Daughter of Prophecy (7 page)

Chapter Five

H
ARRED

L
ACHLANN LAY NESTLED
on a flat shelf of land in the Clundy River valley. The river was still young here, barely beginning its journey to the Great Sea. It cascaded through the middle of town with violent energy, frothing and whirling down the boulder-cluttered bed. An arched stone bridge wide enough for two wagons to squeeze by each other linked both sides of town.

The east bank was considered the most prestigious, and it was there that Lachlann's prize inn, the Bridge Across, was located. Like most buildings in the region, the ground floor was constructed of river stone. A second and third story of whitewashed boards jutted out two arm lengths around the structure, topped by a sharply pitched thatched roof. Several paces behind the main building a stable provided lodging for the patrons' horses.

Inside the inn's double doors, tightly woven rush mats protected the floor from muddy feet. Immediately to the left, an arched entranceway opened into the dining room with a score of red oak tables and a roaring fireplace. At the end of the main hall, a winding staircase graced by a polished, hand-carved railing led up to the second and third floors. Each level had eight well-appointed rooms facing each other across a wide hallway. Every room had a window.

The sun had slid below the horizon an hourglass ago, and the dining room was bursting at the seams with Dinari merchants who traveled the circuit of wool sales. Eager to provide their newly wealthy clan members opportunities to lighten their coin purses, the merchants brought a variety of expensive wares—linens for gowns and cloaks, swords and daggers, dyes, furs, brightly colored tapestries, saddles, beveled glass for windows, and gems and rare spices from the fabled lands in the Southern Sea. Most of the merchants knew each other and gave nods of recognition as they settled into their chairs and waited for the young waitress to bring tonight's dish.

One table along the far wall drew more than its share of attention. Lord Gillaon Tarenester, an Arshessa lord from the foothills of the Ardnamur Mountains, and a young warrior sat waiting to be served. The Dinari merchants caught one another's eye, then glanced at the two Arshessa clansmen, then back to each other. Some lifted eyebrows, some pursed lips, others remained blank-faced.

The room stilled when three Sabinis wool merchants strode into the dining room with a flutter of rich garments. The first two greeted the innkeeper by name, then went straight to their reserved table in the far corner. The third merchant slid by with only a slight nod of his head. He was a weasel of a man, almost completely bald except for a thin fringe around his lower scalp. His eyes moved among the diners until they found Lord Gillaon, then the merchant's face closed into a neutral mask. He scurried on to the table.

Behind the merchants strutted their three hired bodyguards. All eyes in the room darted warily to the two Arshessa several paces away. The guards paused, their gazes resting on Lord Gillaon. The atmosphere in the room changed.

Gillaon remained calm and assured, ignoring the stares of the guards. The nobleman was short, barrel-chested, with iron-gray hair, and projected immense energy and purpose. Tonight he was fashionably dressed in a white linen shirt and dark trousers. The knee-length cloak fastened at his shoulders was trimmed in ermine. He wore a pair of knee-high leather boots shining with polish.

All Dinari were aware of Gillaon's discussions with Lord Tellan to acquire the wool from the Rogoths and other smaller Dinari kinsmen. The Arshessa clan was proposing to bypass the Sabinis' stranglehold on shipping by hauling the goods across the Ardnamur Mountains into the pagan Broken Stone Land. It was a move bold enough to crack the Sabinis' monopoly and benefit every Dinari clansman.

But no deal had been struck. Everyone anxiously awaited tomorrow's meeting.

The warrior sitting next to Lord Gillaon might have been twenty. He had dark hair and even darker eyes to go along with chiseled features. The warrior wore leather breeches, a soft gray woolen shirt, and similar boots as his lord's. His mouth firmed and his eyes narrowed as, unlike Lord Gillaon, he glared back at the three mercenaries.

The biggest of the three guards stepped toward the Arshessa table.

The noise level dropped. Everyone held his breath. Several sat frozen with spoons of food halfway to their mouths.

After looking contemptuously at Lord Gillaon the guard turned back to his companions. “Best we eat down there,” he sneered, lifting his chin toward the direction of the wool merchants' table. “The air on this end of the room seems . . . tainted.” The other two snickered loudly in agreement before they sauntered off to join their employers.

The warrior was halfway to his feet, eyes flashing and right hand reaching for a sword hilt that was not there. Lord Gillaon gripped the man's arm and whispered curtly. The warrior hesitated for a heartbeat, then settled stiffly back into his chair.

All present let out a pent-up breath and returned to their meals.

Harred swallowed his anger. From the look in his lord's eyes, he knew he had erred.

“They did that under orders from their Sabinis masters,” Lord Gillaon lectured coldly, his face expressionless. “Why?”

“My pardon, m'lord.”

“I do not want your apology! I want you thinking!”

Harred watched as his lord's gaze swept the dining room. Normally, when Gillaon Tarenester was angry, his face would wither a tree. Not so tonight. The man's expression was bland with a hint of a smile on his lips.

The innkeeper came up to inform them that the meal was coming soon. Gillaon nodded pleasantly and continued. “Harred de Tarenester en Wright, your skills are formidable. You are the best swordsmen we Tarenesters have produced in my memory—and your prime is yet to come. Beyond that, I believe you have the potential to become more than a gifted warrior. But if you are to remain by my side as rhyfelwr, you must learn to control both your emotions and facial expressions and to use your mind as a weapon.”

Harred took a deep breath. He unclenched his fists, relaxed his shoulders, and tried to appear as calm as his lord. He grappled with the swirling subtleties involved in what he had naïvely assumed would be a straightforward process of buying wagonloads of wool. You offered more than anyone else did, and it was yours. That seemed simple, as had everything else in his life to this point—which had been man to man, sword against sword, with the strongest and quickest walking away the acknowledged winner.

But he was learning that if his clan bought Dinari wool, it could have an effect on the balance of power among the six high lords. That level of maneuvering was beyond Harred. But for the moment, it meant he must ignore sneering comments made by ill-mannered, pot-bellied ruffians whose loyalty was to a coin purse.

“Think upon this as a different type of battle, fought with different weapons,” Lord Gillaon went on, continuing his closed-face inspection of the dining room. “While I have no doubt that you could have killed all three, what would you have gained me? The Sabinis would be almost blameless. One of their hired guards said something indiscriminate. They render an apology while commenting on how difficult it is to hire good men. And my rhyfelwr would have proved himself a quick-tempered lout while calling my judgment into question.”

Gillaon swung his gaze back to fix Harred with an anvil-hard stare. “And my judgment, my trustworthiness, is what I am attempting to prove here more than anything else. All that would have gone to the Sabinis side of the ledger at the bargain price of three hired blades!”

Harred had no reply. Thankfully, further conversation was halted when the young waitress wove smoothly among the tables toward them. Perched on her shoulder was a round tray of dishes. From brief conversations during previous meals, Harred knew her to be the innkeeper's daughter. Fifteen or sixteen years of age, she was pretty, with a long neck and slender figure. Her dark blond hair was pulled back and tied with a leather string.

She lowered the tray with practiced skill and placed a loaf of dark brown bread, several yellow clay dishes, and two pewter mugs on the table. “The white sauce on the mutton may be a little hot if you are not used to it,” she warned. Then she looked straight at Harred. “If you want anything else, let me know.” She held his gaze just long enough. As she left, she managed to brush a hip lightly against his shoulder.

The promise in her eyes and her warmth as she moved by caused Harred to turn his head—until he crossed Lord Gillaon's icy blue eyes.

“Not to worry, m'lord,” Harred said. “There will be no problem. I have told the other warriors that if I catch any of them being distracted by a woman while we are here, the next time they carry a ladylove to the blankets they will be seriously impaired. The same applies to me.”

Gillaon kept him fixed with the stare a moment longer before nodding curtly. “Have you heard anything more about Lord Tellan's hlaford burning?” he asked while tearing a chunk from the dark loaf.

Harred breathed an inward sigh of relief. The issue of his responding to the taunt from the guards was over. That was one reason he held his kinsmen lord in such high regard: Gillaon Tarenester was a hard man, but fair. Err or displease him, and he would point it out and explain why in no uncertain terms, and then it was over.

But do not make the same mistake again.

“Only what we have all heard, m'lord. After Lord Tellan and the others returned this afternoon, everyone was saying it must have been a kitchen fire.”

“Hmmm.” One of the plates contained slices of a crumbly white cheese. Gillaon placed one on the bread and bit into it. “I stayed at the Rogoth hlaford in the fall when I first approached Lord Tellan about his wool. It was the smallest hlaford I have ever seen. At that time, the only household servant was that toothless old crone upstairs. Everyone there then is here at the inn now.” Gillaon took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “The messenger galloped up bringing news of the fire a glass before dawn?” Harred nodded. Gillaon gave him a level look. “I wonder who had been cooking,” he asked in a tone not expecting an answer.

Conversations like this with his kinsmen lord were still a novelty to Harred. Though he had seen the man almost daily since entering his service three years previous, Gillaon had been a distant, revered figure. Harred had been stunned when Gillaon had asked him to function as rhyfelwr when they left the Tarenester hlaford. In the three warrior clans—Arshessa, Landantae, and Dinari—a lord's rhyfelwr served as commander of the men-at-arms and was considered an advisor equal to the loreteller. It was unheard of for a youth of nineteen to hold such an exalted position. Harred understood this trip to be a test, and, until the incident with the guards, he thought he had done well. The counselor function had not been an issue. But Harred could not imagine Gillaon Tarenester needing advice from anyone—rhyfelwr or loreteller.

The more he learned about Gillaon's dealings, the more Harred realized how much he had to learn. But whatever it took, he would please his kinsmen lord. Tasting the challenges and benefits of that elevated position only a few days, Harred knew he would never again be satisfied with the life of a common warrior.

He picked up a slice of cheese and sniffed. It was strong and sharp. He took a small bite and found that it tasted as it smelled: too strong to be eaten alone. He pulled off a chunk of the bread. It had a rich, nutty favor, blending well with the sharp cheese. Another yellow clay dish contained dried apples. Harred ate one and took another bite of bread and cheese. The meals he had eaten at The Bridge since arriving yesterday had been excellent, much better than the plain fare served at the inns they had stayed in on the journey here.

Looking at the plate of browned meat drizzled in white sauce, he remembered the waitress's warning and sliced off only a small section. The mutton was spicy—and full of fire! Quickly, he reached for the mug. The cool well water helped, but for only a moment. As soon as he swallowed, the flames returned with even greater vengeance. Sweat popped out on his forehead as he emptied the mug in a vain effort to seek relief.

“Eat some cheese,” Gillaon advised, blue eyes dancing in humor. “It will cut the heat somewhat.”

Harred took his lord's advice. The cheese did help, but a distinct glow still lingered. Another mouthful of cheese and more bread dulled the sensation to a tolerable level.

“I was served this dish by the Rogoths during my visit in the fall,” Gillaon said. “After everyone quit laughing at my plight, they told me the cheese would help. Springing this on unsuspecting guests seems to be a Dinari form of welcome. They must figure that anyone who survives it good-naturedly is worthy of further hospitality.” He smiled wryly. “It did seem that our discussions went better afterwards.”

Harred wiped his forehead with a linen cloth, then shoved the meat aside and reached for the dried apples. “Speaking of fire, m'lord, is the incident at the Rogoth hlaford going to change the meeting tomorrow?”