Or how useless she felt.
:You’re quite useful,: Cefylla gravely informed her. :In fact, if you’re through eating, I could use a good brushing.:
We honor those who have passed on
We honor the year now gone by
We banish the darkness with kindness
We rejoice when new dawn greets the sky . . .
The next day, the sun indeed did rise, with the day bright and clear, giving a sense of warmth even in the chill of the season. An auspicious start to the Midwinter Festival.
Syrriah’s old riding gear proved more comfortable than her gowns, and her mood lightened as she rode on Cefylla alongside Riann and her husband, the rest of the household following behind along with a packhorse laden with gifts. The chill in the air, the laughter and banter rising on visible, mistlike breath, the joy of the season. Hooves crunching on packed snow. Sweet smoke from chimneys. The glitter of the river in the distance; the fallow fields slumbering in preparation for spring planting.
As they rode through the village, Syrriah noticed which houses had new decorations and which had added a room or a new fence. Lives had continued, just as hers had.
They were joined by other riders, as well as by families walking as they headed out the other side of the village. Eventually they came to the crossroads where the monthly market was held, drawing merchants from several nearby towns and villages.
The Midwinter Fair market, however, was a special event indeed.
People wore new clothing they’d been gifted, coats and hats and scarves. Children ran about, shrieking and laughing. The fair was a time to celebrate children, too, so shopkeepers had sweets or small toys to hand out.
In the center of the marketplace was a white-painted gazebo from which announcements were made and news was shared. Today, it was draped with pine boughs and silver-and-blue ribbons, and a small group of musicians with lute and drum and shawm performed traditional songs. Syrriah put coins in the basket they’d set out, and the lute player nodded and winked his thanks.
They left Cefylla and the horses at the public stable, and Lord and Lady Trayne, and their children, began the annual procession around the market, handing out small gifts and tokens. At first Syrriah accompanied them, but eventually she fell back, spending more time perusing the market wares.
At the Collegium, she lived in a small room, and her necessities were provided for: clothing, food, and so forth. She had little space for personal items, and she had brought things from home that were special to her, including a portrait of Brant, with a lock of each of her children’s hair tucked under the glass.
She was busy enough at the Collegium with her studies and training that leisurely shopping had also become a thing of the past. Now, she indulged in fingering some fine linen, a dark red chevron pattern shot through with gold. She sniffed the flowery perfumes and soaps, the jars of teas. She admired sheep fleeces and tanned leather and furs. Cheeses, wine, flour, and hops.
She knew many of the merchants, although there were always some who came and went. Some curtsied or bowed—even though she no longer ran Traynemarch Reach, there was still memory and respect, and she was delighted to greet them all and learn how they had fared since her departure.
Eventually she came to the stall of one of her favorite artisans, a man everyone called Carver because of his incredible woodworking skills.
She breathed in the sweet smell of wood shavings, undercut with the cider he had in a pot on the small stove at the back of the stall. Heat from the stove took an edge off the day’s chill.
By the front of the stall sat a basket filled with gifts for the children who came by, obviously made from pieces left over from other projects. Rings for fat baby fingers to grasp, dolls, blunt swords, blocks with letters on them.
She was greeted not by Carver but by his son, Eron.
The hair at Eron’s brow had receded since the last time she’d seen him, but, then, her own hair had new strands of silver shot through it. He was just as tall, just as wiry, with the same long-fingered, capable hands cross-hatched with pale scars from his work.
Both he and his sister, Vaice, were skilled woodworkers in their own right. Some said even more talented—including Carver himself.
“Lady Trayne,” he greeted her, his voice hearty and his brown eyes smiling. Then, with a small shake of his head: “I’m sorry—Herald. How are you?”
“I’m well, Eron. But please, I’m not a Herald yet. You can call me Herald Trainee, but here, now, I’d prefer Syrriah.”
“’Tis strange to call you that, I confess, after all the years of you and your lord in the manor.”
“My title may be different, but I’ve not changed,” she said.
“Ah, but haven’t we all?” he said, echoing her thoughts.
He offered her a cup of cider, which she gratefully accepted. Made from her favorite local apples, it was tart, warm, and laced with cinnamon and cloves.
Every piece Carver created was unique, a fact in which he took great pride. (Unless, of course, he made a set; then each part was indistinguishable from the next.) Every piece was solidly crafted, too. The cradle she had purchased almost twenty years ago had served her four babies well, before she had passed it on to Riann.
His skill was known throughout Valdemar, even though he could make only a small number of large pieces each year.
She asked Eron about his father and learned that Carver had recently passed the business on to Eron and Vaice. He was still carving small things, but he didn’t have the energy for larger pieces anymore.
Eron showed her the headboard he was carving for a wedding, and Vaice’s latest project, a set of anniversary cups, the names of the couple’s children spiraling along the bowl of each. The work on both was exquisite.
But underlying his words, masked by his smile, was a thread of unhappiness. Something troubled him. Syrriah tamped down on her Gift, not wanting to intrude. She was not the lady of the manor; she was not quite a friend. If it was something he wished her to know about, he would tell her.
She was just about to leave when Vaice ducked under the awning to the merchant stall.
Vaice was as tall as her brother and father, with the same wiry strength. Her light brown hair was plaited, the braids wrapped around her head to keep it out of the way while she worked.
They both must be nearing thirty now, Syrriah realized, no longer children at all, even though it was easy to still think of them that way.
As soon as Vaice entered, Eron’s sense of being troubled flared.
“I was hoping to speak with you, actually,” Vaice said to Syrriah after sketching a brief curtsy. “I was wondering when you planned to return to Haven.”
“In a little more than a weeks’ time,” Syrriah said. “It will depend on the weather; I’ll leave earlier if necessary.”
Vaice bit her lip, clearly avoiding looking at her brother. “Would you . . . would you and your Companion be willing to let me ride with you? If I wouldn’t slow you down, I mean.”
“Surely you can wait until spring . . .” Eron said.
“I’m not changing my mind, so waiting won’t make a difference,” Vaice said.
Syrriah was a mother of four. She didn’t need Empathy to hear the stubbornness in Vaice’s voice, and see it in her squared shoulders and the jut of her jaw.
“Maybe this is something you can help us with,” Eron said, turning to Syrriah. “Give us your advice, based on your training.”
Syrriah’s training wasn’t complete, but before she could point that out, Vaice said, “I’d be interested in hearing what you have to say. Especially if it means convincing my brother it makes no sense to be stuck in the past.”
“We’ve been given a legacy,” Eron said. “It’s our job to uphold it—not destroy it.”
It was clear they’d been having this argument for some t
ime. They barely even seemed to hear each other’s words.
The job of a Herald included diplomacy and negotiating skills. Syrriah wasn’t a Herald yet, but as lady of the manor, she’d needed similar abilities.
Besides, this was a family dispute, not a situation in service to the Monarch.
She could pull Riann away from the Midwinter Fair—it was an issue that could very much affect the Major holdings, as the business brought wealth and commerce to Traynemarch Reach—or she could see if she could help.
“I’m willing to listen and give my opinion,” she said. “But not as a Herald; I’m still a Trainee. As . . . an unbiased ear.”
Vaice motioned her to a set of chairs in the corner. They were serviceable, solid, with clean lines. The grain of the wood gleamed with polish and felt incredibly smooth. There wouldn’t be a splinter to be found. They had a quiet beauty and what Syrriah thought of as the Carver quality . . . although they bore none of the intricate carving she’d expected.
A moment later, she learned why.
Vaice went first. “I have been studying economics and business,” she said. “My father made a good living for our family with his work, but now there are two of us, with two families. When Eron and I began helping Father, our output increased, but it has decreased, obviously, since he retired.”
“We could bring in an apprentice,” Eron said.
“Apprentices still need to be housed, and clothed, and fed,” she countered. “And there’s no guarantee they’d ever get to the skill level needed, or that they wouldn’t leave to start their own business.”
“You make good points,” Syrriah said. “I’m guessing you have a solution?”
Vaice held out her hand. “You’re sitting on them,” she said. “We can make simpler items much faster—and we can hire people to help with the basic work. Set up work stations, even. So, for example, one person is turning spindles, another person is doing something else. We would make sure the quality was just as high as it is now, but be able to produce more. Plus, it would widen our customer base. So many people can’t afford what we make, and these items would be priced cheaper.”
Syrriah was knowledgeable enough to have helped with the books at Traynemarch Reach, but this was something she’d never considered. It made a great deal of sense.
“Eron?” she said.
He leaned back in his seat, arms across his chest, even as his body language betrayed that he didn’t want to be sitting on this particular chair.
“Our business is known for the individual pieces my father, and then we, have crafted. He created a legacy from nothing, a heritage that we can’t turn our backs on. It would devastate him.”
He sighed. “But Vaice is right about the money, and I don’t have an easy solution. We can look for a different supplier for lumber, but we’d have to be certain the quality wouldn’t change. I don’t want to charge more for what we make, but . . .”
Vaice nodded. “We probably could command more, but I don’t think the higher prices would cover the fewer orders.”
“You both agree that quality is paramount,” Syrriah said.
They both nodded.
She ran her hand along the silken-smooth arm of her chair. Could the solution be as easy as it seemed?
“It’s true,” she said, “that your father’s business has always been known for the unique pieces he made, the gorgeously intricate carving and design. But I think that the other component was, as you both agree, quality.”
She considered her next words. “Beauty can be found in many forms,” she said. “In the intricate work of that headboard or those goblets, but also in the lines and the flow of these chairs. The cradle your father made for me has held many babies over many years, and I know this chair is solid and will last generations as well. And as you said, Vaice, there is a benefit to creating less expensive pieces so more people can enjoy the quality and beauty of the work.”
“Thank you,” Vaice said.
“However,” Syrriah went on, “it’s also true that the Carver name is known for intricate, unique pieces, and there will always be people who want those as well. My suggestion is that you divide the business into two businesses, both operating under the same name to remind buyers of the underlying quality, but clearly distinct in what products each business offers. Traditional methods on one side, new experiments on the other.”
She felt a weight lift from her chest, leaving behind an almost giddy feeling. She didn’t want to laugh at the looks on their faces, however, as their expressions turned from stubborn to dawning realization and shared consideration.
“I think . . .” Eron said. “I think that might just work.”
“I think it might,” Vaice agreed. “We’ll have to figure out the details, of course.”
Syrriah tried to sneak out while they were talking, but they caught her before she left, thanking her profusely and trying to press a gift into her hands. In the end she relented and took toys from the basket for her niece and nephew.
Then, her step lighter than it had been, she went to find her family.
We sing away the old year, and welcome the new
We sing of the past, and the winter so cold
We open ourselves to who we’ll become
We sing of the future and the secrets it holds.
The bells on the bridles of three steeds—Cefylla, and Natalli and Benlan’s Companions—jangled in the sunshine, a counterpart to the honks of the snow geese flying overhead. The weather had held, cold but bright, and Syrriah had enjoyed every moment with her family before she had to leave.
Just as she would enjoy every moment back at the Collegium.
Going home reminded her of all she had loved, and still loved.
It had also reminded her that she was a different person now, and she had more to love and experience and learn.
Counseling Vaice and Eron had shown her that she did have at least a strong foundation of fairness and mediation to build upon as she completed her studies and became a full-fledged Herald.
:You see, my dove? I knew I Chose well.:
Syrriah leaned forward, hugging Cefylla’s neck. :Thank you, dearheart.:
They rode together toward Syrriah’s bright future.
Unceasing Consequences
Elizabeth Vaughan
Dearest Father,
Please understand that I am grateful to the Trine for the blessings I have received. The honor of being made the Lady of Sandbriar and swearing fealty to Queen Selenay was beyond my wildest hopes.
We have come through the winter, but there is still a struggle to restore the land and the economy of this holding. While my coffers are sparse, everyone here is willing to work and work hard. But every problem of the land and the people are mine, and everyone looks to me for answers.
And there are many, many problems.
“Mold,” Lady Cera of Sandbriar stared at the black spots with dismay.
“That’s a problem, yes?” One of the women clustered around the table asked.
“Yes,” Cera said, trying not to sound disheartened. Her audience consisted entirely of women, old and young, clustered about one of the long dining tables, which was piled high with wild kandace flowers.
“They’re all like that.” One of the younger ones pointed out.
“All the dishes?” Cera asked, and this time she could hear her own dismay.
They’d had ten pans filled with tallow and then had carefully pressed the flowers into it, to allow the essence to be drawn into the fat. They had let them set for a few days and then replaced the old blossoms with fresh, repeating over and over until the fat was saturated.
Enfleurage, her mother had called it and had made it seem so easy. At least, this was how Cera remembered her mother doing it. But her mother’s pans had never molded.
“All of them,” the women
pulled flowers out and showed her the spots. She could smell it too. Under the sweet scent of the flowers was a clinging, musty odor.
“Well, we’ve never done this before, so we’re bound to make mistakes.” Cera tried to sound confident.
Bella, one of the older women, nodded her agreement.
“So, we’ll try again,” Cera said. “As far as I know, we are doing everything right. I remember my mother’s stillroom off the larder, and her working to press the flowers in.” Cera looked up with a rueful smile. “As best I remember. I paid as much attention as some of you pay to learning new stitches.”
Some of the young ones giggled, hands over their mouths as the older ones rolled their eyes.
“But I think I remember enough,” Cera continued. “Let’s scrape this batch out and use it to make soap. We’ll wash the pans, start with fresh tallow and flowers, and see what we see.” Cera handed the pan to Belle. “If we can make it work, it makes a wonderful oil for stiff joints and body pains.”
“It smells too sweet to be a healer’s tonic.” One of the women laughed as they pressed closer to the table and got to work. Cera stepped back and let them.
“And the other method?” Bella asked. “The hot method?”
“We heat the flowers in the fat,” Cera said. “Stir and stir and then strain and boil again with new blooms. The hot method is quicker, but the oil is not as strong.”
Bella nodded. “We could lay in a supply of that before the blooms fade and the sun beats down on us.”
“Worth doing,” Cera agreed. “I’ll write to my father and see what he remembers of my mother’s methods.”
“You’ll find a way to solve this.” Bella said.
Cera gave her a nod of confidence she did not feel and left the hall. With the discovery of fields of wild kandace, she knew she had a source of funds for Sandbriar. The dried leaves made a healing tea, and the seeds were valued as well. But if they could make and sell the oil, there was real profit to be made. Profit that could go into buying breeding stock and restore Sandbriar to what it had been before the Tedrel Wars had drained it dry.
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