Seasons, page 4
“So,” he began, “now, we plan.” The three of them leaned forward over their now-cold mugs, and the conversation began in earnest.
* * *
• • •
As the dance ended, Jo cordially thanked her partner and drifted back to the side of the Court ballroom. Queen Selenay had taken her place on the dais, with Queen’s Own Herald Talamir a pale shadow beside her. Most of the rest of the Heralds had already disappeared from the formal event, back to their rooms at the Collegium or joining with friends or family in the antechambers. Now that the royal feast was over and the Heir Elspeth had been taken back to her room by her nurse, the rest of the Court settled in for a long night of dancing and gossip.
And I hope not a whisper of the gossip will involve Lady Millia when the night is done, Jo thought fervently. Even through the dances she had taken part in, she kept looking for Rough Voice—Weaponsmaster Alberich and Lady Pennory had not said who they thought he was. And she also watched Millia, who had come to the Feast with an almost frenetic energy about her. The younger girl was clearly taken up with the idea of her secret admirer revealing himself to her at the Midwinter Feast, probably entertaining fantasies of dances and gifts and betrothal.
At last, she saw the dark coloring of the stranger who had spoken with Rix, clad again in elaborate clothing covered with ornate embroidery. I wonder how many young ladies are wishing they could get that much gold thread worked into their gowns, she thought while covertly watching the stranger. He leaned over to a nearby page, handing him something and gesturing briefly to her side of the chamber.
Jo, in turn, exchanged a quick glance with a liveried servant standing near her (who was actually a young Trainee not wearing Grays), and he followed her closely as she moved toward the low bench where Lady Millia was seated, surrounded by her admirers. When the page sent by Rough Voice approached, she intercepted him.
“I will hand it on,” she said in a low voice. “Where?” She held out her hand imperiously, as though confident the page would give over his task, and he responded by dropping a small wrapped object into her outstretched palm.
“Th-the lower arcade,” the boy said, “third door on the left.”
Jo nodded in dismissal, and the lad returned to his place while she swiftly pocketed what felt like another figurine. Without turning to look, she sensed the Trainee behind her vanish into the crowd. Alberich had assigned him to shadow her because he had sharp hearing to make out what was said, but he wasn’t yet skilled enough in MindSpeaking with his Companion, so he needed to find the Weaponsmaster in person to relate this last piece of the puzzle. She sidled over and sat next to Millia, who freely shared her bench with her. This was the hardest part of it all, to get Millia to come with her.
When the next dance had begun, she leaned over and whispered in the other girl’s ear. “Your precious pet is waiting.” She hoped that the term, which had seemed so unusual in the note she had seen, would be sufficient to entice her.
A faint blush tinged Millia’s cheeks, and she glanced over at Jo. “You know?” she murmured back.
Jo raised one eyebrow and smiled slightly, hoping that her expression appeared lightly teasing. Vain, silly thing, she thought, not for the first time. Well, Lady Pennory will set you straight, if anyone can. She tilted her head toward the doorway, and Millia nodded, excitement suffusing her face. Arm in arm, they stood and moved out into the halls of the Palace, looking like any two young ladies in each other’s confidence, with secrets to share.
Once in the hall, Jo guided Millia, not to the lower arcade, but into the Collegium library. Moments after they arrived, Lady Pennory entered, and the thunderous expression she wore silenced Millia’s questions.
“Your vanity, young lady, has almost gotten you into very serious trouble.” She held out her hand, and Jo dropped the wrapped figurine into it. Over Millia’s protestations, Lady Theara opened it, revealing a small carved dog that looked to be part of a set with the cat. “Hmph. Pretty enough, but there are a thousand like it in Haven.”
Millia pouted, but Lady Pennory gave her no chance to speak. “Where was she to go?” she asked Jo.
“The lower arcade, third door.”
“Ah. Let’s give them another minute, then we can join them.”
“Them?” Millia’s voice trembled a little, but Lady Theara did not explain further. Instead the three of them sat in silence, listening to the crackling of the logs in the screened fireplace, until the older woman stood and, gesturing, led the two young ladies down a series of side passages that brought them to the lower arcade without passing by the ballrooms.
As they arrived, they saw Weaponsmaster Alberich and two Guardsmen restraining Rough Voice, while a young woman with pale blond hair like Millia’s stood nearby, a fierce expression on her face and a dagger in her hand.
“Little bitch,” Rough Voice snarled as he was pushed past the girl and out the nearest door. A Captain of the Guard remained behind, moving into the room to wait.
Millia stared. “Who is that?”
“Which? The Trainee pretending to be you, or the man pretending to be yours?” Lady Pennory’s voice was crisp and carrying, and the Trainee looked over at her and gave a slight curtsy. “No need for formality, Peri,” she continued. “You took no hurt, I take it?”
The other girl came over to them. “No, milady. He did not expect resistance, so I was able to give him a good knee in his bits and get my blade out before the Weaponsmaster and the Guards came in.” She grinned, then tucked her dagger back into a boot sheath under her skirts. “If it’s all the same to you, milady, I’d like to get back to m’family for the rest of Midwinter Eve.” Lady Theara nodded, and the Trainee bobbed her head, gave Millia a pitying glance, and vanished down the opposite end of the hallway.
Lady Theara eyed Millia, whose face had gone pale at Peri’s words. “Let’s go talk in the library, where we will not be disturbed.”
If anything, Millia went even paler at the prospect. Jo found herself pitying the younger girl, just as Peri did. Lady Theara was a redoubtable figure, and an angry Lady Theara was not to be trifled with.
When the three were once more seated in the quiet of the Collegium library, Lady Pennory broke the silence at last.
“Millia Hereval, you are a very fortunate young lady. Did you even give any thought to your supposed admirer’s identity?”
Millia had the grace to blush. “I . . . I thought it was Lord Beddoes.”
Jo was unable to completely conceal a burst of laughter, and Lady Theara actually rolled her eyes. “Child, you’re entirely the wrong type to appeal to Aphrim Beddoes. If you’d had a brother, maybe . . .” Millia blushed even redder at her error.
“I take it you had never met the gentleman Weaponsmaster Alberich was escorting out of the Palace?”
“No, never.”
“That was the person who sent you the gifts, not to woo you for himself, but to lure you into his not-so-tender embrace. At which point your father was meant to discover you and hand you off to another gentleman, who had employed this ruse to despoil you and make your father desperate to accept any suitor for you.” As Lady Theara spoke, Millia wilted ever smaller into her seat, sinking with the realization of the gravity of her mistakes.
Lady Theara paused for a moment, then smiled gently at the younger girl. “As I said, you have been very fortunate. Lady Jo overheard enough of the plotting that we were able to keep you safe—and in the process weed out from the Court a potential danger to other young women. Now go back to your father and use your head a little more next time!”
Millia wasted no time in fleeing the library, leaving Jo alone with Lady Pennory.
It was not lost on Jo that Lady Theara had still kept unspoken the identities of both of the men concerned.
“Should we be concerned about her being alone in the hallways? What if Rix decides to assault her himself?”
Lady Theara made a dismissive gesture. “Rix Ultare is a sniveling coward. I doubt he’d even try if he was employing that one to do his dirty work. If he keeps to his plan, he and Lord Delv should be at the antechamber now, where the Captain will share only that he and another guard prevented a potential assault. Lord Delv will rush back to the ballroom to find a chastened Millia, and Rix will be closely observed by the Guard for the rest of the night. If he’s sensible, he’ll pray that no whisper of his own role in this will ever get out in the Court.”
She leaned back in her chair and studied Jo, who waited in silence. “Would you like to do more of this?”
“My lady?” Jo’s mind lurched at the sudden change of subject.
“As Weaponsmaster Alberich said, I coordinate and train several ladies in the Court as observers, to be the eyes and ears and occasionally hands of Her Majesty. Most of the ladies I work with are of lower to middle rank, and often without family, so you would have access to different circles than they. You clearly have a, shall we say, ‘Gift’ for it, and the Companions seem to have vouched for you.”
Jo’s pulse raced in sudden anticipation. This . . . this she could see herself doing. She wasn’t the sort to travel all over Valdemar, nor the sort to listen patiently to tedious local squabbles, nor yet the sort to stand on the front lines whenever Karse invaded next. She was better suited to stay in one place, to observe from outside the action rather than as part of it. It was the sort of thing she would never have thought of, but now that it was proposed to her, it felt somehow right.
“An Amberdale spy instead of an Amberdale Herald?” She smiled slightly. “My parents might take some time to get used to the idea, but I think I would. Yes, I would very much like to join your ladies, Lady Pennory.”
“Please, call me Theara,” she replied, and they both grinned at the echo of Jo’s own oft-repeated words.
The whirl of Midwinter will never be the same again, Jo thought as the two of them returned to the Court.
Unknowable Consequences
Elizabeth A. Vaughan
To the Dean of the Healer’s Collegium, Haven, in the Kingdom of Valdemar,
Greetings,
In Rethwellan, where I was raised, there grows a plant known as wild kandace. To my delight, I have found it growing in abundance here in Sandbriar. The tea eases the aches of the body, and it’s possible to make an oil that can be rubbed on stiff joints to aid movement.
Sandbriar was hit hard by the Tedrel Wars, as was all of Valdemar, and is in need of new trade and commerce. I have approached an apothecary in Rethwellan, hoping to establish a new market with him. But it occurs to me that Valdemar may also be interested in my harvest.
I enclose herewith a sample of dried leaves, flowers, and seeds. I will also attempt to send a living plant, but I am not sure it will make the journey intact.
It’s my understanding that a syrup can be made as well, but I lack the knowledge of the method for creating it. If you know of such a technique and could instruct me, I would be deeply grateful, and happy to supply the same to the Collegium, to our mutual benefit.
In any event, please accept my thanks in advance for any assistance you can render.
—Lady Cera of Sandbriar, in the Kingdom of Valdemar
* * *
• • •
:Help us!:
Cera bolted up in bed, her heart racing. Rain pattered against her window. A flash of lightning filled her bedroom for an instant. The room was still, no one was there, but the urgency of that dream—
Thunder crashed, rumbling overhead. The need, the fear exploded in her chest. Cera threw back her blankets and ran for her door, plunged down the stairs, calling for aid. She’d rouse the entire manor if need be. It was irrational and unreasoning, but she pelted out the main door and across the courtyard.
Tents had been set up for the Midsummer Festival due in two days. They’d planned the event for weeks, worried over food and decorations—and now the rain.
But Cera had even larger fears at the moment. She ran to the gates, bare feet slipping on wet cobblestones, as voices raised in response behind her.
“Open the gates,” she called to the guard. They gaped at her, nightgown slowly soaking through, her toes bare in the mud. “Open them!”
The voices grew louder now, following her, but that’s just what she wanted them to do. The road ahead was dark, thick with rain. No time for words. She pulled a lantern from one of the startled guards, slipped through the creaking gates, and started down the road.
Not far, just out of sight of the gate. A crumpled figure in white lay on the road, curled in on itself. A white horse stood over the body, trembling, its hind foot cocked up off the ground.
“Stonas?” Cera ran forward and threw herself on the ground next to the body. “Helgara?”
Footsteps pounded up behind her, and many hands reached out to assist. They rolled Helgara over. Blood stained her face and her Whites.
“Get her up and into the manor,” Gareth was there, calmly directing the others. Cera scrambled out of the way as six of them lifted the Herald and slowly carried her inside.
“This is bad.” Young Meron was beside the Companion, looking at the leg in the torch light. “We need Withrin, he knows most about horses.”
Someone else went pelting off. Cera shivered in the rain, wrapping her arms around herself.
“You should go in, Lady,” Young Meron said. “Catch your death, you will.” He sounded like his father.
Cera shook her head, and stepped to Stonas’ head to put her hand on his forehead. She’d not leave him, not like this. “She’ll be fine,” Cera whispered, even though she knew the words might be empty comfort.
Stonas nudged her with his head and then turned to look to the side of the road.
Cera followed his gaze.
There, huddled in the ditch, was a woman, young, her hair plastered to her head. And at her feet, hidden under a cloak, two children peered out, wet and shivering.
“Trine above us,” Cera whispered, and she stepped forward, holding out her hand.
The woman flinched back.
“No, no, don’t fear.” Cera stopped where she was. Stonas nickered and tried to take a step, faltering fast. “We won’t hurt you,” she offered.
The woman shook her head, pulling the children back toward her.
“What’s this now?” Young Meron came up, then stopped dead as the light of his torch fell on them. “Gods above.”
The young woman’s eyes darted to him, and then to Stonas, then back to Cera. There was no trust there. Cera feared she’d bolt into the woods, taking the children with her.
“Did she harm the Herald?” Meron asked.
Stonas shook his mane and snorted.
“Move back, Meron,” Cera said even as she stepped back.
“Aye.” Meron stepped back, one hand on Stonas’ haunch as he moved. “Withrin’s coming.”
Withrin was coming down the road on one of the manor’s horses at a trot. He was an Ashkevron, known for horse breeding. Cera’s relief was dispelled by the grim look in his eyes as he rode up. He dismounted, taking a moment as he waited for his bad knee to support him, but never taking his eyes from the wounded Companion.
“That’s not good,” he said, staring at Stonas.
“Worse still,” Cera said, and nodded at the huddled figures. “I don’t think they speak Valdemaran.” She caught the woman’s eye again and tried Rethwellan. “You’re safe here.”
The woman shook her head even more vehemently.
Withrin frowned. “Those clothes,” he said, and then spoke something harsh and guttural. The woman’s eyes went wide as she nodded.
“Karsite,” Withrin grunted, even more unhappy than before. “I’ve a few words, and most of them are not polite. But I can try—”
“Karse?” Meron stepped forward, and then, to Cera’s surprise, said something in the same guttural tongue, but the tone was softer, the words more like a chant.
The woman slumped in relief and started weeping. She extended her hand to Meron, and he leaned forward to help her and the children from the ditch.
More voices sounded from down the road; women’s voices, probably coming to claim Cera after her mad dash, barely clothed, in the rain.
“I’ll see to the Companion,” Withrin said. “You need to get to shelter.”
Cera put her hand on Stonas’ shoulder. She didn’t want to break a confidence, but . . .
“Withrin, Helgara and Stonas were in the Tedrel Wars. They suffer—”
“Nightmares?” Withrin said, easing his weight to his good leg. “Not alone in that. We warriors know. I’ll see to him, Lady.”
Bella ran up, throwing a cloak over Cera. “My lady! What were you thinking? And who is this?”
Cera meekly accepted the scolding she was due as they all stumbled back to the manor house and into the kitchens. Fires were being lit, and the manor roused.
Athelnor, her aged steward, stood by one of the tables, wrapped in a warm robe, looking tottery. Emerson, Cera’s tapestry weaver, was hovering beside him. Cera wished they hadn’t woken the old man, but he took his duties seriously.
“They’ve taken the Herald to her usual guest chamber,” he said. “Marga is with her, and she’s summoned those with healing skills.” Athelnor blinked at her with tired eyes. “How did you know?” he asked as the women fussed around the newcomers.
“Strip,” Bella commanded, holding up a blanket to shelter her. Cera obeyed, shivering as the cold, wet nightgown fell at her feet. Bella wrapped her in the blanket, warm and soft against her skin.
“I don’t know. I—” Cera paused before she answered Athelnor, trying to remember. It all seemed like such a muddle in her head suddenly. Bella used a towel to dry her hair.
“I . . . woke,” Cera said slowly. “And I just knew something was wrong. Next thing I remember, I was out the gate and down the road.”
