Fire and Redemption, page 12
"Now that everyone is here," Feldt said. "Let us begin." Despite the softness of his voice, it carried to Karst. With a flourish, the clansman lifted the lid of a small box. "Clan Vreis honors the memory of Lady Niondil and her lover. Those invited to the lottery are either newly handfasted, or you asked to be part of the event, or one of the women has expressed an interest in having you as their escort for the night." He nodded at Trelleir and Karst. "While you aren’t officially members of the clan, the elders wanted to offer you the opportunity to participate in the Gifting Festival. For the record, would you like to declare an interest in being part of the lottery for a couples’ spot?"
Grumbles from the circle of men said not everyone was pleased. However, a glare from the clan leader silenced the dissension. The tilt of his head was the only indication he awaited a response.
Karst risked a glance at Trelleir. The scholar was no competition for Brial, he thought. And Feldt would not have invited him if it would deprive a member of the clan of a needed opportunity. If anything, the invitation to Trelleir, and me, Karst admitted, showed the clansman’s respect for us. The tightening, then loosening of the muscles in Trelleir’s jaw told his wish before his words. "I so declare."
Aware Feldt waited on him, Karst wanted to run. Yet, his feet refused to move. He knew what his heart wanted. All the fears and insecurities faded away. Now with a stronger voice than he thought possible answered not only Feldt but his own desire. "I so declare."
Now, Feldt rounded each of the watching men with a stern look. "Remember, it is the woman’s choice. She can accept your gift but still choose not to share her favors. Just slip me the token and no one will be the wiser." His tone hardened. "There will be no comments on sites used, or not. No comments on who spent a night with whom." His stern glance made sure each of the men nodded or muttered an, "Agreed."
The tension grew as he shook the box. A final shake and he set the box back on the wagon and lifted the lid. The first token went to a man Karst knew had been handfasted just the spring before. The next to an older man who it was rumored had finally proposed to a widow who had joined the caravan a year earlier.
It didn’t take long until only one token remained in the box. Feldt removed it and held it on his palm for all to see the green cube. "Karst, the last, and best, spot is yours." His gaze turned to Trelleir who stood empty-handed. "Trelleir, while you don’t have a token from the lottery, there is a place that I offer to you and Deneas if she so wishes. It is where my parents spent their first night as a couple, and I assure you it is suitable." His voice lowered. "That is if you don’t mind riding with Karst and Brial out there. The lakeside camp is not far from the end of the wood path where they will be."
Karst knew what the clansman didn’t say. That Trelleir and Deneas would be added protection for his granddaughter if there was trouble.
It does not matter if we share the ride. As long as Brial rides beside me.
* * *
DENEAS HUDDLED IN THE narrow space between the boulders. Although the wagons now rolled through tall grass and scrub brush rather than desert sand, the night temperatures had not yet shifted to that of the grasslands. Despite the stone’s radiating warmth retained from the day’s sun, the night’s chill penetrated the blanket around her shoulders. Either she or Trelleir had kept watch over Brial after the confrontation with Gault and his disappearance into the night. Tonight, Trelleir joined Feldt for the men’s lottery for the Gifting Festival. The women had held another of their meetings, but broke up early before the men return. At the rate they traveled, the caravan would reach the hidden valley in a sevenday and everyone was making their preparations.
A shadow crossing the glowing coals of the dying fire by the next wagon shifted her attention from her study of the constellations. The trader nodded and kept moving. Just one of the guards walking their post, Deneas decided.
The glow of orange eyes from a wagon’s roof gave Tywyll’s location and showed that more than guards watched over the camp. Every night the helwr could be found on the roof of Brial’s wagon or a nearby one. From their spot in the pasture, Nightbolt and Sunfire kept a surveillance of the doings of the camp and helped protect the hauler beasts and riding stock from any predators. Secure in the knowledge that she would be alerted if danger arose, she pulled the blanket tighter and dropped into a light sleep.
Vision after vision paraded through her mind. Each brought with it an additional sadness. The red glow of the coals turned into the molten rock that surrounded the Goddess’ lair. The knowledge that her mother had died there forced, "Mother, no." from between tight lips. As she had so many times before, Deneas swore vengeance on the man who murdered her mother – Caldar, father of Karst.
Karst was not to blame, she reminded herself. It was his father who declared my mother a witch because she survived his dragon quest. Her reward for saving a river village from a crazed water dragon was being put into the Goddess’ chamber of judgment. Karst told me about the secret lever that directed the molten rock onto the accused rather than allowing them to live.
In her dream, the fingers of fire flowing down the mountainside merged into a circle. A column of mist rose and solidified. The specter of a woman dressed in a white robe of the Goddess appeared in the heart of the pyre. But the woman in the fire could not be the Goddess of legend. Could it be her mother who intruded upon her dreams?
A lace cowl covered the specter’s head, disguising her features. Sparks flickered in the intricate design, bringing it to life. Within the veil, Deneas saw the image of a woman bending over to kiss a sleeping child. Deneas raised her hand to her cheek as she felt the ethereal caress. The specter was her mother, Adais. The vision was real. She had to believe her eyes. Now the question became, why did her mother appear?
The teardrop in the necklace Trelleir had given her mother warmed against Deneas' skin bringing with it a summons to wake. Deneas grabbed for the scabbard lying beside her and cast out her senses into the darkness beyond the wagons. The last time her mother appeared in a vision was to save me from the claws of a deadly mountain cat. However, no predator, no danger, triggered an alert and she released her breath.
The apparition held up a hand and the flames died down until they only lapped around her ankles. Her gesture commanded Deneas to pay attention. A diaphanous thread leaped from the woman’s finger to encompass Deneas in its glow. A flick and the ribbon spiraled skyward taking all the anger and sadness that had filled Deneas’ dreams with it.
Before Deneas’ could assimilate the shock, an eerily familiar voice came into her mind. "Grieve no more for me. My death will be avenged." Satisfaction radiated from the specter. "Trelleir has been released from his vow not to avenge my death."
Deneas remembered Trelleir’s calming words whenever she raged about her training under Head Slayer Caldar. "Your time will come," he said. "Just survive. Your mother, Adais, would want you to." It was not until after Karst admitted his father’s part in the "Goddess’ judgment" that she understood how hard it had been for Trelleir not to hunt down and kill the head slayer by fang and talon. Actions forbidden by a vow Trelleir made to a friend.
The amulet lying beneath her tunic hummed shifting Deneas’ attention from the past to the present. "Deneas, my precious daughter. I know the truth in your heart and in his. Trelleir may have been my friend first, but his heart has chosen you." The flames danced with her words. "You have my permission. You will know when the time is right." An image of two dragons, one rust-colored, the other white with horns and tail shading to a dark brown, filled Deneas’ mind. They flew wingtip to wingtip in a series of acrobatic maneuvers.
Her heart fluttered. The dragons were her and Trelleir. She witnessed a mating flight. With the knowledge came the realization of what permission her mother gave.
For me to participate in the Gifting Festival ... with Trelleir. Heat dampened her collar.
As the specter faded into nothingness, Deneas felt the soft touch of a kiss on her cheek. "Be happy, my daughter."
* * *
MEDRAUT PACED WITHIN the trees, careful to stay beyond the reach of the full moon's glow. Memory of the hushed conversations that ended at his approach fueled a barely controlled rage. Everyone in the caravan knew of the lottery for partnering spots, and they all knew he was not to be allowed.
Furtive movement on the path leading to the heart of the pasture told him that another man slipped away from camp. Ten men, not including the wagon leader, had already headed for the secret rendezvous. According to Gault, fifteen men would draw lots.
Knowing that there were five more to go, he tried to settle down to wait, but the anger grew with every passing heartbeat. "I should have been invited to the lottery," came out in a hiss. "No one mere human can stop me. I will be at the gathering. One of the bridal boughs will be mine" His face heated. "As will Brial."
The desire he had felt at his first glimpse of her surged until his fingers curled in a desperate attempt to relieve the pain. No matter how hard he tried to be alone with her, whether by accident or design, someone always interfered. Most often it was the boy Emrys asking for help in the healer beast pen. At others, one of the women needed an extra pair of hands on a project such as the latest quilt the women were making as trade goods.
An image appeared in his mind. Rage filled his heart. "The biggest interference came not from Brial's kin, but from Karst. Since Gault ran off, I don't even have him to run interference."
Finally, the waiting took its toll. Worry that he had missed someone leaving the camp overwhelmed caution. What if the man I saw was the final man?
A scan to make sure no one else waited in the shadows, and he followed the faint trail of crushed grass.
The other man walked a zigzag pattern across the large meadow, heading first toward the distant treeline, then doubling back to the goat pen.
"Something is wrong," Medraut swore. Even without the nearly-full moon, it was ridiculously easy to keep the target in sight. If anything, he mused, it was difficult not to be discovered.
A flaming arrow soared high in the sky. It burned brightly for several heartbeats before starting its descent. The flame sputtered and winked out.
Movement, not in the sky but coming from the animal pens, had him dropping to the ground. He didn't dare raise his head as the heavy thud of footsteps grew louder. Risking a glance, he pushed aside the grass.
Not one, but three men, walked by.
Medraut sent a command on the breeze. "Walk on by. Do not stop."
The group continued on, their voices trailing behind them.
The earlier rage returned ten-fold. The men were comparing the site they had won ... and the women they hoped to take there. Medraut started to rise to his feet. He had not even gotten to his knees when the arrival of more men forced him face down in the wet grass. He could tell from the comments that it was the rest of those attending the selection lottery.
"I hope Brial accepts my gift." came Karst's low tone from the darkness. "They say she has never accepted the gift nor taken a partner at the festival."
Brial is mine! Jealousy fueled a diaphanous cloud. A mouthed command danced within it. "Karst, you will not die yet. But when the moon rises tomorrow night, you will take your knife and slice your throat."
A breath sent it out to block the way of the approaching men.
His pulse pounded until he couldn't resist watching the result of the geas. Rising just high enough to see above the grass, Medraut watched Karst, with Trelleir at his side, reach the magical barricade.
Trelleir made a gesture with one hand. Karst stopped in mid-sentence as if searching for the right word. A shake of his head and he walked on as if nothing had happened.
My geas failed. Karst has no powers of his own so he could not have done it. An undeniable conclusion flared into existence. My magic didn't fail. Trelleir broke my spell.
But how?
* * *
THE MID-DAY SUN CAST bright streams of light on the wagon’s floor. Brial stopped her pacing at the knock and opened the door to gesture Deneas in. The other woman’s dark brown skirt and tan tunic were reflections of the outfit Brial had on. Except, I have a clan insignia embroidered on my tunic, she thought. Her soul darkened. Deneas has nothing of her family.
During a plate of bread and cheese to help hold them over until the feast later that evening yet light enough not to interfere with their appetite, they talked about the expectations of the festival. The discussion ranged from the music that would be played to the treats the women had been making for the past sevenday. "Geren said he plans to keep an eye on his father tonight. Word is Gabha has shown interest in Lanette." She hesitated wondering how much gossip to share. Deneas was her first real friend and was one to Geren too. "Lanette is tired of the road and after the convocation plans to return to her home village to be with her kin."
Deneas nodded at the knowledge. "The trail is hard for a blacksmith. The metal stock and tools are bad enough to move, and that doesn’t even consider the anvils."
Memories of how often she and Deneas had to help dig the blacksmiths’ wagons out of the soft dirt filled Brial’s mind. She replayed the candlemarks worth of struggling to get past the quicksand-like mud at the edge of the desert. "We may lose Lanette, but will be at the head of the line for blacksmith service when we stop at her village to trade."
"There is more than one plan made for tonight." A nervous giggle tried to force its way into existence, to be ruthlessly quashed. "He doesn't know it yet, but I plan to ask Karst to be my escort tonight." The suppressed giggle escaped as a small laugh. "Although I may make him sweat a little. Just because he is a man. I had thought of waiting until the final night of the festival, but decided I would rather enjoy the extra time alone with him."
Another scan outside the window and she added, "Deneas, I know this is your first formal dance. If you need anything, just signal me."
"You’re right, there wasn’t much opportunity for music or dance at Darceth, not even after Geren's handfasting. When there was a special event, rather than enjoy ourselves, every female, whether attached or unattached, had to fend off Caldar and or Karst." Her voice trailed off. "Sorry, I didn’t mean..."
"That is alright, Deneas. I know the slayer trainee Karst is not the man who travels with Vreis."
Final preparations came down to finishing their hair. Brial wove Deneas’ long dark brown hair into a roll. "Is it me, Deneas? Your hair seems lighter than when we first met."
"You are not wrong. My hair has not yet taken on my father’s summer coloring." A heartbeat later, she explained. "My father came from a land where the sun burnished the skin to a rich bronze and lightened hair to almost white. In winter I have my mother’s color, and in summer..."
"Your father’s," Brial finished for her.
Deft movements entwined the carved sticks into Deneas' dark hair. The red jewels on the ends of the sticks sparkled in the now-setting sun. "These sticks are beautiful. I’ve only heard about a tear stone."
Shock flickered in Deneas’ eyes at the word, "tear stone." Before Brial could say anything, the other woman recovered.
"Trelleir gave them to me a long ago," Deneas said at Brial’s raised eyebrow. "You called them a tear stone?"
Brial cast a look out the window as raised voices walked by. After they passed, she answered the question. "It is a tale that has been handed down from generation to generation. The legend states when a dragon cries, its tears turn to jewels." She pointed at the stones in Deneas’ hair. "Most were a deep blue or a golden peach, but I understand some are also a vibrant green. Sailors from the southern seas tell they have found some black tear stones and a few very rare blood red ones on the sands near a deep cave."
A companionable silence grew as Deneas put the final touches on Brial’s hair. She stepped back and held up a mirror. "You look beautiful."
Dipping two fingers into the bowl of water on the table, Brial created a tight curl on each side of her face. "Thanks to you." Patting an errant strand back into place, she squared her shoulders, tugged at her tunic to settle it over her hips, and left the wagon, determined to enjoy the night. She noticed the same look on Deneas’ face.
Tonight will be interesting.
Chapter Thirteen
A Festival Interrupted
A SILENCE, HEAVY WITH anticipation, covered the large area within the circle of wagons. Brial took a deep breath to quell the nerves that threatened to weaken her knees. She had been part of the First Couple several times in the past, but this was the first time with her grandfather as her partner. And, she admitted, there was a memorable aspect to the evening. It was the first time she planned on selecting a companion for the night.
Her grandfather leaned down and with his lips close to her ear whispered, "Ready?"
Brial didn’t trust her voice. At her grandfather’s raised eyebrow, "Yes," came out as a whisper.
"Be sure to enjoy the night." A heartbeat later, he added. "You don’t need to accept a gift ... and the man ... if you are not sure. No one will think less of you."
Her heart fluttered. His words hit too close and made the fears and uncertainty rise.
A trio of musicians climbed the steps to the improvised stage made from a wagon bed. When the leader reassured herself the others were ready, she struck a chord on her guitar. A rustle rose as the crowd parted, creating an aisle. Now Brial could see the wall of expectant faces turn toward her. For an instant, she wanted to turn and run. No, I can’t do that to Grandfather. He chose me as his partner for the first dance, and I won’t let him down.
The guitar player called out a beat and Brial let her grandfather lead her to the wooden planks laid down as a dance floor. His arm went around her waist as he moved into the opening position of a traditional couple’s dance. A man drummed on a barrel with sticks to generate a rhythm while the two women played melodies on a guitar and violin.
Grumbles from the circle of men said not everyone was pleased. However, a glare from the clan leader silenced the dissension. The tilt of his head was the only indication he awaited a response.
Karst risked a glance at Trelleir. The scholar was no competition for Brial, he thought. And Feldt would not have invited him if it would deprive a member of the clan of a needed opportunity. If anything, the invitation to Trelleir, and me, Karst admitted, showed the clansman’s respect for us. The tightening, then loosening of the muscles in Trelleir’s jaw told his wish before his words. "I so declare."
Aware Feldt waited on him, Karst wanted to run. Yet, his feet refused to move. He knew what his heart wanted. All the fears and insecurities faded away. Now with a stronger voice than he thought possible answered not only Feldt but his own desire. "I so declare."
Now, Feldt rounded each of the watching men with a stern look. "Remember, it is the woman’s choice. She can accept your gift but still choose not to share her favors. Just slip me the token and no one will be the wiser." His tone hardened. "There will be no comments on sites used, or not. No comments on who spent a night with whom." His stern glance made sure each of the men nodded or muttered an, "Agreed."
The tension grew as he shook the box. A final shake and he set the box back on the wagon and lifted the lid. The first token went to a man Karst knew had been handfasted just the spring before. The next to an older man who it was rumored had finally proposed to a widow who had joined the caravan a year earlier.
It didn’t take long until only one token remained in the box. Feldt removed it and held it on his palm for all to see the green cube. "Karst, the last, and best, spot is yours." His gaze turned to Trelleir who stood empty-handed. "Trelleir, while you don’t have a token from the lottery, there is a place that I offer to you and Deneas if she so wishes. It is where my parents spent their first night as a couple, and I assure you it is suitable." His voice lowered. "That is if you don’t mind riding with Karst and Brial out there. The lakeside camp is not far from the end of the wood path where they will be."
Karst knew what the clansman didn’t say. That Trelleir and Deneas would be added protection for his granddaughter if there was trouble.
It does not matter if we share the ride. As long as Brial rides beside me.
* * *
DENEAS HUDDLED IN THE narrow space between the boulders. Although the wagons now rolled through tall grass and scrub brush rather than desert sand, the night temperatures had not yet shifted to that of the grasslands. Despite the stone’s radiating warmth retained from the day’s sun, the night’s chill penetrated the blanket around her shoulders. Either she or Trelleir had kept watch over Brial after the confrontation with Gault and his disappearance into the night. Tonight, Trelleir joined Feldt for the men’s lottery for the Gifting Festival. The women had held another of their meetings, but broke up early before the men return. At the rate they traveled, the caravan would reach the hidden valley in a sevenday and everyone was making their preparations.
A shadow crossing the glowing coals of the dying fire by the next wagon shifted her attention from her study of the constellations. The trader nodded and kept moving. Just one of the guards walking their post, Deneas decided.
The glow of orange eyes from a wagon’s roof gave Tywyll’s location and showed that more than guards watched over the camp. Every night the helwr could be found on the roof of Brial’s wagon or a nearby one. From their spot in the pasture, Nightbolt and Sunfire kept a surveillance of the doings of the camp and helped protect the hauler beasts and riding stock from any predators. Secure in the knowledge that she would be alerted if danger arose, she pulled the blanket tighter and dropped into a light sleep.
Vision after vision paraded through her mind. Each brought with it an additional sadness. The red glow of the coals turned into the molten rock that surrounded the Goddess’ lair. The knowledge that her mother had died there forced, "Mother, no." from between tight lips. As she had so many times before, Deneas swore vengeance on the man who murdered her mother – Caldar, father of Karst.
Karst was not to blame, she reminded herself. It was his father who declared my mother a witch because she survived his dragon quest. Her reward for saving a river village from a crazed water dragon was being put into the Goddess’ chamber of judgment. Karst told me about the secret lever that directed the molten rock onto the accused rather than allowing them to live.
In her dream, the fingers of fire flowing down the mountainside merged into a circle. A column of mist rose and solidified. The specter of a woman dressed in a white robe of the Goddess appeared in the heart of the pyre. But the woman in the fire could not be the Goddess of legend. Could it be her mother who intruded upon her dreams?
A lace cowl covered the specter’s head, disguising her features. Sparks flickered in the intricate design, bringing it to life. Within the veil, Deneas saw the image of a woman bending over to kiss a sleeping child. Deneas raised her hand to her cheek as she felt the ethereal caress. The specter was her mother, Adais. The vision was real. She had to believe her eyes. Now the question became, why did her mother appear?
The teardrop in the necklace Trelleir had given her mother warmed against Deneas' skin bringing with it a summons to wake. Deneas grabbed for the scabbard lying beside her and cast out her senses into the darkness beyond the wagons. The last time her mother appeared in a vision was to save me from the claws of a deadly mountain cat. However, no predator, no danger, triggered an alert and she released her breath.
The apparition held up a hand and the flames died down until they only lapped around her ankles. Her gesture commanded Deneas to pay attention. A diaphanous thread leaped from the woman’s finger to encompass Deneas in its glow. A flick and the ribbon spiraled skyward taking all the anger and sadness that had filled Deneas’ dreams with it.
Before Deneas’ could assimilate the shock, an eerily familiar voice came into her mind. "Grieve no more for me. My death will be avenged." Satisfaction radiated from the specter. "Trelleir has been released from his vow not to avenge my death."
Deneas remembered Trelleir’s calming words whenever she raged about her training under Head Slayer Caldar. "Your time will come," he said. "Just survive. Your mother, Adais, would want you to." It was not until after Karst admitted his father’s part in the "Goddess’ judgment" that she understood how hard it had been for Trelleir not to hunt down and kill the head slayer by fang and talon. Actions forbidden by a vow Trelleir made to a friend.
The amulet lying beneath her tunic hummed shifting Deneas’ attention from the past to the present. "Deneas, my precious daughter. I know the truth in your heart and in his. Trelleir may have been my friend first, but his heart has chosen you." The flames danced with her words. "You have my permission. You will know when the time is right." An image of two dragons, one rust-colored, the other white with horns and tail shading to a dark brown, filled Deneas’ mind. They flew wingtip to wingtip in a series of acrobatic maneuvers.
Her heart fluttered. The dragons were her and Trelleir. She witnessed a mating flight. With the knowledge came the realization of what permission her mother gave.
For me to participate in the Gifting Festival ... with Trelleir. Heat dampened her collar.
As the specter faded into nothingness, Deneas felt the soft touch of a kiss on her cheek. "Be happy, my daughter."
* * *
MEDRAUT PACED WITHIN the trees, careful to stay beyond the reach of the full moon's glow. Memory of the hushed conversations that ended at his approach fueled a barely controlled rage. Everyone in the caravan knew of the lottery for partnering spots, and they all knew he was not to be allowed.
Furtive movement on the path leading to the heart of the pasture told him that another man slipped away from camp. Ten men, not including the wagon leader, had already headed for the secret rendezvous. According to Gault, fifteen men would draw lots.
Knowing that there were five more to go, he tried to settle down to wait, but the anger grew with every passing heartbeat. "I should have been invited to the lottery," came out in a hiss. "No one mere human can stop me. I will be at the gathering. One of the bridal boughs will be mine" His face heated. "As will Brial."
The desire he had felt at his first glimpse of her surged until his fingers curled in a desperate attempt to relieve the pain. No matter how hard he tried to be alone with her, whether by accident or design, someone always interfered. Most often it was the boy Emrys asking for help in the healer beast pen. At others, one of the women needed an extra pair of hands on a project such as the latest quilt the women were making as trade goods.
An image appeared in his mind. Rage filled his heart. "The biggest interference came not from Brial's kin, but from Karst. Since Gault ran off, I don't even have him to run interference."
Finally, the waiting took its toll. Worry that he had missed someone leaving the camp overwhelmed caution. What if the man I saw was the final man?
A scan to make sure no one else waited in the shadows, and he followed the faint trail of crushed grass.
The other man walked a zigzag pattern across the large meadow, heading first toward the distant treeline, then doubling back to the goat pen.
"Something is wrong," Medraut swore. Even without the nearly-full moon, it was ridiculously easy to keep the target in sight. If anything, he mused, it was difficult not to be discovered.
A flaming arrow soared high in the sky. It burned brightly for several heartbeats before starting its descent. The flame sputtered and winked out.
Movement, not in the sky but coming from the animal pens, had him dropping to the ground. He didn't dare raise his head as the heavy thud of footsteps grew louder. Risking a glance, he pushed aside the grass.
Not one, but three men, walked by.
Medraut sent a command on the breeze. "Walk on by. Do not stop."
The group continued on, their voices trailing behind them.
The earlier rage returned ten-fold. The men were comparing the site they had won ... and the women they hoped to take there. Medraut started to rise to his feet. He had not even gotten to his knees when the arrival of more men forced him face down in the wet grass. He could tell from the comments that it was the rest of those attending the selection lottery.
"I hope Brial accepts my gift." came Karst's low tone from the darkness. "They say she has never accepted the gift nor taken a partner at the festival."
Brial is mine! Jealousy fueled a diaphanous cloud. A mouthed command danced within it. "Karst, you will not die yet. But when the moon rises tomorrow night, you will take your knife and slice your throat."
A breath sent it out to block the way of the approaching men.
His pulse pounded until he couldn't resist watching the result of the geas. Rising just high enough to see above the grass, Medraut watched Karst, with Trelleir at his side, reach the magical barricade.
Trelleir made a gesture with one hand. Karst stopped in mid-sentence as if searching for the right word. A shake of his head and he walked on as if nothing had happened.
My geas failed. Karst has no powers of his own so he could not have done it. An undeniable conclusion flared into existence. My magic didn't fail. Trelleir broke my spell.
But how?
* * *
THE MID-DAY SUN CAST bright streams of light on the wagon’s floor. Brial stopped her pacing at the knock and opened the door to gesture Deneas in. The other woman’s dark brown skirt and tan tunic were reflections of the outfit Brial had on. Except, I have a clan insignia embroidered on my tunic, she thought. Her soul darkened. Deneas has nothing of her family.
During a plate of bread and cheese to help hold them over until the feast later that evening yet light enough not to interfere with their appetite, they talked about the expectations of the festival. The discussion ranged from the music that would be played to the treats the women had been making for the past sevenday. "Geren said he plans to keep an eye on his father tonight. Word is Gabha has shown interest in Lanette." She hesitated wondering how much gossip to share. Deneas was her first real friend and was one to Geren too. "Lanette is tired of the road and after the convocation plans to return to her home village to be with her kin."
Deneas nodded at the knowledge. "The trail is hard for a blacksmith. The metal stock and tools are bad enough to move, and that doesn’t even consider the anvils."
Memories of how often she and Deneas had to help dig the blacksmiths’ wagons out of the soft dirt filled Brial’s mind. She replayed the candlemarks worth of struggling to get past the quicksand-like mud at the edge of the desert. "We may lose Lanette, but will be at the head of the line for blacksmith service when we stop at her village to trade."
"There is more than one plan made for tonight." A nervous giggle tried to force its way into existence, to be ruthlessly quashed. "He doesn't know it yet, but I plan to ask Karst to be my escort tonight." The suppressed giggle escaped as a small laugh. "Although I may make him sweat a little. Just because he is a man. I had thought of waiting until the final night of the festival, but decided I would rather enjoy the extra time alone with him."
Another scan outside the window and she added, "Deneas, I know this is your first formal dance. If you need anything, just signal me."
"You’re right, there wasn’t much opportunity for music or dance at Darceth, not even after Geren's handfasting. When there was a special event, rather than enjoy ourselves, every female, whether attached or unattached, had to fend off Caldar and or Karst." Her voice trailed off. "Sorry, I didn’t mean..."
"That is alright, Deneas. I know the slayer trainee Karst is not the man who travels with Vreis."
Final preparations came down to finishing their hair. Brial wove Deneas’ long dark brown hair into a roll. "Is it me, Deneas? Your hair seems lighter than when we first met."
"You are not wrong. My hair has not yet taken on my father’s summer coloring." A heartbeat later, she explained. "My father came from a land where the sun burnished the skin to a rich bronze and lightened hair to almost white. In winter I have my mother’s color, and in summer..."
"Your father’s," Brial finished for her.
Deft movements entwined the carved sticks into Deneas' dark hair. The red jewels on the ends of the sticks sparkled in the now-setting sun. "These sticks are beautiful. I’ve only heard about a tear stone."
Shock flickered in Deneas’ eyes at the word, "tear stone." Before Brial could say anything, the other woman recovered.
"Trelleir gave them to me a long ago," Deneas said at Brial’s raised eyebrow. "You called them a tear stone?"
Brial cast a look out the window as raised voices walked by. After they passed, she answered the question. "It is a tale that has been handed down from generation to generation. The legend states when a dragon cries, its tears turn to jewels." She pointed at the stones in Deneas’ hair. "Most were a deep blue or a golden peach, but I understand some are also a vibrant green. Sailors from the southern seas tell they have found some black tear stones and a few very rare blood red ones on the sands near a deep cave."
A companionable silence grew as Deneas put the final touches on Brial’s hair. She stepped back and held up a mirror. "You look beautiful."
Dipping two fingers into the bowl of water on the table, Brial created a tight curl on each side of her face. "Thanks to you." Patting an errant strand back into place, she squared her shoulders, tugged at her tunic to settle it over her hips, and left the wagon, determined to enjoy the night. She noticed the same look on Deneas’ face.
Tonight will be interesting.
Chapter Thirteen
A Festival Interrupted
A SILENCE, HEAVY WITH anticipation, covered the large area within the circle of wagons. Brial took a deep breath to quell the nerves that threatened to weaken her knees. She had been part of the First Couple several times in the past, but this was the first time with her grandfather as her partner. And, she admitted, there was a memorable aspect to the evening. It was the first time she planned on selecting a companion for the night.
Her grandfather leaned down and with his lips close to her ear whispered, "Ready?"
Brial didn’t trust her voice. At her grandfather’s raised eyebrow, "Yes," came out as a whisper.
"Be sure to enjoy the night." A heartbeat later, he added. "You don’t need to accept a gift ... and the man ... if you are not sure. No one will think less of you."
Her heart fluttered. His words hit too close and made the fears and uncertainty rise.
A trio of musicians climbed the steps to the improvised stage made from a wagon bed. When the leader reassured herself the others were ready, she struck a chord on her guitar. A rustle rose as the crowd parted, creating an aisle. Now Brial could see the wall of expectant faces turn toward her. For an instant, she wanted to turn and run. No, I can’t do that to Grandfather. He chose me as his partner for the first dance, and I won’t let him down.
The guitar player called out a beat and Brial let her grandfather lead her to the wooden planks laid down as a dance floor. His arm went around her waist as he moved into the opening position of a traditional couple’s dance. A man drummed on a barrel with sticks to generate a rhythm while the two women played melodies on a guitar and violin.
