White Pagan, page 11
part #6 of Kestrel Harper Saga Series
Not untrained then, or else she had taught herself to block others, to keep herself hidden, as Kavan had done when he was a child first discovering his gifts. Was she hiding? From those who had hurt her? Could she have been the source of the drain on his power? Had she created and dismantled a Gate to reach the lake, and if so why?
From where?
The inability to find answers, the draw of her power, as well as the allure of her face, the color of her hair, the curves beneath the blankets, the sound of her breathing, frightened him.
His fear was not enough to propel him to leave.
***
“What do you mean he cannot come?” Still possessed of an impertinent streak that sometimes surfaced when she could not get her way, Diona stopped short of stomping her foot in frustration and uttering unrealistic demands. She could not order Kavan to come to Rhidam without exerting royal prerogative, but it did not prevent her from wishing she could.
“He has guests.” It was not precisely accurate, and under other circumstances, Kavan might have left guests to entertain themselves for a few hours or put them in Wortham’s care to be attended to. But Wortham could not see to this duty, and even if he had been there to do so, this was a duty Kavan would give to no one else. Ártur had never seen Kavan react to anyone as he reacted to the enigmatic woman who had seemingly dropped from the sky. Such a puzzle was cause enough for Kavan’s focus, and while Ártur was curious to watch the developments unfold, he was not going to tell anyone in Rhidam, particularly Diona, that Kavan’s guest was a woman.
“It must be someone of import if he will not come for a few hours,” she snorted. Bhyrhán had returned to Clarys, intending to put his affairs in order with the Kyne and gather some of his personal belongings for a stay of indeterminate length in the Lachlan court. Without him to distract and soothe her, without his voice and the use of his eyes to help her see, or his pipes to fill her days with music, Diona was seeking anyone, anything, to fill barren hours with purpose. She had never been one for sewing with her ladies, for gossip and idle chatter. She was accustomed to the responsibilities of sovereignty.
As Merrek took up one duty after another, Diona was gradually discovering the benefits of gossip, for it gave her tidbits of news she did not always get from her advisors. Merrek welcomed her input and attendance to all matters of business, and he consulted her on every matter of importance that came to his attention, but she chose not to devote every hour of her day focused on duties that would eventually fall entirely on Merrek’s shoulders. He had to learn the art of ruling. Unlike most previous kings, he had the opportunity to learn such things in practice while the queen was there to guide and advise him. He was an intelligent man; he did not need her looming over him as he sought the respect of the people and his advisers.
Ártur bowed. “I believe it must be.”
“You have not met them?”
Aware of the slip of his tongue, the healer shrugged. “I have been in Alberni only long enough to see to his state of mind. I fear he is not himself and wanted to see his welfare with my own eyes. That is when I learned he has guests.”
Sighing, Diona let her shoulders sag. “Yes…you should see to him. He did not speak of Wortham when he was here. My efforts to engage him in conversation failed. You are sure there are guests…that he is not avoiding you…avoiding us?”
“I am. Rhyrdan has assured me of it.”
The mention of the youngest Delamo’s name made Diona smile wistfully. “I’m glad he has Rhyrdan.” Rhyrdan was so much like his father, in appearance, in temperament, in devotion, if not in worldly experience and training, that she imagined his company would be particularly soothing. Or else it would be a too painful reminder.
Her smile faded. She wished she could speak to Kavan to determine which it was. “When will you see him next?”
“Tomorrow evening.” Ártur had just returned from Alberni when he encountered the queen in the corridor, but he did not tell her where he had been. “I will convey your desire for music when I see him.” Perhaps the opportunity to make music before a familiar audience would be enough to draw the bard away from the stranger. “When is Bhyrhán returning?” He did not know about their agreement, that Bhyrhán was sharing his eyesight with her, he only knew that the two spent many hours together and that it had brought a carefree air back to the woman’s mood that had not been there since Espen’s death.
“The end of the week…so long as Kyne does not forbid it.”
“She’s not like that.” Ártur did not know the woman the way Kavan did, but he knew her by reputation, and he knew she was fond of Diona. So long as Rhidam was safe as it could be, and Bhyrhán knew the risks, her kinsman was allowed to follow his own path. The male heirs of the High Mother had fewer restrictions than did the females, for any one of the women could be appointed in the Kyne’s place, should she die or pass out of the world as Elyri-kind did at the end of their days. “If he promised his return, I’m sure he will hold to it. It will be good to have him here. I miss the constant ring of music.”
“As do I.”
“May I escort you somewhere?” Though she still had eyesight enough to find her way, the lack of light in the corridors would not be easy to navigate.
Diona shook her head. “I know the way to my rooms.” Her voice was more clipped than intended and she immediately muttered, “I am sorry, Ártur.”
He bowed. “No offense taken. I will see you in the morning?”
“Indeed. Goodnight, Lord Healer.”
“Good night, My Queen.” He was relieved, as he watched her pass, that she had not pressed for more details about Kavan. He did not know how long he should hide the truth, or if he even should.
***
Edging towards cognizance, a process that felt like slogging through the bog her parents had warned her away from as a child, brought with it an awareness of music, soft, sweet, melodic notes on metal strings. The tinkling reminded her of the rocking of a boat on the sea, bringing with it memories of her brother, of colorful ribbons of light reflected across the glassy water, the smell of brine and wet canvas, and the chill of the wind blowing across the bow, propelling them towards the shore. It was a pleasant memory, distant but fresh, and for the longest time, she listened, hovering between wakefulness and sleep, not certain that the sound was real. It hurt to think, to focus, so she allowed the sound to lull her, carry her driftingly on the calming tones, taking comfort in the pictures in her mind that warred with the increasing awareness of pain points throughout her body.
Gradually she grew in the assurance that the experience of her ears was real, for the nearer she drew towards waking, the louder and more persistent the notes became, as if the music was played upon the ever-nearing shore. Memories of ocean breezes gave way to the warmth and the security of comfortable bedding, and the aroma of a wood fire burning on a hearth, though she could not see or hear its crackle.
With the smell of smoke, however, came other memories, a shadow, an arm raised to strike, arms pinning her, covering her mouth…kicks and blows…and before darkness took her, the lowering of that arm, its weapon aiming directly for the head of…
She sat up with a scream, lashing out with a blast of power to force her assailants away, her eyes wide, her heart thumping as if it would explode from her chest. Someone was immediately there, hands closed around hers. Sensing no one, the touch surprised her, and she yanked her hands back to be free of the hold. Simultaneously thinking the masculine presence to be Ombhrís, she followed another instinct and buried her face against the man’s chest. Tremors ran in shockwaves through her. Arms around her shoulders, tentative and stiff, conveyed a sense of calm and assurance that allowed her to push her fear aside as other smells, herbal incense with faint, earthy floral undertones, filled her nostrils and sank into her agitated center.
A nightmare. That’s what it had to be. No such crime had been committed across the land in generations. Surely no one would have tried to kill her and Ombhrís on their wedding night. There was no reason for such an act.
Relaxation, however, brought with it the returned awareness of pain, as though she had tumbled down a mountain and lived to tell of her fall. The music that had accompanied her waking had stopped, and there came a pounding on wood, the rattle of loose metal hinges, and an unfamiliar voice speaking phrases she did not understand.
“bhydhá…are you well?”
She opened her eyes and pulled back in confusion.
She stared.
Kavan sighed, the sound tremulous and nervous, as he was both relieved to have her pull away and unexpectedly disappointed that she had. Unable to break from the gaze that held his as a second knock came, he managed to say, “All is well, Dhóri.”
The breath on the other side of the door caught, held, and when it released, Kavan could hear his son’s frustration.
Dhóri deserved the truth.
But the truth was still unknown and would have to wait, as now he was caught in the warmth of sand-gold eyes, the color of which he had never seen in a person. He opened his mouth to speak again but the search for words of reassurance or welcome failed.
He was a spirit, surely. White. Flawless like the stone effigies the márbhyndhánis sometimes displayed. Fragile in its fineness, and yet bearing the strength of the sea, the mountains, the moon, the stars in the sky. She had never seen another like him…and yet it felt as if she had known him all of her life.
Mesmerized, confused by that unreasonable familiarity, she reached for his face, to test his reality. The twitch at the corners of his mouth and eyes made her pause. A spirit made flesh…for he had been solid, real, moments before when she had sought comfort against him. He was as the freshly fallen snow, his hair the silver blue-white of moonlight upon the winter-mountain peaks, his eyes…his green eyes reflections of the spring grass in the fields at home.
Ignoring his distress this time, her outstretched hand continued nearer to his thick hair. He stiffened but did not draw away, frozen in place, until she caught the strands between her fingers. He was real…and she was here…wherever here was. On the stand beside him, a small black harp, carved in the shape of a kestrel in flight. Seeing it made her pull back abruptly. She shook her head. Not…
It could not be.
“bhir phehonís phaern Gálínphel …” she whispered, her voice a dry cracked croaking sound of amazement and disbelief.
Her voice broke the hold her eyes held over him and Kavan stood, crossing the room to fill a cup with water from the tray Emeria had left. His head throbbing from that blast of power she had cast upon waking, he intended to take the water to her, but the echoes of her words blared in his ears, the words and how she had spoken them.
Not Enesi or Trade. Not Cíbhóló, Hatuish, Nethic, or Cordashian. Not the language of the far south that Zelenka and Wortham had helped him learn over the last twenty years.
High Elyri. But not. A similarity of words, of context and structure and syntax…and yet not the same. A dialect, perhaps, though he had never encountered variations within the High Elyri form taught by the bhydáni and gdhededhá to those students desiring to learn it.
A dialect in which the word bhir she had used for white had been transposed for the term phyr, for blue, with which he was familiar. How simple it was, he knew, for words to change in sound and meaning over time. How easy it was for a mishearing of a song to result in mistranslation. The song he knew spoke of a bird far from home. Nothing more. Kavan was not a bird.
Resorting to High Elyri in the hopes that the language would be similar enough for her to understand, he said, “Do not speak yet…” He had to keep her from saying more as he put the cup in her hands, stiffening again, through every fiber of his being, into the places he would rather not think about, when her fingers brushed his. “You are in Alberni, my home.” She stared, either not understanding or choosing not to speak in favor of quickly draining the water she had been given. “I found you in the forest, near a lake, you were beaten.”
He watched her face, her body language, paying close attention to the subtleties of the power shifts in her aura, seeking clues that might tell him how he could help her.
She heard his words, marking their differences and finding him peculiar for it. The language was similar enough that she understood the gist of what he was saying, but the words made little sense. Where was Alberni? A new ghís…although the room she was in was like no home she had seen and was too old, she determined, to be part of a new ghís. Perhaps this was néósag…but he had said his home, and though she had felt deep power in him when he had held her, power that had been the first clue that he was not Ombhrís, she did not think he was márbhyndhánis.
So where was she, she wondered again, and how had she come to be here? Had he abducted her, been part of a plot against her and Ombhrís? Though she shrank against the headboard, she dismissed that thought as soon as it came. There was nothing violent in him and his tale of finding her was a truthful one. His thoughts might be blocked, but if he was lying, she believed she would know.
She looked at her arms, not bare now but covered in comfortable white fabric, the softest she had ever touched. Stroking it, she looked at her host, willing him to continue.
Kavan, thinking the look in her eyes to be a question he was embarrassed to answer, flushed and stepped back from the bed, shaking his head apologetically. “My cousin, Ártur MacLyr, tended you, dressed you. He is ílMairós…I would never…” The thought of undressing her filled him with a familiar uncomfortable throbbing.
“MacLyr.” She could hear the disbelief in her voice. There had been no Llyrs in the lands in innumerable centuries. They had been banished long ago for acts of treason and defiance against authority. To be the son of a Llyr meant that she too had been banished, sent away not on a ship but through a Gate. It also meant she could never return, never go home, never see her brother again…never know what had become of Ombhrís…never see that justice was done for this act without the chance to prove herself. Someone must have learned the truth…but who? Why had she not been afforded the customary trial?
Staring as if bitten, Kavan wondered if she knew Ártur, or if Ártur knew her. Ártur had shown no hint of it, but Kavan had paid less attention to his cousin than he had to the injured woman. Or perhaps not Ártur. Perhaps Bhen, or Sámel, or other kin in Bhryell. His expression softened as unshed tears rose in her eyes and when the empty metal cup dropped from her trembling hand, he retrieved it. Thinking his reaction upset her, he quickly asked, “Are you hungry? Shall I send for water so you may bathe? Is there anything…?”
“I…” she sniffed and rolled away, finding his words clearer as she curled into a ball. “I would like to be alone. Please.”
Alone. Leave her. Not many of her words made sense; Kavan understood that one, but he did not think he could do it, leave her alone and unguarded. What if she fled? What if she needed help and he was not here to see that she got it? What if she needed him?
A voice in the back of his head screamed ‘fool’, which allowed him to take a faltering step towards the door. Now that she was awake, of course she did not need him. His desire to be needed, to have his company wanted, was selfish, irrational, and unwarranted. She owed him nothing for saving her life and if she felt well enough to leave, or if she wished to be alone, it was his place to accommodate her.
Hearing her weep as he backed through the door and closed it between them was one of the hardest things he had ever had to bear.
Relieved to be alone, she rolled again, this time to her back, before sitting up and drying her cheeks of unwanted tears. Crying was not going to solve anything. It hurt unbearably to be banished without trial or notice, sent away from her home for unspecified crimes, but she had known the risks of following the veiled path. Her beliefs, and those of her father, had been kept hidden, secret, for a reason. Only a few others had known, and she had faith that none of them would have spoken betrayal. There were other ways, however, more invasive and frightening ways, for the márbhyndhánis to gain information, and such ways might have been employed against her brother, who did not have the knowledge or ability to withstand such methods.
Or maybe they, whoever they were, had no proof of crimes and had acted on rumor alone, a preemptive strike against someone or something that threatened hánag, the natural order of life. She supposed she had been lucky to be spared the kylldrenai. To have been spared whatever fate had befallen Ombhrís.
Her frown began to quiver at the corners and she stood to distract herself from grief, an act that caused the room to sway. Surely Ombhrís was dead. The blow of a heavy smith’s hammer, the blow she had seen fall, would have been enough to crush a man’s skull. While she could admit to a degree of relief at not having consummated a marriage she had not been entirely committed to, she had no desire for Ombhrís to be dead and had not wanted out of the marriage badly enough to have considered such an action herself.
He had been talked into their match for the same reasons she had been. Trade between ghís, ties between powerful families, the unification of power between two of the wealthiest ghísaer. The good of the people, her father had said. The honor of the family. The benefit of the ghís and the ghísaer.
Ombhrís did not deserve to die for that.
It was his death, however, that twisted the reality of her situation and distorted its logic. If she had been taken, banished by the márbhyndhánis for anarchic beliefs, Ombhrís would have been left unharmed. Brought in for questioning, held until it was discovered that he was guiltless of his bride’s beliefs, but not killed. Murder was nearly unheard of amongst their kind, execution rarer still. If not the márbhyndhánis, then who was responsible for these terrible crimes? Who had killed Ombhrís and sent her into the forbidden lands? Why?
