Tempest

by Mercedes Lackey

  “The council’s assembled,” Maisell announced brightly. “Feels like we’ve waited forever to resolve this unhappy business.”

  “What business?” Kaysa stood up, alarmed. She had come so far on her own! How could she escape being sent home if word of her escapade had overtaken her?

  “Ah! You weren’t already told?” Maisell’s tone did not suggest an admonishment as she hastened her charge downstairs and across the carriage yard. “We’ve a dispute between two rock-headed neighbors needing a settlement.”

  Kaysa tripped between steps. Did these folk assume she was a Herald sent by the Queen? “I can’t—” she confessed in flustered contrition.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” Maisell’s airy apology trampled over her uncertainty. “I know you can’t see. Forgive me, I ought to have been minding your feet!”

  The close echo told Kaysa they neared a large building. The buzzed murmur of people gathered inside drifted through the opened windows. Maisell guided her firmly through the wide door, where the mayor’s resonant voice announced her by name, then clasped her hand and ushered her to a seat.

  “We’ll start immediately. Soonest begun, soonest finished, eh?” Fatuously pleased, he chuckled at the platitude. “Queen’s business won’t wait. Let’s not let our little problem delay you any longer than necessary.”

  Kaysa’s cheeks heated with awkward embarrassment. Uncertain how to correct the mistake, she scrambled to find an honest evasion from humiliation. “I’m bound straight for Haven on an urgent matter. Let me sit for the hearing and bear the account to a higher authority.”

  “As your business requires.” The mayor cleared his throat. “Though a scrap over strayed cattle scarcely seems to warrant the Queen’s attention.” The floorboards squeaked under his weight as he moved to begin.

  Kaysa folded her hands in the pretense of confidence. She was an excellent listener, more than able to recall detail. In good faith, she might witness this case with intent to deliver a clear report for a lawful resolution.

  Firmed by that resolve, she sweated through the formalities as the village council was called into session. The contentious parties were brought forward, with lots drawn to determine which would speak first. Swished cloth and the creak of wooden chairs quieted as hesitant footsteps stopped before Kaysa’s seat.

  “Mistress Velle, if you please,” stated the woman come forward to present her case. The quavering voice was an elder’s, too timid to deliver an echo. Kaysa sat attentively straight as her testimony unfolded.

  “I have a large meadow, but only one cow,” the plaintiff began. “My land borders a brook and provides quality grazing, even in drought. I tether my cow at midsummer and hire a man to cut hay. There’s always enough to last the winter over. Sometimes there’s extra to sell. My neighbor pens a bull in the next field, where the grass is less succulent. The brute breaks through often and gobbles our fodder. I am not wealthy. My husband is bedridden. Without lush forage, the cow’s yearly calf does not fatten for market. We lose the best price at sale and also the coin for our surplus hay.” The woman drew a slow breath, her pause suggestive of a shy person, sweet as a wren, and not wont to exaggerate. “I’ve asked that my neighbor pay for the lost crop and compensate for an underweight calf sent to market.”

  “Thank you,” said Kaysa. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, if you please.” But the trace of iron behind the courtesy suggested Mistress Velle planned to dig in her heels.

  Kaysa had listened to many a quarrel between her older brothers. Their voices always revealed more than words, sometimes with a finer nuance that sighted folk could overlook. Eager to be done, she gestured to prompt the other side of the account.

  A thumped tread approached her chair and stopped to a belligerent stamp of impatience. The second plaintiff declared herself, bossy with injury. “Mistress Sten, if you please. My loose bull is scarcely at fault for the hay because Mistress Velle’s cow has claimed the benefit for years. Her calves always sell for a tidy profit. Yet she pays nothing for my bull’s service. A fair settlement owes me compensation all the more, since this spring the cow has birthed twins. That’s why Velle’s pasture is overgrazed. She’ll gain by two calves, a bit underweight, while I claim the stud fees for her animals should be paid in full. Why dispute? My prime bull makes his issue the more desirable.”

  Kaysa paused. “Is yours the only available bull?”

  “In fact, no,” Beckley’s mayor qualified. “Master Gamon’s bull stands for half the fee. That’s what Mistress Velle has offered to pay. She prefers to service her cow at low cost, since she breeds her to maintains a milch cow and not for quality herdstock. If you please, that’s the impasse we cannot resolve. These charges are argued, year after year. Both parties refuse to be reconciled.”

  Kaysa winced for his suppressed shame, that two farmers’ petty feuding should require intervention by a Queen’s Herald.

  The bold thought occurred to her that perhaps the problem might not need Haven’s oversight, after all. Kaysa stood, resolved to suggest an amicable settlement. For truly, the deadlock over the cattle was not at the root of the matter.

  “The difficulty here is not due to lost hay, or fair dispensation of stud fees, but the fact the fence between the two fields is not stout enough to keep the livestock separate.”

  “But the fence belongs to Mistress Velle! That’s not my problem,” Mistress Sten said in acrid defense.

  Kaysa inclined her head toward the retiring neighbor. “Your fence, Mistress Velle, is in poor shape?”

  The silence stretched, until the answer emerged, quavered by reluctance. “My husband’s been ill. He cannot make repairs. More hired help and new boards are too dear, while Mistress Sten fattens her bull on my grass, his prime condition maintained at our expense!”

  “Oh?” Mistress Sten blustered in objection, “Don’t claim the calves you’ve sold haven’t fetched a steep price, lent the bloodstock advantage of my prize bull!”

  Kaysa held up a hand. “Might I put forward a compromise that resolves both complaints, hereafter?” When the antagonists quieted, she resumed. “When the weaned calves are sold, use the profit from one to rebuild a strong fence. The price of the second will be divided between you. No one gains this year. The loss of the hay and the balance of the bull’s fee are to be forgiven, on both sides. But hereafter, Mistress Sten’s bull will stay where it belongs, kept at her own expense. Mistress Velle regains the benefit of her pasture and the choice to manage her cow as she pleases.”

  When Mistress Sten stirred to take umbrage, and the whisked flounce of skirts suggested Mistress Velle also stiffened for further complaint, the mayor broke in, “I suggest both of you settle on these terms. If the Herald dispatches your problem to Haven, you might face additional fines for recalcitrance. The outcome imposed by the court might be worse, and I won’t tolerate further acrimony at everyone else’s expense!”

  It was the solution, fair enough to stop argument. While the clerk pattered forward to draw up the documents, Kaysa begged gracious leave to continue her journey.

  • • •

  Mounted inside the hour, she left Beckley with replenished provisions. The Companion beneath her seemed driven by fresh urgency. He snorted and shivered, pace quickened, although the breeze harbored no scent of turned weather. Kaysa knotted her fingers in his silken mane, nervous and unable to see whether unnatural clouds gathered. Whatever ill fate had befallen the Herald, his body had not been recovered. Doubt unsettled her for the first time. She feared her impulsive choice might have foolishly thrust her into harm’s way. If she failed to reach Haven, all would be lost. Not least, her folly placed one of Valdemar’s valiant Companions at risk.

  “Run,” she whispered into his ear. “Stay safe at all costs and keep going, even if I tumble off!”

  The Companion surged forward, head raised, his manner alert.

  Shortly
, Kaysa heard approaching hoof beats, sweetly mingled with bells. Several voices, pitched with concern, drifted nearer.

  Then the travelers sighted her. “Look!” The shout held shocked recognition. “That’s Lark!”

  Within moments, Kaysa found herself surrounded, gusted by the excited snorts of several inquisitive Companions. A woman called through the commotion, “Who are you? Where’s Tarron? What’s befallen Lark’s Herald?”

  “I don’t know.” Kaysa clung to the trembling Companion, and described the freak storm, Lark’s mishap, and the bloodstains on his empty saddle. “Our village sent searchers. No one found your Herald. I was returning the Companion to Haven to seek the Queen’s aid.”

  A tense pause, filled with the stamp of uneasy hooves and the creak of shifted leather. The huddled stillness of the Companions suggested communication between them, but Kaysa lacked the sensitivity to share.

  “I can’t understand what Lark saw,” the female Herald declared shortly, sounding uncertain and worried. “His mind is a tangle of darkness and pain, as though Tarron fell to madness.”

  Kaysa waited, too polite to ask questions.

  Then the young man sighed. “Tarron’s been overdue,” he explained. “Rumors describe some uncanny disturbances, perhaps caused by dark magic. We’re sent to inquire. If Lark’s memory is damaged, he can’t be healed here. This grim news must reach Haven forthwith. We’ll have to split up if we’re to settle the outstanding matter at Beckley.”

  Kaysa flushed. “A difference over cattle? The two parties have been reconciled.” Self-conscious but certain she had done right, she outlined the terms of her impromptu settlement.

  “Nicely done! You’ve arbitrated as well as any Herald,” the young woman exclaimed, surprised. “I’m Lara and to my right, Arif and Jess. We ride for Haven immediately. Word of Tarron’s fate must reach the capitol.”

  Kaysa swallowed, distressed. “He died?”

  A pause, before Jess amended with difficulty, “Perhaps worse, he’s held captive. Lark would never have left his side, else. We need your testimony, if you’re willing. Can you ride along with us, despite the fact you’re not Chosen?”

  A thrill coursed through Kaysa. “My sightlessness won’t be a burden?”

  The Herald never hesitated. “Certainly not. Lark’s taken you this far. Your courage and strength accepted his lead, no matter the danger.”

  “I must go myself. No one else can speak for me.” Kaysa patted Lark’s neck, warmed inside. Because she had dared to strike off the limitations imposed by her well-meaning family, all of the world was open to her. Possibilities existed, as never before. The Goddess alone knew how a Companion selected their Chosen. Once Kaysa reached Haven, who was to say the rare privilege might not fall to her?

  Unimagined Consequences

  Elizabeth A. Vaughan

  Dear Lord Ashkevron,

  I write in the hopes that you may be willing to open trade with my lands. I wish to secure a breeding stock of chirras from you. My predecessor in title had some chirras that adapted well to the southern climes and produced a wool in their undercoat as fine as I have ever seen. I am hoping to do the same.

  Honesty requires that I be truthful and say that my supply of coin is limited. However, I can offer wool, both raw and spun, and fine embroidery if that suits your need. Please let me know what your terms would be, as I am anxious to establish a herd.

  I am also given to understand that you may have some men who have served in the Tedrel wars, and who now are of uncertain future. My lands suffered greatly in the loss of our menfolk, and if there are any wishing to journey here and make a new life for themselves, they would be truly welcome, if they are of a mind to work hard. Sandbriar, for all my affection for it, is not for the soft, or faint of heart.

  Sincerely,

  Lady Cera of Sandbriar

  • • •

  The hut was as Alena remembered it, in the deepest part of the woods, a cold burn pit in front of it. It was colder now that winter was upon them. Taking a deep breath, she rapped on the doorframe with a mittened hand. She could feel Gareth’s glare on her back from where he stood with their horses. But she didn’t want to scare the man within.

  Her lady needed Ager’s skill with chirras, and Alena was determined to secure it for her.

  She tightened her heavy woolen cloak around her and knocked again. This time the door trembled and swung open on its own.

  “Hello?” Alena called out, peering into the darkness. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of old drink, sweat, and other noisome things. Breathing through her mouth, she stepped inside. “Hello?”

  Something stirred in the shadows beyond. A low fire burned in the hearth, not enough to warm a man, much less a room.

  Alena cleared her throat. “You may not recall meeting me,” she said. “You were drunk at the time. I am Alena, handmaiden to the Lady Cera of Sandbriar.” She spoke into the darkness, where she could hear breathing. “We were here—”

  “It was she I frightened,” an unsteady voice whispered. “That was weeks ago. I—” There was a slight movement in the dark. “I remember. Did I hurt her?”

  There was regret in his tone, but Alena wasn’t there to forgive. “In fairness, no,” Alena scowled in the voice’s direction. “Truth be told, it was another that hurt her. But you . . . you scared her. Brought it all back.” Alena lifted her chin and didn’t take the accusation out of her voice. “Almost worse than hitting her, to my way of thinking.”

  “Didn’t mean . . . I would never . . .” the man’s voice—Ager’s voice, Alena reminded herself—faded off.

  “Come out where I can see you,” she demanded.

  Ager moved into the light, kicking a bottle as he shuffled forward. His hair and beard were wild and unkempt, his body thinner than Alena remembered. Torn, stained clothes and filthy hands. Not so frightening as she remembered, somehow. Pitiful, truth be told. Still, she was glad of Gareth outside.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “My lady is writing to the north, to a Lord there. Lord Ask . . . Asker–”

  “Lord Ashkevron?” Ager’s hands trembled. He folded his arms and tucked them into his armpits when he saw her staring.

  “Yes,” Alena said. “She has asked to trade for chirras . . . and—” She clamped her mouth tight on her next words. Ager didn’t need to know that her Lady had offered places to any men willing to work. No need to remind him of the war’s losses. He’d had his own. No need to remind him of that.

  “Chirras,” came a whisper.

  Alena took a deep breath. “My lady has a fine cellar.” She raised her chin. “I’m here to say that if you will come when the animals do, if you will aid my lady, and stay sober in the doing, then I will get you as many bottles as you can drink, aye, and make sure you don’t choke on your own spew in the process.”

  Ager blinked at her. “What?”

  “She’d be horrified that I made this offer, but still I make it to you. You can drink yourself stupid, as little as I care, so long as you sober up when she has need of you,” Alena said, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. What didn’t he understand? “You help my Lady, give her advice so as to see to them, and I’ll see to your lodgings in the manor and your drink and see you cared for and buried decent when all is said and done.” Alena gave him a careful look. “And make sure you eat enough to keep body and soul together.”

  “Haven’t had a drop since she left here,” came another whisper. “She was so afraid . . .”

  Alena looked around, and raised an eyebrow of doubt.

  Ager finally managed to look her in the eye. “The headman of the village berated me most of the rest of that day. Never raised my hand to a woman before. Wouldn’t raise my hand to a woman, never. Broke every bottle that day. Haven’t had a drop since.”

  She looked at him, suspicious. He’d not be the first t
o make such a claim. “Still smells foul in here.”

  “Been sick,” Ager said, his arms growing tight. “Not an easy thing, going off the drink so fast.”

  “Right mess you are,” she agreed. “You just . . . stopped? All of a sudden?”

  “Yes,” Ager spoke as if the words pained him. “Been thinking, too, on all the things the drink blurred. All the pain.” He took a long, shuddering breath. “Not an easy thing.”

  “No,” Alena said. “Not easy to let yourself hurt. But pain just lies inside you like rotten meat. Gotta come out, one way or another.”

  “That too,” he said dryly.

  They stood together in shared silence for a moment, then Alena broke it. “Think on my offer,” she said. “It still stands. Drunk or sober.”

  “Even clean my spew?” Ager straightened, a glint of humor in his eyes.

  “There’s a lot I would do for my Lady,” Alena said simply. She turned to go, and paused at the door. “Gareth and I, we brought some food for the road. Bread, cheese, a bit of dried meat. I’ll leave it with you. Eat something. And bathe before you come to the manor.”

  “As you command, lady.”

  Alena gave that the sniff of disdain it deserved. “And my offer?”

  “I will think on it,” came the reply.

  Well enough, she thought as she left. Well enough.

  • • •

  Lady Cera of Sandbriar caught herself about to squirm in her chair like a child.

  “My lady, I know you have strong feelings about the matter,” Athelnor, her steward and friend, looked as uncomfortable as she felt. “But sooner rather than later, suitors for your hand will appear. You must be prepared for them.”

  “A year and a day of mourning.” Cera straightened in her chair. “That is the traditional—”

  “Yes,” Athelnor said quietly. “You cling to that phrase as if the day will never come.”