Part 13 (2/2)

Deardru-an-Caerluel rolled dark eyes and chuckled. ”I can see that, child. I meant what sort of woman is she-or should I say 'girl'-I hear she's no older than Desary.”

”I meant she's lovely,” said Eyslk. ”She's . . . brave and full of compa.s.sion and love. And she's . . . sad.”

”Sad? Why ever sad? She's got Catahn and you all wrapped about her. Not to mention having a handful of lowland Chieftains and the Cwen and Cyneric of Caraid-land among her baggage.”

”You've heard the tell, Mama. How can you ask?”

”Oh, aye-the poor little orphan girl, everyone she knows dead an age, whole world on her shoulders, and all the Cyne's men against her. Sort of a fish out of water, isn't she?”

Deardru smiled at her own play on words and Eyslk cringed, finding the close kitchen suddenly over-warm.

”Please, Mama, don't say such things.”

Deardru tipped her head back, smile twisting wryly. ”Why, because your magical Mistress might hear me? Strike at me?” She leaned forward then, her hand stopping Eyslk's anxious tugs on the unresisting material. ”Remember, daughter, before you pity the woman too much, that she can Weave her every want. More than you or I can do.”

Eyslk lowered her eyes to the fabric she'd been stroking and smoothing for the last several minutes.

Her mother chuckled. ”Ah, but she's teaching you, isn't she, the beautiful Wicke? Someday you, too, will reek of magic.”

”She's not a Wicke, Mama. She's Osmaer.”

”But she is beautiful, isn't she?”

”You've seen her.”

”Only from a distance. I suppose our mighty Ren is smitten with her.”

Eyslk caught the venom in her mother's voice and was repulsed by it. ”You'd have to ask Uncle his opinion of her, Mama. I only know what I think.”

She gathered up her fabric then, folding it hastily against her chest. ”I'll take this to Gram Long for sewing. There's cakes for Da's supper in the pantry.” She bolted from the kitchen, ignoring her mother's amused glance.

”Eyslk.”

Halfway into their small parlor, she paused, clutching her fabric.

”Don't forget your jacket. It's chill out.”

”No, Mama,” she said and made good her escape.

Airleas lunged, arm thrusting upward, swinging inward. He grunted, throwing himself into the thrust, allowing himself an instant of satisfaction that he had performed the move exactly as Broran had shown him.

Satisfaction was short-lived. The blade caught Broran's parry and spun out of his hand-for the fifth time that morning. He scrambled after it, pride and face in flames, eyes averted from Broran's smug grin and Gwynet's ever-watchful eyes.

”Not bad, Cyneric. The move looks good enough, but you've got to keep a better grip on the hilt.”

”Before, you told me I was holding it too tightly,” Airleas complained.

”You were. And I didn't say you should hold it tighter. I said 'get a better grip.' Don't try to block my blade, try to gate it. Grip tight; wrist flexible.”

Trying not to look at Gwynet, who watched from the bottom of the kitchen steps, Airleas retrieved his sword and held it out, wrist wobbling. ”Flexible? How's that supposed to work?”

Broran scowled. ”I said flexible not limp. h.e.l.l's wind, but you're stubborn, midge. If you'd rather not learn what I have to teach you-”

Smoke curled in Airleas's heart. ”Don't call me that. I'm not a midge.”

”No, you're the Cyneric Malcuim. And I'm just a lowly mountain boy. I know what you think of me, Cyneric Airleas. And you'd best believe I'm no happier teaching than you are learning. But Catahn's lady wants me to tutor Your Loftiness, and that means Catahn wants me to. I obey my Ren, but I can always tell him you just aren't learning.”

The embers in Airleas's heart burst into flame. ”You wouldn't!”

Broran's wide mouth pulled into a tight smile. ”I surely would. You've a head as hard as iron, Your Worthiness. You know the difference between a limp wrist and a flexible one, you're just pretending to mistake me. I don't want to teach you anymore than you want to learn.”

He turned and started to walk away, moving past the gawping Gwynet as if she weren't there.

”I can learn, d.a.m.n you! I'm not pretending!”

Knowledge of his own lie added more heat to Airleas's fire. d.a.m.n Broran for seeing through him! d.a.m.n him! He spat the thought in full fury, feeling it as a rush of physical heat that flowed from the crown of his head and radiated from his eyes.

Broran stopped and snapped around to face him as if jerked on the end of a chain. His face, drained of its normal ruddy color, was cloud pale below his tawny hair.

Beside him, Gwynet gasped in open-mouthed amazement. ”Airleas! Don't!”

Airleas, face flaming, dashed his hot gaze to the ground.

Broran shook himself and took a backward step away. ”You're an evil boy, Airleas Malcuim,” he said, and fled to the kitchen.

Airleas might have sneered and called the older boy a coward, but he was caught in the talons of a cold so complete he thought his soul had frozen. Gwynet came to him, bombarding him with concern and distress.

He could only blink at her and whisper, ”What did I do?”

She stopped toe to toe with him, looking into him through his eyes.

”What did I do?” he asked again.

”You Wove, Airleas. But . . . it wasn't a good thing.”

”I didn't mean to. I didn't. Don't tell Taminy,” he pleaded.

”Oh, Airleas, she already knows.”

Eyslk-an-Caerluel rose from sleep in a bubble of happiness. Yesterday she had seen Gram Long's pattern for her Crask-an-bana dress, had seen the wonderful material cut and pinned. Today she knew the sewing would begin. She was glad to contemplate a day of service up at the fortress, for otherwise she would surely be in Gram's hair all day, watching every st.i.tch.

Now she kept her mind on the trivial-heating water for her ablutions, picking out warm clothing, braiding up her hair. She was in the kitchen putting on water for tea when her step-father came in, broad, handsome face worried and tense.

”Eyslk, it's your mama. She's taken ill.”

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