Chapter Five

Thera woke in the velvet shadows of predawn light. The stone arch of her window perfectly framed the pale new moon, and the dark spine of the distant High Ranges was touched with opal light. She stretched sleepily, sliding her arm over the soft cover of her feather quilt. Then she remembered.

The Ttamarini must be here. They may already have set up camp on the North Field, west of Kenna Beach.

Swinging her legs over the edge of her bed, she rubbed with brief irritation at her shins. Her bones ached lately. Nan said it was because she was growing so fast. She ran to the window and the cool silkiness of morning air caressed her skin. She massaged her chest, Nan insisted she wear a binding now. One restriction after another, it seems.

Nothing was visible yet in the courtyard, though she thought she heard boot steps and voices in the stable yard. Anticipation flickered along her nerves as she danced her feet on the cold stone floor.

She dragged on the green gown Nan had set aside for this day, but her long, sleep-tangled hair caught in the buttons. Nan came in to find her half dressed and jigging in frustration.

“Lass! What be you doing out of bed at this hour?”

“Are they here, Nan? I want to see them.”

“Hold still now, you’re all a-tangle, I should have braided your hair last night, but a more sleepy lass I’ve never seen.”

“Ouch! Please hurry Nan.”

“You may as well hold your breath, Button. I will see you properly dressed and fed before you leave this chamber, does hear me, lass?”

Thera recognized the tone of Nan’s voice and with a great effort of will, forbore to fidget. Elanraigh Bless. I don’t need a nursemaid! Nan’s fussiness is so annoying. Mother should have had other children for Nan to lavish her care on, then I could be left alone.

Thera cast a sullen glower at Nan’s profile as the maid turned slightly to unravel a knot of Thera’s hair. Nan’s fair brows were puckered in concentration, a pink tip of tongue protruded past the compressed lips.

Thera sighed at her freakish irritability and contritely took back the wish. She loved Mother, of course. However, it was Nan, with this very same look of concentration on her face, who had plucked out slivers, crooned over scrapes or cuts as she bathed them, or simply cuddled and rocked her whenever she needed the closeness. Nan always knew when those times were—that was Nan’s gift.

By the time Thera washed, there was constant movement and voices beyond her chamber door. Nan’s deft fingers subdued Thera’s curls into a head-molding braid.

“I was with your mother this morning, early, lass,” Nan’s hands rested a moment on Thera’s shoulders. “We be leaving at dawn’s blessing tomorrow for Elankeep.” Thera twisted around, aghast. Nan continued quickly, “Now, now, lass. You be knowing your lady mother only agreed to let you stay long enough to see the Ttamarini arrive. ‘Tis just for the now, ’til it be safe again to come home.”

Thera simply said, “I don’t like to leave, Nan, not when there is trouble. They needn’t treat me as such a child—I could help.”

Nan’s voice was thick as she pulled Thera to her. “You’re getting so grown-up, Button.” So tightly did she clench Thera to her bosom that Thera’s cheek bore the imprint of Nan’s apron button for some time after.

* * * *

The early morning light shone bright, burnished by a brisk wind blowing inland off the sea. Dew still sparkled on spider webs and on the tossing cedar branches.

Thera stood with her mother and the household guards. Oak Heart was mounted in front of the Heart’s Own, the guards, and the town dignitaries. Thera could not recall ever seeing the front courtyard so crowded with people. Representatives of the guilds and town marshals stood to one side, resplendent with polished badges of office. Their murmured conversations lapsed into silence. Soon the cracking of banners in the wind, the creak of leather, and the scuff of shifting horses was all the straining listeners heard.

Thera watched her father. He is a heroic figure, Thera thought. She watched the light reflecting in the amber hue of his link mail and the clean wind drifting the white plume of his helm. Grandfather Leif’s square-cut emerald broach gleamed at his shoulder.

Thera mused on her reading of her father at the end of his tale last night. She had learned that Oak Heart had a fear he could barely bring himself to acknowledge—that he would become as a callow youth, a “stumble foot,” when once again face to face with Lord Teckcharin, Chief of the Ttamarini. Thera was bemused to find that her father, a warrior, could harbor such an anxiety.

The Heart’s Own—Dougall, Lydia, and all the rest—were in formal military dress, their faces stern behind the nosepiece of their helms. Horses had been groomed meticulously, leather tack was buffed until it shone, “Like a maiden’s blush,” as Shamic said. Every bit of brass, silver, and steel gleamed.

From the North Gate finally came the sound of many horse hooves on paving stones. Cheers echoed from the folk of Allenholme lining the roadway outside the gate as they greeted their new allies.

Thera felt a welling of anticipation and wanted to cheer too. But she was very conscious of her woman’s crown of braids and full-length green gown. She glanced sideways at the stiff formality of the guildsmen and town representatives ranged alongside, and encountered a smile from one grizzled man who wore the badge of a fishing guild master. His grey-green eyes held hers in friendly rapport a moment, and then he turned with a show of restoring his face to decorous dignity.

Thera could read the welcome in townsfolk’s’ voices. She was sure anyone could. Dread of the Memteth was as great a part of the mythology of her people, as was respect for the prowess of the Ttamarini warrior.

The drift of music came with the approaching troop; drum, tambour, and pipe. They played, not a martial air, but a song to move feet and lift spirits. Finally the Ttamarini riders turned through the gates.

Thera strained to see the Ttamarini leader, Teckcharin. She saw a regal stallion to the front of the approaching company that must be seventeen hands tall, its black coat gleamed and rippled in the sun. The beast danced into the courtyard. Teckcharin, it must be he who rode this horse, seemed almost familiar to Thera. Her heart thudded behind her ribs.

He was as she’d known he would be from her father’s recounting of his adventure the evening before. He sat tall and straight, it hardly appeared he needed to guide his mount at all. The long straight hair, only lightly streaked with grey, was bound off his brow with a brightly woven band. An eagle feather was attached to the single braid that hung beside his face.

That face was proud and stern, yet as he locked eyes with Oak Heart, Thera detected a glimmer of smile. She read no smugness or mockery there, indeed, Thera read a considerable affection for her father.

Once through the gate, Teckcharin’s warriors fanned out behind him. Their horses stepped high, with much jingling of decorations, sea shell chimes were braided into the horses’ mains and tails. Next came acrobatic dancers, Song Dancers, she’d heard they were called. Thera smiled and clasped her hands. Energies swirled about the courtyard, bright and chaotic, full of life.

At a sign from Teckcharin, the music ceased and he rode forward alone. The Oak Heart heeled his horse ahead of his assembly. For a moment, in complete silence they regarded one another. Her father extended his arm, palm up, in the warriors’ greeting, and Teckcharin smiling openly now, grasped it with his own. They met and held each other’s eyes as their troops cracked the sky with the thunder of their approval.