White Pagan, page 70
part #6 of Kestrel Harper Saga Series
Iólán was not coward enough to do such a thing.
He chose to trust that the rest of Curnydhá was likewise inclined.
Chapter 37
“I miss Kavan.”
Diona was the first to say what many in Rhidam had felt for weeks. No longer did Kavan live in the Lachlan palace as he had when Diona had been a child, his duties as the Duke of Alberni now taking precedent. The woman knew that her foolish youthful errors had cost her and future generations of Lachlans the constancy of the Elyri bard who had faithfully served her father. If not for her crass missteps, he might have remained in Rhidam for the remainder of his days, serving generations of the family just as he had served Arlan.
The Second Elyri Persecution, however, might still have been enough to expel him from Enesfel. Or cost him his life.
Knowing what she knew now, details she had never shared with Merrek or any of her children, Diona could not help but wonder if events had fallen into place as they were meant to. Kavan’s journey had removed him from the violence in Rhidam and had brought back hope to the Sovereignties in the shape of relics of power that had aided in the cleansing of a malignancy that had grown beneath the surface of the world for too long. He would not have undertaken that journey of healing, for his hands, his soul, and the world, if not for Diona’s lapse in good sense.
But it made those painful memories no easier to bear during his absences. Over the years, Kavan had been away from Rhidam for a week or more, but those in the keep had usually known where to find him, had been confident of his return. Unable to go back to Bhryell without risking incarceration by agents of the Faith, he would be in Alberni, Fiara, Káliel, or Kílyn, if not Rhidam…or somewhere not far from those places.
This absence of nearly nine months was troublesome, made more so by the calamities that she and the prince-regent were forced to shoulder without Kavan’s counsel.
Shoulder it they had, far better, Diona believed with a sigh, then she might have alone.
“And I miss my son.” Merrek rose from his chair to pace the room, a shadow of King Arlan although Merrek carried no more Lachlan blood than did the healer who watched from the window seat where he struggled to sketch the images he had seen during his recent blackout. “When do you think he can return home, Lord Healer?”
Ártur’s hand stopped moving. “Who, my lord?”
“Lorant. Kavan. Both.” The blonde prince, the one feature that stood him out as not truly of the Lachlan legacy, paused in his pacing to peer over the healer’s shoulder at the mountain range he was sketching onto canvas. “They’ve been gone too long.”
Raking his empty hand through his pale red hair, Ártur sighed. “There have been no new cases of plague in weeks, but that does not mean it is behind us. It only means those living have developed a resistance to it. If we bring the Prince back…”
“You said yourself that the Yellow Death was in Bhryell. How do we know he’s still…?”
“Chethá would alert us if he were ill or in danger.” Just as, he thought with a heavy sigh, they had told of his brother’s death and his father’s blindness when he had dared to resume communication with his daughter. It had taken every ounce of will for Ártur to stay away, will and a threat from his father to disown him and his entire family if he came and brought sickness with him. As that threat would have, no doubt, included Llucás and Chethá, Ártur reluctantly kept his distance and mourned his family alone with his wife.
He had not yet been able to visit his brother’s grave.
“As for…perhaps Kavan is in Alberni even now.” Ártur doubted it was true. Even with chaos and death to confront in Alberni, the duties of a long-absent lord to resume to make peace with a city that had suffered too long without him, if Kavan had returned, Ártur believed he would know. The bond between them still felt stretched too thin, and the efforts Ártur made to make contact across those miles brought only an echo. Kavan was still beyond his reach. “I could go there, see if he is…bring him…”
“See Dhóri yourself.” Níkóá’s tale of miraculous healing had been shared with them and had filtered through the palace staff from one eavesdropping servant to the next until it had been distorted into a tale of the White Bard’s return to save his son. Tusánt had brought stories of offerings made to the náós in the names of both Kóráhm and Kavan, equally revered now, both offered prayers for mercy and healing from a community wounded and lost after so much death and suffering. For the first time since the Second Persecution, Rhidam as a whole was begging for the return of the one Elyri known to bring miracles and healing of a sort no physician, no healer, could provide. They wanted his voice, his words, his song, and his touch.
Wherever Kavan was, he had no idea of what awaited his return.
“Yes, my lord. I should see Dhóri and Rhyrdan, Emeria and the others. Yóáná is a fine healer; I have every faith in her…”
“But you would feel better if you saw them yourself.” Merrek understood. He felt the same about his absent son.
The double doors of the dayroom opened and a weary, bedraggled-looking Bhyrhán trudged in behind the pages that opened it for him. Having been accepted as family, an extension of the queen, he came and went as he pleased throughout the palace much of the time. He had been absent from Rhidam for nearly two weeks and all within the room knew what his return meant.
Ártur dropped his stylus, splattering ink across his knee as it fell to clatter on the floor.
“Pardon the intrusion and my…” He looked down at himself. “It is raining in Clarys.”
“No apologies.” Diona went to him, needing no eyesight to find him. The growing link between them brought on by the constant sharing of vision served as a bond that required no sight to follow. Nor did she need eyes to tell that he was wet. And sad. “Is she…?”
“My niece Phílóá is Kyne…there was no disagreement by the k’lómesté…the reins of power have transferred smoothly. She is a good and wise choice.”
Of those in the room, only Ártur showed surprise, but none except him and Bhyrhán knew how young the new Kyne was. At barely thirty-five, not yet with children of her own, barring unusual events, Phílóá had every chance of ruling Elyriá longer than her great-grandmother had done. Ártur did not know her, had never met her, but he had learned a great deal about the High Mother’s family through Bhyrhán. If he thought Phílóá was a good choice, as Mórne had, then her appointment was a good thing.
“We must send condolences…and our felicitations on her appointment.” Diona had been the first Lachlan, since her grandfather, to have met with the High Mother of Elyriá and she had felt an instant kinship with the ancient leader. They had maintained contact throughout Diona’s reign and Diona had frequently sought counsel from the woman who had centuries more experience than Diona could ever hope to have. She likewise hoped for a positive relationship with the new Kyne, if Phílóá was willing.
“Indeed. We should invite her to Rhidam, should she be willing to come.” To the prince’s knowledge, there had never been a Kyne in Rhidam except perhaps in some ancient history that predated settlement beyond the Llaethlágárá. After the First Great Persecution, it had never been deemed safe enough for an Elyri of such status to take the risk. Merrek hoped, thanks to Kavan’s efforts years before, that might change. Other than a few incidents of rioting which occurred after the death of k’gdhededhá Claide, there had been no anti-Elyri deaths reported to the Crown in over twenty years. It was the safest window of opportunity for such a visit. Merrek hoped to coax the new Kyne to come.
He was more than willing, if necessary, to go to her instead.
“She will be in isolation until the next moon, seeing no one except advisors and the k’lómesté…but I will see that she is given the invitation as soon as possible,” Bhyrhán agreed. “May I have leave to be out of these clothes?”
“Aye,” Merrek said. “Welcome home, Lord Bhíncári.”
***
It was daybreak before Raebhá emerged from the dhó dónáré, now with Ágdhállán in her arms as it had been easier to deliver the hungry infant to her than for the woman to leave, interrupting the conclave, to feed him multiple times. Delivering his son to his mother prompted Kavan to take a watchful position on the steps of the dhó dónáré, where he remained throughout the night, despite his weariness and continuing unsettled center, taking no chance that his attacker would come for either the child or his mother.
He could have begun the hunt for his assailant, but he did not feel either child or mother would be safe without him nearby. There were zyrudhén posted here, but their presence did not reassure him. The glances he was given as he crouched beside the door, the stares of both esteem and fear as villagers took to the new day’s duties, filled him with further distrust. Those who had not resumed fishing or tending crops and herds had returned to clearing away the rubble of collapsed structures and preparing brick and lumber for the necessary repairs.
The whispers of ‘róagdháthé’ did not comfort him, though other words, murmured gratitude for saving their lives, for saving their flocks and fields, for saving their ghís, helped soothe his frayed nerves.
Kavan wanted to help the rebuilding efforts, felt he owed the Kindred that much, but he could not tear himself away from his family.
When she came out, accepting his cradling arm around her shoulders, Raebhá seemed tense, uneasy, disappointed despite her relief at seeing Kavan there. She smiled wanly and let him steer her home, cracked and damaged in the shaking but still standing. Audh and Iólán followed, speaking in low, hushed voices that Kavan made no efforts to overhear. Their business was their own.
When they followed into the house, as more dhóbhaen emerged into the streets to begin their day, Kavan eyed them curiously. Raebhá sat at the hearth, feeding Ágdhállán while Iólán built a fire and Audh brought bread and cheese from cupboards as if he had been here before and knew where everything was kept.
“Do not be disheartened, kymyhé,” Audh murmured. “This fight is not lost. We have but to sway…”
“If an attack on me…on Kavan and my child…does not sway them…” She shook her head. Though she understood that such significant changes to the foundations of their society would take time, she had hoped that recent events would be enough to spur the márbhyndhánis to swift action.
“They only know that it was violence…”
Iólán snorted. “Violence that some continue to blame on you, kydhé, wrong as they know they are.” He looked at Kavan as he ignited the fire with his handlight. “The argument that you brought…”
“This started the night I was struck and sent away,” Raebhá huffed bitterly. Those afraid of change and those in favor of it were all using Kavan as an excuse to bolster their argument. Thus far, she had not found a way to reach her dissenters, but she was confident she would, in time. “Before that…with the plotting and planning of their own with Ombhrís. None deny it…and they know Kavan had no hand in that. They already acknowledge where the guilt and responsibility…”
Audh clasped her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “du, but acknowledgment is not the same as acceptance,” The márbhyndhánis smiled at Kavan and removed his hands. “Do not mistake me…you have our sincerest gratitude. Many would be dead, Curnydhá washed to sea, if not for you, but to witness such a feat…we shall never see anything else like that, I assure you.”
Kavan bowed his head, accepting the words of thanks as the apology Audh intended them to be.
“Winning the support of the márbhyndhánis will not easily sway people…in Curnydhá, in Gálínphel…throughout Dhóbhaen.” She was only at the start of the battle. She could not give up yet, no matter how frustrated she felt at the creeping pace of progress. “Even if we…there will be repercussions, matters of trade, debates that will go on for years.” Raebhá sighed and reached for Kavan’s hand. “We have suffered so much loss at the mercy of the sea. Recovery will take much of our focus for some time.”
Sitting beside her, her brother propped his feet on the stones in front of the fire and wiped the dust from his boots. “Thanks to kydhé, there is far less damage here, less death than there could have been. We can rebuild…and the dead are relatively few. The ash is being prepared and most of the scattered herds have been recovered. We have the resources to aid others. We will survive this and in time, you will prevail…”
“The other ghís?” asked Kavan.
Her expression fell and she sighed as Audh replied, “Word is starting to return. Judging on what we have here…what we could have had, what we are beginning to hear, I fear there is much damage and death. As we are fortunate to have you here, we will do as we have always done. Help. Win support through kindness; in time Gálínphel will accept whatever ruling is made here because of it.”
Raebhá wanted to believe Audh’s optimism. She had not expected change to be easy, knew that what she might win in Curnydhá could be lost when the full council of márbhyndhánis from across Dhóbhaen convened next. It might be a struggle that lasted for decades. In combination with the wave’s aftermath, the fight would consume all of her waking hours, or a great portion of it. Despite her steadfastness to the ideals, she was beginning to glimpse the toil Kavan had hinted at and the future that lay in wait for her.
“Have you found…?”
“I would not leave you,” Kavan grunted. “Not until you are safe.”
“We are safe.” Her hand trailed down his cheek. Having Ombhrís at large was nerve-wracking, but Kavan’s proximity made that threat seem less real. His response to her confidence was a dour snort of disbelief. He knew as she did that the threat was not past. Whoever had tried to burn her home, Ombhrís or someone else, would not stop at a single failed attempt.
“You will be, once the bhur are satisfied,” Audh agreed, though with less faith in those words than he wanted to convey.
“The pyres are ready. We will mourn at sunset. That will help.” Iólán had been the only one of them involved in recovering the dead, removing debris, beginning Curnydhá’s road to recovery. Raebhá and the remaining márbhyndhánis had other matters to tend to and Kavan had, during most of that time, been in recovery from his efforts to save them and tending his newborn child. Kavan had given enough.
Audh agreed. “Then we will discuss the elevation of novices.”
“Why do we need…?” began Iólán sullenly. “There are others with fewer…”
“Tradition,” Audh shrugged.
“Are there even three to be elevated?” There were nearly a dozen novices in Curnydhá, but most were children. She did not think most were old enough, skilled enough, to qualify for elevation.
“There are two, perhaps. There may be others in other ghís…if they have survived the sea…who are willing to come to us. If not,” he shrugged again, “we will have to be content with what we have. We’re asking them to change other traditions…we cannot expect them to change all at once unless necessity forces us to do so. When the dead rest and three are in place, we’ll continue what we’ve started. For now, we must consider the people…and rest.”
The future of those held for Reconditioning would not be decided until they were freed and their former fellows could judge their fitness to return to the status of márbhyndhánis.
Raebhá believed demanding elevation was a tactic to delay the consideration of her demands, but the residents of Curnydhá were as mentally and physically exhausted as Raebhá was and would face a long night ahead when the dead were burned.
The delays would not derail the inevitable debate. Not if the weary determination in Raebhá’s eyes was an indicator.
“You must do likewise, taeásne,” Iólán murmured embracing her with his cheek pressed to hers. “Kavan will watch over you.” He did not need to look at the bard for confirmation. “He will keep you safe.”
She nodded but did not speak as she chewed bread and pensively watched the pair of men leave. Ágdhállán shifted in her arms, his hands and feet flexing as he stretched and yawned now that his belly was full. Her gaze dropped, staring at him for several minutes, marveling at the strength of this premature child, the tiny miracle trusting her, falling asleep in her arms, but not without one outstretched hand closed around Kavan’s finger.
“The bond between you is a good thing; it will be needed,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.
The sound made him frown but he replied, “I believe in strong bonds between parents and children.” Even if he had failed Dhóri in leaving him to face the Yellow Death alone.
“Because you did not have that bond yourself.” She bent forward and pressed her forehead to Kavan’s, the action a reflection of her weariness. “He will not be safe here, aislé.”
“He will be. I swear it.” He was determined to make it so.
The finite tone of his voice kept her from saying more, cut short the expression of fears and truths she was beginning to see from a perspective Kavan did not share. What he wanted would not be. Ombhrís was not the only threat she could foresee.
“I will sleep.” Sleep was a better choice than an argument, after a day of other arguments that had been no more productive than this one could be. She gave Ágdhállán to Kavan and curled up where she sat before the hearth. “Bring him when he must feed, and please,” she caught Kavan’s hand and held it tightly. “Do not leave me.”
“Never, Raebhá. I will never leave you.”
She smiled, melancholic and forlorn, before closing her eyes. They both knew their future would not be so easily decided. How they would keep such promises was an argument to be held another time.
