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THE CLIFFSIDE HOME of the trader’s convocation was larger than any structure Karst had ever been in. It dwarfed the common building where the council of Darceth met. He decided it must be the size of the Goddess’ volcano home. Yet he felt no sense of grandeur, not even when he walked between the guardian statues at the entrance.
Despite the oil lamps in the sconces that lined the hallway, gloom clutched at Karst. Not even the sunlight fed into the convocation building through the hidden vents and mirrors helped. He knew it wasn’t a darkness of the space, but of the spirit. His hands clenched into tight fists to control the desire to reach out and hold Brial’s hand. Only the reason for his being there, the possibility of a future for him and Brial enabled him to maintain control and keep his expression blank.
All too soon they reached the massive wooden doors that set off the council hall from the smaller meeting rooms.
"Ready?" Brial whispered.
Not trusting his voice, Karst gave a slight nod. A deep breath and he knocked, waited two breaths, then opened the door.
A sweeping glance took in the members of the clans’ ruling council. A thick ledger of the official proceedings was in front of one woman, ready to record the official business. The most senior member of each trading group sat in a row of nine velvet-cushioned chairs behind a long desk. The brightly-woven tapestries along the wall behind each seat identified the chair’s occupant. Although he had met several of the men and women the night before and knew their clan affiliation, the intricate designs and the fact that most did not contain the clan name but a stylized coat of arms made it hard to identify those who would determine his future.
A glance at Brial gave little insight into her thoughts. But the tightness around her eyes told of her own nervousness. Unable to comfort her, Karst focused on the middle seat and its occupant. A small brass rod and a miniature ship’s bell on the table in front of him signified his role as the leader of the convocation. His time with the wagons enabled him to become familiar with both the man and the clan identified in the tapestry. He had known Feldt was the current head of the convocation council, but had not realized until this moment the power Brial’s kin wielded.
The courage he felt from Feldt’s warm smile enabled Karst to meet the looks of the other councilmen. Chin up, he straightened his back and bowed to the man sitting on the end. Despite his intention to stay strong, Karst couldn’t help but tense at the glare from the gray-bearded councilman in the seat closest to the door. With a deep breath, he forced a grin on his face and bowed.
The oldster’s bone-chilling look was nothing compared to the grin of anticipation on the dark-chaired man in the next seat. From Feldt's description of the members and what to expect, he put a name to the grinning face, Deheoul, former rider with Clan Vreis ... and Brial's rejected suitor.
As he rose from the formal bow, Karst rubbed his hand down his neck to smooth down the hair that stood up. His blood chilled when the man's scrutiny turned to Brial. Instead of the quick, dismissive scan he had received, Deheoul scanned her from head to toe. The tone of his grin changed from a bully anticipating beating his victim to a cat playing with a mouse, forcing it into submission. He ran his tongue over his lips, then grinned wider when his look lingered on her breasts.
The sharp intact of breath, not only from Brial, but also her grandfather, betrayed their reaction to the scan and lecherous smirk.
Karst's fingers clenched as if holding a sword. The skin turned translucent from the tightness of the grip at the realization of his state. He was unarmed. His enemies weren’t. He fought down a moan. "I can’t protect Brial."
Feldt picked up the rod and struck the bell. Its silver chime rang through the room. "The convocation of the clans is now called to order," he intoned. "Let those with a petition present it now."
Run, fear screamed. Don’t risk the rejection.
Stand tall, pride encouraged.
Straightening his back even more, Karst took a half step. A respectful bow to those behind the table, he forced steel into his voice. "I petition for permission to handfast Brial of Clan Vreis. A promise token has been offered and accepted."
The glares of those on the council shifted from him to Brial. For a heartbeat, she seemed to shrink under the intense inspection. Her back straightened, and she returned their attention with a directed dignity.
To Karst, Feldt’s smile held less warmth than the high mountain ice field. "There have been whispers of desires to take my council seat, the convocation leadership, and the hand of my granddaughter. And not necessarily in that order." The clansman nodded to the recorder. "As I have an interest in the petition, Clan Llanrug will act as head of council for this item, and this one only."
The rustle of cloth was the only indication of the shift of position of two men and the transfer of responsibility. It took an eternity for the clansman to reach Brial’s side. Karst watched as her elder kin gave her arm a squeeze and whispered, "It will be all right."
Her slight sigh and nod told of the effect it had on her.
The acting head of convocation looked to the men at her left and raised her eyebrow in question. One by one the men nodded until only one had not acknowledged his approval. A wave of her hand gestured for him to continue. "Yes, Three? You want to say something?"
"Karst violates tradition. He stands alone."
Feldt laid a hand on Karst’s shoulder. He bent his head as if offering a silent prayer. He straightened and turned to face his fellow councilmen. "Karst does not stand alone by choice. He has no living kin."
"Rumored not only by choice but by his own hand."
Karst knew from Deheoul's smirk who spread the rumor and made a mental note to keep a close watch on the man Feldt had described as a troublemaker. How to answer the issue of his parents' deaths swirled in a vicious whirlpool in his mind. He didn't dare tell of his mother's death at his father's hand. Or that his father died in an attack on Brial's kin.
Feldt pinned the speaker with a sharp glare before returning his attention to the woman standing behind the bell. "Clan Vreis has voted to adopt Karst, son of Ealasaid, as one of our own. He has asked Brial to be his mate. I stand here as her grandfather and leader of her clan. I also stand as Karst’s kin. He is not alone. Both I and those who roll the wagons of Clan Vreis approve of the handfasting between Karst and Brial." His low chuckle reverberated in the silence of the room. "We didn’t want to take up the council’s time by bringing the entire clan in as witness."
"Your question has been answered, Councilor Three. Are there any others?" At the shake of the man’s head, the recorder turned council leader turned to get the vote of the men seated at his right. The mental tally took less than a heartbeat.
Karst held in the relief-filled, "Yes." Only two councilmen objected to his and Brial’s marriage. He felt the intense scrutiny before it again shifted to Brial. This time, she didn’t tense.
"Brial of Clan Vreis, per your petition. It has been stated that a promise token has been offered and accepted. Is this true?"
Pride in his intended mate swelled when she stepped away from the protection of her grandfather to face the council alone. "A proposal was made according to our tradition and custom. The wagons have accepted him and so do I." She tilted her head and paused.
Get on with it, Karst wanted to yell.
As if she heard the silent command, she winked and returned her attention to the waiting council. "It is my wish to marry Karst, son of Ealasaid."
"Then, since the majority of the council of the clans agrees, the petition is accepted and will be so noted in the official proceedings."
Karst let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding as the woman jotted a few lines in the ledger, picked up the small hammer and struck the bell.
The chime had not finished echoing before a strident, "I offer challenge," rang out.
UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, Brial would have loved the climb to circle eight. Fog rising from the valley below draped the dark cliff walls in a gray-white gauze that shifted as if moved by an invisible hand. The thick carpet of dried needles muffled the sound of footsteps, adding to the feeling of being in the netherworld. Each step filled the crisp morning air with the delicate scent of the woods.
But this morning was different. She could not enjoy the walk or the view. Depending on who won the challenge Deheoul made at the council meeting would determine whether or not she and Karst would be married that evening.
Walking side by side with Karst, she wanted to reach over and hold his hand, but resisted the urge. She had watched him wall off his feelings, and by the time he belted on his sword that morning, he was no longer her lover, but a warrior.
I wish I could do the same, she thought. No matter how hard she tried, the calm she needed eluded her. Neither the weight of the sword on her hip nor Tywyll riding on her shoulder comforted her. The helwr's vigilance contrasted with the serenity of the woods. Not even the knowledge that Deneas and Trelleir were just a few paces behind protecting the backtrail, nor that Tywyll was ready to take to the wing and destroy anyone waiting in ambush with claw and beak, loosened her grip on her sword’s hilt.
During the planning the night before with her grandfather; Omaos, the head scout, and Deneas and Trelleir, the scout had explained that circle eight was a traditional site for private contests or meetings. "It is appropriate for Deheoul’s challenge to be answered there. Eight is the where the archery contest finals were held several convocations ago."
Brial caught the quick flicker of pride in Karst's eyes when her grandfather smiled and added, "The contest where my granddaughter defeated him."
"Which set up today’s challenge," Brial growled. "If I had just let Deheoul win, he wouldn’t have issued the challenge."
"Bri," Karst added. "You did nothing wrong. You upheld the honor of your clan. If Deheoul was any kind of man, he wouldn’t have held a grudge at losing the competition."
Both clansmen rebutted the statement with a, "You know it would not have made a difference," from one and, "Deheoul planned to usurp my council seat long before he lost the final shoot-off. You, my beautiful granddaughter, were just a bonus," from the other.
Feldt's voice was so soft, Brial leaned forward to hear it. "Deheoul is only clan leader at the convocation because his mother was wounded by raiders and is recovering at her clan’s winter caves. He wasn't happy when his kin awarded his mother leadership of their wagons. He thought he should run the trail, but he rode roughshod over too many in their caravan." The older man shook his head and Brial realized he was revealing a long-held secret. "Deheoul would not be here except his younger brother is not yet of age. His mother sent me a private note, warning me of his plans to usurp the center chair of the council."
Despite knowing her grandfather, Omaos and Karst were right, Brial still could not cool the anger that threatened her control.
Another memory surfaced, adding fuel to the fire racing through her veins as she replayed the argument with Karst the night before. The determination in his voice when he refused her offer to face Deheoul, had forced her back a step. Not even the rationale that she had beaten the clansman once, and since it was also her future involved, she was as entitled to fight as Karst was, changed his mind.
"Then let us leave now. Karst, you have nothing to prove to me. We can be out of the convocation valley before anyone realizes."
In her mind she heard his simple, "I can’t."
Not even her impassioned, "Please," achieved her goal.
His response that he would not do that to her or her kin warmed her as it did the first time he gave it on the night of the Gifting Festival.
She fought down a sob. In my effort to protect him, I hurt him so much I almost lost him.
Her soul chilled even more. I still can. Deheoul is a skilled dueler. He will show no mercy.
Unable to solve anything, she focused on the bow and quiver of arrows slung across her grandfather’s back. All too soon the trail widened, opening into a large grassy area. Although trees lined the edge, the thick canopy of the trail did not extend into the contest area, leaving the area open to the sky. Her breath gushed out sending wisps of frost skyward. They had arrived at circle eight, the site where her future would be determined.
She picked out the marker tree with the face of the ancient watcher carved into it. Despite its wrinkles, the face had comforted her younger self. According to legend, the true of heart would win any contest held within the circle.
Not a word was spoken, but Karst moved several paces off to the side, putting physical space between them to go with the emotional one.
Brial fought back tears. Bereft of his presence, a glacial cold descended over her soul and she locked all emotions away behind an impenetrable wall. Behind her, she felt rather than heard Deneas and Trelleir shifting to a more protective posture.
"Trelleir?" Brial kept her voice soft so it wouldn’t carry beyond the small group. "Deheoul wasn’t that good an archer, but some of his followers are. There is a clear shot from a rockpile on the far side of the clearing. It is just beyond the tree with the scroll carved into the bark and its limbs twisted into the entwined links of a living chain. If you make your way around through the trees, you can cover us from there." Rage filled her voice as she added, "Deheoul doesn’t play fair."
Having set as much contingency protection in place as she could, she scanned the area. It hasn't changed much since the last time I was here, she thought. The grass is trimmed. The archery targets are set up, bows and quivers of arrows hang from stands just inside the grassy area, and the cairns that mark the shooting distances are neatly stacked in their places. The one difference chilled her soul. It looked like someone had decorated the tree stumps and rock benches with glittering steel. Every type of bladed weapon from throwing daggers to axes, and short swords to great ones half as tall as a man awaited their summons to the competition. Her gaze shifted from the spears and halberds to settle on the matching sets of quivers full of arrows and the decorated bows that leaned against them.
"Karst is no weaponsmith, knows nothing about the battle axes of the northmen, nor the pikes favored by eastern fighters," she whispered. Her resolution hardened. Deheoul will not leave the field alive. Neither tradition nor my kin will prevent me from having my revenge if Karst falls.
A soft rustle announced someone's approach. As she feared, Deheoul left the tree line at the other side of the natural arena. His entire being radiated an anticipation she could only liken to a mountain cat ready to pounce.
After a scan that felt as if he stripped her down to her skin, he turned his attention to Karst. "Well, well, hut jumper, I didn't think you had the guts to show up. Or did Vreis force it?" He tilted his head as if contemplating. "Was it by sword at your back or noose around your neck?"
Karst's gasp told Brial the use of the trader name for those who lived in ramshackle tents or falling-down huts had struck a nerve. As did Deheoul's implication about a lack of manhood. For a moment she feared Karst would attack, but instead he just gestured to the center of the clearing. "Let's get this over with."
Loud claps announced a previously hidden watcher and Medraut strutted out from the trees.
Tywyll crouched. Brial felt his talons pierce the leather and padding, a sign the helwr wanted to launch itself skyward. "Stay," she whispered, putting as much command as she could in her voice. Instead of obeying, the helwr sank farther down on its haunches, readying himself even more to attack. When it refused a second, "Stay," she reached up to rub the bird's head-feathers and gently stroke its back. It didn’t relax, but neither did it fly off, so she kept up the calming motion.
An order she heard in her mind rather than with her ears to throw down her weapons pierced her focus. Her hand stopped in mid-stroke. It was replaced by the demand to pull the dagger from her boot and stab Karst in the back. A heartbeat later, she was consumed by the irresistible need to tear off her clothes.
Realization that the unnatural feelings were an attack on her will raised not only fear, but anger. And she knew who was doing it – Medraut, just as he had at the Gifting Festival dance. He will not find me such an easy target this time, Brial vowed.
The tear stones beneath her tunic warmed. Slowly, like one using a newly-learned skill, she grasped their magic and whispered the spell of protection Trelleir had taught her.
The sense of a wall being built around her soul grew. And with each row of the translucent stones, the irrational desires faded. Another repetition of the incantation and the last hint of desire to strip herself of either clothes or weapons exploded in a shimmer of sparks.
Medraut no longer has any power over me, she thought. Time to face my attacker. A deep breath and she shifted her gaze to meet Medraut’s. Frustration colored his face. "I am sorry, Medraut. I don't care to dance with you."
A RAGING FIRE CONSUMED Medraut. It overwhelmed his control and he took a step forward, only to halt at the sight of the helwr with its wings raised, ready to leap. Remembered pain of the helwr’s talons and the ignominy as steel-hard grips on his arms dragged him along the ground to imprisonment in the storage wagon added to the insult of Brial's refusal. "The last time the bird attacked me from behind, caught me unawares. I know better now," he cursed. Determination filled his frame. "It will not happen again."
Slowly, he backed up, putting Deheuol between himself and the agitated bird. When the helwr continued its menacing, Medraut reconsidered the other man's usefulness. "The clansman can deal with Karst. If the wrong man wins, there are other paths to Brial." She will be mine.
He considered possibility after possibility, searching for the reason Brial escaped his control. The last time it had taken the merest wisp of magic for her to become his willing thrall. Now she did not succumb. Instead, she retained enough will not only to resist his control, but to vocalize her objection.
Memory of the only other time his magic failed, when the woman named Deneas shook off the obedience spell, provided a clue. The circumstances were too similar. He had not seen it on Brial, but there was only one explanation. Someone must have given her a tear stone and taught her how to use it. That is what is blocking my powers.
The image of a rust-colored dragon surfaced. Trelleir! He is the cause of my problems.
A search of the contest area and the sky revealed no sign of the dragon or man.
Safe for the moment, he formed his magic into a glimmering net and cast it to settle over Brial's blond curls. "Throw away the gem," he snarled. Excitement surged when her hand raised to her throat.
"Throw it away," he hissed. "Do it now!"
Nothing flew from her hand to land at his feet. Instead, she lowered her hand.
How dare that woman refuse me. Any thought he had of saving Karst for use as a slave vanished. "Brial will pay for insulting me. Before I take her mind, I will hang her lover from the marker tree and make her watch him kick and struggle for breath until the life leaves him."
Savoring his revenge, he decided not to completely wipe her mind clean of all her memories. As additional punishment for not coming willingly to his bed, he would take what he wanted from her, not in the comfort of a feather bed, but in the grass beneath her lover's corpse. "Every time she smells crushed grass, she will remember what I did to him ... and to her."