Tyffan grinned widely and the twins echoed his expression.
“They didn’t like what they heard nor saw. We didn’t either, but then we guessed as how it weren’t meant for th’ likes of us. They ran—an’ some o’ them went into th’ river. Hurten, he brought down one with an arrow—he’s a champion shot—an’ we bashed a couple with rocks. Wanted to get their weapons but river took ’em an’ we didn’t dare go after ’em. They ain’t been this way since.”
“It wasn’t us, not all of it,” Marsila said slowly. “There was something there—we felt it but it did not try to get us—only them.”
Lusta held to the other girl’s arm. “The rocks made shadow things,” she said.
“So the old guards hold somewhat,” Lethe commented. “But those were never meant to stand against any who meant no harm. This”—she gestured with her hand—“was once a place of peace under the sign of Earth and Air, Flame and Water.
“Now,” she pointed to the pot, “shall we eat? Bodies need food, even as minds need knowledge.”
But her thoughts were caught in another pattern. Here was a mixture which only danger could have, and had, cemented—delvers, shepherds, soldier and lordly blood all come by chance together and seemingly already united. Chance? No, she thought she dared already believe not.
They brought bowls and marshalled in line. Some had battered metal, time-darkened, which they must have found here; there were cups shaped of bark pinned together with pegs. Lethe tendered the ladle to Marsila and watched the girl dip careful portions to each. One over she set aside and Lethe took it up.
“For your sentinel? Let this be my service.”
Before any protested she headed out of the great kitchen. The dark had deepened despite the globe light, but she walked with the sure step of one who well knew the way, just as, once without, she climbed easily to the wall top.
“No need for that.” She had heard rather than seen the draw of a belt knife, could picture well the spare young body half acrouch. “Your supper, sentinel, also your relief.”
Shadow moved out of shadows. In her left hand the staff diffused a pale radiance. Though Hurten reached for the bowl, the dagger was still drawn. However, Lethe took no notice of his wariness. Instead she had swept the staff along the outer edge of the parapet that sheltered them a little from the incoming sea wind.
“So are guards set, Hurten. I promise you that there need be no watch on duty this night. And there is much we all have to talk of …”
She could sense the edge of the resentment that was rightfully his. What leadership this group had known in the arts of war must have come from him.
“Shield Chief,” deliberately Lethe used the old tongue, “there is a time for the blooding of blades and a time for planning, that those blades may be better sharpened for the blooding.”
“By Oak, by Stream, by Storm, by Fire—” The words came in the old tongue—
Lethe nodded, though he might not be able to see that gesture of approval in the gloom.
“By Sword and Staff, by Horn, by Crown.” The old words came so easily in this place, though it was another time when they were common here. “So warrior, you have at least trod a stride or two down that path?”
“My lord was of the House of Uye. When we were given our swords as men he held by the old oaths.”
Swords as men! she thought. These must be dire days when boys were counted men. But only dire days could have drawn her here.
“Then you know that this is a place of peace.”
She heard the faint snick of the dagger being sent once more into sheath.
“Lady, in this land there is no longer any place of peace.” His words were stark and harsh.
“To that we shall take council. Come—”
Hurten hesitated, still unwilling to admit that the watch he had taken on himself might no longer be necessary, but she had already started back as if she thought there could be no questioning, and he followed.
They found the rest about the fire. Orffa and Marsila both looked up in question as Hurten came in, but Lethe was quick to explain:
“There is a guard, and one which will keep the watch well. For now there is that which we must discuss among ourselves.” Deliberately she chose her words to ally herself at once with these chosen for a purpose she could not question.
“Time may change but not the seasons.” Lethe had waited until they had cleaned their bowls. “The sea winds herald ill coming. There was once some command over wind and weather in this place, but that was long ago. We shall need that for day and night”—she pointed to the fire—“and food—”
“We have been gathering,” Marsila answered sharply as if some action of hers had been called into question. “We have a storeroom.”
Lethe nodded. “That I do not question. Save that if the dire storms hit, as well they may, there shall be needed every scrap of food, every stick of wood. Herb-craft also, for there are the illnesses which come with weather changes, and some of those are severe.”
There was movement at the other side of the table. Alana carried a nearly asleep Robar to one of the fireside pallets.
Hurten leaned forward.
“What are we to you?” His voice was a little hoarse. “We are not of your breed. No.” He glanced briefly at the others. “Nor are we even of one House or blood ties ourselves. We make no claim of vassalage rights—”
“Why did you come here?” Marsila planted one elbow on the table and rested her chin upon her hand. “There has been no tale of your kind among us since the High Queen Fothuna died, leaving no daughter for the rule, and all the land fell apart, with quarrels between lordlings and War Ladies. And that was a legend length of years ago. We have none of the old power—
“Lusta, yes. Twice she dreamed us out of fell dangers—but our race was and is wise in our own way only. Thus we ask, why do you come to speak as a chatelaine here?”
“And I ask again, what do you want with us?” Hurten repeated.
He was frowning, and that frown was echoed by a stronger scowl drawing together Orffa’s straight brows. The impish humor that had looked ever ready to curve Tyffan’s lips was gone, and the twins were blank-faced.
Lusta’s tongue showed a pink tip between her lips but she did not speak, and Alana’s hands clasped together tightly on the table top before her.
“You, in a manner, called me. No”—Lethe shook her head, aware of the denial already on Hurten’s lips—“I do not say that you knew of me. But in those days of far legend Marsila has mentioned there were gaes laid, and this was mine: that I was tied to Kar-of-the-River—this keep in which we shelter. And so I fulfill now that set upon me. I did not know until I came hither what I would find.
“As to what you mean to me—that we both must learn. For I must in right tell you this, that you are bound even as I—”
Hurten’s hand balled into a fist. He moved as if to stand. He was of no temper to play with words, as Lethe saw, yet what more could she tell him yet?
It was Orffa who got to his feet and moved behind the older boy, as a liege man would back-cover his lord. But of him Hurten took no notice as he said:
“Lady, we are not those for your binding.”
Lethe sighed. Patience, ever patience. A weaver must be sure that no knotting despoiled her threads. It was Marsila who put an end to it.
“The hour grows late.” She had pulled Alana closer beside her, and the child leaned heavily against her shoulder. “With the morrow there will be time enough for questions.”
It seemed that even Hurten was willing to surrender to that. So the fire was set for long burning and they took their places on the pallets within its warmth, Lethe lying down upon a cushion of her cloak—though she did not sleep. For her kind needed little of such rest. Instead, behind closed eyelids, she rebuilt what now closed her in as she had seen it last in other days. Out of the past she summoned others who moved as shades where they had once been true life.