White Pagan, page 57
part #6 of Kestrel Harper Saga Series
“I was sent through the rynlagne…to a place where kydhé Cliáth found me, restored me to health, helped me find a path home.”
“A rynlagne? How…?”
“I don’t know. But it suggests who my enemies are.” Or who yours are, she thought bitterly, trying to assess the thoughts behind his eyes without resorting to the use of power that would damn her if she were found out.
He huffed. “Surely not. That would be against their tenets. The elyryhánag, perhaps”
“They’re forbidden, the knowledge of the rynlagne is restricted. If there are elyryhánag here, none would know how to…”
“Forbidden, but that does not mean they don’t exist. We found twelve under interrogation who required draenai…”
“Twelve?” Unsuccessfully she swallowed the squeaking note that pierced the end of the word.
The news was surprising, but as the word escaped her lips, she hoped he would hear shock instead of fear. She had been unaware of other elyryhánag in Curnydhá save one, or others from nearby ghís, but Mánd had likely not revealed them to her any more than he would have revealed her to them to prevent identities from falling into the hands of less accepting márbhyndhánis. She hoped to sound appalled that so many heretics had existed in the lands she had led. Any hint of support for them would cast suspicion on her.
Ombhrís scowled, not hearing or seeing what he expected. “So many young ones,” he sighed. “It wasn’t easy to punish them, as you can imagine.”
Curious how young he meant but not willing to ask what sort of punishment had been applied, she nodded sympathetically. “And none of them did this to me?”
“None were trained enough,” he admitted. It left few options for who could have attacked them, banished her. He knew it as surely as she did, even if he refused to acknowledge it. “You were sent to the land of the taeré? The others? From before? They survived?”
His curiosity was expected but the dark coloring of his words made her shiver. “From what I saw, many did. Cliáth. MacLyr. Curnydhá. Bhíncári. All of the old families, so many descendants. It was surprising to discover they thrived. Their territory is vast.” She did her best to sound more curious and intrigued than excited, impressed, or happy for their success.
“I doubt that was the intent when they were sent away. Did they harm you? Were you ill-treated?” It did not appear so, but the thought that the heretics could have prospered as anything other than wild heathens without the benefit of their homeland’s support and the trappings of dhóbhaen civilization was disappointing.
There had been great minds upon those gaeythá, some of the most gifted and learned men and women of their age. If death at the hands of taeré, the lengthy journeys at sea, or harsh foreign lands had not killed them, it was logical that those great names had found ways to survive and prosper until the Ceasing came.
“I was treated with generosity and respect, by both elyryhánag and taeré.” She did not mention that the Faith of Dhágdhuán thrived, that those exiles had, in many ways, grown beyond the society they were forced to leave behind, that they had abandoned their roots, their history, and built something new.
“They coexist peacefully?” That coexistence might be possible was more surprising, and distasteful, than the knowledge that the elyryhánag survived.
Having seen no evidence of prejudice between the peoples during her brief stay, there was no falsity in her claim. “du. I met the taeré kymyhé and her kin in a ghís the size of twenty Curnydhás. elyryhánag serve as her advisors …and have a ghísaer of their own beyond a great high range of mountains like ours.”
She spoke naught of intermarriages, for that practice was more intolerable to the dhóbhaen than the concept of Faith was. Revealing the accomplishments of the taeré was risky enough. It was a fine line between instilling wonder and respect and filling her people with heightened dread and distrust. The dhóbhaen already feared the violent taeré would overtake them if they ever mobilized enough to try.
Ombhrís shook his head again and ate a few silent bites. He had expected a tale of adversity, of deprivation, of sorrow, but it sounded as though she had experienced none of those things. What fates, he wondered as he pushed the last morsel of bread into his mouth, had placed her directly into the path of a man such as the one who waited outside? He knew nothing about the stranger, but he knew enough to fear him. He knew the prophecies. On appearance, the stranger met the requirements necessary to disrupt the dhóbhaen’s way of life.
“The fates favor you,” he finally murmured. “To return so quickly, you were lucky to find a vessel…”
His voice sounded both reticent and relieved at the same time, as if he, she thought bitterly, would have preferred fate to be less kind. Though it had been less than a year, her return had not been quick enough and so she shrugged as she interrupted him, wanting to undercut and erase the feelings his tone created. “I returned as I was sent. By rynlagne.”
He scowled. “You know how to…?”
She was grateful then that Kavan had not taught her that skill. Knowing would mean lying, and she believed Ombhrís would know if she was dishonest. He should also know that his query was absurd. “I only know the tales. I do not remember that night, but kydhé Cliáth brought me back through one in the mountains near Phaurd.”
“He is elyryhánag,” he spat, beginning to rise from his chair. Of course, Kavan was one of them. Trained or not, he was born of the blood of heretics. That he might be trained in the manner of the márbhyndhánis, that others like him could be, that they might now know, because of this adventurous kydhé, how to return to Dhóbhaen, made him apprehensive.
Ombhrís had not cleansed Curnydhá of twelve pheturphálóste to have another, one with enough training to use the rynlagne, surface among them. Though Ombhrís was no márbhyndhánis, it was impossible not to detect the strengths in the white-skinned man. If he felt it, others in Curnydhá would too.
That could be a dangerous thing.
“He saved my life, brought me home. He is kydhé, a generous man who means no harm to us. His people love him. He is Cliáth, the second of that lineage to stand in Curnydhá in generations. This is his home by ancestry and blood. It is his right to be here…”
“He is pheturphálós.”
“He cannot be a traitor if he was not born or raised here. He has nothing to betray. He only seeks knowledge. We shall leave him be, Ombhrís. He intends to see that I am safely settled then find a rynlagne to return to his sons and his…”
Rising the rest of the way, Ombhrís hissed, “He has done his duty and will leave at once. He is not welcome here. If he remains, he will be detained until he chooses to go. He cannot be allowed the liberty to voice his heresies, to poison our minds…”
“You have no cause or right to hold him. There has been no crime. I am kymyhé. We will offer him the hospitality of the dhóbhaen as is our way. I bid him welcome until he is ready to depart. I will not permit you to…”
Eyes narrowed, clawed hands gripping the table as he leaned across it to tower over her, he hissed with a feral curl of his lip, “You have been gone nearly a full turn of seasons. I am kydhé now. The márbhyndhánis, the people, bestowed that title. You cannot take what was legally given.”
She glared at him, unafraid of his ire. “Given only because I…”
He cut her off with a growl. “I am the better ruler to keep Curnydhá from being drawn into the ways of heretics and fools.”
“Better than whom?” In his voice, his choice of words, she heard something that filled her with alarm that went beyond the fear of his death, beyond the fear of losing Kavan. She subverted the fear, pushed slowly to her feet to level their gazes and take away any perceived advantage he felt he had. “How long did you wait?”
“For what?”
His abrupt confusion was honest, not calculated to avoid her question, and so she asked again. “How long did you wait before assuming the title?”
Confusion gave way to the return of anger and something she did not expect. Resentment. “Your brother fled, was suspect in your disappearance…and I am your husband. It was my duty to…”
“How long did you wait?” she repeated insistently. The custom was one year. In times of great turmoil, the time of waiting might be reduced at the márbhyndhánis’ discretion. The events of that night might have warranted a shortened period of waiting, but she wanted him to say it. She wanted to know how soon he had given up on her.
“The ghís was in an uproar. Everyone was afraid. Something needed to be done…”
“How long?”
The double doors flew open without the touch of any hands and Kavan stormed inside, her fear, her rising anger, her indignation drawing him in despite her bid for him to wait. Iólán was behind him, the one accused of her abduction, and several of the sailors who had brought both to Curnydhá stood over the zyrudhén they had subdued with little effort and no bloodshed. Crowds of townsfolk had gathered, led by a tall, boyish blonde woman with a child on her hip who looked as surprised and elated to see Raebhá as everyone else. The sounding of a ram’s horn announced the approach of the márbhyndhánis.
Ombhrís took the opportunity presented by the interruption to swipe the knife used to slice bread and cheese and with a swift movement caught Raebhá’s wrist, yanking her against him, the knife now pressed to the base of her throat.
“You have no place here, elyryhánag. Return to your lands and she will not be harmed!”
“Kavan.” Raebhá did not move, paralyzed by the unexpected events, by a threat made intended to drive the foreigner away. A threat against her that he could not mean. It went against everything the dhóbhaen believed. As if a foreigner should care about her life. She had said enough, however, about Kavan’s integrity, his kindness, his gallantry, to suggest that he did care, and his eruption through the door on her behalf served to strengthen that truth.
He cared. Perhaps too much.
Over Kavan’s shoulders, her eyes met those of her childhood friend; she was relieved to see that, whatever purging Ombhrís had done, Ephé, her husband, and child were safe.
Raebhá had not believed Ombhrís, in the short time she had known him, was capable of violence. There had been no reason to think so. She begged Ephé with a gesture to keep people back, begged Kavan with the fear in her eyes not to complicate the situation. His intrusion had cost her the answer she sought, truth she needed to hear.
Reluctant to admit Ombhrís meant her harm, trusting that he acted only in irrational fear of Kavan, Raebhá thought to talk him out of his anger, out of his dread, hoped she could still gain answers. She could only do so, however, if Kavan and the others left her alone with him.
Ombhrís assuming the title of kydhé mattered, but Raebhá could not accept the gnawing suspicion that hinted at something darker.
Kavan knew enough, knew from the man’s aura, the man’s unsaid thoughts that screamed like battle horns against the bard’s shielded mind, knew from the violent flash of emotion on his face, what sort of man Ombhrís was, what he was capable of. With an unforgiving glint in his eyes, an expression Kavan rarely wore, he dropped his chin to give his gaze a more aggressive cast and said tightly, “Release her.”
Quick footsteps came up the external stairs and the thirteen márbhyndhánis, men and women dressed in the robes and regalia of their office as if they had been awake for some time, poured into the room without dignity. They were stopped mid-step by the glance Kavan threw over his shoulder, held there, unable to lift their feet or to drop their arms to their sides by the power he commanded. When he looked back at Ombhrís, avoiding the plea in Raebhá’s eyes because he did not want to be swayed, he repeated, “You will release her…one way or another.”
“Kavan…dhysag.”
There was an unmistakable threat in his voice that made even Raebhá shudder as she strove to believe he would not kill merely to protect her from a threat she did not want to believe existed. The unmoving márbhyndhánis were an unsettling, inexplicable sight. The crowd outside drew back, as did the men who had sailed with them, though Ephé remained in the doorway. Iólán slid sideways to put distance between himself and the pale man. It was obvious he was responsible for holding the márbhyndhánis at bay, a feat of power that none had ever seen, that filled hearts with fear and wonder.
Ombhrís’ hand quaked and he moved his arm enough that the unsteady blade would not cut Raebhá’s skin. It gave her hope that the discrepancy between what her heart and head told her could not be real. He would not hurt her. He was her husband. He would never want her gone…or dead.
The two men glowered at one another as the power in the room palpably intensified. One did not need to be trained to feel it; they only had to be of the same blood, dhóbhaen and Elyri blood, to feel the weight of it in the air. Gradually, whether forced to do so or choosing to comply with the demands of an opponent he would be wise not to cross, Ombhrís dropped the knife.
It clattered to the floor, shattering the silence.
Unsettled by a turn of events he had not foreseen, he took the first offered out he saw, hoping that the people beyond the door, his people, who might hear what was happening, would believe the claims the márbhyndhánis had already offered.
“It was him!” Ombhrís’ explanation shattered the silence. He pointed at Iólán as he leaped back, pulling Raebhá with him. With his arm still tight around her, he did not need the knife to be a threat, though it was difficult to tell if he held her to hurt her, protect her, or protect himself. “He took her from me! Tried to kill us both…”
“I never…” Iólán began defensively, drawing closer to Kavan now in the expectation that the potent man who adored his sister enough to take on the márbhyndhánis would not believe the allegations and would shield him too.
“I know,” Raebhá proclaimed in a quiet hiss, her anger rising at the man who continued to trap her and dared to insult her brother. Iólán was younger, had less of a claim to the position of leadership than Raebhá, had no cause to turn against her. The people could have chosen him upon their father’s death, but they had chosen to follow dhóbhaen tradition and select the eldest. Iólán had never shown a desire for his lot in life to be any different. “Iólán would never betray me. Of all who could have…he’s the one I trust most not to.”
The accusation in her voice, in her eyes, as she yanked free of Ombhrís’ grasp and stepped beyond his reach, was turned back on the man she should have been able to trust with her life. “I never thought it would be you.”
They barely knew one another and there had not been time for affection to grow, but she could not believe he resented or hated her enough for this. There was no cause. She had never done anything to warrant betrayal.
With no one rushing to apprehend Iólán, no one daring to approach the stranger, and no obvious support from those held motionless without indication that they bore witness to what was happening, Ombhrís made another charge against Iólán and against the evil of the man attempting to stare him down. “He brings this elyryhánag to steal our sons and daughters! He is kyrónagk…has corrupted my wife and will bring destruction if we do not…”
The márbhyndhánis were unable to respond to the challenges and with no one moving against Iólán, Ombhrís turned his pleading eyes to Raebhá. “Can you not see the threat? No one should have such…”
“Yet I do.” Kavan’s words were slow and deliberate as he gradually released his hold on those who had charged into the room. When they were free of his control, the thirteen drew together into a huddle, silently deciding what to do with him, and with the husband and wife squared off over the right to rule the ghísaer of Gálínphel.
Only when his hold was relinquished, when his power was redirected to a watchful protectiveness, did Kavan speak again, his eyes on Ombhrís the entire time. “You train those with great power. I am no different. I am not bhydáni, márbhyndhánis; in Elyriá, only the very ancient are allowed that status…but I have trained with the most ancient and wisest. You do not want to cross me.”
His tone carried enough of a threat to give an additional warning weight to his words.
“You cross us by being here.”
What Kavan felt emanating from the mass behind him, behind the words spoken by one of them, filled him with indignation. He turned to face them, clamping down on the ball of power in his center. He had taken down powers greater than those present and he was not afraid to do so again if any of them dared to threaten or harm Raebhá.
“What are you?”
A sound, footsteps and then an exhaled breath of surprise as Raebhá was pushed to the floor in his passing, heralded Ombhrís’ movement, his rush to stop the one who threatened to expose him while his back was turned. One hand shot out to stop him without touching him. There was power enough in the act to hurl Ombhrís against the stone and timber wall and hold him there. Ombhrís squawked and bellowed in fury, “I am kydhé!”
“Raebhá is kymyhé,” Iólán shouted, the rawness of nerves and anger stripping away his remaining composure as he caught his sister’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Those paying attention noted her condition in the way she had fallen, in the way she rose, but their focus was on Kavan and Ombhrís. Ombhrís did not notice. By the time Iólán added, “You are a fraud! An imposter! A thief!”, her long skirts and the cloak she wore again covered the secret she carried.
“And a liar.” Raebhá shook free of her brother’s grasp and with one hand on Kavan’s, gently forced him to lower his arm, encouraging him to release Ombhrís. Kavan’s hand dropped beneath her tender effort but Ombhrís remained unable to move. Swallowing frustration, Raebhá crossed the room, glaring at the man who had threatened her life not once, but twice, possibly three times. “You orchestrated the attack, my abduction, to assume leadership of Curnydhá.”
He had not said it, but she believed it to be true.
“You do not deserve the power you were given,” he spat, his lack of denial proof enough of his actions. It also suggested accomplices, at least one of whom possessed enough power and training to manipulate the rynlagne.
“A rynlagne? How…?”
“I don’t know. But it suggests who my enemies are.” Or who yours are, she thought bitterly, trying to assess the thoughts behind his eyes without resorting to the use of power that would damn her if she were found out.
He huffed. “Surely not. That would be against their tenets. The elyryhánag, perhaps”
“They’re forbidden, the knowledge of the rynlagne is restricted. If there are elyryhánag here, none would know how to…”
“Forbidden, but that does not mean they don’t exist. We found twelve under interrogation who required draenai…”
“Twelve?” Unsuccessfully she swallowed the squeaking note that pierced the end of the word.
The news was surprising, but as the word escaped her lips, she hoped he would hear shock instead of fear. She had been unaware of other elyryhánag in Curnydhá save one, or others from nearby ghís, but Mánd had likely not revealed them to her any more than he would have revealed her to them to prevent identities from falling into the hands of less accepting márbhyndhánis. She hoped to sound appalled that so many heretics had existed in the lands she had led. Any hint of support for them would cast suspicion on her.
Ombhrís scowled, not hearing or seeing what he expected. “So many young ones,” he sighed. “It wasn’t easy to punish them, as you can imagine.”
Curious how young he meant but not willing to ask what sort of punishment had been applied, she nodded sympathetically. “And none of them did this to me?”
“None were trained enough,” he admitted. It left few options for who could have attacked them, banished her. He knew it as surely as she did, even if he refused to acknowledge it. “You were sent to the land of the taeré? The others? From before? They survived?”
His curiosity was expected but the dark coloring of his words made her shiver. “From what I saw, many did. Cliáth. MacLyr. Curnydhá. Bhíncári. All of the old families, so many descendants. It was surprising to discover they thrived. Their territory is vast.” She did her best to sound more curious and intrigued than excited, impressed, or happy for their success.
“I doubt that was the intent when they were sent away. Did they harm you? Were you ill-treated?” It did not appear so, but the thought that the heretics could have prospered as anything other than wild heathens without the benefit of their homeland’s support and the trappings of dhóbhaen civilization was disappointing.
There had been great minds upon those gaeythá, some of the most gifted and learned men and women of their age. If death at the hands of taeré, the lengthy journeys at sea, or harsh foreign lands had not killed them, it was logical that those great names had found ways to survive and prosper until the Ceasing came.
“I was treated with generosity and respect, by both elyryhánag and taeré.” She did not mention that the Faith of Dhágdhuán thrived, that those exiles had, in many ways, grown beyond the society they were forced to leave behind, that they had abandoned their roots, their history, and built something new.
“They coexist peacefully?” That coexistence might be possible was more surprising, and distasteful, than the knowledge that the elyryhánag survived.
Having seen no evidence of prejudice between the peoples during her brief stay, there was no falsity in her claim. “du. I met the taeré kymyhé and her kin in a ghís the size of twenty Curnydhás. elyryhánag serve as her advisors …and have a ghísaer of their own beyond a great high range of mountains like ours.”
She spoke naught of intermarriages, for that practice was more intolerable to the dhóbhaen than the concept of Faith was. Revealing the accomplishments of the taeré was risky enough. It was a fine line between instilling wonder and respect and filling her people with heightened dread and distrust. The dhóbhaen already feared the violent taeré would overtake them if they ever mobilized enough to try.
Ombhrís shook his head again and ate a few silent bites. He had expected a tale of adversity, of deprivation, of sorrow, but it sounded as though she had experienced none of those things. What fates, he wondered as he pushed the last morsel of bread into his mouth, had placed her directly into the path of a man such as the one who waited outside? He knew nothing about the stranger, but he knew enough to fear him. He knew the prophecies. On appearance, the stranger met the requirements necessary to disrupt the dhóbhaen’s way of life.
“The fates favor you,” he finally murmured. “To return so quickly, you were lucky to find a vessel…”
His voice sounded both reticent and relieved at the same time, as if he, she thought bitterly, would have preferred fate to be less kind. Though it had been less than a year, her return had not been quick enough and so she shrugged as she interrupted him, wanting to undercut and erase the feelings his tone created. “I returned as I was sent. By rynlagne.”
He scowled. “You know how to…?”
She was grateful then that Kavan had not taught her that skill. Knowing would mean lying, and she believed Ombhrís would know if she was dishonest. He should also know that his query was absurd. “I only know the tales. I do not remember that night, but kydhé Cliáth brought me back through one in the mountains near Phaurd.”
“He is elyryhánag,” he spat, beginning to rise from his chair. Of course, Kavan was one of them. Trained or not, he was born of the blood of heretics. That he might be trained in the manner of the márbhyndhánis, that others like him could be, that they might now know, because of this adventurous kydhé, how to return to Dhóbhaen, made him apprehensive.
Ombhrís had not cleansed Curnydhá of twelve pheturphálóste to have another, one with enough training to use the rynlagne, surface among them. Though Ombhrís was no márbhyndhánis, it was impossible not to detect the strengths in the white-skinned man. If he felt it, others in Curnydhá would too.
That could be a dangerous thing.
“He saved my life, brought me home. He is kydhé, a generous man who means no harm to us. His people love him. He is Cliáth, the second of that lineage to stand in Curnydhá in generations. This is his home by ancestry and blood. It is his right to be here…”
“He is pheturphálós.”
“He cannot be a traitor if he was not born or raised here. He has nothing to betray. He only seeks knowledge. We shall leave him be, Ombhrís. He intends to see that I am safely settled then find a rynlagne to return to his sons and his…”
Rising the rest of the way, Ombhrís hissed, “He has done his duty and will leave at once. He is not welcome here. If he remains, he will be detained until he chooses to go. He cannot be allowed the liberty to voice his heresies, to poison our minds…”
“You have no cause or right to hold him. There has been no crime. I am kymyhé. We will offer him the hospitality of the dhóbhaen as is our way. I bid him welcome until he is ready to depart. I will not permit you to…”
Eyes narrowed, clawed hands gripping the table as he leaned across it to tower over her, he hissed with a feral curl of his lip, “You have been gone nearly a full turn of seasons. I am kydhé now. The márbhyndhánis, the people, bestowed that title. You cannot take what was legally given.”
She glared at him, unafraid of his ire. “Given only because I…”
He cut her off with a growl. “I am the better ruler to keep Curnydhá from being drawn into the ways of heretics and fools.”
“Better than whom?” In his voice, his choice of words, she heard something that filled her with alarm that went beyond the fear of his death, beyond the fear of losing Kavan. She subverted the fear, pushed slowly to her feet to level their gazes and take away any perceived advantage he felt he had. “How long did you wait?”
“For what?”
His abrupt confusion was honest, not calculated to avoid her question, and so she asked again. “How long did you wait before assuming the title?”
Confusion gave way to the return of anger and something she did not expect. Resentment. “Your brother fled, was suspect in your disappearance…and I am your husband. It was my duty to…”
“How long did you wait?” she repeated insistently. The custom was one year. In times of great turmoil, the time of waiting might be reduced at the márbhyndhánis’ discretion. The events of that night might have warranted a shortened period of waiting, but she wanted him to say it. She wanted to know how soon he had given up on her.
“The ghís was in an uproar. Everyone was afraid. Something needed to be done…”
“How long?”
The double doors flew open without the touch of any hands and Kavan stormed inside, her fear, her rising anger, her indignation drawing him in despite her bid for him to wait. Iólán was behind him, the one accused of her abduction, and several of the sailors who had brought both to Curnydhá stood over the zyrudhén they had subdued with little effort and no bloodshed. Crowds of townsfolk had gathered, led by a tall, boyish blonde woman with a child on her hip who looked as surprised and elated to see Raebhá as everyone else. The sounding of a ram’s horn announced the approach of the márbhyndhánis.
Ombhrís took the opportunity presented by the interruption to swipe the knife used to slice bread and cheese and with a swift movement caught Raebhá’s wrist, yanking her against him, the knife now pressed to the base of her throat.
“You have no place here, elyryhánag. Return to your lands and she will not be harmed!”
“Kavan.” Raebhá did not move, paralyzed by the unexpected events, by a threat made intended to drive the foreigner away. A threat against her that he could not mean. It went against everything the dhóbhaen believed. As if a foreigner should care about her life. She had said enough, however, about Kavan’s integrity, his kindness, his gallantry, to suggest that he did care, and his eruption through the door on her behalf served to strengthen that truth.
He cared. Perhaps too much.
Over Kavan’s shoulders, her eyes met those of her childhood friend; she was relieved to see that, whatever purging Ombhrís had done, Ephé, her husband, and child were safe.
Raebhá had not believed Ombhrís, in the short time she had known him, was capable of violence. There had been no reason to think so. She begged Ephé with a gesture to keep people back, begged Kavan with the fear in her eyes not to complicate the situation. His intrusion had cost her the answer she sought, truth she needed to hear.
Reluctant to admit Ombhrís meant her harm, trusting that he acted only in irrational fear of Kavan, Raebhá thought to talk him out of his anger, out of his dread, hoped she could still gain answers. She could only do so, however, if Kavan and the others left her alone with him.
Ombhrís assuming the title of kydhé mattered, but Raebhá could not accept the gnawing suspicion that hinted at something darker.
Kavan knew enough, knew from the man’s aura, the man’s unsaid thoughts that screamed like battle horns against the bard’s shielded mind, knew from the violent flash of emotion on his face, what sort of man Ombhrís was, what he was capable of. With an unforgiving glint in his eyes, an expression Kavan rarely wore, he dropped his chin to give his gaze a more aggressive cast and said tightly, “Release her.”
Quick footsteps came up the external stairs and the thirteen márbhyndhánis, men and women dressed in the robes and regalia of their office as if they had been awake for some time, poured into the room without dignity. They were stopped mid-step by the glance Kavan threw over his shoulder, held there, unable to lift their feet or to drop their arms to their sides by the power he commanded. When he looked back at Ombhrís, avoiding the plea in Raebhá’s eyes because he did not want to be swayed, he repeated, “You will release her…one way or another.”
“Kavan…dhysag.”
There was an unmistakable threat in his voice that made even Raebhá shudder as she strove to believe he would not kill merely to protect her from a threat she did not want to believe existed. The unmoving márbhyndhánis were an unsettling, inexplicable sight. The crowd outside drew back, as did the men who had sailed with them, though Ephé remained in the doorway. Iólán slid sideways to put distance between himself and the pale man. It was obvious he was responsible for holding the márbhyndhánis at bay, a feat of power that none had ever seen, that filled hearts with fear and wonder.
Ombhrís’ hand quaked and he moved his arm enough that the unsteady blade would not cut Raebhá’s skin. It gave her hope that the discrepancy between what her heart and head told her could not be real. He would not hurt her. He was her husband. He would never want her gone…or dead.
The two men glowered at one another as the power in the room palpably intensified. One did not need to be trained to feel it; they only had to be of the same blood, dhóbhaen and Elyri blood, to feel the weight of it in the air. Gradually, whether forced to do so or choosing to comply with the demands of an opponent he would be wise not to cross, Ombhrís dropped the knife.
It clattered to the floor, shattering the silence.
Unsettled by a turn of events he had not foreseen, he took the first offered out he saw, hoping that the people beyond the door, his people, who might hear what was happening, would believe the claims the márbhyndhánis had already offered.
“It was him!” Ombhrís’ explanation shattered the silence. He pointed at Iólán as he leaped back, pulling Raebhá with him. With his arm still tight around her, he did not need the knife to be a threat, though it was difficult to tell if he held her to hurt her, protect her, or protect himself. “He took her from me! Tried to kill us both…”
“I never…” Iólán began defensively, drawing closer to Kavan now in the expectation that the potent man who adored his sister enough to take on the márbhyndhánis would not believe the allegations and would shield him too.
“I know,” Raebhá proclaimed in a quiet hiss, her anger rising at the man who continued to trap her and dared to insult her brother. Iólán was younger, had less of a claim to the position of leadership than Raebhá, had no cause to turn against her. The people could have chosen him upon their father’s death, but they had chosen to follow dhóbhaen tradition and select the eldest. Iólán had never shown a desire for his lot in life to be any different. “Iólán would never betray me. Of all who could have…he’s the one I trust most not to.”
The accusation in her voice, in her eyes, as she yanked free of Ombhrís’ grasp and stepped beyond his reach, was turned back on the man she should have been able to trust with her life. “I never thought it would be you.”
They barely knew one another and there had not been time for affection to grow, but she could not believe he resented or hated her enough for this. There was no cause. She had never done anything to warrant betrayal.
With no one rushing to apprehend Iólán, no one daring to approach the stranger, and no obvious support from those held motionless without indication that they bore witness to what was happening, Ombhrís made another charge against Iólán and against the evil of the man attempting to stare him down. “He brings this elyryhánag to steal our sons and daughters! He is kyrónagk…has corrupted my wife and will bring destruction if we do not…”
The márbhyndhánis were unable to respond to the challenges and with no one moving against Iólán, Ombhrís turned his pleading eyes to Raebhá. “Can you not see the threat? No one should have such…”
“Yet I do.” Kavan’s words were slow and deliberate as he gradually released his hold on those who had charged into the room. When they were free of his control, the thirteen drew together into a huddle, silently deciding what to do with him, and with the husband and wife squared off over the right to rule the ghísaer of Gálínphel.
Only when his hold was relinquished, when his power was redirected to a watchful protectiveness, did Kavan speak again, his eyes on Ombhrís the entire time. “You train those with great power. I am no different. I am not bhydáni, márbhyndhánis; in Elyriá, only the very ancient are allowed that status…but I have trained with the most ancient and wisest. You do not want to cross me.”
His tone carried enough of a threat to give an additional warning weight to his words.
“You cross us by being here.”
What Kavan felt emanating from the mass behind him, behind the words spoken by one of them, filled him with indignation. He turned to face them, clamping down on the ball of power in his center. He had taken down powers greater than those present and he was not afraid to do so again if any of them dared to threaten or harm Raebhá.
“What are you?”
A sound, footsteps and then an exhaled breath of surprise as Raebhá was pushed to the floor in his passing, heralded Ombhrís’ movement, his rush to stop the one who threatened to expose him while his back was turned. One hand shot out to stop him without touching him. There was power enough in the act to hurl Ombhrís against the stone and timber wall and hold him there. Ombhrís squawked and bellowed in fury, “I am kydhé!”
“Raebhá is kymyhé,” Iólán shouted, the rawness of nerves and anger stripping away his remaining composure as he caught his sister’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Those paying attention noted her condition in the way she had fallen, in the way she rose, but their focus was on Kavan and Ombhrís. Ombhrís did not notice. By the time Iólán added, “You are a fraud! An imposter! A thief!”, her long skirts and the cloak she wore again covered the secret she carried.
“And a liar.” Raebhá shook free of her brother’s grasp and with one hand on Kavan’s, gently forced him to lower his arm, encouraging him to release Ombhrís. Kavan’s hand dropped beneath her tender effort but Ombhrís remained unable to move. Swallowing frustration, Raebhá crossed the room, glaring at the man who had threatened her life not once, but twice, possibly three times. “You orchestrated the attack, my abduction, to assume leadership of Curnydhá.”
He had not said it, but she believed it to be true.
“You do not deserve the power you were given,” he spat, his lack of denial proof enough of his actions. It also suggested accomplices, at least one of whom possessed enough power and training to manipulate the rynlagne.
