No True Way Read online

  They had settled in his office, a small room crammed with documents and the dry scent of papers and ink. Athelnor had moved bundles to allow Cera to sit, and now he hunched behind his desk, his wife hovering at his side. Helgara had waved off a chair and leaned against the doorjamb, her arms folded over her chest.

  “Thank you,” Cera said.

  “My Lady, I have done my best to follow your late Lord’s instructions, but it has been difficult,” Athelnor continued apologetically. “I’ve sent the sums he demanded, but—”

  “At a cost, you understand,” his wife jumped in, her tone holding no apology. “We’ve closed off rooms, drained our supplies, kept the household to a minimum. If you think to fete guests at this time, Lady—”

  “There will be no guests,” Cera said firmly. “None but myself and Alena. I have left the Court and will take up residence here. I will not be entertaining.”

  Athelnor sighed in relief. “We can see to your comfort and amusement, Lady Ceraratha, but I admit it will be a strain on our resources. Our coffers are limited and—”

  “Lady Cera,” Cera said firmly. “And I do not seek amusement, Athelnor. I wish to ease my grief with work. Money I have, a gift from Her Majesty, which will refill the coffers. What I wish to know are the conditions of the lands and the manor. Let’s start with the books, shall we?” She looked over at Marga. “And then I will want a tour of the manor and to see the flocks.”

  Athelnor looked slightly dazed. “The flocks?”

  Helgara coughed behind Cera. Cera ignored her. “The sheep,” she confirmed. “And the goats. And where did the wool for my comforter come from?”

  Athelnor and Marga just gave her dazed looks.

  * * *

  They left Cera’s purse with Athelnor, planning the best way to use the funds.

  Helgara followed along on their tour, more from a sense of amusement than an interest, to Cera’s way of thinking.

  The walk through the manor house was a quiet one. Marga showed her the empty suites and bedrooms, the linen closest filled with perfectly folded blankets and bedding smelling faintly of lavender and cedar chips. Shelves filled with pillows and feather comforters. Beds and furniture covered in dust cloths.

  Clothing was carefully cleaned and folded, ready and waiting to be worn. One room in particular struck her. “My Lady’s solar.” Marga opened the door. “She used it for her sewing and embroidery and tapestry work.”

  Cera’s breath caught in her throat. Fabric. Needles, precious needles. Thread and floss and wool organized in shelves and cubbyholes. A loom filled the center, waiting. Her fingers tingled with anticipation.

  Delicate handkerchiefs were piled high, ready for a lady’s use. Cera picked one up, admiring the bright golden flowers interlaced with a twining ivy vine. At Marga’s nod, she tucked one in her sleeve.

  While the unused rooms and bedding were pitiful, worse still were the empty pantries, the bare buttery, the unused storage that should be chock full of supplies. “We consolidated everything into the dessert kitchen, where the delicacies were prepared for the feasts in the Great Hall,” Marga said quietly. “The main kitchens, where the meats were roasted, those are closed and cold.”

  “Show me,” Cera commanded.

  And so it was. Great hearths with tall iron roasting spits and great copper kettles that had gone dark with disuse. Empty and sad and . . . lonely was the only word Cera could find that seemed to fit, if kitchens could be called lonely.

  “Before the wars,” Marga’s voice echoed on the stones. “Before the wars, this manor house was filled with people, especially at shearing and lambing seasons. Before the wars . . .” she repeated, and then lapsed into silence. She didn’t need to say more.

  They ended in the Great Hall, standing in the quiet there, looking at the portrait.

  “I’ll have it taken down, Lady,” Marga said, her voice heavy. “It’s been draped since my lady’s death, and that was long before the wars even began.”

  “Leave it,” Cera said softly. “Before the war this land may not have been prosperous, but it provided. I would honor their work and their care of their people and build on it.”

  “As you wish, My Lady,” Marga’s voice didn’t carry much hope. “I’ll see to our noon meal, and then—”

  “Sheep,” Cera said firmly. “And outbuildings. I may need to borrow some boots.” She swished her skirts back. “Slippers are not the best in the barns.”

  Marga blinked, curtsied, and left them standing there.

  Helgara chuckled. “I think you will do well here, Lady Cera.”

  Cera frowned. “There is much to be done.”

  “True enough, but a good start I think,” Helgara said. “I must return to my Circuit, and best be about it.”

  “Before a meal?” Cera asked, not anxious to lose a friendly face.

  “I’ll eat on the road,” Helgara said, “and be at the Waystation by late tonight. My route brings me back through here in the Fall. I hope to see you well established by then.”

  “That is my hope as well,” Cera said firmly. “But you’ve time for a warm lunch before you depart. And tell me of these Waystations. I have not heard of these before our arrival. Why do you not house in the manor?”

  * * *

  The Herald was a distant blur down the road when Cera turned to Athelnor. “Where can I find some boots?”

  “You were serious,” Athelnor looked at her in wonder.

  “Steward, I am the daughter of a wool merchant, and I know the trade. Take me, or find me a guide.”

  “I’ll take her.” The young boy from the morning popped up. “The herd’s in the far fields, and I can saddle the mules.”

  “Your son?” Cera asked.

  Athelnor swallowed hard. “My grandson, Lady. My son—his father—was lost in the war, his mother died not long after.” He looked away. “Gareth will take you, Lady, and guide you well. It should be safe enough, so long as it’s light. Mind you keep her clear of the worst of the mud, now,” he scolded the boy.

  “Yes, Grandfather.” Gareth pelted off toward the stables, calling back over his shoulder. “There’s boots in here, Lady. Bet you can find some to fit.”

  Cera followed after him, a smile on her face.

  * * *

  Cera frowned at the shepherd. “These sheep have not been sheared.”

  The field beyond the gate held a fairly sizeable flock. The shepherd was an old man, grizzled and gray, walking with a staff, with three large dogs at his side. It had taken Cera a few moments to realize that his right arm was lifeless, and his one eye sagged.

  “Aye,” he said slowly. “Few enough to get that done, there is.”

  “We’ll lose them to the heat if we do not,” she said.

  “Some,” he admitted. “Not all.”

  “One’s too many,” she said. “Bring them into the barns tonight, as tomorrow we will begin.”

  “Who’s gonna clean ’em?” The man gaped at her. “Who’s gonna shear them?”

  “We don’t need the wool clean, not this year,” she pointed out patiently. “We just need the wool off. As to who, I will. Take me some time—”

  At this the man guffawed. “You can’t,” he said.

  “The hell I can’t,” she replied, and left him standing in the midst of the herd.

  As she mounted, she caught Gareth staring. “You can shear a sheep?”

  “Yes,” she said. “What is over there?” she asked, pointing to the tip of a rooftop she could see in the distance.

  “That’s old Ronal’s place. Nearest farmstead to the manor house.” Gareth said. “His widow lives there with her kids.”

  “They know how to shear?” Cera asked, turning her mule.

  “Aye, I think,” Gareth said. “Why?”

  Cera rolled her eyes and kicked her mule, urging it in
that general direction.

  * * *

  It was near dark when Cera rode her mule back through the manor house gates.

  “My Lady,” Marga greeted her. “We thought you lost. Whatever has kept you—” Her voice cut off as she saw the wagon following Cera and Gareth.

  Cera knew it was quite a sight, driven by an older woman and filled to the brim with kids, furniture, and baggage. Tied behind were a cow and a calf, crates of chickens squawked on top of the pile, and a pig with six squealing piglets was tucked in the back .

  “My Lady?” Marga asked.

  “I visited two of our farmsteads,” Cera dismounted gratefully. It had been some time since she’d ridden that distance. “I found two families, one cowering behind stout walls, fearing bandits, another dealing with leaking roofs and collapsing barns. I’ve brought them here until we can see to their safety and their homes. Makes far more sense to gather together.” She straightened her back. “At least four of them know how to shear.”

  “My Lady,” Marga looked slightly horrified as she dropped her voice to a whisper. “They will . . . this is above their station.”

  “Marga,” Cera said patiently, “I will concern myself with that if they are alive next spring, agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Marga had the grace to look embarrassed. “I will see to this, my Lady.”

  “As much as I want to start the shearing tomorrow, it might be best to seek out the other farmsteads first,” Cera added. “I’ll talk to Athelnor.”

  * * *

  Within days, Lady Cera had a full manor house, crammed with people and livestock. While there was some resistance, most could see the value. The herds were consolidated and the supplies mustered, and she held a council in the Great Hall to sort out what must be done.

  “We will organize as best we can,” she announced from the high table. “We must shear to preserve the sheep and goats and then see to the harvesting of crops and the gleaning of the fields that have gone wild. Some must tend the children, who must have their lessons seen to, as the Queen requires.”

  There were nods all around.

  “Now, are there any here who know this kind of work?” Cera held the handkerchief with its gold and green embroidery over her head. Hands shot up around the room.

  “Excellent. I wish to speak to all of you afterward, in the solar.” she said. “Also, what wool is this?” She gestured to the blanket she’d had set out on the table.

  “That’s chirra, Ladyship.” One of the men limped forward, smoothing the fabric with his one hand. “The Old Lord’s great-grandfather, he brought them down from the north country and tried to start a herd. Most of them died of the heat, but some lived and thrived. The Lords always kept the small herd. This here’s from the inner layer of wool, and rare as hen’s teeth.”

  “Are there any of the animals left?” Cera asked, trying to hide her anxiousness.

  The man grimaced. “See, they make fine pack animals, and the army took ’em when they saw ’em here. None returned that I know of. Might be a cot or two around, and they’re mightily shy. Possible they are hiding in the woods, but after all this time . . . I doubt it.”

  Cera sighed in disappointment, but she nodded. “Still, if anyone sees them or hears of an animal, I’d offer a reward for its return. Make it known to all around, and get word to the neighboring villages.”

  She looked around the room, at faces filled with new strength and maybe just the hint of hope. “So, to the shearing. No fancy trims, we need to get those fleeces off as fast as we can. It’s been many a day since I’ve tried my hand, but who’ll meet and beat my number? A cask of mead for the winner!”

  A cheer rose as they headed to their tasks.

  * * *

  Late one afternoon, they gathered in the courtyard, staring at the handcart the boys had dragged in. Spilling over the sides of the cart was the body of a huge, feral boar that had been prowling the woods. The boys had gone after it, with no warning to their elders. “He was after the sows,” Gareth offered with a shrug, as if that explained it all.

  Marga was pale, her hand at her throat as she stared at her grandson, standing so proudly next to the cart with his fellow hunters. Gareth grinned ear-to-ear, spear in hand, bloodied but unbowed. “It wasn’t that hard, but he kept lunging up the shaft and trying to use his tusks.”

  “That’s why . . .” Athelnor had to stop and clear his throat, his expression a mixture of horror and pride. “That’s why boar spears have crossguards.”

  The boys exchanged looks, their hands filled with daggers, pikes, and axes. All of them bruised, filthy, and covered with blood. Gareth tilted his head to look at his spear tip, then nodded decisively. “Think we can affix one to this for the next one?”

  “Next one?” Marga strangled out the words.

  “I think we could manage,” Athelnor said, starting to chuckle at Marga’s obvious dismay.

  “I think,” Cera said gently. “We should be roasting this pig in honor of our fearsome hunters.”

  The boys all puffed up with pride and started cheering.

  * * *

  The boxes arrived weeks later.

  Alena was in the solar, sewing with the women. Marga sent a messenger to Cera to tell her of the delivery and to say that the trunks and crates had been taken to her room. They’d been told their things would be sent on from Haven, so it wasn’t unexpected. Cera really didn’t think more of it than the need to sort through when she opened the first trunk.

  It contained the clothes that she’d sewn for Sinmonkelrath.

  She pulled them out slowly, seeing the fine stitching, the lace at the cuffs, the soft silk sleeve, her painstaking needlework that embellished the trim. The faint traces of the expensive cologne he’d demanded. The hours she’d put into the work, isolated in their chambers in Haven.

  The beatings. The words. The hateful, hateful words.

  Alena found her there on the floor, the clothing wrinkled in her tight fists, weeping uncontrollably. With a cry, Alena knelt, enfolded her in her arms, and tried to offer comfort.

  But Cera just shook her head, forcing the words through the tears, trying to make her dear friend understand. “It’s not that he’s dead, Alena,” she sobbed. “It’s that I am free.”

  * * *

  Cera sat in her offices, parchment and pen before her, and smiled. Her windows were open to the warmth of the late summer air, and distant sounds floated to her over the walls. The bleating of sheep, the barks of the dogs and the calls of the shepherds as they herded them to pasture. The halls were filled with the sound of children’s laughter and their mothers calling them to lessons.

  Better still, the ovens were baking the bread for the evening meal, and the scent filled the room. She sighed with pleasure, then took up her pen. She must finish her letter, for the caravan to Rethwellan’s border was set to depart on the morrow.

  * * *

  So, Father, with the grace of Agnetha of the LadyTrine and much hard work, we’ll survive the coming winter. Whether or not Sandbriar will thrive is another story, one that I hope I will be able to share with you at a future time.

  But onto business. The caravan master who delivers this letter has been well recommended to me. He has been entrusted with five crates of fine clothing that belonged to Sinmonkelrath that I have asked him to deliver to you. The fabric is of the highest quality, and the sewing is all mine, and I know you know its worth. Sell them.

  I have also entrusted the caravan master with funds. Use those, as well as any proceeds from the sale of the clothing, for the purchase of foodstuffs such as might make the return journey between Rethwellan and Sandbriar intact. Salted and preserved meats and dried fruits and spices would be most welcome. I trust you to select the best, and assure a good selection.

  In one of the crates you will find a parcel containing fine handkerchiefs embroidered in the local fashio
n. Please see if there is an interest in trade in these items. The handkerchiefs can be provided immediately. I would ask you to be my agent in this, and I of course offer the usual fee for such arrangements. I am still exploring the potential for other trade items as I learn more of my land’s blessings.

  Lastly, Father, I would ask you kindly to refrain from any speculation as to matrimonial alliances on my behalf. I know that you and Mother were very happy together, but my heart is sore and tired. I have no immediate plans to enter into the wedded state even after my year of mourning has passed. Further, said alliance would have to be approved by the Queen and her Council in Haven, a long and tedious process, I am sure.

  Indeed, Father, it is my intention never to marry again.

  With much love and affection,

  Your daughter, Lady Ceraratha of Sandbriar, the Kingdom of Valdemar

  Written in the Wind

  Jennifer Brozek

  :Today’s our birthday.:

  :And the choosing.:

  :Then the darkness.:

  :Maybe. It’s foreseen, but not yet written.:

  :It’s because of our spark.:

  :I know. But there are still two paths.:

  * * *

  Betta watched her twins stare off into space. They were talking again. Mindspeaking. She could tell by the way their unseeing gazes looked through things. Even though they looked like the rest of the family—dirt-brown hair and doe-brown eyes, with that unfortunate Haldon nose—they were still as strange and fey as the fabled Hawkbrothers of the Pelagiris. Ten years old today, and she still didn’t understand how they could’ve come from her and her husband.

  Maybe it was something in his lineage. Highborn he was, even if he was a bastard. But the Lord barely acknowledged him, had sent him away by giving his unwanted son a hold as far as he could from his august presence. The thought still made her angry on his behalf. Then again, at least he got something, even if it was a thing none of the others, the trueborn, wanted.