Choices

by Mercedes Lackey

  Drained it of resources—and of healthy men and women. Another pressing problem.

  That was the thing, in truth. For every problem was hers, Lady Cera of Sandbriar’s problem. To face, to deal with, to solve. And while she didn’t mind so much, there was a weight to each one that added up over time. Also, her people looked to her, depended on her.

  She scolded herself for complaining, even if just to herself. Because, still and all, it was not a bad thing. To be in control as opposed to being controlled.

  With a sense of guilt, she said a swift prayer of thanks to the Trine as she mounted the stairs to her Seneschal’s chambers. It might not be proper to give thanks for the death of an abusive husband through his own greed and stupidity. Cera did it anyway, for as a result she was Lady of Sandbriar, and none could tell her nay.

  She was free to do as she pleased, no longer constrained in dress or manner, no longer expected to sit by the fire and sew and await her husband’s return. She shuddered at the memory as she smoothed her plain work shirt over her trews, made of good solid homespun. Practical, warm, and so much more comfortable than formal garb. Perfect for working in the barns with the sheep. That afternoon she planned to learn more about the chirras Withren had brought with him.

  The halls were quiet as she walked them and climbed the final set of stairs to Athelnor’s office. The manor house was all old stone and wood and solidly built. She loved the gleam of the polish on the wooden doors and the thick rugs on the floors. A bit worn, true enough, but it was hers.

  Even after almost a year, she still didn’t quite believe it.

  She opened the door to her Seneschal’s office to find Athelnor leaning on the large table, with his grandson Gareth to one side and Withren Ashkevon on the other. The table was covered in large maps, and their faces were covered in frowns.

  Cera had a sinking feeling, but she smiled anyway. “Well?” she asked “What have you learned?”

  “It’s worse than we thought,” Athelnor raised a shaking hand to his forehead. “Lady, I–”

  “Athelnor.” Cera moved into the room and closed the door behind her. “Let’s sit before we talk. I’ve a need for some hot tea before you hand me another problem.”

  Withren raised his head at that and gave Athelnor a worried look. Withren had recently brought men and chirras from the north to find new homes in these southern lands. He’d proposed the idea of sending out a force of men and women to aid with the spring planting and survey what remained in the settlements, farmsteads, and villages of Sandbriar. It had worked well, with more crops being planted by combining their strength and energy with that of the local farmers.

  Athelnor took Cera’s arm, and she lent him her strength as they slowly headed to the chairs by the fire. Carefully positioning himself before the chair, Athelnor plopped down with a relieved sigh.

  There was a kettle by the fire, and Cera served them both. Withren limped over to stand by the mantel, and Gareth sat cross-legged on the floor.

  “So?” Cera settled back in her chair. “Tell me.”

  “The reports are a mix of good and bad,” Withren said quietly. “The good is that crops are being planted and fields are being reclaimed from weeds. Feral livestock are being rounded up. Firewood is being cut and set to dry for next winter. With a good growing season and a bit of luck, we’ll not starve.”

  Cera felt a bit of weight come off her shoulders, but she knew better than to relax. “And the bad?”

  “So many lost in the war,” Athelnor said. “So much knowledge and skill.”

  “There is a great need for skilled workers among the settlements, farmsteads, and villages. Some have been abandoned altogether, some are in need of repairs.” Withren shook his head. “You’ve only two blacksmiths, barely enough to keep plows mended and the horses shod. The pottery and tannery are abandoned, and all the brewing is being done by individual households.”

  “Ager knows brewing,” Athelnor raised his head.

  “That’s not something I can ask of him,” Cera frowned. “Not after—”

  “For Sandbriar, he could try,” Athelnor insisted.

  Withren raised an eyebrow, but Cera shook her head, not wanting to discuss Ager’s problem with drink. She tried to lighten the mood. “But crops are going in?”

  “Aye, that’s working well.” Withren smiled. “We can reform the teams in the fall and have them go from field to field, harvesting together to get more done and faster.”

  “The blacksmiths have taken apprentices,” Gareth added. “Some of my friends expressed an interest, and that was all it took.”

  “But it takes time to train a good blacksmith,” Athelnor fretted. “What will we do in the meantime?”

  “Any farmer worth his oats knows tricks to keep things going,” Withren soothed him. “You can’t always leave the fields to see to a broken plow. And the abandoned farmsteads supply us with spares as well as harnesses and leather for repairs.”

  “Good leather takes time to make—months, a year, even if one knows how to treat the skins,” Athelnor fretted. “And if the farmsteads are abandoned, you will need to name new holders.” He turned to blink at Cera. “And there are those who might want to reclaim their lands. You’ll need to sort out their rights as well.” He shook his head, his worry clear. “There’s bound to be arguments over that.”

  The weight of it all pressed her down. Of course it was her responsibility. “Well, that’s not today.” She reminded them and herself with her words. “I’ll need advice about who to select.” Cera thought about it. “From you and the others. And about your men, Withren. With due respect, they’ve not been here long enough for us to know their mettle.”

  Withren shrugged. “Some are better workers than others, and some better followers than leaders.”

  “There’s a place for all.” Cera said firmly. “And we will find it.”

  “But not without troubles—” Athelnor started, but a knock on the door stopped him.

  The door opened to reveal Marga, Athelnor’s wife, with Emerson the tapestry weaver hovering behind her, clutching some drawings.

  Emerson had appeared on her doorstep as a suitor a few months ago, although that had been his father’s plan, not his. His plan was to weave tapestries, another investment she had made with the promise of real returns.

  “Your pardon,” Marga smiled. “But Emerson needs a few strong backs to help set up his loom.”

  Emerson pushed past her, looking down at the papers in his hands. “For the new tapestry panel,” he started in his rapid-fire way. “I need help setting the warp threads. It’s tricky because—” He came to an abrupt halt, seeing Withren. “Oh. I—”

  Withren straightened, his cheeks also turning red. Clearing his throat, he avoided looking at Emerson, but he shrugged. “I’d be happy to assist.”

  “Me too,” Gareth jumped from the floor, clearly eager to escape.

  Emerson only had eyes for Withren. “Would you? I don’t want to be any trouble. I am sure you have more important—”

  “No, really,” Withren insisted. “I’d be happy to help—”

  They both blushed again, stumbling over each other’s words.

  Gareth caught Cera’s gaze and rolled his eyes.

  Cera resisted the urge to laugh. “We are done here for now.”

  “Er,” Emerson nodded. “This way,” he said and headed out the door. Withren waited for Emerson to turn before limping toward the door. Gareth followed.

  “They’re still dancing around one another?” Athelnor grumbled after the door was shut.

  “Oh, yes,” Marga laughed. “It’s adorable.”

  “Time was, a young man knew what he wanted, he spoke up.” Athelnor scoffed. “I knew what I wanted and went after it.”

  Marga gave him a look. “It took you hours to ask me for that dance.”

  “
But I knew what I wanted,” Athelnor caught up her hand and held it to his cheek. “And I did ask.”

  “You did,” Marga leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Now, speaking of dancing . . .”

  Cera sighed.

  “No more of that, Lady.” Marga folded her arms over her chest. “You’ve invitations to send for the Midsummer Fair. Your mourning period will be well over, and you might as well invite all and sundry instead of waiting for them to straggle in.”

  “A general invitation. To the Fair.” Athelnor stressed. “No need to be more specific than that.”

  “I’ll leave the list,” Marga said firmly. “You should get them out soonest, so they have plenty of time to travel.”

  Cera gave her a glum look, but there was no sympathy to be had. True enough, suitors would be coming. She reminded herself that under the laws of Valdemar, she had the right to reject any or all, if that was her mind.

  “Which reminds me.” Marga drew a blanket from the back of Athelnor’s chair and shook it out. “Gareth needs dance lessons.”

  Cera allowed herself a grin. Gareth would be horrified.

  Marga fussed over Athelnor, tucking the blanket over his legs. “Are you warm enough?” she asked, taking his mug. “Would you like me to bring you another blanket?”

  “Quit your clucking,” Athelnor mock-scowled at his wife. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

  It was Marga’s turn to roll her eyes, but then she grew serious. “There’s another matter. The Queen’s Bread.”

  “Bread?” Cera asked.

  “By the Queen’s Command, all children must be taught reading, writing, and ciphering during the morning hours until proficient. Any who arrive on time are fed a good breakfast, at the Queen’s expense.”

  “Truly?” Cera blinked, a bit surprised. “At no cost to the families?”

  “At no cost.” Athelnor sat up straighter. “Are you saying we haven’t provided—”

  “We have,” Marga said firmly. “As best we could, given the need for any hands to work. But the time is coming when we need to be a bit more formal in the teaching and make sure the children are learning.” She shook her head. “There are those that think it a waste of time.”

  “Teachers who need be paid and rooms for them to use.” Athelnor slumped down. “Aye, it’s a credit against the taxes, but we must come up with the coin.”

  “We will,” Cera said soothingly, with a confidence she didn’t feel. “We will.”

  “But how?” Athelnor glared at her. “You need coin, and brewing cider is a way to get it fairly quickly. You need be talking to Ager. There was a brewery near—”

  Marga sucked in a breath.

  “I know, I know,” Athelnor slumped back down. “But he’s got skills, skills we need.”

  “We need his skills with chirras more,” Cera chided him gently.

  “Lady . . .” Athelnor sat forward, but Cera placed her hand over his on the arm of the chair.

  “I’ll speak with him,” she said. “Any aid he can give is welcome. But he’s sworn off drink, and I will not force him back to that life or endanger him in any way.”

  “Of course not,” Athelnor nodded. “But he could brew without—”

  A knock at the door and Young Meroth popped his head in. “Lady Cera, you’re needed in the barns. Da sent me to fetch you.”

  “What’s wrong?” Cera asked.

  “It’s about the chirras.”

  Nothing else could have made her feet fly so fast to the barns. She left Young Meroth in the dust, running down corridors and stairs and bursting out into the sunlit yards. The barns weren’t far from the manor house, but she was breathing hard when she plunged through the large open doors into the shaded interior.

  The cooler air was still and filled with the reassuring scents of animals and hay. All seemed well enough at first glance. But the chirras were all clustered together in one corner, shifting nervously, their ears flat. Empty wool sacks lay off to one side. Voices were trying to sooth, but the animals shied when approached.

  “What’s wrong?” Cera gasped.

  Men and chirras all turned to look at her as she stood, heaving breaths.

  “What’s wrong?” Old Meroth groused from his stool by the door, his three elderly sheep dogs at his feet. Even with his right arm lifeless and the sag to the side of his face, he still ruled the yard. “They’ve never been sheared, that’s what’s wrong. You go near them with the shears, and the durn things spook like yer a damned wolf!”

  Young Meroth trotted up, right behind her. “Sorry, Lady, I would have told ya, but you took off like an arrow.” There was admiration in his voice.

  Ager was standing there, with shearing clippers in his hand, looking as confused as she was feeling.

  The chirras shifted again, clustered together, their ears down, eyeing Ager.

  Jatare, one of the men that had come with Withren, spoke up. “I tell ya, we don’t shear ’em. They shed some in the summer, but we don’t shear ’em. Comb ’em out, sure, when we’re loadin ’em, to make sure there’s no burrs or mats under the straps. They’re pack animals, Lady.” he said apologetically. “Up north, that is.”

  Cera bit her lip. “So what is the problem? Doesn’t anyone remember how?” she blurted.

  “Aye,” Ager snorted. “It’s not in the ‘how,’ it’s in the doing.”

  “There’s two ways,” Old Meroth announced. “The high and the low. High, they stand there. Low, ya wrestle them down and get them on their side.”

  Jatare’s eyes widened. “You don’t want to wrestle ’em down, ya might hurt their necks. They ain’t used t’that.”

  “But don’t they need to be sheared?” Cera asked.

  “Nay,” Jatare shook his head. “They shed, sure. In the springtime, leavin’ bits of fur on the stall walls and along the fences. Birds take’em for nests, and such.”

  “Ours were used to being shorn, and we need to get that wool off for the summer heat to come.” Ager rubbed his face.

  Old Meroth spoke up. “I’ll be doing it.”

  They all looked at him.

  He gestured with his cane. “I’ll be telling Young Meroth there what needs be doing. And I’ll mind he leaves an inch behind or thereabouts. Too close to the skin, and they’ll sunburn.”

  Young Meroth looked none too pleased.

  “Sunburn?” Jatare’s eyes went wide.

  “Aye,” Ager said. “Things are different here in the south, to be sure.”

  Cera moved slowly toward the animals, glad to see their ears perk with curiosity. She reached for the nearest, and gently stroked over the coarse outer coat. The chirra’s ears both perked up, and it leaned into her hand. Her fingers sank in, feeling the other two layers of its pelt, each progressively softer. “You comb them?” she asked.

  “Aye,” Jatare said. “Just before we load ’em. They get a burr, or a load that’s too heavy, and they plop down and refuse to budge.”

  “Then that’s where we start,” Cera said. “We can get them used to being combed, then start slowly to shear small patches.”

  Ager looked doubtful. “The first fleeces aren’t going to be of much use.”

  Cera sighed. “True enough, but I’d rather we train them and us to get used to it instead of it being a struggle. The heat’s not due yet, right?”

  “Aye,” Old Meroth spoke up. “Not till well after the midsummer.”

  Ager nodded. “You’re right, Lady. We’ll go slow and get them to accept it. We’ve time.” He gestured to Jatare. “You say you comb them out for burrs? Show us how you do that, and we will work from there.”

  “Save what wool you can,” Cera said as she moved off to let them work.

  Ager stepped toward Cera. “It may be a few years before you get the wool you want from them, Lady.”

  “Worth waiting f
or,” Cera said. Another expense to maintain the herd to be sure, one that would not see a return for some time to come. She hesitated, a bit sick at heart, but not willing to put off the conversation. “Could I talk to you a moment? Outside?”

  “Aye,” Ager said.

  They walked out into the sunshine, and Cera led him around the corner of the barn.

  “Ager, I—” Cera stopped unsure of where to start. Ager stared at her with open curiosity. He stood there, lean and fit, a far different man from the drunkard who had come at her months ago.

  Cera firmed her shoulders and forced the words out. “Ager, I have heard tell of the quality of your cider. It could be a source of revenue for Sandbriar. The brewery has been neglected, and I need to ask your aid. I know the season is a way off, but I need to know now to make plans if . . .” she let her voice trail off as a shadow came over his face.

  “Lady, I’ve not touched cider or ale since that day.” Ager’s voice cracked. “Water, tea, it’s all I’ve been having.”

  “I know,” Cera said. “I would not ask but for Sandbriar.”

  Ager looked out over the fields. “There’s not a day—not an hour goes by that I don’t crave it. I can still taste it, still remember the feeling as it slid down my throat and took my cares away. I see others leaving half-full glasses on the table, and I want to point out what’s there and that they should finish it. Or I should.”

  Cera looked down, embarrassed for him and for herself.

  “But then I take a breath,” Ager said. “I look in Alena’s eyes and see her smile, and I remind myself of why I do it. To stand tall and straight, to earn her respect. To earn my own back again.”

  “Ager, I would not risk you.” Cera felt miserable for even mentioning it. “Would not risk your life.”

  Ager nodded. “I thank you, Lady of Sandbriar. We both know the need. But I will be honest and say that I would not trust myself with a bottle on the table, much less in a brewery.”

  “That’s that then. Besides,” Cera tried to smile. “I need you for the chirras. Who better to nurture my herd?”