Return to Alastair (2 page)

“I will always need you, my lady.” He bowed to her, painfully aware of the longing in her face. But he could not respond to it. Not yet, with the churning inside him. So he turned and left her standing on the pillared porch alone.

She watched him cross the wide yard, remembering the fiery and tormented Tahn who had walked as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’d come so far in such a short time. But there was still a weight on his heart.

God be with him,
Netta prayed.
Heal every wound in his spirit and grant him all that he seeks.

2

Alastair

T
iarra Loble pushed around the old broom like she had a quarrel with it. Her long hair fell in dark waves across her back and was dampened with perspiration near her face. Her bare feet stepped swiftly through the dust swirls. The work seemed endless. Every day she had to see to Martica’s wants and fetch water from the well for her and for this detestable tavern. Then she had to carry drinks and endure the vile sorts who came to order them. Why sweep? The place would be filthy again in a matter of hours.

She shoved the broom against the wall and left it leaning there, though she knew the tavern master preferred it left out of sight
. Let him yell at me when he gets back,
she thought.
At least he won’t be wearing that nauseating grin when he looks my way.

She glanced out the front door, glad that no one was hurrying yet to bury themselves in their liquor. It left her free for a moment to daydream. She picked up a goblet and studied her hazy reflection. What might she look like in the fine dress of a lady, with jewels to match? Perhaps she should leave this place behind and present herself on Baron Trent’s doorstep.

She couldn’t do it. She knew she wouldn’t. But it was a delicious temptation anyway. Wouldn’t Martica throw a fit! The old woman had forbidden her to tell anyone of the kinship. She insisted that Tiarra’s mother had wanted her raised common. But how painful it was to be dirt poor and shut out of the world in which her mother once had a part. And with little hope of better work than this loathsome tavern had to offer. It was so unfair!

Martica had made her own work once, creating beautiful paintings on canvas, stone, or leather. She’d been quite a marvel, though it never made her much money. But now she was much too old and sick. And Tiarra, at seventeen, had to provide for them both with no special talent or trade.

She set the glass down. She had nothing really but a fair measure of looks and the stubborn will that so often got her into trouble. Hurry up and marry someone, Martica so often advised. Just find someone willing. Tiarra groaned at the thought.

A horse stopped suddenly outside, and she frowned. Some drunkard had come to break in on the silence. She turned abruptly at the sound of the door, feeling angry already though the evening was young.

“Where’s Vale?” the tall young man asked immediately. It was Mikal, the maddening son of an arrogant rich man who lived just down the dirt street.

“He went for two more barrels,” Tiarra told him. “He won’t let Jak Thornton bring them anymore. He says they’re always leaky.”

“Should have sent you,” Mikal said with a sly smile. “The owner of such a fine business should stay where he can keep his watch over things.”

“He’ll not be thanking you to tell him how to run his affairs, Mikal Ovny,” Tiarra countered. “Go away and look for him again tomorrow.”

Mikal laughed. “Shut up and kiss me, Ti! There’s no one here to see it.”

She jerked the wiping cloth off her shoulder and hurled it at him. “Kiss you? You’ve promised yourself to Mary Stumping! If you wanted your paws about me, you’d not have sought for yourself some other miss.”

Mikal stared at her, his eyes still laughing. “You know it was my father’s pleasure to choose Mary for my bride. Don’t hold it against me. I’ve always been your friend.”

“You’re your own friend! And I’ve got no stomach for your company tonight. I’ve got work to do.”

“You’ll not even ask me where I’ve been?”

“No.” She turned from him and walked toward the back room.

“I’ll trade you,” he said with a grin. “One of your sweet kisses for news of your brother.”

She whirled around, her eyes suddenly aflame with emotion. “Tell me of him, Mikal!”

He laughed again. “Where’s my kiss?”

She took one quick step and grabbed for the broom. “Tell me what you know of the villain! Or I’ll beat it out of you the way I’ve seen your mother’s cook beat her dog!”

He smiled. “Tiarra, you’re a pretty one all angry.”

She took a swing at him, but he caught the broom and held it fast. “Ti—”

“Tell me what you know!”

“Will you calm down—”

“No! I am not your plaything. You had your kisses when we were children, and I owe you none now. But you owe me! He’s my brother, and it’s my right to know what you’ve learned.” She let go of the broom and picked up a bowl from the nearest table.

“Tiarra—”

But he was too late to stop her throw. The heavy bowl hit him square in the chest, and she turned immediately to lift the nearest chair.

“Wait a minute—” He backed up and tripped over the stool behind him. Before he could regain his footing, she shoved at him, and he fell full to the floor with her chair on top of him. From the doorway behind them, several new voices joined in laughter, but Tiarra ignored them.

“Where’s Tahn Dorn?” she demanded. “What is he about now? Tell me, Mikal!”

“Yes!” a man at the door echoed. “Tell the wench what she wants before she kills you, man!” A chorus of laughter followed.

Tiarra drew the chair back, aware of the spectacle she’d created. And Mikal sat up slowly.

“He’s at Onath. I’ve just been near there with business for my father. They say he lives within the rich walls of the Trilett estate. He courts the daughter of Lord Trilett as though he were a prince.”

She let the chair fall from her hands and backed up from him. For all of Mikal’s aggravating ways, he wouldn’t lie about this. She knew it of him.

“Do you know more?”

“Only that he’s well thought of now in Onath and beyond. That’s all.”

She turned from him and all the other watching eyes. “Go home, Mikal. Please.”

He stood silently for a moment before answering her. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow, Ti.”

She said nothing. She could only think of the brother she’d chosen to hate because of the things she’d been told, the things he had cost her. Her own flesh and blood—living now like a nobleman! But he was no better than she. Worse, indeed. A killer. That’s what everyone said. And most importantly, that’s what Martica said.

She could hear Mikal behind her, setting a chair upright. And beyond him, the men at the doorway were now coming in, finding themselves places to sit and enjoy their drinking.

“There’s thirsty men about!” someone yelled. “You gonna stand there into the night, girl?”

“Maybe she only pays a heed to the ones who’ll let her fell them to the floor,” another man offered as Mikal left her in silence.

“I’ll fight you, girl,” a third man declared. “And it won’t be me a-lying beneath, I’ll warrant.” He walked up behind her and grabbed at her side.

Tiarra spun around and slapped him. Then she kicked the stunned man as hard as she could. There was laughter from the others, but she glared around the room at all of them. “Let another one of you try it!” she challenged. “I’ve got arm enough for such dogs as you.”

But suddenly there was a voice behind her. “You’re here to give drink, girl. Not insult my brother’s paying customers.”

She turned around. Orin Sade. The tavern master’s burly kinsman.

“They’re here for their drinks, then,” she answered him back. “And that would be all.”

“Be tellin’ the man you’re sorry,” Sade ordered. “Then get to your work.”

Some other evening she might have done what he said. The job was important to her. But she was just too angry to face those laughing eyes.

“He’ll be dead before he gets a sorry from me,” she fumed. “And you can all fetch your own drinks or dry up like old beans.” She stomped to the door and out it, and her toes sank instantly into the mud.
I’ll bet my brother has fine boots,
she thought.
With nary a thought for me in this world.

“Tiarra—”

She turned and saw Mikal standing there, looking at her so strangely. “I told you to go home,” she told him, turning away again down the soggy street.

She hurried as quickly as she could, past the dingy houses and shops, wondering what she could tell Martica of why she was home so soon. Suddenly a dirty face peered at her from around a corner, and then she heard the boy’s excited whisper. “Hurry—hurry, now—it’s Miss Ti!”

Three of them emerged from the little space between the two old houses. They were filthy street children, two boys and a girl, the oldest no more than twelve but far bigger than the others.

“Go on, now!” Tiarra told them. “I haven’t gotten my pay. Lord knows when I’ll ever see that again. I’ve no food or nothing. Go on, now!”

The littlest child began to cry, and Tiarra stopped. Every night on her way home, and every time she went out of her house, whether she was in a foul temper or not, the street children approached her. They knew she didn’t have much, but she would give them each a morsel of whatever she had.

“Please, Miss Ti,” said the girl. “We’ve not had a bite at all today.”

Tiarra looked up at the sky for a moment. She felt like screaming. There was no way she could hope to get much for herself, nor for these hungry little ones who were always underfoot. What it must be like to be Tahn Dorn living in luxury.

“Thank you!” one of the children exclaimed.

But Tiarra had already marched quickly ahead of them so they wouldn’t be able to see the tears in her eyes.

3

T
hat night, Netta Trilett made her rounds to each of the children to hear them say their prayers. Temas, the dear little girl. Doogan and Rane, who were so active that no one could keep up. Briant and Tam, who could be so quiet it made her wonder what was going on inside their little heads. Duncan and Stuva, the brothers, who still often slept with their arms intertwined. And Vari, the oldest, who at fourteen fancied himself a man.

She’d been a year now seeing them grow past the fear and want they’d known before. Tahn Dorn had been in her heart that long too. He’d been so good at helping them all adjust. Thankfully, he’d been here through their nightmares and tears. He was often more able to help them than she was, though he’d known even more of the torment than they. Yet he rarely spoke of it with anyone.

When she’d given out her last good-night kiss, she went looking for the quiet young man she’d grown to love. Truly he had terrified her once. He’d whisked her out her window in the dead of night and stolen her away. But it was to save her life, just as he’d saved these children from the cruel future that was planned for them. He would always be priceless to her because of that. And because the love for them, or for any other little one in need, was still so clear in him.

She saw him finally, outside by the pond, his long hair loose against his back. He was staring at the sky and sat so still he seemed almost a feature of the land around him. She knew he was deep in thought, or in prayer, and though she would have welcomed his arms again, she could not disturb the solitude he seemed to crave.

“Give him room,” Father Anolle had told her once. “Give him all the time he needs.”

She turned back to go to her own bed, praying as she went.
His heart seems so heavy. Dear Lord, help him find his way.

Far away in Alastair, Martica lay coughing in her little room, waiting for Tiarra. “What’ve you been doing out there?” the old woman asked when the girl finally came in. “You giving our bread to the street rabble again?”

“They’re children, ma’am,” Tiarra pleaded her case. “Hungrier than we are.”

“Not for long, child, if you keep up! Send them away next time. They’ve got to learn there are other people in this city to beg after.”

Tiarra looked past her, the sad thoughts pressing at her heavily. “I’m always surprised that you don’t want to help them.”

“It’s not my obligation,” the old woman snapped. “I’m not their Creator nor their kin.”

“You took
me
in. And it must have been hard when I was just a baby.”

“That was for the love of your mother, God rest her.”

“But the little ones of Alastair’s streets lack a mother and father just as I did then,” Tiarra protested.

“Well, let the church or someone with means help them. I’m not averse to that.” Martica drew a deep breath and began to cough again.

Tears blurred Tiarra’s sight for a moment. Martica was dying. They never spoke of it, but she knew. The cough was always deeper, its hold growing tighter with every passing day. The old woman could be unpleasant indeed, but it was better to have her than to be all alone.

“Why are you home?” the woman demanded. “Why aren’t you working?”

Tiarra sighed. “Vale’s brother was there to manage it all.”

“Think, child!” Martica scolded. “You should have stayed anyway. Perhaps you’ll meet a man well taken by the looks of you, and get you a husband and provider.”