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Ciara's Song by Andre Norton

A Word About the Chronicles of the Witch World
Andre Norton
What seeker of knowledge can say with truth that the history of Witch World has 
been wholly preserved, even in the masses of parchment rolls, the wood-bound 
books, or those metal plates of yet earlier date engraved in tongues that have 
not been used for a millennium or more?
Where lie the life stories of those who raised the walls of that ruined city in 
the far South, site of a battle waged but yesterday? Whence came all the flotsam 
and jetsam of clans and races, whose only memories and records do not stretch 
back even to their arrival through one of the world gates?
Yes, even though those portals giving upon all the other dimensions have been 
closed, still there are many tales worth the telling to be found by delving into 
the Archives at Lormt. For centuries, Lormt acted as a depository for the 
histories of families and the keeping of clan lines, so that kinfolk widely 
separated by war or witchery might possibly find those of their blood again. 
There also, far in the past, the custom began for clans, families, and even 
solitary rovers to leave accounts of their own journeyings, battles, and 
victories, thereby illuminating some small facet of the history they knew, 
having acted within it—and, perhaps, upon it as well. Thus, records left by even 
single wanderers are to be found there, piled against official reports of 
vanished kingdoms.
It has now absorbed the attention of some of the burrowing scholars to search 
out accounts concerning events that they may have been involved in themselves 
but which they found hard to comprehend as being experienced simultaneously by 
unknown others. These seekers have included those tied to forceful action in the 
past and determined to leave for the future some detailing of the roots and 
branches of the tree of their tale. Such enlargers of the Witch World's store of 
lore are Ouen and the Lady Mereth.
In a time of relative peace, when the inroads made by the Dark from without are 
no longer to be feared (though still, and ever, guarded against) these earlier 
tales are mined by songsmiths, and some mighty sagas have been wrought from even 
modest accounts. Thus, Lormt is now not only what it has always been—a 
treasure-house of ancient knowledge— but, in this day, it fosters new wisdom as 
well, spreading over the land a web of such stories as will make clear to the 
survivors of a past in which many went armed how well their kindred bore those 
weapons and to what end.
So, from out of their safekeeping at Lormt, different ages of the Witch World 
come to life again. In this way, those newborn can learn what passed before: 
actions of not only potent sorcerers and great lords and ladies but of folk like 
themselves, meant to live untroubled lives but prevented by fate from so doing.
One such tale, humble in origin only, is that of Ciara, who had to make her life 
anew under the very shadow of the Dark.
BOOK ONE
Thrice-Horned to Death and Destruction

1
Ciara was playing in her secret cave in the cliff when the rider came. She 
recognized him at once. It was her brother Larian come back from distant Kars. 
He was studying as apprentice merchant with an old friend of her father's. But 
why was he home? She scrambled down from her cave to where she could swing 
across from one tall elm to another. From there she could reach her bedroom 
window at the back of the garth. She clattered down the stairs calling, "Larian, 
Larian, Mother! Larian's home!"
Her parents popped out of the cook room, both looking startled. "It can't be." 
Her mother sounded worried. "He isn't due home again until Year End."
Her father was practical. "Well, my love, we'd better go and see." But before 
they could move toward the front of the garth, Larian came striding through to 
meet them. His face was white with exhaustion under the brown, and his eyes 
haunted. He wasted no words.
"Yvian's gone mad. He's ordered the three-times Horning for all of the Old 
Blood. I took Falco's relay and came by the mountain paths. The guards will be 
right behind me. Half of them were fanning out south as I slipped away. They're 
slaughtering any who even look as if they might be of our kind."
Ciara's mother stared up, and in a voice that the child did not recognize she 
spoke softly. "They took Falco at the very gates of the city. Merryon died 
fighting before they burned the house about his family. Even now the 
death-bringers circle the valley. For only one of us is there an escape."
Talyo stared at his wife. "Do you see true, beloved?"
"I see true. We have less than a candlemark. They are too close for us to flee. 
But Ciara might hide." She turned to the girl gently. "Don't ask questions. 
There's no time. You have a place where you go. Can you reach it without being 
seen?"
Frightened, bewildered, the child gulped. "Yes."
"Can you take possessions with you if they aren't too large or heavy?"
Ciara nodded slowly. She'd taken old rugs to furnish her cave already. Often 
she'd taken a meal there.
"Good, come with me. Talyo, you and Larian free the stock. Send them running. 
When you've done, barricade the doors."
She was gone then, dragging Ciara behind her. "I know you get out of your 
bedroom window. Where do you go from there?"
Ciara pointed. "Across the elms. There's a cave in the cliff up high you can 
reach from a branch on the end tree." Lanlia stared.
"Goddess, if I'd even dreamed it was so dangerous I'd never had ignored it. 
Listen, Ciara. Can anyone get to your cave from below?"
"N-n-no. You can't even see there's a cave." She remembered finding it the first 
time quite by accident as she scrambled about the elms.
"How big is the cave, sweetheart?"
"It's very small. I have to crawl to get inside." Lanlia's look urged her to 
continue. "I can lie down inside but only just. When I do I can stretch my hands 
out and touch the wall on each side."
"What do you have up there?"
"Rugs, only old ones, Mother. And candle ends. What are you doing?"
Lanlia was moving with a swift sure speed as she gathered items. She stowed them 
into a carrysack as Ciara asked her question.
"You must go to your cave. How long does it take you to reach it and return from 
this window?"
Ciara considered. She sensed the question was important. "Maybe a fifth of a 
candlemark."
"Good. Now listen to me. There may be no time later to say this. What Larian 
said was that the duke has ordered all of the Old Race, all of our people to be 
killed on sight. That's our family. Your father, Larian, and I will stay in the 
garth. If nothing happens you can return. If we are dead, you are to wait in the 
cave for five days. Five days, do you understand?" Ciara nodded, gulping back 
tears of fright.
"After that, try to make your way to Aiskeep. Lord Tarnoor has always been our 
friend. Ask him what you should do. Do not let any other see you. Now, take this 
to your cave. Just drop it there and return at once. Go quickly."
The carrysack was thrust into Ciara's hands as Lanlia snatched up another. Still 
gulping back sobs the child scrambled through the window on to a branch climbing 
higher and higher before she crossed the line of elms toward her refuge. But 
once there the peace of it seemed to still some of her terror. She stared down 
the length of their valley but saw no one. Maybe Larian was wrong. But something 
deep inside warned her the message had been true. Her other two brothers were 
dead. Her mother had seen it so. Mother 'saw' seldom, but when she did see what 
she saw was the truth.
Ciara was the baby of the family. She was barely nine. Falco and Merryon had 
both been adult men, Merryon married with a family. She had seen them both no 
more than twice in her life. They were the sons of her father's first wife 
whereas Larian was her full brother. He had only gone to study in Kars three 
years ago. Since then he had been home each Year End bringing gifts for all. She 
had heard of the three-times horning as any child might hear. It was something 
done to outlaws she recalled vaguely as she scrambled back across the line of 
trees. The guards blew a horn three times and named the ones who were now 
outside all laws. After that the wicked men could be killed without blood feud 
or punishment. Anything they had belonged to their killers. She almost fell 
through the window. Did that mean they were outlaws now?
Lanlia had no time for her questions. "Take this one back, too. Hurry!" Ciara 
found another full carrysack pushed into her hands and obediently hurried. A 
third journey, but on the way back this time she could see riders. She dropped 
into her bedroom gabbling the news. Her father was there. It was he who asked 
quietly, "How many?"
"I couldn't count, maybe twenty."
"Are they riding fast?"
"No." Ciara was puzzled. "They don't seem in any hurry."
Larian's voice was suddenly savage. "No, they know we're trapped if we're here. 
Why tire the horses."
Lanlia was practical. "Let them dawdle all they will. It gives us more time. 
Ciara, you remember what I told you, tell me again."
"I'm to go to the cave and stay there five days or until you call me back. If 
you can't… oh, Mother, I'm scared!"
She was hugged hard. "I know, now go on."
"If anything happens I wait five days, then go to Lord Tarnoor. Only to him."
"Yes. This time don't come back from your cave. Be careful. Don't let the riders 
see you." One by one her family embraced her. At the last Larian placed two 
items in her hand. She looked down.
His hand closed hers upon them. "If we live, I'll claim them from you, little 
sister. If I don't, they're yours." He helped her through the window, watching 
as she vanished in the foliage.
He could have gone with her. From what his mother said there would be room in 
the cave for two. But his seventeenth name day had passed. It was for a man to 
defend his home and family, not to hide while others died.
He'd been fortunate. His father was only partly of the Old Blood, but his first 
wife had been wholly so. For that Falco and Merryon had both died, their faces 
too much of the ancient race. But both Larian and Ciara looked more like the 
incomers. Lanlia had been a half-blood orphan who wed the widowed farmer. Her 
children resembled her, dark-haired, but with rounder faces and eyes of a clear 
hazel.
It had saved the boy's life as he thrust through blood-crazed men toward the 
stables. Once there he had swiftly saddled Falco's relay. He'd guessed his 
brother would need them no more. That first two days he had ridden all three 
mounts into near exhaustion to stay ahead of the news. Then he had swung up onto 
the foothill tracks. In a tiny valley he had unsaddled the leg-weary animals, 
hobbling them carefully. He had allowed the horses to graze all day while he 
hunted. Two hares and several rabbits would be good rations for days. He ate 
ravenously, tearing the roast flesh from small bones.
That night he had slept until midday, risen to eat eagerly again, and then 
saddled his mounts. Now he kept away from any riders. Several times he dropped 
down to warn garths where the inhabitants were friends and of the Old Blood. 
Each time he had been given filled feed sacks for the horses, food for himself. 
He had been able to press on to the limits of his strength. Two horses had been 
left behind as he rode.
Larian clamped his teeth shut on a plea to join Ciara. He knew if he stayed he 
would die. He stared out of the window slit as the riders approached. He 
recognized the enemy, and accepted death. With the guards was a neighbor who'd 
always coveted Elmsgarth land. Under the new Karsten laws he could take it once 
all males in the family were dead. Ciara had no claim. Only if she had been 
adult and wed could she have held it.
The neighbor might overlook the child's absence, but not Larian's. He would see 
the lathered horse that stood head down by the fence and guess. Larian stood 
straighten If he was to die, then he would see to it their neighbor did not 
profit. He strung his bow and waited.
Far above Ciara had reached the cave with her last carry-sack. She huddled into 
the heavy gray wool of the cloak. It felt like home. Lanlia had woven it for 
herself only last year. Falco had sent a set of matching hareskins to line it as 
his Year-End gift. They'd been taken when the hares were in winter garb so that 
on one side the cloak was dark gray wool, and on the other pure white fur. It 
was far too large for Ciara, but it would keep her warm in her refuge if she 
must wait. It even had a hood with drawstrings to tighten it about her face.
She wiggled forward to look down. The riders had reached the garth. From her 
perch she could hear only a mumble until one raised his voice.
"Come out and you can go free." She knew the man. He was Tylar from Sersgarth in 
the next valley. He had a pack of brawling sons all looking hard at their 
father's garth. At least that was what her father had said once. Her mother had 
retorted that Tylar could look for land for his sons elsewhere. Below Tylar was 
shouting again.
"Come out and you can go. You leave everything and we'll leave you."
There was no movement from the house and Ciara whimpered. If Tylar was telling 
the truth it would be wonderful. They could just leave and they'd be safe. Then 
she wondered.
But where would they go if they had to leave everything behind? How would they 
live?
She squirmed back a little looking down at the treasures Larian had given her to 
hold for him.
They were treasures in truth. The slim-bladed dagger laying in her hand had 
never been sharpened. It had come down from the family of her father's 
grandmother. Legend had it the dagger had been made by an adept in the Power. Be 
the story true or not it was true that the dagger remained razor sharp no matter 
what its usage. For that alone it was prized. Larian had been a favorite of his 
grandmother's. She had given the weapon to him when he left at fourteen to study 
in Kars. She had died soon after and Ciara knew how Larian treasured it.
The other object she held was a pendant. It was drop-shaped in silver with small 
wings sweeping up in a curve on either side. Minute blue stones edged each wing 
feather. It had been wrought with a delicacy that was sheer beauty.
That had come from her mother's side of the family. It was a bridal gift, held 
by each son in turn to give to his chosen. Ciara slipped the chain about her 
neck allowing the pendant to fall beneath her bodice. Then she wiggled back to 
peer out from the cave mouth again. What were they doing down there?
At first she could see no one. Then a small group of men on foot came into view. 
Leading them was neighbor Tylar. They carried a log from the wood stack. Ciara 
was puzzled; what did they plan to do with it? She gasped as below the log was 
swung forward to strike the door with a hollow boom. She stared blankly. Why, 
they'd break the door if they kept doing that. Then as the log struck again she 
understood. They meant to break in. Now that her family was thrice-horned 
anything could be done to them. There was nothing against the law. Small 
whimpers squeezed between her clenched teeth. All the stories she had ever heard 
rose up to remind her of what that 'anything' could be.
Larian sighted his arrow carefully. From among their neighbors, only Tylar was 
with the guards. If he was dead, there would be none to say Ciara lived. There 
was no hope for any within Elmsgarth, he knew that now. But his adored small 
sister might still survive. With Tylar dead his sons would be too busy 
squabbling over their own Sersgarth and the Elmsgarth land to bother about one 
small female child with no claim. He hung on the shot until Tylar moved clear. 
The arrow flew with deadly accuracy. Tylar fell soundlessly, heart pierced. The 
guards shouted with rage, redoubling their attack on the door.
Talyo nodded to his son in approval. He knew why the boy had shot. Larian had 
always been the best archer in the family. That had been a tricky shot but Tylar 
was silenced, and Ciara safer. His wife had vanished upstairs to the watchtower. 
It had been built by his great-grandfather when he took this valley for his own. 
The land had been more lawless then and it had been used often. It stood high 
above the garth. Very high. Anyone who leaped from that would not survive 
landing on the cobblestones below. Lanlia returned to stand beside her husband.
"The doors are open." He understood, she would not be taken alive.
The massive old door was beginning to split; soon it would fall. He laid his 
weapons aside and took her gently in his arms.
"Beloved, when I lost Shala I never thought I would know happiness again. With 
you I have found such joy and love as a man seldom finds." Lanlia said nothing 
but held him to her with all her strength. There was a final booming ending in a 
long, splintering crunch as the door gave way. Talyo thrust her behind him.
"Go to the tower now, beloved, and do what you must." In that split second as 
she turned to run she 'saw.' The gifts of her blood had never been real power in 
her. But with death reaching out she 'saw' now, as she had 'seen' the deaths of 
her stepsons and their family. Duke Yvian lay dead, betrayed by his own. 
Mountains twisted and crumbled, beneath them lay the armies of Karsten. Lanlia 
leapt for the stairs as her husband and son stood side by side behind her in the 
narrow hall.
As she flashed around the bend of the stairs she halted to stare back. Larian 
was down, she felt his death. Talyo was falling. She cried out as he turned to 
look at her one last time, love in his eyes. Then a sword fell. The guards 
howled in triumph surging forward to reach for her. But she was already in 
flight. She hurled herself through the doorways, slamming each door as she ran. 
It slowed those behind just enough. She reached the final door to the tower and 
thrust it shut, dropping the long metal bar into place. Then she flung herself 
up the final flights of stairs. She gained the top and it seemed more terrible 
to her that it should still be a bright day. All she had loved, all but her 
daughter were dead. It should be cold, snowing or raining. Not this soft 
sunshine of late afternoon.
She listened as the guards beat on the door below. It would take little time for 
them to realize they should bring the log again. Lanlia closed her eyes, her 
mind sought back to the visions of a dead duke, falling mountains. Below the 
door boomed. She reached to hold Ciara's face in her mind. Would her daughter be 
strong enough to survive as she must? The door began to splinter. Lanlia called 
the faces of her loves. The stepsons she'd cared for, her beloved husband, her 
son and daughter. She stepped out onto the tower edge. The door broke open and a 
rush of feet roared upward. She turned to face them then and into her mind came 
a calm clear voice. She knew it. Her husband's grandmother. A woman of the old 
pure blood who had loved them all.
"The blood shall come full circle. It shall rise to flower again. Come to me, 
child, and be free."
As the guards threw themselves forward she smiled at them. Then she allowed 
herself to fall in silence.
High in her cave Ciara could see little. The men had broken down the door and 
vanished. Then her mother appeared on the watchtower. Ciara would have called to 
her but she remembered. She must draw no attention, she must keep silence. Her 
mother was facing away, looking down the stairs. Dimly the child could hear a 
thudding sound. The men were breaking down another door. She saw them rush onto 
the roof, saw her mother fall silently. And in that moment she knew she was the 
last of her family alive. Her hand stole up to grasp the pendant beneath her 
bodice. The other gripped the dagger hilt. They were hers to keep now, along 
with the memory. She would not forget how they'd died, that she swore on 
Larian's treasures.
But she was still only a child. She crawled back into her refuge and wept until 
her face was swollen and her eyes slits. She cried until she fell asleep wrapped 
in her mother's cloak. She did not see the guards leave almost empty-handed. 
What use were sheep or goats to them? And if Elmsgarth had held anything of 
value, they could not find it. A few had taken minor items. The bolt of cloth 
her mother had bought to make Ciara and herself new dresses. The set of good 
pans from the kitchen. A saddle and bridles from the stable. Several bits of 
clothing and a few sheepskins already tanned. They set a fire but it was already 
going out as they departed. They grumbled as they rode. The garth had been a 
waste. No loot, no women, nothing worth the energy.
It was day again when Ciara woke. She could still see her mother's body below on 
the cobblestones. It set off another fit of weeping. She would have climbed down 
but for her promise. She stayed, a child's appetite asserting itself by evening. 
Then she thought to rummage in the carrysacks that lay along the cave wall. 
Within one was food. She ate mindlessly, cramming the stale bread into her mouth 
and washing it down with sips from the flask she found. It was watered wine and 
she slept swiftly again once her hunger was assuaged.
She ate when she woke, crawling to the cave mouth to stare down the valley. Her 
mother had said she was to remain up here five days. There was enough food, and 
with the flask and a water bag as well she could stay safely. But the cave would 
stink soon. She relieved herself right at the back where there was a small dip. 
The rock was cracked there so liquid seeped away, but not solids. Nor was there 
any earth to cover them. Perhaps she should climb down when she must do that? 
But she'd promised, and what if the guards came back and caught her?
She remained, terrified, confused and grieving in her cave a third day. Then, as 
noon moved into early afternoon, she saw two riders moving towards Elmsgarth. 
She knew them, Lord Tarnoor and his son. Trovagh was only a year older than 
Ciara and the families had been friends. Her mother had said Ciara was to go to 
Lord Tarnoor, but he'd come to her instead. Still she was afraid in case any of 
the guards were here. She watched carefully. There was no sign of anyone but the 
two riders. At the garth door Tarnoor was gathering up her mother's body. It 
would be all right, it must be. She slipped across to the branch of the great 
elm nearest her refuge. Then to the next and the next until she reached her 
window. She could hear their voices now.
"Yvian must be mad, Gods damn him. There's only Talyo, Lanlia, and the boy here. 
They'll have got Falco and Merryon in the city. That hell-cursed guard even 
tried to set fire to the garth before they left."
He was interrupted by a lighter treble. "But, Father, Ciara isn't here. I've 
looked in all the rooms."
"You're right, lad." Lord Tarnoor's voice was lifted in his familiar bellow. 
"Ciara? Ciara, lass. Where are you?"
The child remained silent. After a while, she heard Tarnoor speak again, 
bitterness in his voice.
"It may be that they took her with them. We'll bury the family and then look 
properly. If she's dead we'll find her to lie with them."
Ciara heard the digging begin, the spade striking rocks now and then as Tarnoor 
sweated and cursed. Her mother had said she could trust Tarnoor. Aiskeep owed 
her mother a debt. As a toddler Trovagh had fallen from high in the old Keep. 
He'd been badly injured and Tarnoor had sent to Lanlia for help. It was known 
she had somewhat of the healing gift. For many nights she worked over the small 
child until at last he was out of danger. He would always walk a little lame, 
and colds tended to settle dangerously on his chest in the chillier winters. But 
he lived. Tarnoor's only child and the heir to Aiskeep. Ciara could remember her 
parents talking.
"He loves the boy," her mother had insisted. "Oh, yes, it's true he loathes the 
man who'd inherit if Trovagh died. But he loves the boy well. I have seen them 
together." Her tones had become warmly amused. "I do not think the harsh Lord 
Tarnoor is as hard as he would have many think. I have told him, too, that the 
child should have a playmate."
Tarnoor seemed to have agreed. After Trovagh was well again his father brought 
him regularly to Elmsgarth to play childish games with Ciara. Although she was a 
year younger and slighter of bone, she still was the equal to Trovagh whose 
injuries had slowed his growth. She had come first to like and then to trust her 
friend completely, and with him his father. She watched her family laid to rest, 
heard the old words said. But she was afraid without quite knowing why. She had 
always been active. Scrapes, bruises, and occasional punishment had been hers. 
It was not pain of body that held her back now, but pain of heart.
The guards of Karsten were to protect the people. Why, one of Falco's best 
friends was a lieutenant. The duke was there to give Justice. Where was his 
Justice in this? Where was the protection? If being one of the Old Blood was 
wicked, might not Tarnoor, even her friend Trovagh, turn against her? She could 
not bear it if they came at her with swords. Her heart would break before the 
bright metal struck home. She hovered indecisively edging first a little toward 
them, then back. The movement caught Trovagh's eye as he turned. Already wise at 
ten he did not run toward her but spoke quietly to his father.
"Ciara's here, but I think she's afraid."
"Don't alarm her. Walk to her very slowly, speak quietly," Tarnoor advised. He'd 
seen enough terrorized children in his time as a soldier. The Goddess grant none 
had laid hands on the lass.
Trovagh moved forward, hands held out. "Ciara, Cee? It's Tro. My father's here. 
Nothing bad will happen to you. Please come out. Cee?" She edged toward him, 
white eye rims showing like a terrified horse. He kept talking, reminding her of 
their games, their secrets, until at last he reached her. Still murmuring 
gently, he placed a hand on her arm and felt the long, slow shudders that 
rippled through the thin body. "Cee, no one will hurt you, I swear it. Please 
come with us." Overcome then with fury, his treble hardened to a lighter 
imitation of his father's growl. "I swear, Cee. I'll hang the man who hurts you. 
If I can't, I'll order one of our men." He met her eyes and suddenly the picture 
of his words set them both to giggling in slight hysteria.
Trovagh grinned. "I know, I know. My father gives that sort of order. But he'd 
say the same." He laid a careful arm about the shaking shoulders and gently led 
Ciara to where Tarnoor stood.
"You would, wouldn't you, Father? Hang the man who tried to hurt Cee, I mean?"
"Yes. If I could. Or keep him away from you at the least, child. Now sit down a 
minute and tell me what you can. Speak swiftly, for we must be away from here in 
case any of the guard return."
She talked, the words spilling out of her like blood. It hurt to remember her 
mother's orders, and how she had died. Tarnoor swore under his breath. He'd done 
things as a soldier under orders. But Aiskeep owed Elmsgarth a debt and he'd 
never been one to forget that. Nor one to harm a child, either, he added 
mentally. He hid a sudden smile. His son would never forgive him if anything 
happened to Ciara now. The boy had pledged his word his playmate would be safe. 
Tarnoor was not the man to see his son oathbroken.
"Can you climb up now and drop the carrysacks to us?"
Ciara nodded slowly. At his gesture she trotted up the stairs, traversed the 
elms, and from the cave dropped the four containers.
These were slung across the rump of Tarnoor's mount. Then he turned as she 
rejoined them. This should be official.
"Your mother trusted me to care for you. Will you come with me to Aiskeep? Will 
you accept me as your guardian?"
Ciara's eyes filled with tears. She didn't know what she was supposed to say. 
The questions had an air of formality about them. Was there some special way she 
should answer? She stood drooping before him. Small face white with grief and 
exhaustion, body still shaking from the shocks of past days. She was unable to 
think, to speak. She could only huddle into herself, huge-eyed and silent.
Tarnoor forgot formality as he wordlessly held out his arms. She flung herself 
to him, weeping aloud as he held her. In that moment something passed between 
them. She relaxed, trusting, knowing she was again protected. Tarnoor held her 
enfolded, a rush of love for the child he'd been sent. His daughter now. His! 
And let none say differently.

2
They back together, with Ciara's carrysacks hanging over the rump of Lord 
Tarnoor's horse, while Ciara perched behind Trovagh on his smaller pony. Tarnoor 
had hoisted her up and wrapped her carefully in the oversized cloak.
"It's too big for her, Father."
"That's no matter while she's on the pony, boy. And I'd rather no one sees who 
she is while the countryside's still so stirred up."
At the thought of that Ciara shrank deep into the sheltering cloak. She'd seen 
neighbor Tylar die. Blood feuds had started from far less than a death. From 
beneath the enveloping hood she peered out, her eyes attuned to her own land, so 
that it was she who saw the sheep first.
"Oh, stop, Trovagh."
The boy halted his pony. Ciara slipped from her perch to walk quietly toward the 
small huddle of ewes and lambs. Larian had released them as ordered before the 
guards arrived. The sheep had drifted well down the valley but kept to cover. It 
was growing colder toward winter. Soon they would be fed with extra rations of 
hay. But the odd smells of fire and blood had disturbed them. In their blacks 
and browns they had vanished into cover blending with the fall landscape. They 
recognized Ciara at once, though, crowding round to sniff hopefully at her 
hands.
"I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you. Where's Ysak?"
At the sound of his name the big ram shouldered his way through the small flock. 
She knelt to hug him gently.
"Look after them for me. We'll return for you." She gazed up at Tarnoor 
doubtfully. "We will, won't we?"
"Yes, child. As soon as we're home I'll send out men to bring in everything of 
yours you wish. It's likely we won't find the horses. The guards will have taken 
any they found."
"Larian let everything go before they got to us."
"Then the men will look for them also. Get up behind Trovagh again. We must get 
you to Aiskeep."
She mounted in silence looking back at the flock with Ysak as guard. Her mother 
had cherished each lamb. They were the only colored sheep in the whole area. 
Father had brought back several frail lambs from the province past Kars to the 
North. There, closer to the Estcarp border they had such sheep. He'd got the 
lambs cheaply in a deal and carried them back. With Lanlia's care they had 
thrived. Now and again she had been able to buy or swap for others. Until at 
last the Elmsgarth flock numbered some twenty adult ewes and Ysak the ram. All 
were hand tamed and would come to their names.
They must be brought back to the Keep. She could not bear the thought of them 
being left alone, prey to men and animals. They were sturdy beasts, but in full 
winter they required shelter and additional food. In the back of her mind, she 
wondered why she was thinking so hard about the sheep. Tarnoor could have told 
her that it was shock, and her mind's defenses. If she contemplated sheep she 
did not have to remember her family—or their deaths. Now and again he encouraged 
her with questions so that she hardly noticed the journey back to Aiskeep.
When at last they arrived, she was lifted from the pony. Tarnoor carried her 
indoors, through the feasting hall, and into a small bedroom beside Trovagh's 
rooms.
"This will be yours." He turned, speaking quietly to the plump, warmhearted 
Elanor, who was his distant kin. "Care for her, but touch nothing in her 
carrysacks, nor do anything she does not wish. See that she eats, if possible. 
If not, get her to drink something hot. She is uninjured but badly shocked. Ask 
no questions of her and be sure no one else bothers her, either."
He left them to it. Elanor had been maid and companion to his wife before she 
died. Now she was housekeeper. Uninspired it was true, but efficient and kind 
nonetheless. He headed back to the stables in search of Trovagh.
"Do those sheep of Elmsgarth know you, son?"
"Yes. Are we going back for them now?"
"I think so. From what the girl says, it won't be long before those sons of 
Tylar come looking. The body was gone, which means the guard must have taken it 
back to Sersgarth. They're troublemakers, that family. But they aren't complete 
fools. Sooner or later it will dawn on them to put aside any dispute over 
Sersgarth and gather first what they can elsewhere. Before then I want us to 
have been and gone."
He called orders as men joined them. Two of the long hay wains drawn by strong 
teams began to plod off at once.
"Let them start ahead. We'll catch up soon." Tarnoor was speaking to his Master 
at Arms as the wains departed. "I want nine or ten men, all armed with bow and 
sword. Steady men, the sort who won't act before my orders even in case of 
provocation."
Hanion nodded. "Master Trovagh tells me that the guard attacked Elmsgarth. The 
three-times horning?"
"Yes."
The Master at Arms snorted angrily. "Yvian's gone mad.
What harm did the Old Race ever do us? I rode with some of them in my early days 
on bandit patrol. Good men, good fighters, and canny, too. A shame to us all 
this business. Mistress Lanlia aided any with her healcraft who came asking. She 
never distinguished between the Old Blood and the new. As for that Tylar—" He 
spat at the ground. "Good job he's dead, if you ask me. That family's never been 
anything but trouble."
"Like to be more before it ends," Tarnoor said gloomily. "They won't overlook 
the death of their father—even if they were all just waiting themselves for him 
to die so they'd inherit."
"Humph! Long wait that'd have been, too."
"True, well, never mind." Tarnoor reached for the reins of his own horse as it 
was led to him. "Let's go!"
A dozen riders clattered out of the gates and off down the road at a steady 
canter. Tarnoor glanced over them. Hanion had chosen well. Veterans to a man, 
they wouldn't act too hastily. He might need that quality if Tylar's sons 
appeared before Aiskeep had been and gone again. Trovagh rode beside him on a 
fresh horse; the boy might well be of help, Tarnoor thought. Trovagh had run all 
over the garth with young Ciara. He'd know most of the hiding places there. He 
scanned the countryside as they rode. No sign of Tylar's lads fortunately. But 
it had been three days. One of them would think of Elmsgarth sooner or later. 
That was why Tarnoor had chosen to return at once.
It took hours, until at length Tarnoor ordered torches to be lit. The two wains 
were filled, heaped high, with more items lashed onto the outside. The sheep had 
long since been found and started on their trek to Aiskeep. It had been Trovagh 
who, as Tarnoor had foreseen had been of most use in finding things.
"The horses always hole up in the willows down by the stream if they're left 
out."
He'd been correct. Four of the strong farm beasts were there along with the 
saddle horse Larian had been riding. There, too, was the sensible middle-aged 
mare Lanlia had always ridden. All of the beasts looked well and came willingly 
to Trovagh's call.
"Good, lad, get them to the stables. Tell Hanion to have the team harnessed. 
It'll give us another wain."
Trovagh vanished to pass on the order, then vanished again on his own behalf. He 
returned leading two female goats, both almost whimpering in their desire to be 
milked. Hanion grinned down at him.
"Well, that's fine." He glanced over at the men. "Erek, you came from a farm, do 
what you can for this pair, then put them in the wain." It was almost moonhigh 
before all was loaded. Tarnoor took his son aside.
"Two things. Can you think of anything else Ciara would wish to have before we 
leave? Do you know of any hiding places within the garth where valuables might 
be kept?"
Trovagh nodded. "Cee has a hidey-hole in her room. I don't think there's 
anything valuable there but she'd like to have the things, I think. And there's 
one in her parents' room, too. Cee showed me once. It's a secret that even she 
wasn't supposed to know."
"Show me the secret one first, then take a sack and clear out the one in Ciara's 
room for her."
He was interested to find just how secret the first had been. To open it one had 
to stand on a stool and swing on a beam. It was clever. At first glance the beam 
was no more than a roof beam. But with weight dragging at it, one could see that 
the beam only touched the roof, and it was not attached. Beside him a panel slid 
open. He studied the hidden contents. Several wooden boxes, one small, the 
others larger. He opened the first to discover deeds to the land, family papers, 
and a small bag of gold and silver coins. Talyo's fallback money no doubt, he 
thought. Best not to waste time checking everything else.
He'd just have the lot removed to the wain. He yelled for a couple of his men.
It was almost dawn before the last items were gathered in. The men were tired 
but pleased with themselves at cheating Tylar's kin from their loot. All had 
known the family at Elmsgarth. There were few who had not at sometime or another 
availed themselves of Lanlia's healcraft. As soon as the road was sufficiently 
light they moved out. The garth wain rumbled along in their midst. Tarnoor 
smiled to himself. He had the deeds to the land. With those he could legally 
register his own name as owner. He would have that done at once, but quietly. If 
one of Tylar's sons settled, he could be tossed off at anytime. Not that there 
was any hurry.
He grinned again. The land was too far from the Keep to bother working. But if 
someone settled here he would wait. Once they'd established themselves he'd 
offer to sell them the land complete with deeds. That would be more money for 
the girl. It also gave him control of who settled there as a neighbor. It had 
been an exhausting, but very fruitful day. He slouched back in his saddle. 
Trovagh's pony was being led from the wain. The boy himself was fast asleep on a 
pile of bedding atop the load. Yes, indeed. A good day. He'd acquired the 
daughter he'd always wanted as well as his son. Found the right to choose a 
neighbor, and raised himself even higher in his son's eyes.
A rider galloped back from the road ahead. "Lord, there's a rabble approaching. 
Tylar's sons lead. They've wagons and pack ponies." .
Tarnoor acted. Most of his men had served as soldiers in their younger days. 
He'd kept up the training. He heeled his mount to the head of the line, chose 
thick brush, and signaled them to leave the road. He added the signals to keep 
the horses silent, and to make no move until ordered. Everyone was under cover 
by the time the would-be looters passed. Tarnoor considered them, a motley lot. 
That miserable garths-man from farther north, a neighbor of Tylar's. The man 
spent more time drinking than farming, Tylar's four brawling sons, and a 
sprinkling of others who hoped to profit. Half of them still looked drunk, the 
rest miserably hungover.
He exchanged looks with Hanion. The would-be looters wouldn't be at all happy to 
find someone had been before them. It could be a good idea to throw them off the 
trail if possible. The longer it took for them to learn the truth, the safer 
Ciara would be. He motioned Hanion close and talked busily, the Armsmaster 
nodding back at intervals. Once the road was clear Tarnoor emerged. The wain 
trundled on its way with an escort of half the men. Tarnoor, Hanion, and four of 
the Keep guard rode at a slow walk back toward Elmsgarth.
They caught up with the group ahead just as they reached the turn into the 
valley. Tarnoor was at his most bluff and heartily ignorant. "What's this, a 
drinking party so early? Has someone married?"
Tylar's oldest son answered after a swift glance around. "No, Lord. We heard 
that Elmsgarth had been attacked. We go to see."
"Ah. That is good, that is right. To help a neighbor who may be in trouble. I, 
too, have regard for Mistress Lanlia and the family. I shall ride with you."
His small group hid grins with difficulty as they watched the boy struggle with 
having to tell a lord he wasn't wanted.
"Um, no need, sir, my lord. We wouldn't want to take you out of your way."
"Nonsense. Good friends, good neighbors. Only right. Besides, there may be 
bodies to be buried. Can't have them around stinking up the garth. Not right, 
no, no."
"But, my lord…"
"Now then, any more and you'll have me thinking we aren't of use."
The boy pasted a patently false smile on his face. "Oh, no, my lord. You do us 
honor."
"Good, lad. Don't worry, we won't interfere with your work. You get on and help 
the family. Mend anything broken, yes? Dig any graves if they're needed. I'm 
just here as lord to see what has happened."
He reined his horse back a little. He and his Master at Arms exchanged glances. 
Both were having trouble keeping straight faces at the miserable looks ahead of 
them. The group had come to loot and be rich, not to dig holes, and mend fences. 
They were unhappily aware that under Tarnoor's eye they might have to do just 
that.
"Well, Hanion?"
"Very well, my lord. I'd say they suspect nothing."
Tarnoor nodded. The harder part would come when they reached the garth. That 
they did very shortly. The scruffy group ahead gaped in fury at the neat graves 
to one side of the house. They scattered, shouts and cries revealing their 
dashed hopes. Tarnoor dismounted to examine the graves. He'd left no sign as to 
who had buried his friends. He bowed his head for a moment praying they rested 
in peace. Tylar's son dashed up to him.
"My lord, someone has been here already. The house is stripped."
He met raised eyebrows. "So? It may be that some of the family survived. They 
may have departed with their goods to seek a place where thieves do not come in 
the night."
He watched as the lad opened his mouth to refute most of that, then almost bit 
his tongue off to keep silence. Tarnoor nodded kindly. "One should not jump to 
conclusions," he said pompously. "I daresay Talyo will let us know what he 
wishes. Until then, let no one think to claim his land too hastily."
The young man facing him was all but chewing his tongue to shreds at this. How 
could he tell the lord that Talyo would let no one know anything ever again. He 
spoke cautiously.
"Um, my lord, has no word come to you from the Kars guard?"
"I have been traveling. What word?"
"The Old Race was thrice-horned by Duke Yvian, my lord. I fear that Elmsgarth 
may have been attacked by those…" He spluttered to a halt. Well, no, Tarnoor 
thought. You can't very well explain it was your father who led the murderers 
here to make a profit. Or that you are here now to take anything you can lever 
up. Your kind envy anyone with more. You'd use any excuse, this horning was just 
convenient. Aloud he spoke casually.
"Well, in that case I think you may remove anything you find. Property or 
beasts. But do not damage the house. It may be of use to whomever settles the 
land." He saw that thought sink in. Good. The house would be safe. "Nor would I 
seek to seize the land too hastily. It is possible the duke will have plans for 
it. He has friends at court who are landless."
That was no more than the truth, too. There were always a crowd of eager, 
money-hungry hangers-on at the duke's feet. He'd ridden with Yvian when they 
were both young. None of this smacked of him. If his courtiers were 
money-hungry, Yvian had been power-hungry. Tarnoor had backed him when the duke 
first ascended the throne in Kars. Not because he liked Yvian, so much as 
Karsten needed a stronger hand just then. Yvian had that. He had appetites, too. 
But they were ones his people understood. What had gone wrong to drive the duke 
to all this? It was utter folly but too late to mend. Tarnoor would keep his 
head well down until he knew the worst. Meanwhile he would look to his own 
defenses.
He stared out across the garth. It was quite possible Yvian would gift the land 
to one of his hangers-on. Or some toady of his mistress, Aldis. He'd met the 
lady once and would put little past her. Perhaps this was some ploy of hers? He 
turned to the lad again.
"There seems nothing I should do here. Should you find anything you believe I 
should hear about, send word." The boy nodded, a faint smugness coating his 
look. He'd tell his lord nothing. If they found anything it would be theirs. Not 
that there was likely to be anything. Some sneaking thief had been before them 
all, curse him. They'd bide their time. If no one came to claim the land in a 
year or two, he'd take it. This had been a larger, more fertile farm than 
Sersgarth. Let his next brother take that. The other two could lay claim to a 
smaller place now also unoccupied to the north of them. They'd been there in 
time all right.
He licked his lips at memories of three days past. His father had come here to 
die. His sons had gone elsewhere and it had been others who died. His share 
would help to refurbish Elmsgarth again. He could at least graze the stolen 
beasts here. He sketched a bow to his lord and hurried away. If anyone did find 
anything he would not be cheated out of his share. Tarnoor gazed after him in 
disgust before signaling his men to close ranks. They cantered off down the road 
and were some distance away before Hanion spoke.
"I think they have no suspicions."
"No. The boy's too busy cursing over lost loot to suspect us. He thinks that I 
came there for the same reason. Well enough. But, Hanion, keep still the tongues 
in your men's heads. It's likely most of this will blow over. But in case it 
does not, I don't want that cat's leavings to know the child lives, or that it 
is Aiskeep that has his plunder."
"No, Lord."
Tarnoor left it at that. Hanion had been with him all of their lives. He was 
solidly reliable. Full of common sense and born at Aiskeep, the son of the man 
who had been Master at Arms to Tarnoor's father. Its interests were his own. 
Aiskeep had always been clever in that. Its guard was chosen from those born and 
bred there. Now and again they added another family. But a guard was never 
chosen from that generation. His people were treated fairly, not as other lords 
closer to Kars corruption often dealt with their servants. Tarnoor was sure his 
people were loyal, but like most, they gossiped. Hanion would see to it that 
gossip was confined to Aiskeep.
They clattered back through the gate just as the last wain was being unloaded. 
Trovagh had been carried off to finish his sleep in a bed, but Elanor waited for 
her lord in the courtyard.
"Ciara?"
"I persuaded her to drink chicken broth, my lord. She slept then, but I know she 
had nightmares. She cried out and struggled in her sleep often. I fear she may 
be ill from the shock."
Tarnoor sighed. "I know. Her mother was the only one hereabouts with healcraft. 
Do what you can. Let Trovagh visit as he wishes. She trusts him."
Elanor nodded as he strode away. She would care for the child as her own. She, 
too, had liked Lanlia and trusted her. Unlike others outside the Keep Lanlia had 
not treated the woman as a mere servant. Elanor had indeed been maid and 
companion to Keep's Lady when they arrived. But she had also been bloodkin from 
a branch of the family without wealth. Still, she had been well taught in all 
the things necessary to care for a large Keep. Seria had been delicate—and lazy. 
She had been more than happy for Elanor to take over the running of the Keep's 
day-by-day affairs. When visiting, Lanlia had spoken to Elanor as a friend, and 
deferred to her knowledge of the Keep when ordering treatment for Trovagh. For 
her sake, Elanor would now care for Ciara. The girl was of good blood, Old Race 
or not. She hastily stifled another idea. That was the future. It did not do to 
tempt the gods.
Over the next few weeks Ciara faded, however, despite all Elanor could do. The 
girl slept, only to wake screaming. Elanor became aware the child was unable to 
keep down most of what she ate. Trovagh was gentle with his friend. He could 
take her mind from memories and willingly played the fool to do so whenever 
possible. But at last even he was afraid for her.
"Father, I don't think Ciara is well."
"No." Tarnoor didn't think. He knew. It was as if a wasting fever had the lass 
in its grasp. "Does she talk to you? Say anything about her nightmares?"
"No. I asked, but she doesn't want to say. What can I do to help?"
His father sighed. "Just be her friend, lad. Maybe she'll talk once she's been 
here a while longer." He returned to a letter from a friend as Trovagh ran off. 
News from Kars was odd these days. Yvian had made ax-marriage to the daughter of 
Verlaine. The mother's line had been well enough, but the father's? Faugh! The 
man was a wrecker and a rogue. And what of Aldis, she'd not appreciate being 
thrust aside for some maiden. Letters were few and slow arriving of recent 
weeks. This one was dated before the Horning. He took up another of a later date 
and read in bewilderment. What all this talk of Kolder was he did not know, but 
he liked nothing about it.
He finished reading and rose slowly. Out in the stables he found Hanion and took 
him aside.
"Strange things happen in Kars of late. I think it wise that we mend walls and 
shut gates. Make no haste too obvious but be sure all is secure." He saw the 
sharp glance that met his. "Yes. It is possible trouble may travel this far. We 
host messengers of other lords as they pass. Tread lightly, but I would know how 
others of our rank have dealt with the Horning."
"That I can tell you already, Lord. Many have ignored it, or openly taken people 
under their protection. The messenger of Lord Geavon came through last week. He 
said his lord was very angry, saying that his family had been lords of Gerith 
for centuries. They took no orders to murder their people from some upstart 
mercenary. The only man who attacked at the horns bidding, he took and hung."
Tarnoor grinned. He knew Lord Geavon. A crotchety, gloomy man but a good friend 
and kin to Tarnoor. Geavon's great love was his lineage and his Keep. In Kars 
Yvian's word ran, but further out, the lords remembered their duke was a man of 
no family. They might bow politely in Kars. In their Keeps they bowed to none. 
Yvian had been raised to duke to keep order in the towns and city. If he failed 
at this, it was likely there would be plots to depose him. No decent lord 
appreciated the sort of disorder that was now upon Kars. He proved right in mat. 
As days passed small groups of refugees slipped by Aiskeep. Some, bolder, 
ventured in with letters of introduction from men known to Tarnoor.
He helped all who did so. Some would have taken Ciara with them, had he asked. 
He did not. Lanlia had trusted him. Besides, the child was too weak to travel. 
He did not yet acknowledge that he had grown swiftly to love her. The slow seep 
of those who fled lessened and died. It bothered him. He wasn't above being 
tempted; there'd been things done he regretted in his life. But this wholesale 
slaughter of the innocent appalled him. He would kill if he was attacked, or 
occasionally as a needed example. But Yvian was ruining Karsten with this folly. 
His grimness lightened considerably with the next letter.
His bellows of amusement brought Trovagh, Ciara, Hanion, and Elanor.
"My lord?" Hanion was interested.
Tarnoor read further and shouted again with mirth. He looked at the circle of 
puzzled faces. "A letter from a friend near Kars. Yvian is short a bride. The 
girl vanished into Est-carp to wed some boy there. It appears Yvian was not to 
her taste. The Kolder, too, are ended. Estcarp made a foray against them and the 
Kolder are gone from Kars." He snickered loudly. "None of this will sit well 
with the duke. Makes the man look a fool, not that he isn't. But no man likes 
the world to know it. He'll have to move in some way to regain authority. 
Hanion, just in case it's in this direction, move the work along faster. I want 
the walls mended in another week. You may also look for another half-dozen 
suitable guards. I'll be sending you with some of the men to Teral market. We 
want more weapons and I'd like to lay in barrels of beer and salt beef." He 
clapped his hands still grinning. "That's all the news. Off with you."
Trovagh stayed. "May Ciara and I go along, Father? She's never been to a real 
market in a town before."
His father considered. It might perk the child up. She didn't look of the Old 
Race so should be safe enough in Hanion's care, then again was she fit to travel 
so far? It would be a full day's ride there and another home again. He 
compromised.
"The market I want won't be for two more weeks. Tell Ciara she may go with you 
if she is better by then." He smiled as the boy raced away to share the promise. 
It reminded him, he must look at the boxes found in Elmsgarth. Thus far they had 
been stowed away unopened. The only action he'd taken had been to record the 
transfer of Elmsgarth to himself. It had been done quietly so far as he knew, 
none but he and a clerk in faraway Kars had knowledge of what had been written. 
Of course he had also taken the bag of coins. That was going toward mending the 
Keep walls, and gathering extra supplies. It was fair. Walls would help to 
protect Ciara, while supplies would be shared with her as well.
He watched the girl over the days. She might force herself to eat. It did no 
good, all that she ate returned, weakening her further. Tarnoor guessed that 
something within her revolted at living. Unless one of those who cared for her 
could find the secret and convince her otherwise, Ciara would go to join her 
slain kin. He would not have that happen. He loved his son as a strong man loves 
one who will follow him. But Ciara he had come to love as one who protects 
responds to the need of one weaker. For her his love was a sheltering roof to 
her frailty. He watched helpless and raging as she failed.
In another ten days she was too weak to leave her bed for more than a handful of 
hours. Trovagh stayed with her. He brought games, stories, ideas, anything that 
would divert her. Elanor played and sang to both children. She had a soft voice, 
but clear and true, and some small skill with the hand harp. Ciara in particular 
loved the old songs, begging them over and over. Nightmares still plagued the 
girl. She woke crying out more than once most nights, the lack of sleep also 
wearing hard on her.
She refused Elanor's offer to share the bed. She did not wish any to know the 
shape of her dreams. They seemed to her to be a monstrous wrong and wicked. It 
was Trovagh at last who broke through the wall of her grief and pain to 
understand what tore at her. Ciara was sleeping but the boy was awake. As he lay 
quiet he heard the whimpering from her room. On silent feet he stole through the 
door. Ciara slept, yet in that sleep tears ran down her face. Now and again her 
mouth shaped a name.
"Mother, Father, Larian?" Her words became loud enough for the listening boy to 
understand.
"Mother, please, I'm lonely. Mother, where are you?" Her hand slid out, fingers 
curled as if they sought for another clasping hand. "Father?" Her voice was a 
moan. "Larian, why am I alone? Why did you all leave me here?" Her voice trailed 
off into soft weeping once more. Trovagh took the reaching hand in his. With his 
left hand he shook her gently by the shoulder.
"Cee? Cee, wake up. You aren't alone. You have me and Father, and Elanor now. 
Cee!" She opened vague eyes to stare at him. The fingers gripping his convulsed. 
Still half asleep, she spoke her horror for the first time.
"They all left me. There's no one now. I don't have anyone. No family, 
everything is cold and empty. When you and Lord Tarnoor came I was afraid. 
Mother always said Yvian dealt justice, and the guards were there to protect us. 
But they killed everyone by the duke's order. Why? What did we do that was so 
evil? I was afraid you would kill me, too, so I hid. I'm afraid all the time now 
and I have no one. Lonely, so lonely…" Her voice shuddered to a halt. Trovagh 
did the only thing he could think of.
His voice became coaxing, "Listen. You can have a family." Behind him Tarnoor 
stood motionless and silent in the doorway. He, too, had wakened and come to the 
child's cries, just in time to hear her confession. He could understand it. 
Older, stronger people than this girl had been broken by the knowledge they 
stood alone. Children often understood other children better than any adult. He 
waited to hear what his son would say.
"Honest, Cee. You can have a family."
"How?" Her interest was caught.
"You do like me, don't you?"
Her hazel eyes gazed at him. "You're my best friend."
He stammered a little on the next question, "D-do you love me, Cee?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation.
Trovagh drew in a deep breath. "Then you can have a family." In bemused wonder, 
Tarnoor listened as his son proposed marriage.
"If we're betrothed, then my father is your father, too. And I'm sort of a 
brother until we marry. Elanor's cousin to my mother so she'd be your cousin, 
too. That way you'd have a real family again. All you have to do is say the 
words, Cee."
For the first time in many years, Tarnoor felt tears prick his eyes as his son 
led Ciara through as much as he understood of a betrothal ceremony. Somewhere 
along the line the boy had also heard of knife oath. He added that in, solemnly 
bringing out his knife to draw a bead of blood from a finger of each of them. 
The blood was then mingled. Trovagh reached for the cup of water beside her bed.
"Drink a little." She did so obediently. Trovagh drank after her. He took 
Ciara's hands. "That's it. By the Cup we shared, by the Flame to witness, by the 
Blood joined. We're betrothed and my family is yours. You don't have to be alone 
again." He leaned forward to kiss her very gently on the forehead. "That's my 
right as betrothed."
Then, as Tarnoor shrank further out of sight, the boy stretched. "Gods but I'm 
sleepy. You'll be all right now, Cee?"
She nodded, her small face happier. Tarnoor watched as his son trotted back to 
his own room. When he could again peer through the door, Ciara was asleep. The 
Keep Lord was thoughtful all of the next day. Without her noticing, he kept an 
eye on the girl. The ceremony, odd mixture though it had been, seemed to have 
worked. Ciara kept her meals down, slept without dreaming, and woke to eat 
heartily. She blossomed. Tarnoor spent a week thinking it over, then he made a 
decision.
It would not be a bad idea to allow the ceremony legal status. He'd never lose 
Ciara. His son could have a far worse wife and the girl had brought a fair 
dowry—by now he'd had sufficient time to check all her belongings and the boxes. 
He quietly called Elanor, confiding what he had seen.
"The child adores him. I think it an excellent idea, Nethyn. Trovagh will never 
be strong physically. The girl won't hold that against him as another might. Nor 
will she seek to take power for herself. She is of decent family, is she not?"
Tarnoor nodded. "Her mother Lanlia was orphaned. But her grandmother was of a 
very old family. That pendant the child wears is from that line. There's more. 
When I opened the boxes, I found a complete setting in solid silver for the 
table." He whispered the crest and watched her eyes widen. "Yes, that's no line 
to be scorned. There were plates and bowls with it, all in silver. The carrysack 
Lanlia gave the girl to hide in the cave had jewelry. Fine work with rare gems 
from Estcarp. Another of the boxes had gold and silver coins. A goodly sum. 
Ciara does not come empty-handed to a betrothal even as Karsten would count it." 
He thrust a paper at her. "Sign this as a witness. It says I approve the match. 
I'll have the priestess in tomorrow."
Elanor signed, smiling.
The next day the children were called to Tarnoor's study. When they left both 
were beaming. On one slender finger Ciara bore a ring. They'd spoken words all 
over again, this time before a Priestess of Cup and Flame. They hadn't cared. 
Both knew that it was the earlier ceremony that bound them. It would for all of 
their lives.

3
For a time Aiskeep was quiet after that. Ciara grew strong. The nightmares 
troubled her no more. That winter it was Trovagh who was ill. His chest troubles 
flared with the coming of a cold that made him cough painfully. Ciara vanished 
industriously into the herb room to brew. She returned with a concoction that he 
swallowed trustingly. Then he smiled.
"That tastes just the same as your mother used to give me."
"It is the same." It helped the boy until he was careless enough to escape from 
his bed.
A messenger had come, there was commotion, loud, excited talking, all the fuss 
guaranteed to bring a boy from his bed in the middle of a night that was chill 
by any standards. Boylike, too, he ignored it, wearing no more than his slippers 
and nightgown. By the time he had crouched long on the stairs to hear all that 
was said, he was chilled to the bone. After all that it hadn't been so 
interesting anyhow, Trovagh muttered to himself. He hunched back into his cold 
bed and shivered. He felt so cold.
By the early hours of the morning he was hot, tossing off his bedding only to 
drag it back again as he shivered once more. Something woke Ciara then. She sat 
up listening. There was nothing to be heard. She would have laid down again but 
for the tugging at her attention. She dressed quietly. Lanlia had always said to 
pay attention to feelings such as these. Silently the child drifted from her 
room. She would look at her family, see that all was well.
She came first to Trovagh's room and stood listening. There came a faint moan, a 
soft sound of jumbled words. Then she knew. Ciara wasted no time in entering to 
reach him. The boy thrashed, burning with fever, already delirious. Ciara looked 
once, then raced from the room to call Elanor. She burst into the Keep 
mistress's room without ceremony. Elanor woke abruptly to someone who shook her 
savagely calling her name. Scared half out of her wits she screamed. This 
brought Tarnoor bellowing questions as he burst through the door in turn. Ciara 
had no time for any of them.
"Shut up!" she yelled. "Listen! Tro is sick. He's feverish and his chest is 
rattling when he breathes. Come quickly." She did not pause to see if they 
obeyed. By the time they found her she was back with her friend sponging his 
face gently.
Elanor turned to build up the fire. Heat would help to break the fever. It was 
then that Trovagh coughed. She heard the rattle and winced inwardly. That was 
pneumonia, she'd heard it before. Many died from it. They labored for two days 
as Trovagh grew no better.
Ciara sat with him constantly, her herb concoctions seemingly the only thing 
that helped. Her presence always able to calm him. The whole of Aiskeep prayed. 
They'd known the lad since his father brought him out in swaddling clothes to be 
shown to those he would rule. They were aware that Tarnoor's rule was fair and 
kind by any standards, far more so than the rule in many Keeps. Trovagh would 
continue that. The heir after him would not. Tarnoor prayed most fervently. He 
begged for the life of his son—for several reasons. The foremost was love of the 
boy. The next was love of his people and the great grim gray Keep they shared.
Like the people he knew the habits of the next heir. A corrupt lad. Barely 
twenty, he was a third cousin in a cadet branch of the line. The boy lived 
mostly in Kars, and was a hanger-on to Yvian and worshiper of Aldis. If Risho 
ever came into power he would be ruthless for his own pleasure. Tamoor prayed 
harder, on his knees in the small shrine until his back ached. It was all he 
could do. Upstairs Ciara labored with all the aid Elanor could give. The fire 
blazed, and blankets were piled on the bed. Trovagh was dosed with every 
medicine Ciara had learned that might help. None of it broke the fever.
Elanor sat back on her heels. The fire was pouring heat into the room. She 
glanced at Trovagh, noting the fever flush, the wasted look. They were losing 
him. The thought was intolerable. She found herself shaking Ciara by the 
shoulders.
"You're of the Old Blood. Help him! Use it to do something. He's dying!"
The girl's head whipped to and fro. Do something? She'd tried everything she 
knew. But she couldn't lose Tro, he was her best friend, her family. Her 
betrothed. She hadn't been able to save her kin once. This time she would rather 
go down into the dark with Tro than lose him. She freed herself ruthlessly.
"Go and get more drinking water. When you come back don't speak or touch me. 
Keep anyone else to that, too." Her eyes came up to stare hard into Elanor's. "I 
don't know if I can help, but I'll try."
She set herself to remember as she sat on the stool beside the bed. Her mother's 
mother had died when Lanlia was only sixteen. But Talyo's mother had lived with 
them until Ciara was seven. Larian had been her favorite but she'd been kind to 
Ciara, talked to her. Larian! The pendant! Could that help her now? She freed it 
from her bodice, staring down at the perfect tear shape, the tiny flickers of 
blue gems that edged the flanking wings. She cupped it in her small hands. It 
seemed right then to reach out. Tro's hands slid into hers to lie cupped above 
them. Into that double cup she allowed the pendant to rest.
She was afraid, so afraid. The maids had talked when Ciara was unnoticed. She 
understood vaguely that it was the gifts of the Old Race that had brought death 
to them. They said Yvian hated the Witches. That use of the Power was evil and 
witchcraft. But if she didn't do this Tro would die. She struggled for a time 
before she could force herself to try. She would not let Tro die because she was 
afraid.
She allowed her mind to relax, to slow into a gentle calm. The pendant helped 
with that. It radiated peace, warmth. She felt her breathing slow, her heart 
cease the nervous pounding. She was no longer aware when Elanor returned. Above 
the cupped hands her face was a serene mask, while within them the pendant gave 
off a soft silver light shot with blue. Elanor bit back a gasp. Silently she 
moved to sit in the doorway. She would keep the quiet Ciara had demanded. 
Tarnoor would have spoken but her gesture was so fierce he, too, joined her 
without speaking. Motionless, praying, they waited.
At the bedside Ciara slipped deeper into the trance. From the hands cupped in 
hers she could feel something. All her thoughts appeared slowed, it was—it 
was—tightness! Ah, yes. Something bound with many ropes that must be unknotted, 
unwound to free the captive. Patiently she did so. She could not have said how 
she managed, only that she felt the ropes loosen and fall away one by one. She 
flung the last of them aside. Rightness returned. But the silver mist in which 
she walked was peaceful. She could remain here.
From the door Elanor saw the child's face grow strange. It was a mask now, as if 
the life slowly drained from her. At the same time the rattle of Trovagh's 
breathing ceased. Now he breathed in and out quietly. His face flushed, but with 
the normal pink of returning health. Ciara grew paler, more mask-like. Elanor 
panicked. The girl was exchanging her life with that of the boy in some way. If 
she went too far down that path they would have Ciara dead instead. Without 
pausing to reflect she flung herself to where the girl sat.
Hard hands struck the link. The two sets of cupped hands were thrust away as the 
pendant fell free touching neither. Ciara fell limply from her stool. Tarnoor 
leaped forward in time to catch her as from the bed Trovagh spoke.
"What's all the fuss? Cee? What's wrong with Cee?"
There was instant commotion.
It resolved into Elanor tucking the wilted Ciara into the bed by Trovagh's. It 
was there the girl had chosen to sleep as she cared for her friend. Now it would 
be most convenient to have them together and damn the conventions. Tarnoor held 
his son's hand thanking every power whose name he could recall.
Tro was insistent, "Is Cee all right?"
By now Elanor had been given time to check this. "Yes, she just seems to be 
completely exhausted. I don't know what she did, but it's drained all her 
strength. A long sleep, a good meal or two, and she should be well again."
Tarnoor heaved a sigh of relief, then another of exultation. He'd done right to 
make the betrothal legal. With Ciara at his side to keep him well, Trovagh would 
live to rule for many years. His face twisted into a snarling grin. Now let that 
debauched cousin of his try to claim Aiskeep. His son was alive, his people were 
safe… and Gods but he was tired. He sat in the large chair beside Trovagh's bed. 
When next anyone looked at him, Tarnoor was deeply asleep.
A week later things were back to normal for all but Ciara. She had no idea of 
how she had saved Tro. That worried her. What if she couldn't do it again? 
Perhaps if she looked at the pendant again, without needing to help? She 
closeted herself in her room while Tro rode with his father. Elanor was busy in 
the stillroom with an infusion of herbs that must not be left.
Ciara pulled the pendant free, then sat looking at it thoughtfully. It was old, 
that she knew. Grandmother had said it was a bridegift. Somehow Ciara felt that 
it was very old. There was a feel about it, as if it also had a power of its 
own. Maybe it did.
She cupped it in her hands, reaching again for the stillness and silver mist. It 
closed around her, warmly welcoming. It reminded her of Grandmother, like a soft 
lap and comfort. She could have stayed here forever but when she thought that 
the mist changed. No longer was it so warm nor so welcoming. She understood. She 
must not stay, though as a visitor she was permitted. She drifted timelessly 
before resurfacing to her own room.
Ciara was fascinated. After that she used her pendant most nights, just for a 
short time. Her ability to reach the mist improved until in a few months she 
could fall into it at will. She had half forgotten how she had used the pendant 
with Trovagh. It was only remembered when he came running one late afternoon.
"Cee? Cee?
She bolted from the door, there was desperation in his voice.
"What is it, what's wrong?"
Trovagh was white with horror. "Boldheart—Father jumped him over a wall and he 
fell."
"Is he badly hurt?"
"His leg's broken."
Ciara snorted, "That's bad but it'll heal in a few weeks. There's no need to get 
that upset."
Trovagh stared at her, then his voice went higher, "Not Father, Boldheart!"
Ciara gasped, then acted. She dived for the stillroom seizing her healer's 
satchel. "What about Uncle Nethyn, he isn't hurt at all?"
"Just a few bruises," Trovagh panted as they ran. "Here, up behind me." He held 
the overexcited pony still as she mounted, before kicking it to a gallop. They 
raced across pasture, up the hillside, and around the curve of brush. Before 
them Tarnoor sat, Boldheart's great head in his lap. Tarnoor's hand stroked the 
sweat-streaked neck. He glanced across as the children galloped up.
"I can't leave him. If I do he tries to stand." Ciara saw the pain in his eyes. 
She dropped lightly to the ground studying the injured leg. For a horse to break 
a leg meant he must die, but perhaps it wasn't really broken. She ran light 
fingers down the foreleg. There was a break but it was clean. Maybe, just maybe…
"Keep him still, don't talk to me for a while." She pulled her pendant free, 
cupping it in one hand while she laid the other across the injured leg. She 
didn't know if she could do this. She knew she would try. Boldheart had been the 
best of all the foals of his year. He'd come to a call, proud but friendly. 
Uncle Nethyn had chosen him when his previous horse got too old for the harder 
riding. Boldheart was beautiful, dapple-gray over a silver white mane and tail a 
cascade of pure silver. He was so gentle that once or twice she and Tro had 
stolen a ride on him, yet he was warhorse trained. She could feel his pain, his 
fear, but his trust in his rider, and in the humans who had always been kind to 
him, kept him lying there.
There was no one but Tarnoor and Trovagh to see. She slipped deep into the mist, 
it was so easy now. She let her thoughts slide, just emotions. She had it! The 
feeling of damage, of something to be repaired. It was like pulling herself up a 
rope; she reached the place and sank her mind into the problem. First she had to 
put all the bits together. Luckily there were only the two main portions and a 
chip or two. She held them in place with her mind and wondered. What should she 
do next? A memory surfaced. Metal turned molten in a mold. Did she have the 
power to do this? But if she failed, Boldheart died. She must not fail.
She reached out, drawing the mist into her. It flowed, filling her with warmth. 
Then she drove it into the injury, poured it out sinking it deep into the bone. 
Slowly, so slowly the bones mended, flowed together until all was whole again. 
She was far into the mist, a glimpse, a hint of a road there. She was thrust 
violently backwards. In her mind rang a voice.
"Silly girl. Not yet. Go back. Do I have to do everything around here?" Ciara 
surfaced, giggling weakly. She'd recognize her grandmother's tones anywhere.
She found she was clutching the pendant so tightly the wings had left marks on 
her palm. She lifted her other hand from where it lay curved around Boldheart's 
injury. With the last of her strength she ran light fingers down the leg. It was 
healed. There was no sign it had ever been less than whole. Then she fell back 
too exhausted to move. Tarnoor gaped down. By all the Powers, she had done it. 
His attention came back to the child, she was so white. His hand sought her 
throat. The pulse was slow but strong.
He eased himself out from under the heavy head and stood slowly. Then he spoke 
to his horse. With a thrashing of legs the beast rolled to sit, then to rise to 
his hooves. Trovagh's face lit joyously.
"I told you so. I told you Cee could fix him." He crouched back to touch Ciara's 
arm. "Is she all right?"
"She's drained herself of strength, lad. She needs to be gotten to a bed. Hold!" 
Tarnoor grabbed his arm before Trovagh could vanish. "It isn't as easy as that. 
I've been listening to the messengers as they come and go. Beyond Aiskeep the 
mood is growing harsh about the Witches and the Old Race." He looked into 
Trovagh's eyes. "Do you know what Cee has done here?"
He answered himself. "She healed a broken leg. When you were very ill she healed 
you, too. Each time she was tired for days. Healing takes a price from the 
healer. With the Old Blood driven from Karsten there are very few now who have 
her ability. She's valuable—and what is valuable may be taken. The longer we can 
keep silence about this the safer for her. Do you see?"
Trovagh saw. "I won't say anything. We could sneak her in the back way. Elanor 
could say Cee's got a cold and has to stay in bed a few days."
The idea worked. Ciara was well again in a week. It was Lord Tarnoor who was 
left to think of the problems that could arise if this were known. He talked to 
Elanor. She had a good practical head on her shoulders. Moreover, she loved both 
children.
"She's healed both Trovagh and now Boldheart. About the horse we can keep 
silence. No one but us knew he was ever injured. But Hanion tells me there are 
some garbled hints around the Keep of her healing of the boy. As I see it the 
problem is twofold. First the Old Race is still outlawed in Karsten, and Tylar's 
death is not so long ago his sons have forgotten. If they could do her an ill 
turn without bringing down my wrath, they would do it. Secondly there is the 
question of power. Not hers so much, but what others may see in it."
He did not need to elaborate on that to Elanor. Her line might be a cadet 
branch, but in its time they had fought their way upward just as savagely. 
Ciara's healing ability could be used as could any ability. One of the powerful 
coastal clans would happily use the girl as healer in war. They'd use the very 
fact they had her to encourage their men at arms. Soldiers would fight far more 
ferociously if they believed they could be healed of crippling wounds after the 
battle.
"You said she was exhausted afterward?"
"For several days. She said she was unable to call her gift during that time." 
His look was black. "Do you think any of that sort would care? They'd force her 
to it, or lie to their men. All that would be necessary would be to show her 
healing one of their own. The soldiers would believe. After that if she failed 
her master would have only to threaten to give her to the men she refused to 
heal."
"To what end?"
"Think, woman. They'd believe her as treacherous as they have always claimed 
those with the Power to be. That lie could be used to inflame the men against 
whoever they wished. They could claim the enemy was Witch-ruled, or involved. 
Oh, any good lie would serve. We need to keep the girl's gift a secret. I'll 
have an eye kept on Sersgarth, too. Those sons of Tylar's have been 
troublemakers from birth."
To that Elanor could agree wholeheartedly. "One of the men told me the older son 
has moved stock onto the old Elmsgarth land."
"Seran, yes. I hesitate to object as yet. Legally the land belongs to Aiskeep 
but it's too far from the Keep to be used. So long as Seran stays out of the 
house I'll hold my hand."
He ushered Elanor out saying no more. Seran was as nasty a piece of work as 
Tylar had been—and more cunning. Tarnoor was sure the man had been talking to 
Aiskeep people. He couldn't lock the guards in the Keep. Off duty for a few days 
they often rode to Tend township and the markets there. Too much to drink, the 
right questions, and Ciara might be safe no longer.
In that he was right. Seran had already garnered some of the Keep gossip about a 
child healer. He'd leaped to conclusions—unfortunately, some of them were 
correct. He could not recall having ever seen the child. She'd look like the Old 
Race, he expected. Sharp-angled face, black hair, and gray eyes.
Elanor, too, had considered that. Ciara did not look like her blood. After all, 
she was no more than half. It might be possible to make her look even less like 
to those still hunted. She sent for Ciara; the girl had sense. She might even 
have further ideas of disguise.
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.

4
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!
Men, they always left everything to the last minute! Elanor was muttering in 
turn as she saw them off. How was she supposed to ask him earlier if she wasn't 
told!
The trip was wonderful for Cee. It was the first time she'd left Aiskeep land 
since she'd arrived. She and Trovagh rode ponies, ducking and crossing the 
lumbering wains as the excited pair attempted to see and do everything at once. 
Tarnoor watched them indulgently. They'd be away five days, maybe six. Two days 
travel each way and one or two days at the market. Among them, he, Hanion, and 
Elanor had successfully found enough to part-fill each of the three wains. If it 
all sold at reasonable prices they would have sufficient coin added to what 
Tarnoor already had to buy.
He had gone over his lists before they left. He'd buy bar steel for the forging 
of weapons, horseshoes, and harness rings. More tanned leather, bolts of cloth, 
and much thread of differing kinds. It was cheaper to purchase the materials 
rather than goods already made. It should also be possible to find rings ready 
made to repair chain mail. Enough of them and he could have the Aiskeep smith 
make up additional armor and save much time. It would also help Tarnoor's purse.
The trip was peaceful. Nothing went wrong. No delays occurred, and the weather 
remained fine. Tarnoor worried about all that. In his experience when things 
went right, something wrong was looming on the horizon.
He reflected that he was becoming as gloomy as old Geavon. It was Teral he was 
approaching, not Kars. The small line of wains and riders topped the long 
shallow slope and started down toward the town. Teral had been built on the bend 
of a large stream that cut deep into the softer earth. This meant that even with 
the water in spate the small town never flooded. The buildings were mostly of 
wood but the inn and stables were older. These were of the pale local stone, 
well and solidly laid. Tarnoor had sent ahead to reserve most of the rooms.
He saw to the stabling of their beasts, chased the excited children upstairs to 
leave their gear, then freed them to explore.
"Here, that's for you to spend. Remember it has to last the whole time we're 
here."
Ciara and Trovagh dashed off to count. "We're rich." Ciara was looking at the 
handful of coins.
Trovagh grinned at her. "Not as much as it looks," he informed her. "Father must 
have been saving coppers again. But it does mean we can split it more easily. 
And we don't have to worry about changing it or anything."
Ciara was looking about her. "Oh, jugglers." They watched the entertainment for 
a while, dropping a copper in the laid-out hats. Then it was the lines and rows 
of stalls. Trovagh would have bought food but Ciara was more practical.
"The inn's been paid for all our meals. Let's go back and eat there free."
They raced, laughing, back to the inn, there to share well-roasted mutton, new 
bread with fresh butter, and apples to follow.
"Hm." Trovagh caught a drip of butter. "Good idea of yours, Cee." He grabbed a 
couple of the apples, handing one to her. "Let's go see the beast market."
They raced off again. Tarnoor smiled after them. They were having a wonderful 
time, bless them both. He returned to his discussion with the innkeeper.
"Yes, my lord. Rumors have reached even to Teral and farther south. People are 
buying all they can afford of supplies. I've had word another trader arrives in 
the morning bringing beasts for sale and Sulcar-traded goods."
Tarnoor sat up at that. "You mean some trader is in from the coast?"
"Aye, my lord. Trader Tanrae is from hereabouts. He returns home to be with his 
family for a while." He leaned closer and his voice dropped. "Word is that with 
the trouble in Kars the man wishes to be well away from any possible fighting. 
Where there is war, merchants and traders do not profit. Worse, their goods, 
gear, and beasts may be impressed by the army. Tanrae's parents are at a garth 
several days south. His wife and children live with them. The man's heading that 
way once he has sold most of his merchandise."
"But has he not sold it in Kars before he departed?"
The innkeeper shook his head. "I hear the cargo was landed from a ship well to 
the south of Kars. Tanrae planned to go on to the city."
Tarnoor understood now. "I see, but then he heard the news, so he chose to 
travel swiftly in the opposite direction. A wise man. What goods are you sure he 
has for sale? It may be we shall remain a day to see."
The list was interesting enough to ensure that. The children arrived back to eat 
in the early evening. Tarnoor seized on them.
"We remain here tomorrow." He hastily hushed the yells of delight. "Ciara. I 
want you and Trovagh to check the herb stalls for me. Quietly! Buy nothing. Do 
not appear too interested. If Ciara sees any herb we do not have at Aiskeep and 
may need in case of war, remember where you saw it. Come back and get Hanion. I 
shall rely on you both in this. Ciara, you are to take Hanion's arm. He will buy 
what you casually pick up to sniff or look at. A squeeze is yes, a light pinch 
is no. I want none to guess you have herb knowledge lest they guess more. I 
trust you both to be sensible and careful."
It was this transaction that produced danger. Seran might never have noticed the 
children if they had been at other stalls. But Lanlia had been well-known for 
her healcraft and herb knowledge. He knew Trovagh, enough to recognize the boy 
as Seran passed the stalls. Then he saw the girl. His step faltered. Ciara did 
not look like the Old Blood, but she did look very like her mother. And it was 
that resemblance Seran recognized. He sucked in a long breath. The brat's 
brother had killed Tylar, Seran's father.
It would be fitting if she had an accident here at the market. He was pasturing 
his stock at her garth now but from what he saw, she and the boy were close. He 
saw danger to his own plans in that. Under the new laws of Kars and Yvian, she 
had no claim to Elmsgarth. But Yvian was dead. If the duchess returned she might 
favor another female. If one of the powerful clans set up another duke they, 
too, might favor the girl. She seemed to be well in with Tarnoor's son.
The old lord was no fool. Elmsgarth would make a fair dowry. If Aiskeep held it 
from the girl it might be sold to any who had coin to buy. Good fertile land 
well away from likely trouble, a large house in weather-tight condition, pens 
and barns standing ready… Tarnoor could gain a fine price for Elmsgarth if he 
ever chose to sell. Seran glared at the unsuspecting children. Tarnoor didn't 
live in great state, nor did he travel to Kars to toady to those in power. Still 
all knew he was related by birth and marriage to two of the clans. But if he did 
not have the girl in his hands, his claim to the garth would be greatly 
weakened.
Seran smiled, a look of vicious anticipation. The stream was deep. True in 
summer it did not flow so strongly but it should be sufficient to drown the 
Witch's daughter. Over the remainder of the morning he stalked the children, now 
free from Hanion. In a large, busy market there would be possibilities.
Tarnoor was busy elsewhere. Trader Tanrae had arrived with goods both 
interesting and useful. The two men were busy talking prices and haggling with 
enthusiasm. Tarnoor made a last purchase and gave instructions for its handling 
and delivery. He was about to leave the trader when Trovagh appeared looking 
distressed.
"What is it, where is Ciara?"
"She's gone. Hanion bought as she showed him. Then he went back to the inn. Cee 
and I went to look at the beast market again. She was right beside me, when I 
turned around she'd gone."
Tarnoor wasted no time. Better he made a fool of himself than anything happened 
to the girl. "Run to the inn," he instructed Trovagh. "Tell Hanion to turn out 
every man but a couple to guard our wains. I want the market combed, 
stallholders asked if they saw Ciara. Hop to it, lad."
Trovagh raced away while Tarnoor turned to the trader. "I regret I must leave 
you so abruptly, but as you have heard, I have something to attend to."
Tanrae nodded slowly. "How old is the little maid?"
"Ten years all but a week. It was for her name day I purchased some of the wares 
you offered."
"Yes, so I surmised. You will not mind if I and my men also aid the search? I 
have a daughter of that age myself."
Tarnoor bowed formally. "I would be deeply grateful, trader."
He hurried from the tent with the trader at his heels calling his men.
Tanrae gave quick instructions. Within minutes the hunt was up. In a small tent 
among the beast tents Seran snarled. Damn that Aiskeep brat. He'd missed the 
girl so fast, raised the alarm so quickly, that Seran had no time to get her 
away. He could kill her. But Tarnoor had enough authority to hold everyone here. 
There was no telling what he would do if he recognized Seran.
There might be no evidence, but what lord required that if he preferred to 
ignore it? Seran glared at the struggling bundle beside him. Best he left the 
damned girl here and slipped away. There'd be another day. One he'd win next 
time. Thanks be to Cup and Flame she hadn't seen his face.
He unlaced the tent flap cautiously. Fortunately the hue and cry had not yet 
reached this end. He thrust the squirming bundle out and laced the flap again. 
Then he pried up the rear of the tent and crawled beneath. By the time men were 
walking down this row he would be well away.
He was. Nor could Ciara say who had laid hands on her. It was Tanrae who almost 
tripped over the trussed girl. His yell brought everyone from Tarnoor to Trovagh 
running. Tarnoor slashed the cords and a ruffled, frightened, furious child 
emerged spitting out horsehair. Investigation of the horse blanket used betrayed 
nothing. Seran had stolen it elsewhere. The rope was ordinary cord used for many 
things in a market. Nor could any remember selling it in particular or to whom. 
Tarnoor kept his guesses to himself.
He did have Hanion quietly check about with several of the men. No one could 
remember seeing Seran or any of the other three of Tylar's sons. That evening 
Tarnoor faced the trader over a drink.
"I owe you a debt, trader. I think evil was planned. Your aid made so much more 
excitement than her taker expected that he chose to leave Ciara and flee."
Tanrae eyed him shrewdly. "You guess who this was, do you not?"
"Perhaps. But I'll accuse no man without proof of some kind. It is true there is 
a family with good reasons to wish the girl gone. But none were seen here. The 
child herself can say nothing save that she was gripped about the throat from 
behind, lifted a little, and carried a short distance. She believes the grip on 
her throat made her faint for a period. When she recovered she was trussed as 
you found her."
"What of the tent she lay beside?"
Tarnoor snorted in disgust. "The owner left it laced shut. There's no sign 
within that it was used. Although the pegs at the rear are loosened as if 
someone may have entered that way. No one was seen."
"He was lucky."
"Very lucky!" Tarnoor said softly. Tanrae glanced at him. This lord might prefer 
evidence before he acted, but the trader would not like to be guilty if such 
evidence were forthcoming. Lord Tarnoor was powerfully muscled. He might be 
approaching middle-age, but it was clear he'd been a soldier and a fighter. An 
old sword-cut showed at the top of his left sleeve. The sword at his side was 
plain with well-worn hilt. Still Tanrae would wager it was a fine blade within 
the sheath. The lord simply saw no reason to spend on fancy hilts. But the eyes 
and the lines of Tarnoor's face told a tale to one who could read.
Tanrae had not been a trader for many years without being able to read such. 
This man would make a loyal and generous friend—and a very bad enemy. He'd rule 
kindly, until one of his people crossed what Tarnoor thought essential. The 
trader nodded to himself, drinking off the last of his wine. Then he fumbled in 
his purse.
"I brought these for the lass. They'll go with the gifts you purchased for her."
Tarnoor looked down at the two small bells. "So they will. That is kind of you, 
man. Nor do I forget I owe a debt for your quick aid." He rose, ushering the 
trader out. A good man that. Canny, but honest. He'd look for the man at other 
markets. As for the children, he'd assigned Hanion to keep watch. Right now they 
were busy loading the wains for the trip home. He hid a smile. Hanion was under 
orders to keep them from the end wagon. Ciara's name-day gifts would ride in 
that, transferred there just before they departed Teral.
The ride home was uneventful. Ciara got over her fright easily. Tarnoor had 
convinced her that the attack had been no more than a mistake, telling a tale he 
claimed to have heard in the market of a girl who had run from her home. He made 
it convincing. Ciara believed, but Hanion knew better.
"You think it to have been that Seran, my lord? I could make inquiries. If he 
was from home it is likely someone will mention it if asked the right way."
"That proves naught, unfortunately. But listen for word of him. You've kept one 
eye on the man, now keep both. I would know where he goes and what he does at 
all times so far as is possible. He's a soured, dangerous enemy, and I think 
we'll hear more of him."
"Why not simply have him killed?"
Tarnoor grinned. "You barbarian! It's a thought. But there's more to consider. 
Sersgarth boasts four sons and two daughters. Already the next generation 
arrive. If I have Seran murdered, be sure they'd think it to have been at my 
word. After that there'd be blood feud. It would take a massacre to prevent 
that."
"What do you think he planned for the child, Lord?"
"Me? I think the stream runs deep there. A few minutes longer without hue and 
cry and Ciara could have been at the edge. Thanks be to the Powers and the 
trader that time was not granted."
"Then why not another accident, Lord? I'm sure Seran is sometimes drunk. How 
easy it is for a man in drink to fall."
"Perhaps. I'll think on it. Now—to work."
A few days later it was Ciara's name day. Elanor was thankful for that. Keeping 
the girl's gifts hid had required more work than preparing the feast. But it had 
all been worth it. The beautifully made box was carried in, ribbon bedecked and 
mysterious. Ciara took it. Her gaze fell on one end where strange holes 
decorated the side in a pattern. Each was a thumb joint wide and from one issued 
forth something slim and furry.
"What is it?" Her finger reached out hesitantly to touch. "Uncle Nethyn, what is 
it?"
"Try opening the box, sweetheart."
Gently Ciara unwound the ribbons. The lid was lifted and two small faces peered 
back at her. Then a small pink mouth opened. It meowed plaintively. The other 
promptly followed suit. Whatever they were they seemed to offer no danger.
Ciara reached in to lift one. It clung with small claws, purring vigorously. She 
lifted the other and stood cuddling them as they snuggled into her.
"What are they?"
"Cats, my dear. Well, kittens yet. I purchased them from Trader Tanrae. The 
Sulcar often carry them on the larger family ships to keep down rats or mice. We 
see them seldom here in the South but they are valiant hunters. Worthy beasts to 
have the freedom of a Keep." To the listening Elanor he added quietly, "They 
will also be useful for trade in a year or two. I paid high. They are from 
different litters and should breed well. Once there are sufficient kits I can 
sell them to other Keeps hereabouts. If war comes they will be worth their 
weight in gold against vermin in the barns and storehouses." Elanor watched the 
children each cuddling a happily purring kitten and smiled to herself. All that 
was true, but she suspected it had been thought up after the purchase. Tarnoor 
was kinder and more generous than he permitted most to know.
He'd already returned to Ciara, "Here, lass. The trader sent you these as a 
gift." He held out the two bells. To them he added a matching pair of small 
leather collars. "Hanion made these for you. See, you may tie the bells to 
them."
In minutes the kittens were scampering about tinkling merrily as they bounced 
and played. Trovagh trailed his scarf and the children shrieked as the kits 
attacked. In days they were often a foursome. The kits grew quickly, friendly to 
all but preferring to sleep one on each of the children's beds. There was a 
swift massacre of mice, followed by rats as soon as the babies were a little 
larger. It made them popular with all in the Keep.
Geavon wrote again several weeks after Ciara's name day. The news was not good. 
Tarnoor read it, then summoned Elanor and handed her the letter. She, too, read 
and frowned.
"So the Lady Loyse has reappeared in Estcarp. That makes people certain it was 
she or the Witches who slew Yvian. That Aldis is nowhere found makes no fuss. 
Indeed, it may make things easier solved. But Fulk—now that he's been gone for 
months the lords about Verlaine squabble vigorously over his hold."
"Indeed. The man was a wrecker and a rogue but he held Verlaine with a strong 
hand. Loyse makes it plain she will not return nor lay claim to Verlaine or 
Kars. Thus both rulerships are open. I think it will not be long before argument 
turns to warfare over Verlaine at least. That should suit Estcarp. Verlaine is 
close to their border. If the lords nearby squabble over Verlaine, they are not 
fighting nor raiding elsewhere."
Elanor agreed thoughtfully. "Is it possible that this was why they slew Fulk and 
Yvian?"
"It is possible. Any soldier could have predicted the outcome."
"So all this may have been a deep-laid plot against Karsten? In revenge for the 
Horning perhaps?"
Tarnoor shrugged. "Perhaps. It is done now. But it's as well we've prepared. If 
the struggle grows violent enough at Verlaine it will pull the coast clans in. 
Then there is Kars. Here in the South we may be called by the clans. If that 
happens, then there is likely to be open war among the clan lords. Such wars are 
without quarter. No enemy is fought so savagely as one who is your own." He 
sighed. "Alas for Karsten."
Elanor left to ready the evening meal while Tarnoor sat thinking. He would write 
to Geavon suggesting a compromise. For two generations it had worked with a Keep 
here in the far South. He sent the letter swiftly by messenger. Geavon received 
it and blinked. Wisdom from a backwater. It just might work. He sat to write 
letters of his own. There was an advantage to be gained. Two of the disputing 
lords were of Geavon's clan. If they combined, the others would back off.
They might have done so, had the letter arrived in time. Even in the South they 
heard how the lords battled over Verlaine. Finally, Tamoor's suggestion ended 
it, but not without many dead and hatred stored up. There was a marriage. 
Verlaine was again ruled. By the second son of one lord, wed to the eldest 
daughter of his neighbor. In a year he was dead, poisoned. His wife could not 
hold the Keep and fled to her clan. The war began again and spread this time.
But Tarnoor had used the year wisely. He'd bargained, traded, bought, and sold. 
Aiskeep was stronger than it had been in many generations.
The kits, too, had contributed. Their first litter had sold for very high prices 
as Tarnoor had expected. The second litter, already bulging the small female's 
sides, was sold in advance. Tanrae had visited Aiskeep, once bringing a long 
train of loaded wains. The same Sulcar ship had met him quietly on the coast. 
With the trader came a second female kitten for Ciara.
Elanor might wonder that the Sulcar who allied with Estcarp would come to trade. 
Tarnoor did not. Civil war in Karsten could only profit other lands. If they 
sold Karsten goods and gear to war, then the longer and more deadly that war, 
while the Sulcar profited and other lands lay safer.
From overseas news came that the hounds of Alizon hunted. Karsten could not look 
to them for aid. They had strange allies, men said: perhaps those Kolder who had 
done so ill by Kars after all their promises. Meanwhile in Karsten war came 
closer. Twice Keeps near Kars were clan-besieged. The fighting spread to Kars 
for several days. It died again but sullenly. Then one arose supported by two of 
the clans. Kieren was young, but a fighter known from the wars with Estcarp. 
Since many believed that their troubles were all Witch-caused, that stood him in 
good stead.
He made truce with a third clan by marriage. Another year of peace, and half 
again. Ciara was growing. She'd been twelve last name day and Trovagh thirteen. 
She was not beautiful but there was strength and sweetness in her face. She and 
the boy were as close as ever, always up to some ploy. The letters from Geavon 
came regularly to Aiskeep. Tarnoor expected another shortly. Instead, Geavon's 
nephew came quietly in the night.
He stood in Tarnoor's study talking softly. "My father is being drawn into clan 
councils. Kieren does not treat his wife well. Her clan plans to wait until she 
bears her child, then declare her Kars Regent in the child's name. My uncle 
thinks this will bring war again. He asks that you allow his family to come here 
while there is yet time."
The man he addressed nodded. "Bring them cautiously. Travel as traders or a 
garth family on the move. They'd be good hostages against Geavon's compliance 
with orders."
"Yes, my lord." The young man slipped away before dawn, riding back to the Keep.
Events overtook him. It was weeks before Tarnoor heard, then he sat silent. 
Geavon's letter was open before him. The boy had been slain on the return. By 
whom Geavon did not know, only that the body lay before their gates one morning. 
The lad's father was not a man to think deeply for meanings. He assumed that it 
had been done by the clan opposing his and acted. A third clan had been drawn 
in. The remaining three might have stayed out of the fight. It was none of 
theirs. But the duchess's.father deemed it a good time now to strike for the 
duchy. The baby had been a son.
Kieren died in an ambush. The other clans swept in to do battle. Geavon was full 
of regret. It would not be possible just at this moment to send his family to 
Aiskeep. Tarnoor swore, tossing the letter into the fire. Outside on the stairs 
he heard the clatter of heavy boots. That was Hanion in a hurry; what troubled 
them now"?
He opened the door. Hanion burst in already speaking. "Lord, there's men at arms 
at the gates. They tried to enter but we had the gates shut in time. They say 
they are from Lord Geavon but we recognize none of them and they are heavily 
armed. They demand entrance."
Tarnoor followed Hanion to the gates. There he looked down at those below. Men 
at arms? No, more like a small army. He counted more than a hundred men along 
with a dozen wains. They had set a half circle about the gates just over an 
arrow's flight back. This was no message from Geavon. He leaned far out to 
search for any known face. An arrow sliced the collar of his cloak as he shied 
sideways.
He swore again. He seemed to have done a lot of that since Yvian's death, he 
thought. Then he descended to the gates.
"Unfriend, come forward and tell me what you wish."
From the other side a voice called, "Open the gates and yield to Clan Grothar."
"If I choose not to?"
"Then we remain here. Nothing goes in or out save it be one to offer surrender."
"Stay then and be damned to you," Tarnoor bawled back. He marched up the wall 
steps again to look between the crenellations. Aiskeep was under siege. The war 
had arrived in the South at last.

5
Ciara and Trovagh were bored. Outside the enemy had been camped at Aiskeep gates 
for a month. Nothing more happened. The soldiers sat there, firing an arrow now 
and then at anyone they saw on the Keep walls. Sometimes one of the Keep men at 
arms shot back. It had been quite exciting that first week where there was a lot 
of that going on. But the men outside had moved back a few more yards. They 
stopped bothering to shoot. Now they just sat. They didn't even bother to reply 
to the colorful insults Aiskeep men hurled at them. After a long consideration 
of his maps, Tarnoor had identified the probable reason for the siege.
"Look, here's where their land runs. This land belongs to Septan, who's just wed 
into the clan. His land reaches almost to Aiskeep. Clan Grothar has a very old 
dispute with our clan." He snorted. "The idiots have decided to take advantage 
of the general unrest to see if they can add to their boundaries."
"Why is that so stupid, Uncle Nethyn?" Ciara was puzzled.
"Because, my dear, as any effective soldier knows, before you begin a fight, you 
should know what shape your enemy is in."
Both children stared, then understood. "Oh," said Trovagh. "All the stores we've 
been getting in."
"The walls are all fixed, too," Ciara added.
"Exactly. We've spent the last couple of years expecting this. The walls are 
just about the strongest they've ever been. We have enough supplies in the lower 
storerooms to last a year or more even without our own harvest, and we have a 
water supply. The armory is filled with arrow bundles, bar steel, and anything 
else we may need. So this pack of fools pick now to start something." He snorted 
again. "I never did think Ager had any sense. He heads the clan because he has 
seven idiot sons who all back him. That's why. Not that even they'll continue if 
he does much of this."
The sons—or Ager—must have come to a similar conclusion. The siege remained in 
camp ineffectively another couple of months. Then one morning they were gone 
again leaving only an awful mess and an incredible stench behind them. Tamoor 
promptly sent out scouts, Hanion leading them. They returned to say that Clan 
Grothar had far worse troubles of their own.
Hanion was grinning. "They have their own siege now, my lord. It seems the boy 
who wed into them isn't so happy with his bargain. His own clan seems to have 
taken up his quarrel. Do we head for Teral while our gates are clear?"
"We do indeed."
Tarnoor split his forces. Some thirty armed men escorted the lumbering wains 
toward the small market town, while another thirty men remained to guard 
Aiskeep. Most of those remaining were the older or young and inexperienced. Some 
were simply garthsmen who wished to help their lord. Between the two groups 
messengers rode. That way, Tarnoor mused, if anything happened at either end he 
should know within hours. Nothing did. The wains returned heavily loaded, the 
last of the Keep's fall harvest was gathered into the storerooms, and winter was 
on its way.
Ciara and Trovagh had sneaked away. When the girl first arrived she had begged 
to learn the sword with her friend. Hanion agreed if his master had no 
objections. Tarnoor had merely laughed.
"Let the little maid learn," he'd said kindly. "It will help to take her mind 
from her grief." He'd then dug into the storeroom to find a light sword that 
might be used. In the four years since, the children had gained knowledge of 
both sword and bow. Ciara had proved to have a very real talent for the latter. 
She could not pull one of the heavier ones, but with a light bow she could place 
her arrows with a neat precision.
Trovagh was a swordsman. He would never be of more than middle height, but that 
height was already springy with lithe muscle. His reflexes were excellent, his 
sight keen, and he'd learned of Hanion all the tricks that shrewd old campaigner 
could teach. He still developed dangerous colds during the winters, but Ciara 
was there to help with those. At fourteen he bade fair to equal his father in 
common sense and leadership.
Beside him Ciara stood, their old comradeship as strong as ever. She could beat 
him in a sprint although his endurance was the greater. If he was the better 
swordsman she could out-shoot him. They knew each other's minds, each often 
finishing a sentence for the other.
Tarnoor and Elanor, studying them, were happy with what they had wrought. The 
children knew Aiskeep from the highest tower to the lowest storeroom. They knew 
every inch of the lands and the mountains that backed them. Both rode like 
centaurs. Not that there weren't flaws. Only the previous week, Elanor had found 
a large and indignant toad in her bed. She'd climbed into the bedding, thrust 
her feet down to the wrapped stone, and instead of the expected warmth, 
encountered something cold, damp, and alive. She'd screeched, shot out of bed, 
lost her balance, and landed sitting on her rump in the middle of the bedroom in 
a way both bruising to dignity and posterior.
She knew why the toad was there, of course. She'd made Ciara stay inside that 
morning instead of allowing the child to ride. Elanor had received a very 
thoughtful look. But one day the girl would be Keep Lady. She must learn 
everything possible now. Elanor rubbed her rump and smiled unpleasantly. Two 
could play at that game. She said nothing in the morning—but Ciara sitting down 
to her porridge found it to be heavily salted.
"I trust you'll eat all your breakfast," Elanor told her with a heavy 
significance. "If you do I'll find myself silent." Ciara ate glumly. Trovagh 
pulled the bowl between them and ate his half. Elanor understood. He'd helped 
with the toad and would share the punishment. She cleared away the emptied bowl 
and true to her word, said nothing of toads to Tarnoor.
Neither child had ever been beaten. After losing her family the way she had, an 
angry word left Ciara heartbroken, convinced of rejection. Once, in earlier 
days, Tarnoor had rounded angrily on her for a piece of dangerous mischief. He 
had found himself holding a child who wept more and more frantically. Her sobs 
shifted to gasps for breath, then she fainted. She became conscious only to 
return to the gasping and then loss of consciousness once more. She'd been put 
to bed and been miserably silent for a day until Tarnoor had convinced her she 
was not utterly unloved.
But during their next exploit, Tarnoor would savagely desire to beat both of 
them bloody. All had been quiet for weeks. Even a recent better from Geavon had 
reported fighting to have temporarily died down in Kars. Winter was closing in, 
and the children decided a last ride into the mountains would be fun before the 
snows deepened.
"Take your bow, we may see something."
Ciara nodded. "You better take your sword, too. Uncle Nethyn says not to take 
chances even on our own land."
Trovagh laughed, "All right," he teased. "But what do you think is out there, 
outlaws or wolves?"
It was true neither were that likely. So early in winter the wolf packs had not 
yet begun to form. It would not be until several months later that they could 
become dangerously hungry. As for outlaws, most of those were to be found far 
more to the north where clan fights had often dispossessed garth families of 
their homes and land. Aiskeep was not only the Keep, but also the land beyond. 
The great stone Keep itself held dominance over the entrance to a long 
steep-sided fertile valley that cut well into the mountains behind, winding 
almost twenty miles as it gradually rose toward the steeper heights. Because of 
this position the Keep controlled the valley. The original Tarnoor had seen the 
advantages at a glance as Karsten expanded south several hundred years earlier. 
He'd spent everything he had in raising the Keep and walling it in thick solid 
walls.
This had paid off. He held the land alone for many years, the only lord able to 
keep his estate free of wolves and human attack. Over the years, those who 
enjoyed a frontier rallied to him, but they also preferred strong walls between 
them and danger. Since then garths had risen outside Aiskeep. They were often 
independent but the trade was useful. Nowadays most of the land about was 
settled, but with Yvian's death, the usual peace had been permanently changed. 
The constant clan squabbling of the past four years had left many men with no 
trade but banditry. But right now neither child had any thought of that.
With a yelp Trovagh sent his horse racing up the valley, Ciara following hard at 
his heels. On the side of each saddle bounced a filled bag. They planned a trip 
that would take them to the valley end. It wouldn't do to go hungry. They rode 
beyond the valley, then the horses leaned into the mountain trail. Farther up 
and well to the northeast there was a small sheltered cup of land. There was a 
cave there, and a rock basin usually filled with good water. They would eat, 
rest their mounts, and then hunt.
It was fortunate that they were walking their horses in silence. They approached 
the cave only to hear voices. Trovagh signaled Ciara to back her mount. 
Cautiously he joined her further back and dismounted.
"Who do you think that is, Tro?"
"I don't know. But I know a few other things. They're trespassing, and they 
aren't our people. And before you ask, I was closer. That accent isn't from 
here. It's more to the west over by the coast."
"Oh. So what do we do, ride back and tell Uncle?"
"Tell him what. That we heard a foreign accent in the mountains?"
Ciara grinned at him. "No, we tell him how many there were, what they looked 
like, and what they were doing here."
Trovagh grinned back in relief. Good old Cee. He'd known she'd want to find out 
about this bunch as much as he did.
"Right. We leave the horses off the trail over there. If we cross the trail and 
go up the side there," his finger indicated, "we should be right over the cave. 
With luck we can hear everything they say. We can even look through the bushes 
at them if we're careful." He had a brief moment of doubt about this. But Cee 
was nodding.
"It's sunhigh. If they're still here it probably means they're staying the 
night. We can find out about them, then ride back to tell Uncle. He can come 
back with Hanion in the morning."
Trovagh quashed his doubts. This was for Aiskeep, to help protect their people 
from outlaws. Not that in his heart he believed the voices belonged to 
wolfsheads. Probably some messengers trying to be unobtrusive at a lord's 
orders. For all that he and Ciara were careful. With their mounts safely tucked 
away in the lawleaf thicket, the two children drifted quietly up the hillside.
Below them the cave echoed voices. A fire burned in the mouth. Trovagh looked 
down at that with interest. Hanion had told him often how to build a smokeless 
fire for enemy country. Down below was a perfect example of this. It certainly 
indicated a wish on the part of those below to remain unnoticed. A sideways 
glance at Cee showed him that this had not escaped her. They lay forward 
comfortably and prepared to listen.
A rough voice floated up to them as the speaker emerged from the cave. " 'n I 
say that we go west again. There ain't nothing in these mountains."
"There's as much loot as you'll ever see, you fool."
"I seen nothing yet."
"So shut yer mouth ah' listen. Down there's a Keep, see. Only the Keep's right 
at the other end of the valley. Take a day for word of us to get there, an' even 
then the lord won't care if too many of his cattle don't get killed."
A younger voice cut in. "Cattle? You said there's gonna be loot 'n women!"
There was the sound of an oath, a blow, and a smothered yelp. "Shut yer mouth 
when those older's talking. People down there is just cattle to 'is lordship. 
That's what I mean. We hit a couple of the families down this end. It takes 
another day for the Keep to hear, and by the time they come—if they bother—we're 
long gone with whatever we wants. See?"
"So when 'er we go down?"
"Dusk. They'll all be sitting down to 'er nice meal. All unsuspecting like. With 
it dusk, no one else'll see nothing. We kill them all and take what we want. 
Then maybe another house or two before it's daylight. If there's any 
good-looking females we tie them up until we're done looting. When we clear out, 
they come with us. If they can't keep up, we dump 'em." He laughed viciously, 
"Even females don't chatter with their throats cut."
The younger voice chimed in describing what he planned to do with any women 
taken. Trovagh blushed violently, then felt sick. He hadn't thought of war being 
like that. If these men found him and Cee… the blood drained abruptly from his 
face. He was hearing what would happen to her in every word from that filth down 
in the cave. They'd have no mercy because she was gentle and loving. No mercy 
that she was only thirteen, and Trovagh had brought her here. He reached out to 
take her hand in reassurance. He looked at her then and blinked in surprise. Cee 
looked furious. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look so angry. He wriggled 
back pulling her with him. At a safe distance she rounded on him and he 
understood.
"That's our people they're talking about. The nearest houses are Jontar's and 
Mashin's and Anrud's. The bandits are going to kill them all. We have to stop 
them."
Put that way Trovagh agreed. "We won't have time to get back to the Keep and 
send help before dark."
"No," Cee said shrewdly. "But we could get Jontar's daughter to take a message 
on one of the horses."
Trovagh nodded slowly. It was likely to infuriate his father, but he'd see 
they'd had no choice. It was the duty of a lord to protect his people. But Ciara 
could ride for help. Not that he had much faith in her seeing that. He was 
right.
"I'm a healer," he was told flatly. "I may be needed."
The boy shrugged. He'd done his best short of tying her to a horse and running 
it off down the valley. Knowing her, she'd persuade it to run the other way 
anyhow.
"We need to know how many of them there are. We don't want to risk us both 
getting caught, either. You go back to the horses, mount up, and be ready. If I 
get caught, it'll be up to you."
That made sense to Ciara. She slipped silently down the hillside to where the 
horses waited patiently. Above the cave Trovagh listened, trying to count 
voices. There were three he was certain were different. But they couldn't be 
planning to attack a whole family with only three men. Many garth families had 
half a dozen men or more. Jontar's certainly did. There was Jontar's father, 
Jontar, two sons, and three married daughters. There were also an uncle, and a 
cousin. Some of the women would fight as savagely for their homes and families 
as any man.
Taking them by surprise over a meal would even the odds somewhat. But it was 
still likely there were more than the three men he could hear. He listened, then 
squirmed farther down the slope. If he could look partway into the cave he might 
see something to help. He did. Near the fire there was a heap of saddles and 
horse gear. He could count at least a dozen saddles. The conviction came over 
him that it was time he and Cee departed. Some of those men the gear belonged to 
must be around. He'd much rather they didn't find either of them, Cee in 
particular. He reached the horses without incident.
"Well, did you find out anything?"
"Yes, there's at least a dozen saddles stacked to one side of the fire. I guess 
they have the horses along a bit further. Maybe the rest of the men are there 
with them."
"Or maybe they're hunting."
That sounded likely. "Yes, well, we have to get out of here and warn everyone." 
He started his mount moving down the trail. They traveled at a fast walk. 
Trovagh didn't want to warn the outlaws. In these hills the sound of galloping 
hooves carried. It was midafternoon when they reached the nearest houses. 
Trovagh took charge at once.
"Jontar, we need Ami to take an urgent message to my father." It was fortunate 
that the girl was a good rider, Trovagh thought. She'd worked in the Keep 
stables the last two years. She was familiar with their horses and could ride 
fast. He gave her the message, making her repeat it twice. By now the whole 
family was there listening, eyes wide. Ami booted her mount off down the valley 
racing the light. She would arrive by dark.
Now if they could just keep the outlaws at bay until his father arrived. It 
dawned on him then that there were methods other than a passive defense. He 
gabbled quickly to Cee— thanks to all the Powers that she was with him. She knew 
his mind without long time-wasting explanations. After that there was a subdued 
bustle. One of the boys vanished on Cee's horse to keep watch on the trail. 
There was a place where he could see far up the hill. But if he kept the lawleaf 
thickets between him and the approaching riders, he could make it back to the 
houses without being seen in turn.
Others of Jontar's family had fanned out across the valley rousing the nearest 
garth families. They gathered in a steady trickle as the news spread. Trovagh 
gazed at them proudly. His first command. Those outlaws had underestimated the 
spirit of his people. He said so in plain words, the boyish pride showing 
through. Then he gave orders. They were obeyed. Some of the older men had fought 
bandits before; the lad's ideas made sense. They said so in quiet mutters as 
confidence spread. Cee had vanished to arrange her own side of the work. Women 
surrounded her listening closely.
The sky darkened toward dusk as all was readied. Jontar's lad came riding at a 
slow canter. Far up the trail he had seen the group of riders moving downslope.
"Lord Trovagh, they come."
"Good, join your family within." He scanned the area. He could see no one, to 
all appearances he was alone. He stepped up onto the water-butt beside the house 
corner, from there onto the roof where he lay flat. Like many of the garth roofs 
it was covered in a layer of thick turf. Quite cozy, Trovagh thought, as he made 
himself comfortable. Then he waited.
The bandits came riding carelessly. They made no great noise but expecting 
nothing they made no real attempt to be unseen. At this hour all beasts were, 
stabled or penned, the garth owners would be at their food. They dismounted, 
leaving their horses tied to a fence. Above them in the darkness Trovagh smiled. 
He saw nothing but he knew what would be happening at the fence very shortly. 
The intruders padded over to the house. One pressed his face to the logs. 
Through a crack—carefully provided though he did not know it—he could see the 
family in the light of a lamp within. They ate hungrily, talking of garth work 
as they shoveled in the good food.
The bandit drooled. Two of the women were wearing cheap jewelry that glittered 
in the light. They were young and pretty. What with the smell of the well-cooked 
food, the glitter of gold, and the women, he was entranced. He finally forced 
himself away. A series of hoarse whispers apprised his fellows of the plunder. 
They could see only three men. Taking this family would be like robbing baby 
birds in a low nest. They failed to see that the family all ate along the far 
side of their table. Or that behind them a door stood open.
Nor did they know that with ample start, Jontar's daughter was even now pulling 
up at the Keep. She screamed an alarm as she hauled the horse to a plunging 
halt.
Hanion came running anxiously. "What is it, are the children hurt?"
"Bandits in the upper valley. Lord Trovagh and his lady brought the alarm. I've 
a message for Lord Tarnoor."
His master arrived before Hanion could send for him.
"Trovagh? Ciara?"
"Safe, Lord. Your son said I was to tell you that bandits have invaded from the 
mountains. There appear to be around twelve of them. They plan to attack our 
garth, butcher my family." She had no need to explain why. Tamoor knew bandits. 
"Your son plans an ambush using the people. He asks that you send reinforcements 
as soon as they can be got to him."
"Is that all, lass?"
She came close so those arriving could not hear. "He and the lady said this, 
too, my lord. It's their job to help us, you taught them that. And—they both 
love you."
Tarnoor went white. He spun grabbing Hanion by the shoulder. "Call out the 
guard. I want half of them to ride, just in case this is some trick to lure us 
away from the gates. Pick the men who can best manage hard riding in moonlight. 
I want them ready to ride in ten minutes." He left an orderly confusion to race 
for the stairs. Back in his room he shuffled into chain mail, sheathed his 
sword, and dived for the stairs once more. A just-woken Elanor pattered behind 
wailing loudly for an explanation. He commended her to Jontar's daughter, 
vaunted to his saddle, and while Elanor still wailed, he was gone, his men 
trailing him.
Elanor stood glaring after him. He wouldn't be taking half the guard if one of 
the children had merely fallen. She turned to the girl drooping near her.
"You're Ami, aren't you?"
"Yes, my lady."
Elanor gathered her dignity, a touch difficult when one wore only a long ruffled 
nightgown with feet bare beneath. "Come with me, girl. I want to hear all about 
this."
After she had heard she dispatched the girl to a meal and a bed. Then she sat 
for a long time in her chair. She prayed for a girl and boy out there in the 
dark. Doing what they did for love of their people. Then she prayed for Tarnoor, 
that he wouldn't break his neck on this wild night gallop—and that he wouldn't 
have apoplexy thinking about what was happening before he could arrive. Lastly 
she prayed for the people themselves. Then she sat silent, waiting for day to 
come.
Down the long straight road Tarnoor pounded. He kept the beast to a steady 
canter, though it went much against the grain. Still, it would do no good to 
push on so fast he left half his men injured from falls behind him. The 
moonlight lit the road to some extent. The horses knew the trail well, but 
potholes lurked in shadows, ruts in light and shade. If Trovagh had any sense 
he'd have sent someone down the road to wait for them, someone else to stand 
back and watch. That way if the plans went awry there'd be one waiting to say 
how and what. A chance for Tarnoor to act as rescuer. He only hoped the boy had 
been able to keep Ciara out of it. He doubted that, he thought with grim humor. 
But the girl had sense. If fortune favored Aiskeep, it would be the bandits only 
who suffered.
Behind him in the dark there was a sudden cry and a thrashing. Someone down. He 
ignored the sounds. If the man was dead there was nothing he could do. If he 
lived they'd see to him on their return. If he was so badly hurt as to require 
immediate aid, he'd die anyhow. He hated having to think that way but he'd been 
a soldier. If he must, he was capable of putting emotions aside. He snarled to 
himself. He'd give that pair emotion when he arrived. If they got themselves 
killed, he'd murder both of them. He found he was grinning savagely at the 
paradox. He glanced up at the sky.
Ami had said the outlaws planned to attack at dusk. It had been just after that 
when she arrived. With this cursed dark it would take longer to return, maybe 
twice as long. Three hours? He winced as he thought what could be happening to 
the upper valley in that time. This might even be an advance thrust against his 
defenses. All had been quiet recently. He'd expected that to change after 
winter. Had some cunning enemy decided to damage Aiskeep and allow winter to 
make that worse? He shivered. The Gods damn that fool Yvian and thrice-cursed 
Estcarp. All he'd ever wanted to do was care for his people and his Keep as his 
father had before him. Raise a son, see grandchildren, and be laid in the end in 
an honored grave.
None of which was looking all that likely right now. When he caught up with that 
pair, he wouldn't know whether to kiss them or murder them. "Their job is to 
help their people. I taught them that indeed," Tarnoor muttered ferociously to 
himself. By Cup and Flame but he'd teach them something else once he had them 
safe. Underneath he was conscious of a glow of pride. The blood of Aiskeep 
wasn't thinning into weakling cowards at least. But if those bandits laid a 
finger, just one finger on either child…
He glanced up again at the sky. Halfway. Gods, keep them safe, he prayed. Just 
keep them safe.

6
Trovagh craned carefully over the roof edge. He could hear the hoarse whispers 
quite easily, as below the bandits readied for their attack. The boy smiled as 
he slipped backward to where the mortared stone chimney lifted above him. He 
dropped the waiting piece of stone into the opening, hearing it rattle downward. 
There, that was the warning to Jontar that the bandits were about to attack.
He could only hope that his plans could work. He and Cee had done their 
best,drawing on everything they'd ever heard or learned. But Trovagh could 
remember Hanion telling him that plans never did work out the way they were 
supposed to. Something always went wrong. You just had to pray it was nothing 
serious.
Outside, the outlaw leader had tried the door. Nothing held it against them. He 
turned to smirk with a gap-toothed leer to his followers. Then he thrust his 
weight against the wooden planking.
With a crash the door slammed open and the bandits poured in. The leader was 
amused to see the women rise screaming, fleeing through the door behind them. 
Women always did that. He'd sent a couple of his men around to the back of the 
building. They would take any women attempting to leave through rear exits of 
any kind.
He had no way of knowing that his men now reposed in peaceful unconsciousness 
where they had first stood in expectation. Trovagh had thought of that. Ciara 
led those who waited for them. Both men had been taken in silence by women who 
knew every inch of their ground—and wielded massive iron skillets. Ciara had 
seen to the binding and gagging herself. She leaned against the wall, a wide 
grin hidden by the darkness. If this was war it didn't seem to be anything she 
couldn't handle. She just hoped Tro would be careful. Uncle Nethyn would skin 
both of them if either came to harm.
Inside the house all of the garthspeople had been ready. The sound of the stone 
rattling down the chimney had warned them. Even as the door crashed open, the 
women had jumped for the entrance behind them. There they had slid through the 
opened window. The men—Jontar, one of his sons, and a son-in-law—had also jumped 
for the rear door. The table had been overturned with a quick heave before them 
as they spun to face the intruders. To reach them or the women they believed 
within their grasp, the bandits had to attack.
They had to do this across a high, thick-planked table and through an entrance 
wide enough for no more than two men at most. Up.until now the bandits' attacks 
had been made against isolated garths, or those garths where the Keep Lord did 
not care for his people. The garths had been easily taken, the people weaponless 
and already cowed. Aiskeep was not like that. Its buildings were built solidly; 
its people loved and trusted their lord, who also encouraged them to be 
proficient with arms.
Ciara led her women around the building. They fanned out in groups of three into 
the dark. Ciara reached for her striker. The woodpile should be just here 
somewhere, she thought.
She found it by barking her shins. She hopped a moment muttering, then ran light 
fingers over the wood. There! Under her hand was a feel of kindling. She moved 
to stand before it, shielding the striker's spark. Dry grass had been wrapped 
around thin, dry sticks. The striker snapped a fat spark into the center of the 
kindling. In seconds there was a growing flame taking an eager hold.
With the stack of wood beginning to flame, the outside of the building came into 
dimly lit focus for those in the dark. Inside the bandits still attempted to get 
across the table. One had fallen already. Part three of the plan moved smoothly 
into action. Behind them the door still stood open. Trovagh dropped lightly from 
the roof and whistled, the call of a familiar bird, albeit one unlikely to be 
about here and now—although bandits from the coast would be unlikely to know 
that, he hoped. He edged toward the entrance to be joined by three boys with 
slings.
"Ready?"
"Yes, Lord." There was both excitement and savage anticipation in the answering 
hisses.
"Go!"
Slings whirled in unison as the lads stepped up to the door. The slings flicked 
forward. Inside the room three of the rearmost men in the outlaw group crashed 
to the floor. The boys stepped aside. Stones dropped into good leather again. 
Another volley. Two men fell, the third screamed as the pebble smashed into his 
ear.
"Back!" Trovagh snapped, grabbing the nearest lad by a shoulder. Within the 
house the bandit leader spun to gape behind him. No sign of the two he'd sent 
around the building. One man dead, five down behind his back. He was 
horror-stricken. This was no soft group of garthsmen. He must have surprised the 
soldiers.
True to the bandit code he promptly abandoned his men, diving for the outer 
door. The three remaining saw this and as promptly joined him in flight, 
trampling their unconscious fellows in an effort to reach the door first. 
Outside, two of the fanners pulled tight a thin cord across the doorway. It took 
the fleeing leader around knee level, pitching him to the ground. His followers 
trampled him with vigor in turn. Trovagh slid toward them from the side, sword 
flickering in the light. From the other side came grim-faced garthsmen bearing 
weapons of various types. They had the look of those who not only knew how to 
use them, but were very desirous of doing so.
The remaining bandits paused for a few seconds, but for outlaws there is no 
mercy if taken. They attacked desperately, seeking to break away in the dark. 
One did. He reached the horses, leaping into the saddle only to find as his 
weight hit it that both he and the saddle revolved rapidly. He landed on his 
face with a muffled howl. Ciara's women wielded skillets with enthusiasm. The 
bandit stretched out to sleep with a weary sigh. At the house the two remaining 
outlaws fought back to back. Both had swords, but the garthsmen ignored the 
danger, closing in hungrily.
But thus far only the outlaws had been hurt. Trovagh preferred to keep it that 
way. His father would be more ready to forgive everyone. He whistled the 
slingers in again. They whirled their weapons and the last two outlaws folded to 
the ground. The boy beamed. Praise be to Cup and Flame. It seemed there were 
times when all plans worked out. He jumped violently as a slender figure slid 
out of the dark to take him by the arm.
"Gods, Cee. Don't do that!"
She grinned happily up at him. "We've got three. They're all alive too. The 
women trussed them like chickens for the ; pot. Hadn't you better look at 
yours?"
Trovagh smiled back, hugging her. "One of ours is dead, I know. But you're 
right. We'll check the others and tie those alive." He rallied Jontar's family 
who swiftly brought out the bandits from where they had fallen.
"This one's dead, my lord."
" 'N this one here, Lord Trovagh." Ciara dropped to her knees checking 
carefully.
"Two here alive, Tro. This one is, but his skull is cracked. He'll probably die. 
This one's dead as well."
The two taken last were both dead. The slingers had struck with all the power 
they had. The leader, however, was alive, muttering his way back to 
consciousness as he was swiftly and skillfully bound by hard-eyed farmers. Ciara 
had vanished again. Now she came trotting back to where Trovagh directed the 
clearing up inside the house.
"Five dead, one who'll probably die shortly, and six alive. The live ones are 
all tied. One of them said something awful to Jontar's wife. She hit him with 
her skillet again so I had them all gagged as well." Trovagh looked at her 
proudly. She was a grubby, untidy girl, panting with exertion and excitement—and 
the best lieutenant a leader could have had.
"Let's get them into a barn with guards. Then we need to bring the horses in."
"Already done. The horses are over at Marin's being rubbed down. I told everyone 
that we were awarding a horse and its gear to each garth that had fought. Was 
that right?"
"Yes." He made a mental count. "Yes. Sure. That's five horses to them, seven to 
the Keep. What are they like?"
Ciara looked thoughtful. "Most of them are ordinary farm horses, but there's a 
couple there that aren't. They're a sort of yellow, with black manes and tails. 
They've been well-treated, too. Whoever amongst that lot were riding them has 
looked after both very well. They aren't young, but they'd be worth keeping. The 
garths won't want them. They wouldn't be right for working land." She shivered 
suddenly. "Isn't it awfully cold now?"
Trovagh shivered, too. It did seem to have gone really chilly in the last few 
minutes. Maybe snow was on its way. He shuddered again before realizing.
"No, it isn't the cold, it's the letdown after a battle. Hanion told me about 
it. Get into the house and start the women making soup for everyone." He studied 
the moon briefly. "Father will be here soon with the guards. If we can give them 
all something hot to drink while we show him our bandits, he may be a bit less 
furious."
That, Ciara thought, scuttling hastily inside to start soup pots simmering, is 
something to hope for. She felt fey and oddly light as she moved. Under her 
bodice her pendant seemed to have warmed. Her hand stole up to curve about it. 
She still visited the silver mist most nights before she slept. But obedient to 
the dangers of being known, she had not used it to heal again. Was there 
something she should do now?
She was distracted from that by other demands. On the fire hob two large pots of 
soup steamed. Ciara rounded up as many mugs and bowls as the women could find 
her. To that she added all the moderately fresh bread that could be found at 
short notice.
A third pot of soup was placed at the ready then a fourth. Tonight was a night 
to forget care, to share in the celebrations. It wasn't every day that a garth 
earned a new horse at no cost. They had paid no coin, and shed no blood. The 
young lord and his lady had fought beside them. Someone produced a flute, 
playing an old dance tune. Another man ran for a small hand drum. The wood stack 
was burning merrily, not that Jontar worried. He knew his lord. Tarnoor would 
replace the fuel since it had burned in his service. Jontar smiled at his wife, 
leading her into the dance. It could have been very different.
Ciara saw to it that the bubbling soup pots were shifted to one side to allow 
those still cold to warm. She also had a few words with several of the women.
Under a moonlit sky Tarnoor pressed on. Amongst the oncoming guard Hanion 
suddenly saw something. He reined up alongside his master.
"My lord, look!"
Tarnoor stared. "Dear Gods, the bandits must have fired a garth house."
He drew rein. "We must not rush in…"
Hanion cut across his words. "No, Lord, I can hear Marin's flute. He would not 
play that for any bandits. I think it's a celebration. Nor would he celebrate if 
the young lord or lady were hurt."
Tarnoor kicked his horse into a canter again. He strained his eyes for a sight 
of the boy and girl as he came into the firelight. His eyes fell first onto the 
bandits, twelve of them lying in a neat row propped against the house wall. By 
the other wall the children sat on a long settle brought out for the purpose.
Ciara had been listening; she heard the hoofbeats and signaled. Tarnoor loomed 
out of the night, the expression on his face grim. Before he could speak she ran 
forward to take his hand as he dismounted. Tarnoor found himself sitting on the 
low seat, a large steaming bowl of savory-smelling soup in his hands. The girl 
knelt at his feet.
"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 merrymaking 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 it into his wine, then coached her daughter. He'd been muzzy, hot with 
desire when Seria came. He'd done what the drugs drove him to and his young wife 
demanded before collapsing into sleep.
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 hep 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
That 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 Aiskeep there 
was no great hardship. The houses were strong, well chinked between the logs 
that formed their structure. The Keep itself was warm from the large hearths, 
although drafts abounded in the main hall in which all shared meals. Ciara had 
noticed that long since and planned for almost two years to surprise her uncle.
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."
"You can write."
Ciara sighed. "I know. But that's just writing. What you do is art." She 
pointed. "Look at the kitten peering out around the capital letter. Look at the 
lawleaves along the border, and the quarewings eating them." She laughed. "That 
bird is winking. I always thought quarewings were cute. It's just so beautiful, 
Tro. Uncle Nefhyn will love it."
"What's Elanor giving him?"
The girl grinned. "A new robe and slippers. She used some of my brown and black 
wool, then she dyed more of the white. It's in the house colors."
Trovagh whistled softly. "You mean she managed to get that mulberry shade right 
at last?"
"Yes. Don't let her know I told you. But it's perfect. She's done it with two 
different lots of wool now. It wasn't the color so much. It's setting it; 
mulberry usually doesn't hold once it's washed. Now that she's found a way to 
make it fast, I expect we'll have something else to trade next market. The gold 
was easy, that's just onionskins. She got the mulberry just right, so I expect 
we'll all be wearing it after a few more name days."
The preparations continued whenever Tarnoor was absent. There was much muffled 
giggling and hasty whipping of things from sight whenever he returned. Tarnoor 
played his part by carefully seeing nothing. The servants contributed their help 
with enthusiasm. The Keep Lord was loved and besides, it wouldn't do to miss out 
on any fun going in a long, hard winter. When the day came, Tarnoor obligingly 
found work he must do away from the main Keep rooms.
In the large banqueting hall there were loud voices. "To one side—no, the other 
one, you fool. Higher. More. Yes, that's it. Secure that there. Shift the other 
over a handsbreadth. Ah, yes. That's perfect."
Elanor stood back to beam in approval. "They look wonderful, Cee. Now go quickly 
and change, you, too, Tro. I'll just make sure all is well in the kitchens, then 
Tarnoor will be back. Go, go!" She chased them from the hall so that they ran 
giggling before her. Feet pounded up the stone stairs. Young voices called back 
and forth as they changed to festival clothes. Ciara swept from her room to join 
her friend. He took her arm and they drifted regally back down the great stair, 
the elegant effect slightly spoiled by quiet giggles. Tro was telling her how an 
overfresh mount had dumped Hanion in a snowdrift that morning.
Tarnoor arrived to find his family clustered at the hall entrance.
"What's this? Are we to eat standing out here?"
Ciara danced up. "No, Uncle Nethyn. But we have a surprise for you. Now you have 
to promise to shut your eyes and not open them until we say." Tarnoor shut his 
eyes obediently. With a child on either side to guide him, he was piloted to his 
seat.
"You can open your eyes now." Tarnoor did so.
Before him there was the usual pile of name-day gifts. But there'd been no need 
to hide those from him. He glanced around, his eyes suddenly caught by new color 
where none had been in the old hall. He stared before walking over to touch, to 
examine. By the Flames but this must have been work for the child. It was 
something new, too. The hall had wall hangings, old tapestries woven and sewed 
by his mother, his grandmother, and earlier ladies. Such tapestries were not 
only to brighten a hall, they also kept drafts from those who ate there. Many 
years gone there had been two more tapestries. But the years and the moth had 
conquered.
The drafts had been fierce of late where those two had once hung. Now two new 
hangings were in place. Tarnoor fingered them. Felt! No one had ever done wall 
hangings of felt before. The hangings had a strong, primitive look to them. The 
colors were clear and brighter, hard edged on each piece. He stepped back to 
look again. Aiskeep in spring, gray stone under soft blue skies, with green 
grass and the stream. Thickets of lawleaves, and a flock of sheep grazing 
nearby.
The other hanging was Aiskeep in the fall. The same gray stone Keep, but with 
the glowing hues of almost winter. He moved forward once more. It was 
interesting. Up close the picture vanished into no more than odd-shaped pieces 
of felt. Step back and you could see Aiskeep again. Ciara waited anxiously. 
Trader Tanrae had told her of this method of making hangings two years ago on 
one of his visits. It was quicker than tapestry, warmer, too. It might also last 
better, but only time would demonstrate that.
She waited, then Tarnoor turned to drop an affectionate arm about her shoulders.
"My dear girl, you'll ruin the Keep." He waited while the hopeful look shifted 
to worry. "I'll have to begin giving feasts to all my neighbors to show these 
off to them." Ciara heaved a relieved sigh.
"Do you really like them, Uncle?"
He was serious for a moment. "I think they're wonderful. I know the time and 
work they'd have cost you. Where did you get the idea?"
"Trader Tanrae. He told me once of a tribe across the seas who make their tents 
from felt in many colors. It was so drafty in the hall after the old tapestries 
were gone. I wondered if I could make hangings the same way."
Tarnoor admired the hangings again. "It seems you can. Now, I'd better see what 
else I have lest the rest of the family grow jealous." He twinkled at her as 
they returned to the massive table. The remainder of the evening was wild 
amusement. Hanion came in to sing several of the old hill songs accompanied by 
garthsmen on flute and drums. Elanor also sang, accompanying herself on her 
small hand harp. They played foolish games and the evening ended with Ciara and 
Trovagh doing an impression of Tarnoor and Elanor in which they found each had 
chosen to invite mortal enemies to the same feast.
The comments on the enemy Keeps, their lords, ladies, servants, and customs, had 
both adults laughing loudly. Hanion who had remained by the door to watch and 
listen was almost in tears of mirth. He could recognize, if the other adults 
could not, some of his own words on those visitors he had not liked. It was well 
into the night before any retired. This name-day feast had been the best any 
could remember.
The remainder of the winter passed slowly. Spring was late, sliding into a 
shorter than usual summer. Pasture for stock was short. At Sersgarth they were 
overstocked. Beasts stolen years earlier from garths of the Old Race had 
prospered. Seran had refused to sell as many of the offspring as he should. Now 
Sersgarth land and stock would suffer unless he found other grazing. His mind 
turned to Elmsgarth. No one had ever settled. He had pastured his beasts there 
more than once, each time prudently for only weeks at a time.
This time it would be for a summer and fall. The house would be convenient; he 
could sleep there warm and dry, and his wife and son could remain at Sersgarth. 
This he did but with care. It was known his beasts were on the land but not that 
he himself used the house. Fall arrived in a blaze of color. It would be another 
hard winter from the signs. Seran sent back his beasts to Sersgarth, but he 
remained. He'd always believed there were valuables unfound in the house. He 
would take a day or two longer to search again.
This time, quite by accident, he discovered the secret cupboard in the main 
bedroom. He peered in cursing vilely. Nothing! After all that, nothing! Voices 
alerted him so that he dived for cover partway up the watchtower stairs. There 
he sat silent, listening to the young happy talk, the laughter and jokes. Now 
and again he managed a glimpse of the pair.
Trovagh and the Witch's daughter. He'd missed his strike at her once. But now he 
knew she was still at Aiskeep. If that interfering lord had other things to 
think of, Seran would be able to use Elmsgarth as he wished.
He waited impatiently until, hours later, the pair had ridden away. Then he fled 
for his own mount. He knew at least two Keep Lords who'd pay well for this 
information. Not because they cared about hunting Witches. No, they had feuds 
with Aiskeep. That should gain Seran land and a fat profit to boot. He caressed 
his coin that winter. With spring thaw Aiskeep would find it had enemies at the 
gate, nor would it know from whence they came.
He was both right and wrong. One of the Keeps had troubles of its own that 
spring. The other waited until early summer. Then they gathered their forces.
They marched first to Sersgarth, there they forced Seran to join them. They 
camped solidly at Aiskeep gates and commenced the attack. But for all they could 
do, the Keep stood. Summer wore on as the attacks became more frantic. Twice 
attempts were made to undermine the walls. But Aiskeep was built on a ledge of 
underlying rock. The enemy could tunnel only so far before they found their 
passage halted. They held the siege but privately the Master at Arms knew it was 
futile. Still his lord commanded.
It cost them dearly. In men and supplies, and most of all in the fear or respect 
others might have for them. They had made no impression on Aiskeep, but many of 
their own guard were dead. They were weakened by this and all for some tale from 
a garthsman with his own ax to grind. The Master at Arms guessed he'd be made 
scapegoat on his return—unless he could soften his lord's wrath. There was one 
way to do that. He had Seran bound before the army marched on Sersgarth.
There they demanded a price. To buy the lives of Seran and his family, to save 
the garth from being razed, let all there bring out what they had. There was a 
swift discussion between the brothers. They drove out all the stock that was 
Seran's. All the plunder from the Old Race that Seran had hoarded. The betrayer 
betrayed. His secret hiding places were emptied, all was offered. It was not 
enough. The brothers took his wife aside. They would pay coin each of them, but 
it was against Seran's share in Sersgarth.
He would live, but he must leave to find another home, other work. She would 
have refused. She had no great love for her husband, but she guessed that if she 
refused they would claim her to have agreed anyhow. She spoke the words, hating 
them with her eyes. Small hoards of gold and silver, small items of jewelry 
appeared. One by one Seran's brothers contributed until the Master at Arms 
nodded. Seran was released while his laughing guards gathered the price they had 
taken.
Pushing the stock before them, the small army rode for their Keep. They could 
have still razed the garth, taken all that it possessed. The Master at Arms had 
chosen to leave the dirt-grubbers be. His lord might not approve, as such a 
thing was a game too many Keeps could play once it began. His lord received him 
grimly, a man who had failed. But the plunder displayed turned his mood to one 
of approval. It was only men he had lost. More could be found anywhere. The 
supplies used were more than covered by this display of ransom. He laughed, 
tossed coins to each soldier, more to his Armsmaster. There would always be 
another time.
Seran was not so fortunate. He had been long overbearing, even vicious as the 
oldest brother. Now he had brought down disaster. The younger three and their 
wives argued all night. By morning they were united. Seran was taken outside to 
be shown a small shaggy pony. On it was a pack, not overplump.
"This is yours. Take your wife and son and go." He would have protested, but for 
the look in their eyes, the hands that hovered by pitchforks, wooden staves. 
With a surly snarl he took up the lead rein, called the two who must go with 
him. He marched from the gates without looking back. In a way he understood his 
brothers. It was what he himself would have done. It was Aiskeep he hated. Lord 
Tarnoor who was the enemy. He'd remember that. Somewhere, somehow he would gain 
a revenge on them. They'd recall this day and weep tears of blood.
It was long before Tarnoor discovered these events. He shrugged when he learned. 
Seran had betrayed many in his time, that matters were reversed was only just. 
He would have helped the woman and boy had he known where they went. He did not. 
None seemed to know or have seen the small group as it fled. But it was almost a 
year. Well into the following summer before word came to Aiskeep. All three had 
vanished.
On the road Seran had suffered a second loss. His wife had refused to travel far 
beyond Teral. Her family's garth was there, and there she would stay. She was 
taken in again willingly, not so Seran. He stayed the winter but in spring it 
was strongly suggested he move on. His wife remained. His son went with him. 
Over the years, Sersgarth was forgotten. But Aiskeep and its lord were not. 
Seran grew old muttering tales of revenge into his son's ears. The boy listened. 
Seran died, still swearing revenge. His son joined a lord's guard to learn 
soldiering. Revenge was all very well, but it put no beans on the table.
At Aiskeep the years were quiet after Seran's departure. They slipped by like 
beads on thread as unrest ruled Karsten. Yet it passed them by. The knowledge 
that twice other Keeps had tried Aiskeep walls nor found them wanting encouraged 
Aiskeep to be left in peace. Tarnoor started no feuds, and he lived quietly; he 
believed it was better not to stamp on the tail of a sleeping snowcat. Geavon 
continued to write from his Keep near the city. The news was rarely good as 
Keeps and clans warred, now with this one now with that.
Trovagh and Ciara were happy. The girl was seventeen, slim and round of face. 
Her eyes glowed a warm laughing hazel, her skin a sun-ripened peach. She was 
agile and supple, interested in everything and everyone. Trovagh was her friend 
and partner in it all. Sometimes his father wondered how long it would take the 
lad to wake up and look at his young friend. The lass was not beautiful, but 
there was an integrity there. A strength and pride. From towers to furthest 
valley she knew and loved Aiskeep.
One day the boy would open his eyes. Ciara was born to be Keep Lady. Elanor 
smiled to herself. Events would take care of themselves. She made sure that 
Tarnoor said nothing. In the Year of the Pronghorn they celebrated Ciara's 
eighteenth name day. The Torgians had produced two foals in that time. The 
oldest had been carefully broken and trained for the girl at Tarnoor's orders. 
Trovagh led the girl to the stables to show off the fine colt. Ciara clapped her 
hands.
"He's lovely. Tro, let's go for a ride?"
Her friend grinned cheerfully. "I guessed you wouldn't wait to try out 
everything." He patted the magnificent saddle that had been his own gift. Beside 
it hung the bridle Elanor had given and a beautiful saddle blanket of rabbit 
furs that was Hanion's gift. Trovagh looked across at the stalled present.
"But it's a pity you can't use the colt. Father was so annoyed the poor beast 
picked up a stone bruise right on your name day. Never mind, you can take 
Quickfeet; she's good in rough land." He grinned at her. "You'd better change. 
The stable boy will have my horse ready by the time you get back here." He added 
as she turned to go, "And tell Father that we'll ride down to the cave and be 
gone all day. I'll get food from the kitchen, then wait here." He watched as she 
picked up her skirts to run lightly back up the inner stairs. It was only on 
feast days and when visitors were present that Cee ever wore real skirts. At 
other times she wore the shorter knee-length type divided for riding. She always 
said that she was too busy to drag about in skirts to the floor with all the 
weight of wool.
If pressed she recounted that tale of old Geavon's about some Keep Lady who'd 
broken her neck by tripping over a long skirt. Anyway, he liked Cee the way she 
was. Most of their visitors didn't mind. Geavon had been here twice in the past 
few years. He was a stickler for proper dress, but he'd smiled at Cee and said 
nothing. Geavon had been involved in some conspiracy in Kars before the first 
visit. It had gone wrong and Geavon had chosen to be out of sight and mind a few 
months. The second visit had been last year. The old man had complained that as 
Tarnoor never came to Gerith Keep, Gerith Keep must come to him. Trovagh was 
silently of the opinion that the man was lonely.
At least he had been. Elanor had mentioned that Geavon had hip pains from an old 
wound. That he was taking extract of poppy to ease the pains when they came. 
Maybe the old man was wanting to see his only friends while he could. Last time 
he'd arrived with quite a train of guards and a couple of travel wagons. It 
occurred to the boy as he remembered, that this was rather more than needed for 
a visit. Even for Gerith's lord who liked to travel in style. He'd have pursued 
that idea but for the necessity of persuading Cook they must have food. Once the 
saddlebags had been filled he'd forgotten all about it.
Ciara joined him just as he returned to the stables. She wore her new riding 
clothes made by Elanor during the winter. Almost absently Trovagh noticed how 
well they suited her—and how well they fitted. He found he was admiring the 
supple sway of her body as she sat through the excited cavorting of her young 
mount.
"Hey, sleepy. Are you going to sit there all day or do we ride?"
Trovagh snorted. "Ride. Bet I can beat you to the first garth." He kicked his 
horse into a gallop before he finished his words. Ciara was behind him though as 
his horse accelerated. They raced whooping and laughing down the valley. But at 
Mann's garth, he and Jontar met them with grave faces.
"Lord, the Lady Ciara's flock did not return to their barn last night. The boy 
with them has not come back."
"Maybe one of the sheep became lost. If the lad was looking too late to return, 
he'll have kept them in the cave for the night."
"That's likely, Lord. But we'd be happy if you could be sure."
Trovagh glanced at Cee, and she nodded. The lad was Marin and Jontar's grandson. 
It was natural the old men should be worried. But the day was bright, too nice 
to spend worrying. They followed the trail to the fork near the cave. One track 
led to the cave, the other deeper into the mountains. As they turned toward the 
cave, Trovagh halted.
"I can see something down there; look, Cee, just by that rock at the bottom."
She stared over the small cliff. "It's a lamb. That must be why the boy's late. 
He'll be up at the cave with the rest of the flock. You see if you can get the 
lamb. Even if it was killed yesterday it should be all right for eating. I'll 
ride up to the cave to find Kiv and tell him."
Trovagh nodded agreement, then dismounted to peer over the edge. It shouldn't be 
hard to get down, but it puzzled him why Kiv hadn't found the lamb. Maybe he had 
only lost it on the way home, then turned back to look. It was always wise to 
have some sort of rope on one's saddle in rough lands. He unhooked the braided 
rawhide, fastening it to a stump near the cliff edge. Then he walked down the 
steep slope to gather the lamb across one shoulder. He was about to climb back 
when a flutter caught his eye. He glanced across. Something lying behind a 
larger boulder? But only cloth would flap that way.
He took two casual paces forward, to find he was staring at Kiv's body as it 
sprawled on the ground. Trovagh dropped the lamb. Flames! The poor lad must have 
fallen trying to reach the lamb. His eyes focused on the boy. There was 
something sticking from the lad's chest. Trovagh investigated. The stump of an 
arrow, the broken portion lay near the body. Bandits? The cave! If there were 
outlaws around the cave would be the most likely place for them to be. Oh, Gods, 
Cee had gone to find Kiv there.
Trovagh was on horseback and cantering before he thought. He had sense enough to 
slow before the final stretch to the hideaway. He dismounted, slipping through 
the brush on foot; luckily he had taken his bow, he thought. They usually hunted 
while in the foothills. Cee would have hers, too, but he feared she might not 
have had the chance to use it. That was her horse standing there. Damn, if only 
her name-day gift hadn't bruised his hoof that way. The Torgian colt would have 
attacked on command, or even without if he saw his rider seized.
Quickfeet shied violently away from the cave as within it Ciara screamed. The 
girl came staggering back clear of the cave-mouth, her upper clothing torn. Her 
fingers hooked into claws, her eyes flaming fury as she fought in silence now 
against the man who held her captive. Trovagh glanced about swiftly. There was 
another horse past the cave. It was a typical bandit mount. Overridden, 
ill-used, but of originally good quality. Why steal poor animals when you can 
steal the best. But only one horse, most likely only one man, two at most.
A savage slap sent Ciara spinning to the ground again. She came up fighting, 
sinking her teeth into her captor's arm as he grabbed her. For a moment her face 
was visible to Trovagh. He saw the desperation behind the rage, the terror 
behind the determination to fight. Blood trickled down her cheek from one of the 
blows. Something rose in Trovagh. A chill, deadly fury. He stepped forward, 
spying the man's bow. He darted silently toward it even as the outlaw heard the 
rush of feet. A quick stamp and the bow broke, now Trovagh turned on his prey.
Never fight in" a temper, his father had taught him. Trovagh's mood was beyond 
that description,.it was ice, the deadly winter blizzard that comes to kill. It, 
too, did not slay in a rage, but those who met it died. He feinted. The man he 
faced was good enough for untrained farmers, but Trovagh had been taught by 
Hanion since the boy could walk. Swords crossed, flickering and shimmering. 
Another feint, a bind, and a sword whirling high into the air. The bandit made 
his final mistake. His eyes followed the blade upward. Trovagh brought his sword 
lashing around. The outlaw folded in silence to the bloody earth.
Cee? Where was Cee? Trovagh jerked his head around hunting for her. Over 
Quickfeet's back an arrow pointed. He slouched in relief and pride, gasping for 
breath. Even after that she'd run not for a place to hide but for a weapon to 
aid him. Behind her horse Ciara allowed the bowstring to relax.
"Are there any more?" Trovagh was remaining cautious.
"No, he said he was alone, and the others were wiped out days ago by Aranskeep." 
She emerged from behind Quickfeet as she spoke. Her hand went up to wipe away 
the trickle of blood. The man's ring had cut high on her cheekbone when he 
struck her. She walked unsteadily toward Tro.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes." He hesitated; how did you ask a friend if she'd been raped? "Were you… he 
didn't… ?"
She managed a small, shaky smile. "I fought him too hard, then you came." He 
looked at her standing there. Hair torn half loose from its braids, clothing 
wrenched apart. She was bruised, bloody, but still Cee. His arms went out to 
close about her. Her face turned up to reassure him as their lips met, almost by 
accident. Long moments later he put her from him a little.
It was his smile that was shaky now. "I think perhaps we should tell Father our 
marriage could become official. That's if you feel the same way, Cee?"
She smiled up, long affection and new love in that look. "Yes!" was all she 
said. It was enough.

8
The wedding was small as Keep weddings went. Trader Tanrae and his family, 
Geavon and all his, and a sprinkling of the clan who lived within a few days' 
travel. There were also the people of Aiskeep, the garths, and those others 
outside the valley who still looked to Aiskeep as overlord. The preparations 
took until almost midsummer. But then their own priestess united Trovagh and 
Ciara by Cup and Flame. Aiskeep rejoiced.
Hard on the heels of that event came another that also delighted everyone. It 
was all Geavon's fault, Tarnoor declared. That was no more than the truth. 
Geavon had sat with Tarnoor after the wedding. Both felt a little fiat after all 
the excitement. The children were safely bedded down in the tower suite, which 
was now their own. The guests had mostly departed, and things were returning 
slowly to normal. Tarnoor sighed.
"I suppose I have only a doddering age to look forward to now."
Geavon snorted in amusement. "You're still young enough to consider a third 
wife. Now that the boy's off your hands, why don't you look about? Flames, man. 
You're only in your sixties; you aren't trembling into the grave as yet. Find 
some widow with a little dowry and no children to complicate Aiskeep's 
inheritance."
Tarnoor flung back his head and laughed. "And find myself landed with someone 
who'd want to change the Keep about, and who doesn't know the place! Meddling 
with the garths, upsetting the servants. If I was going to wed again, I might as 
well take Elanor, at least she knows Aiskeep and…" He fell abruptly silent. 
Geavon eyed him shrewdly as Tarnoor sat there. It looked as if his friend had 
finally realized something Geavon had been hinting at for weeks.
No more was said on that subject. They finished the wine, talked of harvest, 
then wandered off to their beds. Tarnoor lay in his old four-poster bed thinking 
late into the night. It was legal to wed Elanor. She was only a distant cousin 
to Tarnoor, a closer one to his late wife, but that didn't matter. She was 
sensible, comfortable, and kind. She'd run Aiskeep for the last twenty-odd 
years. There'd be no changes just for the sake of it.
He smiled slightly. As for the dowry, Aiskeep was obliged to provide her with 
one should she wish to wed. That really was keeping money in the family should 
he marry her. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. There'd 
be no children, but there'd be a comfortable old age together. She was younger, 
but then she was wholly of Karsten. Aiskeep didn't talk loudly about it, but 
there was the blood of the Old Race in the direct line here. Not a great amount. 
Just enough to lengthen their lives, keeping them hale barring accidents or 
sicknesses, until they died.
Ciara had done no more than bring back a stronger infusion of the blood. Aiskeep 
had always been a little different. He slept then. But in the morning he dressed 
carefully, going quietly in search of Elanor.
"I would speak to you; walk with me in the herb garden."
Best to move slowly, Tarnoor considered, as they walked. He'd lived long enough 
to know that telling Elanor he had begun considering her because she had no 
children and wouldn't turn the Keep upside down would not win him favor. 
Instead, he complimented her on her latest gown, plucked a sprig of rosemary to 
pin on her bodice, and left her baffled. Tarnoor followed the same plan every 
morning for a week until Elanor looked for him out of habit. Then he shifted his 
ground.
At the next evening meal he waited to hand Elanor ceremoniously to her chair. 
This drew interested looks from his children. They could hardly wait to get away 
once the meal was done.
"Did you see?" Trovagh was incredulous.
Ciara giggled, "I certainly did. Did you see the defiant way he did it? As if he 
was daring anyone to comment?"
Trovagh nodded, "It would be a fair match," he said. "Elanor's kin, so there'd 
be no problems there, and she'd cause no trouble at Aiskeep."
"And she's a dear!"
"That, too. Remember the time we put a toad in her bed and she made us eat that 
oversalted porridge?"
Ciara smiled, "I remember, but she didn't tell Father. I think it would be good. 
After all, they're old, and it would be nice for each of them to have company."
Meanwhile Elanor, no fool, had also come to a conclusion. She'd never known 
quite when she began to love Tarnoor. Sometime after her cousin had left him 
widowed, she thought. When she'd seen how good he was with his tiny son, his 
people, and his Keep. How kind, honest, and caring he was. She'd never let him 
see it. She ran the Keep, but in a way she was a servant. If she allowed him to 
see she cared, he might fear it was only to raise herself. She guessed at the 
reasons she was considered, but there had been real affection when he looked at 
her.
She waited patiently as Tarnoor moved toward his question. He spoke gently of 
love then. Could she care? She assured him happily that she already did. Their 
wedding was quieter still. Just those within the Keep and Geavon who had not yet 
departed. But a week later Geavon, too, was gone. Aiskeep settled down. Elanor 
was happier than she had ever been, and Tarnoor seemed to be discovering a new 
energy.
It took three years before something occurred to disrupt the Keep.
"You're sure?" Trovagh was delighted.
"Positive!"
"So we can tell Father and Elanor tonight?"
Ciara looked doubtful. "Just so long as they don't go broody. I don't want to be 
wrapped up and kept inside. I'm young, healthy, and the women of my line 
normally birth easily. Apart from that I know healcraft. I won't take chances, 
love, but I don't want to be driven mad by a fuss."
Trovagh broke the news that evening. Privately he also managed a word with his 
family. The fuss was kept moderate. Ciara rode as usual, walked, and worked in 
the stillroom with her herbs. She bore a healthy boy. Four years later she added 
a girl to the family. But by then strange events were beginning.
A man had risen in the far South. He'd begun as a guard and proved to have 
fighting aptitude. From that he'd gone on to take over a garth. Then with a tail 
of men he'd taken a small clanless Keep.No one knew where he came from or what 
his blood. He called himself Pagar of Geen. But Geen was only a small town, and 
Pagar was a word in the old tongue for 'One who stands alone.' Nonetheless the 
man was a strategist as well as a fighter and leader of fighters. His next move 
was to take more land. It had lain long fallow, too far from clan land to be 
defensible, yet close to the Keep Pagar had taken, which had been small and not 
so defensible itself. Now the man was building a base, it appeared. Over the 
next two years Pagar strengthened his Keep, widened his holdings, then struck 
for real ties with power. It was a letter from Geavon that brought the news. 
Tarnoor read it with interest. So this Pagar had offered for the daughter of one 
of the smaller clans. He told his family over breakfast.
Ciara hooted. "Is that the one with a truly evil temper?"
"And a reputation for exhausting the Kars Guard?" Trovagh added.
"So I believe," Tarnoor informed them. It was funny, but not for long. The woman 
apparently settled to a respectable wifehood, producing a son only days after 
nine months from the wedding. Her death in childbed was not surprising. Many 
women died that way. The child, however, lived, giving Pagar a solid clan claim. 
He used it to add men and clan soldiers to his train, striking within months at 
a keep belonging to a rival clan. It was taken swiftly. Then another, and a 
third. With growing wealth and status, his offer for a daughter of a larger clan 
was acceptable.
By this time there were voices suggesting Pagar be raised to duke. Merchants 
from Kars, some honest, others paid for the service, lobbied loudly. Here was a 
man who could finally bring order to the land. A man who knew the people. Three 
years later Pagar was crowned duke of the duchy of Kars. His alliances spread 
after that. His second wife died, again in a perfectly acceptable way. There was 
some gossip, put about by the ill-intentioned of course. Pagar ignored it 
loftily. He wed a third time. His prize was the only daughter of a powerful man 
in the most powerful of the coastal clans.
Pagar was thirty-three when he announced a campaign in the North. For too long 
the land around Verlaine had been lawless, Pagar said firmly. Fulk had never 
returned. Various lords had held Verlaine, the current one being a weak fool who 
permitted outlaws to ravage unchecked. Those living in that area agreed 
heartily. Pagar blooded his troops. Behind him he left Verlaine in the hands of 
one of those who looked to him. A strong guard reinforced peace over the area. 
Sycophants in Kars told all about them to look at how their duke handled things.
Geavon told a different story on a visit. "I don't know the man's eventual aim. 
But everything until now has been a carefully thought-out series of steps 
upward. I think soon he will attack Estcarp. It's an old enemy to Karsten and 
the man must lead his men against someone."
Elanor was puzzled. "Why?"
"Because of those he leads. Too many are mercenaries, bandits turned temporarily 
honest soldiers, outlaws impressed by the loot from the northern campaign. 
Without a war the army will fall apart. Pagar can't pay them, but to keep them 
together he must. Or he can offer them the possibilities of vast loot. If he 
carves a path into Estcarp, he buys time to strengthen his power. Loot to 
rebuild Kars, plunder to pay his men. You do know he's already started raiding 
along the border between us?"
Tarnoor was horrified. "Without declaration?"
"Exactly. Estcarp won't take it for long. They'll do something we may all 
regret." Geavon sighed. "It all harks back to the Horning. Too many in our land 
benefited from that or have guilty consciences over things that happened. Too 
many have always feared that one day they'd be called to pay blood debt. Pagar 
has played on that. He has the city and most of the clans behind him in what he 
does. The worst of it is, Estcarp cannot win. If they do .nothing, Pagar will 
raid more boldly. If they act, then he will cry out that we are unjustly 
attacked by an old enemy. This is only the beginning. He will claim that if we 
do not fight, we will soon be a subject land."
Tarnoor glanced at his friend. "Which do you think will come?"
"Those of Estcarp are not cowards, they'll fight," Geavon said thoughtfully. 
"Pagar is expecting an easier war than I think he will get. But once he is 
committed, then so are we all. I never liked nor trusted the man, I think he 
leads us where we would not wish did we but see the path ahead clearly. I fear 
for Karsten."
It was well that Tarnoor persuaded the old man to remain. Two weeks later word 
came from Gerith Keep. Geavon left at once traveling light and as swift as aging 
bones allowed. His next letter was grim.
Estcarp had made some formal alliance with the Sulcar so that their fleets had 
been loosed upon Kars. Twenty ships broke the Kars river patrol, slashing into 
the very heart of the city. The results of that kept the duke busy in his own 
backyard for a year. The Kars merchants were outraged. The Sulcar had dealt 
death in moderation, but some wise one among them had counseled another blow. As 
the fleet withdrew they had burned every warehouse they could set alight. The 
duke had no sooner quelled that trouble than more came to him from the far 
South.
Hanion was amused. "They say the man claims to be Pagar's half brother. That the 
father lived with some woman for several years before he died and got a son on 
her. This man is a bare twenty, but he's ambitious and a couple of the clans 
with no love for Pagar will back him. Pagar had better deal quickly with him, 
else there are others who may decide this one to be the better bargain."
Aiskeep was wise enough to remain apart. But as Hanion had said, there were 
others willing to fish in troubled waters.
Three years passed before Pagar was secure on his throne again. The half 
brother, however, had been so evilly slain that others rose in his place. As 
fast as the duke suppressed trouble in one province, it broke out elsewhere. Nor 
were supplies for war so easy to find of late with the Sulcar firmly on the side 
of Estcarp. For a time the duke lay low, keeping peace in the land while he 
built up trained men and quietly bought weapons to store against need.
In those years Aiskeep continued to thrive. The children grew, prospering in 
health and knowledge. Ciara's daughter was sixteen when she wed. Ciara wept as 
she kissed her farewell.
"Be happy, do not be strangers to Aiskeep. May Cup and Flame go with you in 
blessing, little one." For a time they did. Then it was the turn of Ciara's son.
"But who is this lady, we have heard of no Aisha?"
Kirin laughed. "No, but is her name not a good omen? She is the sister of a 
friend I made in Kars. I met him when I stayed with Geavon at Gerith Keep last 
year. We visited my friend's house in Kars often. She is young, only fourteen, 
but we could be wed next year."
Ciara was uncertain. As ever she took her questions to Trovagh. "I know nothing 
of the girl; could we not invite her here for a time? We can thus decide with 
more knowledge. The match is well enough from what we know, but we know little."
The girl came. She was small in stature, maybe a little sly, Ciara thought, 
quiet and gentle seeming but lazy and rather spoiled. She would not expect to 
run Aiskeep. In that she would produce no contention. She also appeared fond of 
Kirin, although Ciara wondered how much of her son's determination was merely an 
infatuation with a very pretty girl. They were wed a year later, though Ciara 
wished both to wait a little longer.
Meanwhile, Pagar had again commenced raiding the Estcarp border. He, was strong 
on his throne, since many of those who opposed him seemed to die conveniently. 
There was more gossip about that, which ceased when people noticed that the 
gossipers also seemed to have a surprisingly high mortality rate. The raids 
carried on over the next few years, growing in strength and intensity. Pagar did 
not seem to mind his losses, nor, loaded with plunder from Estcarp's border, did 
his men.
Then for the first time in many years, grief came to Aiskeep. Ciara's daughter 
died. There had been no living child of the marriage, and Trovagh and Ciara 
mourned together as did Tarnoor and Elanor. They had been so fortunate, it had 
been a long time since death had touched any of them. It was to become a 
familiar visitor. A month later, Trader Tanrae's son came bringing word that 
bandits had struck a merchant train. In the fighting his father had been slain.
Talron's face was black with anger as he told them. "I do not believe it to have 
been the raid it appeared. One of the outlaws was taken alive. He swore their 
leader was paid for the attack, and that they were to be certain my father 
died."
"Are you sure of this?" Tarnoor was shocked. "Your father had no enemies I know 
of. He was a good man and honest."
Talron shrugged. "I'm sure the one who talked believed it. The truth of it is 
another matter."
Ciara wondered. She wondered still more when her daughter's maid found her way 
back to Aiskeep. She, too, had a story to tell.
"Lady, I loved your daughter. She was my lady twice over, once as her servant 
and once as I belong to Aiskeep. I cannot swear to my fears, only that they are 
there. The marriage was happy enough, though there were no children as yet. Then 
a cousin of the clan nearby began to visit often. He and my lady's husband 
seemed to spend more time together talking close, as if they wished none to 
overhear their words. Then my lady fell ill. They said it was the ague but there 
were differences. I spoke so but was told I was an ignorant servant knowing 
nothing. My lady died, and even before her body was in the ground her husband's 
friend was there, whispering in his ear.
"My lady was buried and I was told I should return to Aiskeep. That there was no 
need of me. They gave me a little coin, an old pony, and bade me join a merchant 
train coming south. All this I did, but, Lady, the merchants were kept late in 
Kars by storms. I did not leave the Keep when they believed."
"What did you see?" Tarnoor asked quietly.
"My lady's husband going very quietly to the shrine. Before the shrine priestess 
he made declaration that his Keep was now allied with that other clan. His 
friend stood witness." She turned to Ciara. "I can prove nothing. I have no 
proof. But I believe my lady was slain in some way. I think her husband to be 
innocent, but he merely took the opportunity offered him by his friend. But my 
lady disliked the man, nor is that clan a friend to Aiskeep. So long as she 
lived she would never have let such an alliance be. I heard them argue often 
enough."
Tarnoor dismissed the girl gently. Once the door had shut behind her he turned 
to look at his family.
"What do you think of her tale?"
Trovagh looked distressed. "The girl herself admits there is no proof. She even 
believes our son-in-law innocent. How can we accuse some cousin of another 
clan—and of what? That he poisoned our daughter so his clan might ally with one 
Keep? That's the clan the duke wed into last time. It would be more than 
dangerous to accuse if what rumor says is true."
It rested there until winter came. Of late many had been mild, but this one was 
harsh and long once more. When it faded into spring Ciara chose to ride out.
"I will if I wish, Tro. I'm not so old I can't sit a horse. Come with me, and we 
can take some of the guard and ride toward Elmsgarth. Aiskeep owns it; we should 
be sure it survived the winter."
Trovagh chuckled. "Well enough, let us ride." They took six of the guard and a 
pack pony. It was a day's ride to the garth that had once been Ciara's home. 
They would stay the night there and ride back in the morning.
They walked the horses across boggy ground toward the edge of Elmsgarth land. 
Leading the small group was Trovagh. His hand suddenly flung up in a signal to 
halt. Ciara followed his look. Beside the willows huddled several starved goats. 
The bark had been eaten high, to branch forks in the case of some of the trees 
that had proved climbable.
"There's something wrong. Sersgarth has been using this land as pasture for 
years but not in winter. Why would they leave the beasts here to starve? These 
are only the ones that have survived." He pointed to a scattering of humps, 
black and white against the brown earth. He turned to the men. "Spread out, and 
look for other beasts and any people. Be wary. Listen in case I call."
He sat his mount as Ciara craned about her. "Tro, should we ride on to 
Sersgarth? If they were in so much trouble that they'd leave valuable stock here 
to starve, then…"
"Then they are probably dead," Trovagh cut in. "It has been possible to ride to 
Elmsgarth for at least a week. If any were alive, then surely they'd have come 
by now. Still, you are right, we should ride there to see. Wait a little until 
we hear if our men have found anything."
One by one the guards trickled back. They had found no one, but the last of them 
reported signs.
"Signs? What sort of signs? Riders?"
"No, my lord. I think that there were cattle here, too. The fence at the back 
has been broken down. The beasts will have gone into the hills once they became 
hungry enough to push through the railings." He paused to consider. "My lord, I 
believe there to have been perhaps a dozen cattle, maybe more."
Ciara spoke with the sound of steel in her voice. "Sersgarth would never have 
left so much wealth to die here. Not unless they themselves were already dead. 
Let us ride quickly. We can be there before dark."
Trovagh agreed. "Spread out in line. Harran, go well ahead. Two of you others 
fall back. String bows and ride with your eyes wide open."
The small cavalcade swept down the road, half-melted snow and slush flying from 
many hooves. They rounded the bend before Sersgarth, then pulled to a hasty halt 
as Harran rode back.
"Lord, Lady, Sersgarth stands, but the door is shut. No one appears to answer my 
calls."
They rode on with care. It was as Harran had said. Within the house there were 
ominous stains here and there. Anything small of value had vanished. More 
interesting, even the secret hiding places, usually well-guarded family secrets, 
had been emptied without signs they had been broken open. There were no traces 
of the beasts here. Even the horse harnesses and wains were gone. But there was 
no damage. Nothing smashed or burned such as bandits usually did.
They stayed the night, riding back to Aiskeep distressed and bewildered. In the 
South all had been quiet for some time. It would have taken a strong band of 
outlaws to win the garth with so little damage. Why then had they not stayed the 
winter? The buildings were weather-tight with good hearths and much firewood 
stacked behind the house. With the increasing pressure against Estcarp's border, 
the loot to be had there drew outlaws and bandits north. Had this been a band of 
such traveling in that direction? But the other questions remained.
They were not answered that year. Instead, a large family appeared less than a 
month later to settle in the deserted garth. They claimed the goats found at 
Ciara's old home as well. Trovagh and Ciara rode over to speak with them.
"From where do you and your family come?"
"From beyond Teral, my lord. A wearying journey."
"We do not dispute your use of the land. But by what right do you claim it?"
The family's leader was brief. "We purchased it, my lord. One who has been very 
long gone agreed it should be ours."
Trovagh and Ciara blinked at each other. The only ones ever gone from the garth 
had been Seran and his family.
"Seran?"
"It was a woman. I do not wish to be impolite, my lord, but we have much work to 
do."
That was so clearly true Trovagh asked nothing more. They walked the horses 
back, talking as they went.
"It must be Seran's wife; there's no one else it could have been," Trovagh 
commented.
Ciara looked at him. "That's true. But there's something you haven't considered. 
We only found Sersgarth abandoned a month ago. Isn't that a rather short time? 
Think, Tro. It's clear whatever happened occurred at the beginning of winter. 
But there's been almost no travelers as yet this spring. How did Seran's wife 
get word that the garth had been abandoned, that all the rest of the family had 
disappeared when we ourselves didn't know?"
"How, too, did she then find this family to buy from her, and gather their goods 
and gear to be there so swiftly?" Trovagh added thoughtfully.
"If they came from beyond Teral as they said," Ciara added, "the trip with all 
those children and animals must have taken more than a week. That shortens their 
time to have heard and made ready still further. I dislike this whole business."
"And I, beloved. But there is naught we can do. Sersgarth has never looked to 
the Keep. We have no right to demand a sight of these purchase papers the man 
claims. We can only refuse them the right to use your own home as Sersgarth 
did."
That time came quickly. Harran rode in just weeks later to say that Elmsgarth 
once more hosted beasts. Trovagh said nothing but rode out with ten men. The new 
family had moved into Ciara's old home as well. The house was clean but to this 
garth they had no shadow of right. He said so. Politely, kindly, but very 
firmly. If they wished to buy, it would be considered. If they wished to rent, 
that, too, would be given thought. But until then, the land and buildings 
belonged to Aiskeep.
The family head returned to talk at the end of the summer. He would buy. Ciara 
sold reluctantly. Still the land had always been too far from Aiskeep, nor did 
any of the family wish to live there. The purchase price would be of use. But 
both she and Trovagh wondered how a garth family could afford to buy two large 
garths in outright holding. They did not ask. In some ways, they did not wish to 
know.
The marriage of Ciara and Trovagh's son was blessed that year. A healthy son to 
balance the loss of friends and neighbors, which still puzzled Aiskeep. After 
that there was an interval. Kirin was often away in Kars. To the distrust of all 
at Aiskeep, he seemed to be moving into the circle of those about the duke. He 
grew further apart, too, from his wife who turned to spoiling her son as 
compensation. A second son was born three years later. He, too, was soon spoiled 
despite all that Ciara and Elanor could do.
It was rumored that Kirin backed the duke in his war. That he encouraged the 
raids, sometimes riding on these with his men. Ciara did not wish to believe 
this of her son. Her eyes were opened ten years after the death of her daughter 
and the disappearance of those at Sersgarth.
"You will ride in outright war? Surely, my son, you have other duties. What of 
your wife, your sons? One day Aiskeep will be yours."
Kirin sneered at that. "One Keep in the poor South. If I please Pagar, I, will 
rule as a duke in Estcarp. With their allies elsewhere engaged they cannot 
stand. One strike to their heart and we'll crush them as one crushes a walnut 
for the meat. My sons will rule a province, not one Keep."
Tarnoor had listened quietly to this; now he spoke. "Estcarp has protections 
other than its soldiers. Also you have not thought. I am your lord. You are my 
heir's heir. Under law you may not ride without my permission. It is not given 
nor shall it be." He closed his mouth in a way that all knew his mind was made 
up.
Kirin smiled, a slow, vicious smirk. "Say you so, Grandfather? There may be one 
who says otherwise. As for Estcarp and its witches, they fail. Our scouts tell 
us the men of Estcarp move back little by little. They may plan to make a stand 
on their side of the mountains. If so, they are fools. Pagar will roll over 
them. Their land will be ours. As for your permission, I think you shall give it 
once you have thought about it."
Before Tarnoor could speak again, Kirin strode from the room leaving the four 
remaining to stare in horror after him.

9
Pagar was harrying Estcarp forces when Kirin reached him. He returned at speed 
for several reasons, though he chose not to name them all. One was a third offer 
from Alizon.
"No," he told Kirin. "I drink no cup of Brotherhood with Facellian. He has 
unchancy allies. Moreover, I do not trust him. Let him keep busy with the 
Sulcar; it keeps them from joining with Estcarp any further. Also," he said, 
looking thoughtful, "Facellian moves against other lands. I think he takes more 
on his knife-point than he can thrust into his mouth. It may be that if his war 
does not prosper he will return to us with better offers."
Kirin grinned sourly. "You say he harries the Sulcar, Lord. But the spies bring 
word of a great fleet assembling in Es Bay. Those of Alizon who would make a 
treaty with us have the same story. The accursed Witches may escape us all yet."
"Not so. The army gathers. Very soon we shall strike into the heart of Estcarp. 
A portion of the army, led by you, my friend, shall ride hard to the northwest 
and the great bay. If any attempt to retreat to some land across the seas, they 
shall find you waiting."
"Yes, but what of my grandsire? He speaks truly when he says my riding with your 
army is against the old laws." Kirin sat, his elbow on the table as he stared 
gloomily into the wine cup. "I am the heir's heir. If he says me nay, I may not 
ride. My sister is dead. My parents will not breed again. There is none else."
"You have two sons," Pagar pointed out.
"Both children. The law was made to prevent dispute in such matters. My 
grandsire is old, my father's health has ever been chancy in winter. If I fall 
in battle, Aiskeep would be under regency for years."
Pagar pursed his lips. "Leave it with me, my friend. I will consult those who 
are wise in such matters. Let you prepare for the time we move. I swear to you, 
you shall ride as you wish."
He waited until the fool was gone. Oh, yes. Kirin would ride, but Pagar had 
other plans for the man he named friend. Other plans, too, for the doddering 
swine of a grandsire. It had taken half a lifetime but the oaths he'd sworn were 
almost accomplished. But before he made his final moves here, there were a few 
small matters to tidy away. He called for wine. He would think each move out 
that he must make. Too much haste was folly. He'd learned that as a common 
soldier.
At Aiskeep Ciara was unhappy. Was there something wrong with her that her son 
turned against them so? Had she not taught him well, loved him greatly? Yet now 
he cursed them all and would go against even the oldest of Keep laws. Tarnoor 
comforted her.
"The lad's always been a bit hotheaded. He'll calm down and realize he has 
responsibilities here. What about poor little Aisha? He's planning to desert 
her, too, for the Flames know how long."
Ciara snorted crudely. "Poor little Aisha will manage very well without him. 
She's ruining her own sons to compensate. They have no curb on them at all. She 
does nothing either with them or for the Keep. She infuriates me."
From his seat near the fire Trovagh chuckled. "You mean you can't make up your 
mind, love. One minute you're complaining she takes no interest in Aiskeep. The 
next you're thanking the Gods she does not, lest she ruin it as she ruins her 
sons."
Ciara threw up her hands. "I know, I know. Between her and Kirin I'm saying 
things I don't mean." She turned the talk to other things, but later in her room 
with Trovagh she was more thoughtful.
"I didn't like the way Kirin spoke. There's something behind that attitude of 
his. I know he and the duke are close; the boy's spent most of the last couple 
of years in Kars. He's hardly home at all. Geavon's always said Pagar had his 
plans all laid out. That he was moving up step by step."
"Geavon's an old man who sees plots in every dark corner."
"Geavon's an old man who's survived a lot of plots in dark corners," Ciara 
retorted. "I don't always agree with him, but I do here. I don't know what it 
is"—she twisted her fingers together—"but I feel as if something is closing in 
on us. As if we are being watched, and in danger."
Trovagh caught her restless fingers into his hands. "Hush, love. It's all right. 
Kirin is only a young fool. He's rushed to Kars to check the law. Once he finds 
Father spoke true, the boy will be back. Although, he could go." He looked down 
at their linked hands. "I know why the law was made. It was to prevent children 
from being used as pawns in the old days. A child ruling anywhere has always 
been dangerous for those ruled. Father is old, but he's strong and healthy. He 
should live long. Then there is me. I know I take colds, sometimes badly in 
winter, but I have you to aid me. Kirin has two sons to follow him here."
Ciara was listening to him as he continued. "The problem is, sweetheart, that 
Father is old. I am known to be often winter-sick. And Aisha comes from a 
powerful clan. By law if Father, I, and Kirin died, you should be regent here 
for our grandsons. But can you see Aisha's clan sitting back to allow it? No, 
they'd be here on some pretext within weeks. Aisha's lazy. She'd agree to 
anything they demanded rather than argue."
"And you think I'd sit by and allow Aiskeep to be overrun with her damned clan?"
"No, my dear, I don't. For which reason they'd move against you first of all. 
Pagar is allied to Aisha's clan, and you know the talk. It's amazing how many 
accidents one can have if someone else puts their mind to it."
He realized she was no longer paying attention to him. He fell silent, content 
to sit holding her hands in the quiet firelit room. His love. She'd always been 
that behind the friendship. It had taken him too long to see. But they'd had 
almost thirty years together in the big bed next door. He hoped for another 
thirty or even more. Their family lived long, and Cee was half of the Old Race. 
They'd be safe at Aiskeep. When other fools spent their coin on fancy clothes, 
trips to Kars, and looking fine at the court there, Aiskeep had been built.
Their outer walls were massive. The gates were strong and doubly so with a 
second curtain wall within and beyond the gates. There were now three escape 
routes where once there had been two. The garths in the Keep-guarded valley were 
snug, the buildings kept in repair. The people of Aiskeep lived far better than 
any Keep farmers, Trovagh knew. As for the armory, it would have armed a Keep of 
twice as many guards. The lower storerooms were kept filled. None at Aiskeep 
ever forgot the sieges of the restless years after Yvian's murder.
Ciara sat quiet, body motionless, but within the stillness her mind raced. It 
had been Tro's comment about accidents. It was true. If one ill-intentioned put 
mind to it, it was amazing how many accidents could happen. The question was, 
was there a mind here and if so, whose? First there'd been Trader Tanrae, a 
friend of Aiskeep. He'd died in a bandit ambush: bandits paid to make sure that 
whatever else happened, Tanrae died. There'd been no reason for it. Tanrae had 
been an honest trader. He'd had no enemies any could name.
Of course who knew what one who'd been offended might name an injury. It could 
take very little. Then there'd been Sersgarth. The whole series of mysterious 
events ending in a new family there—who'd also had the wealth to purchase 
Elmsgarth. They'd settled into both garths over the years.
They were peaceful enough but somehow, not friendly. Always polite, but without 
warmth. Ciara felt measured whenever one of them looked at her. As if they 
waited and watched to be sure what kind of opponent she'd be when the time came.
After that—her eyes blinked back tears—after that there'd been her daughter. The 
suggestion that the girl had been in the way of a powerful clan. There'd been 
nothing but the word of a suspicious servant. But an Aiskeep servant, devoted to 
her mistress and trustworthy. Yet what had the suspicions amounted to, after 
all? The idea that a large, wealthy, and powerful clan had a young wife poisoned 
so her husband could swear his Keep to them without objection? One Keep against 
the scandal that would erupt if poisoning had even been suspected? There were 
things a clan did not lightly risk. Open that gate and others were free to 
follow.
It was unlikely, she thought. Yet the servant had listed the details. The ague 
from which her mistress died had had unusual symptoms. It was odd that they had 
rid themselves of the servant with quite such haste. Odder still that the 
grieving husband should be swearing his Keep to another clan and so very hastily 
in such secret. She had a sense of something moving here, but her mind refused 
to put the puzzle pieces together. There was a vague link. Tanrae had been 
Aiskeep's friend, Ciara's savior. Sersgarth had been Aiskeep's neighbor. A 
daughter of Aiskeep was strangely dead.
Well, worrying over it would not help, she decided. She'd done enough of that 
lately. Better to fix her mind on something she could remedy, like the way Aisha 
spoiled those brats of hers. She rose, taking Trovagh affectionately by the arm.
"I'm for our bed, my love." He followed, glad she seemed to have found peace.
Kirin paid another visit, this time to speak with his wife. He found her 
infuriatingly unhelpful.
"I'm not becoming involved. I have to live here while you play at lords all over 
Kars. Your mother picks on me, your grandfather thinks I'm a fool, and you pay 
me no attention." She burst into tears. "I'm with child again, too. Go away and 
do whatever you want. Just don't expect me to help you."
Kirin went. He rode back to the city convinced that a dukedom in Estcarp would 
be a boon greater than he'd thought. He could find some way of ridding himself 
of Aisha, and taking a younger, prettier wife. Perhaps a girl of Estcarp who 
would be properly grateful to be wed instead of taken as mistress. He'd take his 
sons in hand, too. They seemed more unruly and ill-mannered each time he saw 
them. A tough Armsmaster and a few beatings should cure that.
Once in Kars he was angered all over again to find Pagar was still on the 
border. The week it would take to ready the army had already stretched to two. 
Still Kirin could not legally join without causing an outcry. He must persuade 
Pagar to intervene before it was too late. He rode on to find him there. On the 
border his duke was triumphant. It seemed that the forces of Estcarp had learned 
the lessons Pagar had been teaching. He was closeted with his scout head as 
Kirin stamped in to join him.
"They pull back, my lord. If this continues, we may be through the mountains 
shortly. The heart is going out of them.
We win and win and they see no end to this war. My spies say that the fleet in 
Es Bay will bear away many of their lords and their households. For that reason, 
too, no doubt the men fall back. Few soldiers fight well when they know their 
masters plan to abandon them." He sneered at the thought.
Pagar agreed. "Keep pressing them, but do not make them too desperate as yet. 
The bulk of my army will be ready shortly. Once we have that we can advance at 
speed." Kirin nodded agreement. Pagar waved the scout chief to depart before 
continuing his speech to the intent Kirin. He laid his finger on a map. "Here I 
will split the army. The greater portion of it, led by me, will strike into the 
heart of Estcarp direct for Es City. The remainder led by you, will turn 
northwest and travel as fast as they may to the great bay. As soon as we are 
through the mountains I'll have a screen of scout-fighters flung far forward in 
front of that portion."
He smiled viciously. "I want none of the Witches to know they will be cut off 
from their fleet in the bay. Let it come as a surprise to them. Those who 
suddenly have hope taken away break more easily." He drank deep from his cup, 
and looked up, face flushed red with wine. "I have laid my plans a long time, 
but now they ripen. In a month I will sit in Es City as master. Alizon is 
finding their own enemies a harder nut to crack than they'd hoped. My spies say 
it looks possible that Alizon will be defeated. I will take perhaps a year to 
recover our own strength. To train soldiers, to replace those we lose. After 
that I will consider Alizon."
Kirin gasped, "You would rule three countries, my lord?"
"Why not? A man takes what he can in this life. Now, as for your grandsire, I 
will move there soon. You lead a third of my army. Do you think I will allow 
some old dotard to deprive me of a commander?" He patted Kirin's shoulder. 
"Come, man. More wine and look to this map." He guided the talk thereafter, 
before saying he would rise early and must go to his bed.
Once retired, Pagar called for one to attend him.
"Wake me early, at first light. I ride for Kars at speed. A light escort to ride 
with me. Two horses for each of us. Send a courier now with these orders for my 
lord Draven in the city." He thrust a roll of sealed papers into the waiting 
hand.
He saw the man off and relaxed. At last all his plans were in motion. So few 
things left to do before he ruled a subject land. He smiled to himself. He'd 
risen high and meant to rise higher. Estcarp, Alizon, but beyond them were lands 
the Sulcar knew. Why stop before he reached even further? Here in Karsten he was 
limited. Officially he must answer to the merchants of Kars, to the heads of his 
wife's clan. But in Estcarp, Alizon—he must answer to none but his own desires. 
Alone with no one to see, his smile was evil.
With daybreak he rode for Kars, where fresh horses waited. Pagar rested, then 
rode for Aiskeep. Once there he hailed the gates. Tarnoor appeared, to look down 
in surprise.
"Do you wish to enter, Duke?"
"No, let you come out to talk with me, Lord. I have that which I would say in 
private."
Tarnoor sighed, turning to Trovagh and Ciara. "This will be some of Kirin's 
work. The boy has convinced the duke to speak for him. Well, I must go down."
He did so, finding a tent waiting, with a table, chairs, and wine laid ready. He 
sat heavily. This would not be pleasant, but the law was the law. Even the duke 
did not break Karsten law with impunity. He listened politely at first, later 
with paled face and glittering eyes. Then he signed the paper offered.
"You understand you will keep silent on this. Let your family believe Kirin is 
sulking in Kars awaiting my return. But I have one more request, Lord of 
Aiskeep." Pagar spoke again, in lower tones.
Tarnoor reared back in his seat. "I will not!"
"Are you afraid?" The duke's voice was silky.
"I have been a soldier before, My Lord Duke."
"Good. Then you will know how to fight. You will do as I say. The consequences 
otherwise will not be in your favor." He gloated as the old man bowed his head. 
He had him at last. He would deal with two now, two to come. Divide and conquer 
had always been a valuable method. He sat there impassively. Just another 
mission completed.
Behind him he left chaos. Tarnoor marched, back erect through his gates, then 
stood silent in anguished thought. Trovagh and Ciara came running.
"Father, what did the duke want?"
Ciara saw deeper. "What did that man say to distress you so?"
"It's nothing, child. Just a decision I have made. I'll talk later. For now I 
must have speech with Hanion."
They watched him walk away as they gazed in bewilderment. "Hanion?" Trovagh 
muttered. "Why Hanion?"
"Oldest friend, perhaps. One he can trust to obey without question. Which means 
there is something wrong."
They knew what it was soon enough. Through all the uproar, the weeping, the 
protests, Tarnoor held firm.
"I have made a bargain with the duke. If I ride with him he will see Kirin is 
safe. If I do not, he will take the boy anyhow. Once that is done, I must 
disinherit him—and his sons with him."
"But, Father, that part of the law may be withheld at your choice. Kirin's son 
could still be Keep heir."
"Pagar threatens to have the clans rule otherwise. It would leave Aiskeep 
without heir, prey to any once we are gone. Pagar would see to that. I will not 
have it so."
"But men, what soldiers will you take? Aiskeep guards?"
Tarnoor sighed. "I will not weaken Aiskeep. I have sent word to Tanrae's son. 
Talron will spread it about that I am hiring soldiers. That I will not inquire 
as to character."
"You'll get only bandits and outlaws," Ciara warned.
"That I know well. It will remove them from Karsten at the least." Tarnoor 
smiled gently at her. He could not tell her the reason he acted thus. Pagar had 
threatened and Tarnoor had believed him. The reason Tarnoor had given his family 
had been only a portion of the threat. The other had been even more deadly. He 
held to his plan and his silence even when Elanor wept. It must be done.
Men trickled in, the most depraved-looking bunch Trovagh had ever seen. His 
father shrugged.
"You'd be surprised what unlikely material can make good soldiers." He talked to 
the men of loot, and of the chances to do well in a subject land, until he was 
sure they would follow him at least until they reached Pagar. The duke should 
not be able to say a bargain had been broken. Still, unknown to his family, he 
hesitated. What if he did this thing and Pagar was the oathbreaker? He had not 
impressed Tarnoor as a man to care greatly. None knew of the words between them. 
None would know if Pagar returned triumphant to destroy those Tarnoor wished to 
save.
It was then that Ciara sought him out. "Father, I don't know why you're doing 
this. But isn't there something I can do to help?"
He looked at her remembering the small terrified girl she had been. He'd buried 
her family while she stood by, then he'd taken her as his own. It wasn't her 
fault Kirin had been rotten at the core. There'd been others in the Aiskeep line 
like that over the generations. Power-hungry seekers after more than one Keep. 
But he needed to know. He would ride, but what came after?
"Ciara, my daughter." The words were slowly formal and the woman caught her 
breath. "Will you foresee for me?"
"You've never asked that."
"I have never wished to know what lies before me. Now I must know. I know you 
cannot do this for yourself, maybe not for Trovagh. But perhaps for me it may be 
possible?"
Ciara clasped her hands. "I have never even tried." Her voice dropped. "I, too, 
have never wished to know. Is it so important?"
"Yes." The word was implacable.
"Then I will try. Where is Tro?"
"I sent him to the upper valley to speak with some of the garthspeople. He will 
not return until late. There is all the time we need, daughter."
She bowed her head in acceptance. "Then let us begin." The door was closed, the 
fire built higher. Ciara sat, pulling her chair around to face the chair in 
which Tarnoor waited. "I said I've never done this before. I can only do as I 
feel is right and pray."
He nodded. Ciara lifted the pendant by its chain, taking it into her hands as 
she reached out to Tarnoor. 'Take it between your palms." He did so and she 
closed her fingers in turn about his wrists. Then she called the mists. She knew 
not if she would see: perhaps since his need was so great it would be he to whom 
the seeing came. Within the mist all was familiar. She wandered timelessly as 
always until something told her she should leave. She came to herself, sitting 
straighter, chilled. Before her Tarnoor's face was wet with tears. He must have 
seen—but what? He allowed her to make up the fire once more but would tell her 
nothing.
When she had gone he remained gazing into the Flames. If that was the way of it, 
he could accept. He had seen all he required. Praise be to the Powers that they 
had allowed him to know. He later went in search of Hanion again. There he added 
to his words, and to his orders. He despised the men he would lead. They were 
filth Karsten would be well rid of—his face twisted into a bitter smile—and rid 
of them Karsten would be.
He rode out one morning. Aisha and his grandsons had not bothered to rise but 
Elanor, Trovagh, and Ciara were present. There, too, were all the people of the 
garths. They watched as Tarnoor rode down the road at the head of his men. It 
made a brave sight, the Aiskeep war pennant fluttering above the flag bearer. 
They stood watching long after the column of riders had vanished. Finally the 
garthspeople drifted away, back to their chores. Elanor retired to weep again. 
Trovagh took Ciara's hand and held it tightly.
"Why do I feel there was something more behind all this?"
She sighed. "Because there is. What, I don't know, but he had me foresee. I saw 
nothing, but I am certain he did. He would tell me nothing but, Tro, I think he 
saw his death. Did you know he's left papers with the shrine? They order that 
you or I rule Aiskeep so long as either of us lives."
Trovagh blinked in surprise. "The law allows. But what made him think it might 
be necessary to have that written?"
"I do not know but copies of it went to Geavon and to the main shrine in Kars 
for safekeeping. There is more also. If both of us die while Kirin's children 
are yet minors, Geavon is guardian. If Aisha refuses to accept that, then 
Geavon's son inherits Aiskeep." Trovagh gasped in shock listening as Ciara 
continued. "Tarnoor did all this before the foreseeing. After that he seemed 
both sadder and easier in his mind. As if he knew the worst but there was 
compensation."
They waited fearing word. Geavon sent messengers almost daily so that they 
should hear news of the army. It assembled, marching to the Estcarp border as 
each portion was ready. With one part Kirin marched as proud commander. In 
Aiskeep Aisha cursed him. She would bear him a third child before he returned, 
she was sure. He was selfish, and she hoped he never came back.
Trovagh and Ciara heard that news as their worst fears confirmed. Pagar had lied 
to their father, or Tarnoor had lied to them. He would have done that only if 
the alternative was worse.
At the border Pagar listened to his scouts.
"Lord Duke, the forces of Estcarp fall back further before us. If we move 
tomorrow it may be that we will reach the mountain's heart by nightfall. We can 
rest the night, then strike forward with the dawn. Estcarp falters; if they see 
us determined, I believe they will break and flee once we reach their own land 
beyond the mountains."
"What of Lord Kirin?"
"He and his men are already partway through the mountains. At your orders, Lord 
Duke, the rest of the army follows."
"I so order."
He listened to the trumpets as they sounded the advance. Close formation, rapid 
walk. Victory was close. Another day or two and he'd sit in Es City. Pagar 
called up his escort. He'd ride on down the lines of riders. Show the men he led 
from the front as a good commander should. His small group cantered past the 
moving lines. He noticed old Tarnoor with the men who followed him. More heirs 
were with the army here than the old man knew. Risho was in the tail of the 
wagons as supply master. Risho was heir after Tarnoor's direct line was ended. 
Pagar smiled as he glanced back at the oblivious Tarnoor. Poor old fool, he 
really shouldn't have acted as he did all those years ago. A man should honor 
his father and his oaths. Pagar had honored both.
He reached the head of the army just as it made camp. By now the tail would be 
well into the passes, too. They had orders to keep moving, making camp only when 
it was too dark for the horses to continue. They might be making a wet camp. 
Pagar studied the sky: the stars had vanished. Heavy cloud gathered. The wind 
was chill and there was thunder in the air. He snorted. Likely the Witches hoped 
to give him a head cold. It would take more than that to discourage Pagar of 
Geen.
Behind him in the half light Tarnoor directed his men. They picketed the beasts, 
built fires to heat food, and laid out bedrolls. Tarnoor was grimly weary. For a 
man of his age the march had been grueling but he would march no more. With the 
fraction of his blood that came down from another people he could see the Witch 
lights that flickered from tree to tree. They lit the rock edges, shimmered from 
leaves of the low brush. Tarnoor turned from the camp, walking away down a tiny 
gully that opened before him. At the end of it was a stretch of mountain 
ice-flowers. Their sweet perfume reached out to welcome him. In the midst of 
them, he knelt to pray.
He'd always done his best to be a decent man. He'd cared for Aiskeep and its 
people. Bred a fine son to follow him. There'd been things he regretted here and 
there, but few serious sins. Let him be forgiven them. Let poor foolish young 
Kirin be forgiven, too. Let blessings abide with Trovagh and Ciara, and all he 
loved. Moving slowly and deliberately he doffed his helm, waiting. Above him the 
thickening clouds broke apart for a moment. A single shaft of moonlight slashed 
downward to gleam from silver hair.
Tarnoor smiled. It seemed that after a lifetime the Gods chose to remember his 
service. The mountains stirred. High on a peak one rock dislodged, hurtling 
downward to strike Tarnoor squarely across the forehead as he lifted his face to 
the moonlight. He died instantly. His body fell back, stretching out among the 
ice-flowers. In a dying reflex his hand went to his sword hilt.
Then he lay still. About him the mountains bucked and heaved.
It was as if they had become as fluid as the seas in storm. They rolled, beating 
down all in their path, turning to lift then crush all life within their 
boundaries. Tons upon tons of stone filled valleys, to be thrust up into new 
mountains in turn. The rocks screamed as they tumbled, grinding against one 
another. The bellow of earthsound was enough to stun those who heard. It was 
sound beyond sound, terror beyond terror. Within the millstones of power called 
by Witches, Pagar's army ceased to exist. In Estcarp, the circle of Women of the 
Power strove. They bled all they had from them, mind and body to save their 
land. Their power tortured and twisted the mountains until the hills shrieked 
agony.
Women died, power wrung from them to the last drop and beyond. They died, 
willing sacrifices to a land that was theirs, as all along its border the 
landscape churned in torment. Pagar had believed Estcarp defeated, beaten. He 
had wondered casually if they could find anything at the end to halt his 
advance. He lived just long enough to know.
There were those in the invading army who died in crazed terror, others who died 
striving to live. But Tarnoor of them all died first, and he alone of all the 
thousands, died without fear. He had seen this, and accepted his fate. Like an 
old wolf he was content if his enemies died with him. Let the son of his body, 
the daughter of his heart rule Aiskeep. Pagar would trouble them no more.
BOOK TWO
If the Dream Is Worth the Price

1O
The quiet years ended when Aisling was almost eleven. Those years had not always 
been easy, but war had remained more in the North than in the poorer, less 
populated South. Aisha had gone to the main Keep of her clan near Kars city. 
There she had mixed with those who believed themselves born to rule. Her sons 
had learned to ape the manners, the beliefs, and far more dangerously—the 
burning ambition of those in the upper city. Aisha's clan had been powerful 
under Pagar. Now they talked constantly of those times and plotted that they 
should return once more. Among the other young men Aisha's sons listened to the 
talk.
The older, named Kirion for his father, was the more ferocious in that. His 
visits to Aiskeep had slowly made two things clear to him. The first was that he 
did not wish to molder his life away settling dirt-grubber disputes while living 
too many days' ride from Kars and civilization, luxury, pretty women, and all 
that made life interesting. The second was a bitter anger that the choice was 
unlikely to be his to make.
Trovagh had watched the boy for those years. He had seen the impatience, the 
belief that Kirion was more important than any farmer or servant. And he had 
seen that his people would never be happy with Kirion ruling Aiskeep.
The younger boy, Keelan, was a better choice, yet Trovagh doubted him, too. He 
was the more intelligent. It might just be that the younger lad had learned to 
conceal his beliefs better, learned to hide the contempt Kirion felt openly. 
Neither Trovagh nor Ciara liked the attitude of the brothers to their much 
younger sister.
"Kirion patronizes her," Ciara said.
"A natural attitude for a much older brother, beloved. But I dislike far more 
his belief that she is inferior because she is a girl."
Ciara smiled. "Of course he has to believe that. The child rides better, knows 
Aiskeep and its people better, and is secure here. Kirion resents it all. That 
mother of his seems to have filled his head with all sorts of ideas about his 
importance. He comes here and finds a child almost half his age being listened 
to over him."
"Of course she is listened to," Trovagh snapped impatiently. "She knows Aiskeep. 
If we went to Kars, we would doubtless listen to Kirion."
"Quite. However, Kirion doesn't see it that way; watch the boy, Tro. I'm not 
happy about his way of treating Aisling. One day he'll push things too far."
Trovagh agreed with that but what was he to do about it? The problem was partly 
that of age and little in common. Kirion was now twenty, while Aisling had just 
celebrated her eleventh name day. Keelan at seventeen was kinder to his young 
sister. Kirion made it clear he regarded her as an inferior nuisance. In fact, 
the lad's attitude to women in general bothered Trovagh.
It was true Aiskeep was far from Kars, but Kirion didn't make allowances for 
Geavon or for Trader Talron. Each in their own way brought or sent news from the 
city to Aiskeep. Twice of late Geavon had sent an extra separate note enclosed 
in his main letter. Both had carried warnings that young Kirion might be getting 
himself into danger. The lad had taken up with a faction that wished to see 
their figurehead on the throne. Trovagh had groaned. Hadn't Yvian and Pagar done 
enough damage to Karsten?
Talron had brought news from the lower levels of Kars. "They say Kirion has a 
nasty temper. He's not averse to beating a woman if she displeases him."
Trovagh had been staggered. "Who?"
Talron coughed.
"Oh, I see. But even a paid companion has the right to decent treatment. What do 
they say of him?"
The trader sighed, 'To be blunt, my lord, they say that he has no care for any. 
That people are merely tools to his ends. They say he would sell his honor if it 
bought him his ambitions or a good price." He glanced across to see if he had 
given offense.
Trovagh shook his head. "It's all right. The truth of the matter is that the boy 
is like that. It's why I've been busy recently." Talron said nothing, but raised 
an eyebrow in question. Trovagh spoke abruptly.
"I get colds in winter. These last few years they've been worse. I thought it 
time to act now, in case aught should happen. I have been to Teral's shrine and 
sworn several documents. Copies have gone to Geavon to be held both by him and 
in the shrine records in Kars." He hesitated. "You and your father were always 
good friends to Aiskeep. It may be as well that you, too, know."
Talron sat silent. He would not ask, that would be intrusive, but he would 
listen. He hoped the answer would be what he wished to hear.
"Tarnoor made a similar deed," Trovagh continued. "He said that when he died, I 
was heir, but if I died Ciara was to follow me as heir and to have Heir's Right 
also."
The trader blinked. That was strong wine to drink. Under Karsten law it was 
legal, yes, but unusual. The more so when the woman named was not of the clan or 
kin blood. It was a Right usually given to a sister, to a mother or daughter of 
the one bestowing it.
"I, too," Trovagh said quietly, "have said this. I am undecided as to who shall 
inherit Aiskeep. I have formally disinherited Kirion but Keelan may yet be 
worthy. But if something happens to me, Ciara now has the Right under law to 
choose her successor. Geavon has several likely grandsons. Unlike Kirion who 
seems to feel this Keep beneath him, they would be happy to live and rule here. 
My father decided something similar before he followed Pagar."
Talron grunted agreement. He knew that bunch—full of life and energy. At least 
two of them would rule well; they understood the garthspeople and the needs of a 
Keep. Geavon might live near the city but he had old-fashioned ideas on what a 
young man should know. His grandsons had been well taught.
Trovagh stood up. "I thought it best you knew. A man should know where he 
stands. You and your father were long friends of Aiskeep." He tossed back the 
last of his wine, and placed the mug on the table before moving to the door. 
"I'll ask you to say nothing of this to any. Elanor and Ciara know, and now you, 
but none else."
The trader bowed. "I'm honored," he said sincerely.
He considered the conversation once he had retired. Trovagh was wise. Kirion was 
a viper in any bosom. Talron had heard more than he'd passed on. Much of it was 
gossip and rumor but even that could have a solid base. If it was true, the 
foolish boy was tampering with dangerous forces. Keelan ran in his brother's 
shadow. Yet there was something more likable there. In Talron's opinion, Keelan 
did what he had to, to survive in a household that revolved around the older 
brother's wishes.
He sighed for Trovagh and Ciara, both of whom he greatly liked. Odd how a solid, 
decent line seemed to birth a rotten apple sometimes. Kirin had been more stupid 
than evil. But his son—Talron was afraid there could be real evil there. Of 
course it hadn't helped that Aisha had spoiled the older boy all his life. 
Kirion had only to whine and whatever he wanted was his. The younger lad was 
less indulged. To some extent, the way he'd been handled on his visits to 
Aiskeep had also helped to counteract his spoiling. Still, it was quite possible 
Trovagh was right and neither boy was Keep Ruler material.
A pity that would be. Geavon was some sort of cousin, but a grandson would keep 
the rule within the family more or less. Talron sighed again. It was none of his 
business. But he'd give a lot to be a fly on the wall if Kirion found out about 
all this.
Kirion did. Being Kirion he jumped to several additional conclusions. The first 
being that Keelan would have been disinherited as well, the second that it would 
be Aisling who received Aiskeep and all that the inheritance carried. He'd never 
liked her, now he hated. He arrived at the Keep on his next visit seething with 
rage.
Since he could not legally know any of this, he kept silent. It made his anger 
rise even higher until just the sight of his small sister made him feel sick. 
He'd never felt any affection for her. He'd been nine when she was born. Almost 
at once his mother had packed up to live nearer Kars in the Keep of her father's 
clan, leaving the unwanted baby to be fostered by Ciara. It had been another 
three years before Kirion had returned to Aiskeep to visit. Aisha had simply 
made excuses each year until Trovagh had made it clear he would accept no more. 
But as a result, Kirion had known nothing of Aisling until he arrived that first 
time. For several years more, he had barely seen her on these trips. It was only 
over the past three or four years that she'd been in evidence.
By then Kirion regarded himself as a man. It had infuriated him that a girl of 
eight could outride him. That she knew more about Aiskeep, its people and its 
needs than he did. Twice during the last visit she'd made him look foolish. It 
did not occur to him that it had been his eagerness to impress those about him 
that had done that. He'd taken responsibility for little in his life before, and 
it was natural to him to seek a scapegoat.
In Kars he'd made friends with one who had the run of the great records rooms at 
the shrine. Kirion kept a watchful eye on anything filed that might affect 
himself. Thus he had known at once when he was disinherited. But his access was 
illegal. He could not speak of what he knew. It made him savage.
It was in this mood he ordered his horse saddled and rode to the upper valley. 
There he found Aisling discussing a sick child with Jontar's granddaughter. He 
hid a sneer. So the brat thought herself to be Keep's Lady already, did she? He 
waited until the talk was done before he approached.
"Ride back with me, sister?"
Aisling eyed him warily. She was well aware of his dislike for her. But what 
harm could come of a ride beside Kirion? They were only riding up her own valley 
toward the Keep where Trovagh and Ciara waited for her. She accepted politely 
when Kirion continued to wait. The horses walked side by side, their riders 
silent. Kirion was calculating. As they reached the stand of oaks that marked 
half of the valley's length, he began to talk. He could be amusing and 
entertaining when he wished. For some miles he beguiled Aisling with his tales 
of life in Kars, funny incidents and people he knew.
He glanced around as he spoke, and saw no one. Good. It never occurred to him 
that just because he could see no one it did not mean that there were no 
watchers within the garth houses as he passed. The brat was laughing loudly. No 
training as a lady for all her pretensions. A lady would titter, hand over her 
mouth, eyes flirting over the edge of that hand. But then a lady would respect 
Lord Kirion of Clan Iren. He waited, as the laughter died a little, then he 
suddenly stared at her, face twisted into a sweetly winning smile. Above the 
smile his eyes were brightly challenging.
"Race you to the Keep, sister. A new bridle if you win."
Before she could reply he was gone, leaning low over the withers of his mount. 
Aisling signaled her horse to follow. That hadn't been fair, Kirion had started 
before she'd understood what he was saying. It would be fun to beat him anyway 
and win a new bridle. She was lighter, astride a mount that knew her every 
touch. Kirion was heavier, riding a horse that was good but never the equal of 
the Torgian strain. They thundered down the road, Aisling gradually pulling up 
alongside her brother.
She looked across at him and grinned happily. It was not intended to infuriate. 
To the child, it was no more than an expression of her delight in the race. But 
to Kirion, it was a look of gloating triumph. He lashed his mount, but could not 
draw ahead; indeed he was starting to fall inch by inch behind the other beast. 
It was intolerable. All of it. This brat had stolen Aiskeep from him, now she 
was even stealing Kirion's pride in his own horsemanship. Aisling turned a 
little to smile.
"I think you may ewe me a new bridle, brother," she called.
It was the last straw. Kirion glanced about again, but he could see no one. He 
goaded his horse into a final burst of speed so that the two beasts were level 
momentarily. Then he slipped his foot from the stirrup. It was an old trick but 
the Armsmaster who had taught him had said it could be lethal when it worked. 
The word Kirion had not remembered had been 'when.'
He reached out his foot to hook it under Aisling's boot. One swift heave and 
she'd be flung from the racing back of her mount. At this speed and on hard 
ground, with luck the brat would be no bar to his inheritance. At the least 
she'd be injured, enough to show her what it meant to laugh as she cheated 
Kirion from his dues. His foot thrust upward.
In the stable Harran was standing watching the race with amusement. If that city 
fop thought he'd beat a fine horsewoman riding an Aiskeep horse against one of a 
very ordinary line, then the man was a bigger fool than Harran had thought. And 
the Gods knew he thought Kirion a witling anyhow. He was in the shadow of the 
stable; Kirion's glance had passed over the motionless figure. But Harran was in 
a direct line between the horses as they raced up the road toward him. He had 
long vision. Enough to see what was about to happen, though he was too far away 
to intervene.
He waited in horror for Aisling to fall. It was natural for Kirion to 
underestimate his sister. Harran should have known better; part of her training 
with her horse had been under his teaching. She felt the foot hook under hers. 
Automatically she shied sideways, her mount obeying the sudden body shift. 
Caught suddenly off balance, Kirion felt himself falling. He clutched for the 
neck of his mount as it slowed, then, with slow, slithering grace Kirion swung 
around and under his horse's neck until he landed sitting below it.
It was unfortunate that the horse had moved across the road. Toward the edge 
where it had halted there was a long soft patch of mud. Kirion landed in this, 
then went to rise and lost his footing. He measured his length forward, rising 
with muddy seat and mud-covered front from toes to hairline. Aisling had reined 
back to see he was uninjured. Childlike she broke into peals of laughter at the 
spectacle.
If she had ever thought Kirion's friendship of the past hours to be real, she 
was disabused in seconds. His face twisted into a snarl of rage so savage that 
she was momentarily frozen. He took a step toward her as she stood too terrified 
to move. His hands came up for her throat. He'd show her what it was to laugh at 
him. Fingers fastened in her clothing as he shook her slowly, the intensity 
increasing. Harran was running toward them shouting. Kirion heard nothing. He'd 
teach the girl to make a fool of him. He'd show her. He stooped still holding 
her, for his whip.
In utter panic, Aisling reached within herself. Ciara had taught the child to 
find the mists, to use them for healing. Now, instinctively the girl reached for 
the only thing she could use to defend herself.
Kirion lifted the whip. His fingers burned suddenly as if he'd thrust them into 
a fire. He shouted with pain, releasing the whip and clutching at his reddened 
hand. Aisling twisted loose, blue fire still outlining her body. Crying in fear 
she ran for the stables. Harran passed her even as Kirion, face almost inhuman 
with fury, moved to follow her.
"No, my lord."
He was thrust aside. "Out of my way, you fool. By the Gods, I'm going to kill 
her."
"No, my lord." Oh, Lord Trovagh understand, Harran thought as he drove a swift 
skilled blow and watched Kirion crumple. Voices reached him then. Ciara and 
Trovagh were coming at a run. He drew himself up to explain but there was no 
need.
"Good man!" Trovagh dealt him a gentle buffet on the shoulder. "We saw most of 
that from the door." Ciara arrived with an arm about a weeping Aisling.
Ciara stooped to check Kirion, then straightened. "Only stunned," she noted. 
"Haul him into the stables. Call a couple of the men, Harran. When he comes to, 
tell him to get on his horse and go before I forget myself. And tell him not to 
come back unless one of us sends for him."
Trovagh walked over to where Kirion's richly ornamented horse gear was hanging 
from pegs. He chose a bridle lavish with silver on black leather. This was 
handed to Aisling. Then Trovagh paused, looking down the line of pegs. He added 
the saddle and lush-furred blanket that matched it.
"After that you can tell him I picked out his wager to pay Aisling. The saddle 
is a forfeit. Bad enough he would have injured his sister, but I do not forgive 
what followed. Tell him to think about events as he rides home. And to help 
that, give him the oldest bridle and saddle you can find that'll hold together."
He strolled off carrying the saddle, Ciara in his wake with her arm about her 
granddaughter. Aisling was still sniffing, but she held the bridle tightly.
Harran smirked after them. It was a pleasure to serve a lord and lady who knew 
the score even against their own kinblood. He concentrated on finding the 
oldest, dirtiest, most-mended gear in the stable. But in mercy to the horse he 
used a thick, comfortable saddle blanket. Kirion was groaning his way back to 
consciousness as a servant arrived with two leather bags.
"The young lord's clothing. How is the little—master?"
"He'll live." Harran tied the horse to the wall ring, then expertly added the 
filled saddlebags. "I've orders to see him on his way. Stay with me in case he 
tries to make trouble about it."
The servant spat on his palms. "I hope he does."
But Kirion knew when to lie low. One look at the two men told him they'd be only 
too delighted to tie him on his mount before chasing it through Aiskeep gates. 
He kept silence as he checked the bridle and saddle. It wouldn't surprise him if 
they'd fixed those to dump him again, either. He mounted and rode off, still 
silent. But Harran catching a glimpse of Kirion's eyes thought he'd seldom seen 
such a wicked look. If Harran were Lord Trovagh, he'd be keeping a very wary eye 
out for this one in the future.
Neither Trovagh nor Ciara were unaware of the dangers. Kirion had some powerful 
friends these days. Aiskeep had a long reputation as a Keep unlucky to attack. 
But if Kirion gained real power, there were no guarantees he'd care. Ciara 
remained with Aisling until the girl fell asleep, then she rejoined her husband.
"Bad news, love."
He queried her with a look.
"The child used Power to make Kirion release her. From the sound of things, he 
may even have realized it."
Trovagh swore. He spoke with a range and fluency that would have surprised any 
not familiar with his father in like mind.
"That's just what we didn't want any of that lot to know."
"He may still be unaware. Apparently, Aisling called Power to burn his hand. It 
made him drop the whip and let her go. But from what she says, it would not have 
been great enough to leave marks. He may discount it. You know Kirion. He'd hate 
to think there was just one more thing Aisling could do that he could not."
"That's true," Trovagh said slowly, "But he may also see her as a possible tool 
if he can force himself to accept it. I fear that she may be in danger if this 
is so."
In an inn on the outskirts of a town a half-day's ride to the North, Kirion 
brooded over wine. He'd been unjustly treated. First, because he preferred a 
decent city to a miserable chilly Keep, he was disinherited. Then because he 
attempted a jest on his sister he was attacked, despoiled of his property, and 
flung out of his own place. His grandparents had allowed a low-born servant to 
strike their grandson. Even more, they'd sent the same man to threaten him. He 
went over events again and again.
Soon he'd convinced himself the whole thing had been only a trick, a joke on his 
part. The girl had no right to laugh at him. His grandparents had no right to 
steal his best saddle and bridle to give to that brat. He'd show them, he'd pay 
them all out somehow. He slept heavily and woke with a sore head and surly of 
temper. He drank more wine before leaving.
The road was rough over the next day's ride. Kirion was obliged to travel at a 
walk. It gave him time to brood, to count his wrongs, and swear revenge again. 
He found he was recalling the race. Damn, if only the girl's horse hadn't shied. 
He rapidly convinced himself that this had been an accident rather than riding 
ability. The brat had probably been about to fall off. Why his actions might 
even have helped her regain her balance as the horse shied back under her.
There was some vague memory teasing at the back of his mind. He couldn't quite 
recall, but something nagged at him. Something had been wrong in the scenes as 
he considered them. He should have given the girl the beating of her life. More 
of those and she might have learned respect for the head of her house. He'd like 
to have the teaching of her for a year or two. She'd learn politeness and 
respect for Kirion then, and he'd see to that with pleasure. The feeling of 
having forgotten something continued to tease him. Oh, well, he'd remember it if 
it was important. But he was tired and his head ached. He fell into a half dream 
as he rode.
He found the reins chafing his fingers. They seemed to burn—burn—Sersgarth had 
burned. He'd known the story most of his life, though not the sequel. Only three 
now alive knew the why of Sersgarth. Pagar's bid for power. It seemed unlucky to 
be duke in Kars. They said it harked back to Yvian who'd had the Old Race horned 
as outlaws. Once he and his friends raised that fool Shandro to the throne, 
things would change. And rumor had it that all Yvian's luck went with the Old 
Race when they fled. Certainly Pagar hadn't been fortunate.
Everything, a dukedom, three beautiful wives one after another, the most 
powerful clans backing him. Then Estcarp, and all at once everything was 
gone—including Pagar and Kirion's father. That was the Witches. It was said they 
could do anything. Burn a man to death with their witchery. Blue fire to burn a 
witch's enemies.
His breath caught. Yes! That was the memory he'd hunted. When he'd lifted the 
whip, the girl's eyes had been so frightened that it had given him a delightful 
sense of his own power.
Then, all of a sudden, his hand had been on fire. He'd dropped his whip, the 
girl had fought free of him, and fled. Harran had arrived, preventing Kirion 
from following, and had struck him. But it was in that fraction of a second 
before Aisling fled that he'd seen her shine. A sort of faint bluish light from 
her skin. Power to burn their enemies. The brat was a Witch!
He knew there was Old Blood in Aiskeep. His mother had told him, primming up her 
mouth in disapproval, although it hadn't stopped her family from offering her to 
Kirin, her son thought in amusement. And somewhere as a young boy he'd heard 
about his grandmother. She was said to have been a half-blood from the Old Race. 
Tarnoor had taken her in after the Horning, and wed her to his son for the dowry 
Ciara had to bring. An inheritance. She could have given another inheritance to 
the line. Something his young sister had just displayed. Aisling could have 
inherited abilities.
He smiled slowly. Power! It could be used in so many ways. He rode on, but now 
he sat straighter, a small unpleasant smile on his lips. There were ambitions he 
would accomplish. Those he could influence in his favor. Enemies he could be 
well rid of. Power can come in many forms, he mused. If he played this 
unexpected card well, he could have it all.

11
Kirion went to the records at the Kars shrine on his return. There he dug 
through documents until he found everything he could uncover. It made more 
interesting reading than he'd anticipated in the end. There was the document 
giving title of Elmsgarth to his great-grandfather. He noted the dates. Tarnoor 
had been no fool, by the Flame. He'd taken in an orphan and done well from it. 
He noted the price subsequently paid for the garth and whistled.
He discovered the Heir's Rights paper Tarnoor had sent and was stunned. 
Witchery! His grandmother must have bewitched the old fool. This allowed her to 
disinherit any in direct line, naming whoever she chose in their place once 
Trovagh was dead. He then found that while he had been disinherited, Keelan had 
not. So! The little brother had ambitions above his station, did he? Kirion 
would have to teach him a lesson about that. He rechecked all the documents and 
saw this time a tiny notation on a corner of each. There was no way he could 
simply destroy everything, they'd thought of that. At least someone somewhere 
held copies.
It was likely to be Geavon, Kirion thought, as he replaced the papers. The man 
was a little younger than Tarnoor had been, although his way of talking made him 
appear ancient. But Geavon took care of himself; he was good for a lot longer 
yet. And he didn't like Kirion. There was no way Kirion was going to get into 
the records at Gerith Keep to destroy any copies there. He left the shrine 
looking unpleasantly thoughtful.
Over the months, he investigated. It would be convenient if he could come up 
with some kind of spell that would burn all the relevant papers at once wherever 
they were. He turned to reading. There were books still to be found on the 
subject of witchery if one searched hard enough. Kirion searched, ending up with 
a shelf full of volumes. All told him what he didn't want to know. That witchery 
was not what he'd always believed. It wasn't spells and chants so much as the 
focused will of the one working it.
This was not popular information. However, there were some vague, obscure 
references to other methods.
Kirion settled to more research, pausing only to make Keelan's life a misery. To 
escape, Keelan fled to Aiskeep, arriving more in charity with those there than 
he'd ever been. He was received dubiously; no one was forgetting Kirion's action 
on his last visit. But Keelan was so clearly unhappy that they gradually allowed 
him some acceptance. The boy would have liked to respond but had long since 
learned to show nothing.
It was Harran who broke through some of the shell in which the boy had encased 
himself. Harran was Master at Arms since Hanion was finally past the harder, 
longer work. He was Hanion's nephew, and was intent on following family 
tradition in service to Aiskeep. Harran hadn't much liked what he'd seen over 
the years of Aisha or her sons. But finding Keelan ready to listen that first 
day, Harran was ready to teach. He found Keelan not ill-taught already.
It could be seen the lad had been given reasonable Armsmasters, but of the very 
conventional kind. Not for them the tricks and ruses that might be the 
difference between life and death in an alley brawl. Harran took the lad in 
hand.
Keelan learned as well as listened. He found it far more interesting than he'd 
have believed. For most of his life, Kirion had insisted that his younger 
brother was inferior. It was good to do something where Keelan was praised. He 
worked harder to earn what he knew to be honest comment.
Harran was slowly impressed. He knew the boy was unhappy, knew that this was in 
part why he was turning to hard work. In Harran's opinion, that was good. Sweat 
and exhaustion tended to burn out misery. You were too tired to be emotional. He 
gave generous praise when it was due and until the noonday meal, worked Keelan 
until the boy was ready to drop. He was pleased to find the novice had a strong 
wrist, a good eye, and an excellent sense of point.
"That's it, yes. Now lunge—and parry—lunge, yes! Good, lad."
Keelan wiped sweat from his forehead as he relaxed back. Kirion had always said 
that a noble didn't fight like this, but it was fun. It was also pleasant to 
know Keelan would be a lot more dangerous to bandits or back alley thugs now 
should he meet any. He grinned as the thought also occurred to him that Kirion 
didn't know these methods. It would be a good idea to keep silent on the 
subject. If he and Kirion ever fought, it would be very pleasant to have a few 
tricks up his sleeves.
He spent the afternoon riding with Harran, too. For the first time, Keelan found 
himself mounted on one of the dun strain that Aiskeep had become known for. They 
had more endurance and more intelligence than ordinary mounts. He'd never known 
where they began. Now, riding down the valley, he asked to be rewarded with the 
tale of how his grandparents when mere children had beaten a bandit force with 
the aid of the garthspeople. He was surprised and impressed by the tale.
"So the horses were Torgians. What were they like; are they really that 
different?"
Harran was happy to expound. He followed that by taking Keelan out to the herd 
that ranged to the end of the upper valley and beyond into the foothills. The 
boy was awestruck. He'd never seen such beasts. It was not the looks so much but 
the intelligence that shone from their eyes. The feeling that even as he admired 
them, they were estimating Keelan's worth. He was afraid that however such 
animals chose a rider, Keelan was unlikely to measure up. His gaze was wistful. 
To have a horse like that would be wonderful.
He returned to the evening meal tired, wind-burned, and unusually happy. He 
found the family in front of the hearth in the smaller hall. With them were 
assorted cats and a bevy of kittens all climbing merrily into any mischief they 
could find.
Keelan winced. His mother had always said of Aiskeep, that one of the things 
that had decided her to leave had been all those infuriating cats. She had 
claimed them to be dirty, flea-ridden, and dangerous. On subsequent visits, 
Keelan had ignored them. The cats had reciprocated. And since his usual visit 
was made in late fall to early winter, the kittens had mostly gone to their new 
homes.
Keelan didn't know it but Aiskeep had been doing a brisk trade in kittens for 
years. Trader Talron brought in a new cat every so often from the Sulcar with 
whom he still did a good trade. But these were the only cats to enter Karsten. 
As a result, the Aiskeep kittens sold to almost every garth and Keep in the 
South. But few were sold in Kars or to the North.
Keelan had never met kittens until now. Not really young ones that were no more 
than balls of fluff with wide eyes and small, unsteady legs as they scrambled 
about the room.
He did notice that there were odd wire guards across the hearths. "What are 
those for?"
Ciara smiled. "Kitten prevention. They love to sit and watch the sparks go 
upward. But without the guards sometimes a kitten tries to go up with the 
spark."
She saw the boy wince as he visualized one of the enchanting fluff balls landing 
back into the fire. Ciara was caught by that. Keelan had always been in Kirion's 
shadow, but his brother hated cats. He would not have winced at the thought; 
more likely he'd try it out for amusement, Ciara thought. This boy could be 
worth a closer look. People did change.
The next morning she managed to drift silently by as Keelan was receiving his 
next arms lesson. To her surprise, once more he was taking quite a beating, 
without complaint and with hard work as he learned. She took Harran aside later 
that day.
"Have you found out why he's here? It isn't his usual time, and he's not 
indicating he intends to leave anytime soon. I think he was unhappy about 
something when he arrived."
The Armsmaster nodded. "He's let the odd word slip. Some girl he was crazy over. 
Apparently, Kirion took her away from him just to prove he could."
Ciara blinked. "Is that it?"
"No, Lady. The truth is that I think the lad's taken a good hard look at his 
family for the first time in his life because of that. He's found he doesn't 
even like his mother, doesn't trust his relatives in the Keep there, and hates 
his brother along with not trusting him, either. He's in a state of confusion. 
He's always come second to Kirion and he's been brought up to believe he's less 
than Kirion because he's smaller, knows less, and can't keep up. Suddenly it's 
dawning on him that anyone three years younger would have those problems. It 
doesn't make him inferior."
"No, it doesn't. How would you rate him?"
Harran snorted. "He isn't the stylist that his brother is. But that's fine for 
formal duels. I'd back this one against Kirion in any knockdown, drag-out sword 
fight where the rules don't apply. Give me a while longer with him and I might 
even back him in a duel as well." He looked at her. "You know, Lady, the boy's 
never had anything he could really call his own. Any time he has Kirion makes it 
his job to get it away again. Now Keelan's afraid to care about anything in case 
he loses it." Harran snorted. "And that mother of his sees all this but does 
nothing. There isn't a cat here who isn't a better mother than that woman."
Ciara laughed. "I'd agree." She strolled slowly away, thinking as she went. 
Later she talked to Trovagh.
"I don't know how long he's going to stay. I'd like him to have a pet of some 
kind. It seems to be what he needs, but if he leaves he won't be able to take 
it. Not with the kind of things Kirion does. What do you think, Tro?"
"Hmm. We could perhaps let him have an Aiskeep horse. Say it's on loan. That it 
can't be wagered, given away, or ridden by any but Keelan. It would bring down 
untold wrath from Aisha, though, probably mostly on Keelan from what you say. 
Would he think the horse worth it?"
"I think so, but there's another fear there. From what he's told Harran, Kirion 
doesn't just stop at taking anything Keelan has. Sometimes he ruins it in spite 
as well. If we let the boy have an Aiskeep horse and Kirion lames it or has it 
stolen, what will that do to Keelan?"
Trovagh grunted. "Umph. I see what the problem is. Leave it, love. Let's wait; 
once we have an idea of how long the lad will stay, we may be able to make 
better plans."
Keelan did stay. He was finding that being part of a family who were kind to you 
was an unexpected pleasure. It was summer, the weather mostly good enough to 
ride, and when it wasn't, there was always the lessons with Harran. 
Imperceptibly, Keelan was being guided to learn about more than fighting. With 
Trovagh, he met the garthspeople, hearing their problems and listening to 
Trovagh's suggestions and solutions. He saw to his surprise that there was a 
very real and solid affection between lord and the garth families.
He heard the garthspeople argue with Ciara, and saw she listened. It wasn't so 
at Clan Iren. There if a lord spoke, a servant shut up and obeyed. He heard the 
story of the bandit raid from old Jontar, this time from the garth side. The 
pride was unmistakable. Pride not only in beating the outlaw group, but also in 
the leadership the garths had followed. He hid a grin at the differing 
attitudes. One minute Jontar was praising his lord and lady for their 
leadership, the next muttering about foolish children endangering themselves.
Gradually he came to understand the ties between the rulers and the ruled. This 
was how it should be. Mutual respect and balance. He saw that the garth houses 
were all warm and weatherproof. There'd be no one dead from cold or hunger here. 
No lord taking what he wanted and letting the people manage how they could. He 
considered the story of the bandits afresh. In many Keeps he could name, the 
bandits might have had the lord's children with the people's goodwill, and in 
some cases their active assistance.
The people certainly wouldn't have fought like that. Not because they wanted to 
at least. They would have fought from terror at what their lord would do if they 
did not fight. Or because they were given direct orders. Or because it was the 
only way to survive the outlaws. They'd probably have made a mess of it, being 
without arms or initiative.
Weapons. That was another thing that had stunned Keelan. In Aiskeep, the 
garthspeople all had weapons. Not just the odd dagger, but bows and swords.
Keelan had almost leapt out of his skin the first time he realized. One of the 
women had come out bearing a bow and filled quiver as Trovagh rode up with his 
grandson. Trovagh had simply nodded.
"Deer or rabbits, Marina?"
"Rabbits, my lord." She grinned widely. "Though I'd not hold my arrow should a 
deer pop up." She strode away as Keelan gaped. Once she was out of earshot, he 
glanced at his grandfather.
"Will she hit anything?"
"Oh, yes. Marina's a very good shot." Trovagh was hiding a smile at the look on 
the boy's face. Let him think over all the implications. Keelan did.
First—that if a garthswoman could carry a bow freely, either Trovagh and Ciara 
were incredibly casual about their own safety, or their people were incredibly 
trustworthy. Second—that if a woman carried a bow, presumably so did the men. If 
she was a good shot, so presumably were the men. Why, at a pinch Trovagh had an 
army of archers here, he realized. No wonder Aiskeep had never been taken. That 
led to him questioning Harran.
"They say Aiskeep has never fallen?"
"Humph! Don't let that make you overconfident, lad. There's no Keep that can't 
be taken if you're prepared to spend enough time, men, and coin. But it's true 
doing so here would ruin most lords." He took the boy out to study the walls. 
"See, our lord doesn't spend his money on fancy clothes. It goes into stone; see 
here—and here. That's where we strengthened it after Yvian's death. And here, 
that's where we added the curtain-wall inside the main one a few years before 
Pagar came to the throne in Kars."
Keelan was amazed. The walls were massive, the most impressive structure he'd 
ever seen. Somehow he'd never really looked at them before. He went quiet, 
staying that way for days as he summed up what he was learning. He'd always felt 
that his clan was somehow wrong. Everyone in the Keep seemed unhappy, or happy 
in the wrong ways. The servants cringed when spoken to, the dogs cowered, and 
the inhabitants seemed to be plotting whenever they had a spare moment from 
drinking, or wenching.
He'd seen that no one got drunk here. Ciara and Trovagh drank wine with meals. 
Watered wine and only a reasonable few glasses. They treated each other with 
respect and a love that was evident in every word. His small sister wasn't the 
brat Kirion had described. He took that one to Harran, too, who promptly and 
very forcefully gave the true story. Keelan was unhappily convinced by it. He 
knew his older brother too well not to believe. It also made sense of some of 
the more obscure comments Kirion had snarled while giving his version of events. 
Keelan snorted; no wonder his own arrival had been received with doubt.
The summer wore away slowly into an even better fall. Keelan was beginning to 
feel an acceptance here. As if it was home, a place to be yourself. A place 
where people might even like the self he was discovering. He'd heard that Kirion 
was barred from Aiskeep. That knowledge helped him relax further. Whatever else 
Kirion spoiled, he could not reach Keelan here. Gradually, Aisling had unbent 
toward this new brother. Ciara had spoken quietly to the girl, giving her a 
suggestion.
Aisling had acted on this, asking help of Keelan anytime there was something she 
could legitimately request.
"Keelan, could you reach that halter for me, you're much taller?" He could and 
did, with a tiny feeling of pride.
"Can you open this salve, my wrists aren't strong enough?" Keelan twisted the 
top open, handing it over with a pleased grin. The admiring look he received 
made his grin widen. Having a little sister was—why, it was pleasant. He almost 
strutted as he left the stable. He learned slowly that Aisling was intelligent, 
and interesting to talk to. That she listened to his own ideas with flattering 
attention. He fell into the habit of talking with her quite often. They began to 
ride together. Trovagh nodded to his wife at that.
"Nice job, dearling. The boy's found Aisling to be real company once he's got to 
know her. Plan one, I suppose?"
"Why not?" Ciara laughed softly. Her glance was affectionate. "He isn't really 
bad, Tro. Not like Kirion. In fact, they have that in common, so Aisling tells 
me. Kirion's played some pretty dangerous and vicious tricks on Keelan over the 
years. Aisha has always ignored it, but the boy's been bullied within an inch of 
his life by his brother, spoiled rotten by his mother, and despised by just 
about everyone who dislikes Kirion and assumes Keelan is the same. I think a lot 
of his change here has been the knowledge that Kirion isn't welcome. He feels as 
if Aiskeep is the one refuge he can't be tracked to and made miserable in 
again."
Trovagh agreed. "I'll tell you something else, too, beloved. A man needs 
something to protect. What has the boy ever had? Anything he's cared for his 
brother has taken away. That makes Keelan feel bad for losing it and helpless 
because he couldn't prevent the loss. With Aisling he's being a big brother at 
last." He grinned as he looked over at Ciara. "Harran tells me the boy is really 
working at weapons training. He's let it slip that if bandits come again he's 
going to be sure Aisling is safe."
Ciara looked up. "He'd do better to protect her from Kirion."
"I'm not so sure he wouldn't now. Harran says that with a few more months' work 
the boy will be better with a sword than his brother. Apparently, Kirion is 
mostly style with no stamina. Good for short, flashy duels. Not good for a real 
grudge fight. I wouldn't wager Keelan couldn't take him if Harran thinks so." He 
watched her brows rise. "Yes, I think now you should put plan two into action, 
my cunning love."
"Plan two?" Ciara looked innocent.
"Plan two! I've known you too long not to know there's a plan two."
His wife grinned but said nothing. It was true, but she didn't want Tro to let 
something slip. Keelan had sharp eyes. A knowing look at the wrong time might 
spoil her schemes.
She waited with as much patience as she had ever been capable of finding. One of 
the cats was due to kitten. Her last two litters had each contained a spare: one 
the mother decided to discard for reasons unknown to humans.
It happened again, to Ciara's secret satisfaction. The kit was a female, tiny 
and pathetic. She brought it to Keelan quite casually.
"The mother doesn't want it. If someone doesn't look after it, the poor little 
thing will die." She unloaded the tiny, shivering scrap into his hands.
She saw the uncertain glance up from the corner of his eye. From all she had 
pieced together, she could guess at his fear.
"If you can raise her, she's yours. Not to be sold or given to anyone else. She 
can stay here or go with you, whatever you choose. She is unlikely to have 
kittens herself. We've found those we rear this way are often infertile." She 
shrugged, "I'll leave you to it. If you can't be bothered, take it down to the 
stable and kill it. A quick, clean death. All right?" She registered the 
involuntarily protective movement of his hands with blank face but elated heart. 
"If you decide to rear it, talk to Aisling. She helped me with one of the 
others." She strolled out, leaving Keelan to sit holding the faintly 'yeeking' 
baby.
He reared it. There were times when he considered that quick, clean death. Then 
he would look down at his troublesome, time-consuming charge and fall in love 
all over again. She needed him. In weeks she was stumbling on unsteady furry 
legs all about his room. A few weeks more and she was a skittering racing ball 
of fluff into everything and under his feet. He adored her. After long 
consideration, he'd named her Shosho. It was a dialect word for something that 
was everywhere, ubiquitous. She was certainly that.
At times he wondered despairingly if all kittens were this bad. That was after 
Shosho had fallen down the jakes. Luckily, it was immediately after the first 
hard frost. The muck at the bottom of the shaft was solid enough to bear her 
weight so she didn't drown. But Keelan had to climb down a rope after her. The 
muck at the bottom hadn't borne his weight. He appeared at the top of the shaft 
with a kitten that refused to know him any further until he bathed. The waiting 
humans made it clear they agreed. Keelan left grinning to seek a hot bath with 
plenty of soap.
Shosho forgave him once he was in the hot, soapy water. She demonstrated that by 
falling in with him, then climbing out using small frantic claws on some tender 
places.
His howls brought Ciara running, only to be passed by a very wet, virtually 
airborne kitten, which explained it all to her. She stifled her giggles and left 
again without Keelan's being aware. That had happened to Ciara a few times 
before she started shutting her cats out when she bathed. She'd suggest it to 
Keelan sometime.
The boy was happy all that winter. Shosho grew steadily. She was going to be a 
magnificent cat with eyes of deep amber, and a thick plush coat of glossy black. 
She slept on his bed, brought her kills to him, and generally made it clear that 
Keelan was her human.
Slave might have been a better word. Not that Keelan minded. He was a lap 
whenever she wanted one, trailed string for her on demand, and loved her with 
all his heart. In loving her, he found the capacity to love others, too. He was 
Aisling's lieutenant in many things that winter. Often now he would take a job 
away from her.
"That's too heavy, let me lift it."
Aisling graciously permitted him to help. Keelan discovered the joys of shared 
jokes, harmless tricks, and a family circle elastic enough to admit another one 
in.
Back in Iren Keep, Kirion had vaguely noticed that his younger brother was 
nowhere to be found. It did not matter. Kirion was too busy with his studies 
into forms of power. When he wanted Keelan, he'd find him. Right now he wanted 
only peace to read and privacy to experiment with some of what he learned.
When winter was over Keelan was still at Aiskeep. He was afraid to talk about 
it. If he said he wanted to stay here for good, perhaps they'd say he couldn't. 
He said nothing, just in case. If he didn't ask, he couldn't be refused. He'd 
grown to love the Keep and his family here. Anyhow, he couldn't leave. What 
would happen to Shosho? If he took her back to Iren, Kirion would find some way 
of hurting her. Keelan might be able to beat him in a fight now, but that 
wouldn't heal Shosho if Kirion had injured her.
Apart from her, there was Aisling, Ciara, Trovagh, Harran, and old Hanion who 
told him stories about Keelan's greatgrandfather. Jontar, who was always happy 
to talk about the bandits, and the host of garthspeople who greeted him now as 
if they were pleased to see him. They were. The consensus on the land was that 
the lad was training up quite well, and would make a reasonable lord one day. 
Had Kirion known any of this, he'd have spat blood. Since he did not, all was 
peaceful both at Aiskeep and at Iren Keep.
Aisling, too, was happy. She'd always wanted an older brother. A real one, not 
like Kirion. She celebrated her twelfth name day with Keelan assisting.
His name day would come in early spring. He would be eighteen. He hoped they'd 
mark it in some way, but he'd say nothing just in. case. There was an air of 
subdued excitement around, he thought some weeks later. But it was probably 
because spring was on the way. He noticed Aisling vanishing into her room a lot 
with the door shut. She appeared flushed when he knocked and the door was 
opened. He hoped harder. Always at Iren Keep his name days had been miserable 
with Kirion resenting the attention focused elsewhere.
Two days before Keelan's name day, Kirion arrived. He'd run out of books he 
hadn't read. Then it occurred to him that if the brat did have the power he 
believed, there might well be books on witchcraft in the old Aiskeep library. He 
rode there, casually confident that his grandparents hadn't meant his banishment 
to last. He was disabused on arrival. It was Harran who glanced out, to 
recognize the approaching rider. By the time Kirion reached the gates, Ciara and 
Trovagh were there with their Armsmaster.
"Hail the gates, open for Kirion, Kirin's son of Aiskeep." Kirion slouched on 
his weary horse, waiting for the gates to swing open. Instead, a tart voice 
addressed him from above.
"You were told not to return unless we asked for you. You have not been asked 
here, you have our leave to depart."
Kirion gaped upward. "You can't do that!"
Trovagh took over. "We can, we have, and we like it that way. Take yourself and 
that poor animal to Teral, to Kars, or to Hades. You aren't welcome here. Do I 
have to make it any plainer?"
He did. Kirion sat his mount, his voice rising to an infuriated whine as he 
pleaded, protested, and then ordered.
"I'm heir now that my father's dead. You can't keep me out." That should get the 
truth told, he thought. Ciara eyed him. Something in the tone told her the boy 
knew he'd been formally disinherited. But then she didn't have to confirm that. 
She leaned out.
"An heir has certain rights, that's true. But automatic entry to his family Keep 
is not one of them. Not when all are in agreement he isn't welcome. Go away, 
Kirion. Shut your mouth before you get snow in it."
Aisling heard that last comment. She had been listening, seeing the man who'd 
become an ogre in her mind so discomforted. She stooped, rolled snow into a 
loose snowball, then flung it. The snowball took Kirion square in the face as he 
began another plea. He spluttered, choking on snow, wiping it in fury from his 
face and neck. Behind the wall he could hear the howls of laughter. Even his 
grandmother had a broad grin. Kirion tightened his grip on the reins, swinging 
his unwilling beast away from the Keep.
It would do no good to remain. Mentally he notched up another score against 
Aisling. He spent the days riding back to Iren Keep in a foul mood. Some of that 
he worked off on his mount, some on oaths of what he would do if he ever got 
Aisling into his hands. He returned to study, paying more than his mother could 
afford for moldering books and documents that might give Kirion the power he 
craved. He continued to cultivate Shandro. The man was an idiot, but a very 
well-connected one. He'd make the perfect figurehead duke if Kirion ever 
unlocked power to raise the fool to that position.
It did occur to him several times that he hadn't seen his younger brother at all 
of late, not for months, in fact. Kirion ignored that. He'd found what he felt 
was a promising trail to the knowledge he sought. Whatever Keelan was doing, 
he'd come to heel as soon as he was called. Kirion persuaded more coin from his 
mother and vanished into increasingly unsavory places in his search. As he saw 
it, he was having quite a good—and possibly profitable—time.

12
Keelan's eighteenth name day was a success. Ciara had made one of her hangings 
for his room. If you looked at it up close it was merely color. But from the 
doorway across his room it became Keelan, with Aiskeep in the background. Shosho 
was included in the work, sitting at his feet gazing up. Aisling produced a 
saddle and bridle. They were plain, but the leather work was of the finest 
quality. Elanor marched in with several packages, which proved to contain her 
usual offering of robe and slippers in the Keep colors of gold and mulberry. To 
these she'd added a saddle blanket of rabbit furs, winter ones dyed the same 
colors. It looked magnificent.
Hanion appeared with Harran. Their gift was a joint one of a fine bow in a bow 
case of oiled gut, and a matching quiver of arrows that were examples of the 
fletcher's art. Keelan found he was standing there, gifts scattered about him, 
tears in his eyes, and quite unable to speak. These were the people his mother 
had always condemned as mean, arrogant, and provincial. If Aiskeep was mean, 
what did that make her? he wondered. He'd never had gifts like these from his 
mother. If they were arrogant, how was it they'd accepted him?
As for provincial… He looked at them. Maybe they were, by her standards. Their 
clothes were warm and comfortable, not the gaudy fashions of Kars. Their skin 
was browned by sun, burned by wind, not the pallid shade favored by the 
fashionable. Their eyes were alive with life and interest in life. He found his 
face stretching into a slow, wide grin. Provincial? If that was provincial, then 
he'd take the provinces any day. Aisha could have Kars, she could have dear 
Kirion, and she could do what she pleased with both. Keelan would stay here, 
forever, if he was permitted.
It took him several days to come down from the delights of that day. When he 
did, he shut himself away for the afternoon to think. He feared asking if he 
could remain permanently. What if they refused? Ciara and Trovagh guessed, both 
at his desire and his fears. They left him alone. They, too, had thought much 
about this. Their decision had been made so long as Keelan plucked up enough 
courage to ask. That would be the final test.
The boy spent the night thinking. He must know. He marched down to the hall the 
next morning, terrified but resolute. It was silly in a way. His grandparents 
had shown no signs of wanting him to leave. Why then did he have this need for a 
formal permission and agreement?
He found Trovagh and Ciara alone. Elanor always broke her fast in her room these 
days. She was becoming frail and slept late. Aisling had been and gone, 
encouraged by Ciara to an errand in the upper valley.
Keelan arrived with the air of one who goes to the stake bravely. "Grandmother, 
Grandfather." He bowed politely. "I would speak with you."
Trovagh nodded, "Sit then and speak."
Neither of them would have betrayed it for anything, but those Keelan faced were 
deeply amused by the scene. The lad was trying so hard to be formal. Instead, he 
gave the impression of a badly strung puppet. Keelan talked. He managed to make 
it brief, just that he'd like to remain here, to make his home at Aiskeep.
Ciara spoke gently. "Have we made you feel you may not?"
"No, Grandmother. But in view of the way Kirion acted, I'd prefer to have 
everything clear before I send for my belongings. I don't wish you to feel I am 
taking Aiskeep for granted."
It was a good point, Trovagh considered. The Gods knew that Kirion had done so… 
until a snowball made it clear how wrong he was. The memory almost made him 
smile, but he must not. The boy would think it was aimed at him. He collected 
Ciara with a glance and they both stood. Trovagh spoke as Keelan waited.
"It is our decision that you may remain for so long as you wish to live at 
Aiskeep. It would please us that you learn of the land and the people. We shall 
make you an allowance for necessities." He broke into a grin as Keelan stared. 
"What, boy, did you think to be tossed out? Are we both so frightening?"
"N-n-no. But an allowance, and—" He broke off hastily. That bit about learning 
of the land and people. It was a portion of the formal acceptance of Keep Heir. 
Not all of it, just a part. Perhaps a hint that if he shaped well, the 
inheritance might be confirmed. He'd say nothing of that, though. They knew what 
they'd said. He knew. He'd prove himself before he expected them to say more.
Ciara was talking gently, "Of course you must have an allowance. We can't have 
you at Aiskeep with holes in your breeches. Don't expect a fortune, Keelan. 
Aiskeep does well enough, but we aren't Clan Iren."
She named an amount that made the boy stare. "What is it?"
"Do you mean that much?"
Trovagh looked interested. "That's each year, Keelan. Not each moon. Doesn't 
Aisha give you your coin?"
"No, well, not really. If I nag long enough, I may get a little. But she says I 
don't need it. Iren gives me bed and board, I can use a horse from their 
stables, drink wine at their table. What do I need money for?"
"Well, you have it now. Come to my study after you've eaten and I'll let you 
have the first quarter-year. Now eat; here at Aiskeep we don't like to see our 
family starve."
He drank off his wine and offered an arm to Ciara. Once they were private, 
Trovagh exploded. "That selfish, mean, cheating…"
"Lying, miserable excuse for a mother!" Ciara finished for him. "All this time 
she's been begging for more and more money from us." Her voice slid into a 
beggar's whine. "Mother Ciara, I need more coin for clothes for my sons. They 
grow so quickly. Mother Ciara, I need more money for my sons, they must be able 
to pay their way in the city. Faugh! And all the time she's given that poor 
child nothing."
She turned on Trovagh, but he forestalled her. "Yes, I know he could be lying. 
But I believe him. Haven't you seen the clothes he has, love? And the weapons. 
His sword looks as if it was forgotten at the back of an armory. His bow was 
useless. That's why Hanion and Harran chose to give him a new one. I'd say much 
of the money for Kirion has gone to him. But the allowance for Keelan, Aisha has 
been using for herself." Trovagh looked at his wife. "Let us talk to Keelan. I 
suspect the boy. has very little to bring back. We'll send Harran with him and a 
letter. If we work the timing right, Keelan will be out of there before Aisha 
knows what's happened to her."
It was done. Keelan had a peaceful happy ride over the long days to Kars. There 
he left Harran while Keelan rode on to Iren Keep. He found his mother as usual, 
too busy talking to Kirion to listen much to her second son. It was as if they'd 
barely noticed he'd been gone nearly a year. He bit back a nasty smirk. That 
would change soon.
Keelan went through his room with care. Really, there was little he wanted. Most 
of his clothes were fit only to toss to a beggar. He had a few odds and ends.
He gathered those into the saddlebags he'd been given. They didn't even fill 
one. He shrugged. What did it matter. He was going back to Shosho, to Aiskeep 
and his family. He left the rest of his threadbare belongings and returned to 
the stables. They'd ridden into Kars on fine mounts from the Aiskeep Torgian 
strain. He'd left his mount in the inn stables along with Harran's horse and 
hired a cheap, clumsy beast to ride the last distance to Iren.
He'd given orders with a new assurance on arrival there. The beast was to be 
well-cared for and readied for departure again in a couple of hours. Keelan sat 
on his bed looking down at the lean saddlebags. It wasn't much for eighteen name 
days. What did he have in Iren Keep anyhow? A brother he disliked, feared, and 
distrusted. And a mother—Keelan felt sudden tears sting his eyes. A mother who 
stole from him. Oh, his grandparents had been quick to cover up. But you didn't 
live in a Keep like Iren most of your life without being able to read faces, 
hands, and half sentences. He'd seen the fingers tighten, seen the glance at 
each other. The query: hadn't his mother given him his coin? He'd understood in 
a flare of rage and bitterness.
During all these years, she'd constantly complained that Aiskeep gave her almost 
nothing. He'd discounted some of that. She had the latest clothes, the trips to 
Kars. He'd just assumed that Aiskeep made only her an allowance. That anything 
she gave her sons came from her purse. It had all been a lie. Trovagh had handed 
Keelan a purse, a mixture of copper, silver, and gold coinage. Then Ciara had 
called him to speak outside the door a moment.
With Trovagh gone, Keelan had seized the opportunity.
He'd seen the money given him placed down in a big ledger. Now he turned back a 
page or two. It had been there: steady columns of figures going down the page in 
three lines. One headed Aisha, another Kirion, the third Keelan. His new 
allowance was larger, but not by a huge amount. No wonder his mother could 
afford to dress so finely. He wondered if Kirion knew that the coin he wheedled 
from Aisha was Kirion's by right. He'd stepped back behind the desk again.
It had taken only seconds, but he knew at last how his mother valued him. It cut 
the last tie he might have had with Iren, Keep or Clan.
Keelan looked down at the saddlebags. Then he stood with a new resolution. He 
tossed the bags over one arm, walking to the door to call the nearest servant.
"Come in." He pointed to the scatter of clothing, and other minor gear laying 
about the room. "See all this, it's yours. Do what you want with it. Sell it, 
give it away, toss it on the midden. I won't be back." He listened a moment to 
the stammered thanks. "Never mind. But I'd get it out of here before someone 
else thinks they've a stronger claim."
Keelan grinned at the scramble that produced. He strolled down the old stone 
stairs toward the stables. The horse had been cared for, he checked, then tossed 
the stable boy a coin—to that lad's considerable surprise—then mounted and rode 
quietly down the road toward Kars. He'd be there by nightfall.
He slept dreamlessly in the big comfortable bed at the inn. Harran woke him 
early,
"Ready, lad?"
"Yes." They shared breakfast from the tray the inn sent up, then packed. An hour 
after dawn, they were on the homeward journey. Keelan found he was singing 
softly. Home! It was a wonderful word. He remembered the letter his mother would 
be reading in a few hours. He sang louder. It really was a beautiful day!
Aisha read the letter close to sunhigh. As she often did, she'd slept in, then 
fussed over her meal, her dress, and her plans for the afternoon. Only then was 
her maid permitted to bring in the letter and sealed purse. She'd assumed it to 
be the usual allowances, and a note of polite nothings from Elanor. She opened 
the purse and counted. It was short by a considerable amount. Aisha fumed. Then 
she opened the letter. With difficulty she perused the lines of neat script. Her 
reading ability had never been good. It was good enough in this case for her to 
understand what Ciara wrote—and rather more besides.
Ciara had kept it polite, merely conveying that since Keelan was removing to 
live at Aiskeep his allowance would be given to him direct. That was all it 
said. Aisha understood the rest, though. Aiskeep knew that Keelan had been 
cheated for years. That his mother had given him nothing of what was sent. And 
moreover, Keelan would know this, too, by now.
She pouted angrily. It was for her to decide how much a son should have. Keelan 
was still a child. She continued to read and gulped. Ciara had added that in the 
future the allowances would be sent separately, that Kirion should have his 
given direct also.
That was serious. If Kirion understood that she'd cheated him for years, he 
might take revenge. She was just a little afraid of what her son was becoming.
Then it occurred to her. Keelan had appeared briefly the previous day. She'd 
hadn't seen him since. Ciara's letter said he was living at Aiskeep now? Aisha 
hurried to investigate. The boy's room was empty of all he'd had. At the stables 
they told her he'd gone the night before. Further inquiry discovered the inn. 
Aisha bit a finger. So—Harran had been there. It really did look as if Aiskeep 
had taken Keelan in, perhaps as heir.
This news would serve very well to divert Kirion. She could mention that the 
separate—and increased—allowance for him had been at her suggestion. He'd take 
the coin, but it would also help convince him that Aiskeep was trying to buy him 
off.
Kirion was away on one of his mysterious errands. She waited until his return, 
telling him the news of his allowance first. As she'd expected, he was 
delighted—until she added, quite casually, that Keelan was gone.
"Gone where? You mean he's staying with some friend?"
"Not exactly. The servants say he's cleared all his possessions. In Kars they 
say he arrived with Harran from Aiskeep. Left with the man the next morning very 
early." She made her face innocent. "Keelan said something about living at 
Aiskeep now; you don't think he's entangled with anyone, do you?" She invested 
the last query with a salaciousness that was startling.
Kirion exploded in fury. "Entangled? I'd wager he's entangled! They'll have 
decided to make him Keep Heir instead of me." He proceeded to damn every last 
one of his kin at Aiskeep, with particular virulent attention to his younger 
brother. "This so-called increase in allowance is to buy me off. We'll see about 
it. Thank the Gods I have friends."
He flung from Aisha's room in a way that secretly amused her. Kirion would find 
he had no friends if he started bullying them as he had always bullied Keelan. 
Perhaps that was why the younger boy had gone?
Kirion stamped his way out to the stables. He had a horse saddled, then rode for 
the city. He received no satisfaction from his cronies.. They could only recite 
Karsten laws that allowed what his grandparents might have done. Kirion returned 
in a worse temper than he'd been in when he left. He retired to the tower rooms 
where he preferred to live. They provided space, privacy, and enough distance 
from other occupied parts of the Keep to muffle the sounds that sometimes came 
from Kirion's room late at night. He was making progress in his studies. That at 
least was satisfactory.
He sat down wearily in a chair. If he could just master the art of influencing 
people. Not too obviously, but just enough to make them more receptive to what 
he was asking.
With his anger as a goad he worked for several nights. Then he went back to 
Kars. He was gone a day and a night before he returned, a sweetly vicious smile 
playing around his thin lips. Now he could begin his moves. In a year or two at 
most he should have Shandro on the throne of Kars.
After that he'd plan his campaign against Aiskeep. First he must stir hatred 
against the Witches once more. In later years it had somewhat died down. It must 
be kindled to flame again. That would be easy with Shandro; he'd grown up with 
tales of the mountains' Turning. Half of his clan had died with Pagar. Yes, 
Kirion would begin with Shandro.
Half done is well begun, Kirion reminded himself six months later. Shandro had 
been easy to rouse to wrath. All Kirion had done was take every opportunity of 
mentioning how far down Shandro's clan had fallen.
Of course he'd used the spell whenever he did so. He had that mastered. If only 
he could have risked the darker, more dangerous one that matched it. That he was 
not prepared to do. It would be the difference between persuasion and an order 
obeyed at once. But there were drawbacks. Kirion never underestimated danger to 
himself. The darker spell could lash back if it failed. It could recoil on the 
user to his doom. Kirion intended to rule Kars through Shandro, not to lie dead 
in some ornate tomb.
He used his spell persuading as and when he could. Gradually over the next year 
Shandro rose in power. His attitude and those of his shadow court hardened 
against the Estcarp Witches and those of the Old Race who might remain in 
Karsten. Two years after Keelan had deserted Iren, Shandro became duke of Kars. 
It was a title of little value as wealth went. The generations of unrest or 
outright war had impoverished both the city and the provinces about it. All 
Karsten was poor.
Using his spells Kirion persuaded traders to come more often to Kars. He cajoled 
better prices for Karsten goods. In Alizon there arose a fad for the felt wall 
hangings Ciara had made popular many years earlier in the South. A trickle of 
wealth began to flow into Karsten. It was not a great deal in itself, but it 
sparked a renewed hope, a rebuilding on the part of those who lived there. In 
another year the trickle of wealth had deepened and widened. Some of the clans 
and Keeps were growing rich again. Kirion made sure that the throne took its 
full share.
At Aiskeep Ciara was torn. She knew from Geavon that Kirion was behind the Kars 
throne. She heard of the growing hatred against those with the Old Blood. Geavon 
would have warned her if she had not seen what might come. He was too old to 
ride any longer, but his mind was as keen as ever, and his fingers as nimble. He 
wrote more often to Aiskeep to make up for the visits he could no longer manage. 
His letter this time brought fear.
Trovagh was with Ciara in their own room reading the latest pages. "He says 
Shandro is considering a new law," she reported.
Trovagh looked up from where he added wood to the fire. "A law on witchcraft?"
"Yes. Not the Horning again, but the result is likely to be the same. They, 
offer half the goods of any found to be of the Old Race and practicing 
witchcraft, to those who denounce them."
Trovagh was startled. "But that's wicked. They'll have half of the land 
denouncing the other. A good number of people have that blood. Any can add an 
accusation of spell-casting. How will they judge?"
Ciara's voice was dry. "Probably by how much those denounced can contribute to 
the duke's coffers. I smell Kirion's hand in all this. He knows who and what I 
am."
Trovagh grinned suddenly, "I don't think he'll even look at Aiskeep, dear heart. 
He's your grandson. If he allows you to be denounced, he names himself. From 
what Geavon writes Kars is rapidly becoming hysterical on the subject. I wonder 
just how safe even Kirion may be."
Kirion, too, was wondering of recent weeks. It seemed that one could start a 
fire that was far harder to put out again. He sat glumly in his room at the 
palace worrying. It had seemed such a good idea when he began it. Now it looked 
possible even he could come under suspicion. He hadn't bargained for that. He'd 
better work out a way to decrease the hysteria. He worked hard most of that 
winter. He succeeded eventually in convincing Shandro that the idea was not to 
wipe out all those with any ability.
No, far better to get them under the duke's hand. Use them to aid Kars. It took 
time but at last he was able to persuade the duke into revoking the law. Kirion 
took over the lists as yet unused. There were sure to be a scattering of those 
who were genuinely of the Old Race. He scanned the lines of names. He'd find 
those, then wring from them any indication of their abilities. Their families 
would stand hostage.
Here and there, he did find a man or woman of the Old Blood. None of the pure 
line but occasionally one of part-blood who had chosen to remain.
It did Kirion little good. The less of the blood, the less chance that they'd be 
of use. Most of those he found practiced healcraft in some way. That was not 
what he wanted. Where they had money he saw to it they vanished. His pockets 
were filling, as was Kars's treasury. But it gained Kirion no power. He knew an 
old poisoner in the lower city who could do more than any of these pathetic 
remnants of the Old Race. He decided to move more openly against Aiskeep in ways 
they would find it harder to counter. He chose a man of Shandro's clan to make 
the offer. A very carefully chosen man.
The messengers arrived the day after Aisling's sixteenth name day. Trovagh 
watched as Ciara read the beautifully penned letter. Her eyes blazed in disgust 
as she turned to him.
"Ruart! I'd rather give her to a pig. You'll tell him no, of course?" Trovagh 
hesitated and his wife stared at him.
"Tro? You aren't going to agree, you can't!"
"Don't be a fool. No, I wouldn't dream of agreeing, but look at the 
consequences. We can't say the girl is too young. She's sixteen. Kirion knows 
that even if Ruart doesn't. So what do we say. A flat refusal is likely to bring 
half of Ruart's clan about our ears at the insult."
"Say she's sick, loose of morals, mad, or promised elsewhere. Anything, Tro. But 
she doesn't go to that man. He's the one Geavon told us about two years ago when 
all that witchcraft fuss was stirring in Kars. I will not have Aisling wed a man 
of that sort even if the girl would agree. And as yet she's shown no sign of 
looking at any man with much interest."
"I agree, but we must move carefully," Trovagh said quietly. "One thing, too. 
It's to my mind that we should bring Keelan into this discussion. We made him 
Keep Heir over a year gone. Aisling is his sister, and he has a right to know 
what is asked and by whom."
"This offer was probably instigated by his brother anyway. Yes, Tro. Call him."
Keelan came,read the letter in silence, then stared at the fire. It was a fair 
offer if you disregarded the character of he who made it. Aisling was offered 
honorable marriage into a powerful clan. They'd accept her with only a small 
dowry, and they offered several sweeteners for the contract. And if she gave 
Ruart a son, she was then free to depart should she choose to do so. With her 
would go a large sum of money as largesse for the clan heir. That last was 
supposed to help convince Keelan.
Persuade your sister, pressure her if need be. And we'll make you rich in a 
couple of years. It was well worded, of course. It could equally read that 
they'd let Aisling free if she wished once she'd given the clan an heir. The 
coin was to support the heir's mother in her old home once she returned there. 
That was what Ruart would claim was intended if he was challenged.
Ruart. A crony of Kirion's but almost ten years older, he must be around 
thirty-five by now. Keelan had seen more of the man than he'd wished in Iren 
Keep. Not a nice type.
Then, too, there was that business Geavon had mentioned. Keelan remembered 
thinking at the time that no matter how it had been covered over, he'd wager it 
had been true. But if they simply refused the offer for Aisling a storm would be 
raised. Ruart would demand a good reason. What could they say—we'd rather cut 
Aisling's throat than throw her into your bed?
He grinned; he could imagine what Aisling would say if she saw Ruart, too. His 
head jerked up.
"I have an idea. I don't think it will put him off forever, but it can buy us 
time. Grandmother, would you be fit to ride to Kars?" His face became solemn. 
"After all, Aisling has been reared here in the provinces. She should know her 
prospective betrothed before any contracts are signed." His voice became 
meaningful. "Perhaps he should meet her as well."
The two faces opposite him crinkled into identical grins. "You mean Ruart may 
not like a wild, uncouth girl from the far South?" Trovagh asked.
"Either that or we can hold him off with tales of improving her. More—um—Kars 
city polish?" Keelan assured him grinning.
Ciara smiled at them both. "It may work, but we'd have to tread a fine line 
between disgusting him, and angering him to where he'll take her from spite to 
teach her once she's in his hands." She flattened her palm against the stone 
wall behind her. "If all else fails, we can stand siege. Aiskeep has outlasted 
many of those across the centuries."
"We stay with old Geavon, I presume?" Trovagh queried thoughtfully.
"We do; write him now, love. Get the message off as fast as you can. As for 
Ruart, we can delay a few days before his messengers will grow too impatient. We 
have to play for time. Every move must be drawn out as far as possible. With 
luck, Ruart will become bored and drop the idea. We may find a way to refuse 
without war. Just let us buy time."
They did so. It was high summer before they arrived in Gerith Keep to an 
enthusiastic welcome from Geavon. Once the first excitement was done he looked 
at Aisling. Hmm. Her looks certainly wouldn't put Ruart off the wedding. Aisling 
was slender, as lithe and supple as Ciara had been at that age. Like Ciara, the 
girl had eyes of a warm hazel. Her hair was a curtain of brown. An odd shade. 
There was fire under the darker hue. Her face was rounder than that of Ciara, 
but she had her grandmother's long, swinging stride. The walk of a girl who was 
fit and healthy.
Keelan hadn't enjoyed the journey. He was too worried about Shosho. She'd 
vanished just before they left. Old Hanion had promised to look for her, and 
care for her once she was found, but Keelan was still worried. She was four and 
had never bred. What if she had chosen now to do so? She might need him. A cat 
took only a couple of months to bear her kittens. He'd still be here in Gerith 
Keep until long after that. Damn Ruart, and damn Kirion, who was undoubtedly 
behind it all. When would the eager bridegroom appear so they could get on with 
the farce?
Ruart came a week later. Aisling was as rude as it was possible to be to a 
guest, and found her manners ignored. Ruart had expected no better. The girl was 
almost a peasant, after all, and she'd know no better. Her dress, too, was 
abysmal. That could be altered anytime he cared to buy the clothing. He was at 
his most pleasant, but Aisling could see the wolf snarl behind the charm. She 
was afraid of him. The idea of his touching her made her sick with disgust. She 
told that to Keelan the second time Ruart called.
"I loathe him, Keelan, please think of something."
Ruart visited again and again, each time more insistent on a contract. A 
betrothal would be so suitable. Kirion stood on the sidelines of all this and 
smirked. He knew the difficulties his grandparents faced. They'd come around, 
they couldn't hold off the ardent suitor forever, nor dare they refuse him 
outright.
He was wrong in that. Trovagh faced Ruart four weeks later, making Aiskeep's 
position clear. They would not force Aisling to a marriage she rejected.
Ruart snorted. A touch of the whip and the girl would consent. Holding 
desperately to his temper Trovagh pointed out that a girl killing herself rather 
than wed Ruart would not add to his reputation.
"There are ways to prevent that, My Lord of Aiskeep. I'd be happy to suggest a 
few."
"So I hear." Trovagh's tone was chilled over solid ice. "But we do not believe 
in dragging a girl to her wedding so drugged she cannot speak."
"That is your decision? Nothing will change it?"
"That is the word of Aiskeep. Unless Aisling changes her mind, My Lord Ruart, 
there will be no wedding between you."
Ruart nodded. Kirion had warned him this was possible. His friend had suggested 
that there were other ways to reach his desire. He'd use them.
Keelan was now bothered on two fronts. On the one hand, he worried over Shosho. 
Had she returned, was she all right?
On the other, there was Aisling. Ruart had taken that final rejection too calmly 
for Keelan's peace of mind.
He went to Geavon in the end. Keelan had slowly developed a hearty respect for 
that astute old man. Geavon was careful. Nothing too open in his hints, just 
enough to assure the boy that Kirion wasn't the only clever one about. Keelan 
left wearing a satisfied look.
That changed abruptly three days later. Keelan had gone in search of his sister. 
They could ride with Geavon's grandson who planned to circle some of the garths 
talking over the coming harvest. With him went several men at arms. Aisling 
would enjoy the ride and in safety. He was well aware that of late she had been 
fretting at her confinement within the Keep. And it would take Keelan's mind off 
Shosho.
To Keelan's surprise, his sister was nowhere to be found. He hunted, growing 
more agitated until at last he went to Geavon. There, too, he found his 
grandparents as he blurted out the news.
Geavon stared for a second absorbing the information. Then he rang his bell 
violently, shouting rapid orders at those who came. Questions were asked of all 
those in the Keep. Some had information, not all of it willingly given. In an 
hour they knew the truth.
Geavon faced his distant cousin, noting the grim set to Trovagh's mouth. "The 
girl is gone. A maid and one of the manservants are also gone. I believe them to 
have been hirelings paid to await their chance. It seems they bought a way in 
sometime back. Around the time Ruart first offered for the girl." He held a hand 
up to still the outcry. "I have other ways of finding the truth of this. I am 
not so sure that it was Ruart's doing. One thing is sure, however. Aisling has 
been taken."

13
Aisling had gone to her room to change. It had been one of those mornings, and 
now a maid had spilled a water can all down her skirt. It wasn't the girl's 
fault, but it just capped a long, boring morning so far as Aisling was 
concerned. She had the clothing over her head and was squirming out of it when 
she was seized. She tried to struggle, but muffled in folds of cloth she found 
it difficult. Then she was struck across her head. Blackness descended shot with 
red sparks.
The next she knew she was head down still bundled in cloth. It felt like a pony 
under her. She moved a hand surreptitiously. Yes, that was a pony, with Aisling 
cross-tied over its broad back. She felt sick, all swimmy. Blurred voices nearby 
slowly resolved into a conversation she could understand.
"… easy enough. The old fool of a housekeeper will be in trouble when it comes 
out." That voice sounded vindictive.
"You're just mad because she made you really work. The coin'll be worth it."
"It'd have to be. If I slaved up them stairs with one can of hot water for them 
lady-mucks I carried a thousand. All that washing. Rots yer brain."
There was a coarse laugh, "No fear of that fer you. Reckon you'm as smart as a 
pin. Letting m'lady here walk right into you, then spilling all that water down 
'er. Gave us'n a chance to get her aside at last. Damn me, but how that family 
do stay around one another." The other voice only grunted to that and there was 
a long silence.
Aisling put what she'd heard together. Someone had paid this pair to abduct her. 
It had to be Ruart. She shivered. But her family would guess, and they'd not 
rest until they had her back. She could imagine the hue and cry they'd be 
raising.
If she could have listened to the talk at Gerith Keep at the same moment she'd 
have been bewildered. No one was looking for her there. Instead, they were 
grouped in one room with Geavon, making rather labored small talk. Each was 
almost frantic but they were waiting. They trusted Geavon, and he trusted those 
he had in other places. Moving too swiftly could risk everything. So they sat, 
ate food they did not want, making conversation they hardly heard.
Aisling was feeling sicker by the minute. If she didn't get off this pony soon, 
she'd be throwing up. She felt the small beast turn, and the sounds of its 
hooves change. It halted. She was untied and tossed over someone's shoulder. 
Then she could feel herself carried up a short flight of stairs. Aisling was 
dumped on a floor. It would be Ruart's home, she thought. There was sheepskin 
under her hands, a fire somewhere near as she felt the heat.
Above her there was a chink of coin. Then the sound of a cork being pulled. An 
anticipatory mumble as wine gurgled into glasses. She could hear people drinking 
noisily. Probably the two who'd stolen her drinking to their success and 
payment. The next sounds puzzled her. A sort of choking, then a couple of 
muffled thumps followed by the sounds of coins again.
She was lifted to sit in a chair, the cords unwound. She steeled herself to be 
unsurprised by whatever she saw. It was Ruart as she'd feared. She nodded 
politely.
"My lord, an unconventional visit, I'm afraid."
He leered, an aroma of wine preceding him as he leaned close. "But I don't mind 
that, my sweet. I have a bedroom awaiting you." She saw he was very drunk and 
despaired. Her head still swam and her stomach rebelled.
"So kind, but I do not plan to use it, my Lord Ruart."
"But I do. Here's a token of it." He drew her to him, kissing her with a wet, 
eager mouth.
Aisling's stomach finally revolted. She jerked her head to one side and vomited 
violently. As Ruart released her, she did so again. The sight and smell were too 
much for Ruart. He joined her and they threw up in miserable unison. From the 
door an urbane voice addressed the room at large.
"Not an edifying sight. But don't worry, I'll take her off your hands, Ruart."
Ruart rose clumsily to his feet. "Changed my mind," he said briefly. "Had a room 
made up for her. She's staying here with me."
"Why?"
"Because I've changed my mind I told you. She's too good for the games you play, 
Kirion. I'm not wasting a girl like this on a lot of chanting and spell-casting. 
You can have her afterward."
Aisling had glanced about the room in intervals between her misery. Two bodies 
lay twisted to one side, wineglasses beside them on the floor. The two who'd 
stolen her, she presumed, paid off in a more permanent way than they'd expected.
It was Kirion in the doorway. His face bland but the beginnings of dangerous 
anger in his eyes. Ruart should be careful.
He might think himself safe in his own home, but not for long if he crossed 
Kirion.
She heard Ruart raise his voice. He'd moved over by the door to join her 
brother.
"No. That's my word on it. You can have her once I'm tired of the girl. D'you 
think I paid out for weeks just to watch you draw circles on a pavement? I want 
her first."
Aisling understood enough of that to turn her cold. Kirion was dabbling in real 
sorcery. It wasn't anything she'd disbelieve of him, but it made her feel like a 
mouse between two cats. Of course lie wanted her untouched.
She felt sick again. She darted a glance about the room. No way out save past 
the two still arguing. She was badly cramped from the ropes and long journey. 
Her stomach rebelled whenever she moved, but she must try to find something to 
help her escape.
She was unable to reach out to the table near her without being noticed. But she 
knew from experience that people often dropped things down the backs of this new 
kind of seat. The wife to Geavon's grandson had a set of them. Astia had asked 
Aisling only a few days ago to help search down the upholstered back for a lost 
needle. She'd found it by running the point painfully into a finger. And before 
that they'd also discovered two walnuts and a gaming counter.
Her fingers twisted downward, being careful not to let them see her moving., Her 
hand scrabbled slowly along the edges of the upholstery. Ah, no, it was only a 
coin. Still it might be of use in some way she thought. She moved her hand up to 
drop it into her boot top. Another coin and then a third.
Then her questing fingers touched something else. It was long, perhaps the 
length of her hand. Narrow, thin, pliable. At first she could not guess what it 
might be, then she managed a look down from the corner of her eye.
She knew now. Yes, that really might be of use. She might be able to sharpen it 
on stone if she was ever left alone. Doubled for strength it would be perhaps 
three or four inches in length. But hadn't Keelan once said you could stab to 
the heart in less?
You could do other things with something like that, too. Hanion had taught her 
years ago as a kind of amusement one very cold winter when she was bored. The 
argument was growing more angry. She caught enough of it as it also grew louder 
to guess what might be the outcome.
Kirion was furious. What? Were his plans to be thwarted by the tool of his, this 
womanizing idiot? He was unpleasantly surprised to find they were.
Ruart was equally furious. His demands for anything he wanted hadn't been 
refused since he'd risen to rule in his Keep. Now, and in his own home, mind 
you, this unpleasant little panderer was trying to keep the lord of his Keep 
from his desires.
He was angered enough to press the demand. He was afraid of Kirion—well, not 
actually afraid, he told himself, just wary. The man did have some kind of 
power. But nothing could happen to Ruart here. He had only to call and fifty 
servants would appear. He could have them do whatever he wished with Kirion 
then. He could even have him tossed into the special cell below. That thought 
sparked another.
His voice became quieter. "Listen, Kirion, are we to fall out over a female?" 
Soft talk never hurt, Ruart thought. "I can toss her in the cell downstairs. You 
know the one," he said, leering. "No escape there. Then we can talk this over in 
comfort. I'll throw dice against you for her if you like."
Kirion paused in midshout to consider. It was true his sister wouldn't be 
escaping from that cell.
"Very well. We could gamble for her, as you say, my dear Ruart." My dear 
Fathead, his mind added. Something in your wine and you can sleep away a day and 
night. I'll be long gone with her. You'll get over it the next time you need me 
to persuade someone around to your way of thinking. Aloud, he added,
"I'll come down with you. Two will manage her more easily in case she tries to 
escape." Or in case you try anything, either, he added silently.
Aisling was dragged down stairs, stairs, and yet more stairs. She allowed 
herself to go almost limp, letting her feet stumble convincingly. The men were 
half carrying her and panting at the exertion. But with her head bent she was 
able to scan the levels she passed.
Like some old Keeps, half of this one was underground. Three floors, she 
estimated. The lowest would be where siege supplies were stored. The wine racks 
would be here, and any dungeons. Here, too, would be at least one secret escape 
route.
She had time for a quick look through a window slit as they dragged her from the 
original room. It was early afternoon. She calculated swiftly. She'd been taken 
soon after her morning meal, which she'd had quite early. She didn't think she'd 
been unconscious long on the pony. Nor had Ruart and Kirion been fighting over 
her for much time—although it had seemed hours.
So Ruart's Keep couldn't be more than three or four hours' walk away from where 
she'd been taken. She knew the direction, too; on one of his visits, Ruart had 
gone on about his Keep. How convenient the location, just to the northeast of 
Kars. Gerith Keep was also northeast of Kars. If she managed to escape, she'd 
know which way to go.
Her family wouldn't have been twiddling their collective thumbs in that time, 
either. They probably had someone keeping an eye on the Keep outside right now. 
If she could get away, she was sure there'd be help waiting.
Ruart shook her hard. "Take a look at this, Lady." He pointed. "See, we drop 
this bar across the whole door when we leave." He hauled her onward, halting 
again, "See this? A good strong lock." He grinned in an extremely unpleasant 
way. "I lock all the doors down here or the servants get into the wine—and maybe 
other things I don't want broached." He leered suggestively.
Aisling felt sick again. Kirion snorted.
"When you've finished showing off, Ruart, let's get on with it."
His target grunted, pushing Aisling ahead of him through an open door. "You'll 
be safe here. Just wait until I come for you. Don't go running away now." He 
bellowed with laughter as he slammed the door. A key turned with a loud clunk. 
Aisling flung herself at the door to listen. She heard a second lock clank and 
then in the distance a dull thud as the bar went into place. Her eyes flicked 
about her prison. A heap of moldy straw, a bucket, and an empty tin jug and 
plate. Nothing she could use.
But in her clothing she had something that might aid her. Aisling still felt 
sick, and to that was added growing hunger and a tormenting thirst.
She dug hastily into her boot to produce the item she'd found. At some stage a 
woman had been in the room upstairs. She'd been reboning a bodice in the 
fashionable way. One of the pliable strips of metal 'boning' had been dropped 
onto the chair, to make its way down the back out of sight. Probably the owner 
had never missed it.
Aisling bent it into a right angle toward one end. Then, very slowly, very 
carefully, she began to pick the lock. The lock was old, hence it was clumsy 
with large, easily felt wards and only two of them. It had been kept well oiled 
as well. It had been a long time since Hanion had taught her this as a game. But 
in a short time she had the lock open.
She glanced back at her cell. Play for time, Ciara always said. If you aren't 
sure what to do, play for time.
Aisling went back. She humped up the straw into a curl, then covered it with the 
outer skirt. She stared down. What else? She wrenched at one sleeve until the 
stitching tore at the shoulder. Then she stuffed the sleeve with more straw. She 
laid that over a small ball of straw. From the door it looked like Aisling 
asleep, an arm thrown over her head in despair. It would suffice if no one 
looked long or too closely. She found her head was whirling. She must have 
something to drink. Hadn't Ruart boasted he kept his wine down here?
The locks on the other doors nearby were also of the older, more simple type. 
She shut the door of her cell, locked it with her pick, then started on another 
door. Behind that was the wine. She chose a bottle of a lighter wine and drank 
carefully. Being drunk certainly wouldn't help, she mused. She tucked two of the 
bottles in a corner and tried a third door. Thank Cup and Flame for that. The 
siege supplies, some of them anyway. She took a round of bread and a small 
cheese. Both went to join the bottles in a corner in the main part of the outer 
room. Then she locked both doors again.
She sat quietly for almost half an hour. With bread and cheese inside her, a 
quarter bottle of the wine on top wouldn't make her drunk. Somewhere there'd be 
water, probably the next level up. Now if she could just get that door open, 
too—
The lock on this was newer. More wards. More time. By the time it opened, she 
was sweat-soaked and shaking, knowing that any minute a triumphant gambler could 
reappear to collect his prize.
Still no one. She dodged through the door and turned to work on the lock again 
with growing hope. If only one man came to get her, she might be able to shut 
him in. She'd seen Ruart leave the key in each lock as they took her down. She 
could wait until whoever it was entered the cell. Then he'd be too far down for 
any to hear his yells for release.
She opened doors hurriedly. Water. It was in large barrels and stale, no doubt, 
but with a little wine it would do. She opened a barrel to check. Yes. Her hands 
were shaking. Keep them steady, she told herself. Within seconds she had poured 
out most of the remaining wine, filled the bottles with water, and recorked.
She had enough to drink for as long as it might be before they came for her now. 
The bread and cheese had put new energy into her, too. She studied the 
situation. She'd come back up two of the three levels. The problem would be this 
last level. That was the one with the door barred instead of locked. She wiggled 
her metal strip through the gap, lifting upward. The metal bent. It was strong 
enough for its original purpose, strong enough to turn a single ward at a time. 
But raising a heavy bar was beyond it.
Aisling said several words she'd once heard Grandfather Tro say. All of a sudden 
she found she was kicking frantically at the door. She must get out of here, she 
must! Fear that she would be heard stopped her attack on the wood. She slumped 
to the floor beside the planking. Where were all the heroes when you needed one? 
Did she have to do it all herself?
It seemed she did. She ate a little more of the bread and cheese as she thought.
It was clear why Ruart wanted her. She'd wondered about Kirion, but something 
he'd said had given her a hint. Some half-caught comment about her being of the 
Old Race.
Aisling knew the story. Centuries ago only the Old Race had lived in Karsten. 
Then incomers had arrived. People from elsewhere who joined them to live in the 
mostly empty lands. The two races had lived in peace a long time. Then in the 
time when Grandmother was a little girl the current duke had gone crazy. He'd 
called the three-times Horning on all of the Old Race. That was a form of 
outlawing. After that anything could happen to them and it was lawful. It had 
been a bad time.
Many had died, and most of the others had left Karsten to live over the border 
mountains in Estcarp where it was said all women were Witches. It was also said 
that one day there'd be a blood debt called in. That was why most of Karsten was 
still against the Old Blood. They were afraid.
And guilty, her grandmother had always added. Too many families had got a start 
up on the backs of those they'd murdered, with the goods and stock they'd stolen 
from them.
Ciara was half of the Old Race. Aisling had always known vaguely that she must 
be partly of the blood, too. Lately it had been difficult. It was as if 
something inside her stretched, awoke, and demanded from her things she didn't 
know how to give. Grandmother had taught her to use some of the power. Aisling 
could drop into the mists when she wished. Once she'd been allowed to help heal 
an injured horse. Grandmother said horses didn't talk at least, or fear you 
afterward. It had felt good to do that. To use what she was.
Kirion wanted to use her, too. She remembered his grasp on her the time she'd 
beaten him in a race. She'd used her power then. Called fire from the mist to 
his hand so he'd let her go.
The two events came together with a mental crash. She could help a healing, and 
call a kind of fire. Was there any way she could use her powers to get her out 
of here?
The simplest and most obvious use was to open the door. She'd seen the bar as 
they dragged her by.
She stood against the door, palms flat to the wood. The bar had been held on two 
brackets, one on either side of the door. There were two more on this side and a 
bar leaning against the wall. That would be to bar the door against invaders if 
you escaped down here. Good. She could use that to give her a position. She 
lifted the bar into place. Now, if she was right, the other bar would be here. 
Dropped into a bracket just—her finger touched lightly—there!
She drank a little more of the watered wine. Then she stood, hands touching the 
door just where the bar should be in the bracket. She imagined it, and made a 
picture of it in her head. She gathered herself, then allowed the silver mist to 
rise in her mind. Now! She strained; the bar had to rise up, then fall so she 
could be free. That desire grew. The bar had to let her go. Up. Up. Up!
She could not have said later how long that struggle went on. It seemed forever, 
timeless. But at last there was a feeling as if the bar yielded to her demand. 
In her mind it rose, just far enough to clear the metal that held it. She thrust 
outward using the dregs of her strength. Beyond the door there was a dull thump 
as the bar fell. Aisling fell, too. She slid down the wooden planking until she 
rested sitting against the door. It swung partway open before the movement 
halted. She could see out. She sagged back.
So that had been what Grandmother meant when she warned using power demanded a 
price. Aisling managed a tired grin. It would be ironic if she was now too 
exhausted to leave. She reached for the wine bottle, draining it. She still had 
a bottle left.
It would be wise to look for a place to hide. Still sitting, she studied the 
area outside the door. There was a short stairway leading down to here, a 
good-size landing in front of this door. A pity she didn't have sufficient 
strength to bar the door from the inside again. That would baffle everyone. No 
use in wishing, though.
Aisling forced herself to her feet, then dropped the outer bar back into its 
brackets. After that she collected her bottle and food into a fold of her 
petticoat. She must look quite mad, she thought. In her petticoats, with a 
sleeve torn from her bodice, probably reeking to the skies, and straw sticking 
out of odd bits of her clothing.
She looked down at her boots. They'd make a noise on the stairs. Better get them 
off, she told herself. She could carry her food and wine inside them. Removing 
them reminded her of the coins she'd found. She tipped them into her hand and 
blinked. Two gold and a silver. Very nice.
But she hadn't time to think of that. With her footwear tucked under one arm, 
Aisling scooted silently up the stairs. No one appeared to announce her escape. 
She stared out of the window slit as she passed by. It was almost dusk. If she 
could get out of here into the countryside there was a chance she could elude 
any possible pursuers.
She checked a couple of the rooms at this level. There were ample places to hide 
from anyone just walking about. She prowled cautiously to where she thought the 
front entrance had been. Two servants were there energetically polishing. From 
the look of it, they'd be there some time. She picked a place to watch them, 
then tried to relax.
Somewhere upstairs Ruart and Kirion must still be gambling. If the servants 
finished before the gamblers did, Aisling might be able to slide out of the door 
to freedom. She crouched waiting, wondering what was happening at Gerith Keep. 
Old Geavon would have been furious when he found out. He'd take it as a personal 
insult. He'd never liked Ruart, with this business he'd be almost ready to call 
feud.
Aisling hoped she'd be able to tell Geavon it had been mostly Kirion from what 
she knew. It would be satisfying to know she'd brought trouble to her older 
brother. At least as much trouble as he'd brought to her if luck continued to 
hold.
It was holding better than she knew. Upstairs both men no longer gambled. 
Instead, they lay sprawled on the floor, faces each wearing an identical look of 
frustrated fury. Between them a small table had been upended, dice and glasses 
spilling onto the sheepskins. The fire was almost burned out. Ruart had given 
instructions that no servant was to interrupt him as they gambled., None would 
dare go against that order. Kirion had agreed. It suited him to be private. He 
hid a sly smirk. Ruart was being far more helpful than he realized.
Unseen by his comrade Kirion had slid open a tiny compartment on his wrist 
ornament. It opened with a twist of his thumbnail to allow a pinch of grayish 
powder to drift down. He turned, proffering a glass as he drank from his own.
The powder would take a short time to work. Ruart would only think the wine 
unusually effective at first. By the time he knew otherwise, he'd be helpless. 
Not that Kirion intended him any harm; he'd just collect Aisling and head back 
to Iren Keep.
In the solitude of his tower he could wring her power from her. Use it to buy 
more of his own. He'd found a way to do that without risking anything himself. 
Aisling would lose a lot, including her life and soul—if there really was such a 
thing.
He grinned as he rolled the dice again, accepting more wine from Ruart. Was the 
man beginning to look dizzy? He thought so.
Ruart had eyed Kirion thoughtfully. That powder he'd dropped in his third cup of 
wine would take a while to work. It cost, too. The old woman by the Kars gate 
charged high.
He hid a leer. But you got what you paid for. The stuff would work quite 
swiftly. Another minute or two and the girl would be his. By the time Kirion 
revived it would be too late.
This wine was strong. He drank off the remainder of his glass, finding himself 
staggering as he walked to open another bottle.
It shouldn't be that strong, though. He'd ordered the lighter wine. Better not 
to be too drunk, he thought. He focused on the bottle. Strange, it was the 
lighter wine he was drinking— why then did he feel so dizzy, so weak?
He understood just as his knees gave way. His face creased into helpless rage as 
blackness enveloped him.
Kirion watched Ruart slump to the floor. He rose to stand over him watching the 
glaring eyes slide closed. That was that. Now he'd just have one last glass like 
a lord should. No need to hurry now. He had all the time in the world; it would 
be tomorrow evening before Ruart awoke. By then Kirion would be back in his 
tower, his sorceries completed.
He drank his wine. Strange, that may have been one too many. He felt dizzy, weak 
at the knees. He leaned on the table as it gave way, dropping glasses, dice, and 
Kirion to the floor beside it. Kirion's face wrenched into a snarl of frustrated 
fury. Damn false comrades. The bloody man had drugged him! His mind slipped into 
night still yelling its surprised indignation.
Aisling crouched by her door. Through the door curtain she could see the 
servants had almost finished their polishing. She'd spent part of her time 
checking for anything that might help her here. She'd found an old cloak dropped 
in a corner. That would help to hide her unconventional attire. The cloak was 
dusty and mouse-smelling, but anything was better than trying to march through 
the door in her petticoat. That betrayed too much to anyone who saw her. The 
cloak betrayed less—unless they got close enough to smell it.
Kirion and Ruart must be gambling-mad up there, she mused. It had taken her 
hours to get this far and still no sign of either.
She had finished her drink. If she didn't get out of here shortly, she was going 
to be in the very unladylike position of having to use a corner. It would be 
just her luck to have someone walk in at that moment.
The servants were actually leaving. Aisling gathered herself by the door 
curtain. One was gone, then the other. She dived for the door just as the first 
returned.
It was a woman. Not young, not old, but her face was lined, bitter and weary. 
Aisling held a finger to her lips imploringly.
The woman's eyes summed the girl up. Another of his lordship's playthings. Not a 
willing one, either. Somehow she'd escaped. The servant nodded to herself. She'd 
call for help to stop the girl; his lordship had given one of the men a whole 
silver piece for that last time. She opened her mouth to yell, then paused as 
the girl moved.
Aisling dug frantically into her boot. Where had she put the coins she'd found? 
They slid into her hand and she held out the two gold ones. Gold! The servant 
gaped. That was more than Ruart would give her. Aisling smiled and held out her 
hand offering both gold pieces. The servant edged close enough to snatch them 
from her.
She could still call for help but she had grudges of her own against Ruart. More 
silver was a temptation, though. Aisling guessed her thought. There was one coin 
remaining; she tossed it to the cupped hands.
"Call, and share them, or have to give most of it back to Ruart. Keep silent, 
keep it all."
Before the servant could make up her mind the girl was gone. Oh, well. Gold was 
gold. One piece was a year's wages. Two would buy her a different life. Even the 
silver was a month of hard labor.
Ruart would never know she'd seen anything. She would leave at the end of the 
year when she was paid her wages. With those and what the lass had given her, 
she had a way of making something better of herself. Good luck to the girl, 
whoever she was. She tucked the gold into her bodice carefully, returning to her 
work.
Outside it was dark. Aisling looked up at the stars, southwest would be Geavon's 
Keep. She found a bush and used it urgently. Then she began to walk in her 
chosen direction. She could be home before dawn if all went well.

14
Behind Aisling a spy padded silently along. He had no idea how the girl had 
freed herself. It had taken him hours to gain access to the keys, and now he, 
too, had to be gone quickly. Just as Lord Geavon had sniffed out spies in Gerith 
Keep, so, too, would Lord Ruart once he woke.
The spy grinned to himself. That had been a great sight. Both of them fast 
asleep and the girl gone. He wondered where she'd got the money for that last 
part of her escape. But wherever it had come from she'd handled it just right.
He'd follow her. It was a pity she hadn't got free earlier, before he'd gained 
the keys. Then he could have stayed in Ruart's Keep? watching for the old lord. 
Geavon was a good master. A fair man, and he paid promptly—in coin. Not the way 
Ruart had paid off his own pair of spies.
He slid through the darkness listening to Aisling as she stumbled through the 
brush. At least she had some idea of direction. Another half hour and she'd 
arrive at the road.
The thought occurred to him then that the road might be dangerous. Not from 
Kirion and Ruart, but there were others as bad out in the dark of night. He 
stepped up his pace. With luck he'd find someone before she arrived on the road. 
His pockets had coin enough to buy a mount if he must.
He was fortunate. A drunken garthsman heading home gleefully sold the spy the 
farm pony. It was fat, shaggy, and lazy; he'd paid half as much again as it was 
worth, but it would do. He left the farmer to walk while the spy swung into the 
old saddle.
He walked the beast a short distance, then halted it to strain his ears. There! 
The sound of someone pushing through the head-high brush near the road. He 
called out, keeping his voice low and gentle,
"Is someone there, do you need help?"
Aisling hesitated. It wasn't anyone she knew, but at least it wasn't Kirion or 
Ruart, either. If she crouched it would be hard for them to place where the 
voice came from. She called back softly.
"Who are you?"
Good girl, the spy thought. He answered softly, "One who's been sent to look for 
you, I think, Lady. Make no attempt to see my face, it could be dangerous for 
me. I have a pony that will carry two." He waited. There was no sound. She was 
still waiting for more. He nodded. Geavon's kinblood, all right. He lifted his 
tones to an approximation of the old lord's voice.
"I say I don't trust him. Boy's a rogue however you look at it." He heard the 
light patter of footsteps in his direction.
Aisling arrived panting. It was almost an hour since she'd escaped, and she was 
tiring again. Even the delights of freedom were not able to keep her going much 
longer. She could see nothing of the man in the dark, but it didn't matter. That 
mimicking of Geavon was only likely to be done by one of his men.
She held up her hands, sagging exhausted by the pony. The spy aided her up 
behind him. In a mile she was asleep. He kept the pony to a steady walk drawing 
Aisling's arms about him to keep her in place. It felt good to know she was 
safe.
He'd watched Ruart for years now. One of those who'd vanished in the witch-hunts 
then had been his betrothed. Later he'd heard a rumor. He'd known it for truth 
in the end, after that he'd followed a trail. It had never mattered to him what 
blood she bore. He'd loved her.
Things like that spread. There were those who died, those who'd spurred on the 
killing, those who used it for their own ends—and those who mourned their dead 
and swore revenge. He'd heard Geavon was keeping an eye on Lord Ruart. The spy 
had gone offering all he knew. He'd been taken in, treated honestly. He'd talk 
to the old lord once he'd got the girl back. It would be a pity to lose his 
chance at Ruart and his companion now.
He walked the pony in through the small postern gate. He had the right words for 
it to be opened to him. He had others once he was inside. Geavon arrived to look 
at the still sleeping Aisling.
"I owe you blood debt for this."
"Nay, Lord. It's Ruart who owes the blood. This is just some of the payment."
Geavon whistled to one of his men softly. "Call Lord Trovagh and his lady. Tell 
them the news is good." He handed over Aisling to Trovagh when they appeared. 
She murmured sleepily but did not wake.
"Take her to bed, Tro. Stay with her. I have things to do here as yet. I'll join 
you once I'm done." He turned to his spy once they were gone with Aisling. "Tell 
me, what occurred? Was Kirion there?"
The tall, scarred man he questioned nodded. "He was there, Lord. But it was to 
Ruart's Keep they took her." He told the tale as he knew it from the beginning. 
"Likely I can't go back. I've racked my brains and can think of no tale they'd 
swallow. A pity."
"A pity as you say. But with what you've discovered over the time I can get 
another into Ruart's confidence. I'd rather have her back safe than bring down 
that pair if I must choose. As for you, a gift from her kin." He thrust a fat 
purse into the man's hand. "I still have work for you though. Just of a 
different kind." The spy found he was holding a roll of parchment.
"What's this, Lord?"
"Your own land, the purse will stock it." He smothered protest. "No! It's a 
wage. You'll understand when you see where the holding lies. I'll risk you no 
further with Ruart, but there'll be others you can shelter. Go now and my thanks 
go with you. Send word once your garth is established."
He heard the hooves plod away and sighed. A very good man. He could still use 
him as he'd said. He looked up at the stars. Thank the Gods for good men when so 
many bad ones were nearby.
He walked slowly back inside. It was late and he was an old man. Too old for 
many more nights like this. He halted at the room where Aisling lay. She still 
slept. Ah, well. The tale would be the same in the morning. He retired to sleep 
himself after leaving orders with those he trusted. It was always better to be 
careful than regretful.
Aisling woke in her own bed early. She looked around as events rushed back into 
her mind. Her grandmother slept on a bed beside her. Ciara's face was tired, she 
looked older than Aisling had ever seen her appear before.
On the table between them rested a jug of fruit juice, a platter of bread and 
cheese. Aisling ate, drank, and lay back once more. She fell asleep almost 
before she had pulled the covers up.
This time she woke soon after sunhigh. Beside her Ciara stirred, turning to 
smile at her granddaughter.
"Bright sun to you, dearling. Are you hungry again?"
Aisling was suddenly aware that she was starving. "Yes. Where's Grandfather 
Tro?"
"Sleeping. He'll come now that you're awake. Just let me call for something to 
eat for us all."
She did so. Trovagh and Geavon arrived with the meal, Keelan strode in a few 
minutes later to hug his sister savagely.
"Praise Cup and Flame you are unhurt. Something that will not be said for very 
long about that pair who took you."
Aisling eyed him over a succulent honey-coated bun. "If you're thinking of the 
two servants, you can forget them. Ruart poisoned them. I'm not sure why. It 
might have been so he didn't have to pay. I know he took the money back when 
they were dead."
Geavon grunted. "More likely to make sure they couldn't give evidence against 
him. Shandro is duke. Kirion may have a lot of influence there, but the duke 
would have to listen if we made a formal complaint through the shrine at Kars." 
His mouth stretched into an unpleasant smile. "His own clan don't much like 
Ruart. If we took a complaint to Kars courts about this, the clan wouldn't 
support him."
Ciara shook her head. "We can't afford to risk that and well you know it. 
Opening a bag usually lets all the cats out that are inside, not just the one. 
Shandro fears the Old Race about as much as he likes Ruart. Tro and I have 
talked this over. We shall leave for Aiskeep tomorrow. As soon as we found 
Aisling gone, I sent a swift rider relay to the Keep. Half our men ride hither, 
Harran leading them." She touched Geavon's arm gently. "No reflection on you, 
kinsman. If you can provide a few of your men to escort us until we meet those 
who ride to our aid, I would be grateful."
Geavon agreed without protest. "But leave it to me to deal with Ruart should he 
return to speak of a betrothal again."
Trovagh smiled wryly. "I do not think he will be so bold. But yes, to you the 
handling of him if he dares."
The following day they rode out without fuss at first light.
Geavon's men, headed by his grandson, escorted them, acting as if they expected 
bandit hordes to descend ravening at any moment. Harran met them halfway to 
Aiskeep. Aisling was delighted to see him. She listened to all the small news of 
home before Keelan interrupted urgently.
"Did Shosho return, Harran?"
The Armsmaster grinned. "She did indeed, Lord Keelan. Where she had been I know 
not. What she had done there I can tell you. She's heavy in kitten. She seems 
well enough but she is missing you, I believe."
Keelan gulped, looking hopefully across at his grandmother. It would be Shosho's 
first litter, and his cat was already four. He knew it could be dangerous for a 
cat to bear kittens for the first time when she was older. Ciara nodded to him.
"I'll look her over at once when we're back at Aiskeep. Don't worry. Most cats 
kitten easily. They know what to do, they've been doing it without humans for a 
very long time."
Privately she wondered. No use telling the boy all that could go wrong, though. 
They'd be home soon enough. She stretched, she was so tired. Her own bed at 
Aiskeep with Tro beside her would look wonderful. For now they'd have to make do 
with the tent.
Being home was one of the best things in the world, Ciara thought a week later. 
Of course there were problems. Shosho would kitten any day now and Ciara didn't 
like the look of things there. Then there was Aisling. Using her gift so 
frantically to open that door seemed to have started something.
Twice Aisling had given someone a shock. Keelan had been the first, the day 
after they got back. The girl had been tearing from place to place and finally 
Keelan had seized her hands and whirled her around.
"Slow down, you're making me giddy." Then he'd released her with a surprised 
yelp. "Ouch! What was that for?"
Ciara had been close enough to see silver fire glimmer briefly about their 
clasped hands. Aisling had been upset and apologetic. It had just happened, she 
insisted. She hadn't willed it, hadn't even been thinking of it. Two days later 
it had happened again when Trovagh hugged her good night.
Ciara had wondered if it was some kind of overflow effect. Use it or it uses 
itself. She had taken her granddaughter out quietly the next morning at dawn. 
There she'd thrown most of the work of healing a sick lamb onto Aisling. It 
appeared to have worked.
For a few days. But today Ciara had hugged her good morning and felt the sudden 
flare. There seemed to be a circle. Use the power to damp it down. But the more 
it's used the faster it builds. The more you damp it down with use, the faster 
it returns and at higher levels.
Ciara had an unpleasant feeling that it could end in Aisling burning up. There 
must be controls, but she'd never learned them. Those in Karsten who might have 
known and been able to teach were gone, either by death or departure.
Ciara sighed. Life! Just whenever you thought things were going better, 
something came along to prove you wrong. From the sound of pounding footsteps 
racing down the passage toward her room, that was about to be verified. Keelan 
arrived through the door opening already yelling.
"Come quick, come quick, Shosho's started."
The small cat had. What was worse, Ciara thought an hour later, they did have a 
real problem. From careful investigation she could find only one kitten present. 
It was huge. Keelan was getting under her feet, Aisling had vanished. And right 
now Ciara wanted one and not the other.
"Keelan, listen to me. I need Aisling. Go and find her as fast as you can."
That got him out of the way. Ciara soothed Shosho. "Steady, my sweet. I don't 
know what you found out in the hills but you should have thought twice. I know 
what needs to be done, but I need Aisling's power to do it. Pray Cup and Flame 
she hasn't used up her gift on something already."
Keelan arrived back with Aisling in tow. "I found her. What now?"
Ciara had had enough. "Now, my lad, you go out to the stables. I want a 
comfortable nesting box for Shosho and her baby when it arrives. Make a step 
half height at the door. That way she can go out but the kitten will stay in for 
a few weeks. Pad it inside with carded wool. Eshwin's garth may spare you some. 
When you get that done I want a fire in the smaller hall and water heated there. 
Now get on with it."
"Yes, yes. I'll get it done at once." He was bustling out of the door leaving 
Ciara and Aisling in peace.
Aisling grinned. "How much of that is necessary?"
"Well, the nesting box will be useful. But Elanor probably has carded wool. He 
doesn't have to go half an hour's ride to find that."
"What about hot water, we don't need that, do we?"
Ciara snorted inelegantly. "Oh, yes we do. Once we're finished here we'll all 
enjoy a rest and a hot drink." Aisling giggled. "Now, I want you to relax, slide 
into the mists, and let me use your power. You can watch what I do. But try not 
to tighten up or stop the outflow. I know what needs doing, but I just don't 
have enough of my own gift. If Shosho dies, Keelan will be devastated. Are you 
willing to do this?"
"Of course."
"Then begin." She watched Aisling's breathing slow. She reached out to take the 
young hand, placing it on her shoulder, positioning the girl just behind her. 
"Keep your hand there until I say you can remove it."
She called her own mists, dropping into them with the ease of long familiarity. 
She turned her concentration to the cat. The kitten lay in the right position, 
it was just too large to be birthed normally.
What she was about to do was unorthodox. But it was all she could think of. She 
drew on Aisling's power, mind sinking deeper into the small cat's tissues. She 
gathered the process up, she must do this and this. Then she drew hard on her 
granddaughter's gift.
The silver mist came to her calling, and poured into the cat. Under that demand, 
that impact of power, tissues became elastic, almost fluid. They stretched far 
beyond normal. She held them, then nudged the contractions.
Shosho strained. Slowly her kitten appeared; it gasped, squirmed, and came free. 
Ciara reached again, drawing more power. They might pay for this once she was 
done, but for now she would use what they had. She poured more power into the 
stretched tissues as they returned to normal slowly, then she added strength to 
the exhausted cat. She monitored her granddaughter. The girl was power-drained 
but not exhausted. Ciara was the same.
It was well. Finally she withdrew, touching Aisling's hand.
"You can let go now."
Aisling did so, folding abruptly to the rug. "Phew. I didn't know power could be 
combined like that."
Ciara's voice was dry. "Nor did I, but we had to do something. I thought I'd 
heard my grandmother say once that this was possible. I was very young so I 
could have misheard." Her voice was suddenly wistful. "We lost so much when 
Yvian ran mad. My own mother's gift was small and only for healcraft. But she at 
least was trained. She'd begun to teach me a little, but sometimes it seems that 
with less than full-blood the gift comes later. I'd barely begun to learn before 
everything was gone."
And that, she thought silently, may be your trouble. You read as a woman of the 
Power to me—full power. But it's come late, you're untrained, and I know of no 
one who may help. But I do also recall Grandmother saying that was dangerous to 
the one untrained where the power comes suddenly. There's no growing into it.
She thrust away her fears, helping Shosho care for the kitten. As his fur dried 
Ciara admired him. But looking down at the squeaking kitten she wondered again 
who Shosho had found as a mate.
The kit was large. Dried now, fur fluffed, he looked even bigger. It was 
impossible to believe Shosho had carried him. Why he was almost half the size of 
the small cat. Nor was he the usual color or markings. His fur had dried a sort 
of brownish-yellow. There was a dark-furred V on his forehead, and another like 
a necklace upon his breast.
The Aiskeep cats were all of Sulcar breeding, tabbies in differing shades but 
mainly black or silver. Their heads were broad and their bodies stocky. The 
kitten's head was more wedge-shaped, his body longer and leaner even so new 
born. Ciara thought it likely that fully grown he'd be near twice normal size.
Keelan returned then, agog to admire his cat and her achievement. He gaped at 
the kitten incredulously.
"It's huge! Is Shosho all right, will she have enough milk for it? I have the 
box for them, and the fire's blazing downstairs."
Ciara eased her shoulders, "Good. Put them in the box and leave them. Shosho 
would like a bit of peace and privacy now. Stay away for a couple of hours. You 
can come down with us and make us something to drink. I'm not as young as I was 
for this sort of afternoon."
The kitten thrived. Shosho had milk but the baby turned to meat earlier than 
usual. He grew fast. In four months, he was as large as any cat at Aiskeep. At 
the same time he made his choice of human. To Aisling's pleasure it fell on her.
"I don't know what to call him, though." She giggled, "Maybe I should leave it 
up to him." She nudged the kitten sprawled on her stomach. "What do you want to 
be called? Half-a-Horse might be appropriate."
The kitten sat up with dignity. Into Aisling's surprised mind came a picture. 
The kitten whirled in pursuit of a leaf. Spun, leaping high into the air to land 
with soft paws on the captured prey. Wind ruffled his fur. He leaped at the 
breeze as it passed, patting out with hopeful paws. Dancing with the stir of 
air. The girl smiled, touching the soft fur between his ears.
"Wind-Dancer? I'll call you Dancer for short." The kitten purred approval.
Ciara watched. She, too, had seen. That was interesting. She could receive some 
emotions from animals as could her granddaughter. But that had been more, a 
strong, clear picture in reply to a question. More and more she wondered who or 
what Shosho had found as mate.
When Dancer was a year old, Aisling's gift began to wear on her. At the same 
time Kirion made another attempt to lay hands on his sister. His studies were no 
longer gray. Now they were black sorcery. He'd discovered ways to power yet he 
remained cautious. He had also learned too many of the things that might happen 
to those who were casual.
Ruart, too, had not forgotten Aisling. The girl was seventeen. He'd offered 
marriage once. Ruart had been ill that winter. For the first time he'd realized 
that no one lives forever. A man should leave sons behind him. To do that he 
needed a respectable wife of good family. Aisling would be just right.
To the fury of all at Aiskeep, he renewed his offer. It was rejected firmly. 
Then two weeks later as Aisling rode alone in the upper valley, two men appeared 
from the trees. She was seized. In her terror she drew on her gift without 
restraint. One man died on the spot, the other a day later. But he survived long 
enough to confirm that Kirion had been his master.
Trovagh called the family together. "I have bad news. Geavon writes that Shandro 
is favoring Ruart more and more. He has enough influence lately to receive 
almost anything he asks to have.
"We have just sent word to Ruart that Aisling refuses him. How long before the 
duke intervenes and insists? Aiskeep can still refuse, will still refuse. But 
what will Shandro do if he is openly flouted?"
Ciara glanced around. "There is also Kirion. As he has shown us, there are ways 
into Aiskeep other than the main gates. I doubt many men could enter through the 
hills as that pair did. But what if we were held in siege at the gates, while 
others attacked in a steady pattern of twos and threes through the hill tracks? 
We might not be taken by storm through the gates, but we could be worn down over 
time."
Trovagh nodded. "For that reason I plan to fill the lower storerooms again. 
Trader Takon arrives in three days. Aiskeep has always held siege supplies, but 
I will double them."
"We pay with what, my love?" Ciara questioned.
"With horses of the Aiskeep strain. Talron has a Sulcar master who will take 
them aboard to sell in Es City. If we are besieged, we will be unlikely to sell 
our beasts, so I am stripping the herd. All trained mounts will go save for one 
mount for each of us."
Elanor had been carried down to join them. She was in her nineties but while 
frail of body, her mind was as keen as ever.
"Sell all the Keep's ordinary horses, too, Tro," she said now. "They eat as much 
as the better beasts. Replace them with the Torgian strain as we train the young 
ones."
Trovagh agreed. It was something he had not thought about. The Keep had always 
used ordinary beasts for the work in harness.
His glance touched Aisling. She'd been so quiet lately, ever since she'd killed 
the men who would have stolen her. He thought the worst of it for the child was 
that she had not intended to strike. Now she was afraid to touch or allow the 
touch of those she loved. Ciara said that the girl alternated between refusing 
to use her overflowing power until her skin shone with it—or using it over and 
over until she was dangerously exhausted.
Keelan moved to the table to pour wine. He didn't like any of this. His brother 
Kirion was a danger to Aisling. Ruart would be more easily handled. Shandro 
would sit at Aiskeep's gates for months, maybe a year. Once he found what a 
siege cost, he'd think up some reason to save his reputation and leave, and if 
he didn't, the merchants would have something to say about it. They wouldn't 
appreciate being taxed to pay for Ruart's choice of wives.
But Kirion would cling on. There'd be more of his creatures slipping into the 
upper valley. More people dead. Knowing Kirion, it wouldn't be long before he 
hit on the idea of hostages. What would that do to Aisling?
If she refused to go to Kirion and people died for that? If she went and Kirion 
could use her power for himself and his sorceries? How long would it be before 
Aisling came to a conclusion that her own death would solve everything for those 
she loved?
She'd been hard hit by the death of two men—men who, Keelan thought, were 
probably better dead for the sake of others anyhow. The one who'd survived most 
of a day had talked deliriously. His descriptions of what his master had done 
with those stolen had almost made Keelan sick. The brute had been Kirion's 
supplier and had a lot to tell.
Talron came and went. The lower storerooms bulged with what he left. Dancer had 
a wonderful time assisting, being shut into every room in turn and bawling to be 
released, only to be shut in the next and the next. He kept Aisling distracted 
for several days.
But once the, supplies were in, the horses handed over, Talron and his men left. 
Now she had time to brood again. Dancer did his best, but Aisling was too 
unhappy to be distracted.
The truth was that she feared her gift now. She had killed with it. She'd been 
terrified when she was seized, but she might still have kept the fire under 
control. Then one of the men had twisted her arm, the pain had sickened her. 
With the pain she lost control. Her skin had flared with silver light, both men 
had fallen screaming, one was dead in seconds. The one who had hurt her. The 
other died before the morning. She intended none of it.
If it came without her willing it there, what of her grandparents? What of 
Keelan, old Hanion—any of them might touch her. Hanion always liked to throw her 
up onto her mount if he was by. It was his privilege. He was almost too old to 
lift her now, but he'd taught her to ride. How could she tell him to stand away 
from her? Keelan, Grandmother Ciara, Grandfather Tro, Great-Aunt Elanor, they 
all hugged her often. Was she to thrust them back? Demand they never come too 
close to her?
Worse yet, she'd begun to dream. She guessed where the place was the third time. 
Mountains like that weren't natural. They had to be the border where the witches 
had turned all the land between Karsten and Estcarp. What were the dreams 
saying? That she should go to Estcarp? She probably had far kin there, distant 
cousins or something. Ciara's grandmother had been of pure blood. There were 
sure to be kin of some degree there. Was she to go to them? But she didn't want 
to leave Aiskeep.
It was midsummer when the duke arrived. He sent polite messages. He would be 
pleased to meet with Trovagh and his lady when it was convenient. There was a 
hint of steel in that: it had better be convenient quite soon. They went the 
following morning.
Shandro was still polite but firm. There was no good reason why their 
granddaughter should not wed the duke's most loyal and trusted Ruart.
They mentioned the scandal of the witch-hunts some years ago. Shandro scowled. 
Ruart had been much younger. Rumor had greatly exaggerated events.
Ciara leaned forward. "We do not believe it did. Aisling is unwilling to wed 
Ruart. To be blunt, my Lord Duke, she says she would prefer death as a 
bridegroom. We do believe that. We are prepared neither to drag a drugged girl 
before the priestess, nor to attend her funeral. Apart from which," she added 
tartly, "you are talking of a large and respectable wedding. Not some affair in 
the dead of night with a priestess and the couple alone. What priestess would 
consent to officiate in such pomp where a bride is clearly drugged until she 
cannot stand?"
Shandro shrugged. "You will persuade the girl it is in her best interests to 
wed. In the best interests of all of you. I will hear her reply in two days. If 
it is a refusal still, then all Aiskeep shall regret it."
They left wordlessly. Once they were back in their rooms Trovagh stared down at 
the wineglass he turned in his fingers.
"A winter siege and Shandro will change his mind. Geavon's last letter dealt 
with this. Once full winter closes in, the duke and his lords will be back in 
Kars in the warm. Geavon has a girl in mind then. He'll aim her at Ruart. If all 
goes well by spring, it will be her Ruart wishes to wed.
"That'll call off Shandro. But not Kirion. Geavon's sure this latest business 
had Kirion behind it."
Ciara snorted, "Almost certainly."
"So what do we do?"
"What Aiskeep has always done. Play for time. If we can get Ruart and the duke 
off our backs, then we can turn all our resources to Kirion."
Trovagh sighed. "Meanwhile we're under siege—again. I must find something 
important for Keelan to do. He's fuming so much I fear he may start taking 
risks."
The siege began two days later when a message was sent to the duke. It was a 
polite but very final refusal of Ruart's offer.
Over the next few months, summer faded into fall, and fall toward winter. With 
them Elanor also faded. Aisling said nothing, but privately she feared it was 
the worry of being under siege. If so, then it was all her fault. Elanor died as 
the first snow of the winter fell. They buried her in the Aiskeep graveyard. All 
of them wept. None had ever known an Aiskeep without her; she would be greatly 
missed.
But it made up Aisling's mind finally. If she stayed here, she would only bring 
more trouble or death to her family. It would be best if she went away. Not to 
Ruart, she couldn't. Nor to Geavon and risk yet another Keep.
Her gift ached at her. It made the decision easier. She'd go over the mountains 
to where she could learn to use it properly. To where they could train her to 
control it.
Her decision firmed. She'd go in secret, leave a note for her family. She'd go 
alone from the upper valley through the hills; on foot with a pack no one would 
know her.
She'd have to leave Dancer behind. That would hurt. In the year and a half since 
his birth, she'd grown to love him as much as Keelan loved Shosho. To leave 
Dancer behind, to turn her back on Aiskeep would tear her heart. She would never 
forget them, never be as happy anywhere else. But she must go.
She began to gather the things she would need. A pack she could carry, a spark 
striker to light fires, cooking gear, bedding, heavy clothing, and her weapons. 
She would need a sword, bow, and dagger. It was a long journey, and she would 
have to hunt some of her food as she went. Aisling hoped she would be able to 
carry everything she'd need. Winter was closing in. She must act soon or it 
would be too late. No one must know what she planned until she had gone. She 
reckoned without Ciara.

15
Aisling had her pack prepared. She could lift it—just. That was no good. The 
pack was emptied and Aisling stared in despair at the contents. Dancer sat on 
the bed glaring at her. Now and again he gave a small growl. There was a light 
tap at the door, Aisling turned to toss a blanket over the pack but it was too 
late. Ciara was already looking at both pack and her granddaughter, knowledge 
and gentle amusement in her face.
She walked to the bed, pushed Dancer up gently, then sat. "I guessed you had 
this in mind. Where do you plan to go?"
"To Estcarp, I keep dreaming of the mountains where they turned." She looked at 
Ciara. "Are you going to stop me?"
Her grandmother shook her head slowly. "No, dearling. But I have a tale to tell 
you. You know how I came to live at Aiskeep?"
Aisling nodded. She'd grown up knowing the story of that time when all was death 
and destruction for the Old Race in Karsten.
"I saw my mother Lanlia die. At the time, I saw only that she fell in silence 
from our watchtower, no cry of fear or horror. Some years later, I dreamed of 
it. A true dreaming. My father's mother lived with us until she died two years 
before our blood was named outlaw. She loved us all deeply. She was of the old 
pure blood and held Power in her time. I dreamed that my mother stood waiting at 
the tower's edge. Then Grandmother spoke to her."
Aisling was engrossed. "What did she say?"
"She said 'The blood shall come full circle. It shall rise to flower again.' 
Then she called. I was in my mother's mind as she fell. Her spirit was taken 
before she reached the ground."
"What does that mean, about the blood coming full circle?"
"Wait. I dreamed again, many years after that. I saw the mountains turn. I heard 
the same voice repeating those words. But when I assumed it meant the blood 
should go over mountains to Estcarp, it said no. It added then '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.' "
"East—but there's nothing east, is there?"
"There is far more to the East than any once believed. You were too busy at 
Gerith Keep. But Geavon has long ears. So, too, does Trader Talron. Between the 
tales both have heard, I can say that eastward there is another land. Old, not 
new. It was from there that those in Estcarp once came. And since we, too, are 
of their blood the land may yet welcome you. I have dreamed of mountains even as 
you. And more."
Ciara held up a hand. "Last night I dreamed a third time. I saw you ride out 
with Keelan and Dancer." At her side the cat gave a short chirp of approval. "I 
looked close, my child, I saw, too, the treasures you shall bear."
Aisling bowed her head a moment, then she looked up. "I can't take Dancer. It's 
winter and getting colder every day. How is he to keep up with horses if we 
ride?"
The cat rose on his hind legs patting at her braids. Ciara smiled. "I think you 
may not find it so easy to leave him behind. As for his being able to keep up, 
once you reach the mountains it may be best to go afoot. Until then, he can ride 
with you in a carrysack the way babies do. Let us look over your pack."
Aisling opened her mouth and shut it again. No one ever bested her grandmother 
once Ciara was determined on something.
In the end it was several more days before Aisling departed. When she did, they 
left by the upper valley, both she and Keelan astride horses of the Aiskeep 
strain. Dancer rode her shoulders in a padded baby sack. But before they were 
gone, Ciara took Aisling aside.
"Give me your dagger." She accepted it, producing a second knife, which she 
offered. "This belonged to my own line. Legends say it was made by an adept so 
long ago the years themselves are dust. Whatever the truth of that, it will 
never require to be sharpened. Where you go, that is of more use than legends. 
There is also this. It was my mother's. Elanor laid it away in a chest. I found 
it after her death."
Aisling gasped at the cloak. It was of riding length. Astride it would hang 
almost to her stirrups, knee-length when she walked on foot. It was woven of a 
fine gray wool, lined with white fur, and made skillfully so it could be worn 
either side out.
Ciara stroked it as she held it out. "I remember my mother making that, spinning 
and weaving the length of wool half of the previous winter. I wore it when I 
left Elmsgarth with Tarnoor and Trovagh—afterward." Aisling did not ask after 
what. She knew it had been after the deaths of all her grandmother's family.
She saw that Ciara still held something. It was within a small bag of 
embroidered silk, A finely wrought tempered-steel chain hung from the bag's 
opening at the top.
"Is that for me, too?"
"Yes." She lifted it toward Aisling as she lowered her head. As it settled on 
her breast the girl felt a surge of warmth.
"Oh, what is it?" Her fingers widened the opening as she peered down. 
"Grandmother, I can't take this. It's your pendant. The one your brother gave 
you."
"And now I pass it on. In my dream I saw you ride, child. My mother's cloak 
about you, Dancer at your shoulder. Fire shone at hip and breast where dagger 
and pendant hung. I do as I was bidden once. I give what I treasured, that one I 
love may fly free."
Aisling bent to hug Ciara hungrily. This would be the last time she'd see 
Aiskeep, the last time she saw the love in her grandparents' eyes, felt their 
arms about her. Trovagh saw his wife was done and joined them, hugging Aisling 
lovingly.
"Take care, my dear. May you find your dream."
Aisling nodded, her throat aching too much for her to speak. She turned her 
horse toward where Keelan waited. Behind her Ciara whispered.
"Fly free. Find your dream and be happy."
She linked her arm with that of her husband. They stood watching until there was 
nothing more to see. Then they sought the shrine to pray.
The air was cold but not the icy chill that would grip later in winter. At first 
Aisling was somber but then her mood lightened. It was an adventure. Besides, 
she had to go. She couldn't be miserable all the way to the border and make poor 
Keelan unhappy, too. She began to sing, then choked off the sound hurriedly.
Keelan laughed. "Yes, sing, little sister. There are no enemies about to hear 
you."
"How do you know?" Despite her resolutions her tone was sharp.
"Grandmother leaves no more to chance than she must. Six of the guards rode out 
yesterday. They travel in a screen ahead for the next few days. Once they turn 
back, we'll disguise you and the horses. It's mostly their color people 
remember. With you, they remember you're a girl." Aisling looked at him in 
surprise.
"I'm going to be a boy?"
"Yes. I'll be a blank shield, you'll be my younger brother learning the trade." 
His voice dropped in regret. "We'll have to cut your hair and both of us will be 
bleached blond."
"Why didn't we do this before we left Aiskeep? It would have been easier."
Keelan nodded. "And people would know. Kirion's still about. He's very good at 
persuading people to talk one way or another. You'll notice Ciara didn't give 
you the cloak until we were past all the garths."
He glanced up at the sky. "It's going to snow again. We'll keep moving until we 
get to shelter. I've kindling in my pack."
They rode in silence then, Aisling thinking as she moved automatically to the 
swing of her mount's steps. In a way she supposed she'd been naive. She'd 
somehow imagined that she would just walk out of the valley alone. Walk all down 
the line of hills to Geavon's Keep, then up along the border to some place she 
could cross into Estcarp. Just as if she was out for a ladylike stroll in her 
own Keep.
She gave a slightly bitter smile. And she had probably expected a complete Keep 
of relatives to be waiting at the pass to greet her. She took a deep breath of 
the cold air. Thanks be to Cup and Flame for her grandmother. Without her, 
Aisling would still have been walking to the border a year hence.
They camped in a shallow cave that night. It was quite comfortable, Aisling 
thought, if you didn't mind sleeping on rock in a draft. It reminded her all 
over again that even so, this would be easier than the trip she'd planned. 
Keelan was quietly confident.
"If there was any trouble ahead, one of the men would have come back to warn us. 
Sleep all night. Later on we'll have to take it in turns to stand watch."
Five days passed in peace as the horses plodded through the light snow. On the 
fifth night one of the guards from Aiskeep appeared. Keelan looked up in query.
"No sign of anyone, my lord. A couple of the others have gone another day ahead 
just in case. They'll watch the road you'll be joining then. They can tell you 
who's ahead of you. I've sent others back to see who comes up the road behind 
you."
"Good. Share the fire, tell Keep's lord and lady we were well when you saw us 
last." The man nodded agreement. When Aisling woke, he was already gone.
They found the other guards at the road. Harran greeted them, quietly waving 
them to camp in the lee of a large lawleaf thicket.
"Very little traffic on the road," he told them over stew. "Ahead, there's a 
small group of merchants hurrying to winter over in Kars. Coming up behind you 
there's several single travelers. None look to be a danger." He looked at 
Dancer. "Just don't let any of them see that cat. It isn't exactly the sort of 
companion mercenaries ride with. Move along briskly, though, and likely they'll 
never catch you up."
Keelan and Aisling did so. The roads were wearying since they kept more to the 
lesser trails and stayed from the main road direct to Kars city. They arrived at 
Geavon's home to good news once the old man had them alone.
"Ruart has taken the bait I have dangled before him. He will wed the girl and 
Shandro will call home his soldiers before the winter is done. But be wary. I 
have heard nothing of Kirion of late; that I dislike."
Keelan looked thoughtful. "Did you not have a spy in Iren Keep?"
"I did. He vanished," Geavon said briefly.
Keelan whistled. "I dislike that myself. How much could he have said if forced 
to speak?"
"Too much. Yet he disappeared on the way here. It may have been bandits. His 
horse was a good beast."
"And if it was not?" Keelan queried, leaning over to stroke Dancer.
"Then he could have said you were on the way here. That you were expected before 
the worst part of the winter. I made inquiry when I discovered he was nowhere to 
be found. He should not have known these things, but someone spoke too 
carelessly." Geavon gathered himself to stand slowly. "I think it best that you, 
Keelan, remain here. If there are watchers, let you appear careless just once. 
They will believe Aisling remains here with you."
"But she does not?"
"No, there is a garth along the river. It is well on the way to the mountains 
and east. She may spend the remainder of the winter there in safety. In spring, 
she can travel on as she wishes." He bowed toward Aisling. "That is, if this 
accords with your desire, my dear."
She had been listening carefully. Now she bowed in return speaking formally, "It 
accords with my wish in all ways save that I may have brought trouble to Gerith 
Keep and its lord."
Geavon chuckled harshly. "The trouble is an old debt, child, and none of your 
making. Tarnoor whom you never knew was like a brother to me and distant kin 
also. I may not live to see the end of this, but when our spirits meet I would 
not have him feel £had done less than he would have done for one of my children 
in need. Go now and rest. I will see that messages are sent."
He smiled as they trotted obediently away. They were good children, healthy 
twigs from a rotten branch. He'd always known the father would bring death or 
disaster, but these two were sound stock.
Messengers left before dark and a watcher saw. He went to report, not to Kirion 
but to Ruart, who found it interesting. He listened and smiled slowly.
One messenger to the south road. That would be to let Aiskeep know their lambs 
had arrived safely. The other messenger to the hills, luckily there had been two 
watchers. The leader was intelligent, and he'd sent his companion to follow the 
hill rider. Ruart had long suspected that Geavon had some holding there. The old 
man had been clever, but not quite as clever as he thought.
Ruart had guessed that Aiskeep might find a way to get Aisling out of their 
hold. The watcher had recognized Keelan. From the description, the other with 
Keelan could well be the sister in disguise. Ruart grunted to himself. The 
border was wide and lawless. Who would know what had happened there to a girl 
who vanished in the hills? Certainly none had known what happened to a spy 
riding back to his lord. And that had been in more populated lands.
Ruart's smirk widened. He'd been visiting Kirion at Iren Keep when he'd seen the 
man where he should not have been. He'd said nothing to Kirion, but had the man 
watched. When the time was right he'd had him taken.
The spy had talked. From that Ruart knew more than Kirion for once. Let his 
friend find his own trails to hunt. Ruart would follow this one.
Besides that, Ruart had a grudge. He'd gone to his clan head to ask for aid in 
forcing Aiskeep to give up Aisling. He'd been told briefly that the clan did not 
care to become involved. Ruart was making himself a laughingstock, now he was 
making his clan a laughingstock as well. Nor did they like other comments that 
were said of him. Flung mud stuck—to his clan as well as Ruart. Let him choose 
another wife and be less obvious in his dealings.
For most of his life Ruart had had his own way. To be scolded like a naughty 
child drove him to utter fury.
He left, determined to have all he wanted. The girl Geavon dangled before 
him—and Aisling. He spent coin to hire men who would watch. They had done so to 
some purpose.
Aisling rode out quietly a day later just as the sky brightened. There were none 
to see her go. Ruart had spread his watchers along the hill trail the messenger 
had taken. They told him swiftly enough when she passed, though they did not see 
the cat, deep in his baby sack.
Ruart would have followed at once but for Shandro who insisted his favorite 
remain at court another few days. By then the girl would have reached her 
shelter. Well enough. Ruart would wait a while. There was usually a lull in the 
weather around midwinter. When that came, he would ride swiftly.
Meanwhile, Aisling had ridden three days along the river before turning up along 
the left fork that led to the higher hills. During her halts to camp, Dancer was 
free, returning often with some prey to eat alongside Aisling as she cooked for 
herself.
Geavon had drilled her in the landmarks and in what words to use when she came 
to the garth at last. She rode in with failing light, sitting her mount in the 
yard as she watched a bobbing lantern approach.
"I come from an uncle," she said softly to that haze of light. "An uncle who 
dislikes a rogue."
The light jerked sharply as the spy recognized the girl he had aided to Gerith 
Keep. He collected himself to reply. "All who dislike rogues are safe here," he 
said clearly.
Aisling peered at the figure behind the lantern. The voice was somehow familiar. 
She dropped from her weary horse to walk it toward the stables. The spy spoke 
again and the scent of the horse, the dark, and his tones came together.
"I know you," she said slowly. "You're the man who helped me the night I got 
away from Ruart."
In the edge of lantern light she saw him nod. "That I was, my lady. Pleased to 
do it, too. I have an old score against the man. I'd have aided you for that 
alone even had I not been Geavon's man. Let us get the beast inside, and a meal 
on the table. Time for talking then and longer than we may want."
"Why?"
"Storm's coming. Up here they can last for days, even weeks."
It lasted only days. By then Aisling had his story from him. A decent man, she 
believed. One who'd been cruelly wronged by Ruart, too. They had that in common. 
She liked him, trusted him even here alone on the garth with no other.
It pleased her that he liked Dancer. The cat had refused to be left again, 
despite all Aisling could do to persuade him. He'd arrived in his baby sack, 
much to the spy's amusement once they reached the house and the cat had emerged.
That Dancer made it plain he liked this human was good enough for Aisling. The 
cat had proved to be a good judge of character in the past. After a short time, 
she liked the man for himself. But this past week Dancer had been fussing. He 
would run to the door wailing urgently. Aisling would allow him out, only to be 
howled at in exasperation. It was not that which he wanted of her.
Temon watched the cat thoughtfully. "I think, my lady, he wishes to warn you in 
some way." He left her with the cat, vanishing into his storeroom to collect 
supplies. These he sorted slowly into a shoulder pack. Into that went all the 
small odds and ends that can make a camp comfortable. He added bedding, 
lightweight but very warm and proof against any but the longest, most driving 
rain. He hefted the pack then, scarred face expressionless.
He reached down journeycakes, each wrapped twice over and sealed. Two water 
bottles were stowed, each into a different pocket on the outside of the pack. 
One was empty, but a fiery cordial went into the other. Taken in sips, it was a 
restorative. Poured over a wound, it would cleanse. She'd come with a short bow 
and arrows, that would do well.
Should he add a sword? he wondered. But to carry one she could not use would be 
of no help, only useless extra weight.
He tipped the pack empty, checking all it had contained once more. Then he 
stowed the items one by one. He'd done the best he could do for her. The cat was 
a canny beast. If it saw danger coming, it was likely right.
He sighed quietly. She reminded him of the girl he'd loved so many years gone. 
This one, too, had power, fleeing Ruart. But he would see that this time Ruart 
did not catch her. That he swore by the Lady of the Hills. He'd hunted deep into 
them. He could put her on the path as far as the ancient ruined Keep far into 
the mountains. After that, she must make her own trails.
He walked back to give her the landmarks. He made her repeat them again and 
again. Then he showed her the pack made ready. Aisling added her bow and quiver 
to it. Dancer still fussed; indeed, as midwinter approached he became still more 
insistent.
Temon made up his mind. "I think the beast senses danger. In midwinter, there is 
often a time when the weather clears here in the mountains. The wind blows from 
the North then so this side of the hills is sheltered. Be ready. You know the 
way as best I can tell you. Your pack stands waiting. If danger comes, get you 
gone. I'll do my best to delay it."
It was well planned, but Ruart was already riding. Nearer Kars the weather had 
cleared earlier. He had ridden out at once.
He had no way of knowing that his spies were not the only men to sell their 
service in odd places. One of them had sold word to Kirion. Ruart rode hard 
upriver heading for the garth deep into the hills. Kirion was two days' ride 
behind but in more haste on a better horse.
Ruart came in sight of the garth in late morning. The snow had only cleared this 
high up that day. He knew his prey would still be here, he was sure of it. He 
watched as Temon walked across to the stables. Ruart's breath hissed from him. 
That was the man who'd freed the girl before. By Alizon's hounds, he had both of 
them now!
He moved to his horse, mounting quickly to set the horse down the slope. Below 
Aisling had just walked out into the yard. He made for her. Temon was a 
garthsman, not a fighter. A sneaking tricky spy. If he tried to interfere, Ruart 
would know how to deal with him.
Temon was in the barn when he heard Aisling scream. Over Ruart's shoulder she 
saw him running toward them, a terrible look on his face.
Her powers were almost to nothing. She made a habit of using them as much as was 
possible when she was near people. It ensured, or so she hoped, that she would 
not accidentally harm a friend. That morning while Temon was cutting wood she'd 
used her gift in various small ways, just enough to empty most of it without 
tiring Aisling too badly. Now she called the silver fire desperately, just as 
Ruart struck her across the side of the head.
The garthsman arrived as Ruart screeched and dropped Aisling. Temon raised the 
hammer he still held, then halted, collapsing slowly to the ground. Ruart stared 
in satisfaction. The fool had underestimated a man who'd fought a score of 
duels. A dagger in the sleeve had been useful in the past and Ruart always had 
one ready.
Ruart smiled, a slow, anticipatory smile. From behind him came a low, vicious 
snarl. Dancer had arrived.
The cat attacked in a flurry of feints and evasions. Ruart wove steel before 
him, but this was no short duel. The brute seemed tireless. Behind him Aisling 
staggered to her feet. She felt dizzy, but she would not let Dancer fight alone. 
She scrabbled in the snow finding stones beneath the whiteness. Then she began 
to fling them. One at a time, each carefully aimed. The second crashed into 
Ruart's leg, he yelped, stepping further back from her. Before he recovered, 
Dancer scored home on flesh beneath the clothing.
Ruart slid back again. Behind him a terrible figure arose. Blood poured from 
Temon's chest to redden his clothing. His eyes glared with the effort as he 
dragged himself to his feet. The hammer lifted—and swung down. Ruart went 
soundlessly to the ground, his head broken open in that single, awful blow.
Temon slid quietly down to lie beside his victim. A long hatred was assuaged at 
last.
Aisling stumbled toward Temon, Dancer at her side. She would have fumbled his 
clothing open but he shook his head.
"No use, girl. I know where the blade went. You'd exhaust yourself for nothing. 
Listen to me. You wouldn't take Geavon's horse on because you could not bring it 
back. Take Ruart's." Temon's face twisted into a wry smile. "He won't be needing 
it. When you're as far as you can go afoot, strip the beast and let him go."
Aisling was crying now. "And don't cry for me. I only stayed alive for this. 
Leave the barn door open, the cow will have enough hay to last until spring."
He paused to gasp for breath. "Let Lord Geavon's horse go. The beast will go 
home as soon as you do. Geavon will send someone to sort things out. You can 
leave a message for him in the secret place. Whoever comes will know where to 
look."
His voice was weakening. Perhaps the lass could have saved him if he'd let her, 
but he hadn't wanted her to try. He'd known what happened to his betrothed, his 
beautiful Ismene. At first he'd only known that she was dead, and that she'd 
been in Ruart's hands. Later, after he'd joined that household, he'd heard it 
all. A comment, a few sentences at a time. He'd planned to kill the man one day 
but by the time he knew it all Aisling had escaped and Temon could not return to 
Ruart's Keep.
He smiled up at her. It hadn't mattered. After all, she'd brought his enemy to 
him in the end. He lifted a hand to wipe her tears. It was so heavy, so hard to 
raise. He felt oddly light though, as if he was floating above the snow. Beside 
him a figure slowly came into focus. He looked up, his voice a glad cry,
"Ismene!"
*Yes, beloved, come with me, now we are together again.*
He rose to follow, the heavy weakness gone. Behind him Aisling closed the open 
eyes with gentle fingers.
Moving slowly throughout the remainder of the morning, she did as Temon had 
requested. But first she dealt with his body. It was difficult, but she managed 
to bring it into the storeroom against the side of the house. There she laid him 
out on a table on the coverlet that was all he had of his betrothed. Aisling 
placed ice-flowers in his hands, the hammer she laid at his feet. Let the Gods 
know he had died as a warrior fighting to protect the innocent.
She mourned for Temon as she stood there. He hadn't deserved to die that way, 
but then she remembered his words. He hadn't needed to live on. Hadn't even 
wanted to once he'd paid the debt. And he was with his Ismene now, that she 
never doubted.
The cow was given access to hay. The Gerith Keep horse was freed. It wandered 
off to the West at once, stopping to graze now and again but always heading 
back. She wrote a hasty letter, placing it carefully within the secret cavity in 
the wall.
Dancer was fussing again. Aisling glanced over to where Ruart still lay rumbled 
in the snow. She could do nothing for him. Let him lie. If Geavon's man arrived 
before thaw he could do whatever appeared seemly for Ruart. If thaw came first, 
let the foxes have the body. She didn't care.
She dug out Dancer's baby sack. According to the landmarks and places to shelter 
Temon had drilled into her, there was a good place she could reach on horseback 
before nightfall. Last time Dancer had fussed, Ruart had been on the way. Who 
was coming now she had no idea, but she'd trust Dancer.
She emptied the pack into two saddlebags, added the empty pack, then swung into 
the saddle. From the baby sack on her shoulders Dancer gave an approving chirp.
Aisling halted the horse at the top of the small hill. From there she could look 
back over the deserted garth. It looked no different.
She lifted her hand in a blessing, the last part of the sign leaving a faint 
glint of silver in the air. But Aisling noticed nothing; she had already turned 
the horse away to plunge down the slope. She prayed for Temon again as she rode.
The shelter was rough but it did well. Aisling found the crude windbreak at the 
back of the shelter. She stood it up carefully again by the entrance against the 
prevailing wind. Snow packed against it swiftly. Behind that Aisling lit her 
fire, keeping the circle of coals small. Dancer moved to sit by the flames at 
once, his purr amusing Aisling.
"You might well purr. You insisted on coming along. There may not be a fire 
every night, you know." She laughed as he thumped her with his head. "All right, 
all right. Food next."
The weather continued fine and she made distance at her mount's steady walk. She 
had taken all the oats Temon had. It meant she could ride the whole day and let 
the animal feed well at night without the need to stop and graze. She was 
pleased she'd thought of it. In a couple more days, she'd have reached as far as 
it would have taken in weeks on foot.
After that she would have to leave the horse. A pity, but Temon had said there 
was a place there where he'd manage. Come spring he'd probably start back, too. 
She fell asleep that second night listening to Dancer's purr and the sound of 
crunching teeth as her mount relished the hard feed.
Kirion had drawn up at the garth the previous morning. He'd looked down at 
Ruart's sprawled body and snorted. The man had been a fool but useful. Still, 
there were other useful fools to be found.
He stamped inside the house, checking each room. There was only the body of the 
garthsman. From the look of it, he and Ruart had killed each other. But the girl 
had been here all right. Ruart hadn't moved after the blow that had killed him. 
Someone had laid the garthsman out. Someone who'd cared.
He'd seen the Gerith Keep horse, too, as it headed west. He'd tried to catch it, 
but the animal was too wary.
Kirion considered. Ruart's beast was missing; she must have gone ahead on that. 
He could follow. If he pushed, he could probably catch up in a day or so. He 
checked the barn, he was out of grain. He found none and grunted irritably. His 
mount would just have to manage.
He pushed his horse all that day but he had to pause in time for the hungry 
animal to graze. Nor did he know the landmarks Aisling had been taught. He 
wasted time in dead ends, in following trails that led nowhere.
All the time a light snow fell. Not enough to slow a rider greatly, but it 
erased hoofprints in hours. He found her second shelter, but by then he was a 
day further behind and he knew it. Kirion spent the night there, but in the 
morning he turned back.
He'd lost his chance at gaining stolen power from his sister. But there'd always 
be others. He was learning all the time. It was sorcery, but what matter. It was 
also power.
Aisling followed the river. Even here it was a rush and tumble of powerful 
current coming down from the mountains from the East. She wondered if it could 
speak what tales it would tell of that mystical land she sought.
Geavon had learned patches and tatters of news from traders and merchants who 
gossiped more than women ever did. The land was called Escore, ancient, holding 
powers unknown in Karsten. They said that there those rode to war, some not even 
of humankind.
Her hand stole up to clasp the pendant. Her fingers dropped to touch the dagger 
hilt. They said that those of the Old Blood had come from that place. Could 
these have come with them?
Did she but return them to an ancient home? The trip thus far had been tiring, 
but apart from Ruart, not so impossible. Would that change when she went afoot? 
She scanned the landscape.
Light snow continued to fall. Ahead lay a wood and into it led the old trail. 
Aisling shivered. There was a menace in the lowering trees, as if something 
within watched and waited. There was the feeling of eyes, unfriendly ones. The 
idea of entering the wood, moving beneath those dark trees, was unpleasant.
Dancer, too, seemed uneasy. The cat had senses one who journeyed would do well 
to heed.
Aisling considered. It was within an hour or two of dusk. If she must dare the 
trees, better to have daylight. She knew not how far it might be to ride through 
such a wood.
She turned her tired horse. Back a mile she had seen a place to shelter: out of 
sight of the wood and with half a roof yet remaining. Maybe it had been some 
sort of way station once. Now it was ruins, but it would suffice.
The shelter was large enough for her to bring in her mount under cover. The wood 
gnawed at her mind. She had liked nothing about it She must now decide in how 
much haste she traveled.
Temon had said there were two roads. One was a mere trail that skirted the wood 
and took an extra day. The other ran through the center of the wood and time 
would be saved. She might not have much of that to spare. The midwinter lull in 
storms would soon come to an end. Also she had little grain left: three days, no 
more. If she wasted a day circling the wood, that was a day she could not ride 
without time spent letting her mount graze.
In the event it was not she who made the decision. The horse was more nervous 
the closer they approached the wood with the morning light. Finally he balked. 
Aisling let Dancer jump from his carrysack. He, too, eyed the wood suspiciously. 
He approached sniffing dubiously, then led her onto the narrower fainter trail 
that circled to the left.
The girl sighed. "I understand. You both think there's something in there, too." 
She shrugged. Animals sensed things people didn't. All knew that. She'd believe 
they were warning her.
Dancer showed no sign just now of wishing to be riding again. He pranced happily 
ahead, first chasing a windblown leaf, then pouncing on something small and 
squeaking. Aisling laughed and Dancer looked up at her. She grinned down, 
addressing him softly.
"I hope you won't regret coming along, but right now it's very good to have 
company." He churred in agreement, moving on ahead of the ambling horse.
They skirted the wood over the next two days as Temon had said. The trail swung 
out around the trees a good distance before it looped back to the older, 
well-worn trail. Even as she rode on Aisling had the impression that eyes glared 
after her from its cover, as if she was prey who should not have escaped. She 
shivered, nudging the horse to a swifter pace.
The road turned around a long, sweeping bend in the river and there before her 
lay the last landmark Temon had known.
It must have been a great Keep in its time, she thought. It was at least as 
large as Aiskeep. She wondered who had lived there. She had no need to ask how 
it had fallen. Here in the North none of the Old Race—Keep, garth, or hovel—had 
escaped.
Aisling sat on her restless horse, gazing at the building. No breaks showed in 
its walls, though the major portion of the drawbridge had gone. Near the end of 
that a small building still stood. Temon had thought it to be a shine of some 
kind. But whoever or whatever might have once dwelled within, there was only 
emptiness now.
She slept the night in peace, untroubled by dreams or watching eyes. In the 
morning she peered up at the sky. Clouds were drifting very slowly into clumps 
that heaved up into fluffy masses along the mountaintops. It might not snow more 
heavily today, but snow was surely on the way. Here in the abandoned fields 
there was ample shelter for her mount. Grass, dry now but still nourishing, 
remained. She had one more small feed of grain before that was gone. She sat a 
moment making up her mind.
She would ride, and ride hard for this final day. Then she would let the beast 
have the last of the grain. She would go on foot after that. The horse would 
drift back to the empty fields for food and shelter. She called Dancer, tucked 
him comfortably into his carrysack, and nudged her mount with a firm heel. Where 
she had level footing, she heeled the horse to a canter. In the course of a day 
she came high into the foothills, all the time striving to see a way she might 
take across the mountains looming before her.
Toward the close of light she seemed to see a place where two mountains stood 
apart. It was possible there was a pass there. She halted, offering the horse 
the last of the grain. There was a half cave in the hillside that would do. She 
was too weary to seek a better refuge. Her mount ate eagerly before wandering 
.off to graze on the smaller patches of grass still to be found under the snow. 
She had stripped him of saddle and bridle. Now she emptied the saddlebags, and 
sorted the contents into her pack.
She must leave something. The saddlebags were of leather, and heavy. She had no 
need of them. But Dancer's carrysack was light despite the padding. In the 
morning she must move upward, seeking the pass she hoped to find. Perhaps she 
could add the carrysack to her pack for so long as the weight was not too 
burdensome. It meant that Dancer would sleep warmer if there was no shelter to 
be found.
She weighed the object in her hand. Let her take it. A thing could always be 
discarded, but not taken up again if it was left far behind.
The cat sat watching her before claiming his sack to sleep. Aisling placed her 
pack close at hand, then laid out her bow with an arrow by the string. Wood had 
been laid in a half circle before her. Temon had told her that she should light 
a fire. There were strange beasts in the mountains since they had changed. Long 
ago, too, old Hanion had talked of campaigns when he rode as a lad with 
Aisling's great-grandfather, Tamoor. A fire could be a weapon at need.
Tonight she laid out the small core of it, but to either side she added more to 
make a half circle before her, of the driest wood she could find. She sorted out 
several very long branches. There was a feel to the night. Hanion had said never 
to ignore that feeling. It was often all the warning a soldier would have.
Aisling smiled. She wasn't a soldier, but good advice was good advice. She lay 
down to sleep, her mind turning to her family. Keelan would stay the winter with 
Geavon. With Ruart vanished, the siege on Aiskeep would be lifted. She prayed 
silently for those she loved. Let them walk in the light and be well. Then she 
curled into her blankets. She slept.
She woke several hours before dawn with Dancer patting anxiously at her face. 
There was a feel to the night. As if it waited.
Moving with silent caution, Aisling sat up reaching for her bow. She'd learned 
healcraft from Ciara for most of the girl's life, and had listened to tales of 
herbs that repelled those of the true Dark. Once well onto the trail from 
Temon's holding she had smeared such herbs over each arrowhead. It might even be 
that the scent of them would help ward off anything evil. She slid quietly from 
her bedding, laying her other hand upon the end of one of the long branches left 
in the fire.
There came a snuffle from the darkness, then her mount cried out in terror. The 
big horse came blundering toward her, something leaping at its side.
Aisling screamed, a sound half of rage, half of fear. She whipped the branch 
across the fire, seeing the flames stirred to life. In the firelight she could 
still not make out what attacked the horse, but the outline of it was there. She 
shot. Immediately there was an outcry. The thing rolled howling and screeching 
to free itself from the shaft. Others of its kind set out screams that rent the 
night.
The terrified horse seemed to understand that here was help. It leaped past the 
fire to stand partly sheltered. Aisling waited. Out in the darkness whatever she 
had hit was still wailing.
It may have been that which incited the second attack. They came toward the 
fire, circling from either side. Dancer rose to send a long, challenging shriek 
raw with fury into the night. The creatures paused. Then Aisling caught up her 
branch. She ran the flaming end along the dry wood laid ready. In seconds it 
flared into a half circle about their refuge. She had rubbed herbs along a 
branch at each end of that and added a bunch of angelica. There had once been a 
herb garden by the drawbridge shrine where herbs still grew.
The fire and smoke from the herb maddened the attackers. They raced howling back 
and forth in the darkness, but it seemed none dared face her defenses. The girl 
found she was shivering. The sound of their cries was terrifying. Perhaps that 
was their intent? She waited, an arrow half strung. From the dark came an outcry 
that made Aisling jump before she understood. Balked of their chosen prey, the 
attackers had turned on the one she had injured. Its wailing ceased abruptly to 
be replaced by the sounds of feasting.
She was sickened, but it was better they killed their own than Aisling or one of 
her companions'. The horse crowded against her. She patted it comfortingly 
before adding wood to the fire. She might as well use it all. She could hardly 
drag it with her. The flames brought another irritable chorus of shrieks, which 
she ignored. She leaned against her pack, half drowsing. The beasts would warn 
her at need.
Morning came reluctantly in clouded skies. She eyed that with foreboding. 
Tomorrow it would snow for certain. Best be on her way. She patted the horse, 
then chased him back down the trail. He got the idea after a few yells, and 
trotted off, heading steadily to the West. She hoped he had a peaceful winter 
back in the fields of the deserted Keep.
She ate swiftly, tied the gear she was leaving up into a tree nearby. Someone 
might find it useful. Then she shouldered her pack. Ahead of her lay the two 
mountains. She could only pray that a pass lay between them.
Dancer galloped ahead leading the way. He appeared to have no doubts. She 
admired his lithe form as he bounded upward. He'd grown to look quite different 
from the ordinary Aiskeep cats. They were round and comfortable. He was leaner, 
more rangy. His eyes were not the amber of the Aiskeep cats, but a clear 
chartreuse green. Even more than other cats, Dancer gave the impression of 
knowing secrets he wasn't telling. Aisling loved him as she knew he loved her. 
But there were times when she wondered just who or what Shosho had found as a 
mate in the Karsten hills.
She halted to stare up at her path. Her feet seemed to be finding some kind of a 
trail under the snow. Probably a deer trail. She would keep to that so long as 
it lasted and give thanks. She plodded on, the pack heavy as she toiled upward. 
At her breast the pendant gave a sudden throb of heat.
Aisling halted at once. Her hand went up to close about the silken bag. Gently 
she freed the pendant holding it out in front of her. It flared into light, the 
tiny blue gems seeming to catch fire. It flamed higher. Now a noxious scent met 
Aisling's nostrils. She gave back hastily as Dancer leaped to her side.
Ahead of them a jumble of snow-covered boulders loomed. She could circle those. 
She moved to do so. From the boulders something that looked like one of them 
moved downward. It leaped at her, teeth in a suddenly open mouth clashing and 
reaching. Aisling screamed, dodging as it swung toward her. It swept back, 
halted and returned. The pendant was hot against her skin. Dancer was howling 
his battle cry; Aisling felt besieged.
Dancer's carry sack was coming loose. She remembered that it was padded. It 
would help to ward off that thing's teeth. She snatched the sack from the pack 
strap, wrapping it around her arm. It would act as a shield at need.
The boulder leaped for her. Aisling swung her arm hard, thrusting it away, 
feeling the creature's teeth clamp home in the padding. It spat that out, 
springing in again at her. She dodged, but felt teeth score her ankle. Dancer 
lost fur but no skin as the false boulder snapped at him in passing.
The girl stumbled, her leg felt numb, her feet kicking at dangerously rough 
ground. She glanced down. The thing was driving them to the boulders. Why? 
Judging by the pendant it could be for no good reason. Maybe the boulders were 
all of its kind, a nest. She preferred to die in some way other than being 
devoured alive by boulder creatures. In bed at a hundred and fifty surrounded by 
adoring family would be nice. Dancer was moving to the right away from the 
rocks. With grim determination, she fought her way across the slope following 
his path.
The boulder leaped, slashing more savagely, but somehow she held it back. It 
bounced high, teeth obtaining a sudden grip on one sleeve. As she jerked away 
her hand fell to her dagger. It burned even as the pendant. Without thinking, 
Aisling drew the blade, swinging it around at the boulder thing.
To her amazement, it bit in. The boulder uttered its first sound, a cry that she 
felt in the pit of her stomach, more a vibration than a sound. Then it retreated 
hastily. It merged into the jumble of rocks to become just one more.
The girl stood panting. From the dagger a gray stinking ichor dripped slowly. 
Dancer's carrysack was ripped almost to shreds. It would be of no use now. But 
she was grateful she'd carried it this far. It had certainly saved her arm.
Aisling moved on hastily. She'd like to be farther away from that thing in case 
it decided to try for her and Dancer again. Dancer! She halted to be certain he 
was unharmed. He purred up at her smugly. It would take more than a live, 
leaping, tooth-gnashing boulder to faze him.
The delayed promise of snow was fulfilled the next day. From leaden skies it 
came, softly at first, then more heavily, turning into a blizzard in which it 
was impossible to see more than a foot or two before them. Aisling plodded 
forward, eyelashes frozen with the tears the cold brought forth. Temon had told 
her to use wood ash and a scarf for the glare. It helped, but the bite the false 
boulder had given her ached painfully. She'd cleansed it, smeared on salve, but 
with each step the ache grew.
Around her the snow deepened, heaping up into drifts in the hollows, scouring 
from the ridges. There was no great amount of wind, but the snow was enough—as 
was the growing, bone-deep chill. Aisling plunged and plowed her way through the 
drifts. Dancer was able to run across most of them, although every so often he 
had to be rescued when he misstepped to one deeper than he'd expected. His 
expression was comical at such times. But her ankle ached. It had gone from numb 
to first the ache, then real pain at each step. She was worried about it, but 
could do nothing. She needed shelter.
Dancer found her a little as afternoon darkened. Two rocks lay in a slight 
depression and a third had fallen to produce a partial roof. Around and across 
these earth and snow had gathered to make the half cave windproof so far as it 
went.
Before the light was gone Aisling heaped and packed snow. It extended the half 
cave into something that would give her enough warmth and shelter once she had a 
fire. Nearby was an ancient tree; she dug around the foot of it finding a heap 
of dry twigs and branches. Some she saved. With the remainder, all she could 
salvage, she lit a small fire.
Dancer snuggled blinking happily in front of the flames. From her pack Aisling 
dug a small packet of herbs and dried meat, pounded together. In water it could 
become a nourishing stew. She was strangely not hungry, but she forced herself 
to eat. Once the shelter had warmed a little, she gingerly removed her boot to 
dress the slash across her ankle.
The marks were red, the flesh puffy. She smeared on more salve, donned her boot 
once more, then fed the fire.
She dozed through the night, dimly conscious that Dancer joined her, his body 
making a much warmer spot against her stomach. The next day snow fell again. It 
was hard to find any trail, let alone keep to it, Aisling thought, as she forced 
her way through yet another drift.
Fear was breaking into her mind more often as she plodded her way upward. If 
anything happened to her, she would die here without help. If she died here, 
Dancer would be alone. He'd die, too. Her mind was beginning to blur. It made 
her more afraid each time she realized she had lost track of her march. The pain 
in her ankle was worse and she was so tired she could barely force herself 
onward.
There was no shelter to be found that evening. She heaped snow as Temon had 
taught her, thanking the Gods for those weeks with him. He had spent much of his 
time warning her of the mountain's dangers, teaching her how to overcome them. 
She saved her small bundle of twigs. The bunches of dried moss she had scraped 
from inside the rock shelter of the night before would burn for only a few 
minutes. Better to save them until she could find more fuel. Otherwise, she 
might have that but no tinder with which to catch a spark.
Her ankle hurt now whether she moved or not, so much so that she did no more 
than doze occasionally through the dark hours. Dancer snuggled close eyeing her 
with worry. She smelled of pain and illness. Of exhaustion and fear. With 
morning light she staggered to her feet, moving on grimly. Dancer stayed close 
to her, lifting his nose to check the breeze. The pain was teeth, slashing anew 
at every step. She was hot, she was cold, her head hurt, and every step was an 
effort against the dizziness she now felt all the time. Aisling shivered as she 
walked.
She found she was repeating words over and over in her mind. They fitted the 
slow thud of her steps. They were part of a song that Ciara had loved. Her own 
mother had sung her to sleep with it and in turn Ciara had used it for Aisling.
The song was very old, it had arrived with the incomers to Karsten. There, as 
they cleared land, built new homes and great Keeps, it had become almost an 
anthem. It was called "If the Dream Is Worth the Price."
Aisling sang the words in her mind. She, too, had a dream, of freedom in a land 
where it wasn't death to have the Power. A land where someone would teach her to 
use the gift that pulsed within her.
Ahead Dancer called. She stumbled toward him alarmed in a few clear moments by 
her growing weakness. He'd found a cave. It appeared to cut far into the 
mountain, but she had no time to explore. Her ankle failed under her, throwing 
her painfully to the rocky floor. Outside of the cave the blizzard was 
worsening. Aisling sat drawing up her leg to peel away sock and boot. She looked 
down and stifled a gasp of fear. The ankle was swollen, livid marks showed where 
the boulder creature had slashed the flesh. The marks were darkening to a 
green-tinged black. She had never seen anything so horrible.
The pain came in sickening waves. With a frightened determination she dragged 
herself to her pack. She found the small bundle of dry kindling from the camp at 
the tree from two nights ago. There was more wood at the side of the cave. It 
looked like a tangled nest, though nothing would build one so large. She laid 
scraps of dry moss carefully, snapped sparks from her striker into that. It 
caught slowly. Forcing herself to keep moving, Aisling produced her water pot, 
filled it with snow drifted into the cave mouth, then set it to melt the snow.
Her weakness terrified her. She must think out each move, then force herself to 
it. She steeped herbs in the water once it heated. She drank avidly but put her 
food aside.
Dancer came to sit by her, his eyes anxious. Aisling leaned back against the 
rock. She was so tired, so weak. She'd rest, just for a moment. She did not see 
the cat vanish down the length of the cave. Did not hear his imperative howl. 
Only when he sank claws into her jacket and began to tug her toward the rear of 
the dark cavern did she rouse.
"Dancer, what… ?"
Urgency. Determination. A demand that his human act.
She felt tears of pain and weakness well into her eyes. "I can't. Maybe when 
I've rested."
Again the urgency. With it this time came a picture. Sharp, clear, of Aisling 
dead in the cave, of Dancer crouched dying of cold and starvation beside her. 
She must move now—to save them both. The girl allowed the slow tears to slide 
down her cheeks. She couldn't move, it hurt so. But she couldn't let Dancer die. 
She couldn't let herself slide into death knowing she condemned him also.
Making a great effort, she began to crawl. Dancer followed, teeth firmly 
gripping the pack. Finally she reached the back of the cave. There she slumped. 
What was she to do, burrow like a rock-mole? Her mouth curved in an hysterical 
grin. Rock-moles were a legend, more was the pity. She could use one right now.
Dancer sat up to look at her eye to eye. Then, as her gaze followed him, he rose 
on long, graceful hind legs to pat at a portion of the wall.
The girl gaped at him. Was it some sort of secret passage? All Keeps had those, 
but what would one be doing in a cave halfway up a mountainside? Dancer yowled 
loudly, patting at the rock.
Aisling hitched herself up a little. Her fingers traced the rock where his paws 
struck. Something was carved there. So mazed was she by the pain from her ankle 
that it took several tracings before Aisling realized that the figure beneath 
her hand was familiar.
She blinked. It felt like her pendant, but the shape was carved as a hollow into 
the rock. Dancer struck at her in exasperation, his claws stinging her from her 
daze. His head butted at her; she must take her pack, use her pendant. Gather 
him to her and now!
Every move a terrible effort, Aisling lifted her hand. If she forced herself to 
sit up just a little higher she could lay the pendant in the carved hollow, 
which fitted it. Dancer hurled himself into the crook of her other arm, bringing 
a gasp of pain from her.
One of the pack straps was over the arm. Well, what was she to do now? She began 
to slump again, her hand dragging at the pendant.
Within the rock it turned. There came a slow, soft grating as the rock wall 
revolved. With its turning it swept girl, cat, and pack within. In the dark 
something flared to light, a warm silvery glow as the inlaid star on which she 
now curled came to life.
It was too much for Aisling. She fell into darkness in which someone with a 
quiet, gentle voice questioned her over and over. She swam in limbo, a place not 
of her world or any other, where all things were possible.
With the questions done it was as if she was sifted, winnowed for judgment. But 
when the winnower might have rejected her, Dancer was by her side. His voice was 
insistent, demanding. Was she the only one to be considered? At last amusement 
came. Since he wished it greatly it should be so. Both should pass through.
After that the sensations were strange. It was as if she was flung back into the 
pain-filled, exhausted body, then swept away in a whirl. She could not breathe. 
Chill air beat at her, a feel of fluttering wings about her cringing body. Then 
she landed with a groan as she felt the rock beneath her once more. Had passage 
been denied her, after all? Was she to die in the cave?
Aisling woke finally to the cat as he dragged her once more, muffled growls 
coming through his clenched teeth. The pain was white fire that consumed her as 
she managed to crawl a little further. Her pack remained. But she herself must 
move, one last effort.
She obeyed, tumbling over the edge of a shallow saucer into something soft, 
which gave way under her. She could go no further. She hoped with the last 
flicker of consciousness that Dancer would be all right here—wherever "here" 
was. And wherever it was, at least it was no longer the mountain cave. The 
questioner had granted her that much. She opened her eyes far enough to see 
Dancer was safe, then she allowed the dark to rise up and take her.
She roused hungry and thirsty. She would have moved but could not. Fear woke to 
be dispelled by a soft purr in one ear.
"Dancer?"
The cat purred again, then she felt some vibration as if he tore at her prison. 
The sounds he made were reassuring; whatever was here Dancer did not fear it. 
Gradually the stuff encasing her broke away under the impact of eager claws.
Aisling moved to see. Mud. It had been mud that held her.
She scrabbled to sit up, peering down at her ankle. There was no longer pain, 
the flesh showed white, fully healed scars.
The mud appeared to fall away cleanly, none showed on her clothing; but oh, she 
felt so grimy. Still unsteady, Aisling staggered to her feet. A small call from 
the cat led her first to her pack laying within the cave where she had arrived, 
then to a pool. The water was warm, and silky-feeling. She bathed, luxuriating 
in being fully clean again after so long. Aisling donned clean clothing, then 
sat on sun-warmed grass to hug her cat.
"I owe you, Wind-Dancer. I'd have just lain down and died in that cave if it 
hadn't been for you. Now all I need is someone who can tell me where to go from 
here. You seem to have found everything else I needed. What about a guide?"
From behind her there came a polite cough. "Will I do, my child?"
Aisling gulped turning quickly to face the speaker. "Who are you?"
He didn't look dangerous. But then neither had her brother Kirion. She eyed the 
man. He was of medium height, slender, and fine of bone. He was dressed in gray, 
and his eyes were kind. Dancer was stretching up to the fingers that caressed 
his ears. The man spoke gently as if understanding her fear and confusion.
"I am often called "Neevor. Call me that if you wish."
"Neevor. Where am I, how did I get here, is… ?"
He held up a hand laughing quietly. "You are where you sought to be. One who 
holds a gate chose to open it for you in your need. Your third question was 
going to be, I believe, is there a place for me? That shall depend on you and on 
what you are. On what you may choose to be."
Aisling remembered Yvian, Pagar, those who had died in the Horning. This man 
might distrust her but she would not begin her life here with a lie. Her voice 
quavered a little as she spoke.
"I'm not wholly of your race. Part of me is from the incomers in Karsten."
Neevor smiled, and his hand went out to her. "Child, many are accepted here who 
are not wholly of our kind. The Guardian passed you in." He reached out to touch 
the pendant. "It has been so long, but the blood answers the call. There are 
those who will welcome a daughter in power, teach you what you must know. Come."
Aisling caught up her pack, and Dancer fell in beside her as she followed her 
guide. At the top of the small rise she halted staring down the land before her. 
The wind lifted small tendrils of her hair.
A new land, a new beginning. Behind her lay everything she had ever known: her 
home, her family, her friends, even her land. She found she was humming Ciara's 
song. She'd never been certain, but she'd paid the price. Her dream stretched 
before her and in that moment she knew. No dream is ever quite ended, there is 
always another.
She smiled down at Dancer. They would share their dreams.
Below her the land spread out. There would be a new home, new friends, and the 
learning she craved. She followed Neevor down the slope. She would not forget 
those behind her, but they had their own dreams, which were different. She must 
seek her own. With Dancer to help, she would not fail.
She swung down the slope singing softly. Beside her the big cat pranced. He, 
too, had come full circle. It was good to be home.
Ciara's Song


If the dream is worth the price,
if the singer is worth the song,
let my heart still remember long
after my body is gone.
Let my spirit seek then and find
the place of my dreams apart,
the place I have longed to find
the dearest dream of my heart.
If the price I have paid was enough,
if the song I have sung was so sweet
guide me onto the road
running with eager feet.
For the worker there is an end to work,
to the lover an end to the day.
For the dreamer never an end to the dream
nor an end to the price they'll pay.
For the dream is worth the price,
the singer is worth the song.
I've dreamed and paid, I've worked and I've loved,
Now I am the dream and the song!