The Kylgahran: Book Two -- The Initiates: Book Two -- The Initiates

By Randy Ellena

Winds of change sweep ever more restively across lands surrounding the Middle Sea on the two-mooned world of Trascera.

At Alger Castle on the rugged west coast of Kylgahra, Rynwicca Erryn, a brilliant young initiate, a sorcerer in training, struggles with the mystery that is the Yir, magic's Hidden Source. Amid the pangs of lo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Forest of Grativy Publications
• Release date: Nov 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578731926

Randy Ellena

Randy Ellena, a retired communications system engineer, lives in Fresno, California with his wife, Rebecca. He continues writing The Trasceran Chronicles, a fantasy anthology comprised of two distinct but related series of novels-The Kylgahran and The Tierans-both set in lands surrounding the Middle Sea on a two-mooned world called Trascera.

Book preview

Preface

The Trasceran Chronicles is an anthology comprised of two distinct but related series of novels. Like its sister series, The Tierans, book two of The Kylgahran is set in lands surrounding the Middle Sea on a two-mooned world called Trascera. Magic, the mystic power of the Yir, stirs on Trascera—wondrous and ominous in equal measure.

The tale begins at Alger Castle on the rugged west coast of Kylgahra. There, brilliant sixteen-year-old Rynwicca Erryn of Clan Ard Erryn, an initiate or sorcerer in training, struggles with the mystery that is the Yir. Born of the nobility, daughter to the laird of her clan, Rynwicca has journeyed from her ancestral home to study under the tutelage of a renowned sorcerer. Amid the pangs of loneliness and the stirrings of first love, she must come to grips with the power unleashed within her or succumb to its siren’s call and be consumed. A sea voyage awaits her, a journey filled with peril and awakening.

The first inkling of foreign entanglement surfaces in the form of a surprise offer of alliance from a traditional foe. What this entails for the Highlanders of Kylgahra remains to be seen. But to the warriors of the clans, the allure of glory and plunder casts a powerful spell, an open invitation leading, it seems, inevitably to war.

Meanwhile, Aeryk Emyrt begins his trek deep into the majestic Torean Mountains guiding a mixed company of Syrdisian royalty and Elven mercenaries. They travel in search of, well, Aeryk isn’t exactly sure. Royals can be secretive and tricksome, and Elves, especially the enigmatic, amber-eyed, Jyn-Ael-Tor, even more so. Along the way, Aeryk is confronted by a rogue sorcerer out of legend and by the truth of his birthright.

Aeryk’s cousin, ex-sheriff Ranyl Emyrt, discovers marriage isn’t what he expected. Suddenly becoming one of two has placed him in largely uncharted territory. Some portions of his role as consort to Laird Apparent Tessymir Ryan of Clan Ard Ryan are familiar. He finds himself embroiled once again in clan politics while fending off Guilley raiders. Then his father comes calling, bearing tidings destined to set into motion a future none could have foreseen—one that for Ranyl includes embarking upon a quest leading into the past.

For initiate, fledgling laird, and erstwhile sheriff alike, their stories continue to reflect watershed events shaping a narrow window of time in a world where the winds of change are rising. Choices matter amid the tumult, more than in less turbulent days, and some have hard edges, thrusting those who make them headlong into the most daunting of consequences.

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1

Lady Erryn

Winter 1358

Alger Castle, Kylgahra

Dawn came softly to Alger Castle on the west coast of Kylgahra, as if the light of day waxed reluctant to intrude upon night’s inky presence. The twin Trasceran moons had long since set when the first stir of waking rippled through a land still steeped in darkness. The night wind shifted and then faded as stillness descended. Furtively, the first tendrils of sunlight crept into the waiting silence. Having begun as a pale crescent low along the eastern horizon, the gathering light surged like a slowly rising tide, gradually drowning out the stars until the deep velvety black of the nighttime sky gave way to the soft purple hue of early morning.

Rynwicca Erryn of Clan Ard Erryn sat perched atop a barrel in a drafty barn on the castle grounds watching Chiswyck Dunleavy apply the special cobalt-blue paint to yet another swath of silk cloth. The weather remained dry but brittle with cold. Rynwicca wore a gray woolen shawl wrapped about her shoulders. Beneath it, she was clad in a deep green linen frock. Woolen half gloves sheathed her hands but left her fingers bare. Anya, her maid, had fashioned Rynwicca’s thick auburn hair into a single braid almost long enough for her to sit upon, and a knitted cap, green to match her dress, set at a jaunty angle on her head. Rynwicca’s large violet eyes crinkled in amusement as Chiswyck bent over too fast and managed to rip his trousers down the back.

Would it be rude, I wonder, Rynwicca fairly chortled, unable to keep the merriment out of her voice, to mention that I told you you’d outgrown those poor things?

I don’t suppose there is much use in arguing the point, my lady, Chiswyck conceded. At least this will take the sting out of smearing paint on them, which is what I’m bound to do next. Beneath his torn trousers, Chiswyck had on a pair of woolen underwear. She’d caught only a glimpse, but they appeared to be an oatmeal color. He’d put on two shirts, blue cotton underneath and thick gray wool over that, and a pair of well-worn leather boots. Bareheaded but with a red woolen scarf wound about his neck, he, too, wore a pair of woolen half gloves.

Don’t be too hasty, Wyck, Rynwicca advised. I can darn them and let them out a little. Although at the rate you are growing, I won’t be able to keep up with you much longer.

Eighteen years of age, nearly two years older than Rynwicca, Chiswyck had always been a skinny fellow. Over the course of the past year or so, he’d shot upward in height by nearly half a head, and his shoulders had broadened as well. He stood not quite as tall as her older brother, Jamie, but Rynwicca estimated Chiswyck must have closed the gap to a couple of finger widths. Chiswyck’s close-cropped hair was thick and blond. His eyes showed green about the center of the iris with a band of dark gray at the edge, a mix Kylgahran referred to as Highland blue. Wyck’s hands and feet still seemed oversized, and Rynwicca thought he might have some height left in him.

Chiswyck’s father, Hugh Dunleavy, served as one of her father’s retainers. She had known Wyck all her life. Though tall and leanly muscled, Wyck did not qualify as handsome—at least not exactly. His nose appeared a little too large, and his ears stuck out a bit. Wyck had a beautiful smile, though, bright and kind and a quiet calm about him that Rynwicca found appealing. He was smart, too, and that counted for a lot in her opinion. Like her, Wyck had demonstrated the ability to invoke the Yir in his thirteenth year. As a result, he had preceded her to Alger Castle by a couple of years to enroll as an initiate and begin the quest for mastery over the power derived from the Hidden Source. His presence and their shared past had been a comfort during the time she’d spent at Alger.

Painted silk had proved to be ideal for a practical lifting vessel. The material sealed tightly enough to successfully contain the rising gas, a byproduct of a process Kylgahran metalsmiths had developed for cladding a thin coat of silver onto less expensive and sturdier base metals such as steel. As it was lighter than air and highly flammable, rising gas represented a nuisance to the metalsmiths but led Rynwicca to an interesting bit of speculation.

If rising gas could lift itself, Rynwicca had wondered, could not enough of it, contained in some manner, lift something else? Small-scale experiments using rudimentary lifting vessels to capture the rising gas had shown that the concept was viable. Finding an approach suited to practical application had so far proven to be more of a challenge.

After weeks of experimentation, she and Chiswyck had settled on an oblong construct that stretched painted silk over a spruce-wood frame. The frame provided rigid structural support for the fabric and was light enough in weight to maintain a workable design. Their latest model extended four span in length and about half that in diameter at its midpoint, tapering from there fore and aft to narrow points that seemed to slip best through the wind.

A span was a Tieran unit of measure encompassing the distance from the crease in an average-sized man’s elbow to the base of his middle finger. However guarded other nations’ attitudes might have been with respect to the Tieran Empire, its weights and measures had become the standard for most lands all around the Middle Sea.

Crykey, a big gray ram cat, stirred in Rynwicca’s lap. She dutifully scratched the doughty mouser between his battered ears, which started the cat to purring like a sawmill. Have you received the package from home you were hoping for? she asked.

Yes, my lady, Wyck responded with a smile. It contained two new brushes, a box of charcoals, and an entire sheath of drawing paper.

I’m so happy for you, Rynwicca said with an answering smile. Drawing paper was dear. She’d written her mother, Lady Gracelle, asking her to make certain the Dunleavys would have access to some left over somehow from the library at South Watch. Her mother had written back saying she would devise a scheme of some kind but did not hold out much hope of fooling Sara Dunleavy. Sara loved her son dearly, and Rynwicca had supposed, correctly it seemed, that even if she were not fooled, swallowing a little pride to gift him properly over the Solstice was a price she would be willing to pay.

I will be truly happy if you will allow me to make use of my present to finally paint your portrait, Wyck said hopefully. He’d been trying without success to talk Rynwicca into sitting for a portrait for over a year.

Wyck was a skilled painter, too skilled, Rynwicca thought, and too honest. He’ll have to capture me as the little dumpling I am. She sighed. The enforced inactivity winter brought about usually took a toll on her figure. She was determined things would be different this year.

We’ll see, she said noncommittally.

Rynwicca! Charylise Loftyn of Clan Ard Cullen gasped after flinging open the door of the barn. There you are. Your father has just arrived. He is with the chieftain the now. Alystair sent me to tell you that you are to retire to your study and await him—Alystair, that is—straight away.

Rynwicca thought of Charylise Loftyn as a slim-hipped, pert-bosomed, blue-eyed, blond little snit just pretty enough to get away with being so most of the time. The Alystair referenced was Alystair Quig, themaen or first sorcerer of Clan Ard Raydue, Rynwicca’s mentor at Alger Castle.

If true, Charylise’s news was devastating. Her father, there in Alger Castle? What could have drawn him from South Watch at this time of year? Rules governing the behavior of initiates striving to master the power of the Yir were necessarily strict. Rynwicca had matured enough over the past two years to see the sense in that.

Among those rules was that during an initiate’s course of study, there were to be no family visits. An initiate would under no circumstances be allowed to return home until successfully attaining the plaid of a sorcerer or until such time the sorcerer’s council determined further pursuit of that objective would be fruitless. No visits from family members were allowed during this time either.

Most initiates who made the attempt were unable to garner the sorcerer’s plaid. While no disgrace was attached to trying and failing to join the ranks of sorcerers, Rynwicca stood determined to succeed. No sacrifice would be too great, but by far the bitterest for her was the continued isolation from her family. While she supposed speaking with her father represented too much to ask, she would have at least liked to see him. Just a glimpse from a distance would have been a joy. Being confined to her study would render even that impossible. Knowing he was so close made the inability to see or speak with him even harder to bear.

Hullo, Wyck. Charylise smiled at Chiswyck. The Loftyns were well-off. Charylise wore a fine sky-blue cloak of winnowed wool over a gingham frock of a slightly darker hue. Whatever are you doing to that silk?

Wyck had straightened up, turning quickly to face Charylise as soon as the door opened. I’m trying to come up with a waterproof ballgown. Chiswyck conducted himself in a pleasant manner with everyone. But he seemed marginally less impressed by Charylise’s smile and lithe figure than most of the young men at Alger—one of his more endearing characteristics as far as Rynwicca was concerned.

Why would anyone want to waterproof a . . . Charylise was not entirely thick. Oh, Wyck, you’re teasing me again. Her smile looked a little forced. Charylise lagged slightly by comparison, not as clever as either Rynwicca or Chiswyck, and occasionally they reminded her of it. Well, truth to tell, it was usually Rynwicca who did the reminding.

Maybe I am, just a little. Chiswyck never teased in a mean-spirited manner, and his return smile bloomed gently enough to remove any barb from his jest. Our true purpose here is liable to turn out to be just about as silly. Once we know, one way or the other, we’ll tell you all about it. His gaze shifted to Rynwicca, becoming one of genuine concern.

Rising, Rynwicca hugged Crykey to her breast. The large cat didn’t usually allow himself to be manhandled and tended to demonstrate his displeasure with tooth and claw. As if sensing her distress, Crykey made no fuss and tolerated Rynwicca’s cradling of him in her arms while maintaining an air of feline dignity.

I’ll see you both later. Directing her question to Charylise, she asked, Did Alystair say when he might be stopping by?

No. Charylise’s tone softened. I am sorry, Rynwicca, but he didn’t.

2

Scheming Proper

Winter 1358

Alger Castle, Kylgahra

Brian Erryn, laird of Clan Ard Erryn, accompanied by a dozen well-armed retainers, cantered through the gates of Alger Castle earlier that same morning, the eighth day of the New Year. His party’s arrival purposely lacked fanfare. The Solstice celebrations at Alger had ended on New Year’s Day, and a relative lull in activity had enveloped the castle since. Brian felt duty bound to make the journey north from his ancestral home of Fortress South Watch in both a public and private context, and he had selected with care this time of quiet following the holiday to do so.

At forty-four years of age, Brian Erryn stood tall for a Kylgahran, with broad, sloping shoulders. Curling about his ears, his hair showed black, graying the now at the temples. Brian’s eyes were Highland blue.

Most political power in Kylgahra lay firmly in the grasp of the clan lairds, principally through their stewardship of the Council of Lairds. The current chieftain, Donnal Raydue, laird of Clan Ard Raydue, stood at the head of the council. In his capacity as warden of the Southern Marches, Brian’s public obligation was to meet with his chieftain. They came together, just the two of them, in the chieftain’s sitting room. Unfortunately, the encounter unfolded pretty much as Laird Brian had anticipated.

A bull-shouldered man of middle years with a full head of salt- and-pepper hair and piercing blue eyes set deep in a well-weathered face, Donnal had stared incredulously. You don’t really think the Syrdisians intend to invade?

An ancient foe of the Kylgahran, Syrdis stood as one of the Old Kingdoms. Shrewd political maneuvering had enabled Syrdis to retain its independence throughout the long period of imperial expansion and the ensuing Tieran civil war to this day. The current king of Syrdis, Dardan Talguard, had been ill for some time. According to rumor, the Syrdisian king lingered near death. Dardan’s heir, his firstborn son, a man named Kieran, had risen to prominence. In his midtwenties, Kieran had recently fought a series of engagements at sea with Eytriscan pirates. Apparently, the young Syrdisian prince had beaten them soundly.

In his youth, Dardan had been an aggressive ruler. He had considerably expanded the boundaries of his kingdom by campaigning vigorously against various tribal people in adjacent lands, the Tuchycks in particular. As he aged and his health faltered, Dardan had been content to consolidate Syrdisian territorial gains, while his son achieved his majority. In recent times, an uneasy peace had held between Syrdis and the Highlanders of Kylgahra.

The trappers’ reports say it is a possibility, Brian hedged. Trappers were spies. The Kylgahran slang term alluded to the days when fur trappers roamed at will in lands adjoining the Middle Sea. Trappers were notorious for ignoring boundaries of all kinds in search of prime pelts, and more than one had met his end accused rightly or wrongly of spying. Before Donnal could launch a volley at that assertion, Brian amended his earlier statement. A Syrdisian strike against Kylgahra is unlikely. A move against the Lywgahra on the other end might not be so farfetched.

Donnal tossed his head, looking as if he was about to say something, and then paused, his brows drawing down in thought. We’ve never formally annexed the Lowlands, he acknowledged.

The Lywgahra, or Lowlands, referred to a region east of the Tylcairn Mountains that had been attracting Kylgahran settlers for decades. Raw frontier it remained. Though clan law and custom pertained, no laird ruled in the Lowlands. Locally elected magistrates provided what governance existed there.

Syrdis could claim, Brian expounded, that Kylgahran settlers in the Lywgahra are interlopers. Glancing down at the polished surface of the writing table at which they sat, he sighed. Preposterous on the face of it, but wars have been initiated on flimsier pretexts.

Even assuming the trappers have accurately reported what whispers swirl around the Leopard Throne, Donnal surmised, much of that you can be sure reflects only what King Dardan wishes put about.

Brian nodded. That wily old viper is nobody’s fool. Rumors of ill health have circulated for years, and still his plotting coils and hisses as ever.

Posturing is one thing, Donnal asserted. A bloody invasion, even of the Lywgahra, is something altogether different.

And should posturing on the part of sickly old Dardan become something altogether different when an aggressive young prince takes the Leopard Throne? Brian queried.

We’ll cross that stream when we ride up to it, Donnal decreed impatiently.

My lord, we cannot allow the Lywgahra to be developed any old how, Brian pressed. Even should the threat of invasion on the part of Syrdis come to naught, we must develop some meaningful policy with regard to governing the bloody place.

Meaningful policy, is it? Donnal retorted. Formally annexing the Lowlands is akin to stuffing my ass into a badger hole. Any move I make will offend half the lairds and set the other half to scheming.

Donnal enjoyed a well-earned reputation as a fine soldier, brave and bold without ever being reckless. His penchant for stubbornness was equally well established. Brian knew pushing too hard could cost him.

They are all scheming proper the now, my lord, Brian contended as firmly as he dared. And to what end? Chaos looms in the Lowlands whether Syrdis moves against us there or not.

Do you have a specific proposal? Donnal inquired, sounding not so much impatient as resigned, like a man who knew he was about to receive bad news.

Raise six new clans in Lywgahra, Brian said at once. This will serve to nationalize the region and neither adds nor detracts from the power of the existing clans. Tax revenues will increase, and if Syrdis attacks, there will be no question as to the legitimacy of raising the Ragged Harp in response.

The chieftain, elected by vote of the Kylgahran Council of Lairds, served a term of six years. Although the chieftain had a number of ancillary duties, foremost among them being to maintain the peace, or at least minimize the violence between vying clan lairds, he was principally a battle leader. He had the power to raise the Ragged Harp, the battle standard of the Kylgahran, and call the clans to war.

For every laird who agrees raising new clans in the Lowlands does not detract from the wealth or influence of the existing clans, two will see it as an opportunity lost, Donnal objected.

They may not like it, my lord, but it is a decision they will come to accept, Brian asserted. And we are in need of a decision.

I’ll think on it, Brian, Donnal concluded.

Unable to wrest a firmer commitment from the chieftain, Brian knew the decisive Donnal Raydue well enough to know that meant his proposal had been rejected. Raydue had decided to wait, and so wait he would, and Kylgahra with him. Two years remained until the end of his term as chieftain. Brian hoped they had that much time.

Brian was to have supper with the chieftain and his wife, the lady Lauren, in the hour after sunset. This left him plenty of time to seek out his daughter, Rynwicca, and address a private concern. Though correspondence was encouraged, some fool rule proscribed visits with family members during an initiate’s course of study. After more than two years of separation, Brian had determined to visit her, rules or no rules. But how would she receive him? Brian had faced battle with less trepidation.

3

A Knock at the Door

Winter 1358

Alger Castle, Kylgahra

Rynwicca’s walk to her study did not take long. Upon entering the room, she closed the door behind her and set Crykey down on the chair beneath the window. Slipping free of her shawl, she removed her hat and gloves and stood gazing out upon the sea. The day gloomed gray and overcast.

Housed in one of the rectangular towers that rose above the upper terrace of the main keep, Rynwicca’s workshop occupied a small corner room, and the window looked out over the curtain walls down a grass-covered hillside and across a narrow, rocky beach to Alger Bay. Bathed in the soft, morning light, waves pounded against the jagged black rocks lining the shoreline below. Built atop a rugged promontory on the central coast of the western Highlands, Alger Castle guarded landward approaches to the bay. Alger Castle had long been a stronghold of Clan Ard Raydue.

Located four and a half days’ ride south, the capital, Antrym, throbbed with commerce, the largest city in Kylgahra and a major seaport. Though small by comparison, Alger Bay offered a good, well-sheltered anchorage and was home to a large contingent of fishing boats that plied the waters off the central Kylgahran coast. Through her window, she could see the tall masts swaying and bobbing, stirred by the wind as the waters of the bay rose and fell.

A small pulpit stood near the window. She used it for a writing desk. Rynwicca preferred to stand when writing. She seemed to think more clearly that way. This room, filled with books on shelves and cluttered with beakers, boxes, and her sketches and notes, was her favorite place in the world. If you didn’t count home, that is. Alger Castle was many things, but home it would never be. Rynwicca felt comfortable in her workshop, though, amid her ideas, however impractical.

Alystair Quig, her mentor, had arranged this private workspace for her the summer before. Alystair was a sorcerer of the Green, one of the four legions of sorcerers, as they were known in Kylgahra. In addition to sorcerers of the Green, there were also the Blue, Red, and Yellow legions as well.

While all sorcerers share some characteristics, Alystair taught her, each legion champions certain beliefs and pursuits above others. Rivalry exists among the legions, and dispute as well, but no outright violence, thank the Fates, at least not within living memory.

Every Kylgahran sorcerer’s duties included mentoring initiates—overseeing their education and mastery over the Yir—and some devoted nearly full time to training many students. With all required to leave their homes, some initiates still attended regular school, mixing with those unable to invoke the Hidden Source, while others were tutored in groups or individually.

The legions’ elders, Alystair explained, view this separation from home and family as a necessary part of the transition from layman to sorcerer. Rynwicca knew this custom was ignored sometimes for initiates of noble birth. Though a laird’s daughter, no exception had been made in her case. She supposed she was proud of that. But pride, she’d discovered since coming to Alger Castle, made for cold company.

While they had long been neighbors, Clan Ard Erryn had only recently been allied with Clan Ard Raydue. Alystair Quig served as the themaen for the latter. After consultation with Elaida Munro, the woman who was themaen for Clan Ard Erryn and a sorcerer of the Blue, Rynwicca’s parents had decided upon Alystair as the best choice of mentor for their daughter. Rynwicca suspected their decision hinged upon more than Alystair’s vaunted reputation alone. For one thing, the heir to Clan Ard Raydue, a boy named Logyn, was only a year younger than she.

As a nobleman’s daughter, she had long been taught that marriage equated to duty. Your children are to be your joy. Her mother, Lady Gracelle, had told her that often enough. The Raydues had a reputation for being stubborn and ill tempered. She did not know Logyn well. What little she did know seemed to indicate that he was determined to validate his family’s repute all by his lonesome. The prospect of having children by Logyn was not something she liked to think about. A few years remained before Logyn reached his majority though, and no Kylgahran, whatever his station, married before then. A problem for another day or perhaps merely a trifling worry, one that existed only in her head and was therefore no concern at all.

Crossing over to the far side of the room, Rynwicca slumped sideways into a large, overstuffed chair placed beneath the second window of her workshop. This one was set in an adjoining wall and opened on to an interior courtyard of the castle. Pulling her feet up, she tucked both knees beneath her chin. Then she closed her eyes and tried to push all thoughts of rising gas and airships and her father’s presence in the castle out of her mind.

Rynwicca’s violet eyes nearly matched the shade of Highland sage flowers. Her eye color was unusual among the Kylgahran. Rynwicca’s hair, long enough to reach her hips, showed a much more typical reddish brown. It’s a little too brown and not enough red to suit me, she’d complained to her maid, Anya.

A winsome little sprite with enormous brown eyes and copper-colored hair, Anya merely arched an eyebrow. Long auburn tresses are well suited to a complexion as fair as yours, milady. Lucky you are to have them both.

Scrunching a little further down into the chair, she rested her back against one of the padded arms. Not a very ladylike pose, she knew, and one likely to wrinkle her dress. The frock, Anya contended, was of the latest style. Anya also claimed the dress went well with her eyes and complemented her figure. Rynwicca reckoned Anya felt obliged to say things like that, so her opinion stood somewhat suspect, though she did like the way the dress gathered at her waist. Anya described her as full figured, a term Rynwicca knew served as a polite way of saying plump.

Rynwicca was full bosomed with hips to match, a little too full, she knew, to be fashionable. Anya was slim hipped. How Rynwicca pined for a lithe, slender shape such as her maid’s. Nearly as much as I long for a goodly portion of raisin bread smothered in butter. Rynwicca smiled at the thought. The Creator must have either a sense of humor or a mean streak—she wasn’t sure which—as she supposed that with a little effort, He could have made carrots taste like honey cake.

Rynwicca started at the knock on her study door. She waited a moment. Alystair would knock perfunctorily and then simply push open the door. A second knock sounded.

Come in, Rynwicca called, climbing quickly to her feet. The door opened, and her maid stepped through. Anya Godard of Clan Ard Erryn was a petite sixteen-year-old with a perpetually cheery disposition and the sweetest smile Rynwicca had ever seen.

Looking to her mistress, Anya asked, Have you heard the news, milady?

Nodding, Rynwicca inquired, Have you seen him?

No, milady, Anya responded, eyes glimmering with excitement. It is said he went directly into meeting with Chieftain Donnal. Scarcely anyone has laid eyes upon Laird Brian. He’s here though. Sam told me he’d seen to the laird’s mount himself.

Sam toiled as a groom at Castle Alger. Anya and he had started stepping out together a few weeks ago. Anya must have been distracted by the news of Rynwicca’s father’s arrival. Normally, she couldn’t even say Sam’s name without blushing. I’ve brought your comb and brush and a hand mirror.

Rynwicca hadn’t given any thought to what she must look like after traipsing back and forth between her quarters in the castle and the windblown barn at the edge of the grounds. Thank you, Anya, she said. I don’t think there is much point. Visits are against the rules. My father is not in the habit of breaking rules.

Anya was not to be deterred, however, and so just in case, she brushed and combed Rynwicca’s hair and swiftly redid her braid.

There, Anya said, stepping back. You are as pretty as a Highland morning in spring. The young girl was always saying things like that. Rynwicca wished she could believe them.

Shall I slip down into the hall and see if I can find out where he is? Anya asked.

Yes, please do so, Anya, Rynwicca said, determined not to cry. After Anya departed, Rynwicca walked to the workbench in the center of her study and rested her clenched fists on it. Perhaps sensing a need to give comfort, Crykey hopped up onto the tabletop and butted his head against her shoulder. She absently reached up to scratch his ears and remained lost in her thoughts until she heard another knock on the study door. Crykey leapt down and took refuge behind the padded leather chair under the window as Rynwicca stepped quickly to the door and pulled it open.

Her father stood before her. A big man was Brian Erryn, and his raven-colored hair still showed thick and full, though she noticed that he’d started to gray at the temples. He was dressed simply in a blue woolen waistcoat, gray woolen shirt, and matching trousers also of wool, sword and dirk belted about his waist. He held some paper-wrapped packages in his arms. Her father seemed surprised at the sudden opening of the door.

Rynwicca, I don’t mean to intrude, he said hesitantly. Rynwicca took a turn at being surprised. Brian Erryn never said or did anything hesitantly. I saw Anya in the hall. She said this is where I could find you. May I come in?

Bobbing a curtsey, Rynwicca replied, Of course, Father, please do. She stepped aside to admit her father into her workshop. She shut the door as he passed. Seeing an empty space on her workbench, he carefully placed the packages he was carrying on the tabletop.

Turning to face her, he looked decidedly uncomfortable. I know this is against the rules, and I don’t wish to disturb you, but, well, I have some letters here for you from your mother and brothers and a few gifts. I thought perhaps it would be all right if I . . . His voice trailed away. It is just that I haven’t seen you in so long. She saw that there were tears in his eyes. You are so grown up and so beautiful. I . . .

His voice faltered, and Rynwicca rushed to him and flung her arms around his neck, crying, Oh, Papa, I’ve missed you so.

Wicca, darling Wicca. Hugging her close, her father’s voice sounded strained as if he had to push the words past a sudden constriction of his throat. I have missed you too—more than I can say. We all have. Most people shortened her name to Ryn or Rynie. Only her father and her elder brother, Jamie, called her Wicca. Perhaps it was his use of her pet name or the feel of his arms about her, but she could no longer ward off her tears.

Hush, hush now, little one. All is well, he said softly over and over while she cried until she quieted.

I love you, Papa, Rynwicca said finally, her voice slightly muffled as her face was still pressed close to his breast.

I love you too, Wicca, Brian murmured. More than my life. Crykey yowled. Emerging from behind the chair, he glared up at them both. Eyeing the cat, Brian japed, By the Fates, is that a house cat or a mountain lion?

He is probably a little of both, Rynwicca said, smiling through her tears. His name is Crykey, and he is my best friend. In truth, Crykey excelled at keeping secrets, and she had cried herself to sleep more than once with only the cat to hear.

Have you been as lonely as all that, lass? Brian asked.

Rynwicca wiped her eyes. I have been lonely. Anya is a dear, and Chiswyck Dunleavy— She paused. You remember him, Papa? At his nod, she continued. Wyck is always kind, and Alystair is ever patient. It’s just that sometimes it’s so hard. I try and try and accomplish so little.

Sounds like me trying to be laird of Clan Ard Erryn. Brian grimaced.

Papa, Rynwicca contradicted him gently, everyone says you are a fine laird.

Everyone who isn’t bloody bitching and moaning about every decision I make, you mean.

Papa, such language. What will people think? she chided him, secretly delighted that he would speak so in her presence.

Now you sound like your mother, Brian said fondly. You look like her too. I’m going to have to beat suitors away with a quarterstaff.

Papa, do you . . . Wicca paused, looking up at him with her violet eyes suddenly wide and shy. Do you really think so?

Brian smiled. He’d forgotten somehow just how young sixteen was. My word on it.

Papa, must I marry Logyn Raydue? Rynwicca asked suddenly and so softly that he wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly.

What? Brian was perplexed. Whatever gave you that idea? Gracelle, he thought, most likely. Come to think of it, it wasn’t a bad idea except, of course, if you were the one who had to actually wed that little hellion of a Raydue. The women in his life were, it seemed, far cleverer than he.

I’ll make you a promise, Wicca. Brian spoke from his heart without thinking. So long as I have anything to say about it, you’ll marry who you choose, my word on that too.

In response, Rynwicca hugged him fiercely for a moment and then stiffened. What will Mama say?

Don’t know, Brian acknowledged. I reckon it will be memorable. His voice lightened. What I am certain of is that if I live a hundred years, I’ll nay be happier than I am just the now. Smiling brightly, Wicca settled into his arms.

I’ll tell you what, Brian whispered into her ear. Let’s you grab that monstrous cat of yours and your cloak. I’ll round up little Anya, and the four of us will make a run for it.

Rynwicca laughed, the despair that so often shackled her heart shattered by her father’s daring notion and the light in his eyes when he suggested it. Could we, do you think? she whispered back.

Why not? Brian said. We could head for the Lowlands out east. You know I was a pretty fair cattle taker in my youth. I’ll wager we’d do all right, at least until your mother finds out.

Ritual cattle theft from one another had long been a cherished if somewhat violent custom among the Kylgahran clans. In recent times, cattle taking, as Highlanders referred to the practice, had died down among the more settled clans but was still vigorously pursued throughout the borderlands.

Rynwicca sighed, her voice tinged with regret. It won’t do, Papa. You’ve become much too dignified to steal other people’s cattle.

Cattle taking ain’t stealing, Wicca, Brian said automatically.

Except when Guilleys do it, is that so? Despite her best effort, Rynwicca couldn’t keep the corners of her mouth from curving upward as she spoke.

Guilleys ain’t Kylgahran, her father retorted as