Octobers Baby Read Online Free PDF Page B

banditry with a heavy hand. Some would gladly take revenge.
    She went to a clothing chest and took out an ebony casket the size of a loaf of bread. Some meticulous craftsman had spent months carving its intricate exterior. The work was so fine it would have eluded the eye but for the silver inlay. She did not know what the carving represented. Nothing within her experience, just whorls and swirls of black and silver which, if studied overlong, dazed the mind.
    Her names, personal and family, were inset in the lid in cursive ivory letters. They were of no alphabet she knew. Mocker had guessed it to be Escalonian, the language of a land so far to the east it was just a rumor.
    She didn’t know its source, only that, a year ago, the Royal Courier, who carried diplomatic mail between Itaskia and Iwa Skolovda, had brought it up from the
    ‘capital. He had gotten it from a friend who rode diplomatic post to Libiannin, and that man had received it from a merchant from Vorgreberg in the Lesser Kingdoms. The parcel had come thither with a caravan from the east. Included had been an unsigned letter explaining its purpose. She didn’t know the hand. Nepanthe thought it was her brother Turran’s.
    Turran had tried Elana’s virtue once. She had never told Bragi.
    With a forefinger she traced the ivory letters. The top popped open. Within, on a pillow of cerulean silk, lay a huge ruby raindrop. Sometimes the jewel grew milky and light glowed within the cloudiness.
    This happened when one of her family was in danger. The intensity of light indicated the peril’s gravity. She checked the jewel often, especially when Bragi was away.
    There was always a mote at the heart of the teardrop. Danger could not be eliminated from life. But today the cloudiness was growing.
    “Bragi!” She grabbed clothes. Bandits? She would have to send someone to Mocker’s. But wait. She had best post a guard all round. There had been no rumors, but trouble could come over the Silverbind as swiftly as a spring tornado. Or from Driscol Fens, or the west. Or it could be the tornado that had entered her thoughts. It was that time of year, and the jewel did not just indicate human dangers.
    “Ragnar!” she shouted, “come here!” He would be up and into something. He was always the first one stirring.
    “What, Ma?”
    “Come here!” She dressed hurriedly.
    “What?”
    “Run down to the mill and tell Bevold I want him. And I mean run.”
    “Ah...”
    “Do it!” He vanished. That tone brooked no defiance.
    Bevold Lif was a Freylander. He was the Ragnarsons’ foreman. He slept at the mill so he would waste no time trekking about the pastures. He was a fastidious, fussy little man, addicted to work. Though he had been one for years, he wasn’t suited to be a soldier. He was a craftsman, abuilder, a doer, and a master at it. What Bragi imagined, Bevold made reality. The tremendous development of the landgrant was as much his doing as Ragnarson’s.
    Elana didn’t like Bevold. He presumed too much. But she acknowledged his usefulness. And appreciated his down-to-earth solidity.
    Lif arrived just as she stepped from the house.
    “Ma’am?”
    “A minute, Bevold. Ragnar, start your chores.”
    “Aw, Ma, I...”
    “Go.”
    He went. She permitted no disobedience. Bragi indulged the children to a fault.
    “Bevold, there’s trouble coming. Have the men arm themselves. Post the sentries. Send someone to Mocker’s. The rest can work, but stay close to the house. Get the women and children here right away.”
    “Ma’am? You’re sure?” Lif had pale thin lips that writhed like worms. “I planned to set the mill wheel this morning and open the flume after dinner.”
    “I’m sure, Bevold. Get ready. But don’t start a panic.”
    “As you will.” His tone implied that no emergency justified abandoning the work schedule. He wheeled his mount, cantered toward the mill.
    As she watched him go, Elana listened. The birds were singing. She had heard that