To the Dean of the Healer’s Collegium, Haven, in the Kingdom of Valdemar,
Greetings,
In Rethwellan, where I was raised, there grows a plant known as wild kandace. To my delight, I have found it growing in abundance here in Sandbriar. The tea eases the aches of the body, and it’s possible to make an oil that can be rubbed on stiff joints to aid movement.
Sandbriar was hit hard by the Tedrel Wars, as was all of Valdemar, and is in need of new trade and commerce. I have approached an apothecary in Rethwellan, hoping to establish a new market with him. But it occurs to me that Valdemar may also be interested in my harvest.
I enclose herewith a sample of dried leaves, flowers, and seeds. I will also attempt to send a living plant, but I am not sure it will make the journey intact.
It’s my understanding that a syrup can be made as well, but I lack the knowledge of the method for creating it. If you know of such a technique and could instruct me, I would be deeply grateful, and happy to supply the same to the Collegium, to our mutual benefit.
In any event, please accept my thanks in advance for any assistance you can render.
—Lady Cera of Sandbriar, in the Kingdom of Valdemar
:Help us!:
Cera bolted up in bed, her heart racing. Rain pattered against her window. A flash of lightning filled her bedroom for an instant. The room was still, no one was there, but the urgency of that dream—
Thunder crashed, rumbling overhead. The need, the fear exploded in her chest. Cera threw back her blankets and ran for her door, plunged down the stairs, calling for aid. She’d rouse the entire manor if need be. It was irrational and unreasoning, but she pelted out the main door and across the courtyard.
Tents had been set up for the Midsummer Festival due in two days. They’d planned the event for weeks, worried over food and decorations—and now the rain.
But Cera had even larger fears at the moment. She ran to the gates, bare feet slipping on wet cobblestones, as voices raised in response behind her.
“Open the gates,” she called to the guard. They gaped at her, nightgown slowly soaking through, her toes bare in the mud. “Open them!”
The voices grew louder now, following her, but that’s just what she wanted them to do. The road ahead was dark, thick with rain. No time for words. She pulled a lantern from one of the startled guards, slipped through the creaking gates, and started down the road.
Not far, just out of sight of the gate. A crumpled figure in white lay on the road, curled in on itself. A white horse stood over the body, trembling, its hind foot cocked up off the ground.
“Stonas?” Cera ran forward and threw herself on the ground next to the body. “Helgara?”
Footsteps pounded up behind her, and many hands reached out to assist. They rolled Helgara over. Blood stained her face and her Whites.
“Get her up and into the manor,” Gareth was there, calmly directing the others. Cera scrambled out of the way as six of them lifted the Herald and slowly carried her inside.
“This is bad.” Young Meron was beside the Companion, looking at the leg in the torch light. “We need Withrin, he knows most about horses.”
Someone else went pelting off. Cera shivered in the rain, wrapping her arms around herself.
“You should go in, Lady,” Young Meron said. “Catch your death, you will.” He sounded like his father.
Cera shook her head, and stepped to Stonas’ head to put her hand on his forehead. She’d not leave him, not like this. “She’ll be fine,” Cera whispered, even though she knew the words might be empty comfort.
Stonas nudged her with his head and then turned to look to the side of the road.
Cera followed his gaze.
There, huddled in the ditch, was a woman, young, her hair plastered to her head. And at her feet, hidden under a cloak, two children peered out, wet and shivering.
“Trine above us,” Cera whispered, and she stepped forward, holding out her hand.
The woman flinched back.
“No, no, don’t fear.” Cera stopped where she was. Stonas nickered and tried to take a step, faltering fast. “We won’t hurt you,” she offered.
The woman shook her head, pulling the children back toward her.
“What’s this now?” Young Meron came up, then stopped dead as the light of his torch fell on them. “Gods above.”
The young woman’s eyes darted to him, and then to Stonas, then back to Cera. There was no trust there. Cera feared she’d bolt into the woods, taking the children with her.
“Did she harm the Herald?” Meron asked.
Stonas shook his mane and snorted.
“Move back, Meron,” Cera said even as she stepped back.
“Aye.” Meron stepped back, one hand on Stonas’ haunch as he moved. “Withrin’s coming.”
Withrin was coming down the road on one of the manor’s horses at a trot. He was an Ashkevron, known for horse breeding. Cera’s relief was dispelled by the grim look in his eyes as he rode up. He dismounted, taking a moment as he waited for his bad knee to support him, but never taking his eyes from the wounded Companion.
“That’s not good,” he said, staring at Stonas.
“Worse still,” Cera said, and nodded at the huddled figures. “I don’t think they speak Valdemaran.” She caught the woman’s eye again and tried Rethwellan. “You’re safe here.”
The woman shook her head even more vehemently.
Withrin frowned. “Those clothes,” he said, and then spoke something harsh and guttural. The woman’s eyes went wide as she nodded.
“Karsite,” Withrin grunted, even more unhappy than before. “I’ve a few words, and most of them are not polite. But I can try—”
“Karse?” Meron stepped forward, and then, to Cera’s surprise, said something in the same guttural tongue, but the tone was softer, the words more like a chant.
The woman slumped in relief and started weeping. She extended her hand to Meron, and he leaned forward to help her and the children from the ditch.
More voices sounded from down the road; women’s voices, probably coming to claim Cera after her mad dash, barely clothed, in the rain.
“I’ll see to the Companion,” Withrin said. “You need to get to shelter.”
Cera put her hand on Stonas’ shoulder. She didn’t want to break a confidence, but . . .
“Withrin, Helgara and Stonas were in the Tedrel Wars. They suffer—”
“Nightmares?” Withrin said, easing his weight to his good leg. “Not alone in that. We warriors know. I’ll see to him, Lady.”
Bella ran up, throwing a cloak over Cera. “My lady! What were you thinking? And who is this?”
Cera meekly accepted the scolding she was due as they all stumbled back to the manor house and into the kitchens. Fires were being lit, and the manor roused.
Athelnor, her aged steward, stood by one of the tables, wrapped in a warm robe, looking tottery. Emerson, Cera’s tapestry weaver, was hovering beside him. Cera wished they hadn’t woken the old man, but he took his duties seriously.
“They’ve taken the Herald to her usual guest chamber,” he said. “Marga is with her, and she’s summoned those with healing skills.” Athelnor blinked at her with tired eyes. “How did you know?” he asked as the women fussed around the newcomers.
“Strip,” Bella commanded, holding up a blanket to shelter her. Cera obeyed, shivering as the cold, wet nightgown fell at her feet. Bella wrapped her in the blanket, warm and soft against her skin.
“I don’t know. I—” Cera paused before she answered Athelnor, trying to remember. It all seemed like such a muddle in her head suddenly. Bella used a towel to dry her hair.
“I . . . woke,” Cera said slowly. “And I just knew something was wrong. Next thing I remember, I was out the gate and down the road.”
“We need to clean the mud from you, and the newcomers.” Bella gathered cloths and called for hot water. “What were you thinking, not even wearing boots?”
“I wasn’t,” Cera said from under the towel.
The other women were seeing to the young Karsite woman and the two children. The little ones already had mugs in their hands and milk foam on their lips.
“And who is this?” Athelnor asked.
“I don’t know,” Cera admitted. “Withrin said they are from Karse, but I—” She glanced around, looking for Young Meron.
“Karse.” The steward’s voice hardened. Cera looked up to see hate flare in his old eyes.
“Athelnor—” she started but was interrupted when the kitchen back door swung open and Young Meron appeared with his father, Old Meron, in tow.
Why had he roused his father? Cera frowned as she stared at the wizened man with his withered arm. No need to wake him for—
Old Meron took a stool across the table from where the young girl sat. He spoke in those same guttural tones as his son had earlier.
The young woman looked up, her face alight with relief, and started spewing words out, her hands fluttering, talking quickly.
Old Meron lifted a hand to slow her. He said something, and she nodded and turned back to the children, urging them to eat the bread and butter that had been placed before them. “I told her to see to the little ones, then we could talk.” Old Meron said. “And I’d do with a bit to drink myself, as to that.”
“You speak Karsite?” Cera asked.
“Aye,” Old Meron said gruffly. “And before you go making something of it that it isn’t—” he glared at Athelnor, “—let me tell you that back in my day that wasn’t the shame that it seems now. My parents brought me over when I was not much older than that one,” he nodded at the small boy. “My folk said we were of Valdemar now, and we’d be of Valdemar, and become of Valdemar, and learn the tongue and live their ways. But we kept to the old faith and kept the old prayers in the old tongue.”
He looked around the room. “But being of Karse grew less and less something to be proud of, and we let it fade. Young Meron here knows little but the old prayers.”
“They are from Karse,” Athelnor said flatly. “Nothing comes out of Karse but bandits and bad weather. You know that, Meron. They are strangers and—”
“So was I,” Cera said quietly.
Athelnor blinked at her, looking confused, then dropped his eyes. “Milady, you are Rethwellan, yes, but . . .” he sputtered a bit. “You have proven yourself to us.”
“As will they,” Cera said, smiling to soften her words. “Once we know them as I know you and you have come to know me.”
Gareth strode in then, wet and mud covered, his spear in hand. “The Companion is in the stables, and Withrin is seeing to him. Do we have any idea who attacked the Herald?”
Old Meron leaned forward and started talking softly to the young woman.
“Withrin is in the barns?” Emerson fidgeted. “I’ll go see if he needs anything.” With that he slipped quickly out the door.
Old Meron spoke. “Her name is Katarina, and the children are her brother and sister, Lukas and Greta. She says they fled Karse, and the Herald helped them, but as they traveled, they were attacked on the road.”
“By Karsites?” Gareth demanded.
Meron asked a few more questions and Katarina answered quickly. “She says no. They spoke our tongue and were tattered, misshapen,” Meron and Katarina exchanged more talk. “Ah, ragtag. Armor did not match weapons, no uniforms, and the Karsite words they used were rude ones.”
“Bandits,” Gareth said grimly. “I’ll need to increase our watch.” He took a breath, looking older to Cera’s eyes. “After the Festival, we will have to deal with this in force. This was much too close to the manor.”
Katarina grew more agitated, talking, her eyes starting to tear. Old Meron shushed her, shaking his head.
“She says the Herald took hurt protecting the little ones. She feels at fault.” Old Meron spoke again, his voice gentle even as the sound of the words grated on Cera’s ear.
Katrina started to nod, wiping her eyes.
“Why did they flee Karse?” Cera asked. “The war is over, isn’t it?”
Old Meron looked at her from under his shaggy brows. “There are other things to fear in Karse, Milady.”
Marga swept into the room. “Helgara is as comfortable as we can make her. The worst seems to be the head wound, but the rest is cuts and bruises, easily seen to.” Her voice was confident, but Marga’s face had a pinched look. Her gaze fell on Athelnor, and her brow furrowed deeper. “Right now, we should sleep if we can. There is much to do, and guests will start to arrive tomorrow.”
Old Meron spoke to Katarina. The little ones were yawning, their eyes drifting shut. “You’ve guests coming, and every room accounted for.” He started to struggle up. “They can stay with us. More than enough room for this night, and already warmed.”
Katarina rose and lifted Greta onto her hip. Young Meron took Lukas up onto his shoulder.
Cera rose as well, keeping the blanket tight around herself. She waited as the others filed out, and Athelnor was on his way out the door. “How is she, really?” she asked Marga.
Marga and Bella exchanged glances. “Come,” Marga said.
They went to the guest area, and Marga opened a door. The room was lit with candles, and one of the women sat by the bed.
Helgara lay there, still and quiet, nearly as white as the sheets she was under.
“She did not waken as we cared for her injuries. It’s a bad head wound, Milady,” Marga admitted. “She may never wake. Even if we sent to Haven for aid, for a true Healer, it might not be in time.”
Cera nodded. She’d written to the Healer’s Collegium weeks ago about the wild kandace and had yet to hear back. “What if we sent Helgara to Haven?”
“Like as not, she would not survive in a cart,” Marga said. “Perhaps if her Companion could travel, but I fear—” Marga pressed her lips thin and shrugged. “I’ll sit with her this night, and we’ll see what the dawn brings, shall we?”
Cera sighed and said good night and headed up to her chambers. Her feet felt like lead on the stone steps. All their plans and hopes for the Midsummer Festival seemed empty now. Frivolous. Helgara was more than the Herald on Sandbriar’s Circuit. She’d become a friend and confidante, as had her Companion, Stonas.
Cera stopped dead, her breath catching in her throat.
Stonas.
Cera eased the barn doors open quietly. She’d had sense enough to dress and pull on boots before she’d snuck back out of the manor house. She could see light and hear voices coming from the large box stall along the far wall.
In the pens on both side were sleeping chirras. One opened its eyes, flicking its large ears, huffed, and went back to sleep.
“Withrin?” she called as she drew closer.
“Here, Lady Cera,” came his familiar voice.
The box stall was open, with Stonas standing in the center, drinking from a bucket of water. Withrin was using a rough towel to get the worst of the muck off his legs. Emerson was sitting on a bale of hay, a pile of tapestry straps at his side.
“It’s a bad sprain,” Withrin said softly. “I was thinking a rope sling, to help him take the weight off the leg. Emerson came up with a smart idea to use straps. More comfortable, we think.” He looked up at her. “How’s the Herald?”
Stonas stopped drinking, but he didn’t lift his head from the bucket.
Cera put her hand on the Companion’s warm neck, his hair damp under her fingers. “She’s resting comfortably, but Marga says it’s a bad head wound. All we can do is wait and see.” She hated being this honest, but it was best. Besides, given the links between Herald and Companion, Stonas probably already knew the worst.
Stonas rattled the water bucket, then started on the grain.
Cera sat on the bale, reaching to help Emerson, but he shook his head. “Lady, you need your rest. Tomorrow your guests start to arrive, and you’ll give the formal welcome. Then you’ll need to walk the Fair before the dancing starts.”
“Guests.” Cera sighed. “You mean suitors.”
“Those too.” Emerson flashed her a grin. He’d arrived in the guise of a suitor, when in fact he had no interest in anything but her support of his weaving.
“Your parents are some of those guests,” Cera pointed out. That wiped the grin off Emerson’s face.
“Father’s forgiven me . . . I think.” He shuddered. “Mother, on the other hand, might not be so understanding . . .” His long fingers nervously plucked at the strapping. “She tends to stay angry for a long time.”
“You have been writing her?” Cera asked.
“Well, yes, of course.”
Which meant no. Cera shook her head. “You’re right, though. I should get to bed.”
“We’ll stay with the Companion,” Withrin assured her. “See to him as best we can.”
“The best we can.” Cera rose. Stonas lifted his head, and reached out to bump her chest with his head. Cera stroked that soft neck. “It’s the best any of us can do.”
The next morning the rain had cleared, and the day looked to be glorious. Sellers arrived early to set up tents along the road to the manor. Gareth had already arranged rotating patrols so that all could both keep safe and enjoy the celebration at the same time.
Cera had little time to do more than eat the morning meal and check on Helgara, still lying quiet and still. “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” Marga said as she led Cera out of the room.
Hopeful words, Cera thought, but with little real hope behind them.
Marga took her down to the Great Hall to stand before the hearth. Athelnor was waiting for her, as was her handmaiden, Alania. She hovered close, ready to escort the guests to their rooms.
“Where were you last night?” Cera asked softly as everyone got into their places.
Alania blushed, and glanced away, toward the main doors. Cera followed her eye.
Ager was standing there, looking handsome and fit.
“Ah.” Cera smiled. “Never mind.” She raised her voice. “Let us greet our guests!”
One by one the families came in, bowing and introducing themselves. Athelnor announced them loudly, then kept his voice low as he reminded her of their holdings. They’d gone over the list in the weeks before, totting up the potential economic benefits of every potential suitor.
Benefits to Sandbriar. Not necessarily to Cera.
“My Lady,” Athelnor droned on, “May I present the Merchant Petros, his wife Gretchen, and their sons Alonz and Alfred.”
“Welcome to our Midsummer Festival.” Cera smiled as they bowed. The boys were both young and pimply, and she mentally crossed them off the courting list.
“Our boy Alonz is much taken with you, My Lady,” Petros smiled.
Cera didn’t let her smile falter. “I look forward to the dancing,” she said. They bowed, and Alania took them in hand.
So it went, a seemingly endless procession of lords and ladies and merchants and craftsmen from her lands and the surrounding areas. Cera’s smile started to hurt.
“My Lady,” Athelnor droned yet again. “May I present Lord Cition and his Lady Parissa.”
Cera’s smile warmed. “Lord Cition, so good to see you again. Lady Parissa, I am glad to meet you at last.”
It was clear where Emerson got his tall, thin frame. Cera reached out her hand to greet them. Lord Cition’s smile was warm, but Parissa seemed a bit cool as she spoke. “And where is my errant son?” she asked, scanning the room.
“My Lady,” Athelnor spoke again. “May I present Master Craftsman Falor, and his sons Felix and Fenton.”
“Come, Parissa,” Cition took his wife’s arm. “We’ll no doubt find Emerson at his loom.”
Cera turned to Master Craftsmen Falor and offered her greetings. His sons towered over her like trees. He was extolling their virtues when a ruckus started by the main doors.
“Out of my way!” a loud piercing voice crackled. “I’ll see the Lady Cera now, thank you.”
A tall, handsome man with a scowling face strode down the length of the hall, focused on her. Cera caught her breath; for the briefest moment he looked like her late, unlamented husband. But Sinmon had been suave and polished, and this man was barging in rudely and was all dressed in green. Cera wrinkled her nose, trying to remember what exactly that meant. Heralds wore white, Bards wore red, and—
The man stormed up. “Are you the Lady Cera?” he demanded. “We’ve come to see—”
—Healers wore green. Cera caught her breath. “You’re a Healer,” she gasped. “A true Healer?”
The man glared at her. “Of course. I’m a Master Healer, do you think I’d wear green otherwise. An idiot would know that.”
A man popped up behind him, shorter, chubbier, wearing plain homespun but with a smile and a shrug of apology. “Lady Cera, this is Master Healer Xenos, from the Collegium at Haven. Please forgive—”
Cera grabbed Xenos’ arm. “Come with me,” she commanded.
Everyone started talking at once as she dragged the complaining man away from the Great Hall and to Helgara’s bedside. “A Herald,” she explained. “Helgara, Chosen of Stonas. A bad head wound,” she started, but Xenos yanked his arm away.
“Yes, thank you, but I will see that for myself. Foul’s the day when laypeople attempt to tell me how to—”
The chubby man appeared by Cera’s side. “Perhaps, Xenos, we should leave you to work,” he said, starting to usher everyone else from the room. “I’ll be outside if you need aught.”
“I suppose this room is adequate,” Xenos approached the bed. Cera hesitated to leave, but then she saw him place a gentle hand on Helgara’s forehead.
“Come,” whispered the other man, and Cera left, pulling the door closed behind her.
The corridor was filled with Athelnor and Marga and Alania, with both anxious and shocked looks.
The chubby man heaved a breath. “Now that Xenos has managed to offend everyone, please let me introduce myself. I am Master Jebren, an apothecary, traveling with Master Healer Xenos at the behest of the Healers’ Collegium.”
“You are very welcome, Jebren,” Cera said.
“Master Xenos is really very rude.” Marga sniffed.
“Oh, yes, I am afraid he is all of that. But for all that he is loud, abusive, and demanding, he is a very powerful Healer.” Jebren gave them all a sympathetic smile.
“Thank the Trine you have come.” Cera ran a hand over her hair. “We feared Helgara would waste away if not tended to soon. How did you know of our need?”
“We didn’t,” Jebren said. “We—”
The door behind them opened, and Xenos appeared. “A bad head wound. Other injuries, but their treatment was adequate. Barely.”
Marga huffed at that.
“We need food and drink and someone to see to our mounts,” Xenos demanded. “And a cushion for the chair, since I will be spending hours of my time at the Herald’s side.”
“She is awake?”
“I am a Master Healer, not an avatar working miracles,” Xenos snapped. “Only a fool would expect results that quickly. And don’t be making inquiries, either. I will send word when there is word to send. Jebren, don’t just stand there. See to it.”
The door closed before anyone could reply.
Jebren sighed, then gave them all a hopeful look. “Shall we be about it?”
Later, Cera had a lighter heart as she walked through the Fair, Gareth at her side. She’d managed to convince him not to carry his boar spear. He had settled for sword and dagger.
The Fair was not the finest, or the biggest, but it was her first in Sandbriar, and she meant to do right by her people. This was not just a day of dancing and celebration. Her father had long taught her the need to go out and talk to merchants, traders, and craftsmen. To learn what the markets would bear and what the people had a need and interest in. “Knowledge brings trade,” he’d told her, and she was her father’s daughter.
It aided her that Gareth was well-known, being Athelnor and Marga’s grandson. He received a lot of attention, and pinches of his cheek. “How like your father you are,” many a granny said. “Almost a man!”
It embarrassed him to no end.
Cera kept her eyes open to any and all possibilities for her people. She admired the local wares and praised any she thought worthy, trying not to play favorites. She made certain to stop and talk to foreign merchants as well. Anything that would encourage the health of Sandbriar’s fortunes. Her former home, Rethwellan, held promise. Karse was a close neighbor, but Cera hesitated to even broach that subject, given Athelnor’s feelings. Still . . . it bore thinking on.
At one of the tents displaying needles and wooden frames for embroidery, she found Lady Parissa making a purchase.
“Lady Cera.” She nodded. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course,” Cera said. She looked back to see Gareth looking over a knife-maker’s display, and getting his cheek pinched yet again. “Did you find Emerson?”
“Yes,” Parissa shook her head, clearly exasperated. “At his weaving, as Cition said. As glad as I was to see him, I have not forgiven the boy. He deceived his father and me as to his purpose in coming here. And he never writes.”
Cera smothered her chortle. “I don’t think your son has any real interest in me,” she said gently.
“No,” Parissa agreed. “Who is this ‘Withrin’ Emerson keeps talking of?”
“Withrin Ashkevron,” Cera said. “Of Forst Reach, to the North. He came with the chirras that I hope to breed to replace the old herd.”
“Of that family?” Parissa looked interested and thoughtful. “Good prospects, then?”
“I hope to see him settle here, although no final decisions have been made yet.”
“And why not?” Parissa demanded. “Why do you hesitate?”
“Well, we’d put off decisions until after the Festival,” Cera said. “It has nothing to do with Withrin’s abilities. But I fully intend to—”
“Good. He will need lands sufficient to be able to support Emerson.” Parissa walked on, glancing at the wares in the booths around them. “And earn an income. That is a war wound, yes? Does he have skills beyond those of a warrior?”
Cera stopped dead, letting the people flow around her. “Lady Parissa, are we bargaining for their dowries?”
“Yes, of course. Emerson has skills as a weaver, and his tapestries may be potentially marketable. I admit that is yet to be seen, but—”
“But they haven’t—” Cera stopped talking, nonplused. “They’re still dancing around one another like—”
“Lovesick fools? Yes.” Parissa nodded. “But Withrin will be your man, and you are the Lady of Sandbriar. Cition has told me that you are a merchant’s daughter. I expect you to look after his interests as I will look after my son’s. After all, is that not what we do? Protect our own?”
“Yes,” Cera said. “We do.”
“Left to their own devices men are idiots.” Parissa rolled her eyes. “Adorable, loving, trusting, impractical idiots.”
“Well,” Cera started them walking again. “I insist that we wait until they make up their own minds.”
“Or someone makes up their minds for them.” Parissa snorted. “Another thing, about those chirras.”
Cera perked up. “Yes?”
“The wool of the old herd was notorious for not taking dye well,” Parissa said. “I have a new dying technique that seems to work on stubborn cloth. I would be interested in a sample of their wool to try to work with. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”
“Well, we are weathering them at the present, to see if they can survive the late summer heat,” Cera explained. “But let me get you some raw wool from their combing. I would be very pleased to open talks if your results are good.”
“Excellent.” Parissa nodded to her again. “There’s more to you, Lady Cera, than your looks.”
Cera blinked, then smiled. “The same, Lady Parissa.”
The sun was setting, and the vendors were closing their tents for the night, in anticipation of the dancing. Gareth had patrols both outside the gates and in, just in case.
Cera returned to the manor house to change into her new dress and slippers. The dancing area had been festooned with lanterns and candle lights and flowers. There were benches and chairs on the outside, and tables loaded with food and drink.
Cera found a quiet spot just outside the barn where the chirras had already been settled for the evening.
Jebren found her there. “May I?” he asked, and at her nod settled beside her.
“How is Helgara?”
“Xenos is still working on her,” Jebren assured her. “He told me to stop bothering him and to leave. It’s usually a good sign.”
Cera leaned back against the barn wall. “Yes, well, for all of Xenos’ talents he lacks certain . . .”
“Courtesies?” Jebren chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Which is why the Dean of the Healers’ Collegium finds reasons for him to travel out of Haven as often as he can.” He shook his head. “Xenos knows his abilities, and he doesn’t suffer fools. And he considers us all fools. But highborn, you know.” He shrugged. “For all its pluses, it has certain minuses too.”
Cera nodded, remembering her dead husband’s arrogance. “I know that well. Makes me feel an inch tall.”
Jebren nodded. “Yes, Xenos breezes in like a superior whirlwind, hits you with uncomfortable truths, then smugly sits back and basks in his own perfection. But he’s not perfect. Skilled, with a powerful Gift, I will grant him that. And dedicated to his art. But lonely. I feel sorry for him.” Jebren lowered his voice. “He has a nickname in the Collegium. One of the instructors was overheard telling him that he shouldn’t be so acerbic. But a student mis-heard, so now they call him ‘Acid breath.’”
Cera snorted and coughed.
Jebren’s eyes twinkled, then he looked over toward the manor house. “But that there”—he nodded—“is why, for all his flaws, we put up with him.”
Cera caught her breath. “Helgara,” she called, and jumped to her feet.
Helgara was walking, dressed in clean Whites, supported by Xenos. “Don’t knock her off her feet,” he warned as Cera came close. Jebren moved to take Helgara’s other arm.
Helgara gave Cera a smile, then grimaced. Her eyes were oddly wide and distant. “Stonas,” she whispered.
“Yes, yes,” Xenos said. “All you damn Heralds are the same, get a bit of healing in you and its ‘have to do this’ or ‘need to do that.’ You want to sleep in a barn, you’ll sleep in the barn even if you needs crawl there.” Xenos frowned at Cera. “Where is the damned horse?”
“This way,” Cera smiled, and she led them to the box stall.
Young Meron was sitting with Stonas, with Katarina and the children. Lukas and Gerta were playing at Stonas’ feet. They all sprang up when they caught sight of Helgara, crying out a welcome.
Helgara stumbled forward and clung to Stonas’s neck, pressing her face into his mane. She shook, they both shook, and their quiet joy filled Cera’s eyes with tears.
Outside, the players had started tuning their instruments, launching into a joyous tune. The chirras started to hum, and Lukas and Gerta started to dance, holding each other’s hands. Meron twirled Katarina around, and they both laughed out loud. Jebren and Cera exchanged quiet smiles.
“I suppose you want me to heal the horse, too,” grumbled Xenos.
“YES!” they all chorused.
Cera returned to the dancing area with a lighter heart. Athelnor was seated close to Marga, holding her hand. He gestured to Gareth, who drew in a deep breath. “Let the Festival begin! Dancers, to the center!”
Cera grabbed Gareth’s hand, and they started in, a wonderful circle dance with partners changing at every twirl. The music was rough but spirited, and those not dancing clapped in time. Children laughed and ran through the crowd to join in the gaiety.
But after that, Cera had to face the suitors.
And it honestly wasn’t that bad. She had dreaded it far longer than the actual dances took. And there were quite a few, and all of them nice enough in their own ways, but all had a feeling of desperation, of trying to meet a goal.
She smiled and danced a few dances, then begged off another, taking a seat between Athelnor and Marga. Marga shook her head, but she allowed it.
The dance floor was overflowing, and various children were running in and out, some dancing with adults, some just so giddy they burst with energy, laughing and clapping and chasing each other. Cera was pleased to see that Lukas and Gerta had joined in the fun.
Beside her, Athelnor heaved a sigh. She gave him a questioning look, and he leaned in to her. “You asked, the other night, why they would have fled Karse,” he said, nodding toward Lukas and Gerta.
Cera nodded.
“There are things you should know,” Athelnor said. “About Karse. There are also things that I should remember. Innocents get caught up in times of trouble. We will talk about it, later, you and I, after the Festival.” He gave her a smile. “But not this night. Tonight is for joy.”
Cera smiled, and turned back to watch the dancing.
It was odd—she should be happy. The pantries were filling, the house was full of guests, her people were celebrating. They’d survived the winter, and with hard work and a bit of luck they’d flourish in the next, praise the Trine. Helgara healing, joyful faces all around, and yet her sadness and loneliness settled on her like a heavy cloak.
Even as she danced and twirled, she couldn’t help but think. Her late, unlamented husband has been charming, witty, a splendid dancer. At least until the doors to their chambers were closed, and the abuse began.
Cera glanced at Athelnor and Marga, seated side by side, happy and joyful, watching the dancing. They had been married long years, and that seemed like something to dream of, to desire.
But how could she ever trust again? Trust another? Trust herself? She’d thought she’d loved Sinmon and that he had loved her, but it all turned to ash in her mouth. How could she believe her heart again or even know—
“Are you well, Lady?” Jebren was standing before her, concern in those eyes. “You look like you just sipped some bad ale.” He sat close, sharing her bench, easing down carefully next to her.
Something in those warm eyes made her blurt the truth. “They make me feel like a prize,” she said glumly, gesturing to the men hovering at the drink table, watching her.
Jebren gave them the once-over. “But are they not supposed to be the prize for you? To bring some benefit to you? To Sandbriar?”
“Would they?” Cera asked glumly. “Not one of them can even shear a sheep.”
“Well, that’s quite the criterion to have to live up to,” Jebren tilted his head and gave her a serious look. “Do you offer classes?”
Cera saw the teasing twinkle in his eyes and burst out with a laugh.
“Well, I can’t shear a sheep, but I can fend off some of your suitors and offer you a dance.” Jebren rose and offered her a hand.
“I would be delighted,” Cera said.
He surprised her. For a man of his size, he was a lovely dancer, with a firm hand on her waist and a gentle lead in the dance. Cera relaxed and decided to enjoy the moment.
She did catch a glimpse of Emerson, sitting off to the side, watching the dancing with the oddest expression on his face. Withrin sat beside him, and, yes, Lady Parissa was watching both of them like a hawk.
She also caught a glimpse of Ager and Alania, dancing, heads together.
The music ended and Jebren led her back to her seat. “Can I get you an ale?” he asked and she nodded as another tune rose and the dancing started again.
Xenos appeared from nowhere and thumped down beside her. “Has he told you yet?”
Cera braced herself. “Told me what?”
“Why we are here, of course,” Xenos sniffed. “I knew he didn’t. Jebren has odd ideas about courtesy.”
“Which you don’t share,” Cera said dryly.
“Jebren won’t tell you that he is a Master Apothecary, and even better at his craft then I am,” Xenos said. “He won’t tell you that because he thinks of it as boasting, when it is just the plain truth. And he won’t tell you that—”
“I won’t tell her what?” Jebren stood before them, bearing two brimming mugs.
“Why we are here,” Xenos reached out. “I’ll take that. Too much ale isn’t good for you.”
“It could have waited a day,” Jebren said firmly, putting the mug out of reach. “I am drinking this. Go get your own.”
“Fine,” Xenos said. “Apparently the reward for work well done is—”
“To go get your own ale,” Jebren said. “And to get out of my seat.”
Xenos rose, and while Cera didn’t think he could actually flounce, he did leave in a snit.
Jebren handed her one of the mugs and resumed his seat.
“I thought you came for Helgara,” Cera said, taking a sip of the cool ale.
“No,” Jebren said. “We came in response to your letter to the Collegium. Well, I was sent. Xenos was an afterthought by the Dean. A happy one for the Herald, mind, but not the real reason we are here.” He’d turned serious. Cera watched him as he took a drink. “We’ve been on the road for quite some time.”
“Why, then?” Cera asked. “I expected a letter back, true, but not more.”
“Lady Cera, you are of Rethwellan. The plant you sent, which didn’t survive, by the by, since none of the carriers thought to water the poor thing,” Jebren rolled his eyes. “That plant goes by a different name in Valdemar. Thanks to the Tedrel Wars, it is in short supply. We didn’t know it grew this far to the south.” He hesitated. “It eases pain, yes, but it is also an ingredient, you see. For a potent mixture that you would know by the name of ‘argonel’.”
“But that’s a poison,” Cera stared at him, horrified. “Are you saying that I’ve poisoned—”
“No, no, it is part of the mixture,” Jebren reassured her. “In and of itself, it is mild and beneficial. Argonel can be deadly, but so is a sword, My Lady. It all depends on the usage. In the hands of a skilled apothecary, it is a blessing to those in need.”
“A skilled apothecary like yourself.”
“Like myself. And the Collegium will take all that you and I can produce, under better terms than others can offer. I am here to check the quality and train your people in making the syrup.”
“And the oil?” Cera asked hopefully. “I’ve had no luck trying to make it.”
“Using enfleurage? The cold or hot method?” Jebren asked.
A throat cleared, and they both looked up to see Marga frowning at them. “My Lady—” she started.
Cera sighed, rose, and handed her ale to Jebren. “I know, I know, my suitors.” She stood and shook out her skirts. “We’ll talk later. On the morrow, Master Apothecary?”
Jebren saluted her with both mugs. “On the morrow, Lady of Sandbriar.”
To the Honorable Apothecary Reinwald, Capital of Petras, Kingdom of Rethwellan,
Dear Reinwald, I fear that I am going to have to rescind my prior offer for this season of wild kandace. The Healers’ Collegium in Haven has made demands on Sandbriar for all that I can provide and on very generous terms.
I will have more at the next year’s harvest and will then be in a better position to open talks with you. Although I will warn you that the prices you have offered previously do not compete with theirs. While my fondness for you is strong, the needs of Sandbriar, and Valdemar, are stronger still.
With all respect and deep affection,
—Lady Cera of Sandbriar, in the Kingdom of Valdemar