Seasons, page 5
“We need to clean the mud from you, and the newcomers.” Bella gathered cloths and called for hot water. “What were you thinking, not even wearing boots?”
“I wasn’t,” Cera said from under the towel.
The other women were seeing to the young Karsite woman and the two children. The little ones already had mugs in their hands and milk foam on their lips.
“And who is this?” Athelnor asked.
“I don’t know,” Cera admitted. “Withrin said they are from Karse, but I—” She glanced around, looking for Young Meron.
“Karse.” The steward’s voice hardened. Cera looked up to see hate flare in his old eyes.
“Athelnor—” she started but was interrupted when the kitchen back door swung open and Young Meron appeared with his father, Old Meron, in tow.
Why had he roused his father? Cera frowned as she stared at the wizened man with his withered arm. No need to wake him for—
Old Meron took a stool across the table from where the young girl sat. He spoke in those same guttural tones as his son had earlier.
The young woman looked up, her face alight with relief, and started spewing words out, her hands fluttering, talking quickly.
Old Meron lifted a hand to slow her. He said something, and she nodded and turned back to the children, urging them to eat the bread and butter that had been placed before them. “I told her to see to the little ones, then we could talk.” Old Meron said. “And I’d do with a bit to drink myself, as to that.”
“You speak Karsite?” Cera asked.
“Aye,” Old Meron said gruffly. “And before you go making something of it that it isn’t—” he glared at Athelnor, “—let me tell you that back in my day that wasn’t the shame that it seems now. My parents brought me over when I was not much older than that one,” he nodded at the small boy. “My folk said we were of Valdemar now, and we’d be of Valdemar, and become of Valdemar, and learn the tongue and live their ways. But we kept to the old faith and kept the old prayers in the old tongue.”
He looked around the room. “But being of Karse grew less and less something to be proud of, and we let it fade. Young Meron here knows little but the old prayers.”
“They are from Karse,” Athelnor said flatly. “Nothing comes out of Karse but bandits and bad weather. You know that, Meron. They are strangers and—”
“So was I,” Cera said quietly.
Athelnor blinked at her, looking confused, then dropped his eyes. “Milady, you are Rethwellan, yes, but . . .” he sputtered a bit. “You have proven yourself to us.”
“As will they,” Cera said, smiling to soften her words. “Once we know them as I know you and you have come to know me.”
Gareth strode in then, wet and mud covered, his spear in hand. “The Companion is in the stables, and Withrin is seeing to him. Do we have any idea who attacked the Herald?”
Old Meron leaned forward and started talking softly to the young woman.
“Withrin is in the barns?” Emerson fidgeted. “I’ll go see if he needs anything.” With that he slipped quickly out the door.
Old Meron spoke. “Her name is Katarina, and the children are her brother and sister, Lukas and Greta. She says they fled Karse, and the Herald helped them, but as they traveled, they were attacked on the road.”
“By Karsites?” Gareth demanded.
Meron asked a few more questions and Katarina answered quickly. “She says no. They spoke our tongue and were tattered, misshapen,” Meron and Katarina exchanged more talk. “Ah, ragtag. Armor did not match weapons, no uniforms, and the Karsite words they used were rude ones.”
“Bandits,” Gareth said grimly. “I’ll need to increase our watch.” He took a breath, looking older to Cera’s eyes. “After the Festival, we will have to deal with this in force. This was much too close to the manor.”
Katarina grew more agitated, talking, her eyes starting to tear. Old Meron shushed her, shaking his head.
“She says the Herald took hurt protecting the little ones. She feels at fault.” Old Meron spoke again, his voice gentle even as the sound of the words grated on Cera’s ear.
Katrina started to nod, wiping her eyes.
“Why did they flee Karse?” Cera asked. “The war is over, isn’t it?”
Old Meron looked at her from under his shaggy brows. “There are other things to fear in Karse, Milady.”
Marga swept into the room. “Helgara is as comfortable as we can make her. The worst seems to be the head wound, but the rest is cuts and bruises, easily seen to.” Her voice was confident, but Marga’s face had a pinched look. Her gaze fell on Athelnor, and her brow furrowed deeper. “Right now, we should sleep if we can. There is much to do, and guests will start to arrive tomorrow.”
Old Meron spoke to Katarina. The little ones were yawning, their eyes drifting shut. “You’ve guests coming, and every room accounted for.” He started to struggle up. “They can stay with us. More than enough room for this night, and already warmed.”
Katarina rose and lifted Greta onto her hip. Young Meron took Lukas up onto his shoulder.
Cera rose as well, keeping the blanket tight around herself. She waited as the others filed out, and Athelnor was on his way out the door. “How is she, really?” she asked Marga.
Marga and Bella exchanged glances. “Come,” Marga said.
They went to the guest area, and Marga opened a door. The room was lit with candles, and one of the women sat by the bed.
Helgara lay there, still and quiet, nearly as white as the sheets she was under.
“She did not waken as we cared for her injuries. It’s a bad head wound, Milady,” Marga admitted. “She may never wake. Even if we sent to Haven for aid, for a true Healer, it might not be in time.”
Cera nodded. She’d written to the Healer’s Collegium weeks ago about the wild kandace and had yet to hear back. “What if we sent Helgara to Haven?”
“Like as not, she would not survive in a cart,” Marga said. “Perhaps if her Companion could travel, but I fear—” Marga pressed her lips thin and shrugged. “I’ll sit with her this night, and we’ll see what the dawn brings, shall we?”
Cera sighed and said good night and headed up to her chambers. Her feet felt like lead on the stone steps. All their plans and hopes for the Midsummer Festival seemed empty now. Frivolous. Helgara was more than the Herald on Sandbriar’s Circuit. She’d become a friend and confidante, as had her Companion, Stonas.
Cera stopped dead, her breath catching in her throat.
Stonas.
* * *
• • •
Cera eased the barn doors open quietly. She’d had sense enough to dress and pull on boots before she’d snuck back out of the manor house. She could see light and hear voices coming from the large box stall along the far wall.
In the pens on both side were sleeping chirras. One opened its eyes, flicking its large ears, huffed, and went back to sleep.
“Withrin?” she called as she drew closer.
“Here, Lady Cera,” came his familiar voice.
The box stall was open, with Stonas standing in the center, drinking from a bucket of water. Withrin was using a rough towel to get the worst of the muck off his legs. Emerson was sitting on a bale of hay, a pile of tapestry straps at his side.
“It’s a bad sprain,” Withrin said softly. “I was thinking a rope sling, to help him take the weight off the leg. Emerson came up with a smart idea to use straps. More comfortable, we think.” He looked up at her. “How’s the Herald?”
Stonas stopped drinking, but he didn’t lift his head from the bucket.
Cera put her hand on the Companion’s warm neck, his hair damp under her fingers. “She’s resting comfortably, but Marga says it’s a bad head wound. All we can do is wait and see.” She hated being this honest, but it was best. Besides, given the links between Herald and Companion, Stonas probably already knew the worst.
Stonas rattled the water bucket, then started on the grain.
Cera sat on the bale, reaching to help Emerson, but he shook his head. “Lady, you need your rest. Tomorrow your guests start to arrive, and you’ll give the formal welcome. Then you’ll need to walk the Fair before the dancing starts.”
“Guests.” Cera sighed. “You mean suitors.”
“Those too.” Emerson flashed her a grin. He’d arrived in the guise of a suitor, when in fact he had no interest in anything but her support of his weaving.
“Your parents are some of those guests,” Cera pointed out. That wiped the grin off Emerson’s face.
“Father’s forgiven me . . . I think.” He shuddered. “Mother, on the other hand, might not be so understanding . . .” His long fingers nervously plucked at the strapping. “She tends to stay angry for a long time.”
“You have been writing her?” Cera asked.
“Well, yes, of course.”
Which meant no. Cera shook her head. “You’re right, though. I should get to bed.”
“We’ll stay with the Companion,” Withrin assured her. “See to him as best we can.”
“The best we can.” Cera rose. Stonas lifted his head, and reached out to bump her chest with his head. Cera stroked that soft neck. “It’s the best any of us can do.”
* * *
• • •
The next morning the rain had cleared, and the day looked to be glorious. Sellers arrived early to set up tents along the road to the manor. Gareth had already arranged rotating patrols so that all could both keep safe and enjoy the celebration at the same time.
Cera had little time to do more than eat the morning meal and check on Helgara, still lying quiet and still. “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” Marga said as she led Cera out of the room.
Hopeful words, Cera thought, but with little real hope behind them.
Marga took her down to the Great Hall to stand before the hearth. Athelnor was waiting for her, as was her handmaiden, Alania. She hovered close, ready to escort the guests to their rooms.
“Where were you last night?” Cera asked softly as everyone got into their places.
Alania blushed, and glanced away, toward the main doors. Cera followed her eye.
Ager was standing there, looking handsome and fit.
“Ah.” Cera smiled. “Never mind.” She raised her voice. “Let us greet our guests!”
One by one the families came in, bowing and introducing themselves. Athelnor announced them loudly, then kept his voice low as he reminded her of their holdings. They’d gone over the list in the weeks before, totting up the potential economic benefits of every potential suitor.
Benefits to Sandbriar. Not necessarily to Cera.
“My Lady,” Athelnor droned on, “May I present the Merchant Petros, his wife Gretchen, and their sons Alonz and Alfred.”
“Welcome to our Midsummer Festival.” Cera smiled as they bowed. The boys were both young and pimply, and she mentally crossed them off the courting list.
“Our boy Alonz is much taken with you, My Lady,” Petros smiled.
Cera didn’t let her smile falter. “I look forward to the dancing,” she said. They bowed, and Alania took them in hand.
So it went, a seemingly endless procession of lords and ladies and merchants and craftsmen from her lands and the surrounding areas. Cera’s smile started to hurt.
“My Lady,” Athelnor droned yet again. “May I present Lord Cition and his Lady Parissa.”
Cera’s smile warmed. “Lord Cition, so good to see you again. Lady Parissa, I am glad to meet you at last.”
It was clear where Emerson got his tall, thin frame. Cera reached out her hand to greet them. Lord Cition’s smile was warm, but Parissa seemed a bit cool as she spoke. “And where is my errant son?” she asked, scanning the room.
“My Lady,” Athelnor spoke again. “May I present Master Craftsman Falor, and his sons Felix and Fenton.”
“Come, Parissa,” Cition took his wife’s arm. “We’ll no doubt find Emerson at his loom.”
Cera turned to Master Craftsmen Falor and offered her greetings. His sons towered over her like trees. He was extolling their virtues when a ruckus started by the main doors.
“Out of my way!” a loud piercing voice crackled. “I’ll see the Lady Cera now, thank you.”
A tall, handsome man with a scowling face strode down the length of the hall, focused on her. Cera caught her breath; for the briefest moment he looked like her late, unlamented husband. But Sinmon had been suave and polished, and this man was barging in rudely and was all dressed in green. Cera wrinkled her nose, trying to remember what exactly that meant. Heralds wore white, Bards wore red, and—
The man stormed up. “Are you the Lady Cera?” he demanded. “We’ve come to see—”
—Healers wore green. Cera caught her breath. “You’re a Healer,” she gasped. “A true Healer?”
The man glared at her. “Of course. I’m a Master Healer, do you think I’d wear green otherwise. An idiot would know that.”
A man popped up behind him, shorter, chubbier, wearing plain homespun but with a smile and a shrug of apology. “Lady Cera, this is Master Healer Xenos, from the Collegium at Haven. Please forgive—”
Cera grabbed Xenos’ arm. “Come with me,” she commanded.
Everyone started talking at once as she dragged the complaining man away from the Great Hall and to Helgara’s bedside. “A Herald,” she explained. “Helgara, Chosen of Stonas. A bad head wound,” she started, but Xenos yanked his arm away.
“Yes, thank you, but I will see that for myself. Foul’s the day when laypeople attempt to tell me how to—”
The chubby man appeared by Cera’s side. “Perhaps, Xenos, we should leave you to work,” he said, starting to usher everyone else from the room. “I’ll be outside if you need aught.”
“I suppose this room is adequate,” Xenos approached the bed. Cera hesitated to leave, but then she saw him place a gentle hand on Helgara’s forehead.
“Come,” whispered the other man, and Cera left, pulling the door closed behind her.
The corridor was filled with Athelnor and Marga and Alania, with both anxious and shocked looks.
The chubby man heaved a breath. “Now that Xenos has managed to offend everyone, please let me introduce myself. I am Master Jebren, an apothecary, traveling with Master Healer Xenos at the behest of the Healers’ Collegium.”
“You are very welcome, Jebren,” Cera said.
“Master Xenos is really very rude.” Marga sniffed.
“Oh, yes, I am afraid he is all of that. But for all that he is loud, abusive, and demanding, he is a very powerful Healer.” Jebren gave them all a sympathetic smile.
“Thank the Trine you have come.” Cera ran a hand over her hair. “We feared Helgara would waste away if not tended to soon. How did you know of our need?”
“We didn’t,” Jebren said. “We—”
The door behind them opened, and Xenos appeared. “A bad head wound. Other injuries, but their treatment was adequate. Barely.”
Marga huffed at that.
“We need food and drink and someone to see to our mounts,” Xenos demanded. “And a cushion for the chair, since I will be spending hours of my time at the Herald’s side.”
“She is awake?”
“I am a Master Healer, not an avatar working miracles,” Xenos snapped. “Only a fool would expect results that quickly. And don’t be making inquiries, either. I will send word when there is word to send. Jebren, don’t just stand there. See to it.”
The door closed before anyone could reply.
Jebren sighed, then gave them all a hopeful look. “Shall we be about it?”
* * *
• • •
Later, Cera had a lighter heart as she walked through the Fair, Gareth at her side. She’d managed to convince him not to carry his boar spear. He had settled for sword and dagger.
The Fair was not the finest, or the biggest, but it was her first in Sandbriar, and she meant to do right by her people. This was not just a day of dancing and celebration. Her father had long taught her the need to go out and talk to merchants, traders, and craftsmen. To learn what the markets would bear and what the people had a need and interest in. “Knowledge brings trade,” he’d told her, and she was her father’s daughter.
It aided her that Gareth was well-known, being Athelnor and Marga’s grandson. He received a lot of attention, and pinches of his cheek. “How like your father you are,” many a granny said. “Almost a man!”
It embarrassed him to no end.
Cera kept her eyes open to any and all possibilities for her people. She admired the local wares and praised any she thought worthy, trying not to play favorites. She made certain to stop and talk to foreign merchants as well. Anything that would encourage the health of Sandbriar’s fortunes. Her former home, Rethwellan, held promise. Karse was a close neighbor, but Cera hesitated to even broach that subject, given Athelnor’s feelings. Still . . . it bore thinking on.
At one of the tents displaying needles and wooden frames for embroidery, she found Lady Parissa making a purchase.
“Lady Cera.” She nodded. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course,” Cera said. She looked back to see Gareth looking over a knife-maker’s display, and getting his cheek pinched yet again. “Did you find Emerson?”
“Yes,” Parissa shook her head, clearly exasperated. “At his weaving, as Cition said. As glad as I was to see him, I have not forgiven the boy. He deceived his father and me as to his purpose in coming here. And he never writes.”
Cera smothered her chortle. “I don’t think your son has any real interest in me,” she said gently.
“No,” Parissa agreed. “Who is this ‘Withrin’ Emerson keeps talking of?”
