Suddenly she’d found herself middle-aged, the dowager aunt, with nothing ahead but coddling her nieces and nephews, advising her sister—if her sister ever wanted to be advised—and weaving, something she’d always loved and had a talent for.
Something she’d lost interest in. She’d felt alone, adrift, and morose.
And then Cefylla had come to Traynemarch Reach, and Chosen her. Her.
The Heralds at the Collegium hadn’t quite known how to handle her arrival, either. In the end, they’d essentially had to create a special curriculum just for her. She didn’t need classes in history or politics or math. She was already a competent rider. Her sword skills had remained mediocre despite many lessons, but she’d proved to be a fair hand with a bow.
The bulk of her studies revolved around her newly discovered Empathic Gift, one she’d always had to some degree but that had come to its full power when Cefylla Chose her. She’d needed only to learn how to control and use it.
She had a feeling today would be a true test of her Gift.
“Joral,” she said quietly, “I’d like to speak with the lady on my own.” When he started to frown again, she added, “I was a lady of a manor keep once, Joral. I know what her life is like, more than anyone in this village—including you.”
“My job is to teach you, show you—” Joral began.
“Please,” she said. “Trust me. You’re still the arbiter of the law. I’m just trying to get you information to help you make your decision.”
A small smile quirked his mouth. “Very well. This isn’t the usual protocol, but you are far from the usual Herald intern. You present a compelling case, Syrriah—and I do trust you.”
:If he didn’t, he’d have to deal with me,: Cefylla said with a snort, and Syrriah bit back a smile of her own.
* * *
The woman who led Syrriah and Quentlee to Meriette’s suite was the household chatelaine, the keeper of the keys and organizer of the staff.
“Yes,” she said when asked, “I was the one who found the lady and her husband. I’ve told the story to the mayor and the sheriff, but I’ve no problem telling a Herald as well. The lady has always been kind and generous to everyone, from the lowest stable boy to the highest-ranking visitor. I don’t know what caused her to do it, but she has my support, if that counts for anything.”
Syrriah assured her that it did and asked her to give her report to Joral to make it official.
Mayor Quentlee paused at the top of the last staircase, on a landing with a dark-paneled airing cupboard filled, Syrriah knew, with the linens and feather pillows for the bedrooms in this wing.
“Let the Herald enter,” he told the guard, “and don’t interrupt them.”
The guard sketched a brief bow to Syrriah, acknowledging her authority. She raised the latch and entered.
The sitting room was empty; it felt stuffy and smelled of sorrow. Syrriah paused to swing open the casement windows, letting in the fresh spring air. When her children were sick, unless it was bitterly cold outside, she’d open the windows, bring the clean air in, let the stale air out.
The promise of better things.
She found Lady Meriette in her bedroom, sitting in a chair by the fireplace. The woman’s reddish-blond hair lay lank along her shoulders, and her skin, unnaturally pale as if she’d suffered a long illness, made her blue eyes look washed out, distant.
She was wan, thin, and had all those emotions swirling around her. Emotions she used to keep locked inside, Syrriah realized. Emotions that had escaped, and now Meriette couldn’t quite fit them back in.
“Hello,” Syrriah said, flinging open the casement.
Meriette focused on her, and the lady’s eyes widened as she took in Syrriah’s whites, the clothing that indicated Syrriah was a Herald. Still, she said nothing.
Syrriah dragged another chair over, a twin to the padded wingback Meriette huddled in. The plump cushions spoke of comfort, and the upholstery fabric, red and gold with blue quatrefoils, spoke of wealth.
It was, Syrriah noticed absently, a tricky and intricate weave.
She took Meriette’s cold hands in hers, noting the thinness of the lady’s fingers. “My name is Syrriah,” she said. “I’m an intern Herald, but I was also the lady of a manor keep until a few short years ago. I ran a household much like yours, overseeing a village much like Blenvane.”
She took a deep breath and engaged her Empathy Gift again, surrounding herself and Meriette with as much calmness and peace as she could muster. She couldn’t directly affect another’s deep emotion—no Herald could—but she could make the other woman feel more at ease. She could influence emotions, not radically change them.
“It’s not an easy thing, supporting your husband and maintaining a large household,” Syrriah went on. “We carry much of the burden unseen. Our lords are the figureheads, the ones handling the estate, yet we’re the most scrutinized. Sovvan gifts are late, an important dinner isn’t organized, and our lords are the ones who are judged.”
Meriette flinched. She hadn’t met Syrriah’s gaze yet. A growing horror gnawed at Syrriah’s gut.
Among the Heralds, men and women were equal—age and experience and reputation mattered more than gender. But in outlying villages, the outskirts of Valdemar, patriarchy reigned to various degrees, sometimes in subtle fashion.
Syrriah’s husband never made her feel that way; he’d accepted her as his partner. But while she might have had the keener negotiation skills (no doubt a factor of her latent Empathy), her half of the bargain had been the hearth and home, being the hostess.
She had supported him and had been valued for it . . . but in that sense, she’d also been defined by him.
“Raising children, too,” she went on. “I had four, all grown now. You have two, they tell me, still young. You haven’t been allowed to see them, have you?”
Her children had left her young, but at least she’d known they’d be safe and cared for at Haven.
Meriette shook her head, her ginger hair nearly covering her face.
“That is a tragedy,” Syrriah said, more harsh than she intended, letting her own emotions bleed through. But the vehemence in her voice caused Mariette to finally look up at her again, and that was when Syrriah was able to see the almost completely faded medallions of bruises just above Meriette’s eyes.
She looked into Meriette’s eyes, opened her Empathic link wider than Cefylla—outside, but always connected to her—warned against, and understood the truth.
She’d seen this before, had helped other women in Traynemarch Reach deal with it.
“Meriette,” she said, with a gentle pressure against hands that now weren’t quite as cold, and a gentler pressure against the woman’s emotions, “your husband wasn’t a kind man to you, was he? When I was the lady of a manor keep, I saw this happen to women in the village, and I did what I could to help. The Heralds never stand for this. But if we’re to help you, you need to tell me what happened.”
Meriette took in a deep breath, a deeper breath than she’d probably allowed herself in years, decades. It rattled through her, and when she exhaled, it was as if a window had been opened, releasing the stale, sick air of illness and finally allowing in the sweet, clean air of truth and release.
“He . . . hurt me,” she said, her voice a rasp, unused for so long. Possibly for years, really. “I thought . . . I thought for a long time that it was my fault, that I wasn’t good enough, and then that it was . . . bearable, because Meri and Ethan were safe.”
Her children, Syrriah knew.
“But then—then, he shook Ethan, threatened him, and I couldn’t take it—I had to stop him!” Meriette was sobbing now, her words nearly incomprehensible. She didn’t need to say any more. Syrriah gathered her up and held her while she wept, a release that had been a decade in coming.
Over the next hour, she coaxed M
eriette to speak and also carefully probed her mind with the lightest of touches, confirming the details the lady still couldn’t bring herself to speak. Her lord had been well-loved in the community; nobody knew what he was truly like in private, not even the servants. She hid or explained away her injuries, for who would believe her?
In truth, it would still be hard to convince some people, especially only on the basis of Meriette’s words. Syrriah went to the door and asked the guard to fetch Joral. For a moment she expected to have a problem asking him to leave his post, but he did so without question, and she remembered: she was a Herald, considered the voice of the Monarch, honorable and just above all.
When Joral stepped into the bedroom, Meriette flinched.
“This is my partner,” Syrriah said. “He’s a Healer. Will you let him examine your wounds? I won’t let him hurt you.”
“Very well,” Meriette said. Beneath the tired resignation in her voice, Syrriah heard an undercurrent of resilience. She was still, after all, the lady of the manor keep.
Syrriah and Joral worked together, examining not only the fading but still visible bruises, but also using their Gifts to explore more deeply. Old breaks to the collarbone, ribs, forearm. Injuries that could be hidden, or explained away by clumsiness.
Lord Prothal had known exactly what he was doing.
Syrriah kept her anger in check, not wanting to let even the tiniest shred of it influence Meriette.
Joral waited in the sitting room while Syrriah helped Meriette dress and comb her hair. Then the three of them went down to the manor keep’s main hall, where Mayor Quentlee waited.
Fires warmed the room from the two great stone fireplaces at either end, and a servant had put out bread, cheese, and sausages, along with slices of juicy melon.
Lady Meriette had taught her staff well.
“Lady Blenvane,” Quentlee greeted her, standing and brushing a kiss on her cheek. Her eyes widened, brightened with tears. She clearly hadn’t expected him to be gracious.
She’d braced herself for the worst, probably since the moment she’d stopped her husband from hurting anyone ever again, Syrriah realized.
Joral relayed the facts to the mayor, allowing Syrriah to add details as necessary. Then he gave the verdict, one that would be upheld because the Heralds’ word was law.
“Lady Meriette Blenvane acted to prevent a child from being harmed and to protect herself from future harm,” he said. “Given those circumstances, she deserves no further punishment. It will be up to the village to decide whether she continue as lady of the manor keep until her son is of age, or whether another should be appointed. Herald Syrriah and I are in agreement, however, that we believe Lady Meriette is capable of handling the duties of her deceased husband.”
Mayor Quentlee nodded. “On behalf of the village of Blenvane, I accept your ruling and will inform the village of the decision.” He looked at Meriette and added, “Given that no one may question the Heralds’ verdict, there is no need to explain the reasons behind your action. That will remain a secret.”
“No,” Meriette said, and this time the strength in her voice was clear. “I want my story told, and I will be the one to tell it. No woman—no woman, man, or child—should ever suffer in silence as I did, and only by my honesty can I help anyone in this village who finds themselves in need.”
* * *
Syrriah hadn’t wanted adventure, hadn’t wanted her life to change. She might have been reluctant, but she’d done her best at the Collegium, done her best on the road with Joral, despite her aches and pains and the desire to be safe and warm in a home of her own.
Being a mother and the lady of the manor keep had been her life, a life she’d loved, but she’d lost her purpose when her children had left and Brant had died.
She’d been given an opportunity for a new life. One where she could use her Gifts and effect more change than in just one village.
For the first time, she felt ready for the adventure.
For the first time in a very long time, she knew what her purpose was.
The Barest Gift
Brenda Cooper
A thin trickle of foot traffic made its way back into Goldleaf from the ripening fields as the sun finally released its heat and sent long, slanting rays across the road.
Helen sat amid the hedgerows, glancing down the road from time to time, only to be continually disappointed, as it was either empty or held only one or two people she already knew. Some waved at her or stopped to say hello, perhaps on their way to her family’s inn, the Robin’s Rest.
When she wasn’t watching the road, Helen played with a fine, carved wooden Companion her grandmother had given her two years and three days ago, on the day she had turned seven. While she waited, Helen made up adventures for the Companion to share with a small doll she’d made from straw and an old shirt.
She couldn’t have told herself why she expected to see a Herald and a real Companion soon. She was certain she had known a day in advance about the Herald and Trainee pair that had come through last year, and right now she felt the very same way. Like there was an itch on her heart.
While she watched, Helen hummed the tune from “The Innkeep’s Daughter,” a song about a young woman who saved a field Herald from a band of notorious thieves. She liked to imagine herself being that brave, although she liked to imagine herself as a Herald even more.
The gloaming turned to true dusk. She stood and rubbed the silver hooves clean on the inside of her dress and tucked her doll into a pocket. Before setting out for home, she looked back down the road one more time, finding it empty again.
Inside, she set her toys down on her very own small shelf by the door between the kitchen and the herb garden, breathing in warm air that smelled of soup made with the first of this year’s tomatoes and some of the last of the rootstock from the cellar under the inn. Just-browning bread waited in the big, open oven that was the pride of the inn’s kitchen.
Helen raced upstairs to kiss her grandmother’s papery cheek. The old woman stirred lightly but said nothing. Helen’s grandfather sat near his wife, his blue eyes saddened with weeks of watching her fail. He also said nothing, but he and Helen exchanged a smile.
Helen was the youngest daughter of the fifth generation that had run the Robin’s Rest, and she and her siblings would eat later. For now, she started preparing plates and bowls of food, moving easily through the dance of meals that flowed from the oven to the long wooden trestle tables. Her mother sweated as she stirred and ladled, cut and chopped. From time to time Helen filled water cups. Her sister Magen handled the mead, fending off good-natured compliments with humor, even though she blushed at a few of them. Helen’s brother Dravon snuck in from time to time when he took a break from caring for the horses and stole ends of bread for his favorite dog.
Most patrons were local single men too tired to put together their own meal after a long day in the fields. Three merchants sat quietly in a corner, trading stories. With no Bard or unusual traffic to keep the common room busy late into the night, the room started to quiet only a few candlemarks after the last of the sun faded.
Helen’s mother sent her up early to sit with her grandparents. She had Helen bring fresh water, a single cup of soup, and a piece of fresh bread with berry jam.
Her grandfather took the tray from her. “How are you, child?”
She smiled. “Good. I was hoping we’d see a Herald today, but there isn’t one.”
“Your grandmother always knew when a Herald was coming,” he told her.
Her heart thrilled. Maybe she wasn’t imaging the feeling. She thought about sitting by the window, but it had grown too dark to see the road now anyway. She chose a seat on a well-worn couch where she could see her grandfather’s face clearly. “How did she know?”
He looked at her grandmother tenderly, and then searched Helen’s face for a moment,
as if looking for a resemblance. “She told me once that it was like having an extra sense, only it wasn’t always there. Just when it was needed.”
“Like a Healer’s gift, or a Bard’s gift?” She put a hand on her heart, which still felt itchy. “Or a Herald’s?”
“Some gifts are great and noticeable, like the Bard who came through here last winter and warmed us all through the worst of that ice-storm.” His voice was still strong, like a younger man’s, except he had to stop more often for breath than he used to. “But other gifts are small and seem to appear only when Valdemar needs them.”
While Helen thought about that, her grandfather touched his wife’s pale cheek and held her hand briefly in his before he took a bite of the bread. Last night, he’d tried to feed the old woman, and she had refused.
Tonight, he didn’t even try. That made Helen a little sad, but she didn’t say anything about it. Instead, she asked, “Can you tell me about grandmere’s extra sense?”
“If you had been alive while she was still running the kitchen, you might have noticed that the best meals always graced our tables on the days that Heralds and Bards and Healers came through town. If women smelled her best pies cooking during the day, they scraped up their pennies to eat with us at the inn.”
“Really?”
“Would you like me to tell you a story?”
She nodded. He often told her stories while they sat by her grandmere these last few months.
He looked solemn. “This is a long story. Are you ready to settle in?”
She thought about going down for her horse and doll, but decided she was old enough to leave them. She wiggled around a little and tucked a pillow under her arm. “Yes.”
No True Way: All-New Tales of Valdemar (Tales of Valdemar Series Book 8) Page 4
