Seasons, page 6
“Withrin Ashkevron,” Cera said. “Of Forst Reach, to the North. He came with the chirras that I hope to breed to replace the old herd.”
“Of that family?” Parissa looked interested and thoughtful. “Good prospects, then?”
“I hope to see him settle here, although no final decisions have been made yet.”
“And why not?” Parissa demanded. “Why do you hesitate?”
“Well, we’d put off decisions until after the Festival,” Cera said. “It has nothing to do with Withrin’s abilities. But I fully intend to—”
“Good. He will need lands sufficient to be able to support Emerson.” Parissa walked on, glancing at the wares in the booths around them. “And earn an income. That is a war wound, yes? Does he have skills beyond those of a warrior?”
Cera stopped dead, letting the people flow around her. “Lady Parissa, are we bargaining for their dowries?”
“Yes, of course. Emerson has skills as a weaver, and his tapestries may be potentially marketable. I admit that is yet to be seen, but—”
“But they haven’t—” Cera stopped talking, nonplused. “They’re still dancing around one another like—”
“Lovesick fools? Yes.” Parissa nodded. “But Withrin will be your man, and you are the Lady of Sandbriar. Cition has told me that you are a merchant’s daughter. I expect you to look after his interests as I will look after my son’s. After all, is that not what we do? Protect our own?”
“Yes,” Cera said. “We do.”
“Left to their own devices men are idiots.” Parissa rolled her eyes. “Adorable, loving, trusting, impractical idiots.”
“Well,” Cera started them walking again. “I insist that we wait until they make up their own minds.”
“Or someone makes up their minds for them.” Parissa snorted. “Another thing, about those chirras.”
Cera perked up. “Yes?”
“The wool of the old herd was notorious for not taking dye well,” Parissa said. “I have a new dying technique that seems to work on stubborn cloth. I would be interested in a sample of their wool to try to work with. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”
“Well, we are weathering them at the present, to see if they can survive the late summer heat,” Cera explained. “But let me get you some raw wool from their combing. I would be very pleased to open talks if your results are good.”
“Excellent.” Parissa nodded to her again. “There’s more to you, Lady Cera, than your looks.”
Cera blinked, then smiled. “The same, Lady Parissa.”
The sun was setting, and the vendors were closing their tents for the night, in anticipation of the dancing. Gareth had patrols both outside the gates and in, just in case.
Cera returned to the manor house to change into her new dress and slippers. The dancing area had been festooned with lanterns and candle lights and flowers. There were benches and chairs on the outside, and tables loaded with food and drink.
Cera found a quiet spot just outside the barn where the chirras had already been settled for the evening.
Jebren found her there. “May I?” he asked, and at her nod settled beside her.
“How is Helgara?”
“Xenos is still working on her,” Jebren assured her. “He told me to stop bothering him and to leave. It’s usually a good sign.”
Cera leaned back against the barn wall. “Yes, well, for all of Xenos’ talents he lacks certain . . .”
“Courtesies?” Jebren chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Which is why the Dean of the Healers’ Collegium finds reasons for him to travel out of Haven as often as he can.” He shook his head. “Xenos knows his abilities, and he doesn’t suffer fools. And he considers us all fools. But highborn, you know.” He shrugged. “For all its pluses, it has certain minuses too.”
Cera nodded, remembering her dead husband’s arrogance. “I know that well. Makes me feel an inch tall.”
Jebren nodded. “Yes, Xenos breezes in like a superior whirlwind, hits you with uncomfortable truths, then smugly sits back and basks in his own perfection. But he’s not perfect. Skilled, with a powerful Gift, I will grant him that. And dedicated to his art. But lonely. I feel sorry for him.” Jebren lowered his voice. “He has a nickname in the Collegium. One of the instructors was overheard telling him that he shouldn’t be so acerbic. But a student mis-heard, so now they call him ‘Acid breath.’”
Cera snorted and coughed.
Jebren’s eyes twinkled, then he looked over toward the manor house. “But that there”—he nodded—“is why, for all his flaws, we put up with him.”
Cera caught her breath. “Helgara,” she called, and jumped to her feet.
Helgara was walking, dressed in clean Whites, supported by Xenos. “Don’t knock her off her feet,” he warned as Cera came close. Jebren moved to take Helgara’s other arm.
Helgara gave Cera a smile, then grimaced. Her eyes were oddly wide and distant. “Stonas,” she whispered.
“Yes, yes,” Xenos said. “All you damn Heralds are the same, get a bit of healing in you and its ‘have to do this’ or ‘need to do that.’ You want to sleep in a barn, you’ll sleep in the barn even if you needs crawl there.” Xenos frowned at Cera. “Where is the damned horse?”
“This way,” Cera smiled, and she led them to the box stall.
Young Meron was sitting with Stonas, with Katarina and the children. Lukas and Gerta were playing at Stonas’ feet. They all sprang up when they caught sight of Helgara, crying out a welcome.
Helgara stumbled forward and clung to Stonas’s neck, pressing her face into his mane. She shook, they both shook, and their quiet joy filled Cera’s eyes with tears.
Outside, the players had started tuning their instruments, launching into a joyous tune. The chirras started to hum, and Lukas and Gerta started to dance, holding each other’s hands. Meron twirled Katarina around, and they both laughed out loud. Jebren and Cera exchanged quiet smiles.
“I suppose you want me to heal the horse, too,” grumbled Xenos.
“YES!” they all chorused.
Cera returned to the dancing area with a lighter heart. Athelnor was seated close to Marga, holding her hand. He gestured to Gareth, who drew in a deep breath. “Let the Festival begin! Dancers, to the center!”
Cera grabbed Gareth’s hand, and they started in, a wonderful circle dance with partners changing at every twirl. The music was rough but spirited, and those not dancing clapped in time. Children laughed and ran through the crowd to join in the gaiety.
But after that, Cera had to face the suitors.
And it honestly wasn’t that bad. She had dreaded it far longer than the actual dances took. And there were quite a few, and all of them nice enough in their own ways, but all had a feeling of desperation, of trying to meet a goal.
She smiled and danced a few dances, then begged off another, taking a seat between Athelnor and Marga. Marga shook her head, but she allowed it.
The dance floor was overflowing, and various children were running in and out, some dancing with adults, some just so giddy they burst with energy, laughing and clapping and chasing each other. Cera was pleased to see that Lukas and Gerta had joined in the fun.
Beside her, Athelnor heaved a sigh. She gave him a questioning look, and he leaned in to her. “You asked, the other night, why they would have fled Karse,” he said, nodding toward Lukas and Gerta.
Cera nodded.
“There are things you should know,” Athelnor said. “About Karse. There are also things that I should remember. Innocents get caught up in times of trouble. We will talk about it, later, you and I, after the Festival.” He gave her a smile. “But not this night. Tonight is for joy.”
Cera smiled, and turned back to watch the dancing.
It was odd—she should be happy. The pantries were filling, the house was full of guests, her people were celebrating. They’d survived the winter, and with hard work and a bit of luck they’d flourish in the next, praise the Trine. Helgara healing, joyful faces all around, and yet her sadness and loneliness settled on her like a heavy cloak.
Even as she danced and twirled, she couldn’t help but think. Her late, unlamented husband has been charming, witty, a splendid dancer. At least until the doors to their chambers were closed, and the abuse began.
Cera glanced at Athelnor and Marga, seated side by side, happy and joyful, watching the dancing. They had been married long years, and that seemed like something to dream of, to desire.
But how could she ever trust again? Trust another? Trust herself? She’d thought she’d loved Sinmon and that he had loved her, but it all turned to ash in her mouth. How could she believe her heart again or even know—
“Are you well, Lady?” Jebren was standing before her, concern in those eyes. “You look like you just sipped some bad ale.” He sat close, sharing her bench, easing down carefully next to her.
Something in those warm eyes made her blurt the truth. “They make me feel like a prize,” she said glumly, gesturing to the men hovering at the drink table, watching her.
Jebren gave them the once-over. “But are they not supposed to be the prize for you? To bring some benefit to you? To Sandbriar?”
“Would they?” Cera asked glumly. “Not one of them can even shear a sheep.”
“Well, that’s quite the criterion to have to live up to,” Jebren tilted his head and gave her a serious look. “Do you offer classes?”
Cera saw the teasing twinkle in his eyes and burst out with a laugh.
“Well, I can’t shear a sheep, but I can fend off some of your suitors and offer you a dance.” Jebren rose and offered her a hand.
“I would be delighted,” Cera said.
He surprised her. For a man of his size, he was a lovely dancer, with a firm hand on her waist and a gentle lead in the dance. Cera relaxed and decided to enjoy the moment.
She did catch a glimpse of Emerson, sitting off to the side, watching the dancing with the oddest expression on his face. Withrin sat beside him, and, yes, Lady Parissa was watching both of them like a hawk.
She also caught a glimpse of Ager and Alania, dancing, heads together.
The music ended and Jebren led her back to her seat. “Can I get you an ale?” he asked and she nodded as another tune rose and the dancing started again.
Xenos appeared from nowhere and thumped down beside her. “Has he told you yet?”
Cera braced herself. “Told me what?”
“Why we are here, of course,” Xenos sniffed. “I knew he didn’t. Jebren has odd ideas about courtesy.”
“Which you don’t share,” Cera said dryly.
“Jebren won’t tell you that he is a Master Apothecary, and even better at his craft then I am,” Xenos said. “He won’t tell you that because he thinks of it as boasting, when it is just the plain truth. And he won’t tell you that—”
“I won’t tell her what?” Jebren stood before them, bearing two brimming mugs.
“Why we are here,” Xenos reached out. “I’ll take that. Too much ale isn’t good for you.”
“It could have waited a day,” Jebren said firmly, putting the mug out of reach. “I am drinking this. Go get your own.”
“Fine,” Xenos said. “Apparently the reward for work well done is—”
“To go get your own ale,” Jebren said. “And to get out of my seat.”
Xenos rose, and while Cera didn’t think he could actually flounce, he did leave in a snit.
Jebren handed her one of the mugs and resumed his seat.
“I thought you came for Helgara,” Cera said, taking a sip of the cool ale.
“No,” Jebren said. “We came in response to your letter to the Collegium. Well, I was sent. Xenos was an afterthought by the Dean. A happy one for the Herald, mind, but not the real reason we are here.” He’d turned serious. Cera watched him as he took a drink. “We’ve been on the road for quite some time.”
“Why, then?” Cera asked. “I expected a letter back, true, but not more.”
“Lady Cera, you are of Rethwellan. The plant you sent, which didn’t survive, by the by, since none of the carriers thought to water the poor thing,” Jebren rolled his eyes. “That plant goes by a different name in Valdemar. Thanks to the Tedrel Wars, it is in short supply. We didn’t know it grew this far to the south.” He hesitated. “It eases pain, yes, but it is also an ingredient, you see. For a potent mixture that you would know by the name of ‘argonel’.”
“But that’s a poison,” Cera stared at him, horrified. “Are you saying that I’ve poisoned—”
“No, no, it is part of the mixture,” Jebren reassured her. “In and of itself, it is mild and beneficial. Argonel can be deadly, but so is a sword, My Lady. It all depends on the usage. In the hands of a skilled apothecary, it is a blessing to those in need.”
“A skilled apothecary like yourself.”
“Like myself. And the Collegium will take all that you and I can produce, under better terms than others can offer. I am here to check the quality and train your people in making the syrup.”
“And the oil?” Cera asked hopefully. “I’ve had no luck trying to make it.”
“Using enfleurage? The cold or hot method?” Jebren asked.
A throat cleared, and they both looked up to see Marga frowning at them. “My Lady—” she started.
Cera sighed, rose, and handed her ale to Jebren. “I know, I know, my suitors.” She stood and shook out her skirts. “We’ll talk later. On the morrow, Master Apothecary?”
Jebren saluted her with both mugs. “On the morrow, Lady of Sandbriar.”
To the Honorable Apothecary Reinwald, Capital of Petras, Kingdom of Rethwellan,
Dear Reinwald, I fear that I am going to have to rescind my prior offer for this season of wild kandace. The Healers’ Collegium in Haven has made demands on Sandbriar for all that I can provide and on very generous terms.
I will have more at the next year’s harvest and will then be in a better position to open talks with you. Although I will warn you that the prices you have offered previously do not compete with theirs. While my fondness for you is strong, the needs of Sandbriar, and Valdemar, are stronger still.
With all respect and deep affection,
—Lady Cera of Sandbriar, in the Kingdom of Valdemar
The Price of Friendship
Dayle A. Dermatis
The town of Malm looked like a fairy tale, nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains.
At the top of the pass, Syrriah and Mieran and their Companions paused to admire the view.
Lush green grass filled the bowl, blooming with butter-yellow and snow-white flowers. Syrriah breathed in cold, clear mountain air, but she could imagine the flowers’ sweet scent. The sky above was blue with just wisps of white clouds traveling through. The small city, with red-roofed buildings clustered cozily together, couldn’t have looked more inviting.
The mountain passes would be open for only a few more weeks at most. It was two days past Harvest Festival. Syrriah was sorry to have missed the celebration, but their previous stop had taken longer than they had anticipated.
The main purposes of Harvest Fairs was to give merchants a final chance to sell their wares before winter drove them into their workshops to create more goods, and to give farmers a venue to sell the last of their harvests. Additionally, it allowed everyone to stock up for the coming winter, as well as see friends and family who had gathered from surrounding areas.
That said, Harvest Fairs included entertainment—jugglers and musicians and dancers and more—as well as excellent food. She would have enjoyed the festivities.
More importantly, Syrriah and Mieran would have been there earlier to investigate the disappearance of a fourteen-year-old girl, the information brought to them by a messenger on the road.
On both sides of the road, the scrubby bushes were dark green with dots of red berries. The chill air bit Syrriah’s cheeks. Below, she could see trees turning colors, crimson and pumpkin and gold, and her heart lifted.
Autumn: a time of celebration, bonfires, and love both young and new. (Well, the latter was true at most celebrations.)
But this harvest time had brought something darker.
* * *
• • •
As they descended into the valley, the clear mountain chill faded into a crisp, still cool breeze. The last of the flowers stubbornly held on to their colors, purple-blues and honey-yellows. Malm was primarily a mining town, but it also had goats that produced the sweetest milk, legendary throughout Valdemar. They grazed on the lower hills, the bells around their necks clanking as they bleated and tore the last of the green grass with their blunt teeth.
“We’ll talk to everyone, but we won’t pass judgment until we have as much information as we can gather,” she told Mieran. “The most important thing is finding the girl, safe and unharmed.”
Mieran nodded. “Safe and unharmed is our goal, but we have to be prepared for the worst.”
Mieran was about the same age as Syrriah’s eldest son, who was also a Herald, along with her eldest daughter; her other two children were Herald Trainees. Would they have such a bleak outlook? Mieran wasn’t wrong, but Syrriah chose to focus on the best scenario, not the worst.
“We have procedures in place for any eventuality,” she said. “But it’s best to show a positive front. Even when we’re called to pass judgment, it is our duty to look at the background and reasoning.”
“If reason is even involved,” Mieran said.
Syrriah felt the weight on her shoulders. Finding a missing girl, keeping up hope that she was alive and, if so, unharmed. Training a new Herald. And being a Herald in her own right, called late in life, at a time when some Heralds stepped back from riding Circuit and found work at the Collegium.
