Lackey,Mercedes - Darian's Tale02 - Owlsight.doc

by Owlsight [lit]

  But since I’m out of flea-wort, lerch buds, tannim bark and elo root now, I have the perfect reason to go harvest some. And, if they think I am sulking because my sister was Chosen and not me, well then, let them think that.

  Maybe it will make some of them do something nice to comfort me. That way I can get some reward I can call “appreciation” to make up for the times my generosity was taken advantage of in the past.

  With a big basket over one arm and harvesting tools in the pockets of her tunic, she set off to the woods to do just that. She took the long way round, using the path that skirted the edge of the fields rather than cutting straight through. Young plants were just starting to show whether they’d be successful or not; the weak ones were ready to be weeded out, and the strong ready for a bit of manure. She exchanged some sort of greeting with everyone working out there as she passed; it was impossible not to. The good thing was that since she was carrying her gathering basket, it was obvious that she had work to do, and there were only a limited number of candlemarks before dusk fell. No one would delay her when it might be medicine he would need that she’d be gathering.

  Self-interest isn ‘t that bad a thing, when it comes down to it. We all tend to do things in self-interest, even - maybe especially - when we can couch it in terms of nobility and self-sacrifice. And look, Shandi gets the pretty white horse and a room at the Collegium while I get Errold’s Grove’s sicknesses and complaints.

  The farther she got from the village, the better she felt; she felt her steps growing lighter once she entered the woods proper. Her stomach calmed down, and by the time she reached the lerchbush thicket, she was humming under her breath, and her headache was just about gone.

  This probably isn’t the last time I am going to feel like there’s been some kind of injustice over Shandi being Chosen and not me - even if I don’t really want to be Chosen anyway. Besides, I have my own Gift and some appreciation, from some folks anyway. Valdemar wasn’t founded on things being fair in life, it was founded on coping with the unfairness of life. The tradition continues, Herald or not!

  The lerchbush was a hardy creature and didn’t react badly to having a few of its buds pruned away. A woodpecker trilled just over her head, and as she carefully held each branch and pared every third bud off with a tiny knife, the rich, green scent of lerch sap spread on the air and she drank it in with pleasure. Each bud went into the hempen bag she had tied to her belt. She dabbed each “wound” with pitch from an unstoppered jar, to seal it and keep insects and fungi from infesting the branches as Steelmind had taught her. Taking care today means plenty tomorrow. That’s what he’d said, then smiled, as if at a joke only he understood.

  When her bag was full, she tied it off, put it in the basket, and went in search of flea-wort, a kind of shelf-fungus that grew on the fallen bodies of winter-killed trees. For that, she had to seek out trees that were too rotten to use for firewood, whose deaths were due to insects or rot, and not storm.

  When she returned to the village, basket full, it was already dusk and the sky had just begun to blossom with stars in the east. The village itself seemed oddly quiet, the houses dark and deserted. Only the faintest threads of smoke came from chimneys that should have been showing evidence of suppers on the hearth. She was puzzled, though not alarmed, by the quiet, until she got into the vicinity of the Alder home. Then it was quite obvious where the people had all gone!

  An enormous party - a kind of extemporaneous Spring Faire in advance of the actual date - had invaded the house and the lawns and gardens of all the neighbors around it. She watched in some bemusement as her normally sober neighbors acted like adolescents on holiday. The house itself must have been packed to the ceiling, since there were people spilling out the door, and the celebration perforce had spread into the yard.

  Evidently all of Errold’s Grove rejoiced in the Choosing of one of their own.

  Well, she thought, it’s the most important thing to happen around here since the barbarians. That wasn’t exactly pleasant! Afterward, well, even though things came out all right in the end, I imagine no one was in any mood to celebrate anything. What was there to be happy about, after all? That only one relative was killed or that only half the house burned? That Lord Breon or the Hawkbrothers were there at the rescue ? Well, all right, perhaps that, but the circumstances eclipsed such elation. By the time any survivors could think clearly, their rescuers were long gone. This cause for the whole village to celebrate is well-timed.

  Controlled campfires burned in the pottery bowls prescribed for fires within the village bounds, warming the folk gathered around them against the growing chill in the air. Some people were toasting sausages and the like on the ends of sticks, just exactly as they would during the Faire. From the wildly varied scents on the breeze and the way everyone seemed to be eating, guzzling, or both, every neighbor had contributed to the impromptu celebration by adding to the provender.

  There would be no heartbroken former suitors showing up looking for comfort tonight, at least. A celebration was the last place any of them would want to be. They were probably brooding by the river somewhere, or weeping over one of Shandi’s ribbons -

  Or they‘ve given her up completely, and they're chatting up one of the other girls at the party right this moment. When it came down to it, that was the likeliest.

  Pausing for a moment in the shadows just outside the circles of light cast by the fires, Keisha pondered just exactly what she wanted to do. Did she really want to be engulfed by a party tonight? Was she in any kind of mood for a loud, boisterous celebration? Granted, she was happy for Shandi, but it wasn’t the type of emotion that drove her to go to a party.

  No, she told herself immediately. No, I do not want any part of this. Mum, though, is in the best of hands, and a celebration is just what she needs. It ‘ll turn her right around.

  Already, her head gave her faint intimations of what would happen if she allowed herself to be drawn into the commotion. A quiet night in her workshop, then a little reading before going to sleep - that sounded much more attractive than being plied with wine, babbled at, and staying up until the dawn. As for trying to find a corner of the house where she might be able to get some sleep, that looked pretty impossible.

  So she reversed her steps and went straight to her workshop, closing the thick door firmly behind her. The heavy stone walls closed her in comfortably, effective blocking out noise. She sighed with content and relief, and felt her headache fade completely. It didn’t take long to get the fire going again, and it was the work of a few moments to get the kettle ready and swing it over the fire to boil.

  While she waited for her tea, she bundled the herbs and hung them up from hooks in the ceiling to dry, then spread the buds in a drying tray and hung the tray from brackets over the window. By the time she had finished clearing up, the water was ready for tea, and she washed her hands and set to fixing it with a good appetite.

  She kept a stock of food at the workshop in case she missed a meal at home, and there was more than enough for a fine dinner. Dinner was toasted bread and cheese, with roasted chick peas, and a satisfying and hearty tea with honey. She read a little while she ate, enjoying the luxury of being able to do so - but most of all, she cherished the quiet.

  After she tidied up, she spent another contented candlemark or two putting together more of the common remedies she never seemed to have enough of, with special attention to those for headache and queasy stomach - for there were bound to be plenty of those after tonight’s indulgence.

  She changed her mind about reading further, though, after she climbed up into the loft to her cozy feather bed. Instead of reading, she reached over to the shelf beside the bed and picked up her cross-stitch embroidery - at the moment, it was the makings of a fancy blouse. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy pretty things, after all, it was just that they were very impractical for someone in her vocation. . . .

  On the other hand, she didn’t always have to be working, and there we
re enough celebrations to warrant having pretty clothing. Over the winter, with Shandi’s help, she’d picked out a light brown linen for a festival skirt, a lighter beige for a blouse, and had charted out a very pretty pattern in browns and golds for both. The skirt was done; now she was working on the sleeves and neckline of the blouse. It wouldn’t be finished for Spring Faire, but it probably would be for Midsummer. Cross-stitch - regular geometric patterns, that is - was very soothing, she had found. It allowed her mind to drift to other subjects, and sometimes as she worked, she was able to come up with answers to problems she needed to solve.

  As she worked her needle through the linen tonight, she found herself wondering where Shandi was, right at the moment.

  Would she be at an inn, I wonder? Or would that Companion take her to a waystation instead? In either case, Shandi would make herself at home. No one could resist her smile and her open friendliness, so she would be a welcome guest at an inn - doubly so, as newly Chosen. She’d probably be treated like a person of importance, and wouldn’t have to lift a finger for herself. If, on the other hand, she was at a waystation, she’d have herself tucked up snugly in no time at all. From all that Keisha understood, waystations were well provided for; Shandi was more of a housekeeper and cook than Keisha was. It was not as if Shandi would have to sleep out-of-doors, supperless.

  That might be why the Companion was in such a hurry to leave, Keisha realized. They probably had a long way to go before they came to either an inn or a waystation! That would be a good thing to remind her mother of tomorrow, if Sidonie felt slighted that Shandi had left without waiting to say good-bye.

  By now, I’ll bet Shandi is probably wishing she waited long enough to gather up her work basket! she thought with a chuckle. I’ve never seen her sitting down without something to work on in her hands. Well, there ought to be at least one trader from Haven here at the Faire; I’ll box up all her handiwork and send it off to her with him. With luck, I may be able to send her some scarlet thread as well.

  Would she be lonely, all by herself in a little way-station? Probably not; she’d have the Companion, after all, and everyone knew that Companions and Heralds had a special bond that was as close as anything two humans could have. I wonder if she can Mindspeak to him? I wonder what that would be like? Marvelous, but maybe a little scary; at least, that’s what she thought it might be like for her.

  Did Shandi miss Keisha? I certainly miss her already. Brothers just aren‘t the same as sisters. It was hard to think of what things would be like without her. . . .

  She found herself nodding over her work, so she folded the blouse pieces carefully, putting them away in her work basket and stowing everything on the shelf beside her bed. She blew out her candle, and curled up -

  - and even as she wondered if Shandi was awake or dreaming, she fell asleep.

  Two

  Morning broke clear and cool, with shreds of fog drifting above the fields and birds singing with all their hearts in the thatch of Keisha’s roof. The faint hint of wood smoke mingled with fresh air laden with the perfume of spring flowers and the tang of new leaves - normally she woke to the odor of cooking porridge or pancakes. Keisha’s nose, which was all that was peeking out from under the covers, was cold; she preferred to sleep with a window open. The birds woke her, and her cold nose twitched at the unaccustomed aromas; all the rest she saw from the small open window in her loft-bedroom.

  She stretched luxuriously and snuggled underneath her down comforter and blankets, enjoying the simple pleasure of lying abed for as long as she cared to. Had she been at home this morning, she’d have been rudely jarred awake before dawn by the noise of five clumsy young men stumbling about the house, getting fed and ready to go to work. They couldn’t seem to accomplish this simple task without a great deal of hunting for boots and clothing, accompanied by shouting questions to each other concerning the location of those articles. Once awake, there was no point in even trying to go back to sleep, since Sidonie would come roust Keisha out to help with household chores before she joined her husband and sons on the farm.

  Instead of being jolted awake, Keisha had been serenaded awake, and after dawn, not before. Instead of being hauled off to wash dishes - or, dear gods, pick up after last night’s enormous party - she had enjoyed absolutely undisturbed sleep.

  Of course, the penalty for this is that I have to make my own breakfast and heat my own wash water, but I think that’s a fair trade. Given that Shandi was gone, there would have been twice the work to do on a normal morning, and after the celebration last night, well, the amount of cleaning up didn’t bear thinking about. And would Sidonie even consider taking care of the cleanup gradually, say, by putting off things like floor washing and yard cleanup for a few days? Not a chance.

  Sidonie would insist that it all be done at once. Well, with neither Shandi nor Keisha there, maybe she’d finally get the boys to do their own share of the work - after all, each one of them made more mess than Shandi and Keisha put together.

  It certainly wouldn‘t hurt them to start taking care of themselves. Maybe they’d start being more careful if they had to take care of the consequences of their own laziness.

  That was a satisfying thought.

  Well, what have I got left here to wear? How long ago did I bring things over? She took a quick mental inventory; since the last time she’d brought in cleaned smocks and breeches, she hadn’t had any major injuries to deal with, so all three outfits were still here. Good.

  She always kept at least one spare outfit here in case she got particularly bloodied; Sidonie had an aversion to seeing her daughter come in with bloodstains on her clothing, though she had no such problem with the same stains on her sons. Why was that? Sidonie had no fear of blood; she’d been born and raised on a farm. She was a farmer’s wife, and the spillage of blood was part of farm life. Besides, women weren’t exactly strangers to blood themselves.

  She sat up a little more and wrapped one of her blankets around her shoulders. As she propped her knees up, one possibility came to her.

  You know, it occurs to me that Mum’s problem is less with bloodstains and more with the notion that it isn‘t ladylike for a girl to do things that would get her hands bloodied on a regular basis. I mean, even at slaughtering time, Mum doesn’t get into the butchering until the carcasses have been bled out and gutted.

  That brought up some new things to think about; with Shandi gone, Sidonie would only have one female child to concentrate on rather than two. Now, that meant more than simply having the number of domestic helpers halved. Shandi had been as dainty and ladylike as her mother could have wished, relieving Keisha of the need to be either of those things. Now, though -

  Now she’s going to be at me to get a suitor, to act like a proper lady, to start having children. Besides all the chores, she’ll want me to spend my free time doing needlework and making pretty clothes, putting together a dower-chest, not studying my books or making medicines.

  She groaned softly. It seemed that Shandi had saved her from more than she ever realized. Just by being there and being what she was, Shandi had kept their mother’s attention fixed on her, leaving Keisha freer than she would be now.

  I’d thought my life was complicated before!

  It was so hard to balance all the demands that were made on her. If they had their way, her parents wanted her to help with the domestic chores, the farm work, get married, have children. As far as the people of Errold’s Grove were concerned, the villagefolk wanted her to concentrate on nothing but their injuries and ailments, or the hurts and illnesses of their animals.

  Not that I don’t prefer the animals, when it comes to that. They don’t spend most of their time complaining! But that was unkind; of course people complained, it kept them from feeling quite so afraid. When they were sick or hurt, they lost control over their very selves, as they perceived them, and had to rely on the skills and tools of someone else - so it was only natural that they would complain. Up to a point, the more
they complained, the more frightened they were known to be.

  Past that point, they’re too paralyzed with fear to do anything. I guess I should be grateful that they ‘re still complaining. Handling the dead is worse than listening to the living.

  Healer Gil, on the other hand, never lost the opportunity to let her know that he still felt she should be at the Collegium; that he had no real confidence in her ability to get beyond herb- and knife-Healing if she didn’t go.

  Well, he’s got a good point there. I am making no headway with those books. How I wish that old Wizard Justyn was still around! Surely he could have helped me make sense of those pages!

  Perhaps she would have to go, but who would take over for her? Could she train someone like Alys?

  Oh, no one would take this on who wasn‘t a volunteer, and if anyone had been willing to volunteer before, they wouldn’t have needed me. As for Alys, she’d made it quite clear that she was in no way willing to extend her services beyond the animals in her charge.

  Not that I blame her. She is far more reticent and shy than I am.

  Now how was she to reconcile all these differing plans for her future? Obviously, someone was going to be angry with her, no matter what she did.

  Something else occurred to her as she worried at her thoughts like a puppy with a bit of rag. This was the first morning in months when she hadn’t woken up with the claustrophobic feeling that her entire family was closing in on her. It always seems as if they’re right beside me, breathing over my shoulder, even when they ‘re in the next room. Now that might have been because the cubby she had shared with Shandi was scarcely bigger than a closet. . . .

  But it might not. People are all beginning to irritate me lately. How many times have I gotten away from someone feeling as if they’ve been rubbing my nerves raw? How many times have I wanted to shove them away? For that matter, how many times have I been feeling as sick as the person I was treating until I got away from them?