Andre Norton - Ciara's Song

Cee listened. “You can’t change my eyes or face shape. Anyhow, they don’t look like Old Blood. Maybe my hair. It isn’t black, it’s dark brown. Could we lighten it just a shade more? It wouldn’t show that we’d done it but I’d look more like a Karsten native.”

They tried. With an infusion of herb wash Ciara’s hair lightened from dark to medium brown. It was surprising, Elanor thought, how much it altered the child’s appearance. Nor had Elanor been her cousin’s maid for nothing. A skillful change in hair style added a rounder look to Ciara’s face. They could do no more but pray now it would suffice.

For a time, it did. Seran was told by more than one drunken man at arms from Aiskeep, that no female of the looks he described dwelt there. It left him furious but temporarily baffled.

Spring slipped into summer, then midsummer before the news came with hammering hooves to the Keep gates. “Open, open for a Clan Messenger!”

Hanion looked about. Only one rider, and that one all but hysterical on a staggering mount. He ran to open the gate.

“What is it, man? Has someone died?”

“Aye. Call your lord.”

Hanion put two and two together coming up with six. He fled for Tarnoor’s study calling loudly.

“What… ?”

“A messenger from Lord Geavon. Lord, I think he may bring news of Yvian’s death.”

Tarnoor took the stairs three at a time. The messenger was drinking wine eagerly but halted to offer the letter. Then he returned to his cup. Riding like this was thirsty work.

Tarnoor did not wish the contents of his letter to be questioned. He retired to his study before breaking the familiar seal. Geavon might be a crotchety gloomy lord, but he and Tarnoor had been fostered together as boys. They were of the same clan and hence kin, and their friendship had been stronger still. Geavon’s Gerith Keep was close enough to Kars for Geavon to hear all the news within days, sometimes within hours. A letter sent with this much urgency must contain news of real import. It was quite likely Hanion’s suggestion was right.

Tarnoor sighed. If Yvian had been assassinated by one of the clans, life was about to become dangerous. He read swiftly, then sat thinking. An assassination, it appeared—but not by a Clan Lord seeking power.

Tarnoor remembered. Yvian had chosen to wed Loyse of Verlaine Keep, daughter to Fulk, known as the wrecker-lord. It had been a proxy marriage but legal. Then the bride had vanished.

At first she’d been believed dead at her own hand. There’d been talk of a high window left open, lace left snagged on the rough stone of its sill. Tarnoor smiled. Talk had begun and the people had been amused that the duke’s bride would rather be dead than wed. Then other news drifted through on the winds. The girl was alive. She had escaped, fled through the countryside and across the mountains to seek refuge with the Witches in Estcarp.

It was bad enough to lose a bride. But as the news filtered slowly back to the city, the laughter had become too loud to be safely overlooked. For a man to find his ax-wed bride fleeing from him. was bad enough. To hear that she had taken in marriage another, worse. But when that other was a misshapen boy, when he and his bride now stood high in the councils and friendship of an enemy…

All this made Yvian appear an ineffective fool. He’d gone to Fulk of Verlaine for answer. All that much-tried lord could say was that the witchery of Estcarp had had a hand in events. But where Loyse was now Fulk could not say.

For Yvian it was not safe to allow the matter to drop. Where the people laugh too loudly a duke’s throne may begin to shake. Apart from that, Yvian was a proud man. In all of this his pride had been flung into the dust. Somehow he had seized Loyse and succeeded in bringing her back to Kars. It even seemed likely he had bedded her and thus the woman was now Duchess of Kars. But the matter had not stopped there for long. The next any knew Yvian was dead, murdered. By Loyse, some said. By Witches, others claimed.

Fighting amongst several city and clan factions had broken out at the time of Yvian’s death. This time all were agreed that the righting had been Witch-inspired. The duke’s mistress, one Aldis, had come with lies to each faction setting them against one another. There was no reason, no benefit to her in this. No doubt it was witchery. Moreover, the Lady Loyse had vanished, so had Aldis, and to complete the set, word had come from Verlaine that a half of its men at arms were dead, the remainder vanished along with Lord Fulk. That must be witchery as well.

Tarnoor snorted. Witchery be damned. It was trouble that’s what it was. With Fulk gone the rich pickings at Verlaine were open. If Fulk did not return swiftly a dozen local lords would be at one another’s throats to seize the Keep. Still worse, the same applied to Kars. Loyse was allied by her mother’s line to three of the more powerful clans. They would be moving shortly to claim the duchy in her name. If she did not return, however, there were plenty of others who’d be interested in a vacant Keep of considerable wealth and the potential for a lot more so long as ships sailed and storms came.

Geavon ended with a couple of paragraphs of warning. Their own clan might well become embroiled in all this. Geavon would find it hard not to become involved if so. Gerith Keep was too close to Kars to be overlooked. He urged his friend to strengthen Aiskeep, to look to his walls and supplies. If none of this was soon resolved war might come.

Tarnoor reread the letter, then yelled for Hanion. “The repairs to the outer wall, are they complete?”

“Yesterday, my lord.”

“Then I want you to take the wains for further stone. This is to be used to strengthen any other weaker parts of the walls.” He named a figure for this which made Hanion look grave. “After that ready the wains again. We go soon to Teral market to purchase siege supplies.” Hanion opened his mouth in horror. Tarnoor overrode him. “If you can think of anything we can take and sell in the markets before we buy, say so once you have checked. Warn the garth owners they should harvest as and when they can. No harvest should be left longer than the time it takes to ripen. Aiskeep will aid with harvesters at need.”

He leaned back in his chair and summarized Geavon’s letter, concluding, “Clans and city factions are already starting maneuvers. Sooner or later some half-wit will add weapons to the discussion.” He looked at Hanion.

“You wanted to ask if we were at war. We may well be very soon. Not with Estcarp, but with our own. The worst kind of war. Go and prepare for it, old friend. The storm is rising, and I’d like to be sure our roof doesn’t leak.”

He watched Hanion leave before sitting back to swear savagely. Yvian! No country needed outside enemies when they’d enthroned an idiot like that. He wondered where it would end.

Time drifted by. Aiskeep walls were thickened in the two weaker places. The children ran about getting under everyone’s feet, men at arms vanished to different garths to help bring harvests home, and Teral market came due. As if preparing for trouble to come, the harvests, at least here, had been very good. But by slow, loaded wain, Teral was two days distant. Ciara’s eyes on him were so hopeful Tarnoor smiled.

“You two can come. You’re to stay together at all times. Don’t bother the men or Hanion. Be ready to return when I tell you.” He thought of something else. “Ciara, isn’t it your name day very shortly?”

“Yes, Uncle Nethyn.”

“Well, we’ll have to celebrate that.” He mentioned it to Elanor before the wains rolled out of the gates, and found himself with a list of small things to buy. Women, they always had some small errand you should do this very minute!