Athelnor was already at the table, a bowl of porridge and cream before him. “Good morning, my lady,” he said, his face wrinkling with his smile. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” Cera lied, not quite feeling up to returning his good cheer. She took a cup of tea from Marga with a grateful glance.
“Are we going out again?” Gareth was stuffing his face with warm bread.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Marga admonished.
“Yes, Grandma,” Gareth said with a full mouth and a cheeky grin.
“I don’t think so,” Cera said carefully as Alena put a bowl of hot porridge in front of her. “I’m thinking of staying in today. It looks like rain, and I’ve got a chill from yesterday.”
She didn’t miss the glance Marga and Athelnor exchanged, but they didn’t say anything. Alena gave her a narrow look, but Cera ignored her. She was cold. And it did look like rain.
“Besides, I want to review the accounts and tax records we must forward to Haven,” Cera said. As a merchant’s daughter, she’d a fondness for neat rows of numbers, tallying up the household’s income and expenses. The soothing simple sums, with clear answers.
“Of course,” Athelnor said. “Although I thought you were saving that task for when the snow came.” He hesitated, but he didn’t question her further, to Cera’s relief. “After breakfast, I will bring them to your rooms.”
“I’ll hunt, then,” Gareth said with satisfaction, his voice cracking just a bit.
“Well, if you are wandering the woods, watch for walnuts.” Marga put more bread and a crock of butter on the table. “Acorns too, if you see any. As many as you can get.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” Gareth stuffed the rest of his bread in his mouth, grabbed his boar spear, and bolted for the door.
“And mind you dress warm,” she called behind him.
Cera tried to relax into the warmth and comfort of routine as she ate. The idea of a day filled with columns and numbers was a good one. A comfortable one.
A safe one.
• • •
A few days later, Cera looked up from the account books to find Alena glaring at her, tray in hand.
“A fine thing, burying yourself in work like this for days on end,” Alena said. “’Tis a fine sunny day out, and maybe one of the last few we see before winter sets in.” She set the tray down, shoving the account books to the side. “I’ll just open the shutters, and—”
“No,” Cera snapped. “Leave them be.”
“But, my lady,” Alena put her hands on her hips. “You can’t hide—”
“I can do as I will,” Cera glared at her handmaiden. “And it is not your place to say otherwise.”
Alena stepped back, her hands wrapped in her apron, the hurt clear on her face. “As you say, Lady Ceraratha,” she said quietly, and disappeared through the door—leaving Cera to sit alone, guilt and shame burning a hole in her gut.
After a moment, she set the tray on the floor, drew the account book close, and set back to work.
• • •
She’d lost track of the hours and days, because the numbers filled her head, shutting out all other thoughts. But the numbers that she loved so well had twisted on her. Columns and figures no longer added up, and she’d made more mistakes then anything else. Deep in the accounts, lost in frustration, her anger flared when her door opened again.
“I asked not to be disturbed,” Cera snapped.
“I ask your pardon, Lady Ceraratha. I thought to pay my respects.”
Cera looked up, blinking in the dim light, to see an older, middle-aged woman dressed in white standing in the door. She had a no-nonsense face, short gray hair, and a slight worry wrinkle between her brows.
“Herald Helgara,” Cera rose stiffly. “I did not know you were due. Has the comfort of your Companion, Stonas, been seen to?”
“Oh, yes,” Helgara said, coming farther in and shutting the door behind her. “Even now some of the younger children are looking for flowers to weave into his mane and tail.”
Cera smiled at the idea, but it faded as she realized that she had failed in her duties. “Forgive me,” she said as she returned to her seat. “I should have welcomed you myself.”
“Marga told me that you have been ill,” Helgara settled in one of the stools near her writing table. “I was sorry to hear it.”
“My thanks,” Cera said, shifting the papers around on her desk. “How goes your Circuit?”
“Well enough, until now,” Helgara said. “I broke off my regular Circuit to return here. Another Herald has taken my place.”
“Why so?” Cera asked.
“For you,” Helgara said softly. “Word came that the Lady of Sandbriar had taken ill.”
A pang filled Cera’s chest—yet another thing she was at fault for. “I’m sorry,” she said. “A passing thing, really. Nothing that you need concern yourself with.”
There was a long silence. Then Helgara sighed. “You have been up here for some time, days now, I understand. You have canceled your plans for your trips, and there is a shearing festival that you had been planning that also seems to have been canceled.”
Cera looked away.
“Young Gareth can tell me little, other than a man threatened you, and you wept like your very heart was broken.”
Cera stared down at her work.
“Alena is very loyal, very quiet, and very worried,” Helgara continued. “She has a haunted look about her.”
Cera stared at her goose-quill, watching her breath disturb the feathers.
“Did that man, the one named Ager, did he harm you, Lady?” Helgara asked softly. “If so, I will see him brought to justice.”
“No, no.” Cera shook her head. “It was nothing like that, really it wasn’t.” Guilt washed through her again, for it was her fault. “I shouldn’t have disturbed that poor man. I overreacted.”
“Is there anything you wish to talk to me about?” Helgara asked gently.
“No, no,” Cera said again. “I’m fine.”
Helgara waited for a moment and then started to rise from her seat. “Very well. If there is aught you wish to—”
Cera glanced at her when her words cut off. Helgara’s eyes looked unseeing into the distance.
After a long moment, Helgara sank back to the stool, with an odd, reluctant look on her face. “Stonas says I should speak to you about—” She swallowed and let her gaze drop to the floor. “About a private matter. I’d ask that you hold it in confidence.”
“Of course,” Cera murmured, puzzled at the sudden change in the Herald.
“There are those of Valdemar who think we Heralds and Companions are perfect.” Helgara did not lift her eyes. “Strong, courageous. Without flaw.”
Cera was confused. “Of course. You are Chosen of the Companions and the Heralds of the Queen.”
Helgara folded her hands together in her lap. “We are far from perfect,” she said, her voice oddly clipped. She paused for a moment, as if looking for words. “Stonas has . . . nightmares.”
Cera watched as the older woman studied her own hands.
“Stonas and I share a strong gift of Mindspeech,” Helgara continued. “He has . . . vivid nightmares of the Tedrel Wars. Except nightmare is too tame a word.” The Herald drew a deep breath. “They are too real to be dreams. Flashes of images, of fighting, of death at our hands . . . he becomes lost in the horrors, and because of our link, I—I become lost with him . . .” Helgara choked.
Cera blinked. The calm, strong woman in front of her was tearing up.
“I awake, drenched in sweat, my heart racing, sword in hand, at fever pitch and battle-ready. Stonas is usually in worse shape, pounding at the stall walls, ready to kill any that stand between me and him.” Helgara’s hands clenched tight together. “This doesn’t bode well for
those around us during these nights. It is one reason I do not have an intern with me these days.”
“There’s no getting back to sleep,” she continued. “For we both tremble at the memories, made worse by the guilt he feels for having pulled me in. There is no rhyme or reason to these . . . attacks. It shakes us every time. If we are at a Waystation—” Helgara’s eyes crinkled with a flash of humor. “—which aren’t half as bad as you think they are, by the way, I will take my bedding and curl up with Stonas. We watch the sun rise and comfort ourselves with the hope of the new day. It takes us time to recover. But each time, we find our way out through the darkness. We endure.”
Helgara finally lifted her eyes to Cera, and she had to look away from the pain she saw there.
“Together,” Cera whispered. “You do it together.”
“Admittedly,” Helgara said. “But are you really alone?”
Cera said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“Another Herald is covering my Circuit,” Helgara said. “I obtained permission to accompany you on your journeys, help you to learn more about your people. I’d also offer to teach you and some of the younger ones some defensive techniques. Certainly young Gareth needs a few lessons. A boar spear is not a perfect weapon.”
Cera had to smile at that. “He takes it wherever he goes.”
“Yes, I know.” Helgara rolled her eyes, but then grew serious. “I cannot promise that it will be easy,” she said. “All I can say to you is that the only way out, the only way to be free, is through. Through the pain, through the fear.”
Cera kept her head down and focused on the page.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Helgara sighed, and rose. “They are serving the evening meal in the Great Hall. We had hoped you would join us, but Marga will bring you a tray if that is your wish.”
Cera nodded and didn’t look up as Helgara left the room.
She couldn’t go out there. Couldn’t face them. Couldn’t explain her shame, and thereby heap more guilt on her shoulders, for they were her people and they needed her. The Queen had trusted her with their welfare, but if she had known the truth, known that Cera was at fault, she’d have never allowed her to be Lady of Sandbriar.
The silence was broken only by the sounds of the crackling fire in the hearth. It sounded happy, as if it knew not of fear, or shame, or guilt.
The tips of her fingernails turned white as she clenched her quill. Her stomach churned, and she swallowed hard.
She wanted to hide, to stay safe, to not have to deal with any of this. She didn’t want this, didn’t want to face anyone or anything.
Ink dripped from the tip of her quill, the shaft ruined. Cera bit her lip and forced herself to set aside the ruined parchment with a sigh. The ink could be bleached from it but—
Sinmon’s face, dark and distorted with rage, flashed before her eyes. “A waste we can ill afford,” he roared as he raised his hand to strike—
Cera jerked to her feet in terror, her heart racing, her skin suddenly covered in cold sweat.
But the room was silent and empty, and the fire still crackled with good cheer.
She sank back to her desk, covered her face, and wept. Sorrow and helplessness raged within her, along with her guilt. She’d done nothing to deserve this, nothing . . .
And that thought brought with it a tiny spark of anger.
No.
She would not give in to this. She didn’t deserve this, but she’d have to work through, go through . . . if she ever wanted to be truly free. Not just for her people. For herself.
Cera’s heart raced again, but this time with determination. She rose, and started toward the door, but the dark pit of fear and despair rose again in her stomach.
She faltered . . . glanced back at the false safety of her desk and the haven of quiet numbers . . .
But then, with a choked sob, she took another step.
Even through her guilt—
She took another step.
Even through her shame—
Another step.
Even through her fear, she would do this.
Her fingers touched the cold metal handle . . . and she pulled.
She would be free.
Gifts of Rage and Despair
Ron Collins
Something was wrong with Kade.
For no reason that either of them could see, his healing skills had faded. His ability to touch pain and make it better had dulled over the past months until it was now almost gone. Nwah hadn’t said anything for fear of intruding, but if she was being honest, she had known of his loss for longer than a full circle of the moon.
Now Kade sat alone on the dry creekbed and picked apart a wilted reed. The stink of discontent clung to him like a fog.
She went to him.
Her paws rasped on the dry woodland undergrowth as she glided to his side. She nuzzled his neck in the way that had always made him laugh before, but this time he just leaned away and sighed.
:Are you all right?: she said.
“I’m fine,” he replied, wiping his neck.
Nwah licked her chops, lingering over his briny flavor. She sat beside him. It was late afternoon. The woods felt hot and thick in that way it can get after the sun has beaten on the trees for a full day. Her tongue stuck to her mouth, and the peat was slippery under her paws.
She was hungry, and her hind leg ached where it had been broken a few years ago.
:Are we going to hunt today?: she asked.
Kade peered up the dry creekbed and dropped the reed between his feet. He had grown taller and lankier in their two years together in wilds of the Pelagiris. His hair, already dark when they first met, was growing toward black. His face had lost the roundness of childhood but was not yet marked by experience.
:I suppose we should,: he replied, his tone listless.
There should be a word for what she felt coming from him, but the human tongue had no substitute for the kyree tone in this case. Depression, maybe. But even that word wasn’t right. Despair? Failure? She didn’t know. But the emotion coming from him tasted like what she had felt the day they had first met, the day Kade had pulled her from the briars and saved her life.
That day, Nwah remembered, she had wanted to give up.
No one should ever have to feel that way.
She huffed, hating to be so powerless.
She considered casting a pleasant thought into his mind. She could do it. She knew she could. Nwah still didn’t completely understand the magic that ran through her, but she could sense power nearby. She knew she could create something that would ease Kade’s mind for a moment. But she also knew that doing so would only make him angry later.
:You will heal again,: she said, twitching one whisker. :You’ll see. It will come back.:
:Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.:
:I understand that you’re struggling with your Gift. But it will be all right. Gifts do not just leave.:
:Healing is not like your magic,: Kade replied. :So you can’t just say it will be all right.:
:My mother always said—:
He raised his hand sharply. :Please, just shut up about your mother. She wasn’t a Healer, so her ideas have no use here.:
He stood abruptly and went to string his bow.
Nwah clamped her mouth shut and grunted from the back of her throat. If Kade were a kyree, he would understand the nuance of that sound without the aid of their mindlink, but he was not a kyree. Nor was he letting his link flow so freely now. His resistance made her angry. She wouldn’t press herself on him, though. There was so much she still did not understand about humans.
She shook dry peat from her coat. She didn’t like it when her fur was not clean. It made her feel prickly.
She watched as Kade worked on his bow.
He was gro
wing more closed and distant each day, as her siblings had become when their time in the den was nearing its end. She thought of her mother. She wondered where they were.
Kade’s increasing distance worried her.
It wasn’t her fault that her own magic seemed to be growing while his stagnated. She wondered, in fact, if the mere matter of her power’s growth was somehow stunting his. Was her growing prowess hurting him in some way? Was the fact of her Gift separating him from his?
:Are you leaving me?: she asked before she could stop the words. Just giving voice to the question hurt.
Kade’s glare leveled on her for an instant, and her heart jumped into her purr. Their travels had made him hard and wise beyond his years, and his stare burned like cold daggers. But then his shoulders drooped, and he stood there, suddenly looking like the fourteen-year-old boy he was.
:I’m sorry to be such a snot today, Nwah. I’ll never leave you.:
:How can you truly say that?: she said. :How can you know?:
He smiled.
:How can you say you’ll never leave me?: he replied.
It was a good answer—the only answer that made sense. Though Nwah could not explain the depth of the link she and Kade shared, she could say that it was even stronger than the one she had once shared with Rayn, the young woman she had first been paired with. Nwah would never forget the raw despair that had crushed her when the binding between her and Rayn had been torn. She remembered wanting to die, as if death were akin to breath. But she knew that if her connection with Kade were ripped from her now, she would not merely want to die but would actually roll up and expire on the spot. So while Nwah could not explain how she was so certain she could never leave Kade, she knew the truth of it better than she knew herself.
Still, despite their link, and despite having lived here with Kade for nearly two years, Nwah didn’t know for certain that he felt things to the same depth she did.
Humans were not kyree, after all.
They were very hard to understand.
Kade laughed. The sound made Nwah snap her tail back and forth.
Crucible Page 7
