Daughter of Prophecy (30 page)

Later, after the congratulations and birthing day celebrations had ended and everyone had left, Lakenna helped Mererid bathe and wash her hair. Afterwards the noble lady put on a dab of perfume after her bath. Lakenna knew what that meant. When she was dressed, they walked as they had done for weeks now.

The moon was half full and cast a silvery light on the stream as it snaked across the valley floor. The current swirled and bubbled around exposed rocks, the sound soothing to Lakenna as she and Mererid walked along the hard-packed dirt trail that followed the twists and turns of the bank.

As usual, conversation was dominated by the coming Rite of Presentation and their united purpose to drag Rhiannon kicking and screaming into womanhood.

“After the wool sale to Gillaon,” Mererid said, “I knew Maolmin would not include Rhiannon among those presented to Prince Larien. An understandable retaliation, but of no lasting import. Clan Dinari is the smallest and poorest of the six clans. In twelve hundred years, no Faber has chosen a Dinari. Accordingly, we are always ‘honored' by being first. The royal party will only spend one day in Lachlann, our southernmost town of sufficient size, before leaving for the Presentations that will matter.”

She smiled wryly. “One can only imagine the maneuvering and infighting going on among the other clans to choose the most eligible of their maidens. By now, Cullia should have found someone suitable, giving her time to wring as much gold and trade concessions as possible from the girl's kinsmen group and High Lord before the announcement.”

Lakenna stopped walking. “I thought it would be like when Destin saw Meagarea and the Eternal turned their hearts to each other . . . ” Her words trailed off at the noble lady's snort.

“Would that it was so. A great story. I never tire of hearing it or seeing it portrayed in skits. We should pray it will happen like that this fall.” She looked up at the star-strewn sky and hugged herself. “But, no. King Balder is invalid with some mysterious aliment and rarely leaves Faber Castle. Cullia rules the Land, and she understands power like no queen in generations. I don't know all that happened to cause Larien's betrothal to be broken and this Rite of Presentation declared, but undoubtedly the Sabinis maiden must have had eyes on the throne, which would have threatened Cullia. Rumors had the girl's father busy making deals for when Balder dies.”

They continued on their walk.

“Prince Larien is said to care little for governing,” Mererid said. “With King Balder's condition worsening and Larien's coronation not far off, Cullia's purpose is to find a complacent girl from a high-ranking family who will look pretty during royal functions, produce a male heir, and leave the ruling of the Land to her. Our purpose,” Mererid finished as they headed back up the ridges to the pavilion, “is to have Rhiannon seen by all, act like the noble young maiden she is, and attract a better match than we could expect otherwise.”

As they passed the stables, Lakenna heard stomping of feet and soft whickers from horses. The lantern light was still shining. Mererid left her and went to say goodnight to Tellan and the boys.

Rhiannon and Ove were already abed when Lakenna eased back inside the pavilion, trying not to stumble over chests or the wash stand. After hanging her blouse and skirt on pegs driven into a tent pole next to her pallet, she slipped into her cotton nightdress and crawled under the light wool blanket.

It was much later when Mererid returned. The noble lady hummed a faint tune as she undressed—for what Lakenna felt sure was the second time that night.

Why am I not undressing for a husband instead of lying here, alone, where an evil beyond my wildest imagining walks on two legs and stalks a young woman?

She was twenty-five! Years beyond the age to be married. Time was slipping away. Would she ever know the pleasure of a warm body next to hers every night? Of his hands upon her and hers upon his? Of a babe suckling at her breast—

Enough! I am still Albane, and I will not harbor these feelings.

Finally, Lakenna tumbled into a restless sleep . . .

In her dream she stood on a plain with Rhiannon behind her. High Lord Maolmin strode out of a misty gray veil and came toward them, huge hands balled into fists. He wore a black cloak that did not swing as he walked. His eyes were terrible, unforgiving, two black orbs pulsing with arrogant power. Behind him the gray mist rolled, concealing weird shapes, waiting, patient and evil. One shape—a winged horror—reared and flapped its long, pointed wings. The mist flowed into eddies and swirls.

Confident in her spiritual authority, she watched Maolmin approach. This should be easy. She was Lakenna Wen, Albane of Albanes. She had been faithful all her life, attending every meeting as a child with her parents, and had been just as faithful as an adult. No one could quote more Holy Writ from memory than she could. No one could equal her in debates on doctrine. Everyone pointed to her as an example of what a virtuous woman should be. Surely demons would flee before her.

She flung out a finger. “You are bound, foul demon!”

The movement of the strange shapes in the mist stopped. She could feel them straining to hear, pensive. But her words had no effect on Maolmin. He came on, unfazed. With every step he loomed larger, more menacing.

Full of righteousness indignation, she thundered, “I bind you! In the Eternal's name and by the Covenant, you are bound!”

“You can't bind me!” he hissed. “You are full of sin! The worst kind of sin!”

She reeled, the truth of his accusation a body blow. Words of faith died in her mouth. Her proud notion of herself crumbled into dust, and she wanted to curl into a ball and weep.

Maolmin smirked. He was head and shoulders above her now. Coal black eyes peered down into her very core.

“With Loane, and then the herbs from Old Tanny. You knew it was sin, but you did it anyway. And what is more, you still lust for a man! Let one beckon you to his bed, and you will unpin your hair and scamper eagerly—”

She bolted upright in her pallet, cotton gown damp with sweat. Dry-mouthed, she pulled the thin blanket around her shoulders and got up. She stumbled though the dark interior of the pavilion. She drew back the front flap and walked a few paces into the night.

The moon had set and the stars were thick in the sky. Sweat poured off her. She shrugged off the blanket and let it puddle around her feet.

Her failure was a millstone upon her neck. She was a hypocrite in every Holy Writ session with Rhiannon. She, Lakenna Wen, who for years had eagerly pointed out the barest hint of such in other's life, was the worst hypocrite imaginable. She, Lakenna Wen, had deliberately committed the most grievous of sins. Not once, but twice.

She fought to keep tears back as the memories came. A fortnight before her expected wedding date, she had gone to meet Loane at their cottage he was constructing. The fireplace was finished, and Loane wanted her opinion on a red oak slab he had found for the mantel. They stood before the hearth, envisioning what it would look like, the smell of wood shavings and wet mortar a pleasing mixture that somehow declared a bright future for the two of them.

It had been so natural when he slid his arm around her waist, and she responded by laying her head on his shoulder, content. Then he turned and pulled her to him, arms strong and pleasing as she was crushed against his chest, his mouth on hers. Although they both knew they should stop, they allowed it to continue. The back part of her mind calculated that with only a fortnight remaining, it would not matter, and so Lakenna gave in to the body hunger she had kept tightly wrapped for years. She stepped back from his embrace, unpinned her hair, and it had happened.

Afterward, it was awkward and embarrassing as they silently rearranged clothing and brushed off the dust and wood shavings.

Then, beyond all knowing, a week later Loane was dead of lung fever. Two months after that, Lakenna finally faced what she had been growing more sure of with each passing day. Sleepless nights and nauseated mornings followed, until . . .

Until, with mounting desperation, she made a visit to Old Tanny, the herbalist living on the outskirts of the village, and came back with the root of blue cotash and instructions on how to brew the tea.

Lakenna did so, then stared at the cup—and stared. Eventually, she picked it up, held it in trembling hands for a long moment—and finally drank. It worked like Old Tanny said it would. The other herbal preparations and teas sent for afterwards had worked too, easing the discomfort and other bodily aspects.

But Lakenna had discovered a much deeper stain, one that all the herbs in the world could never take away.

I am Dinari now, but nothing can change what I have done.

Even so, Loane and Old Tanny were behind her. Somehow, with enough effort, she would learn to live with it.

Not so for Maolmin's second accusation from the dream.

She did still long for a man. She had fought those longings for years—as she had done tonight. But how she yearned for a husband. For companionship, for the security of a home hearth, and, yes, for sexual intimacy. To be sated and hum a happy tune like Mererid had.

Lakenna turned and regarded the pavilion where Rhiannon slept.
Of what help to her is a sinner beset by such desires!

She listened to her own heartbeat, which was loud in the stillness of the night. Never had she felt more alone. Her distance from the Eternal seemed a huge chasm.

By day, Lord Tellan and Llyr drilled the warriors at an increased pace, and everyone was confident that, should the Mighty Ones' creatures come again, the Rogoths would be ready. But what about the other part of the battle?
Will I be able to stand in the gap again? How can I pray as I did before?

The night air chilled her sweat-drenched gown, and cold pierced her skin and seeped into her soul. Shivering, she reached down and drew the blanket back over her head and shoulders. She peered out to the north and then to the west. Evil was on the move in both directions, and she had no doubt of its destination.

She lifted her gaze heavenward. Tears filled her eyes.

Dear Eternal, forgive my sin.

Chapter Twenty-three

B
RANOR

S
OUTH THE WIND
blew from Salmand, the city of the Dinari High Lord. Though it was high summer, the wind carried a chill as it billowed down the crags of the Fea Mountains and across green pastures dotted with sheep. Hardened sheepherders shivered when it passed and tightened their grip on staffs. Sheep raised heads from grazing, uneasy. Lambs scurried pell-mell back to their mothers.

The wind ripped the surface of small ponds and clear lakes and added more velocity to snowmelt streams bubbling downhill. It blew down the narrow road toward Lachlann, raising dust and scattering small pebbles. It eddied and swirled around the high walls of Kepploch Monastery, then gathered itself and sped toward the Rogoth lands.

The skin prickled between Branor's shoulder blades as he strode across the inner courtyard on the way to meet with Abbot Trahern.

Two gardener monks straightened from their labor. They stared at each other for a moment, then shrugged and returned to their weeding of the flowerbeds that lined the walkways. All were in bloom with pleasing colors of red, yellow, pink, and blue. Rosebushes with blood red petals circled a pool in which yellow and orange fish swam beneath water lilies. Rising from the middle of the pool was a statue of Destin Faber with his sword hilt deep in the chest of a roaring winged horror. On the base of the statue were chiseled the names of Keeper monks killed through the centuries battling outbreaks of the Mighty Ones' creatures.

Branor halted and looked over the east wall of the monastery toward the Rogoth lands. Whatever he had felt before must have been his imagination. He was not ready for it to be anything but imagination. He swallowed hard and strode on.

He walked under the columned walkway surrounding the courtyard, leaving the flowers and sunshine behind. The hallway to abbot's office was hung with colorful tapestries. Tightly woven rugs covered the stone floor. Chests and cabinets of polished wood held plates and platters, bowls and cups as fine as anything he had seen in the hlafords of high-ranking clan lords.

As usual, Keeper Ubie, Trahern's ancient and irascible secretary, perched on a stool in front of a slant-top desk. And as usual, Ubie did not deign to acknowledge Branor's entrance.

Suppressing a sigh, Branor stopped in front of the desk. “I am here to see the abbot.”

The secretary's face was hollow cheeked, and tufts of white hair grew on the bridge of his nose and from his earlobes. His fingers were ink-stained and his hands dotted with age spots. As usual, he pretended not to hear the request, remaining engrossed in shuffling the parchments before him.

Branor smiled.
The Eternal gives me opportunity to practice my rediscovered humility. But if I weren't such a recently broken man, I'd jerk this pompous bag of bones off that stool, give him a good kick in the backside, and then count how many times he bounced—

“Yes, Your Grace?” Ubie peered up with rheumy eyes and pursed lips. “What did you say?”

Branor's toes twitched. “As I have twice a week since I have been here, I have come to talk with Abbot Trahern.”

Not changing his expression, the secretary managed to convey affront as he set the parchments aside. He slowly lifted the hinged top of the desk and rummaged in the underlying compartment. Bringing out a leather-bound ledger, he dipped a quill into ink and with great deliberation jotted down a notation. Finally he creaked off the stool and shuffled to the abbot's door.

Branor had needed Kepploch's slow pace these past weeks. Needed the peace to regain his focus on the Eternal. And to be reconciled to a new future.

He was still surprised at his lack of tension. His ambition had been a burden he carried for so long that only in its absence was he able to understand what a crushing weight it had become. He still felt fragile, numb at the sudden change. Overnight he had gone from years of examining everything he did for its furtherance of his ultimate goal to . . . nothing. Quest abandoned. When he had been so close.