Chapter Forty

Thera leaned at her window, drinking in familiar sounds and smells. I have slept late—the sun is well above the tree line.

High and distant, Eiryana whistled.

“Blessings, dear one!” Thera sent.

Eiryana’s mind-touch caressed Thera. “We have been waiting to greet you,” she chided.

“We”?

A wind stormed past her, “It is I, Therra!” It swirled chaotically through her chamber, tossing petals from the overblown flowers and fluttering loose the ties of her nightgown in a teasing fashion before exiting the chamber.

“Sussara!” Thera laughed and retied her lacings, “Blessings of the day, Little Mischief.”

“I’m going to help Eiryana Sky Weaver to fish this morning.”

“Oh my,” sent Thera to Eiryana with a rueful smile.

Eiryana’s mind-voice was warm with affection, “I have learned from my sky-sister to have a fondness for this little one.”

Thera laughed her agreement and stood enjoying their rapport until Eiryana became focused on the waves below her.

A melodious trill captured Thera’s attention from Eiryana’s fading presence. Peering over the window’s edge, Thera saw Tenatik, the Ttamarini horsemaster, seated cross-legged on the grass by the stable path. Placing a small reed flute to his lips he blew a low, murmurous sound, followed by a rapid glissando of notes.

Sussara twined affectionately around the musician. “Therra, listen. It sounds like wind through grass and birds in the morning.”

“Yes, little one. Tenatik is gifted, for that is just how it sounds.”

Booted footsteps crunched along the path and voices came into her hearing, “…five mares in foal. Blessings be.” Oak Heart’s rough voice drifted up. Dougall responded something, too softly for Thera to hear, and someone shouted a laugh in response.

“Ah,” Thera leaned further outward, “Oak Heart, Dougall, Sirra Alaine, and—Chamak! “Sensations as ambiguous as frost burn, heat and cold, flashed over her. Chamak, for it was he she had heard laughing, called to Tenatik.

“Ten’, did you tire of waiting for us that you torment the birds so?”

“His arm is bandaged still,” Thera inventoried Chamak’s appearance, “Father didn’t say exactly what his injuries were. He sounds well, even happy,” she smiled—a smile that froze—“has he forgotten about me?”

Tenatik rose to his feet, a grin deepened the crevices bracketing his mouth. He wiped the flute, placed it in his belt, and saluted. “Anything, oh son-of-a-great-chieftain, to forestall you raising up the game-scaring croak you claim is a singing voice.” Chamak and Sirra Alaine paused beside Tenatik, their voices lowered again, but Chamak’s gestures suggested introductions being made. As Tenatik began speaking with Alaine, Chamakin turned, looking up toward Thera’s window.

Thera flung herself back inside, her heart thudding a panicked rhythm. What is the matter with me? Thera wondered. I want to see him, to look in his eyes and know if he still feels the same way about me. So why do I hide from him?

She paced, halting in front of her polished bronze mirror—because I want to be ready when I meet him again, Thera acknowledged. She smoothed her nightdress to her, turning this way and that, trying to see herself as Chamak would see her. Thera smiled, the mirror reflecting the flash of whiteness. Humming Tenatik’s lilting tune, she twirled, moving her body with rising joy.

* * * *

Thera vigorously worked her brush over Mulberry’s hide. She muttered to the mare, “So. Where are they? I’m sure I heard Tenatik offer to show Alaine the stable, and Chamak followed them.” Her lips quirked wryly as she straightened, flexing her back. “Here I rushed to the stable as quickly as may be, expecting to conquer my lover once and for all, and no one is here.” The mare whufflled at her shoulder. “Except you, dear one, of course,” Thera glanced over the mare’s haunch, “and one small stable boy.”

She dipped her hand into a sack of carrots and retrieved one for the mare. “Here, greedy child.” Thera glanced up, heart tripping, at the sound of multiple footsteps approaching.

Is it—oh. Thera recognized the Cythians, accompanied by one of her father’s guards as escort.

She quickly wiped her hand on her grooming cloth. The Cythian Heir, Ambrauld, stopped, squinting slightly in the brightness outside the stable. His companion, the Besteri mage, swung his head in Thera’s direction.

“Lady Thera,” the guard saluted, “I was to escort Lord Ambrauld to join Duke Leon and his party. I thought they were at the stables.”

So did I. “I believe they must have been here earlier, Guardsman Bran.”

Before the guard could speak further, the Cythian Heir approached her, his handsome face lit with a delighted smile. “Finally! Well met Lady Thera.” He stared at her face a long moment, brows lifting and eyes wide, then his gaze roamed over her in a manner Thera found utterly embarrassing. Her face grew hot. As he reached for her hand, Thera quickly dropped the grooming rag to the straw. Catching sight of the grimy stains on her fingers, she flushed again as he gently pressed his lips to her fingertips. After suffering a brief awkwardness, she suddenly laughed.

“I am sorry, my Lord,” she apologized quickly seeing the look of surprise on his face. Shaking her head, she delicately withdrew her hand. “Somehow the stable does not seem the place for such courtly courtesies. I should have met you in my father’s Great Hall with all appropriate ceremony.” She smiled winningly and the Cythian Heir beamed down at her.

“Your ingenuousness disarms me, Lady.”

His accent is definitely of the south—very refined. How he stares!

Thera, in turn, quickly appraised this young Lord. He is as tall as Chamakin, she thought, though heavier muscled. Then, Thera judged, he is some years older. His eyes are a paler blue than father’s—almost colorless. Thera continued to read him, as his eyes glinted with amusement. He is amused at the little female who sizes him up like a combatant on the battlefield. There is arrogance in the set of that jaw. Perhaps that is not surprising, Thera conceded, considering his noble rank and physical appearance. Yes, his looks agree with what I read of him. He is not a man used to being thwarted, in anything. There is implacability in him.

The guard cleared his throat and offered, “Perhaps my Duke took the Ttamarini Heir and his party to view the hunting birds—their pen is by the Northwest Gate, Lord Ambrauld. We might find them there.”

“Be at ease, man,” snapped Ambrauld, his eyes fixed on Thera. He gestured toward the dark shadow at his shoulder. “Lady Thera, allow me to introduce Willestar, a mage of the Besteri, who serves as Councilor to my father’s house.”

Thera was not prepared for the intensity of the dark regard that lingered insolently long on her face before the tall man bent gracefully.

“My Lady Thera, I am your servant.”

Thera nodded stiffly as the mage rose to his full height again. The Besteri’s full red lips pursed, his heavy-lidded eyes glinted as he again stared. “My pardon, Lady, but I must ask—I sense something of gift in you. Is it the Old Teachings? Who would have taught you this? he mused, The Ttamarini’s Maiya might have the skill, perhaps.

The mage did not move closer, his hands were tucked within his sleeves, yet Thera felt as if chill, spectral fingers brushed her forehead. Instinctively her spirit flung itself to the place within that was hers alone. The Besteri’s mind-touch never reached her, passing like a wind in the high trees of her mind-place. The Besteri looked surprised. His moist lips pressed together, his eyes darkling and arrested. Then he smiled, and withdrawing his hands from his robe, he gestured—a slow opening of his hands to her view.

Surrender or apology? I cannot read this man. Thera felt shaken.

Ambrauld’s voice broke the tension between Thera and the mage. The Cythian’s eyes were on Thera’s horse. “Ahh, Willestar, look at this! She is yours, obviously, Lady Thera. A beauty.”

Thera, distracted, stared as if she had not heard him. When I read people through my gift, does it feel so to them? No. No one ever looks disturbed—perhaps only if one reads another who is also gifted?

She could barely forebear rubbing at the spot on her forehead where the Besteri had reached with his magic to read her. So invasive! He reached for it as casually as opening his wardrobe door.

Mulberry bumped her from behind. “Oh.” The strange chill departed at the mare’s touch and she belatedly answered the Cythian Heir. “Yes,” Thera stroked the mare’s withers, “she was a gift from my father.”

Ambrauld reached for the mare. Mulberry danced sideways, arching her neck and flattening her ears.

“Sir. She doesn’t take to strangers,” Thera warned, pressing her hand against Ambrauld’s arm.

“Here,” offered Willestar, and, muttering a quick string of words under his breath, he strode forward, grasping the mare’s halter. He raised his hand.

Thera tensed, about to intervene, but Ambrauld had gripped her elbow. “Do not fear. He will not harm her, Lady. Watch, you will see. It is a marvel how he can handle animals.”

“What—?” Thera flashed Ambrauld an angry look. If the mage strikes Mulberry I will deal him back double the blow. Ignoring the Cythian’s grip, Thera snapped her attention back to the Besteri. Mulberry, to Thera’s surprise, was standing perfectly still as Willestar placed his hands on her. His long, pale fingers smoothed down over her neck and withers. Thera was incredulous until she saw the mare’s eyes roll toward the mage, her skin flinching under his touch.

He forces her! He forces her to stand for him against her will.

“Do not!” Thera swallowed against the repugnance she felt. Swinging around to Ambrauld, she lowered her voice in an attempt to disguise her shaking anger. Honored guest in my father’s house.

“My Lord Ambrauld, she does not like it.”

Ambrauld looked down at her with a gentle smile. “My dear Lady, surely you can see the benefit in a fractious young beast being so easily controlled with no harm done to it or its handlers?”

“Do not. I beg you,” repeated Thera. “I do not wish to break her spirit so.”

“You are a sensitive.” Ambrauld patted the arm he had taken again in a familial grip during Thera’s distraction. “Sensitivity is woman’s special gift. You do not displease me.

“Willestar,” Ambrauld flicked his eyes away from the mare.

“Yes, of course, my Lord. I would not wish to distress the Lady ArNarone.” Willestar’s voice was deep and smooth, rich as port wine. His hand lingered a last moment, caressingly, on the mare’s flank. Then, staring at Thera, the mage traced a sign in the air and Mulberry reared, shook her head and sidled to the back of her stall. The Besteri folded his pale hands back into his sleeves and turned to Lord Ambrauld with a pleased smile. “She is beautiful, and she has excellent spirit.”