kept the pony to a steady walk drawing Aisling’s arms about him to keep her in place. It felt good to know she was safe.
He’d watched Ruart for years now. One of those who’d vanished in the witch-hunts then had been his betrothed. Later he’d heard a rumor. He’d known it for truth in the end, after that he’d followed a trail. It had never mattered to him what blood she bore. He’d loved her.
Things like that spread. There were those who died, those who’d spurred on the killing, those who used it for their own ends—and those who mourned their dead and swore revenge. He’d heard Geavon was keeping an eye on Lord Ruart. The spy had gone offering all he knew. He’d been taken in, treated honestly. He’d talk to the old lord once he’d got the girl back. It would be a pity to lose his chance at Ruart and his companion now.
He walked the pony in through the small postern gate. He had the right words for it to be opened to him. He had others once he was inside. Geavon arrived to look at the still sleeping Aisling.
“I owe you blood debt for this.”
“Nay, Lord. It’s Ruart who owes the blood. This is just some of the payment.”
Geavon whistled to one of his men softly. “Call Lord Trovagh and his lady. Tell them the news is good.” He handed over Aisling to Trovagh when they appeared. She murmured sleepily but did not wake.