White Pagan, page 43
part #6 of Kestrel Harper Saga Series
“Thank you, Dhóláhr,” Raebhá said with a bow, foregoing his title to address him on a personal level. So, Kavan thought with an unexpected twinge of jealousy, this kydhé and Raebhá knew one another. Perhaps that meant they were safe.
Kavan’s fears and suspicions were not assuaged.
“Your belongings await you.” Dhóláhr gestured to the packs spread on a nearby bench, the contents of each emptied and examined but seemingly undamaged. Dhóláhr ran his hand over the red wood of the harp with admiration. “No instrument of such quality has existed here in centuries. If they do, they are hidden as the unimaginable treasures they are. Is this the work of your hands?”
“My kin…my ancestors, are the artisans who fashion such works. My talent lies in music, not in drawing instruments from wood.”
Dhóláhr nodded in appreciation of Kavan’s honesty. Whatever else Kavan might be, Dhóláhr judged him to be an honest man. “I have permitted no one to touch it, but I pray you will play for us this evening. Allow us to hear her beauty?”
Taken aback by the request, Kavan bowed. They, like Raebhá, equated him with their mythical prophesied White Bard of Gálínphel without the titled claim he had made. The opportunity to prove the tale true, the chance to hear an instrument that existed only in their legends of the long banished Cliáthan makers, was a difficult thing to resist.
It had been a long time since Kavan had played. Thinking about it made the ends of his fingers tingle with anticipation. If accepting the invitation contributed to preferential treatment and the use of a ship south when the ice broke, Kavan would gladly do it.
“I would be honored, kydhé.”
“Good.” Dhóláhr, his face bright now like a child expecting favors, motioned two men forward. They might have been the guards at Kavan’s cell. They might have been anyone else. “Show our guests to quarters and see their needs are met. Give them what they require. We will gather this evening. kydhé, I look forward to your gift.”
“I look forward to sharing it.” An ally in a position of power might be in their favor, if Raebhá considered the man trustworthy. Having served kings and lords and others of wealth and influence, Kavan believed he could negotiate between these two men, so long as neither deemed him a threat or threatened Raebhá.
márbhyndhánis Phínc’s stabbing gaze followed as they gathered their belongings and were escorted from the ghís kelyhag to an empty structure not far from it. Close enough, Kavan deduced, that the few armed men at the ghís kelyhag door would monitor their activities should they leave the shelter for any reason. They might be free, they might no longer be detained against their will, but they would be watched until they either proved themselves or else left this place.
Or at least, Kavan would be watched. He was the one these people did not trust, a foreigner of power even if they had not seen it, a residual outcast of a time when their society splintered, fractured, and threatened to crumble. Kavan would be considered a threat to the natural order, elyryhánag, whether he behaved as one or not.
Once inside the building that was to be temporarily theirs, a place he concluded was an unused home, he was able to relax, able to study where he was when the door closed. The lower level of the wood, stone, and thatch construct contained a circular fire-pit with a dwindling fire, a table and chairs carved of rough wood, and had ample open space with ladders on four sides leading up to sleeping lofts which reminded Kavan of Zelenka’s home in Gorbesh. The fire cast off the chill and there was a faint aroma of something having been cooked, or perhaps added to the fire to make the room more inviting.
The door had barely shut, closing out the frigid wind, when Raebhá dropped her pack and wrapped her arms around Kavan’s waist, burying her face in the crook of his neck so that her breath seeped through the fabric to warm his skin. She trembled in his returned embrace, afraid he would not return it. She welcomed his kisses on her head, across her temples and cheeks, and gifted him with soft sighs and whimpers with each stroke of his hand through her hair. The sounds lit a fire in his blood that longed to be quenched by her kisses. It had been an eternity since he held her, long icy days of worry for them both, longer nights of trying to sleep alone with their fears.
Kavan felt no shame or embarrassment in her greeting, or what he freely offered in return.
His desire was met with the tipping of her face until their mouths met and he groaned, knowing at once that no kiss would satiate the raging in his belly. He wanted so much more, but it was more that he could not have. Her reluctant pulling out of the kiss, though she remained in his arms, pressed against him with her head on his chest, put her mouth out of reach, reminding him of their circumstances. This time his groan was one of frustration but he did not try to force capitulation. She was right to resist when his willpower was waning. Until they knew certain inevitable truths, she could not succumb to her heart’s wishes, or his, particularly if they were at risk of discovery from people Kavan did not trust.
“I feared for your life,” she whispered, blinking away tears. “I did not know what they wanted of me, of you…why they would not believe me when I answered their questions. They were right to be cautious while Dhóláhr was away, but it wasn’t caution I sensed. It was fear. I did not believe they would harm me…but you?” She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the heel of her hand. “We may be non-violent people, but fear could give rise to the unimaginable.”
“My existence is a threat…not only to them but to many in Elyriá,” Kavan muttered with a sigh, attempting to pull away but unable to do so with her arms tight around his waist. He did not try again. “I will do my best to prove myself. There is fear, but also curiosity. I will be cautious. I will see that you are safe, that you reach your home as I promised.”
She risked a kiss of gratitude before letting him go and tossing two bits of wood onto the fire. As she stoked it with the metal prod lying nearby, she listened to his movement behind her. He took the packs and put them on the table, drew out his harp, and began a slow circle of the room. A glance told her he was studying the construction technique, the details of everything that might connect him to the people who had given birth to his. “Is there a rynlagne here?”
Kavan shook his head but continued his perusal without looking at her. “The nearest one is the one we left behind. If there is one here, it has been so long unused it no longer bears a noticeable energy signature.” Or it was hidden. He might be able to detect one if he stood on it, or near it, but going door to door in search of one was risky.
Wherever the márbhyndhánis and kydhé had been, they had either traveled on foot or they had returned by boat before the sea locked the bay to boat traffic.
“Then we wait…and pray the sea breaks soon.” If she could remain here safe with Kavan, build a life with him, she would happily do so. But each faced too many obstacles to make that a realistic dream and the people of Phaurd were too suspicious to make their life an easy one. “Perhaps your Saint Kóráhm will grant us the passage we seek.”
She smiled though he could not see it as the fire flared and additional warmth spilled into the room. It was as much the hope of which she spoke that warmed him as it was the heat of the fire.
“I will continue to pray he will hear me,” Kavan agreed. It had been so long since he had felt Kóráhm’s company he doubted the saint could hear or reach him in this land. It seemed a peculiar limitation, so perhaps Kóráhm’s absence had less to do with his inability as his choice not to come. Whatever Kóráhm knew of this land, whatever he had kept from Kavan during the years of their acquaintance, they were truths he had said Kavan needed to learn on his own.
Maybe, if Kavan prayed earnestly, the Saint would give him the comfort of his presence if not his voice, his physical form, answers to his pleas, or an answer to Raebhá’s request. Perhaps he could dispel the ice. Whatever their desires, duty called each of them home.
Chapter 22
The mud-brick inn was nearly abandoned as visitors and townsfolk ceased patronage. Most from outside Alberni no longer traveled into the heart of the city and those in the city were afraid to mingle for fear of the Yellow Death. The increasing scarcity of food meant most such establishments had little to offer except increasingly watered ale, hardtack bread, and watery gruels or soups scavenged from whatever their larders contained.
Despite the quarantines and precautions put in place by the council, by those in St. Kóráhm’s and by Rhyrdan on behalf of the absent duke and his son, within eight weeks of Myreth’s arrival in Alberni, almost half of the city was afflicted with plague. Myreth had chosen this inn for its proximity to the manor, for its distance from the worst of the contagion, but the symptoms had steadily crept throughout the city, first signs of the northern plague and then the southern, until nowhere was safe. Myreth tried to gain an audience with Kavan only to learn from the staff that the bard was not in Alberni and no one could offer a reasonable expectation of when he was due.
With the owners of the inn fled, as so many other businessmen and peasants had in the hopes of outrunning the Yellow Sisters, there was only one barkeep still at hand and three other guests with rooms on the building's second floor. There was no one to collect more payment for the room Myreth had spent every coin he had to reserve. Without coin and with the scarcity of food that added to Alberni’s woes, Myreth wondered how long he could afford to wait for Kavan’s return.
Not that he had anywhere to go. Nor was there anywhere else he wanted to be.
He fretted that the staff was lying, that he was being kept from the pale man, but surely if Kavan was near, unless he too was afflicted with plague, he would sense Myreth’s presence and come to him. Or the young lord seen leaving the manor more than once in the company of an armed guard would have sent word as Myreth had begged of the girl spoken with at the manor’s gate. Thus far, no one had come, no summons sent, instilling a deeper certainty that it was as claimed.
Try as he did, Myreth only felt a residual hint of the bard, something fading more as time passed. Kavan was not here.
Last night’s death of merchants in the adjacent shop must have been the final straw for the barkeep, as there was no trace of him when Myreth descended the stairs in the pre-dawn hours when the fellow was typically preparing the day’s meager offerings. His room had been cold and he came down in the hopes of kindling or taking advantage of the tavern’s fire, but only embers glowed on the hearth. One of the remaining patrons sprawled on a bench at the counter, drinking his way through a keg of diluted ale. The other two had not yet come down or else had left much earlier.
The drunken man ignored Myreth as he poked through the pantries and came up with two loaves of stale bread, a couple of small, pasty apples, and a handful of salted pork carefully rationed for the daily stews. A few turnips, a bunch of shriveled carrots, and a small sack of dried grapes were added to the stash. He wondered if he should prepare a stew, share it with the man at the counter, but as the fellow seemed oblivious to his presence and Myreth had no desire to remain and be accused of looting, he tucked his pack under his arm and went to the hearth in the hopes of stoking enough heat from what remained to warm his hands.
His patron had been long out of touch, paying no further coin for following through on her wishes, for getting this far on his quest. Without coin, without food, without warm shelter, he might not survive long enough to get the treasure into Kavan’s hands. The bard might not be here, but Myreth had sworn to this sacred duty.
He rubbed his palms together and glanced to his right across the mostly empty tavern, musing that his duty might best be served by delivering his precious possession to St. Kóráhm’s, particularly now that he had fallen to the notice of hidden eyes beneath a wide-brimmed hat across the room, a fellow Myreth had not noticed before.
Maybe he had come in while Myreth scoured the pantry. Maybe he had been here all along.
Whoever the stranger was, he was pretending not to show interest in Myreth or the drunkard at the counter. Myreth, however, felt his interest like needles pricking across the back of his neck. Having no training in combat or defense and having not the smallest shred of violence in his heart, he chose flight over fight and decided it was time to leave. He would make his delivery as close to its destination as he could and then decide where to go afterward.
His pack, always close to avoid theft, was slung over his shoulder as he tucked his food bundle beneath his arm. He stared through the open doorway at the gray morning sky, senses partially attuned to the figure in the corner. The last several mornings had promised rain, yet the clouds gave little more than a misting, enough to leave a damp sheen over buildings and streets but not enough to replenish depleted stores. The previous rain had helped, but it would not be enough to break the cycle of drought.
The young lord, out on his early excursion at the same hour that he came every day, wore a heavy brown canvas cloak designed to keep the moisture out, giving Myreth the hope for more rain…and his timely appearance offered some security from the threat he felt from the stranger rising from the corner.
There was no time to take the mantle to St. Kóráhm’s. He had to take the opportunity presenting itself now.
As if in tune with his thoughts and intentions, the clouds opened and the rain began to fall.
Tightening his grip on the packs, he rushed into the street, his face tipped into the moisture with a laugh that made his emergence into the path of the duo from the manor look more accidental than it was. Inside the inn, the other came as far as the doorway, but as people emerged one by one or in small groups from the nearby structures to greet the lord, there was no chance for him to pursue.
The distraction of others allowed Myreth to weave through the clusters until he reached the young man. The stranger followed for a short way but dropped back as Myreth approached one he assumed to be an agent of the duke. The mounted man pushed his hood back to enjoy the rain too, his dark curls collecting the moisture, droplets appearing along his bearded chin and jaw. As he passed through the thin crowd, he drew something from the basket he carried and pressed it into one open hand after another, greeting people with a smile, a kind word, showing little fear of either the people or the potential of plague that came with the brush of each hand. The rider beside him was less welcoming of such touches and scowled at those who clung too long on the lord’s hand but his objections remained unheeded.
When he reached Myreth, he pressed a handful of dried dates into his outstretched palm and murmured, “Bless you.”
“My lord.” Myreth covered the man’s hand with his empty one and shook his head. “I…give this to some more needy than me.” He did not think this to be Kavan’s son, although he had heard there was an heir whom Myreth had not yet seen. The thought of the bard married twisted Myreth’s stomach into uncomfortable knots. The beard, and the flashes of details that passed in the touch of their hands spoke of Teren blood, a man who had recently lost a father and who served Kavan not out of obligation but out of abiding respect and love. Not a lord then, but a friend, someone who adored the bard as much as Myreth did, someone the bard trusted.
That was a relief and comfort.
Rhyrdan cocked his head at the man’s peculiar accent, noting the packs he carried and the red of an apple visible through a slit in the wrapped cloth he carried. “Are you a traveler? A pilgrim?”
He passed the dates to another individual with the same smile and greeting. Travel between cities had nearly ceased, the dwindling of commerce doing as much to hurt the city as the shortages of food and water. There were rumors of pilgrims in the south, people flocking to holy sites in the hopes of healing, seeking penance for sins ranging from the mundane to the Second Persecution that had cost the land so many lives. Fanatics abounded and while this man did not look like a religious fanatic, he also did not appear to be a migrant merchant.
“I came in search of Lord Cliáth, to deliver something to him.” He shifted his packs and opened one, causing the soldier to grasp for his sword and prepare to draw it. “I mean no harm…he and I met many years ago. He may not remember me,” Myreth added with a sad note in his quavering voice, “but I remember him.”
“He is a difficult man to forget, aye.” Rhyrdan stayed Raenár’s sword with a gesture, studying the handsome fellow more closely. Odds were, few forgot this fellow’s face or name either. “He has a remarkable memory for those who pass through his life. I would wager he would consider you a man not easily forgotten.”
He could not pinpoint what there was about this stranger with the black hair and russet brown eyes that prompted his words, but he believed Kavan would have found this man intriguing enough to leave a lasting impression. “What do you have for him?”
Myreth’s gaze shifted with embarrassment, unused to flattery, and he bent at the waist in a bow. The man following him was gradually drifting nearer as if to listen to their conversation and Myreth’s tone dropped in response. “I would hope he has not forgotten,” he admitted. It had taken longer than intended to travel this far; if Kavan had forgotten him, there would be no one but himself to blame.
The item he withdrew from his pack was wrapped in several layers of protective waxed canvas, fabric, and burlap because he wanted to be sure no damage was done to it. He held the bundle towards the young man but did not unwrap it. “This is my sacred charge. I swore an oath to see this into his hands, but as he is not here…” He shrugged and withdrew it when Rhyrdan reached for it. “It must be protected, kept safe, opened by no one but him…for only he should possess such a treasure. If he has not returned, is not expected…”
Sighing, Rhyrdan straightened in his saddle. “I do not know when he is due. Duty took him far and until that duty is complete…” He struggled daily to have faith in the bard’s safety and his eventual return, but fear dogged him every moment of his day as the Yellow Sisters ravaged Alberni and Kavan’s absence stretched longer. Seeing the stranger’s regret, Rhyrdan forced a hopeful smile. “You are welcome to bring it to the keep and leave it, if you wish…or if you desire security Captain Magk can deliver it to k’gdhededhá Khwílen in the chellé for safekeeping.”
