Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) by Ann Marston Page A

silence.
    Then one day about a sevenday after we arrived, I wandered out of the house and found my way to a high cliff overlooking the sea. On some instinct, I followed a narrow little track until I came to an enclave tucked into a tumble of rocks. A thicket of silverleaf maple, salt-bitten and twisted, clung tenaciously to the stony soil among the rocks. I found a moss-covered stone in the sun and sat, watching the breakers crash against the cliff wall on the opposite side of the small bay, sending spume purling high into the air.
    I looked up as a shadow fell across me. Cullin stood there, dressed only in kilt and shirt. “I used to come here and watch the sea,” I said quietly. “And I gathered eggs on that wall over there.”
    “Aye,” he said. “Ye did. This was one of your favourite places as a child. Is it coming back then, Kian?”
    “Some things,” I said. “Only a little.”
    “Well, it might never all come back to ye,” he said. “But ye ken that you’re home.”
    “I’m home here,” I said. “In this spot. But not in the house yet.”
    “Ye can stay here, if ye wish,” he said. “Or ye can come wi’ me when I leave again.”
    I looked up at him. “I’ll come wi’ you,” I said. “I canna feel I belong here. It’s too grand for the likes of me.”
    He laughed. “Aye,” he agreed. “I’ve always felt that way myself.” He stood for a moment, watching the sea birds circle endlessly over the water, searching for fish. Then: “I’d be pleased to have you with me, Kian,” he said quietly. “I’ve grown fond of ye these last seasons.”
    The feeling of relief that swept through me caught me by surprise. Pleased by his words, I grinned up at him. “Was I worth the five silver?” I asked.
    He considered that. “Aye,” he said gravely. “I expect so.” He touched one of the silver-chased hilts at his belt and laughed. “In any case, the daggers certainly were.”
    A fortnight later, we left Broche Rhuidh for Honandun and another merchant train. That began a pattern we were to follow for the next seven years—traversing back and forth across the continent with merchant trains, and once every year or so going back to Broche Rhuidh to see Cullin’s family. We seldom stayed more than a season at the longest, and most visits were only a few days longer than a fortnight. It was a rhythm of life that suited us both. Cullin’s small band of guards was much in demand and we never had to seek contracts actively. The merchants came to us.
    Cullin had an easy manner with both the guards and the merchants. He possessed the ability to fit himself deftly into the company of nobles and soldiers, merchants and farmers. When the occasion demanded, he could out-lord the haughtiest of noblemen and the next minute, be down on the floor of a tavern, drinking ale and throwing dice with a troop of soldiers. He had the happy faculty of blending seamlessly into his surroundings. He spoke at least six languages, not counting Tyran. When he undertook to teach me, I discovered I, too, had a flair for languages and he informed me that was something else I had inherited through my father from my grandfather.
    He also undertook to teach me manners. All I remembered was living as a slave. Under Cullin’s tutelage, taking my cues from him, I learned how to comport myself in any company and found out I also had a good flair for acting.
    Cullin had been right about my growing. Over the next several years, I stretched up to within a thumbs-length of his height, but fell short of his weight by nearly two stone. The active life spent mostly outdoors and the work with the sword gave me a man’s shape to match my height. In a kilt, shirt and plaid, and a golden topaz on a fine chain in my left ear by the braid in my hair, I looked as much the Tyran clansman as Cullin. We made a good pair. And some time in those years, we slipped effortlessly into the relationship of foster-father and foster-son more than uncle and