The Crow's Cry

“Hardly appropriate for a lady to eat without offering food to her companions,” Soldor enjoined dryly.

She flung the chicken leg at him.

“A lady never gives way to displays of temper. She always behaves with grace and decorum,” Soldor said.

Arran smiled. Anlaida scowled.

:D That was funny! I like the way you include humor in this story without distracting for the main event and what's going on.
 
Mostaras greeted Arran with a welcoming smile when he entered the dining hall the next morning; but it was a smile for a stranger. Her husband, it seemed, had never met a stranger. He clapped Arran on the back and showed him to the dais, a low platform reserved for the castle lord’s family and close friends. A low wall, built of white granite and hung about with broidered drapery, encircled the dais, providing the lord with some measure of privacy. Four hands below the wall, their table offered up the breakfast preferred in that region: baked fruits, small wheaten cakes, and a heaping bowl of goat’s cheese. Arran sat down eagerly; and, at Bryn’s gentle nudge, Mostaras allowed her husband to seat her. She smiled at Arran uncertainly. “You’ve certainly grown since I saw you last. How old are you now?”

“Seventeen,” said Arran, his spine arching like a cat’s. The People never asked such a question to a friend. “Have you been over the Kirac since you came here?”

Mostaras straightened, surprised at the question. “Once,” she said. “It was important to Bryn.”

“Because they are cousins?”

“Sisters, he calls our two places,” she said. “Sisters over the water, Iredail and Orrinshad. I had thought Iredail was ours when I came here. I was wrong. She has her own way—”

Soldor clomped up the steps, and Mostaras stilled. “Brother,” she called him, and smiled.

He scooted in; the chair screeched. “Can I eat now?”

“No,” said Mostaras. “We have to wait until everyone is seated. Everyone means everyone. You see?”

“You’re like Anlaida,” he said.

“How is Anlaida?” Mostaras asked.

“She knows what’s best for me,” said Soldor blandly, leaning back.

“Soldor—in all seriousness—”

Anlaida set her foot on the first of the three steps that led up to the dais. “A good morning, Mostaras,” she said. Arran saw the brightness of her dark eyes and guessed that she had not heard her sister’s question.

Bryn pulled his chair between Mostaras and Soldor and beckoned the others to serve themselves. Anlaida hesitated, shot a sidelong glance at Mostaras, hesitated again, and reached eagerly for a serving spoon.

The goat cheese was strange on Arran’s tongue. The People had sometimes made cheese of mare’s milk, but their process was so elaborate that they rarely made it. Arran had tasted the mare’s cheese only twice in his four years with them; and the goat cheese was as different in flavor from that cheese as from cow’s milk. But he spread the wheaten cakes with it, ignoring the tang of it.

“Lord Denath’s party is expected to arrive tomorrow?” Soldor asked.

“I’ve not seen you in so long,” said Mostaras. “I thought that we needed an extra day.”

Anlaida smiled.

Soldor scooped baked plum onto his dish. “Is the riding good hereabouts?”

“I think you’ll find it satisfactory,” said Bryn. “You are welcome to ride with me this morning, if you have the time.”

“Of course.” Soldor swiped a linen napkin across his mouth.

“Would you like to come, Arran?” Bryn turned to him. “I think my wife and our sister will be having their own time.”

Arran nodded.

“If you need to change into riding things, then go ahead. I’ll meet you at the stables.” Bryn shoved back his chair and unfolded himself.

Soldor stood. “In fifteen minutes, then, so long as I can find my way in this cottage of yours.”

Arran had no riding clothes, and he followed Bryn to the stables. By smell, he could tell no difference between these stables and those at Jadoth. Horses, manure, and leather battled for dominance, and manure won. Kicking straw aside, he stepped farther in.

“Do Northlanders really eat horses?” Bryn said, opening the third stall.

“Yes. But not,” Arran said, “horses like these”—and he gestured to the handsome black the Iredail lord was guiding into the aisle. “Common wild horses. Useful as pack ponies, if you want pack ponies, but good for little else. And they bite. I tried to tame a colt once. He decorated my shoulder.” Arran pushed his sleeve up, showing a long white scar.

Bryn laughed. “I suppose I’d be willing to eat them too, after that. Hold him, will you? He’s Caslan, and he won’t pay you nevermind unless you make him mind.”

Grinning, Arran took the dark creature’s reins and wrapped them about his palm, the leather smooth on his skin. Bryn went to the next stall and led out a leggy gray mare. “Gleanna,” he said. “She’ll be yours, if you don’t mind a lady.”

“Looks to me as she can hold her own.” Arran took Gleanna’s reins in exchange for Caslan, who stepped sideways during the half-second his reins were between hands. Bryn grabbed at the reins and jerked Caslan to his original position. “New horse?” Arran asked.

“Two years old,” said Bryn. “A good mount once he’s trained. But this one doesn’t much like training.”

“You like him?”

“His father was the best horse in Iredail,” Bryn said. “By my father’s opinion. And my father was a horseman born.”

Arran nodded.

“I’ll leave Soldor to choose his own mount.” Bryn stepped nearer Caslan, rubbing his hair up, bristles stickling beneath his fingers. “You ride much?”

“This spring I’ve done some,” Arran said.

The stable door banged hollow on the wall, and Soldor came in, kicking hay aside. He wore a dark blue riding suit and scratched at it as if it had fleas. “What am I riding?”

Bryn handed Caslan’s reins to Arran and tugged open the fourth stall door on the left, leading out a twitch-eared gelding. It sniffed at Soldor, heaved its chest, and clomped grudgingly toward the stable door. Bryn grabbed its bridle and saddled it before it could wander any further.

“Fynn-roddan,” Bryn introduced the animal, which flung its brown head and stood stiffly as Soldor pulled into the saddle.

“Best-natured beast I’ve ever seen.” Soldor dug his heel into Fynn-roddan’s side as Bryn and Arran mounted.

“Pure Iredail breed,” Bryn said, clucking to Caslan. “Touchy creatures until they trust you.” Caslan balked, and Bryn slapped the reins sharply against his neck. “But grand for riding—or racing.”

“Years since I’ve seen a horse race.” Soldor’s horse seemed willing enough to follow Caslan, even if it did not care for its rider.

“I ought to announce one, then.” Bryn saw a groom stumping past with a bucket and pile of new straw. “Marlon?”

The man jerked about. “Aye, sir?”

“See that the baron’s carriage is examined and mended, if need be. Anaroc is hard on anything without feet.”

“Before you return, then,” Marlon said, and pushed the straw up on his shoulder.

“Couldn’t you put the straw in that bucket, man? Save yourself some trouble.”

Marlon flushed red and cast his eyes about. “I was in a hurry. I—I’m still in a hurry. Good ride to you.” He tromped off with his bucket and armful of straw while Bryn laughed.

“If there’s a hard way to do a thing, Marlon will find it,” he said, smiling and nudging Caslan with his knee. “But he’s a good man, for it all.”

Arran’s horse obediently stepped toward the castle gate, and Arran felt suddenly grateful that Gleanna was clearly not Iredail bred.
 
The People never asked such a question to a friend.

What, are they from Hollywood? :cool:

...and manure won.

Reminds me of "I fought the law, and the law won." :D
 
Carefully they edged down the castle hill, leaning backwards for balance. Fynn-roddan and Caslan offered no resistance. Evidently both had decided that broken legs were too high a price for a few seconds of entertainment. Once on the main road, however, the two managed to show themselves sufficiently. Fynn-roddan balked every few rods, while Caslan’s sudden movements might have toppled a lesser rider from his back.

Arran sat easy on Gleanna. “Where are we headed?”

Bryn nodded toward the east. “Creggan Torr is a high mountain, and we’d need a day to reach the summit, but there’s a ridge along the side of it that we can ride and be back by noontime.”

The roads curled about the low hills like smoke about a chimney, and it was on the sharpest turns that Arran learned to admire the Iredail breed. Though Caslan and Fynn-roddan had been primarily bred for racing, they left their high spirits at the curve of the road and stepped easily along. Gleanna was the one more easily distracted, and Arran kept a constant watch over her hooves, lest she should trip over an edge and tumble them both down a hill.

Small stone cottages, standing in the slope of every knoll, seemed to scatter animals like seedlings across the valleys. Cattle and goats usually avoided the roads, but bunches of white sheep planted themselves on dirt paths like wayward cotton. “Ever go lamb hunting?” Soldor said to Bryn, who shook his head.

“What do you hunt around here? Deer?” Arran nudged Gleanna around yet another oblivious clump of ewes.

“Deer. Boar, sometimes. Farmers bring in rabbits, but hunting of them isn’t something you do on horseback. They sell us wild fowl on occasion.”

“Hunted or trapped?”

“It’s a long thing if you want to trap a duck,” said Bryn. “They hunt, with dogs.”

Arran guided Gleanna down a short incline, deeply rutted by the wheels of a farmer’s wagon. “You have dogs?”

“A few,” said Bryn. “But I don’t use them if we have company.”

“It’s never made sense to me,” Soldor said, “why Midlanders are so offended by hunting with dogs.”

Bryn shrugged. “You’ve read their poets. It’s not genteel to let dogs tear up game.”

“So they can tear it up more effectively for supper.”

Arran smiled. “Invite them hunting of a time. They’ll see well enough that a trained dog does nothing like.”

“It would hardly matter,” Bryn said. “For a people so wise to the world, they have incredibly weak stomachs.”

Soldor laughed.

The path sloped upward suddenly; Arran leaned forward in his saddle and urged Gleanna forward. As they plodded upward, the incline slowly eased. Creggan Torr, gray and green in the morning, rose ahead of them.

Bryn straightened in the saddle, quiet as he guided them through a trail of coarse grass that led up the mountain. Arran followed gravely, through low bushes and patches of broken stone.

Soldor struggled up the slope, muttering at his horse from time to time, but the other two did not speak. They curved around the side of the mountain and continued upward. The higher they climbed, the scarcer the vegitation: soon, only a few scrubby trees stubbornly bound their roots about the rocks of the mountainside.

At last Bryn drew Caslan to a halt. “Look,” he said.

Before them spread the countryside of Iredail: the castle at Creggan Bronn; the low hills dappled by clusters of brown village; and, to the west, the green river Kirac, flowing beneath the blue mountains of Orrinshad.

“It was in these hills that we lost ourselves,” Bryn said softly, to Arran. “The Kyrloghid, we call it. Did your mother tell you?”

The rhythm and consonants flowed through his mind like the river Kirac. Arran could see them, knew them, but could not place them. He looked at Bryn.

“It was on this very ground,” Bryn said, “that Areir Darinac, the Last One, great leader of the clans, fought alone against Udroth, general of the Axelarrain. Udroth was a tall man, seven feet high, or so the stories say. And Areir Darinac had been sorely wounded. Udroth killed him that day. And thus Iredail was taken. Severed from Orrinshad, and made a province of Axelarre.”

“What are you talking about?” Soldor asked, nudging Fynn-roddan toward them.

“Only the costs of living in the world.” Bryn gestured toward the valley. “The view is worth the ride, would you agree?”

Soldor frowned, but said only, “It is. Have you ever ridden to the peak?”

“The higher trails are too steep for a horse,” Bryn said. “But I have been there, yes.”

Arran looked across the river to Orrinshad and remembered a song of his mother’s. “We had better ride back,” he said. Soldor would never understand this place, and he was not eager to stand on Areir Darinac’s death-place discussing the climbing abilities of four-legged creatures.

Soldor looked across the valley and smiled. “It’s a pretty view, but I can almost smell dinner cooking.”

“Goat cheese,” said Bryn, winking. He turned Caslan back toward the trail, humming.

Arran followed him, gazing one last time at the river Kirac. Gleanna managed better on the trek down the mountain than she had initially, keeping her footing sure and only hesitating twice.

They circled through the hilly maze of green, winding back toward the castle. Bryn hummed in bits, his eyes tracing the dark hills of Anaroc on the eastern horizon. Arran knew the tune, but again could not place it. He watched a thin boy, baggy trousers held up by a length of rope wound about his waist, chasing sheep. Another boy, taller, came from behind the hill and bellowed something at the younger one, who stopped, tripped over a sheep, and landed hard on his rear.

“That goat’s cheese at breakfast—” he said.

“Yes?” Bryn looked over his shoulder.

“Most of these people raise sheep.”

“A few raise goats,” Bryn said. “Usually only a few. Goats were our livelihood once—but no more.”

With Soldor near, Arran did not want to ask for the story behind Bryn’s statement. Considering Arran’s involvement with the People, Bryn’s tales of past glory might be too much for Soldor to ignore.

But Bryn, knowing this, began to sing the song he had been humming since their trip up the mountain.

“’Ferryman, where is your boat?
Why is the water still?
Who has feared the wandering goats
That used to roam the hill?’

“’My boat lies hidden in the reeds
Along the water’s edge.
The Kirac’s depths rolls silently
And sink too dark to dredge.

“’The looming hills of Anaroc
Fall black upon the wave,
And worlds that wander west of them
A man can scarcely save.’”​

Almost Arran could hear his mother singing it. He passed Gleanna’s reins from one hand to the other, gripping them tightly.

“That’s not the sort of music you’ll have at the banquet, I hope?” Soldor called, lightly, from behind them.

“I’ll have all the lutes and crook-horns I can find, for you,” Bryn called back in the same tone. “For me—ear cotton!”

They arrived at Creggan Bronn laughing, with Bryn and Soldor trading good-natured jibes. They passed through the gate and were turning toward the stable when Marlon, with a grease-marked face, ran to them.

“Lord Bryn!”

“Aye?” Bryn said. “Has something—”

Marlon wiped dirty hands on his leather breeches. “Lord Soldor’s carriage, sir. It’ll have to be mended, and the sooner the better.”

Soldor leaned forward in his saddle. “Why? Speak up, man.”

“The foreaxle,” Marlon said. “It’s been sawn partway through, and cracked another fourth of the way across. Pass through the hills of Anaroc once more, and it’ll break completely. And then—well.”
 
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Good description of horse behavior; and a nice dash of mystery about the sabotaged axle. But I urge you to do what I do: provide your readers with a summary of what came before.

>> Who has feared the wandering goats
>> That used to roam the hill?


Are you sure you didn't mean to ask who FRIGHTENED AWAY the goats?
 
I wrote it that way because of the meter; perhaps another verb would call less attention to itself. I should revise it sometime, I guess.
 
Hurray! :D An update!

...But now I've forgotten much of what happened. :rolleyes: I plan to re-read your story when I get the chance. ^.^
 
The story so far: After Hadoth's failed attempt to kill Arran and Soldor, things seemed to settle down in the Northland, although the man who presumably hired Hadoth is still unknown. But then a kitchen aide is mysteriously murdered, and Soldor announces that he intends to go forward with his plans to marry Linnerill, a rather lifeless Midland noblewoman. Arran and Anlaida are to meet her for the first time at Creggan Bronn in Iredail, where Anlaida's full sister Mostaras lives with her husband, Bryn, Lord of Iredail. They arrive safely, a day ahead of Linnerill and her father, Lord Denath of Salenna. But then a stable hand's routine inspection of their carriage reveals that someone had tampered with the foreaxle, and that someone still wants Soldor dead.
________________________________________

Soldor paced the floor of Bryn’s study, his arms crossed over his chest. “Another of my guards. Only this time—”

Bryn stood near the window, and Arran against the wall, while Mostaras and Anlaida sat together on padded chairs near the desk. Soldor and Bryn had gone to examine the carriage, and Marlon’s report had proved correct. The half-sawn foreaxle might or might not have killed them, depending upon the time it broke; but, sure method or not, it was clear that Soldor’s enemy retained his ambitions.

“There’s no chance that it might have been done here?” Anlaida asked.

“No.” Soldor stared at the floor, brooding.

“The cut is old,” Bryn said. “And it’s cracked since then—a sign of travel. But that the carriage is borden wood, the foreaxle would have broken on your first journey.”

“I suppose I could fire all the guards I’m not certain of,” Soldor said, sighing. “I’d retain Clentos, of course, and—a few others.”

“And then hire more guards that you’re not sure of?” Arran asked. “It’s unlikely Allim’s murderer was a guard, and if he and your enemy are one and the same—”

“We can’t be certain on either of those points.”

“But firing most of your guard would be foolish.” Mostaras stood and walked to her brother, laying a hand on his arm. “Hold joy nearer than grief, and enemies than companions. Or so the saying is.”

“This is growing old.” Soldor folded his arms and looked at the wall.

“For your enemy, may it grow even older,” said Bryn. “But Mostaras is right. Watch your guard, if you must. And do not forget that there may be ways into Jadoth Rock that do not require a man to be dwell there.”

“There are ways,” Soldor admitted. “For times of trouble. But, aside from my captain, none but my household would know of them.”

“Are there any others?” Bryn asked.

“Kalon our uncle lived at Jadoth as a child.” Soldor turned toward Bryn. “He was in the area on the day we left. And he stands the most to gain from my death.”

“But he’s not a quiet man,” Arran said. “To slip in, unnoticed—he could not have done it himself.”

“A servant?” Mostaras asked.

Arran nodded. “There were servants with him.”

“He showed himself,” said Anlaida. “If he had truly intended such a thing, would he have risked bidding a farewell to us?”

“Does Kalon ever think before he acts?” Soldor shook his head.

“Your enemy does.” Arran leaned forward. “He’s attempted in three ways to end your life. And all three were by stealth.”

Soldor opened his mouth, and then, finding nothing to say, shut it.

“Mostaras,” Bryn said, looking out the window.

“Aye?” she said.

“Was Lord Denath supposed to arrive tomorrow?”

“Aye—”

“This is tomorrow, then.”

She moaned and went to the window. “I’ll have to see that their rooms are prepared,” she sighed, and went out. Anlaida followed her.

Arran stepped over to the window and looked out. An ornate red coach, trimmed in gold, was heaving its way up the slope of Creggan Bronn. “Fancy fellow, isn’t he?”

“Lord Denath will my father-in-law,” Soldor said, standing stiff.

“A Denna-style, that.” Bryn nodded toward the coach.

“I’m not betrothed to his coach.” Soldor adjusted his jacket. “I’m betrothed to his daughter, and I’m going to greet her. Now.” He left.

“A happy man,” Bryn said.

Arran shrugged, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Isn’t there some other woman he could wed?”

Arran looked up. “Not a noblewoman.”

“Her rank matters to him?”

“Not truly, I don’t think,” Arran said, sighing.

Bryn frowned. “Her wealth?”

“The Northland doesn’t lack in money, and money can buy what friendship lacks.”

Bryn glanced again through the window toward the toiling scarlet coach. “Then why?”

“To prove that he can,” Arran said. “I don’t know.”

Bryn shook his head. “And he won’t be talked out of it?”

“Who would talk him out of it?” Arran asked. “He’s not only the oldest son, he’s the oldest child. Anlaida has done her best. He won’t listen. The closest older relative we have is Kalon, who—”

“I see.” Bryn frowned at the coach, thinking. Then he and Arran turned from the window to the door. In the courtyard they would soon have several very interesting guests to welcome.
 
Lord Denath’s name meant “Denna-man” in the Old Tongue, and he looked like a subject of Denaton as he dismounted from the flashy carriage. Sporting a black coat with long tails, wide folded cuffs, and an abundance of silver braid, he was rather difficult not to notice.

Arran stood beside Anlaida at a window above the courtyard. Decorum required neither of them to greet Lord Denath or his daughter, and, for once, Anlaida seemed to lack her usual overenthusiasm for propriety.

“Now that’s a man who wears his wealth,” Arran said, being careful not to lean past the curtains. Decorum might not require his presence, but it did require that he refrain from open spying.

“Not well,” said Anlaida shortly. Her fingers played with the curtain ropes, braiding and unbraiding their tassles.

At the carriage door a white slipper appeared just beneath the light silk hems of a gown. A girl stepped down, with tow-colored hair slumping to her shoulders in what had once been ringlets.

“She won’t even look at him,” Anlaida sighed.

“You mean Soldor?”

“Who else?” Unconsciously Anlaida twisted the curtain ropes.

“She’s looking at him now,” said Arran. He leaned forward slightly. “No, never mind. That’s her father’s coattail she’s looking at. Surprised if she’s not half blind with all the silver braid tacked onto it.”

Anlaida snorted.

“That’s a lady.”

Her nostrils flared. “Are you insulting me?”

“Me?” he said. “I would never insult you. Never.”

She frowned.

“Ever.”

“I’m not in a ladylike mood at the moment,” she said. “And I don’t remember you being this badly behaved when we were children.”

“That’s because you remember all the good things about me,” Arran said. “The nice things. Like how I—”

In the courtyard below them, a pale-faced Linnerill nodded respectfully to Soldor, but did not look at him. And Lord Denath took his daughter’s arm and gestured toward the door, which Soldor opened for them. Bryn stood at his side, saying something to his two guests.

“Never mind,” said Anlaida finally. “You were a terrible, evil child. I lived in eternal fear of you.”

“Wounded.” Arran clutched at his heart. “Utterly wounded.”

They traded insults for several minutes before Anlaida noticed that Lord Denath and his daughter had vacated the courtyard. “They’re gone,” she said.

“Oh.”

She shook her head. “Were you distracting me on purpose?”

“I would never distract you from brooding,” Arran said. “Ever.”

She swatted at him, but the lines of her face were straight and sober. “I can hardly imagine what Ronag does without you to torment him.”

Arran shrugged. “Picks on the neighbors, I guess. If you want to spy anymore, I noticed a good spot at the top of the stairs.”
 
Linnerill said nothing at supper, which did not reflect on her so badly as might have been expected: her father did more talking than all the others combined. Lord Denath, it seemed, enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

Anlaida found her appreciation for Kalon growing. Obnoxious as he might be, her uncle was no bore. Of course, she preferred a bore to a murderer, but Kalon was at least better company.

After supper Arran wandered out to the dog kennels. Anlaida envied him the privilege, but at least Soldor, in the interest of conducting business discussions with Lord Denath, shut himself into the library with Denath and Linnerill. She spent the evening in Bryn’s and Mostaras’s private sitting room, leaning back among the cushions and enjoying the warmth and pinewood smell of the fire. Bryn joked with her, and Mostaras talked about Iredail, the latest news from Retaine and Thessalim, and (at last, to Anlaida) about the customs current in the Midlands, from dress to furniture.

After several minutes of this, Bryn rose and slipped out of the room. About ten minutes later he returned with Arran, whose brown trousers were covered with tawny dog hairs. Bryn pulled out a small table, opened a drawer in it, pulled out two sets of pegs, and began inserting them into the appropriate slots on the tabletop, which was marked in a grid that Anlaida found confusing.

“It’s a game of strategy,” Bryn told her. “Popular in the White Lands, I’m told.”

“The swamps beyond the Southern Downs?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “This one was made for my father by a trader, a good craftsman. He was from lands even farther south, or so he said; but he had been raised in the White Lands and knew their ways.”

“He’s teaching me,” Arran said. “Because he knows he’ll win.” Smiling, he pulled a chair over to the table and plopped into it.

Bryn sat down across from him and began a detailed explanation of the rules of the game. Anlaida turned back to Mostaras, and they began comparing Northland cookery with Iredail’s, only to be interrupted by a “No! The peg only goes forward!” from the game table.

Anlaida knew nothing about the rules of Bryn’s game, but since five of Arran’s pegs were lying flat on Bryn’s side of the board, it seemed that Bryn was getting the better of her brother. She watched as Bryn proceeded to capture three more pegs and add them to the pile.

“Do you ever play?” she said, looking at her sister.

“Play?” Mostaras asked, laughing. “I can’t hold out five minutes. Arran might be losing, but I’d have lost already by this time. The Lord of Palladrim knew this game when he visited here, but he’s been playing for twenty years and was still beaten. Bryn loves this game, but everyone’s afraid to play with him. Including me.”

Anlaida smiled. Bryn captured two pegs, then six, one, and three. Arran leaned back in his chair and shook his head.

“Play again?” Bryn asked.

“So I move straight with the red pegs,” Arran said. “Diagonally with the black pegs. I can’t move the white pegs until a red peg and a black peg reach the other side of the board. And you can jump any number of my pieces diagonally if there’s a peg hole on the opposite side.”

“You’ll get it soon,” Bryn said.

“Sure,” said Arran.

They reset the board and began again. This time the game lasted fourteen minutes longer than previously, although Bryn remained the victor.

The two continued playing for several more rounds. Arran never won, but Anlaida thought that he was catching up. In any case, both seemed engrossed in the game. Mostaras at last gave a suggestion, not entirely gentle, that they go to bed.

“Just one more round,” Bryn said.

She shook her head at him, but smiled. “I’ll wait for you, then.”

Together they stepped into the hall. Lord Denath’s voice echoed from the library on second floor.

“They must have finished,” Mostaras said, listening. “Or we’d not hear them. The door is thick.”

“All the more reason to hurry to bed,” Anlaida murmured.

“Charity, sister!” said Mostaras, but her eyes gleamed. She embraced Anlaida. “Sleep well.”

Anlaida hurried to the east wing, eager for the sanctity of her bedchamber. Instead, as she rounded the corner, she saw beneath the torchlights a white-clad form walking slowly. Linnerill.

“Have you lost your way?” she said.

“I’m afraid—yes.” The thin young woman laughed nervously. “The halls, you know—the way they wind—“

Personally, Anlaida saw nothing confusing about the layout of Creggan Bronn. The design was simple, rather like that of Jadoth Rock. But the castle in Salenna might be different. “Your home isn’t like?”

“Father had it rebuilt,” said Linnerill. “Stone is cold, he says. Uncomfortable. It’s a lovely place, really—all oak and ash.”

“No fortifications?” Anlaida asked, staring.

“There’s a wall about it.” She played with the embroidery on her sleeve. “Enough to keep out bandits. Father says that bandits are our only real enemies. Other people are reasonable.”

“Your rooms are on the floor below this,” Anlaida said. “Just down the stairs.”

“I remember now,” she said. “I’m sorry—I—that is—”

“I’ll show you,” Anlaida said.

“Father and the Baron were talking.” She looked down. “And I was tired—I suppose I should have waited. I’m—terrible at finding my way.”

Anlaida shrugged. “Come on.” She led Linnerill through the hall, around two corners, and down a flight of stairs. “Your room is in that hall, on the right.”

“The second door?” Linnerill asked.

“Aye.” Anlaida hesitated, and then forced a smile. “May you sleep well.”

“And you.” Linnerill turned away.

Anlaida hurried back up the steps.
 
The next day Linnerill seemed to have learned the way to and from her guest chamber, but she reportedly became lost when attempting to join her father and betrothed in the library. Mostaras was the one who found the girl wandering on the fourth floor and set her straight.

Arran drew her a rough sketch of the castle, but that only seemed to confuse her more. “How do I tell which way is north again?” she kept asking, until Arran gave up.

“The girl’s worse than a wallflower,” Anlaida grumbled to Arran on their way to supper that evening. “She’s an absolute idiot.”

Arran shrugged. “Have you talked much with her—woman-to-woman talks, you know?”

Anlaida set a hand on her him and frowned at him. “What below the stars are you talking about?”

“It’s like I told you,” Arran said. “Push them together. He’ll learn.”

“Lord Denath is always with them!” she said. “Soldor talks with him and ignores her.”

“Either that, or Denath demands all his attention.” Arran stepped onto the landing.

“But we have to separate them somehow,” she said.

“Quiet, we’re almost in the great hall,” he muttured.

Anlaida lowered her voice. “But couldn’t you distract Denath—get him to go on a horseback ride so that the two beloved can spend time together—or something?”

“Ride with Denath?” Arran moaned. “I don’t have a death wish.”

“Of course you don’t,” Anlaida said. “Soldor does.”

Arran sighed and stepped into the hall. With Anlaida at his heels, he strode toward the family dais. Bryn and Mostaras, of course, were there, as was Linnerill, but Soldor and Lord Denath had not yet arrived. Mostaras, it seemed, had attempted conversation with the pale girl, but Linnerill was huddled over her empty plate. She glanced up when they entered, stretched her lips in what passed for a smile, and looked down again.

“What about a ride tomorrow?” Bryn asked Arran, unfolding his silverware from a napkin of blue linen.

“About that—” Arran began, glancing at Anlaida, when Denath’s voice boomed from the entrance to the great hall. “What if we invited Lord Denath?”

“Denath?” Bryn said. “I—did you actually say—that is, I had thought he would want to chaperone his daughter—”

Arran noticed the faintest hint of a glare in Linnerill’s eyes.

“Of course, we should leave the choice up to him,” Bryn said, quickly regaining his composure. “The countryside of Iredail is—unique in all of Axelarre—certainly he would love to see it—“

Just then Denath stumped up the steps of the dais. “And who makes these decisions,” he bellowed to Soldor behind him. “The Council, the Council, all reactionary fools who don’t know the difference between sound business and a sound sleep!” He snorted aloud and plopped into the seat next to his daughter.

“Have you thought of going on a ride this week, Lord Denath?” Bryn said. “Arran and I would enjoy your company, and it would leave your daughter and her betrothed an opportunity to acquaint themselves.”

Soldor’s hand landed stiffly on the back of his seat, and held it.

“Have to chaperone those two,” Denath began, but Mostaras interrupted sweetly.

“They could go out into the gardens—they’d be within sight, but their talk would be private.” She smiled. “It’s a lovely place. Many of the flowers—”

“Certainly, certainly,” Denath snapped. “Of course I’d enjoy a ride. So long as you’ve decent horses. In coming here I had not expected—”

“The horses are well-bred, of course,” Bryn said. “A horseman such as yourself will enjoy them.”

“Of course,” muttered Denath. He then launched into a tirade against the Axelarrain Council of Lords as the cook brought in a heavy platter of meat.

After the meal Arran found Bryn and offered the best explanation he could. “Anlaida wanted my help,” he said at last. “And since pushing them together was initially my suggestion, I didn’t feel that I could say no.”

“It’s at least an honest dishonest plan,” Bryn said. “I only hope that Soldor will one day thank you for it. I fear,” he added, “that day will not be tomorrow.”
 
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I was going to post some intelligent, interesting comment, telling you that I've caught up. But my suitemate just gave this tree-goblin cry of anguish, which sounded more like a cave-goblin who discovered a bush.

Forgive me, I still can't stop laughing, and my sides hurt.
 
Oh, Lossy-tree. :D
___________________

Anlaida stood at the window, where, hidden by a curtain, she watched Soldor and Linnerill standing in the garden beside the rose bushes. Linnerill was talking, moving her hands as she spoke. Soldor stood still, arms crossed, sober.

“Come on,” she muttered. “Be quiet, and delicate, and annoy him.”

Linnerill suddenly raised her arms and dropped them at her sides. Her voice rose, but Anlaida could not distinguish one word from another.

She had not expected them to converse. Now Soldor spoke; she knew him well enough that, although she was too high to see his face clearly, he was intent on whatever Linnerill had said.

A skirt rustled behind her—Mostaras. Her sister placed an arm around her and peered around the curtain.

“They’re talking,” Mostaras said.

Anlaida nodded.

“For how long?”

“Since I’ve watched.” Anlaida stepped back from the curtain. “About half an hour, I should think.”

Mostaras stepped nearer the curtain and pulled it back only enough to glance into the garden. “Hmm.” She allowed the curtain to drop, and turned to Anlaida. “It’s something I had not expected.”

Anlaida nodded grimly. “When are you expecting Bryn and Arran?”

“Soon.” Mostaras straightened. “I had best see to the noon meal: Bryn, at the very least, will be hungry.”

“Soldor probably will,” Anlaida said, following Mostaras across the floor. “Talking tires him, I think. Arran—his appetite comes and goes.”

“But he’s only seventeen?” Mostaras asked, nudging the door open.

“Food is scanty among the barbarians, I think,” Anlaida said. “Or at least more scanty than in the Baron’s castle.”

“I worry for him.” Mostaras crossed the hall and paused at the head of the stairs.

“Because of his time with them?”

Mostaras smiled and began to descend the steps. “No,” she said. “I cannot understand his wanting to live with them, but I at least understand his reasons. No—it’s—”

Below them, they heard a faint groaning as the door to the castle opened. “The men are back.” Mostaras doubled her pace as she hurried downward.

“Arran?” Anlaida asked.

“The man who wants Soldor dead may find Arran an easier target.”

“But he’s not the baron.” Anlaida hurried to keep up with her sister. They reached the bottom of the steps.

“He’s Second Heir,” Mostaras said, rounding the corner and reaching yet another staircase. “To take the barony, both will need to die.”

Anlaida shivered. “Kalon, do you think?”

“I do not know.” Mostaras descended the stairs and reached the landing on the second floor. Lord Denath’s voice boomed in the entryway directly below them. “Ready, sister?”

“Always,” Anlaida said.

They stepped down into the entryway in time to catch Arran rolling his eyes. Standing to the side, where Denath could not see him directly, he looked utterly bored.

Mostaras gently interrupted the Salennain lord. “Dinner should be ready soon, gentlemen. If you would like to freshen up after your ride, we will meet you at the table.”

Arran nodded politely to Denath and escaped up the stairs. Bryn excused himself politely. Mostaras slipped off to the kitchens; and Anlaida hurried to the garden.

She found Soldor and Linnerill sitting quietly on a bench, Linnerill staring at the roses while Soldor played with the buttons on his shirt. “Dinner will be soon,” she said. “We’ll wait for the enjoyment of your company.”

Soldor looked at her and raised an eyebrow, but Anlaida turned away and hurried inside. There she met Arran, who was coming down the central stair.

“I guess they enjoyed their talk, then?” he said.
She shrugged. “Did you enjoy your ride?”

“Of course,” he said, tugging his belt straight. “Bryn and I learned things—that the Council of Lords is evil, and stupid, and backward. And that Lord Denath knows everything.”

“Particularly about fashion?” Anlaida asked.

Arran’s dark eyes flickered over her, but he only said. “Yes. Particularly about fashion. Bright colors are the style for men, now. Isn’t it unfortunate that I don’t have any?”
 
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