Ciara's Song by Andre Norton
“We’re so sorry, Uncle Nethyn. We know how worried you and Aunt Elanor would have been. But we had to do it.” Her voice lowered, “We’re theirs as much as they are ours. How could we run away from danger leaving them to fight alone? They fought so well, too.”
Tarnoor grunted. “How many dead and injured?”
“Oh, none of our side were hurt at all. Well, Marin’s son has a bruised—um—behind. He tripped over a bandit in the dark. You should have heard what he said.” She made a shocked face.
Tarnoor felt a chuckle rising. A dozen hardened bandits beaten by two children and a pack of farmers. He tried in vain to keep his face hard, before the laughter exploded. He threw back his head and bellowed. Trovagh sighed in relief. He’d thought Cee could soften the old man’s anger. He marched forward then with the head of each garth following.
“Father, I wish these men commended. We said that each might have a horse from the bandits’ mounts in recognition of garth courage and aid this night. Do you agree to this, my lord.” He went down formally on one knee before his father, a junior officer to his superior.
Taken by surprise, Tarnoor made no move. His eyes scanned those who waited. He saw the pride in themselves. They had faced armed men, led by their young lord. They had won and without injuries. It was events such as these which would forge the bonds between led and leader. It did no harm at all for a lord to be held as lucky, either. He remembered the anguish of his ride here. The terror that he might find either child dead or horribly injured. But he could not take his own fear out on those before him. He smiled.
“I agree. But first you who led shall each choose a horse. Bring out the beasts now so that we may see them.”
Ciara had vanished to obey almost as he spoke. She returned leading the two she had noticed. These were held to one side. In the dark Tarnoor could see little. The other ten mounts were paraded. All were reasonable beasts, geldings mostly with one mare. The mare, more valuable, was awarded to Jontar’s garth. It had been his family who risked most. The other four garth heads each took their choice. The chosen beasts were led away, the remaining five taken to join the guard mounts. Tarnoor turned to glance out into the dark.
“Of what like are the two you have chosen?”
Ciara led them forward. Tarnoor gasped. “Do you know what you have here, lass?”
“No, I’ve never seen horses like them, Uncle Nethyn. They look different from any but they are gentle. Look.” One of the beasts was lipping her hair, while the other nuzzled the girl’s shoulder. “This one’s a stallion, the other one’s a mare.” She looked slightly puzzled. “I always thought horses didn’t care about mates, but these two do.”
Tarnoor spoke softly, in awe. “Yes, they would. Nor am I surprised you have never seen the like of them. They are rare. Incredibly rare in Karsten. These are Torgians, child. They must not be young. Perhaps they were loot from the time of Yvian. They are a pair, trained to work together very likely. They bond to their riders as ordinary beasts do not, but only if the rider is worthy. Also they live long lives though they breed less often. They are a treasure beyond price to Aiskeep.”
Ciara patted the nearest rough shoulder. “Then Tro and I can keep them?”
“You may indeed. They are yours, one for each of you. Who shall have which of them?”
Ciara trotted over to Trovagh leading the Torgians. There was a quick muttered colloquy. She returned. “Tro wants the mare; that’s fine because I want the stallion.” Tarnoor opened his mouth to object, then noticed the beast nuzzling her with what he could only describe as an air of already besotted affection. He agreed resignedly. Torgians made their own choice of rider. A wise man who knew horses did not interfere.
“If you are both happy with that. Now stable the beasts and come, tell me how all this happened. Ami could give me only your message.” At once Trovagh and Ciara competed to explain. Separately and in chorus they told of how they had spied, plotted, and finally fought. Tarnoor hid his expression in blandness. From what the lad said, both had known some of the danger they were in, but not all. Ciara dashed away to bring more soup and Tarnoor turned to his son.
“What did you hear them say while you listened alone?”
The boy blushed, looking miserable. “They talked about women.”
Tarnoor was relentless, “What exactly?”
Trovagh spilled out the filth he had overheard, his face reddening until it could be seen even in the firelight.
His father nodded. “Yes, that is how men like that think and act. If they had taken you, either of you . . .”
“I know!” the young voice burst in. “Father, it was all I could think of until we got back to the garths. It was my fault. I risked Cee. I didn’t tell her what they said. I think she sort of guessed but I couldn’t tell her the words. They made me feel sick.”
“As any decent man would feel,” Tarnoor said quietly. “These are not good men. They are bandits. Best in daylight we ride back to this cave and look about. It may be that they’d had prisoners or other loot left to wait for their return.” He took the boy by the shoulders looking into the young, anxious eyes. “I understand all you did and why. I cannot punish you or Ciara for courage, or for standing by those you will one day rule. Your plans . . .”
“Cee thought up a lot of it!” Trovagh interrupted.
“Yours and Ciara’s plans worked well. They were sensible, pitting your strengths against the enemy’s weaknesses. But you were lucky. It isn’t often plans go as intended.”
Ciara had joined them, leaning against Tarnoor’s knee. She broke in then. “That’s what Hanion always says. Not to expect your plans to go the way you lay them out. He says you should have contingencies arranged, too. We did, Uncle Nethyn. As much as we could, and we had reserves waiting. Tro was wonderful!” She turned a glowing look on her friend as he blushed.
Tarnoor was hard put to it not to chuckle. They were so innocent, so young. Yet—he recalled the sudden ugliness of his son’s eyes as he recounted the conversation he had overheard. The lad had understood too much to ever be completely innocent again. He’d known he faced the same dangers with men like these, but his outrage and fears had all been for the girl.
His father grinned, not that Ciara couldn’t do her share. He’d bellowed all over again at her account. That first pair of bandits sneaking around the house in the dark hunting women. They’d certainly found them but not quite in the manner intended. Then while all was confusion in the house, Ciara had taken her group to undo the saddle girths on the waiting mounts. A very old trick that, but still good it appeared. Around him the celebration was louder. Many couples were dancing, more food had been brought out, and others ate and drank, toasting their lord’s son and his lady. Tarnoor accepted a mug of beer and drank heartily. Then he entered the circle dance. He wasn’t too old to celebrate his children’s victory either, by the Flame.
Luckily there had been no more than beer brewed by the garthswomen, Tarnoor thought the next morning. The merry-making had continued until the early hours. He’d found Ciara and Trovagh asleep huddled together in one of the barns well before Tarnoor himself had staggered to rest.
He’d smiled down at them. As yet they treated each other as brother and sister. Time enough for formal marriage when that changed. They were old enough, but he had never had a taste for breeding his stock too young. It paid to wait. Full-grown beasts produced healthier offspring with fewer losses of dam or baby. From what he’d seen over the years, he thought bitterly, that should be applied more to human marriages as well.
He remembered his own weddings. The first when he was sixteen, the girl had been barely thirteen. She’d died in childbed, the baby with her. It had been more than ten years before he’d wed a second time.
Wiser then, he’d wanted to wait to have children; his new bride was so young. It had been the fault of her mother. Seria must have told her that she was no more than a companion to him as yet. The woman had brewed some poisonous potion, sneaked i
In the morning he’d feared for her. Left her alone again until she came to him to say she was with child from that night. Then he’d gone to Lanlia begging help. She’d come to look over the girl and told him the truth.
“She’s too young to bear safely. Her hips are too narrow. She will die.” She’d hesitated. “I could give her a potion to free her of the child. In such cases my craft allows.”
Tarnoor would have agreed. It was his wife who refused. She’d been another of those who feared witchery, even the gentle healcraft. She was certain it was a son and she would bear him safely for Aiskeep. It had been a son for Aiskeep, she had been wrong in all else.
Once her labor began Tarnoor had been ruthless. He’d sent at once for her mother. Demanded she attend her daughter so she might see what she had done. For three agonizing days he waited. He’d wept when the babe was brought to him. Wept again when he bade his dead wife farewell. He had not wept when he drove her mother from his gates.
If it had not been for her folly he might still have had the girl he’d adored. He might have had many strong children growing up to name him Father. She’d cheated him of that. He’d wed no more. Nor had he. Trovagh would be his only child. Tarnoor had been panic-stricken when the toddler fell and was so badly injured. Lanlia had come with all speed, her strength poured out to save the child. For that he’d sworn blood debt. It was why she’d sent her child to him at the last. In that he had still paid nothing. He’d loved the girl from the first, loved her as the daughter he’d hoped to have with his second wedding. It was an old saying: A son for the Keep, a daughter for the heart. He had both. What the Gods took with one hand they gave with the other.
Ciara slept. In her dream the familiar silver mist rose about her. On her breast the pendant took on life under the covering cloth. It glowed softly, the gem chips at the wing edges points of blue flame. Ciara saw her mother standing on the edge of the watchtower. Across the distance their eyes met. Love linked between. Someone was saying something as the girl strained to hear.
It was familiar, not her mother speaking but—she gasped in sudden recognition. It had been years but surely—surely it was her grandmother’s voice that spoke? She willed it louder. It was speaking to her mother. She watched the change of expression on that loved face. Saw the fear and grief fade to be replaced with an accepting serenity. Ciara felt the same emotion flow across the link. She watched quietly as she saw the tower door spring open, the Kars guards rush through. She looked as Lanlia fell and through the link she knew her mother’s spirit had fled before she struck the ground.
In her mind the words Lanlia had heard echoed softly. A promise from one who scorned to lie. “The Old Blood shall come full circle. It shall rise to flower again.”
Ciara smiled in her sleep. Estcarp. That was where most of her blood had fled. But the voice spoke again then, very quietly. “Not to Estcarp but to the east shall the blood seek. There it shall flower in freedom. When the time comes, give what you treasure that one you love may fly free. Remember!”
Ciara woke slowly. She’d dreamed something but she couldn’t quite recall. She’d heard someone speak, seen something. It didn’t matter. Under her bodice the glow faded from her pendant. The time for her to remember was not yet. Beside her Trovagh stirred, stretching and yawning sleepily. He staggered to his feet.
“Didn’t Father say we should go to the cave today? Let’s see if there’s anything to eat, I’m starving.”
So was Ciara; she ran with him to seek both food and drink. Then she saddled their horses while Tarnoor gave orders.
“Keep the captives unharmed until we return. They may have water. If they speak uncleanly, gag them again after they have drunk. I will return soon. Go about your work but leave men to guard them.”
He nudged his mount into a steady canter up the hillside trail. The boy and girl ranged up the line of riders to fall in behind Tarnoor and Hanion. By sunhigh they were at the cave, spreading out in silence to hunt. There was nothing within but the ashes of a fire, debris from several meals. They continued on to where horses had been pastured. There they found dung and hoofprints, cropped grass. Hanion stood up from inspecting these.
“I see the tracks of no more beasts than those we have already. There are footprints leading away, one set only. A woman, I think. Let you and I, my lord, follow with care.” Tarnoor agreed, pausing only to signal Trovagh that he should join them.
There was not far to trail the reeling steps. For much of the way the one ahead had gone dragging on hands and knees. Tarnoor guessed what they would find. They rounded bushes, then with a gasp Hanion stooped.
His fingers touched, seeking life. Then he looked up. “No use, my lord. She’s been dead for hours. I don’t know her, she must have been some traveler they stole along the way.” His hands gently straightened the twisted body, closed the staring, agonized eyes. Behind them there was a sound close to a snarl as Ciara thrust past.
Tarnoor caught her back. “Nothing you can do for her, lass. She’s gone beyond some hours, Hanion says.”
The girl ignored him, dropping to sit touching the pale face. Then she spoke. “She must have an honored grave by Cup and Flame.” She reached for twigs piling them into a small stack at the feet. Trovagh walked away to return with a cup made from a large leaf. In it was watered wine from someone’s flask.
“Will this do, Cee?”
“Yes.” She stood looking down at the woman as Tarnoor spoke the words of leave-taking. There was Cup and Flame but the dead spirit cried for more. Ciara could feel the rage and hate that still held the spirit bound. It needed the fire for cleansing that it might be freed. Slowly her hand moved to her pendant. Tarnoor saw the movement and spoke softly to Hanion.
“Go to the men, say we return shortly, we do but bury one misused by those sons of filth. Remain with them until we are done.”
Ciara had waited. Hanion marched away, then her hand lifted the pendant. She opened her mind to the silver mists. She did not know what to do, only that the spirit should have peace. That she willed with all her heart. To those beside her it appeared she did nothing, but a soft golden glow rose about the woman’s body. It thickened, closed tighter. Then as it cleared, it could be seen there were only ashes. A small breeze lifted them, and they were gone.
Tarnoor looked at the girl. Now they both knew what could have happened. He signaled the children to him. “The bandits are your prisoners. It is for you now to decide what you will do with them. Speak together as we return. Tell me your choice once we are at the garth.” It was not a pleasant lesson, but both had to learn that wars had aftermaths. The decisions there, too, fell on the Keep Rulers. From the corner of his eye he watched as the pair talked, falling back in their concentration. Then they were riding into the valley. Ciara rode up to his left, Trovagh to his right. Both young faces were stern with decision.
At Jontar’s garth Tarnoor stood and looked down at the bandits. He glanced about; there was a line of trees by the stream that would do at need. He motioned to his men.
“As my son and his lady judge, so will you do.” It was Ciara who stepped forward, Trovagh at her shoulder. She spoke in a clear voice for all to hear.
“In winter the wolves come, we meet them with fire and sword, nor do we mourn their deaths. Yet they come to feed their cubs, to eat instead of starving. If we give them death and it is just then these men, too, should die. They came to plunder, to rape and burn, for nothing but pleasure in their own evil. So have we judged them.” She fell silent.
Trovagh took a pace forward, he breathed in once hard, then spoke. “Hang them!” When they rode out an hour later, it had been done.
7
T hat winter was hard. Bitter chill, an early snow that stayed late, and wind that whipped up the air to blizzard frenzy. Within the garths of
The sheep of Aiskeep were white, small hardy creatures that lived in two flocks in the foothills above the valley end. With the death of Ciara’s family, the flock of black and brown beasts her mother had reared were added. They grazed separate from the others with their own shepherd. The girl visited them every week; Ysak, the flock ram, was an old friend. The sheep were shorn in rotation by flock. It was a tiring business but wool was one of a Keep’s staples. Even the poorer garths had a few sheep. How else were they to have clothes to wear.
The colored sheep remained Ciara’s. Quietly over the past two years she had taken possession of several of the fleeces after the shearing was completed. Some she traded with the garths. Others she retained. With all three colors she had worked busily on evenings when Tarnoor was away. Elanor and Trovagh had known her plan, of course; often they had found time to help. The kittens, too, had assisted—at least that was probably how they thought of it. Now this winter, it looked as if the end was in sight.
It would be Tarnoor’s name day in another few weeks. Since that was only a few days from the midwinter feast, it was usual to combine the two. Trovagh had found a small sheet of parchment, well used but capable of being cleansed. He scraped it patiently until all the old message had been removed. Then with painstaking care he lettered a name-day blessing on the whitened surface. From the Keep’s priestess he persuaded tiny pots of blue, green, and gold, these being the colors of good wishing. The blessing was a work of art when it was done.
Trovagh went in search of Ciara when he finished. “What do you think?”
She studied the parchment. “I think it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, Tro. I wish I could letter like that.”