They played all of Firby’s adventures, then stood and bowed into the audiences applause and cheering and laughter. They’d all done wonderfully, and Bruny knew she belonged with them.
Tools of the Trade
Phaedra Weldon
“Mother!”
Imra didn’t acknowledge her son’s call as he burst into her chambers. She simply continued packing, discarding the things she felt she would no longer need and artfully rolling the things she did need to fit comfortably into her saddle.
Her son moved to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. “Please . . .”
She didn’t look at him. Not now. Tarron had the ability to sway her decisions with a simple look, and she would not give him that chance today. “You should not be here.”
“The Queen calls in the Heralds,” Tarron said, moving to place himself to be in her line of sight. “I am but a Bard in training.”
And there his eyes caught hers. His blue to her hazel. He looked so much like his father. He had been a handsome man, a master at his Bardic Gift, and yet a faithful and loving husband and father. She had lost him too soon, and Tarron had lost his father too early.
“Please don’t do this.”
She put a hand on his cheek, and he placed his own warm palm over it. “I have to. I can’t stay here any longer.”
“That’s nonsense. The Collegium has offered to make you a teacher. Your Empathic gift and your skill at mediation could be useful.”
“P’sshh . . .” She said and moved around him to finish putting things into her bags. “I just . . . can’t.”
She knew what he was going to say, so she braced herself for it. “You’re only running because tomorrow is the anniversary of Saelihn’s death.”
Imra closed her eyes. There it was. There are moments in every Valdemaran’s life that sing of despair and loss. She could see the loss in others’ eyes when they talked about their loved ones. But there was nothing—not even the death of her husband—that could compare to the loss of a Companion.
Her Companion.
Sweet Saelihn.
“I’m sorry,” Tarron said in a soft voice. He put his hand on her shoulder again, and Imra hadn’t realized she’d lowered them as well as her head. “I have no Companion. I wasn’t Chosen as you and Father were. I only have you.”
She turned then and pulled him into her arms, amazed at how tall and strong he’d become at the age of fourteen. “Tarron, I’m not dying. I’m just going to travel. I need to . . . I have to . . .”
“You have to leave before the Fields are full of Companions again.”
Imra was shocked at how well he knew her. Just as his father had. She pulled back and kept her hands on his arms. “It’s not jealousy. It’s . . . sadness. Even after a year, I feel I am only half-living. And sometimes . . . I fear the best part of me died with her.”
“I sometimes wish for a Companion, but seeing your sadness and despair, hearing you cry in your sleep for her, perhaps that is something I should rally against.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” Imra shook her head. “There is no greater bond, no greater joy than being Chosen. I wouldn’t trade anything for the time I had with her. Do you understand? If you were to be so blessed, take it, and hold onto it as long as you can.”
“But things are getting dangerous out there.”
Imra patted his cheek and turned back to her bags. “I will be careful. I have been on more Circuits than you can count on your fingers and toes, Tarron. I am not old and feeble. So, now you go.” She looked at the last thing left on the bed.
Folded with precision and starched to perfection were her Herald Whites. She hesitated as she reached for them, and then picked them up slowly and stared at them.
“Take them with you,” Tarron said. “They were and are still a part of you.”
Perhaps. She hurriedly stashed them into her last bag and buckled everything together. “Now,” she turned and patted him. “You need to get going.”
“I can walk you to the stables—”
“No, I can call in some students who have nothing better to do than gawk at all the Heralds.” She pulled him to her and hugged him tight. “I will be fine, as will you. I will let you know when I find a place to settle down.”
He gave her a wary look but returned her hug, wiped his face, and raced out of the room.
:He’ll write a ballad about this one day.:
That’s what Sae would have said.
Imra took in a deep breath and went to call for help.
* * *
* * *
The road north took Imra through several of the old familiar villages and towns she’d visited while on Circuit. As she came into Restinn, she passed more Heralds on their way back to Haven. Many knew her and waved, but she also saw the sadness in their faces.
Sadness because they knew Saelihn was gone.
She caught up with old friends, made new ones, and worked on a few projects here and there. Through it all, no one asked where her Companion was. Imra assumed they all knew and were respecting her privacy.
By the time she’d moved past the anniversary of Saelihn’s death, Imra had traveled through Endercott. It was several miles outside of town, but not close enough to Polsim, that her pack horse threw a shoe. Imra guided him to a large wide tree flush with new summer growth and examined the hoof. She’d had the shoe looked at while in Briarley, but apparently the blacksmith had done a poor job, or was entirely untrained. Either way, she wasn’t close enough to either town, and her horse couldn’t move much farther without the shoe being tended to.
“Heyla!” came a small voice from above.
Imra kept her calm and looked up into the tree. She spied a gangly young boy spying back at her. “Heyla. And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with? A child of Valdemar, or a tree spirit come to drop upon unwary travelers?”
The child laughed and jumped down from a distance Imra would have thought twice about attempting. He was nearly her height, thin and awkward. She guessed him to be close to her son’s age. His hair was long and pulled back in a leather tie. His face was smudged with dirt, as were his hands and feet. He grinned at her, and the smile was infectious. “I’m no tree spirit. My name’s Izli.”
It was then Imra realized she’d made a terrible error. This was no boy, but a girl! “How do you do Izli? I am Imra.”
“Oh, wow,” the girl immediately got on her hands and knees and looked at the hoof.
Imra started to tell her to be wary in case Telidji decided to kick. But the beast of a horse seemed very content to let the child examine him.
:I would never kick a child . . . unless they deserved it.:
Imra dismissed Sae’s memory and watched Izli as she examined the hoof. She realized the girl had some experience with horses. “Do you know of a blacksmith?”
“There’s one in our village.”
“Polsim?”
“Oh, no. That’s a good day and a half ride. I live over there.” She pointed to the forest in the distance. “In Carnei.”
She pronounced the name as “Car-knee.” It wasn’t a village Imra had heard of before. So she said as much.
“Yeah.” Izli stood up and rubbed the backside of the horse. “We’re bigger than you think and smaller than we should be.” She laughed. “Or that’s what my mother says. She owns the inn in town.”
“So you do get travelers.”
“On occasion.” She pursed her lips. “I got some tools close by, so I can reshoe him. But it won’t be permanent. You’ll need Riduil to fix it.”
Imra assumed Riduil was the town’s blacksmith. “All right, Izli, then l put myself in your capable hands.”
The grin that spread across that dirty face was priceless. “I’ll be right back.”
Imra retrieved a few treats from her bags as she pulled them off of Telidji’s
saddle. Then she removed the saddle as Izli reappeared. She carried a bag of tools and proceeded to use a nearby stump to help her reshoe the horse while Imra settled him.
Once finished, Imra reset the saddle on Telidji but repacked her bags on Mouse, her riding mare. She took Mouse’s reins and Izli took Telidji’s as the two headed across the field to a dirt path hidden by tall grass and disappeared into the tree line.
* * *
* * *
“How could this place exist and yet I’ve never heard of it?” Imra said as she walked beside Mouse, half-expecting the horse to answer her.
Carnei was indeed a charming place. Small in size, closer to a village than a town. And it was nicely groomed! Izli led them through a stone arch between several copses of trees. Flowers, shrubs, all manner of decorative plants lined the stone walk. The first buildings were well-constructed utility stores, ready for travelers in need of supplies for their journey to either Polsum or Endercott. All Imra could think about was how great this place would be for a Waystation. It was a bit out of the way, but that would be a good thing for any Herald needing protected shelter.
In her mind, she could hear Sae agree.
The village appeared to be built in an octagon, the town “square” around a hub with a well in its center. The town blacksmith, jeweler, apothecary, general store, and even an inn were all visible from the well. The stone-paved ground was well worn and didn’t hurt Mouse’s hoof too much, but it was still obvious she was in pain.
To the left of the well, in front of the inn’s entrance, a man spoke atop a platform. A group of thirty or more villagers stood around him, listening. Some were incensed and loudly voicing their own agreement, while others watched with crossed arms, a position Imra noticed as signaling skepticism.
As they maneuvered the horses around the crowd, many people gave Izli a warm greeting, and most gave Imra one as well. Without her Whites, Imra had most often met with suspicious stares and hesitant good mornings. This village was in and of itself, an enigma.
Izli took Telidji directly to the blacksmith. Imra stood nearby, her attention torn between the care of her horse and the man on the platform. He was her age, of that she was sure. Mid-thirties, with a head full of well-trimmed hair, a thin beard that edged his strong jaw, and dressed in well-kept working clothes. Imra took in the smell of the flowers planted in pots and planters around the octagon, and she reveled in the fall of cherry petals from the trees that gave the whole scene a splash of color.
“—around us. Do you see the beauty of this place? The village feeds from Crown Lake. That system of surface irrigation is a system we built,” he thumped his chest. “Us. As a village. With our sweat and muscle. Yet our crops wither because we can no longer draw from what our forefathers bore.”
“What exactly are we supposed to do about it, Reyis?” one of the listeners called out. “What exactly do you expect us to do about it? Connak owns the land. He swears he has to tax the use so the town doesn’t shut down.”
Imra frowned at that statement.
“And I call that nonsense,” another villager called out, though Imra couldn’t see him among the people gathered. “We’ve used that lake since the Herald set up the agreement between the people and the Errel family. Connak can’t just decide one day that we have to pay for the water, especially now when we’re sowing seeds and need it.”
“I say the bugger’s filling his own pockets,” a young woman close to Imra yelled out, and there were cheers from the crowd. “The Errels are the wealthiest family this side of Polsim. They own everything, ’cept the fields north of Reyis’s farm. This isn’t what the Herald planned.”
“Careful, Merelyn,” the man on the platform, Reyis, called out, and some people nodded. “Or those loyal to the Errels will seek revenge on your cooking.”
Someone laughed. “Seems more to me Merelyn will take revenge through her cook’n regardless.”
There was a bout of laughter, and the woman who called out, Merelyn, waved at them all and then disappeared into the door of the inn.
“Imra.” Izli appeared at her side. “Come.”
She joined the girl at the blacksmith’s as the argument in the octagon continued and met the owner, Riduil Araric. He was heavyset, but not from lack of movement. His girth was that of muscle, hard-bound and sturdy. He was bald save for the sprout of hair from his chin, which he kept in a very short braid and a blue bead.
He greeted Imra with a smile. “Nice to meet you, lass. Don’t you worry about yer horse. I can get him shoe’d in no time. Have him ready for travel tomorrow.”
“That would be wonderful,” Imra returned his smile. “Would you recommend the inn for my stay?”
“I would,” he said and then he leaned forward, and with a conspiratorial glance to his left and then his right, whispered, “But I wouldn’t eat the food. There’s a nice tavern at the end of the road out of town, toward Polsim.”
Izli pushed at Riduil’s side, but the man didn’t move. “You stop that. My mom’s cooking isn’t that bad.”
Imra looked at Izli. “Merelyn is your mother?”
“Yeah,” Izli said and moved past them to take Mouse’s reins. “Come on and I’ll show you in. We’ve got rooms.”
With a nod of goodbye to Riduil, they stabled Mouse, and Izli helped carry Imra’s bags into the inn. The interior was just as impressive as the exterior. Soft white plaster walls were accented by thick wood beams that ran along the ceiling. Lamps flickered high above and flames on sconces illuminated each of the tables. The floor was well-kept, a detail Imra hadn’t seen often in all of her travels on Circuit.
The crowning glory of the main room was a grand hearth in the back, made of the same stone as the town’s entrance. Atop the mantel sat a collection of lanterns, a few of which Imra knew were antique. The place smelled a bit odd—as if someone had dumped a lot of cinnamon and oregano into a fire.
Merelyn greeted them, coming out of the kitchen and moving around the bar where a single customer drank from a large mug. “Well, hello. I seen you in the crowd.”
“Mother, this is Imra. Her horse threw a shoe, so Riduil’s taking care of her.”
“Well, good. Izli, put her things up in the largest suite—”
“Oh, please. No. Just something small,” Imra interjected.
But Merelyn put her hand on Imra’s shoulder. “As you can see, we’re not crowded. I get a few travelers from time to time, but only because they take the wrong path from Endercott to Polsim. Izli, the bags.”
Izli rolled her eyes at her mother and took the bags up a set of stairs to the right of the bar.
“Now, can I get you something to eat? It know it’s just before noon, so you’ve got to be hungry. First meal’s on the house.”
Imra looked around at the empty tables and said, “Do you usually get busier after noon?”
The man at the bar gave a snort.
“You be quiet, Simon Dod,” and she flicked a towel at him. “Pay him no mind. He’s in his cups.”
“The ale’s the only thing good around here,” Simon said. He turned on his stool and smiled. He was older than Imra, with graying hair and a full beard. But his clothing was nice and clean, and he wore good shoes. “If you want to eat—”
“Not here,” Merelyn held up her finger.
“I noticed a rather odd smell . . .” Imra began as she moved around the bar and into the kitchen—and stopped at the entrance. The place was an unmitigated disaster. Flour decorated just about every surface, as did sprinkles of spices. Meat sat out on the center table, half cut and without covering! There were vegetables and fruit mixed in bowls and in a bin close by where it was obvious whatever was on the bottom was rotting.
No . . . she would never eat anything that came out of this kitchen. Imra pivoted and looked at Merelyn behind her.
Merelyn shrugged. “I’m not a cook. I do bett
er at building things than making things taste good.”
Imra sighed and removed her shawl. She set it on the only stool not covered in something and rolled up her sleeves. “Well, then, given I have plenty of time before my horse is ready, and you’re not expecting a crowd for lunch, I’d say we start by cleaning this place up and sorting out what you have.” She held her finger up when Merelyn opened her mouth. “I’m hungry. And there’s enough here to make a nice stew, an apple pie, and I believe some bread, though I can see flour replaced dust in this room, I’m more interested in where the bag itself is.”
Four hours later, in a very clean, and very organized kitchen, Imra and Merelyn stood at the center table. Stew simmered in a pot over a fire, an apple pie cooled on the window sill, and three loaves of bread rested on a rack nearby. Before them were twelve glass containers filled with what Imra insisted were the most essential spices to good cooking. “I’m going to point and you tell me what’s inside.”
Merelyn nodded.
“And remember—think of this as your tool belt. Or your tool case. These are your hammer, saw, lathe—”
“I got it. Just point.”
So Imra did.
“That’s . . . cardamon . . . no, cardamom. Ginger . . . cumin . . . tumor—no, turmeric. Coriander, rosemary—that’s an easy one—mustard, oregano, black peppercorn, bay leaves, basil—oh, and cinnamon.”
“Very good!” Imra now pointed at one of the containers. “What is it and what is it good for?”
“That’s basil. You can eat the leaves fresh or cooked. It’s taste is more subtle than the peppercorns. Enhances chicken, fish or lamb. It’s really good in tomato dishes—I’m not a fan of tomatoes—”
“So you’ve said several times.”
“—but it’s very good at enhancing the flavor of potatoes, cabbage, squash, and we used it in the stew.”
Imra patted her shoulder.
Merelyn put her hands on her hips. “You were right. As long as I think of them as—”
Passages Page 28