Daughter of Prophecy (16 page)

“Lady Mererid,” Lakenna implored, reaching for the woman's arm. “Any involvement with pagans may have ramifications for Rh—”

“Not now, Teacher,” Mererid interrupted firmly, her eyes on the guests. “Duty calls. Time to discuss the Sabinis offer.” She put a welcoming smile on her face. “Rhiannon, come with me. Remember,” she murmured, as they made toward the front of the pavilion, “Lord Baird is oldest, so we greet him and Lady Lola first, then the Fawrs. Don't allow yourself to be flustered by Lady Aigneis's subtle insults. She is a master at it.”

Rhiannon glanced through the open flap for Lord Gillaon. He needed to be here as well. Then she noticed the Arshessa lord and Harred walking around the cooking pits, heading toward the Rogoth pavilion. She felt her cheeks begin to flush. Annoyed, she made herself concentrate on searching the milling crowd for the Sabinis wool merchants or Maolmin, even as her stomach roiled at the thought of being face-to-face with the High Lord again.

That thought fell away as the two Arshessa entered. Harred was tall and hard. His piercing eyes and broad shoulders loomed above Gillaon's short, barrel-chested frame. Her stomach fluttered warmly this time.

Taking a deep breath, Rhiannon composed her features and joined Mererid in greeting their guests.

Chapter Thirteen

B
RANOR

L
ORD
B
AIRD
L
EANON
plopped the pewter tankard on the table where the kinsmen lords and their advisors were eating. An unadorned, gray-haired man with a hard, round belly, Baird possessed a shrewd face born to command. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Four silvers for each standard-weight bale?”

“That is my offer,” Lord Gillaon said. “My coin chest will be brought here at noon by my men.”

Baird lifted a fat sausage link from a wooden platter and bit off half. Chewing slowly, he fixed the Arshessa lord with a penetrating gaze. “And if your wagons go tumbling off a mountain ledge on the trek across the Ardnamur Mountains, will we be seeing you next year?”

“If I buy your wool this year, I will be back to buy every bale you produce next year and the year after.” Gillaon leaned forward across the table, blue eyes glittering. “This I pledge on my honor as lord of the Tarenester kinsmen of Clan Arshessa.”

Branor's breath stilled in his throat. The silence around the table was profound. Everyone regarded the short, barrel-chested Arshessa with the gravity his statement deserved. The man was pledging his life and fortune—and that of all Tarenester kinsmen—that the wool would be delivered to the Broken Stone Land. And as Lord Baird had hinted, a lot could happen traveling those high peaks.

Lord Seuman Fawr belched and wiped greasy hands across his tunic before rummaging into a pocket and bringing forth an ornate ivory toothpick.

“Well and good, Lord Gillaon; well and good,” he mumbled around his probing. He had a sweaty face and bulging eyes. “Honor in business dealings is so seldom seen these days, revolving too much around ink on parchment. And we would welcome a business alliance between Clan Dinari and Clan Arshessa. However,” he glanced to his wife over at the ladies' table, “I must talk with the Sabinis and, of course, High Lord Maolmin before making a decision.”

Seuman squinted at the tip of the toothpick, then wiped it clean with his lips. “It has been years since our High Lord blessed us with his presence at our modest little sale here in Lachlann. Surely we should take advantage of that fact.” A half smile played at the corner of his lips as he looked at Tellan. “Don't you agree, m'lord?”

Although Tellan maintained a bland expression, a fire burned behind his eyes. “I too look forward to discussing the state of wool prices with our High Lord and his Sabinis friends. Especially since we know what others can pay and still make a profit.”

Gillaon nodded formally. “I will leave you gentlemen to discuss this with your High Lord and the Sabinis when they arrive.” He smiled without warmth. “I will be happy to join that discussion should you ask.”

Gillaon and his young rhyfelwr took their leave and walked to where the noble ladies and their attendants were gathered around another table a few paces away. Lady Mererid greeted the two Arshessa with a warm smile and started the introductions.

It took all of Branor's experience to keep his emotional turmoil off his face. It had been so clear when he left Shinard and rode here. To gain the seventh knot he needed the support first of Abbot Trahern and then of Maolmin; then with those two in hand, the Sabinis would see the handwriting on the wall and would cast their support for him as well. But the good abbot had made it clear his vote depended on this with the Rogoths being settled in a satisfactory manner.

Had Trahern known about this enmity between Tellan and Maolmin? Without question! And yet the abbot had let Branor ride into this without a hint of warning.
He will pay,
Branor vowed silently. But not if he didn't tie the seventh knot! He knew he could survive without Trahern's vote, but he
had
to secure Maolmin's! High Lord Keeper Nels had Clan Olablath firmly in his pocket, and the Arshessa were leaning his way. Branor already had his own clan, the Dniestear, and the Landantae on his side. Only the Dinari and the Sabinis remained uncommitted.

And, as if the stew needed more spice, a siyyim seems to be prowling.

Branor observed the other nine men standing around the table. He stood beside Girard, who was by Tellan with Llyr on his lord's left. Lord Baird was next, accompanied by his loreteller, a fragile, wizened man with rheumy eyes. Lord Seuman Fawr had brought both his loreteller and rhyfelwr. Also present was Fawr's son, Peibyn, a pimply faced youth with a mass of curly brown hair and blond stubble on his chin.

Lord Baird took a long draught from his tankard, then turned to Tellan. “Your father was like a brother to me, and you a son. He and I treated each other fairly every time we shook hands, as have you and I. May I speak to you as he would?”

“I would have it no other way, my lord.”

Baird smothered a belch. “I have no love of Maolmin Erian, but it has been a puzzle to me about your continual ill will toward this man. From the moment you and I met with him to acknowledge his High Lordship right after he helped contain that ungodly pagan mess, you two have been like cur dogs stalking stiff-legged and bristled-backed around each other, begging for an excuse to tussle. I fear personal dislike fuels too much of this. Maolmin is greatly respected by the other High Lords. What is it between you two?”

Branor wondered the same. He had first met Maolmin briefly at the last Raedel. The man was impressive. Haughty to be sure, but intelligent and well spoken. He had skillfully used what clout the small Dinari clan possessed, coupled with his own strong personality, to ink agreements that had more than one High Lord grumbling afterwards. Branor felt certain that when the Dinari High Lord did finally arrive here at the Rogoth pavilion, things would get interesting.

Tellan sighed. “I have no handhold on it, Lord Baird. I feel . . . I
know
deep inside that the less the Rogoths have to do with Maolmin Erian, the better.”

Branor's insides twisted. He felt walls closing in on him. How could he tread this quicksand between Tellan and Maolmin? For the first time in years, he found a heartfelt prayer moving within him.
Dear Eternal, show me what I must do!

“And yet you seek to deal with the pagans of the Broken Stone Land?” Baird probed Tellan.

“I seek the best for my kinsmen and see no problem dealing with pagans one step removed to receive a fair price—instead of being cheated by clansmen who claim to follow the Eternal.”

Baird took another draught. “I counsel to use Gillaon's offer to pry a higher price from the Sabinis. If they stand firm on this initial offer, then I will join you and sell to Gillaon.” Baird pursed his lips, then fixed Tellan with red-rimmed eyes. “Hear me now, Tellan Rogoth, and take this to your bed tonight and wrestle with it. An ill wind blows when a kinsmen lord marks a trail that harms his High Lord at the Raedel. Much more goes on there than our wool. Maolmin makes great use of his association with the Sabinis to gain concessions on trade matters from the other clans that benefit us all. Be careful that you do not receive a silver coin in one hand while paying out a gold in the other.”

As a murmur ran around the table, Branor found himself agreeing with Baird. Beyond Tellan's hindering of his clan's maneuvering at the Raedel, the thought of the Rogoths being associated with the pagan Broken Stone Land—albeit one-step removed—continued to nag.

Surprisingly, or maybe not, the Albane tutor had seemed upset about this as well. He searched the pavilion and found the woman standing away from the noble ladies' table, talking to Phelan and Creag. The older boy kept turning his head and squinting toward the men.

As Lord Baird's loreteller rambled on at great length about a minor point in the Sabinis contract, Branor let his eyes wander around the table. Most of the men looked as bored as he was. Then he noticed Peibyn Fawr ogling Rhiannon as she stood with the women. The young man's expression was that of a person with a raging thirst contemplating a dipper of cool water.

Rhiannon must have felt the scrutiny. She turned toward the men's table, caught Peibyn's gaze, and then quickly turned back to the ladies. Nervously, she raised her chin and smoothed a hand across her hip as if reaching for a sword.

Branor glanced back at the young man—and started. He could
see
inside Peibyn! A pulsing black swirled around the lad's core, radiating throughout the entire body.

Shaken, Branor looked down, his senses recoiling from the foulness. After a moment, he looked up again. The color was more vivid. Branor
knew
he saw unbridled lust and that it ruled Peibyn.

Branor glanced around the pavilion, and his eyes came to Lakenna. He found he could see inside her soul as well. A dark red wound throbbed inside the Albane tutor. The raw pain of it took Branor's breath.
How can she live with that hurt?

Stunned, Branor realized he was seeing with spiritual eyes! Not physical appearance, but into the true self.

Even as he grappled with that revelation, something else began building. His guts roiled and a faint nausea rippled through the pit of his stomach. Sweat beaded his forehead; it seemed as if hot oil trickled over him. Something was approaching.

Concerned, he glanced again at Peibyn. But the vision was gone. The lad listened calmly to his father talk. He looked again at Lakenna, but could see her pain no more. Branor checked Rhiannon. She was eating and talking easily to Lord Gillaon and his tall, broad-shouldered rhyfelwr. As Branor watched, all three burst out laughing.

The feeling continued to build—then Branor's blood chilled.

Could this be what Keeper Alock had said in
Night Watch
about his ability to sense the approach of the Mighty Ones' creatures? Branor's pulse hammered; his nausea grew. He did not know how he
knew
evil approached, but he did.

Would the siyyim loose winged horrors in broad daylight with Rhiannon surrounded by clansmen?

Why not? The long-held belief of night-only appearances had been shattered yesterday.

And what better time than with everyone unarmed except for daggers!

He pivoted smartly away from the table and headed outside to check the sky. Striding purposefully to the front of the pavilion, he came upon the Albane woman, who was standing rigidly, dark eyes wide, slender hand gripping her throat in alarm. She looked as green around the gills as he felt.

Their gazes met, and Branor realized she was sensing the same thing.

Chapter Fourteen

R
HIANNON

“A
TRAGEDY ABOUT THE
hlaford,” Lady Aigneis said. The other women around the table murmured agreement. “But, of course, you will rebuild.” Aigneis had a thin face and a long, pointed nose under which lurked the faintest hint of a mustache. She took a dainty sip of hot punch. Rings on every finger glittered. “Surely the new one will be . . . better.” She raised her eyebrows in query. “If you need help with larger designs, I will be happy to send our master carpenter.”

“I am sure it will be rebuilt along the same lines,” Mererid said. “Already our families have promised more than adequate materials and labor.” She lifted her cup to her lips. “But Tellan will not squander Rogoth resources for display.”

“I see.” Aigneis cast eyes on Rhiannon. “An interesting gown. So similar to the one you wore continually last year, Mererid.”

Rhiannon's palm itched for her sword. She forced her fingers to unknot and hoped her faced showed a calm she was nowhere near feeling. Was she supposed to respond to that barb?

Mererid came to her rescue. “Rhiannon is growing so fast, it is impossible for the seamstress to finish a gown before remeasuring is necessary. I thought one of mine would be best.” She glanced around the table. “I think it was the right choice.”

“Oh, yes,” gushed the wife of the Fawr loreteller. Plump with rosy cheeks and a perpetual twinkle in her eyes, it was impossible to be around her without smiling. “Rhiannon is so beautiful this morning. This gown is perfect. Surely all the young noble men at the Presentation to Prince Larien will be anxious to meet her.”

Aigneis's lips tightened. She shot the woman a frosty glance, then took another sip of punch.

Lady Lola Leanons said, “Baird's nephew once removed is already interested in Rhiannon. I had thought all that boy was interested in were horses and hunting.” Lola was in her late sixties and thin to the point of frailness. “And too, Aigneis, from the way your Peibyn's eyes popped out of his head when Mererid and Rhiannon greeted us, he may well be first in line to speak to Tellan after the Presentation.”