A state delegation from across the water, no less; and led by Prince Arithon’s blood-pacted liegeman, who happened also to be caithdein, or ‘shadow behind the throne’, hereditary warden of Rathain. Maenalle let fly a blistering oath.
Then, infected by spurious, private triumph, for she despised formality and skirts, she burst into deep-throated laughter. ‘Well, they’ll just have to take me as I am,’ she ended with a lift of dark eyebrows. I’ve got time to find a stream to sluice off? Good. The hunting party’s off down the gorge. Somebody ought to go after them and let my grandson know what’s afoot.’ She bit her lip, recalled to the deer, too sorely needed to abandon for scavengers to pick.
The young messenger offered to take the knife in her stead. ‘Lady, I can finish up the butchering.’
Maenalle smiled. ‘Good lad. I thought so, but really, this should be Maien’s problem.’
Her moods were fair-minded enough to let the boy relax. ‘Lady, if you both meet Prince Arithon’s delegation reeking of offal, s’Gannley might be called out for insult.’
‘Imp.’ Maenalle relinquished her fouled blade and took a swipe at the child’s ear, which he ducked before he got blood-smeared. ‘Titles aside, Rathain’s warden is very little older than you are. If he cries insult, I’ll ask his war captain to cut down a birch switch and thrash him.’
Which words seemed a fine and suitable retort, until Maenalle’s descent from the forested plateau forced an interval for sober thought. Chilled by the premature twilight of an afternoon cut off from sunlight, she entered the hidden ravine that held her clans’ summer refuge. In silence, she numbered the years that had slipped past, all unnoticed. Red-beard was not a childish nickname. Jieret s’Valerient in sober fact was but one season older than Maien; no boy any more, if not yet fully a man.
Small wonder the young scout had stifled his smile at her mention of birch canes and thrashing.
Hatefully tired of acting the querulous ruler, and greeting nobody she passed, Maenalle crossed the dusty compound with its stinks of sun-curing hide. She barged into the comfortless hut that served as her quarters, flicked up cuffs still dripping from her stream-side ablutions and slammed back the lid of her clothes trunk.
Her hand hesitated over the folded finery inside, then snatched in sharp resolve: not the indigo regent’s tabard with its glittering gold star blazon. Instead Maenalle shook out a plain black overtunic, expensively cut, and worn but once since its making. She would don the caithdein’s sable, by tradition the symbol of power deferred in the presence of her true-born sovereign.
If she still held the regency in Tysan, the office was not hers by choice; the s’Ilessid scion forepromised by prophecy had returned to claim his royal title. But the Mistwraith he had lent his gift of light to help subdue had avenged itself and cursed Prince Lysaer of Tysan to undying enmity against Arithon, Master of Shadow. For that, the Fellowship sorcerers entitled to crown him had withheld their sanction for his inheritance. Grieved beyond heartbreak for the betrayals which had forced their judgement, the realm’s lady steward tugged the dark garment over her dampened leathers. She belted on her sword, firm in this one defiance. Let black cloth remind the envoy sent by Arithon of Rathain that the final call on clan loyalty in Tysan was not fully hers to command, however desperate the cause they surely came here to plead.
A brisk knock jostled her doorpanel. Maenalle raked quick fingers through hair cropped close as a fighting man’s, then straightened in time to seem composed as Lord Tashan poked his white head inside.
‘Your visitors have passed the last check-point.’ The rotten old fox was smiling. As age-worn as she through long years of shared hardship, he would guess she was flustered; and in hindsight, the blighted black cloth was a mistake that would accent any pallor born of nervousness.
Tartly, Maenalle attacked first. ‘I could go and maybe lend a semblance of decorum if you’d make way and let me pass.’
Before Tashan could move, she brushed by, still shrugging to settle the tunic over her shoulders. Canny enough not to query her forceful choice of wardrobe, the old lord hurried his limp to flank her, while dogs barked and dust flew, and sun-browned children in scuffed deerhides ran in a game of hunters and wolves through the stream-threaded shade of the defile. Built under cover on either side, the rows of ramshackle cabins sagged with the wear of storms and weather. If unglazed windows and walls laddered green under vines seemed uncivilized, Maenalle held no bitterness. Here, surrounded by inhospitable terrain; abutments of knife-edged rock and slide-scarred crags where loose shale and boulders could give way and break legs, the persecuted descendants of Tysan’s deposed liegemen kept a grim measure of safety. Even the most fanatical town enemies were deterred from ranging too zealously for fugitives. Poor as her people were, at least the mountains allowed them the security to raise children under timber roofs and to keep horses in limited herds.
The old blood clans elsewhere had far less in the centuries since the merchant guilds had overset kingdom rule, and headhunters rode to claim bounties.
None of Arithon’s envoy travelled mounted, which explained the scout’s misleading first report. Maenalle reached the palings that served as the outpost’s main gate just as the arrivals from Rathain filed through. Except for the eastern inflection as one commented, ‘Ath, will you look? This place could pass for a village,’ the party might have blended with one of her patrols, Jieret’s band were weather-worn, observant to the point of edged wariness, and dressed in leathers lacking any dyes or bright ornaments. Their weapons had seen hard use, and every last man carried scars.
The rangy, tangle-haired red-head who stepped out to present his courtesies was no exception. Near to her grandson’s age he might be, yet when he arose from his bow and towered over her, Maenalle revised her assessment. The eyes that met hers were chilly and wide, the mouth amid a gingery bristle of beard, fixed and straight. This was no green youth, but a man of seventeen years who had seen his sisters and parents die in the service of his liege. Grief and premature responsibilities left their mark: a boy of twelve had grown up with the burden of safeguarding the north against the wave of vengeance-bent aggression that had dogged his people ever since the year the Mistwraith’s malice had overset Rathain’s peace.
In Tysan, where the feud between townborn and clan burned hotly enough without impetus from geas-cursed princes, Lady Maenalle shrank to imagine what extremity might bring this man to leave his native glens, to abandon his people and risk an overland journey through hostile territory to seek her.
‘My Lord Earl,’ she murmured. ‘Forgive the lacklustre welcome, but surely you bring us bad news?’ She accepted his kiss on her cheek and stepped back, unwilling to test her dignity too long against the younger man’s frightening sense of presence.
Jieret bent upon Tysan’s lady steward the unsettling intuition inherited from his late mother. ‘We’ve surprised you.’ The blood on her boots did not escape him, nor the reserve behind her caithdein’s black. ‘Let me ease your mind. We didn’t call you back from the joys of the summer hunt to beg armed support for the sake of my liege lord, Arithon.’
‘Not hers to give, if you had,’ grumbled Tashan.
The comment fell through a misfortunate lull in the racket made by curious children. Stung into movement like a bothered bear, a grizzled, fifty-ish war captain with inimical black eyes elbowed past his young chieftain’s shoulder.
Don’t flatter yourselves for restraint.’ Caolle loosed a clipped laugh. ‘His Grace of Rathain’s quite vicious enough on points of pride without anybody’s outside help. He’d spurn even gold that fell at his feet, did it come to him struck with his name on it.’
Unsettled to learn the prince himself had not backed this surprise delegation, Maenalle forestalled the airing of issues more wisely discussed in private. ‘Your war captain sounds like a traveller sorely in need of a beer.’
‘Well,