Marsila pushed her aside, but it was Hurten who took command:
“Give him to me!” And when Truas had surrendered the still wildly fighting boy into his hold he added, “Get that thing away from him!”
In spite of having to ward off kicks, which, to Lethe, appeared too well aimed to be allied with blind rage, Truas was able to capture the dagger. Then Hurten carried the still struggling child out of the room.
Alana’s whole body was shaking. Tears diluted the blood from the scratches on her cheeks.
“He—he never did that before. Oh, Robar!” She pushed aside Marsila and ran after Hurten and her brother.
There was a subdued quiet. Lethe stooped to pick up the disputed weapon. To both her eyes and her inner touch it was no more than it appeared to be. For a moment a wisp of thought had troubled her. But the scene could have risen simply from the fact that an over-guarded and indulged child—for Alana’s care was easy to see—had wanted a choice like the other boys. He was passing out of babyhood and perhaps had been unconsciously resentful of Alana’s protectiveness for some time.
The others made their choices quickly. Marsila chose four bows and matching quivers of silver-tipped arrows, gathering them into an unwieldy bundle. Lusta and the others selected daggers, testing the points on fingertips. But for major weapons the twins wanted short-shafted javelins, taking a trio of these apiece. Tyffan held to the axe, Orffa the sword with a belt and sheath to go with it.
Lethe was interested in their choices. Each must have chosen those arms with which they felt the most comfortable. She replaced the dagger Robar had clung to in the rack, and followed the company out. Behind her the door closed and once more disappeared.
Marsila laid the bows down on the table, taking care not to disturb the banner. She motioned to Lusta and Orffa, and they each chose one. Then she selected hers, leaving the other.
“Hurten’s”—she nodded to that—“a far better one than he has, and one to serve him well.”
Alana sat by the pallet when they reentered the kitchen. Robar lay there curled in upon himself sniffling. As the others drew near his sister pulled at his shoulder.
“Robar?” Her voice both admonished and encouraged.
He sat up. The anger had gone out of his eyes. Instead tears marked his cheeks.
“Sorry—Robar’s sorry.” His voice was hardly above a whisper.
Alana smiled. “It’s true, he is sorry.”
Marsila went closer. “Very well, Robar. But being sorry does not take away the scratches on your sister’s cheek, now does it?”
He smeared both hands across his face. “Robar’s sorry,” he repeated woefully. Alana caught him in a tight hug.
“Of course, Alana knows. Robar’s really sorry.”
Tyffan, fingering the new axe, had seemed to pay little attention. Now he said:
“’Tis a fair day out. Maybe there will be a beast in the grasslands—easy to be downed with new bows.”
“Of course!” Hurten appeared with the bow Marsila had left for him. “Get us perhaps that yearling bull calf we saw two days ago.”
Lethe watched them scatter to what must have been the occupations they had settled to since they had come to the keep. In the day there was no fear of the outlands.
Even Robar shared in the gathering of supplies, disputing with a number of angry squirrels for the harvest of fallen nuts, while his sister and Tristy beat the tree branches to bring more down.
Lusta was using her new dagger to cut ragged stands of wild grain still slippery from yesterday’s storm. Her harvesting sent grain-eating birds flying, and she turned to her bow. Though it was apparent she was no well-trained archer, she did not always miss.
Lethe left the scene of labor and followed the river, pausing now and then to stand, staff in hand, spying out toward the hills in her own fashion. But if Lusta had nearly opened a door to something of the Dark last night, it was not to be sensed now.
Though her warning sense kept guard, her main thoughts turned to what had drawn her here and why. These children seedlings, threads—hers would be the planting, the weaving. She tightened hold on her staff. After all the years to have once more a purpose!
Lethe returned to the keep at midday to stand again in the presence chamber, looking down at the ghostly banner. Her fingers moved as they might, without direction but from long habit. Slowly she turned to survey the huge chamber. Where there was desolation—yes, there would be life again.
In the kitchen was truly the bustle of life. Hurten had indeed brought down the bull calf and roughly butchered it. And now it lay bundled in its own spotted hide; containers of bark, even large leaves pinned together with thorns, were full of the last of the berries, nuts, edible roots, all of which Lusta was sorting with the help of Alana; while Marsila had brought in a string of ducks.
Hurten appeared again with the twins, and this time they had not plundered the moldering furniture in the other rooms, but had good loads of wood, storm gleanings—though these must be set to dry.
They shared the work as if they had done this many times before, and Lethe nodded. Already these were bonded after their own fashion; her task would be the lighter.
Through her self-congratulation broke a cry of fear. Alana had pulled away from the table.
“Robar—where is Robar? Tyffan, did he follow you again? Where is he?”
“Never saw him.” There was an odd note in the older boy’s voice. “What do you mean, followed me?” He was so quickly angry, as if he had been accused of some wrongdoing.
Lethe tensed. Now there was something awakening here, hostile to the accord that had lulled her.
Orffa was also showing signs of anger. “Little pest, always creeping around where he shouldn’t be,” he muttered.
Alana was confronting Tyffan. There was fear but anger also in the words she flung at him.
“When you passed us you said you were going to the pond. You know how he loves to go there.”
Tyffan shook his head. “He wasn’t with me, I tell you.”
She turned then on Orffa. “You were hunting up on the hill, you must have seen him.”
“I never saw the brat. He’s always in some trouble or other. Best tie him to you and be done with it, trader trash!”
“Mind your mouth!” Marsila snapped at her brother. “If Robar did go to the pool—”
Alana let out a keening cry and darted for the doorway, Marsila but a step or so behind her. A crash sounded from the table: Lusta had dropped one of the metal bowls. Hurten caught Orffa by the shoulder and jerked him around to face him.
“That pool is deep, Orffa. Also, there are no ‘trader trash’ here. Keep that tongue of yours clean!”
Orffa’s face was scarlet as he jerked free from the other’s grip.
“I never saw the brat!”
Lethe shivered. She had been a sentry—surely she would have sensed evil in the valley this morning if it had lain in waiting there. The contentment that had been here only moments earlier was shattered as if she had willed it away herself.
Lusta? Her gift; that was understandable. Robar? Lethe had sensed no power in him, but he was so young a child that at his age he would have very few natural defenses. Robar—!
Not the pool, no. What was wanted for Robar was not danger for him, but through him. And what was wanted must lie within these walls.
“Fool!” Hurten snarled at Orffa. The younger boy’s hand flew to his sword hilt. Now the twins moved in and Tyffan was rounding the table to join them. Lusta stood with her hands pressed to her whitened cheeks.
“Keep your tongue to yourself!” Orffa cried. “Do not try to play the high lord with me! I do not know where the brat went—”