Choices

by Mercedes Lackey

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Not the drunk I was.” He stood straighter. “But Lady, if you find someone who wishes to brew, I’ll give advice and my secret recipes. Over a hot cup of tea.”

  “Done,” Cera said and held out her hand to shake his.

  Ager took her hand and bowed over it. “Lady,” he said, with a smile. “I’d best be getting back to the chirras.” He tilted his head. “You’re a good shearer, Lady, or so I have been told. Care to join us?”

  She was tempted, so tempted, but shook her head. “I’ve letters to write.”

  Ager nodded, and they parted at the barn doors, he for the animals and she for her writing desk. Cera sighed at the unfairness of it all as she returned to the manor house.

  She assured Athelnor as to the well-being of the chirras. “Thanks be,” he said, and held up a stack of letters. “These came with the latest caravan from Rethwellan.” he said. “And here is Marga’s list.”

  She took the letters eagerly; the list less so. “I’ll work in here,” she said. “These will take a while.” More because she’d find excuses not to do it if she was alone in her chambers.

  Athelnor nodded, cleared space on his desk, and offered writing materials. She pulled a chair close and settled in.

  “Marga will send up our noon meals,” Athelnor reminded her, then turned back to his work on the manor books.

  Cera nodded absently as she sorted through the letters. There was one from her father, and she saved that pleasure for last. One in a hand she did not recognize and the other from Apothecary Reinwald. She opened that with great hope.

  Reinwald expressed pleasure in hearing from her and rejoiced in her good fortune. He wrote that he would take all the dried wild kandace and seeds that she could provide and trust her on the quality. Cera flushed at his faith in her skills, but then her eyebrows rose at the price he named. It was better than she’d dared hope.

  He also mentioned oils and syrup, with offers of even more coin for those items. Syrup? You could make a syrup? She frowned, having no memory of that in her mother’s stillroom. She’d write to her father immediately. Perhaps he would remember details.

  Her mind on syrups, Cera picked up the next missive and opened it. Expensive paper and written in a clear, strong hand, but not one she recognized.

  But her heart leaped into her throat.

  It was from her father-in-law, Lord Thelkenpothonar, Sinmonkelrath’s father.

  It was addressed to her with no titles, no honorifics. The beautiful clear script carried words of hate and loathing, demanding to know how it was that his son, her husband, was dead of a ‘hunting accident,’ and her, now, a landed lady at the bequest of the foreign Queen, and one wonders how that came about.

  Cera flushed hot at the implications, guilty at that bit, for it was true enough. She’d never written, never found the words. She’d never had a relationship with Lord Thelken beyond the basic wedding ceremonies. How then to tell him his son was a traitor and an oathbreaker?

  Lord Thelken went on, accusing her of withholding the truth. He’d had no news, no information from her, and only the formal notice from the Rethwellan Court. He’d demanded more from her father, but—

  Cera went cold, dropped the letter, and tore into her father’s note, her heart racing in sudden fear.

  It had been written hastily, to be sent swiftly. Hopefully with the same caravan as Lord Thelken’s.

  He came by with fire in his eye and smoke pouring from his ears, demanding more information from me than I had. What you do not know, and what he may not tell you, is of the death of his eldest son from a fever. Such a waste and a pity, for the lad was a fair young man. I asked Lord Thelken into the garden, served him jasmine tea, and listened as he poured out his anger.

  The knot in Cera’s chest relaxed. Her father and his jasmine tea.

  I suspect there is that which you have not put in words, nor should you. But a trusted messenger might be wise. The Lord’s anger needs to go somewhere, and the truth, however painful, is still the truth.

  Cera looked up from the letter, glancing at Athelnor, but he’d not noticed her upset. She took a deep, slow breath and let it out just as slowly.

  She’d never shared the truth with any but Helgara, the Herald who rode the Circuit in Sandbriar. Her handmaiden, Alena, knew, for she had served Cera since before her marriage and had been with her when she’d been told of Prince Karathanelan’s attack on Queen Selenay, and Sinmonkelrath’s part in the conspiracy.

  But the truth of Sinmon’s death had been hushed up by the Crown of Valdemar, and to Cera’s best knowledge, by the Crown of Rethwellan as well. “Hunting accident” had been the agreed upon phrase, and it had not been questioned.

  As to Lord Thelken’s demands for information, she dare not write such a missive. Never mind that her gut churned at the very idea of putting those words to paper. She’d sworn an oath of loyalty to Queen Selenay and to Valdemar, and she would not betray those oaths. But there was wisdom in her father’s words.

  Cera was at a loss. How best to deal with Lord Thelken’s pain without violating her promises? She stared into the fire for a time, thinking.

  She couldn’t send a messenger. She wouldn’t risk Alena to Lord Thelken’s wrath, nor would she tell any other who could make the journey. It needed to come from someone Lord Thelken could not lash out at, for he certainly would.

  She looked at her father’s letter again. If Sinmon’s elder brother was dead, that meant that Lord Thelken had no male heir. There were daughters, but for one of Lord Thelken’s status, that would not suit.

  Her heart hurt for the man. He hadn’t ever been harsh with her, and losing both his sons must have caused him terrible pain. But as sympathetic as she might be, she would not risk a letter.

  Herald Helgara and her Companion Stonas were due soon on their Circuit. Perhaps they could let someone at Haven know of the problem and pass word to the Rethwellan Court.

  In any case, passing the task to Helgara was all she could do. All she was willing to do.

  A knock, and the door opened to reveal Alena and a tray. Cera smiled at her handmaiden.

  Who promptly scowled at her, stomped into the room, and dropped the tray on the table, sending the dishes rattling.

  “Here, now—” Athelnor protested, but Alena had already turned on Cera, eyes flashing.

  “You had no right!” she protested. “No right to ask that of him. He’s had a hard enough time of it, and I fear for him every day, that he’ll slip between my fingers. To ask him to brew, to drink, that’s not—”

  “Alena—” Cera stood to confront her.

  “You had no right—” Alena repeated, but Cera cut her off.

  “Alena,” Cera forced her voice low and steady. “You are right, but you are also wrong. If we want Sandbriar to grow, to thrive, I must ask. Must ask my people to make sacrifices.”

  Alena froze, dropped her gaze, her hands clutched together. “Yes, mi’lady.”

  “Ager told me he can’t brew. Can’t be around a bottle. So that is the end of that.” Cera tried to soften the blow. “I will not endanger him, Alena. But I had to ask. He did say he was willing to give advice and share his old recipes. I will not ask for more than that, I promise.”

  Alena raised her eyes then, the anger gone. “It’s just that . . . he has come to mean so much to me. And I fear—”

  Cera moved forward and opened her arms. Alena stepped in, and they embraced, two friends facing hard truths together.

  Alena broke away first and wiped her eyes. “The embroiderers in the solar, they’ve asked to speak to you this afternoon. After your meal.”

  “What’s not spilled,” Athelnor groused.

  “I’ll bring fresh,” Alena promised.

  “It’s fine,” Cera looked over the tray. “Rattled, but nothing spilled.” She smiled at Alena.

  “I
’ll come to them as soon as we’ve eaten.”

  “Yes, Lady.” Alena curtsyed, and closed the door as she left.

  Cera stared after her for a moment.

  Athelnor started to help himself to the tray. “It isn’t always easy, you know, to be the Lady of Sandbriar. To put the needs of the land and your people first. It calls for hard choices and lonely decisions.”

  Cera sat back in her chair. “So I am learning.”

  “I’m proud of you, Lady.” Athelnor said, gesturing to some of the bread. “Now eat. Then you need to start on those invitations.”

  Cera sighed.

  She managed to get a few done between bites of food and sips of tea. But then she decided that was enough, and she escaped Athelnor’s eagle eye to head for the solar.

  The room was buzzing with the women and young girls, all learning the complicated embroidery and lace-making. Cera already had a market for their work in Rethwellan, and there had been demands from Haven as well. But there were bolts of brightly colored cloth on the tables when Cera walked in, and girls on chairs, plain broadcloth patterns pinned to their clothes.

  “What’s this?” Cera asked as she walked into the bright room. Alena stepped in behind her and closed the door.

  The chatter and the giggling stopped.

  Bella stepped forward. “Lady, there’s cloth been stored here before the Tedrel Wars, and we all had a thought. For the dance, you see—” Bella seemed uncomfortable.

  “Gowns,” one of the young ones exclaimed, and suddenly they were all talking at once, showing her bolts of cloth and holding them up to themselves.

  “It’s frivolous, we know,” Bella spoke over the noise. “And there’s time before the Midsummer Fair for us to make dresses for all. But we thought there’d be no harm.”

  In truth, the cloth could be sold. But then she thought of her father and his joy at something so simple as jasmine tea.

  “No harm at all,” Cera said. Here was a problem easily solved. “No better use for all that material, and a joyful one.”

  “For you too, Lady.” Alena said.

  “For me?” Cera hesitated. “No, there’s nothing wrong with—”

  Alena gave her a push, and suddenly the young ones were getting her out of her shirt and trews, and Cera found herself up on a stool in a simple shift with all the women talking at once, and patterns being pinned to her form. Others climbed up on the table and started pulling her hair from its braid and piling it up on her head.

  Cera laughed, and gave in. “No, no, not that low,” she insisted as they pinned the bodice.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Lady, but you need some ‘oomph,’” Bella exclaimed.

  “Not that much ‘oomph,’” Cera scolded, pulling the pattern up farther on her chest. There was a great deal of laughter all around.

  “It’s a fine thing,” Alena finally said, and the women pulled back and admired their work. “Just look.”

  There was a mirror on the wall, an ancient thing, clouded with time. But still bright enough that Cera could turn and see her reflection.

  She didn’t know herself.

  These months, spent in new freedoms. No longer sitting at the fireside, waiting on her abusive lord. She’d been out and about in the fields, seeing to her herds and her lands. She was slimmer now, tanned and healthy.

  She smiled at her reflection and it smiled back, confident and strong.

  “It’s well, Lady?” Alena asked.

  Cera looked around at all of them, smiling. “Yes, it’s very well.” She covered her bosom with her hands. “But no ‘oomph’!”

  Alena and the other ladies chortled, but they agreed.

  * * *

  • • •

  Days later, Cera was in the field with Withren and others, happily learning to comb a chirra, when she heard someone calling her name.

  She looked up to find Marga—Marga, of all people—running through the grass toward them, winded and upset.

  “Marga!” Cera dropped her combs and reached out to steady the older woman. “What–”

  Marga gripped Cera’s arms hard. “Emerson,” she gasped.

  “What happened?” Withren demanded.

  Marga swallowed, and took a shuddering breath. “Emerson’s father, Lord Cition. He’s here. He found Emerson at the loom and—” She shook her head. “Come, come quickly.”

  Cera started, then turned back. “Withren–”

  “Go,” he gritted, already limping after her. “I’ll get there.”

  Cera took off, with Marga right next to her. She headed for the front doors, but Marga grabbed her arm and steered her toward the kitchens.

  “Lord Cition, he’s of an old family,” Marga forced out the words. “You need to wash and–”

  Cera allowed herself to be pulled along, and they burst through the kitchen garden door to find a small army of her women waiting there.

  “Off,” Bella commanded, and Cera found herself stripping, pulling off tunic and trews. One woman knelt to unlace her boots, another brought water and soap.

  Marga collapsed on a nearby bench, breathing hard. Cera could hear a loud and angry voice through the door to the hall. “What’s happening?”

  “Wash,” Bella commanded, already reaching for Cera’s braids.

  One of the woman was peeking through the door to the Hall. “The steward’s trying to interfere, but the old man just keeps yelling. Poor Emerson looks like a beaten dog.”

  Bella was combing Cera’s hair, twisting it in a knot on top of her head.

  “It’s my fault, lady,” one of the younger girls whispered as Cera dried her face and hands. “He came in and asked for Emerson, and I took him to the weavin’ room. I didn’t think—”

  “Dress,” Bella’s commanded. Cera was wrestled into one of her old dresses that had been hung in her clothes press. Rethwellan style, but too good for work-a-day clothes.

  “Shoes,” one hissed, and Cera toed off her boots and let them slip on her dress shoes. The roaring continued beyond the door. She could just make out Athelnor trying to intervene.

  Marga staggered to her feet. “There’s a tradition among the nobles,” she said quickly. “One doesn’t just show up uninvited and unannounced. It’s considered very rude. You sent him an invitation to the Festival, but to show up this way, and this early, is not acceptable.”

  Cera nodded, tucking the last stray hairs behind her ears.

  “Let’s have a look at ya,” Bella said, and they all stepped back, nodding their approval.

  Cera lifted her chin, drew a deep breath, walked to the wooden door, and with only the slightest hesitation threw it open hard enough so that it banged against the wall. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The slam echoed into the room. Some of her people were crowded at the far end of the room. Four men stood before the hearth. Three turned to look at her: Athelnor, looking relieved. Gareth, looking furious. A large, stocky man, sweating and red-faced, sweat pressing his sparse hair to his head, looking fit to be tied.

  Emerson didn’t look up. He stood there, head down, looking utterly defeated.

  An all-to-familiar-feeling rose in Cera’s breast. But now, here, in this time and this place, it was kindling to her anger. She stepped forward into the silence and narrowed her eyes. “Who are you, sirrah, to berate my people in such a manner?”

  Lord Cition reared back as if stung. “Sirrah? I am Lord Cition, Emerson’s father, and I demand–”

  “How do I know that?” Cera demanded. She advanced on Cition, locking eyes with him. “You claim to be a Lord of Valdemar, but you appear uninvited, unannounced, and barge into my manor without so much as a by-your-leave?”

  “I–” Cition took a step back, looking about him as he if realizing his own rudeness. He deflated slightly. “I admit–” He glared at Emerson. “I was c
oncerned for my son.”

  “Lady Cera,” Athelnor spoke. “May I present Lord Cition.” He cleared his throat. “I can attest to his identity.”

  Lord Cition went purple.

  Cera looked at the stocky, sweating man before her, and a calm came over her. She’d a flash of memory, of her father dealing with an angry customer. The angrier he’d become, the calmer her father got. “Kill with sweetened cream,” he always said. So she folded her hands before her, and nodded to the man. “Lord Cition, welcome to my lands and within my walls. You have traveled far. Let me offer you some refreshment.”

  Lord Cition pulled a handkerchief and mopped his face. “That would be welcome.” He admitted in an apologetic tone.

  Cera gave him a polite half-smile, then lifted her voice. “If you would all return to your duties, please. Emerson, we will summon you after I have spoken to Lord Cition.” She didn’t give Cition a chance to protest but stepped closer and put her hand on the older man’s arm. “Gareth, if you would see to refreshment? In Athelnor’s office.” She fixed Lord Cition with a steady eye. “There’s a nice breeze there when the windows are open. This way, Lord Cition.” She didn’t make it a question.

  Lord Cition took her arm with a nod. “My thanks, Lady.”

  “How did you find the roads?” she made polite conversation as they mounted the stairs up to Athelnor’s office. Lord Cition was puffing a bit when she gestured him to the most comfortable chair in the room. She threw the shutters wide as Athelnor settled behind his desk, and then she settled herself in the chair beside Cition’s.

  Cera smiled at him, letting a bit more warmth into it, and waited.

  Lord Cition blew out a breath. “Lady Cera, I must offer an apology,” he started. “We’d no word from Emerson, no letters, just your invitation to your Festival. Then I come to discover that he’d taken the loom and was here under false pretenses, and, well . . .” He shifted uneasily in his chair. “My anger overwhelmed the best of my courtesy.”

  Cera gave him a slow nod. “Worries for a child stick deep, do they not?”

  “They do,” Cition eased back in his chair. “Emerson’s a good lad, mind you, but a constant worry. Worry about him making his way in this world doing women’s work. Always drawing and talking about colors and dyes. His mother worried herself sick when I sent him here. Now I come to find out the lad lied to me—” Lord Cition shook his head, his expression pained.