Winter will soon have Sandbriar in its grip, and we are making every effort to insure our future. Fields are being gleaned, the woods combed for nuts, acorns, and mushrooms, and a portion of meat from whatever meager game our hunters bring back is being salted and set away. Feral livestock is being corralled back into barns and fenced pastures. We will be well, Father, thanks to your gifts and with the aid of the Trine.
I must share something with you that we of Rethwellan do not know about the Heralds of this land. It seems that when these messengers of the Queen ride Circuit, they stay in places called Waystations. You will not believe me when I tell you . . .
• • •
“This is a Waystation?” Lady Ceraratha of Sandbriar looked around the one-room stone hut in amazement. “Are you telling me that Heralds, the ‘Arrows of the Queen,’ sleep in this—this hovel?”
“It’s not a hovel.” Ondon, the headman of the nearest village, puffed up in offense. “It’s kept to the rule set by the Crown, it is.”
Alena, Cera’s handmaiden, sniffed, clearly unimpressed.
“That outer foyer is little better than a stall,” Cera looked around, trying to understand. “And this inner room is—” She stared about at the simple hearth, the wooden bed boxes barely the width of one man, and the plainest of table and chairs, but didn’t continue. The less said the better. She didn’t want to offend the poor man, but honestly. . . .
Alena, however, didn’t hesitate to voice her disapproval. “There’s no linens, no dishes, no—” She walked to the hearth and blew away the dust.
“There’s crockery aplenty.” Ondon used the tip of his cane to lift the lid of a wooden chest, revealing a few pots and bowls and crocks sealed with wax. “They bring their own bedding.”
“You are telling me that Heralds sleep here, instead of at an inn or in a proper house?” Cera asked again.
“It’s true enough that it’s not the luxury of Haven, Lady,” Ondon said staunchly. “But it’s warm in the cold and cool in the heat, and they fumigate before they—”
“I do not know that word,” Cera exchanged a glance with Alena. The language of Valdemar still confused her at times.
“Fumigate,” the headman repeated. “You know, get rid of the mites and fleas and lice—”
With a gasp, Cera and Alena both swept up their skirts. “They must delouse?” Cera couldn’t hide her shock.
“We keep it stocked with such food stuffs as will keep.” Ondon’s voice grew more defensive. “And there’s a good well and a fine rack of firewood outside.” His face flushed red under thinning hair. “I know you being from Rethwellan are not used to our ways, but it’s ready at any moment to house a Herald and their Companion.”
“Our lady means no offense,” a voice said from the doorway. “Lady Cera, the Crown maintains the Waystations so that the Heralds show no favor to any. At least, that’s what my grandfather says.” Young Gareth stood in the entryway, leaning on his boar spear.
“Well, your grandfather would know,” Cera admitted. Gareth’s grandfather Athelnor was her Steward, and his grandmother Marga was her Chatelaine.
Gareth had shot up like a weed since her arrival in Sandbriar, seemingly growing taller as one watched. Stronger, too, due in large part to his love of boar hunting. His voice was a recent change, one even he wasn’t quite used to yet. It tended to crack at odd moments, embarrassing him mightily. She still remembered his squeak and blush when he’d first offered to accompany her on this tour of her lands, the farthest she’d traveled since taking possession in the spring.
Athelnor had argued against it, but Cera had insisted. They’d finally compromised on long day trips, with Gareth at her side. She needed to learn as much as she could about her lands, and quickly. She faced her first winter in Sandbriar, now war-torn and drained of resources by the Tedrel Wars. In truth, she had far more serious worries than Waystations, but it was unsettling to see Heralds treated so.
“Well,” Cera said as she turned and headed for the door, careful to keep her skirts high, “at the least we could see it well cleaned and fleas-bane hung about.”
“Lavender, too,” Alena said. “It would be an improvement.”
Cera emerged into the sun, and she and Alena mounted their horses as Ondon secured the Waystation door. Gareth was already up on his horse, and they waited patiently as the headman limped over and climbed into his two-wheeled cart, pulled by a shaggy pony. The cart creaked and groaned under his weight, the wheels shifting, causing the traces to jerk the pony back. But the animal stood calmly.
“Hup, hup,” Ondon called as he settled on the seat, and they all began heading down the wide path to the main road.
Cera knew she’d been discourteous, so she urged her mule up beside the cart. “I meant no offence, Ondon.”
“I’ll take none,” he replied, and then chuckled. “Fact is, I can see it from your point of view. ‘Mighty strange ways in Valdemar’, eh? Isn’t that the saying?”
She laughed as well, and nodded. “But while strange to me, it’s good to know. I will ask Althelnor to explain more of this idea of showing no favoritism,” Cera said. “You have been headman of your village for how long?”
With that, she settled in as Ondon started to talk about his position and the people of his village. She knew full well that Gareth was probably rolling his eyes ahead of them, but there was much to be learned in listening. A bit of history, a hint of gossip, the whisper of problems that might be developing all lay under his words.
“One thing, Lady, my village needs more than provisions,” Ondon said.
“Trade?” Cera guessed.
“No, no, we are good there for now, although it’s good to grow along those lines,” Ondon shifted in his seat. “No, its more strong backs and willing hands we need, able-bodied and not afraid of work. I’ve many a widow lost her men-folk in the wars. Young ones, like Gareth there, he’ll do for the future. But now’s the need.”
Ondon waved his hand at the fields on either side of the road. “We were able to glean this fall, pull in enough to keep body and soul together, but come spring we’ll need backs to break the land, plant the seeds, and tend the herds in the birthing season.” Ondon looked at her. “Maybe you know men in Rethwellan who might make a fresh start?”
“Perhaps,” Cera mused. “I hadn’t thought of that possibility.” Her father might know of those willing to work for a chance to improve themselves in a new land. She could have them come to the manor to be vetted.
Ondon chuckled, giving her a sly look. “Well, word’s also about that the youngest son of Lord Cition was thinking of comin’ a’wooing the Lady of Sandbriar.”
Cera stiffened in her saddle.
“Headman Ondon,” Alena scolded.
“Eh, forgive an old man—” Ondon’s face flushed up. “But Sandbriar does need an heir, Lady.”
“I would trust no one will come courting,” Cera said coolly. “I am still in mourning for my late Lord Sinmonkelrath.” She forced herself not to glance back at Alena, not to betray any hint that her late husband had been abusive, cruel, and a traitor to the Queen. Not to show her gratitude for his demise in the “hunting accident.”
“A year and a day, Headman.”
“Of course, Lady Ceraratha.” Ondon’s voice was subdued.
“Besides.” Cera smiled gently. “We’ve other concerns for now. Now, what of your supply of seed for the spring?”
Their horses held to a walk as the fall leaves settled on the road around them. The air was still warm from the sunlight that flickered down through the trees.
On the border with Karse, Sandbriar’s sparse hills held their own rugged beauty. But here, within these woods more typical of the rest of Valdemar, it held a loveliness more familiar to her. A true sense of home.
As they rode, Ondon continued speaking of his village and its people. This was a
farming community, feeding themselves and selling their largesse to bigger villages nearby.
“Not that there’s been much to sell this year.” Ondon shook his head, his thin wisps of hair caught in a breeze.
“But you’ve enough to eat,” Cera pressed.
“Aye, and wood enough for warmth,” Ondon said. “We took your example, and we’ve crammed people together in the larger buildings, brought them in from the separate farms,” he hesitated. “Except one,” he continued. “Man named Ager. Keeps to himself.”
“Oh?” Cera lifted an eyebrow, inviting more.
Ondon shook his head regretfully. “Used to brew a cider, sweet and smooth. Perfect for a cold drink on a hot day. But he went with our Old Lord and his sons to war.”
“A soldier?”
“Nay, Lady. He was one of the Old Lord’s herders,” Ondon said. “Tended to the chirras.”
Cera’s interest was piqued. She’d found a blanket of chirra wool in her chambers when she’d arrived, as soft a wool as she’d ever felt. She’d been told that the Old Lord’s great-grandfather had brought them down from the north and tried to start a herd. Most had died of the heat, but some had lived and thrived. The wool came from the under layer of wool and was rare as hen’s teeth. But the herd had been taken as pack animals for the army. “Does he have any of the animals?” Cera asked.
Ondon shook his head. “None survived that I know of, Lady. Poor Ager came back broken. He’s not who he once was. Took over the old charcoaler’s hut in the woods and set to drinking himself into a constant stupor.” Ondon sighed. “Not doing it with cider, either. He’s brewing drink that’s cheap and hard, and he’s drinking it as fast as it ferments.”
Gareth looked back over his shoulder. “I think I remember him. Tall fellow, dark hair? He’d gift the Lord with a barrel of cider every year.”
“Aye,” Ondon said. “He’s a gift for brewing, but his heart was in those chirras. No one else had the touch with them that he did. Managed the entire herd for the Lord and saw to the crossbreeding and every birthing. But the war hit him hard. Harder than most.”
“I must talk to him,” Cera said. “If there is a chance to revive the herd, he’d be the one to know how, yes?” Excitement sparked through her. “Where is he?”
“Not far.” Ondon eyed her with a frown. “But, Lady—”
“No ‘buts,’” Cera interrupted. “If there is any chance, I will take it. He might leap at the chance to rebuild the herd.”
“Maybe.” Ondon’s doubt was clear, but he shrugged. “It’s not far, down a small path where the road curves to the north.” He clucked to his pony to pick up the pace. “I best go with you. To make introductions.”
• • •
The hut was in the deepest part of the woods, a cold burn pit in front of it. Ondon heaved himself down, the pony cart creaking in protest. “I’ll see if he’s up for visitors,” he said, taking his cane from the cart and limping toward the door.
Cera dismounted, along with Gareth and Alena. The forest here was just as lovely, the sun dappling the colored leaves. Cera admired the bright foliage as she heard Ondon moving around inside, talking softly.
Ondon emerged to stand in the doorway, shaking his head. “He’s not in good shape, Lady. Best we come back another time.”
“Nonsense. I must speak with him.” Cera marched forward and pushed past Ondon into the hut, forcing him to step back in her eagerness.
The smell of an unwashed body and the sharp scent of hard drink hung in the air. There was little light except what came through the door. Cera saw a cold hearth, a rickety wooden table, and a man slumped over it, bottles and unwashed dishes all around.
The man roused, moaning.
“Ager?” Cera stepped closer, trying not to wrinkle her nose.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Lady,” Ondon said behind her. “He’s got a bit of a temper, and with a bad head, he might not—”
The man raised his head, his hair long and wild, his beard unkempt. He blinked at her with bloodshot eyes. “Who’n the hells’re you?” he slurred.
“I am Lady Cera of Sandbriar,” Cera started, but lowered her voice when he winced. “I wanted to speak to you about chirras. Do you know of—”
“Chirras?” Ager coughed and reached for a bottle, trying to find a full one.
“Yes,” Cera said. “Do you know if any are still alive?”
His bleary, watery eyes went flat with rage in an instant. “They wanted them, wanted them all!” he roared as he stood, scattering bottles and dishes and sending the table scraping over the wooden floor. “And we went, we did, the Old Lord and I and all our herd, and those gentle things gave and gave and gave until their hearts gave out, or the bastard Karse killed them!” Ager staggered where he stood. “I tried so hard to keep ’em alive, and I failed. Dead, all dead and gone and you dare—” He sucked in air and screamed. “You dare ask?” He raised his fists and stepped toward her.
Cera froze, terrified. All she could see was her husband Sinmonkelrath, spewing hateful, hateful words, fists raised to deliver yet another beating, his face enraged as he came toward her. “Stupid, rude cow!”
Cera cried out in anguish, for there was no help, no hope, and she deserved every word, every blow—
She moaned and raised her arms to ward off the coming blows.
Ager pulled up, his face clear of anger and covered in confusion. “What?” He looked at his fists in horror.
Gareth had already exploded through the door, boar spear clutched in his hands, looking for blood. He surged forward, his spear aimed at Ager’s chest.
“No!” Ondon whacked down on the spear with his cane, making the point just miss Ager and dig into the floor.
Cera felt hands tug on her skirts, and she let Alena pull her out and away. She staggered out, still stunned, feeling somehow there and not there. Trying to breathe.
She could hear men’s voices arguing in the hut behind her, but the words were indistinct, muffled by the pounding of her heart.
Alena pulled her close. “Let’s get you home.”
• • •
Ondon stayed with Ager, “to give him a talking to.”
Gareth glowered as he mounted, but Cera insisted he come with them. The headman would deal with Ager in his own way. She wanted nothing more than to be gone from this place.
They were halfway home when her numbness wore off. Cera slipped from her saddle, ran into the concealing brush, and dropped to her knees as she threw up.
She was aware of the commotion behind her, but was helpless to do aught but try to breathe through her heaves.
And when all that was left to bring up was bile, and not much of that, all she could do was pant and stare at the disgusting mess of vomit and feelings scattered over the autumn leaves.
“Here now,” Alena whispered at her side as a gentle hand rested on the back of her neck.
Cera shuddered as the touch cut through her pain. Alena pulled her back to sit, her skirts a jumbled mess around her.
“Is everything alright?” Gareth called.
“My lady’s using the woods,” Alena called back. “Keep to the road.” She sat down beside Cera. “Here,” she used a waterskin to dampen a handkerchief. “It’s alright now, you are safe,” she crooned as she wiped Cera’s face.
“No,” Cera coughed, trying to clear her throat. “Oh, Alena, Alena, I thought I was free of him.”
“You are, you are—” Alena started to weep.
“No, no . . .” Cera could barely force out the words through her tears.
Alena leaned in, pressing their heads together. “Oh, my lady. I failed you so.”
“What?” Cera coughed, trying to look her handmaiden in the eye. “How so?”
“I knew, I knew how he beat you, and I didn’t—” Alena drew in a ragged breath. “I co
uld hear, through the walls, I saw the bruises, but I did nothing, Lady, and I should have—”
“Oh, Alena . . .” Cera sighed, and pulled her into a hug. “Sinmon would have, would have—” She shuddered at the thought. “He would have discharged you, or worse, if you had tried. No, no—”
“I was so afraid, and I should have found a way, or been braver, or truer to you—” Alena wept even harder, and they clung to one another and cried and cried until there were no more tears.
A deep cough came from the road. Gareth, trying to get their attention. “My lady, the sun is setting. We’d best get back on the road.”
“A moment,” Alena snapped.
“Eh?” Gareth called back. “Ladies, you’re speaking Rethwellan. Been speaking it for a while.”
Thank the Trine for that. “A moment,” Cera called in the language of Valdemar. She and Alena made themselves presentable in a flurry of wet handkerchiefs and combs. They helped each other through the brush, emerging to find a worried Gareth standing with the animals.
“I’m fine,” Cera said. “Let’s be on our way.”
It wasn’t long before she was back in the warmth of her chambers. Marga and Alena fussed, with blankets and hot tea, stoking up the hearth. Alena brought her dinner on a tray.
Cera settled into her chair, dug her toes into the thick rug, and ignored the food next to her. Instead, she pulled the blankets up to her shoulders.
Despite the warmth, she was suddenly cold.
• • •
In the morning, as was her custom, she passed through the Great Hall and went to the small dessert kitchen for breakfast.
The Great Hall was filled with the families she had gathered from surrounding farms and moved here for the safety and security their numbers offered. She was greeted as she skirted the tables filled with old men and women and children. Ondon’s village wasn’t the only place lacking in the able-bodied. She’d have to try to get a letter off to her father with the last caravans.
The larger kitchens were going strong, filled with bakers and spit-boys, the cooks in command. But the smaller dessert kitchen was a haven of quiet, and she and the core staff had taken to eating breakfast in its relative peace.
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