The Raven Ring (16 page)

Finally Daner stopped in front of an oak door banded with iron. He rapped once, and immediately a small panel opened at eye level. Eleret caught a glimpse of dark eyes surrounded by deep wrinkles, and then she heard a sharp intake of breath. The panel snapped shut, something scraped loudly along the inside of the door, and then the door swung open.

The weather-worn man holding the door bowed. “Welcome home, my lord. We weren’t expecting you.”

“I know, Bresc,” Daner said, stepping into the small entry room. “It’s nothing. This is Freelady Salven; she’ll be staying the night. She’s to be given full guest courtesy. Pass the word, will you?”

“Very good, my lord,” the man said. As Eleret entered, he gave her a look that took in not only the two kit bags but also the places where her skirt hung oddly over her raven’s-feet and her unsheathed dagger. Eleret’s opinion of him rose.

Then he bowed again and closed the door behind them, and they went on inside.

A narrow, crooked corridor led away from the entry room to another door. Beyond was a stone flight of spiral stairs, dimly lit by the overflow from some stronger light high above. Daner went first, climbing with the unthinking ease of long practice. He did not even scrape his sword against the outer wall as he moved around and around the tight, steep turns.

They climbed past a short, wide door and went on up. Daner opened the next door they came to and went through instead of continuing the ascent. Eleret gave a quiet sigh of relief. The shadows and the closeness of the walls around the stairs made her feel as if she were lost in a cave, with her torch running out and the mountains pressing down above her. She told herself not to be silly, and followed Daner out of the stairwell.

The room beyond was a shocking contrast. Eleret squinted in the sudden light, taking in the tapestry-draped walls and the high ceiling. Bowls of fresh flowers and delicate porcelain statuettes stood on tables draped with lace and surrounded by thin-legged wooden chairs overflowing with embroidered silk pillows. Even the lamps looked fragile, with filigree bases and narrow necks.
What an awful place for a fight,
Eleret thought.

As they stepped into the room, a group of women rose like startled quail from a cluster of chairs in front of the hearth, scattering pillows and bits of embroidery thread across the floor. Three of them, ranging in apparent age from seventeen to twenty-five, rushed forward with delighted cries and crowded around Daner. The remaining two—a short, plump, grim-faced matron and a taller and happier-looking woman of middle years—approached more slowly. All of the women wore floor-length tunics similar to the one Jonystra Nirandol had had on when Eleret had last seen her, but these were of finer materials more elaborately embroidered.

“Girls, behave yourselves,” the tall woman said as she drew nearer. Her tunic was a soft blue-gray silk, and the embroidery around the square neckline glittered in the lamplight. “Daner, my love, what a pleasant surprise. And so unexpected.”

“Hello, Mother,” Daner said, shedding eager young women in all directions as he bent to kiss her hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you I’d be home tonight, but I didn’t know myself until half an hour ago.”

“Then you’re forgiven.” She looked past Daner, and her twinkling gray eyes met Eleret’s. “I don’t believe we’ve met, my dear. I’m—”

“The unfortunate mother of an unmannerly lout,” Daner broke in. “Mother, this is Freelady Eleret Salven.”

Morravik’s death
! Eleret thought,
I should have told him not to use that title.
It was too late now, though, and from the various startled looks the ladies were giving her it was plain that every last one of them had identified her as a Cilhar on the strength of it.

“Eleret, this is my mother, Lady Laurenzi tir Vallaniri,” Daner went on. “And my aunt, Lady Kistran Vallaniri; my sisters, Lady Laurinel Trantorino, Lady Raqueva, and Lady Metriss.”

Eleret nodded in acknowledgment of each name. Lady Kistran was the grim-looking matron; her expression did not lighten in the least as she swept her eyes up and down Eleret like a group-captain looking for a betraying glint of metal before a night foray. As Daner finished his introduction, she sniffed and raised a hand to stroke a necklet of beaten gold that must have cost as much as six workhorses and a sword of Sadorthan steel.

Lady Laurinel—or was it Lady Trantorino?—was a sweet-faced blonde in her mid-twenties who returned a smile for Eleret’s nod, then glanced uncertainly at her aunt.

In contrast, Lady Raqueva eyed Eleret with the same open evaluation as Lady Kistran, but with less hostility. Her hair was darker than her elder sister’s, and she had a more determined set to her jaw. “Freelady? You’re a Cilhar, then?”

“Yes, Lady Raqueva,” Eleret said, hoping she had gotten the designation right. From Daner’s behavior and their own, she could see that there was a hierarchy among these women as strict as the order of officers in a full assault call-up, but she could not puzzle out exactly how it worked. Why couldn’t Daner have told her something
useful
on the walk there, instead of jabbering on about how much they would like her? But that was unjust; after all, she hadn’t thought to ask about forms of address any more than he had thought to mention them.

“How interesting,” said Lady Metriss, the seventeen-year-old. She carried herself as if someone had stuck a steel-clad arrow down her back, and her tone was one of polite boredom. “Is that what they’re wearing in the mountains this spring?”

“Not now, Riss.” Lady tir Vallaniri cast a reproving glance at her youngest daughter, then turned to Eleret. “It’s a pleasure to have you with us, Freelady Salven. Will you be staying for dinner?”

“She’ll be staying the night, Mother,” Daner said before Eleret could reply. “I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, but it’s necessary.”

All five women turned their heads to stare at Eleret with varying degrees of astonishment.

“Necessary?” Lady Kistran invested the word with an amazing amount of skepticism. “And just
why
is it ‘necessary’?”

“Politics, Aunt,” Daner said.

Curiosity left all five faces like water running out of an overturned bucket. “Very well, Daner,” Lady tir Vallaniri said. “You can discuss it with your father after dinner.”

“
And
with Baroja,” Lady Kistran put in swiftly. “I trust you will be able to satisfy them.”

“Cousin Baroja is going to be here tonight?” Plainly, Daner was not much taken with the idea.

“Yes, he and your aunt are staying to dinner,” his mother said. Eleret thought she heard a warning note below the casual tone, but she did not know Lady Laurenzi tir Vallaniri enough to be sure. Suddenly she felt as if she stood on rotten spring ice, where a solid-seeming trail might give way underfoot without warning, and she had no way to find the safe path.

Daner’s mother turned her head toward her daughters and went on. “Lauri, will you show Freelady Salven to her room? The west corner upstairs, I think. She’ll want a few minutes to refresh herself before we eat.”

Lady Laurinel, the eldest and friendliest-looking of the sisters, smiled. “Of course, Mother. Freelady?”

A bit uncertainly, Eleret followed Laurinel down the length of the room to the far door. She would have preferred a few moments alone with Daner to get a fast report on the things she needed to know about his family, but that did not look possible. Getting away from the lot of them was the next best thing; she couldn’t misstep if she wasn’t there.

As they reached the door, Laurinel scooped a small lamp from the table beside it. Holding it high, she led Eleret down a wide hall to another staircase. This one was made of broad oak boards and rose in three short, straight flights to the next floor.

“It’s just around the corner,” Lady Laurinel said as she stepped into the upstairs hallway. “I’m sure you’ll—”

“Mother!” Halfway down the hall, a door flew open. Automatically, Eleret reached for her dagger, then relaxed as a small blue-clad whirlwind rushed toward them. A belated cry of protest followed, and a moment later a tall, gaunt woman appeared in the doorway.

“Drioren, come back here at once!” the woman called. Then she saw Laurinel, and sucked her breath in so strongly that even from where she stood Eleret could hear the soft hissing sound. “My lady! I do beg your pardon, my lady. The young lord is a rare catch today, and no mistake.”

“She wants me to take a nap,” the small person informed them. “I don’t want a nap. I want a story. Will you tell me a story, Mother?” He raised wide gray eyes and smiled winningly.

“Not right now, Drioren,” Lady Laurinel said. “I have a duty. But you may come with me, if you like.”

Drioren tilted his head, plainly suspicious. “What kind of duty?”

“I must show your grandmother’s guest to her room, and see that she is comfortable.”

“Oh,
that’s
all right, then.” Drioren smiled at his mother again. “Yes, please, I would like to come with you, Mother.”

“My lady, you should not encourage him to disobey,” the gaunt woman said stiffly.

“Should I not?” Lady Laurinel said in a soft, cool voice.

The gaunt woman’s eyes dropped. “Beg pardon, my lady, I’m sure.”

“Very good,” Laurinel said in the same soft tone. “Now, be so good as to fetch a washbasin to the west chamber for our guest. Drioren will be with us when you bring it.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Laurinel smiled. “You may go.” She took her son’s hand and started down the hall. As the gaunt woman turned away, a flash of anger, almost hatred, crossed her face. Once again, Eleret had the feeling of unfamiliar hazards lurking below a thin crust of polite formality. It was a good thing she was not going to be here long.

As they walked down the hall, Drioren threw several curious looks over his shoulder at Eleret. Finally he tugged on his mother’s hand and asked in a clear, piercing whisper, “Mother, who’s she?”

Laurinel paused, then turned. “Forgive me, Drioren, I should have presented you. Freelady Salven, this is my son, the young Lord Drioren Trantorino. Drioren, your greeting.”

Letting go of his mother’s hand, Drioren stepped forward and bowed. He kept his solemn dark eyes fixed on Eleret’s face the whole time, which made the movement awkward, but Eleret managed not to smile. “Welcome, Freelady,” he said.

“I thank you for your courtesy,” Eleret replied, as she would have in the mountains. “May your welcome bring strength to us both.”

“As you will have it,” the boy responded, though he was plainly unsure that this was the right thing to say. Eleret smiled encouragingly, and Drioren relaxed. “You aren’t from Ciaron, are you? Where do you come from?”

“I’m Cilhar,” Eleret told him. Daner’s polite introduction had seen to it that the adults all knew her origins; there was no point in hiding them from the child. “I come from the Mountains of Morravik.”

“Really?” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Where they have dragons and Varnan wizards and Wyrds and everything?”

“I’ve never seen a dragon, and as far as I know there are no Wyrds living in the mountains,” Eleret said. “We don’t have many wizards, either. It takes time to study magic, and none of us have much to spare.”

Drioren’s face fell. “No wizards?”

“Not now, and not recently. But one of my great-great-grandmothers was a Varnan
and
a wizard.”

“Will you tell me about her?” Drioren asked, tucking his hand confidently into Eleret’s.

Eleret glanced at Lady Laurinel, who smiled and shook her head. “Not right now,” Eleret said.

“First we must show Freelady Salven her room,” Laurinel added.

“Oh, that’s right. It’s a duty.” Drioren did not seem at all upset, and Eleret gave an approving nod. Whatever else the Ciaronese did or did not do, this child at least was being taught a proper regard for duty.

Halfway down the hall, Laurinel opened a door and gestured Eleret inside. “I hope this will do, Freelady.”

“It will be fine,” Eleret said. The chamber was nearly as large as the front room at home, with a wide bed piled with pillows, two spindly chairs and a matching round table, a long, high table underneath a window, and a fireplace set in the outer wall. The air smelled faintly of old smoke and damp stone, like a storage room that had gone unopened for a month. A thick rug covered the floor in the center of the room, and a pair of black iron tongs leaned against the stone wall next to the fireplace. She looked more closely and saw that the handle end was shaped like a bird’s head. She smiled slightly, tightening her right hand around the raven ring, and suddenly felt more comfortable.

“Good,” said Drioren. “
Now
will you tell me a story?”

“If it’s all right with your mother—”

“Are you sure you don’t mind, Freelady?” Laurinel said in a worried tone.

“I have two youngers at home, a sister and a brother,” Eleret said. “I like children.” She set her kit bags on the dainty-looking table where she could see them and gingerly lowered herself into one of the chairs. It was more comfortable than it looked. “What kind of story would you like to hear?” she asked Drioren.

ELEVEN

D
RIOREN GAVE
E
LERET A
bright smile and plopped down on the rug in front of her. “Tell me an
old
story, please.”

“All right,” Eleret said. “Long, long ago, when three moons hung in the sky and all the races were one race, there lived a man—”

“That’s not right,” Drioren broke in. “Old stories are supposed to start, ‘A long time past, when the great gray ships sailed east to harbor…’”

His mother shook her head reprovingly at him, but Eleret smiled. “Those are your stories,” she told him. “Where I come from, the oldest stories begin differently.”

Drioren frowned, considering this. “But it sounds funny.”

“That’s because you’ve never heard my story before.”

The frown lasted a few seconds more, then Drioren nodded. “All right, but if I don’t like it you have to tell me another one.”

“Oh, no,” Eleret said, fighting a desire to laugh. Until he was ten, Jiv had tried the same trick every night to delay his bedtime. It had never worked, but that hadn’t stopped him. “You asked for one story, and one is all you get. And all you said was that you wanted an
old
story, so the rest is my choice to tell. Take it or go hungry.”