“Why not? What is it breaks your loyalty to Brannagh?” she asked calmly, her eyes leveled at his. For a moment, a single moment, he looked like he might answer.
“Yes, indeed, why not?” demanded Sir Teny. “Traitor. You set a fine example to the rest of the farmers, Jero.”
“Sir Teny.” Renda sighed in exasperation and shut her eyes. She should have followed her first instincts and come alone, or perhaps with Gikka, and her father’s diplomacy be damned. When had diplomacy solved ought in her life that a sword could not solve better? Gikka might have been driven to kill Jero for his stubbornness or Teny for his abject stupidity had they enraged her sufficiently, but at least she would not have further widened the breach while they lived.
“Jero, enough of this nonsense.” Sir Teny drew himself up. “Return to your fields forthwith.” When the farmer only glared at him, Sir Teny huffed petulantly. “Come,” spoke the knight, “would you have me turn you off your land? Where would you go? Hard upon the Feast of Bilkar, no less? How is it that you, whose family has farmed this same land through war and famine and plague, would now, in time of peace,” he laughed at the absurdity, “leave your own winter’s food to rot afield?”
Jero’s hard gaze turned reluctantly toward Renda before it failed utterly. “Because she says it angers the gods, and I’ll not be—”
“She being Chatka, the Verdura witch woman.” Sir Teny shook his head with contempt and turned away.
“—heaping more sins upon my head just now!”
Teny strode away in disgust with his hands on his hips. “I should hang a sign at my borders, ‘Empty heads for hire.’”
She waved Teny to silence. “Is it sin,” asked Renda quietly, calmly, even though her heart was beating a panicked call to retreat, “to harvest Brannagh grains?” She saw Jero’s gaze waver and she stepped closer. “What sin, Jero, to serve a protector house of B’radik?” Renda softened her voice. “But tell me, what sin?”
For a moment, the farmer looked uncertain. His eye traveled over her mantle, over the brilliant Brannagh surcoat, over the shining chain coif that covered her auburn hair, and Renda saw in his eyes the beginnings of a familiar spark of pride, the same fiery honor and courage which had carried her men—which had carried Jero himself—through the breach into Kadak’s stronghold.
She smiled encouragingly.
Jero breathed deeply to speak.
Suddenly, from behind him came the sound of a woman coughing sharply, like the barking of a dog, and at once the odor redoubled at the door.
The smell, the cough.
No.
Any house of sickness carries such smells, she told herself. It was just the closeness of the air within, that they would not subject the patient to draughts. No more than that. And a cough, she reminded herself, could mark any of a thousand ills easily cured even without the priests. Easily cured, her mind repeated feverishly.
It is a sound you cannot mistake, like the barking of a dog.
“What is that wretched stink?” groaned Sir Teny, stepping back with his glove over his face. “Is your dog qualmed at the stomach?”
Jero looked back over his shoulder into the darkness of the house, and when at last his gaze came round once more to meet his lord’s, Renda was shocked to see that the valor and strength she had seen in the man’s eyes only moments before had turned to utter terror. “My lord, my lady, stay me not from my prayers, I beg of you! She’s worse by each minute I talk to you. Please, for pity, let me get to my prayers!”
In amazement, the two knights stepped back and watched the door close.
“Prayers. Prayers when he should be gathering his crops. I should hang him,” muttered Sir Teny once they had mounted their horses. “An example to the rest of them.”
“Fool,” spat Renda, nudging Alandro away from Jero’s door. “Have you no eyes? That man is a hostage in his own home.” But at Teny’s blank expression, she merely turned and rode back toward the roadway, considering the horror of what she had seen. The plague had spread beyond the temple grounds, beyond the neighboring farms. She looked back at the little farmhouse where Jero would pray and pray for his wife until the plague took them both, and beyond to the next farm and the next.
Sir Teny kicked up his mount to join her. “Well, perhaps if we were to hang the old witch instead...”
* * *
“Ah, Lord Daerwin, come in.” Chatka stepped away from her door and bowed graciously to let him in. His nose was assailed with the smells of a thousand flowers that were nowhere to be seen—a cloying, clutching odor that fairly burned in his nostrils. He wondered if he did not prefer the smell of his own stables.
The woman who greeted him was tall and handsome in spite of her age, as he might have expected of a Verdura, even one as long away from the northern Bremondine forests and the old communes as she must have been. Kadak had razed the last of the Verdura sorcerers’ compounds when his grandfather was duke.
Chatka was as Gikka had described her, dark of hair and eye with olive skin. Oddly, her hands were lined and spotted, much more so than he might have expected, and she walked slowly over the clean stones of her floor, doubtless to paint herself helpless before him. Even so, the sheriff found in her gaze something that reminded him of his hawks when they spied rabbits below.
“I wondered when the good Sheriff of Brannagh might pay me a visit.” She turned to lead him into her sitting room. “Himself.”
He ignored her pointed remark and followed her further into the house. “Madam Chatka,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I trust you know why I’ve come.”
“And armed, no less,” she said, casting a sideways glance at his sword. “Do I know why you’ve come? Oh, full well.” She smiled wryly. Without rising from the seat she had taken, she looked up at him. “Sit, and I will fetch some tea.”
But he did not sit, nor did he remove his cloak. He would not let himself be bound by hospitality, nor would he risk being poisoned by her.
“No, madam,” he replied. “Sure I thank you, but I will not be staying long.” He raised his chin slightly. “I have come to ask why you would keep the farmers from the fields.”
“Ah,” she said with amusement. “So we come right to it, then.”
The sheriff said nothing, merely waiting for her to reply.
“You are direct, Daerwin of Brannagh. I must say, I find that interesting.” She smiled and relaxed rather sinuously across the chaise. “Very interesting, very...” Her eyes met his, fiery and willing, trying to provoke a base animal response in him. She seemed at once much younger, and the age spots on her arms had vanished. “Very intriguing.”
He crossed his arms and glared at her. Seduction. If she could prove that he was as prone to weaknesses of the flesh as any man, she would have power over him. The ploy was weak, as if she had not really expected it to work. But the insult was cast. He looked away with disdain, casting his own insult. “Just answer my question.”
She sneered. “You’ve not heard your spy’s report, then?”
“I know what was said.”
“Do you?” She laughed. “Do you indeed?”
His lips thinned. “I would know why you choose to attack Damerien and Brannagh.”
“Ah, attack, is it?” she laughed then, and she was once again the old witch woman, no more the Verdura seductress. “I merely speak what I see in my mind, Lord Daerwin. Nothing more.” She glanced away from him. “That it undermines or,” she smiled, “attacks your households, as you put it, well, you cannot blame me for that.”
Her coyness was irritating. “What exactly did you see? And none of your poesies. I would hear a plain report of it.”
“I do not recall exactly,” she said, pursing her lips. “I speak to them night upon night, and I vary it a bit to keep their interest.” She laughed. “Showmanship, Brannagh. You see, it’s showmanship you lack.”
“It’s honor you lack, madam, to manipulate these people thus, and to their deaths of starvation, no less.�
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Chatka shrugged and looked away. “They will not starve. The gods will provide.”
“The gods—!” His steel and flint eyes blazed. “The gods are not our servants. Their gifts are blessings, not debts to be paid upon demand. We will provide whilst we can, we lords of Syon, but we’ve not enough stored away between us to feed everyone until the next harvest, especially not an we use any to seed come the Feast of Didian. They will starve, Chatka, if not this year, next, and it will be upon your head.”
But she laughed again, a cruel, ugly laugh that raised the hair on the back of his neck. “You are a fool, Brannagh. You know full well that I speak the truth. You know they will not starve. And you know why.”
His eyes narrowed, questioning.
“Yes,” she laughed again. “The plague strikes them even now.”
“You spoke of the Houses of Brannagh and Damerien locking our gates against them and turning away, of down in mountain winds and of four becoming five. Nonsense, all.”
“Oh, you disappoint me, Daerwin. I had thought you better schooled. And has your illustrious daughter no insight, either?” She smiled sadly. “A pity. I had expected more.”
“My question remains,” he spoke over her words, “and it is, why?” He turned to face her, and his eyes locked on hers. “Why do you tell them that to serve Brannagh angers the gods?”
“When in truth it angers but one?” Her voice was shrill, but suddenly she smiled. He had not veiled his expression of surprise fast enough. “Oh, yes, Brannagh, my gift is real; my visions,” she seethed, narrowing her eyes, “are real. Frighteningly real, of late. But as to why,” she cooed as she turned and walked away from him. “I have my reasons.”
“Your reasons?” Daerwin stormed in frustration. “What manner of answer—”
“That is all the answer I intend to give!” She paused a moment. “Oh, and Daerwin? Do close the door when you leave; the nights grow cold already.” She glanced back at him, and her smile held a predatory leer. “I predict an early frost this year.”
* * *
The morning sun rose to find the sheriff, Renda and the body of Renda’s resident band of knights, squires, pages and those as yet unlanded of the sheriff’s knights and their attendants spread by ones and twos over the lands of the nearer knights swinging scythes through the wheat and amaranth in the abandoned fields. Behind them followed servants from each lord’s household and some from Brannagh as well who gathered the awkward armloads of grain from the ground and piled them into large flat wagons to be taken back to the storehouses and threshed.
With the exception of some of Renda’s knights who had grown up on farms in the northern plains, most of those in the fields were born to noble houses, and while they all came from families who kept tenant farmers on their lands, none had ever held a real scythe in hand. But they were bright and strong and willing to take on almost any task, especially one so critical to the survival of Syon, so after only a few false starts, they had managed to clear quite a bit of their first fields already, with very little grain having been destroyed in the process.
Even so, this late in the Gathering they could not hope to harvest half the grain, even with every knight of the House working through the sun day after day, especially not if, as Chatka had said, the frosts would come early this year. But they would gather what they could and hope it would be enough to see themselves and all their superstitious farmers and villagers through the coming year. Brannford and the other cities would have to fend for themselves, buying grain from the Anatayans at terribly inflated prices or making do with what they could get from the rest of the noble houses of Syon, assuming that their situations were any different. Economically, it was a disaster for the House of Brannagh. But that could not be helped.
Renda looked up gratefully at the clear morning sky and wiped the sweat from her brow. The sun would be hot by mid-afternoon, but the cloudless sky promised them a full day of harvest. It was a good omen.
Her heart and mind were grateful for the honest exertion and the open air, though the scythe showed her most mercilessly how weak her swordarm had become since the war’s end. Practice swords and sparring were not the same as real battle, as she had seen against Sir Bernold of Avondale.
You disappoint me, Brannagh.
Indeed her reflexes were not as quick as they had been.
Bah. Her reflexes had been more than enough to best him, she reminded herself, and hacked away another swath of amaranth, enjoying the satisfying crunch of the grain against the blade. But she was no match now for the Renda of Brannagh who had won the war, and, she reminded herself, even then, she could not meet Gikka’s speed, not stroke for stroke.
Gikka. Renda stopped and wiped her blade. She looked northwestward, past the castle, beyond the rocky foothills and the horizon toward the base of the mountains proper. A half-day’s march beyond the forestlands in the foothills of the Fraugham Mountains stood Graymonde Hall, far beyond the reach of this plague, or so Renda prayed. With any luck, Gikka and the boy Chul would be safe there, though two more pair of hands, especially strong, fast hands, would be welcome in the fields.
Better still, would that Dith were here. The grain would be cleaned and put away in the storehouses with no more than a wave of his hands or a look from his bright blue eyes. Renda smiled darkly. No, more likely he would set the farmers to itching or some such until they should have cleared the fields themselves, sin or no sin. That seemed more to his nature, and occasionally she wondered if his sense of justice might not be clearer than her own.
But Dith had grown weary with minding Gikka’s miners and avoiding Rjeinar’s priests and bounty hunters, and he had gone far to the north somewhere near the Hodrache Range. By the time news of the bizarre disloyalty among the farmers and the priests’ disease and Pegrine’s murder reached him, Renda sincerely hoped the whole ordeal would be over.
The Earl of Wirthing was surely calmed by her father’s reply by now, though another tenday would pass before they might receive any acknowledgment of it. Only a scant over a tenday remained before they might begin to look for their cardinal. Then the farmers would be calmed, Chatka would be quieted, and the world would be at peace again.
Peace again.
She swung angrily through the grain.
And would that it were not so.
“Beg pardon, my lady,” gasped a runner from the castle who trotted up behind her, “but there’s a B’radikite priest at the gate, name of Arnard, who would speak with you.”
Arnard, at the gate? She stopped and looked at the boy. “But why is he here, did he say?”
“He did not say, my lady.” The runner shrugged. “But behind him come three more priests and some wagons as smell of old cheese.”
Renda swallowed her worry and handed the boy her scythe. Then she ran through the field toward the castle.
* * *
“Everything is lost,” sobbed the priest over the cup of mulled brandy she had given him. He drew a deep breath before he looked up. “The temple is destroyed, the ground desecrated with salt and soot. By B’radik’s grace alone did we escape, though how,” he shuddered suddenly, “I cannot say. But we have nowhere else to go, my lady.”
Renda looked over the arm he cradled against his chest and the angry swelling around the cuts on his face, and she gestured for one of the servants to fetch Nara. The priests had no strength left, but perhaps Nara would have enough strength to ease his pain, at least.
“Perhaps I was wrong to come to Brannagh. If you would turn us away—”
“Of course we will not turn you away, good priest.” These words came from the sheriff, who stood now in the doorway drying his face on a towel. “Please forgive my appearance; I’m just come from the fields without.”
“Father,” said Renda, rising. “May I present Arnard of the Temple of B’radik? Arnard, Lord Daerwin, the Sheriff of Brannagh.”
The priest bowed his head. “I greet you in the name of B’radik and sow your heart with tr
uth and light, my lord.”
“They would bring the plague victims inside the castle,” said Renda as she took her seat again. She tried to keep the note of fear out of her voice. “The temple was destroyed; they’ve nowhere else to go.”
“Destroyed, but…” The sheriff mopped his brow. “Well, our first priority is what is before us, to wit, the wagons in the courtyard. How many priests do you bring with you?”
“I had only three priests left standing when it came, but four of us together against it. We called upon B’radik, but...”
Only four. “You told me at the temple that you could not protect more than one knight, and this while you had nine and twenty priests.” She felt a panicked scream rising in her throat and fought it down. “Yet now, with but four of you, you have brought the plague within our very walls, within a breath of the villages and farms.”
“I wonder if this might not fall exactly within our enemy’s design, that I should bring the plague into Brannagh and from there into Damerien’s lands as well,” he sighed. “But it was that or trek ourselves across all of Syon to the grand basilica in Brannford.”
“Regardless,” the sheriff replied, “we of Brannagh are sworn to B’radik’s service, and if we are to die, so be it.”
Renda looked out the study window at the courtyard below where the knights and servants helped to unload the wagons. “How many?” she asked at last.
“We could save no more than fifteen of the stricken, taking those most likely to survive the journey.” He looked away. “The rest died when the temple fell, more’s the mercy.”
The rest? How many had been in hospice when they were attacked?
“Forty-five were lost, left behind.” He continued. “Perhaps a few more.”
“Sixty souls in a space of ten days!” Renda was shocked. Such devastation was not possible, not outside battle. Even if the plague traveled on the wind itself, it could not spread so quickly.
Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) Page 19