Daughter of Prophecy (9 page)

Nineve moved up eagerly and stuck her head in the trough. Relieved, Rhiannon stroked the horse's neck fondly, murmuring, “I should have known it would take more than a few winged horrors to keep you from eating.”

The filly lifted her head and shifted irritably before taking another mouthful of grain. Knowing that Nineve preferred to be left alone during this time, Rhiannon eased back out and went into the next stall to check on her father's stallion.

The big roan stood in the middle of the enclosure, the shadows concealing the injured right shoulder. That leg was cocked, all weight supported on the other three legs. His ears were flat, eyes half-closed in pain. Rhiannon put a rope around the horse's neck and led him out of the stall into the walkway. The stallion shuffled along awkwardly, extremely reluctant to put any weight on the right foreleg.

In the better light, Rhiannon's heart twisted. The swelling from the impact with the winged horror was impressive, much larger than when they had arrived back in Lachlann. Now easily a cubit in circumference and rising a double handsbreadth above the body, it stretched the skin taut and caused the hair to ruffle.

Tears came to her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered as she rubbed the velvet soft muzzle. “You are a true Dinari warrior just like your rider.”

“That be one bad bruise,” came a voice from behind her.

She whirled, hand tight on the sword hilt. One of Lord Gillaon's men stood just inside a stall on the other side of the walkway.

“Yes, it is,” she said, trying to calm her racing heart. “He was . . . kicked on the road this morning.”

The man glanced again at the shoulder, a slight frown creasing his brow. “It be twice as big as when Lord Tellan brought him in.” He spoke with the thick brogue characteristic of one from the higher regions of the Ardnamur Mountains. She had seen him here last night tending to one of the Arshessa horses. “Unless something be done soon,” he continued, “it be even worse by morning.”

“Our medicines and herbs are back at our stable at the hlaford. We applied a liniment the stableman said was good for this type of injury.” She bit her lower lip. “It has not stopped the swelling nor eased his pain. I was about to inform my father about this.” She squared her shoulders. “He would have checked already, but he has pressing matters at the moment.”

“Aye. I'm sure that be true.”

She searched his face for any hidden meaning but found none. The man was below average height and heavily built. He had a settled, unflappable manner. And although he was young, early twenties at the most, his hair was thinning noticeably and his belly bulged over his belt.

“If it be agreeable,” he offered, “I'll make a stinkweed and brown moss poultice for his shoulder. It be perfect for this type hurt. Come morning, the swelling be down or winged horrors can carry me away.”

Rhiannon's blood chilled. “What do you mean?” she asked with admirable control, her hand dropping again to the sword hilt. The stallion's ears flicked upright, and she felt his neck brush against her right arm as he pressed forward.

The Arshessa regarded her with puzzlement even as a stillness descended upon him. “I meant no offense, Mistress Rogoth. Simply offering help. You be saying you have no medicines. I carry a good supply in my bags. You can let one of your father's men apply them.”

“What did you mean about winged horrors?”

His eyes never left hers. “That be a common expression of my mother's. Growing up, she always be warning me and my sisters how if we don't be acting proper, winged horrors come to carry us away.”

Rhiannon sensed truth and breathed easier. “Your poultice will be much appreciated . . . ?”

“Elmar. Elmar de Tarenester en Stuegin, Clan Arshessa.”

“Mistress Rhiannon de Murdeen en Rogoth, Clan Dinari. Please, prepare and apply the poultice. I will help.”

“This be a foul-smelling one, and the brown moss part might stain your hands. Best to let me.”

“I have applied this poultice before. Two sets of hands makes it easier.”

He gave her a quick look of reassessment. “My bags be at our camp a few lengths behind the stable.” He made to leave, hesitated, then turned back. “Mistress Rhiannon, next time you prepare to draw your sword, make sure there be room to pull it clear. Your sword arm be blocked by the horse.” He gave a soft smile. “I could have had my hands around your throat while you be struggling to step aside.”

Chagrined, she realized he was correct. Her ears warmed. “Yes, I see. Thank you.”

Elmar nodded. “I'll get what we need for the poultice.”

While Rhiannon waited, she pondered the winged horrors for the twentieth time. Her father and Girard thought the attack on the hlaford was tied in with the Sabinis or High Lord Maolmin, or both. But if that was true, why the single-minded focus the horrors had to kill the red-haired girl?

No, Rhiannon decided, the attack had to be involved with her birthing prophecy, the same reason the monk had tried to kill her at her mother's breast. But why no other attempts until almost sixteen years later? What had changed?

Hopefully the monks at Kepploch would know.

Upon arriving back at the Bridge Across, Tellan had sent a sealed letter to the monastery, hand carried by two warriors with instructions to ride as fast as their weary horses would allow. The letter detailed both attacks and asked for monks to be sent to the inn.

Rhiannon rubbed the stallion's muzzle and hoped the Keepers would arrive soon. She wanted to learn how they knew to pray as they did to cut the horrors off from their power. And how long did that cutting off last? A day? A week? Just the one incident? If the siyyim sent more winged horrors of the night, surely the monks would know to pray again.

Wouldn't they?

As a child, she had considered the monks at Kepploch all wise and all knowing. When Keeper Astwin came as her first tutor, she peppered him with questions about her prophecy. And her future. That led to long talks about the Eternal, the Covenant, and the Founding. With childlike faith, she went with Tellan and Mererid to Kepploch, and in a ceremony there, pledged to serve the Eternal all her days. She left aglow in religious fervor, sure the quest was about to begin.

But long years went by—and nothing happened. She began to grow confused, then frustrated. Creag grew old enough to join the schooling, and then Phelan. Discussions with Keeper Astwin about her prophecy gradually ceased. Life went on. She quit reading Holy Writ. And quit praying. Lately, now that she was almost of age, she had begun thinking the Eternal had forgotten about her. And that neither he nor the Mighty Ones were involved in daily life, after all.

She gnawed her lower lip. That was before today, of course. She heard footsteps approaching the stable. The camp must be closer than she had thought for Elmar to return so soon.

But it was not the Arshessa soldier who strode into the stable. It was the Dinari High Lord, Maolmin, the best swordsman in the land.

His dark eyes seemed to glow when they rested upon her.

Chapter Seven

H
ARRED

H
ARRED WALKED TO
the stable to get Elmar. Together they would go to the taverns to find some Rogoth warriors to pump for information about what had happened at Lord Tellan's home.

He entered the stable—and his warrior instincts screamed danger. Down the way among the shadows cast by the lanterns he noticed a girl, the Rogoth daughter, standing by a horse. A man approached her. The man was too big to be Lord Tellan, and the girl did not have a welcoming expression on her face. Her hand dropped to her sword hilt, and she stepped away from the horse when the man halted before her. The man wore a sword as well, and although both hands remained clasped behind his back, Harred could tell by the tensed shoulders the man was poised to draw.

Harred gritted his teeth. He was without his sword; he had only his clan dagger. But the sense of unease surged so strongly he
knew
the girl was in danger. Feeling naked, he strode quickly down the walkway.

“Begging your pardons,” he called into the stable. “Have any of you seen a fat, ugly Arshessa tending Lord Gillaon's horse?” As he closed, Harred gathered his muscles, preparing to dive into a ball, bowl the man's feet out from under him, then roll up while throwing a handful of dirt in the face. Then get the girl's sword—

The man whirled in a blur, sword appearing in his hands as if by magic.

Harred blinked. How could anyone move so fast! He slowed a step as he realized who this must be.

“Leave us!” High Lord Maolmin snarled, his mouth an ugly slash.

“And if I don't?” Harred said softly, dangerously. He stopped within an arm's length of the gleaming steel point. He was an Arshessa clansman, and no one—this High Lord or King Balder himself—had the right to address him in such a manner. Only his kinsmen lord could, and that solely because Harred was in his service.

Maolmin Erian was a lithe, strong man with a proud face that feared no foe. Eyes black as cabochons regarded Harred while movement rippled in their depths like pebbles dropped into a dark pool. The tip of the sword lowered a fraction. Harred tensed—

“Yes,” the girl said with a clear, strong voice, “Elmar will be returning any moment now. He is bringing a poultice for my father's horse.”

Harred watched Maolmin struggle within himself. Finally, the stiffness drained out of the high lord's muscles; the look in his eyes eased. He shook himself like a dog, then sheathed his sword before flicking Harred a dismissive glance.

“My pardon, you startled me.” He looked around the stable as if seeing it for the first time. “I came to arrange stalls for two more horses. My loreteller and his daughter have arrived. They were told the stable is full.” He placed both fists on his hips and jutted his chin forward. “Bring the stableman.”

“He is not here, High Lord,” the girl said. “Can these two horses be stalled together? Our horses can be rearranged to free a stall.”

“Of course they can be kept together! See to it.” He turned and stomped away.

The girl's eyes flashed with anger at the imperious tone. Seeing her this close, Harred agreed with his lord's assessment. Dark red hair, green eyes, pale skin, tall, high-breasted figure—she was indeed stunning. But why the sword? Gillaon believed she would be worth a lot of effort. Harred wasn't so sure. The young nobleman who won her hand might discover he had more than he bargained for.

She flicked a strand of hair from her face and raised her chin. “Will you hold the stallion while I arrange the horses?” she said. Harred nodded, and she handed him the rope. “I am Mistress Rhiannon de Murdeen en Rogoth, Clan Dinari. Thank you for . . . .” Her words tailed off.

“I am Harred de Tarenester en Wright, Clan Arshessa. You are welcome for . . . ” He let his voice tail off in like manner.

She bit back an amused snort. Then Harred felt the impact of those green eyes as she gave him a glance before heading to the stalls.

Oh yes,
he thought, watching her long-legged stride.
Worth a lot of effort indeed.
But even if he was in a position to pursue her, he preferred a woman without any attached steel.

Movement at the front of the stable caught his eye. Elmar came ambling in with a pot and two sticks.

“I knew it be too good to last,” his brother-in-law grumbled as he set the pot down. “When I leave, this horse be attached to pure beauty. When I return, it just be you. Why you scare her off? She be wanting to help me, side by side, shoulder to shoulder.” He sighed. “I guess it be for the best. After your lecture about women here, your sister be glad I be coming back whole and able to function at my normal high standard.”

“I would hate to have to answer any awkward questions. She has always been able to tell when I lie.”

“What's this about you having to lie?” Rhiannon asked as she came down the hallway after moving the horses.

Harred and Elmar looked at each other.

“Ah . . . uh . . . ” Elmar's voice tailed off.

“Go ahead,” Harred urged, smothering a grin. “Tell her.”

Elmar reddened. “Well, mistress, er . . . ” He shot a glance at Harred.

“This handsome fellow is married to my oldest sister,” Harred said. “He's begging me not to tell her about all the young girls he's been trying to . . . ”

Elmar snorted in disgust.

Rhiannon laughed. She had a good one, deep and rich. It warmed the stable. “I will tell my father about the stallion's shoulder. He'll want to come to see it and to thank you, Elmar. Please wait while I go get him.” She made to leave, then hesitated. She cocked an eyebrow at Harred. “If I see any girls, should I tell them where to find Elmar?”

“Best not, mistress,” Harred replied solemnly. “He'd risk losing more than you know.”

Those vivid green eyes studied him again. Then she flashed him a quick smile, turned and left, her right hand gripping her sword hilt, her red mane bouncing.

Harred watched her stride away and swallowed.
Worth whatever it may take.
Then he shook himself. It wasn't going to happen. Elmar took one of the thin, flat sticks and handed the other to Harred. With gentle strokes, they began applying the thick, strong-smelling paste to the stallion's shoulder and leg.

“Was High Lord Maolmin here when you went to make the poultice?” Harred asked.

“No. That be him I saw leaving?”

Harred nodded. “I felt strongly he was about to harm the girl.”

“Things be that bad?”

“Lord Gillaon believes Tellan is ready to wet his sword.” In low tones Harred related Gillaon's speculation that the Rogoth fire was not as straightforward as it seemed.

Elmar grunted. “Could be. When I step out from the stall and offer to make this poultice, she jump straight up. Half that Dinari chastity belt was out of the scabbard before she hit ground. What be going on here?” Elmar pointed his stick at the stallion's swollen shoulder. “She said this horse be kicked. I've seen bruises from horse kicks all my life. This be what happens when two warhorses collide at full gallop.” He pursed his lips. “There's more. She got uncommon upset when I made passing mention of winged horrors. If you ever be wanting to behold eyes flash fire, you be seeing it then.”