Passages

by Passages (epub)

  “No signs of heat stress,” Withrin said. “Time will tell if they can truly get accustomed. It is hot,” he said ruefully, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  “Aye, ya need to adjust too, northerner,” Ager said kindly. “Your first time in the ‘hot.’ Best get ya to a cool place and hunker down. I’ll stay with the beasts.”

  “Emerson’s stopped working,” Cera said innocently. “At least, I didn’t hear him at the loom.”

  “Oh, er,” Withrin grabbed his hat, grinning sheepishly. “Well, I’ll just go check on him, shall I?”

  Ager and Cera exchanged a glance as he trotted out of the barn. “Think he’ll ever work up the nerve?” Ager asked softly.

  Cera arched an eyebrow. “Will you?”

  She regretted it immediately when Ager’s face fell. “Alaina and I seem to be on the outs,” he said gruffly. “I need to make sure the boys keep the troughs full. Excuse me, milady.”

  So much for being the perfect lord of the manor. Cera could have kicked herself.

  “Best leave that alone,” Old Meron’s voice came from one of the stalls.

  Cera walked over to him, concerned. Old Meron’s brain storm had left him with a limp arm and walking with a cane, but he prided himself on keeping watch over the barns. “You shouldn’t be out in the ‘hot’,” she scolded.

  “Just checkin’ on guests,” he said, nodding into the stall. His three dogs were flopped down on the floor, their tongues hanging out.

  Cera peered in.

  A Companion lay within, somehow glowing white against the dark wood of the stall walls. Curled up in the fresh bed of hay next to Stonas was Helgara, the Herald who had been attacked by bandits before the Midsummer Festival.

  “Helgara,” Cera said softly. “How are you?”

  “Lady Cera,” Helgara opened drowsy eyes. “Still having trouble with my eyes. Dizziness, too, but much better than dead.”

  Stonas snorted his agreement.

  “Xenos does what he can,” Helgara continued. “But some of the healing must be left to time and nature.” She smiled. “Not that he admits that.”

  “Sounds like Xenos,” Cera said. “Will you be cool enough here?”

  “Yes,” Helgara yawned. “I wanted to go out on patrol with Gareth and the Guard that Haven sent. But I was overruled.”

  Stonas snorted again, his opinion fairly clear.

  “Stonas is right,” Cera said. “And it was good of Haven to send us support. Those bandits were getting too bold. Sleep well,” she added, as Helgara’s eyes drifted closed.

  Old Meron was waiting when she came out of the stall. “Did you see they caught that old ewe, finally?” He nodded to one of the open pens where one of the biggest sheep Cera had ever seen was penned. The ewe put her head over the pen wall and loudly bleated her displeasure.

  “Where did they find her?” Cera asked.

  “Down by the river, hiding in the bushes, where I said she’d be. Hates shearing, she does, but mighty fine wool off that old girl.” Old Meron limped over as his dogs followed. “Keeping her off feed, so her stomach’s empty when we shear her this afternoon. Teach them that wants to learn how to shear and skirt a fleece.”

  “You best get yourself home,” Cera scolded.

  “Clacking like an old woman now, are ya?” Old Meron grinned, but he put his hat on. “Come on boys, time for cool water and sleeping off the hot.” He mock-glared back at Cera. “You too, milady.”

  Cera laughed and headed back to the manor. Alaina would be waiting, with cool cloths, and her bed turned down. But as she strode through the yard, a runner came up, breathing hard. “You’re wanted at the gate, milady.”

  Probably that suitor Hurlbert had warned her of. Cera nodded to him, and started toward the main gate.

  She ran into Gareth, coming to find her, a stormy look on his face. “Don’t understand a word they say, but I don’t like anyone who treats horses that way,” he muttered to her.

  Cera nodded, looked toward the gate—and lost her breath.

  Lord Thelkenpothonar, Sinmonkelrath’s father, sat on his fine horse, observing all about him with disdain. When he saw her, an all too familiar scowl crossed his face, one she’d seen on her late husband’s face many a time.

  Usually just before he raised his fists to her.

  Cera froze.

  Lord Thelken dismounted and then stumbled, swaying as he grabbed for his horse’s mane. The man was flushed, his shirt and coat sweat-stained. His people looked no better, and the sweating horses were breathing heavily and drooling.

  Anger flooded through her, that anyone would treat his people and animals that way. Cera breathed, then moved forward. Her people were milling about as Lord Thelken’s men tried to assist him.

  As she drew close, Lord Thelken glared at her. “I’ve come for the truth, girl,” he spat in Rethwellan.

  “I might not speak that tongue, Lady Cera,” Gareth spoke in Valdemaran. “But I know rude when I hear it.”

  “Greetings, Lord Thelkenpothonar,” Cera kept her tone polite in the face of his righteous indignation. She gave Gareth a quelling glance, and he stepped back, still scowling at the man.

  “Let’s see to the comfort of you and your people first.” She continued in Rethwellan. “My people will see to you—” she narrowed her eyes, “—and your animals. We will talk before the evening meal.”

  Thelken sputtered, but she ignored him. She repeated her words in Valdemaran for her own people, who moved swiftly. Alaina was in the door of the Great Hall; she could talk to these people.

  She gave Lord Thelken a cool glance, turned on her heel, and left him standing in the yard.

  Cera’s room was ready; Alaina had already turned down the bed. Cera stripped down to her underclothes, wiped down with the cloths, and climbed into bed. She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, half-expecting to start fretting about Thelken, about what she would say, about how he would react. Instead, she found herself musing about the stupidity of the man, dragging his people and animals through this heat without a thought for their welfare. Cera sniffed, relaxed against the cool pillows, and drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  * * *

  “The sun’s easing, milady,” Alaina’s voice came softly through Cera’s door. “Lord Thelkenpothonar in the biggest guest chamber, and he and all his people are still asleep. I’ll be down in the kitchens—”

  “Alaina, wait.” Cera rose, rubbing her eyes. “I wanted to ask you something.”

  Alaina walked farther into the room, her eyes down, her face wooden.

  “Is something wrong?” Cera pulled on a clean dress. “Between you and Ager?”

  The wail that followed caught her off guard. Alaina buried her face in her hands and sank to her knees, sobbing.

  “Alaina,” Cera rushed over, dropped down beside her and took her in her arms. Alaina was incoherent, crying and moaning. Her handmaiden, who had been with her through all the turmoil of her marriage; all Cera could do was rock her and make comforting sounds.

  Marga appeared in the doorway. “What’s all this now?”

  Cera shook her head, still holding the weeping girl.

  “Ah,” Marga said. “Wait a bit,” and she disappeared.

  Cera kept rocking and making soothing murmurs. The sobs grew weaker, but Alaina would only shake her head at Cera’s questions.

  “Alaina . . .” Ager was in the doorway, then kneeling on the floor, taking Alaina into his arms. Marga was in the doorway, gesturing for Cera. “We’ll leave them for a bit.” She pulled Cera from her own bedroom.

  “But—” Cera tried to ask, but Marga hushed her as they went down the stairs and ignored her questions until she pushed Cera into the kitchen. “I only asked Alaina about Ager and she burst into tears.”

  “Probably because she is pregnant,” Xenos said airily. He
was standing at the table, wearing an apron, his Healer’s Greens covered in flour. There was a lump of something on the table in front of him that might have been dough.

  “What?” Cera squeaked and dropped on a bench. “Pregnant?”

  “Any idiot could see that,” Xenos said.

  “Xenos,” Bella scolded. “You need to be thinking about that dough, not anyone else’s business. Take the bowl and towel and go set it in the pantry to rise. And mind yourself.”

  “Fine,” Xenos snapped, and he did so with his usual dramatic flair.

  “Pregnant.” Cera looked at Marga. “Did you know?”

  “I knew something was wrong.” Marga sat on one of the benches. “And I knew it was something to do with Ager, but not that.”

  “Blessed Trine,” Cera said, taking a cup of cooled tea from Bella. “Whatever shall we—”

  “None of that now,” Marga said firmly. “She’d not be the first to get caught up in the Midsummer celebrations, and not the last to find herself in a family way as a result. They’ll make their own choices, and we’ll support them in whatever they decide.”

  Cera nodded, but she couldn’t help doubting that it would be that simple. Her own experience with marriage had not been a good one. She wouldn’t let her handmaiden—her friend—be forced into marriage if there was any chance she would be trapped within it.

  As she herself had once been.

  The door opened. Alaina and Ager walked in arm-in-arm, both their faces tear-stained but smiling.

  Ager advanced and knelt at Cera’s feet, still holding Alaina’s hand. “Lady Cera, I would ask for your blessing. I have asked Alaina to marry me, and she has said yes.”

  “Alaina?” Cera looked at her friend.

  Alaina came and sat beside her on the bench. “Lady, I am expecting.”

  A snort came from the pantry.

  “I was scared to tell him, to tell anyone, out of shame and fear.” Alaina looked at Ager with stars in her eyes. “But all’s well, now.”

  “You don’t have to wed—” Cera started, but Alaina shook her head.

  “I don’t need to, no,” she said. “But I want to.” Ager was still on his knees, and Alaina reached for his hand.

  Ager spoke. “We both know, Lady, that love is a risk.” His voice cracked. “A terrifying, wonderful, heart-wrenching, exciting risk. We’d ask your blessing on our journey.”

  “You have it,” Cera said. “But I would ask that you delay the ceremony until the Midwinter celebrations. Give yourselves time to make sure that this is what you truly want.”

  Ager and Alaina both nodded. Cera leaned forward and gave the couple an awkward hug as Marga and Bella exclaimed their congratulations, coming around for their own embraces.

  “Is all the blubbering and dramatics done? Is it safe to come out now?” Xenos called from the pantry.

  “Yes, yes!” Bella laughed as she and Marga both hugged the lucky couple.

  * * *

  * * *

  Once the “hot” broke that afternoon, Cera found reasons to be out and about in the barns and the outbuildings. It wasn’t that she was avoiding Thelken. She was letting her temper cool. She did find herself drawn to the shearing shed, where something of a fuss was being raised.

  “What in the name of the Trine?” she demanded as she walked inside.

  “Teaching the shearing,” Old Meron announced over the crowd watching. He’d a stool by the door and a clear view of the action. “The young ones and them that wants to learn.” He nodded at the fuss.

  Cera blinked. “Jebren?”

  Jebren was standing in the center of the crowd, dressed in light work clothes, a fierce look of concentration on his face. Two men were wrestling the ewe up and onto its butt, pressing its back against the apothecary’s chest. The ewe was bawling protests, its legs sprawled out in front of it.

  Jebren wrapped one arm under the ewe’s leg, forcing it up so that he had the ewe’s head pulled back against his shoulder.

  “Got her?” Young Meron asked.

  Jebren grunted, bracing himself as they released the ewe. It struggled a bit, but he gripped the animal firmly.

  “Tradition, ya know.” Old Meron grinned at Cera. “Teach ’em shearing by first holding the sheep.”

  Cera gave him a look. “Tradition, yes, with small lambs. That ewe has to weigh as much as Jebren,” she said pointedly.

  “Oh, aye, aye,” Old Meron didn’t even try to keep the joy out of his tone. “That old ewe is a tough old bitch, oldest, loudest, crankiest—”

  Bleating its unhappiness loudly.

  Young Meron had the clippers. “Gonna start on,” he warned.

  Jebren grunted.

  Meron started in. The ewe screamed defiance and started kicking. “Don’t let go!” Old Meron shouted, as the others called encouragement.

  Jebren struggled with the sheep, holding his own to Cera’s surprise. Young Meron was working in long strokes, and the fleece was coming off in one long strip . . . until Jebren made a fatal mistake.

  He let the ewe get its front foot free.

  The ewe bucked like a stung horse, struggling and kicking out, knocking Jebren to the ground flat on his back, falling back on top of him.

  There were hoots and cheering from all around as some of the men moved in to help. To Jebren’s credit, he wrapped both arms around its neck and managed to keep a firm hold.

  Which was, in point of fact, his second mistake.

  The ewe twisted in his grip, and struggled, bringing its rear leg down on Jebren’s groin.

  Every male sucked in a horrified breath, with a few groans and guilty laughter.

  Cera covered her mouth with her hand.

  Jebren’s eyes bulged out, but bless the man, he hung on, but his legs curled up into the air. Which rather gave the ewe more of a target.

  “Let go!” Cera called out.

  Jebren gave her a startled look, as if he hadn’t known she was there.

  “I got her, I got her,” Young Meron grabbed the head. “Mind your—”

  The ewe stomped Jebren again as Meron dragged her off.

  Jebren wheezed painfully as he curled into a ball, his hands covering . . . Cera looked away. “Perhaps . . . I’d best fetch the Healer,” she said, her voice quivering as she backed away and fled toward the kitchen.

  * * *

  * * *

  Bella was scolding Xenos as she entered. “—you didn’t let the dough chill long enough, nor fold it enough. What did you expect would happen?”

  “All the joy is gone,” Xenos announced as he dropped a hard lump of a pastry on to the table.

  “Listen to you,” Bella scoffed. “One mistake and you give up? You’ll get more dough and try again, that’s what you do. That’s how you learn.”

  Xenos sighed in resignation. “I’ll pitch these—”

  “You’ll not waste food in my kitchen. They’ll make teething biscuits for the babes.”

  Bella rolled her eyes, then caught sight of Cera. She raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “One of the ewes kicked Jebren in the, er, crotch,” Cera said. “Although why he wanted to learn shearing is beyond me.”

  “You really are rather dense,” Xenos observed.

  “Excuse me?” Cera demanded, even as Bella sputtered her indignation.

  “Nothing.” Xenos started to remove his apron. “I will go heal his bits for the sake of future generations.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Later, Cera sat and waited on one of the upper porches, cooled by the shade and the breeze, watching the sun drift down behind the hills. The chirras were out with their shepherds, getting in an evening feed, as were the rest of the livestock, coming out of the shade to graze. She could faintly hear the shuttle of the loom going back and forth, and voices in the kitchen as the s
taff prepared the evening meal.

  Had it really been over a year since her husband’s death? Since she’d been given these lands by Queen Selenay? Given a new life and freedom? It felt longer to be honest. So much had changed, herself included.

  It wasn’t perfect. She still struggled, as did her people. For every battle she faced, for every problem she solved, a new one arose.

  Still.

  Cera smiled. Perhaps perfection wasn’t the goal. Perhaps freedom meant struggle. Perhaps she needed to celebrate every victory, no matter how small, and try again in the face of every failure.

  She could call so many people to aid her with this confrontation. Her people, her handmaiden, there was even a Herald close by. She was truly blessed by the Trine with her new family.

  She didn’t summon them, although she knew they hovered.

  She finally had what she needed to face Lord Thelkenpothonar.

  One thing was certain; she was done with Rethwellan names. Honestly, all those historical syllables. Cera shook her head, and promised any future children they would not be so burdened. For they would be of Sandbriar and Valdemar.

  Cera sat, hands folded in her lap, and waited. She still felt a flutter of fear, or uncertainty. But the only way out was to do.

  A sound of steps. Athelnor bowed to Lord Thelken and gave her an anxious look. She smiled at him and shook her head. Athelnor smiled in return, bowed, and left.

  “Ceraratha.” Thelken stood there, still radiating outrage.

  “Thelken.” Cera gestured to the bench opposite hers. “Please, sit.”

  He was still in his sweat-stained black clothing, but he had shed his coat and unbuttoned his high collar. “I want the truth,” he demanded, refusing a seat, so righteous and indignant. “Not the half-lies the Rethwellan Royal Court gives me, or the Crown of Valdemar. I want you to tell me what happened to my son.”

  Cera nodded and did just that. She told him of their life in the Rethwellan Court, how Sinmonkelrath had been one of Prince Karathanelan’s supporters and sycophants. How they had traveled to Valdemar, and how Sinmon had fallen in with the Prince’s plan to seduce, win, and impregnate Queen Selenay.