Authors: Joanne Bertin
“I guess we can’t blame them for being afraid of you, boy. You’re a bit much first thing in the morning for tired horses. Go back to the house, there’s a good woods dog.”
Kiga rumbled in annoyance but turned and loped back to the timber-and-wattle guildhouse. He was almost there when he had to dart to one side or be trod upon by a half-dressed man bursting from the house. With one hand the man held up his breeches as he ran; in the other he clutched a stout cudgel.
As he passed the crouching woods dog, the man glanced at him. Then came a second startled look, a stumble, and a muffled curse; Pod held her breath, fearing the man would fall flat on his face. But he caught himself and staggered to a halt.
The woods dog hurtled across the stableyard to place himself between his person and this unseemly stranger. He crouched at Pod’s feet, snarling.
The man gestured at Kiga with the cudgel. His heavy black brows met in a fierce frown and his lips were set in a grim line. “
That,
” he said, glaring at Pod as if she played him a trick, “is a wolvering.”
For a moment Pod didn’t know what he meant; then she remembered “wolvering” was the southern Kelnethi name for a woods dog. She nodded. “That’s Kiga, my familiar.”
He studied her, looking, she knew, at her hair. “A girl with white hair and a wolvering.… You must be Pod.”
“I am.” She tilted her head, frowning a little. Was he a Beast Healer visiting from another chapterhouse?
Then she realized that the breeches he wore were dark green; a Beast Healer’s would be brown. Her breath caught; she thought she knew who—or rather,
what
—he must be. “You—you’re from— Am I—” She was so excited she couldn’t finish.
“I’m Leeston from the Healwort Guild. I arrived late last night.” He smiled, all fierceness gone. “And yes, you’re one of those chosen to go on this training journey, Pod.”
She whooped with joy and grabbed Kiga’s front paws, pulling him up into a clumsy, shuffling dance.
“We’re going, we’re going, we’re going!” she sang. “We’re going on a journey!”
* * *
A few days later, Pod stared at Leeston’s back as he rode ahead of the group of Beast Healer apprentices. She wished they weren’t so pressed for time. She would have liked to ask questions about the plants they passed. But time was in short supply; Leeston had been late getting to the chapterhouse, so now each day they rose before the sun and made camp after its setting.
This journey, Pod decided, had stopped being an adventure. Now it was just a thing to be endured. She turned in the saddle to wave at the other ’prentices strung out behind her. Darby and Marisha, riding side by side, waved back. Their familiars, Hazel and Jobbin—a squirrel and a raven—rode on their shoulders. Jeord, lagging behind, didn’t see; he was busy talking to the grey wolf loping alongside his horse.
Funny how Conor never talks about how sore his bottom gets when he goes on his journeys,
she thought wryly as she turned back.
He always leaves that part out. Or maybe he’s just usually not in this much of a hurry. I wonder if he’ll come back for a visit once the big horse fair in Balyaranna is over.
She hoped so; she missed him.
Sighing, she kicked off the stirrups and let her legs dangle. Risla, riding alongside her, said, “Good idea.” They both groaned. Risla’s familiar, a stag named Fleet, snorted at them as if in amusement as he walked beside his person.
“Wonder how much further,” Risla said idly. She twirled a long blond curl around a finger. “Any idea?”
“None. I’ve never been this far from the chapterhouse since I was brought there,” Pod answered. “But it had better be soon. The horses are just about done in.”
“So’s my butt,” Risla said. “You?”
“The same. Still, this makes a nice change from training at the chapterhouse.”
“True—and we need to learn the wild plants sometime. This is as good a time as any, I suppose,” Risla said.
Pod found her stirrups once more and patted Little Brown’s neck. The gelding wearily flicked an ear back at her. “Dare you to ask Leeston if we’re close.”
“Hah! Do I look stupid? You heard him nearly bite Jeord’s head off this morning when he asked. But I suspect it’ll be another day or two.”
“Jeord’s worried about Trebla.” An accident as a pup had cost the wolf two of the toes on one paw. Pod thought Trebla was keeping up well, but the freckle-faced Jeord was a worrier. At her back, Kiga grumbled and shifted on his riding pad. “Want to run alongside a bit, boy?”
At the woods dog’s yip, she pulled out of the double line of riders and halted. She dismounted and helped Kiga down, then shook her head and smiled. She’d wager that a few miles down the road, Kiga would be begging to get back up. So be it; it was a small price to pay for her familiar. The woods dog started off as she hauled herself back into the saddle with a curse.
“I heard that,” a grinning Darby sang out as he passed. Hazel, the squirrel perched on his shoulder, scolded her, one paw twined in her person’s hair to steady herself.
Marisha, his twin, laughed and shook back her long, brown hair. Jobbin cawed, a raven’s laugh.
“And you’ll likely hear worse before this is over,” Pod retorted with mock severity. “So get used to it, Darby-me-lad.”
Six
The rising sun had no
strength to break through the grey clouds.
A pity—the dawn was always Sether’s favorite part of the day,
Otter thought as he looked out the temple door.
All the monsters of the night flee before the sun.
The little courtyard before the temple of Auvrian seemed even smaller than usual because of the crowd that filled it despite the louring sky.
You’d think with all those different-colored cloaks that it would look cheerful,
Otter thought vaguely as he looked out upon the gathered crowd: mostly bards in red, some minstrels in yellow, and a few townsfolk in other colors. It was good that so many had been able to come to honor Sether. Otter reminded himself to thank Priestess Kaelwynn for her well-cast spell of preservation, which had given them these few precious extra days.
Behind him came the sounds of hammering as Cadfa the coffinmaker nailed down the lid of Sether’s coffin.
It should look cheerful. Instead with all that red it looks like, like
… He refused to give name to the image that came to mind.
The hammering stopped, replaced by a soft rattle. Charilon came up beside him. “They’re almost ready,” the other bard said quietly.
Otter nodded and turned back into the temple. Before him the plain coffin of pine, now sealed, rested upon its bier. As he approached it, Cadfa slid the second of the carrying poles through the iron loops that were to hold them. At a signal from the Temple of Auvrian’s priest, four sturdy young apprentices bent to the poles and, at a whispered “Now,” lifted bier and coffin to their shoulders.
For a moment all was still. Then a soft drumbeat broke the silence.
Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone,
it said. On the fourth beat, the pallbearers stepped out. Otter and Charilon fell in behind as the small cortege began Sether’s final journey. By unspoken agreement they went to either side of Rose, Sether’s apprentice. She wept softly as she walked.
They passed through the silent crowd, which parted before them. Pacing slowly to the steady beat of the drum, the crowd of bards, apprentices, minstrels, and others followed the coffin out of the temple courtyard and up the long, wide path that led to the guild’s cemetery. From time to time a soft sprinkle of misty drizzle blew into their faces.
Otter still couldn’t believe it wasn’t only a bad dream.
Surely I’ll wake up any moment now.
…
But before him were the strong backs of the pallbearers, and beside him Rose wept for her master.
It was a long walk at any time and always an extra league or two when it was a friend, Otter thought sadly. But at last the sorrowful parade reached the newly dug grave.
The ceremony was simple. Ropes were slipped under the coffin; when it was secure, the coffin was lifted up over the grave. Then Sether’s remains were lowered into the dark earth. Many came forward to cast flowers they’d brought into the grave as the priest intoned the words of farewell.
Charilon began singing “Lady of the White Rose,” Sether’s favorite song, his voice thick with tears. Others joined in, raggedly at first, but growing strong and true, doing honor to their friend.
When the first shovelful of dirt thudded onto the coffin’s lid, many of the mourners began drifting away, unable to watch. They left the rest of their flowers by the side of the grave. Most went back down the winding path; others gathered in small groups, talking quietly and shaking their heads. One by one, they eventually wandered off. In the end, even Rose succumbed to the ministrations of her friends and left with them to a warm fire and a hot meal.
At last only two figures stood by the graveside. A fine mist swirled against Otter’s face as he and Charilon looked down at the freshly turned dirt of Sether’s grave with its simple stone plaque. They began scattering the mass of flowers left behind over the grave.
When they were finally done Otter said tentatively, “I didn’t see Widow Theras. Did she…?” He stopped at the sound of Charilon grinding his teeth.
“No,” the other snapped. After a moment Charilon managed to say calmly enough, “I went there last night to tell her that we would be burying Sether today. I was hoping she’d come to her senses. Care to take a guess who was there?”
Otter closed his eyes and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Lady Romissa.”
“How ever did you know?” Charilon said with heavy sarcasm. “You never told me you were a Seer, m’bucko.”
“There are many things I’ve never told you, my lad. Let me make another prophecy: Theras wanted to come, but the good Lady Romissa—”
“Opened her cursed big mouth and rode roughshod right over Theras. Threatened to snitch to their priest, the bloody cow.” Charilon spat in disgust.
“And that was that,” Otter said.
“And that was that,” Charilon agreed.
Both men fell silent again.
Poor Theras,
Otter thought.
Not only did she lose Sether, she’s had even the small comfort of saying farewell taken from her. Wonder if she’ll ever forgive herself for not having the backbone to stand up to that bitch?
The faint wind tugged at their cloaks. “Gods, what a waste of a good man,” Otter murmured as he pulled his cloak a little closer.
“And still we have no idea why. Even the heavens are weeping over it,” Charilon said, looking up at the leaden sky.
“So they are.” Otter knelt and gently pushed aside the flowers covering the granite stone set in the center of the grave. He ran his fingers over the outlines of the harp chiseled above Sether’s name. The edges rasped sharp and new against the calluses on his fingertips. In time wind and weather would soften them, he knew, just as they’d softened the carvings in another stone not far away.
Otter didn’t come here often; there were too many hopes, too many memories buried here, and one day soon enough it would be his turn. Was there still enough room, he wondered.…
Otter must have turned his head—or Charilon knew him all too well—for the other bard said, “There’s still space on her right. The Guild Master’s made sure of it.”
Otter nodded, then replaced the flowers and stood. He set off, wending his way among the stones marking the graves of his kind, seeking one particular resting place.
She—they, really; the babe that had been both her joy and her bane rested within the circle of her arms—lay near a spreading maple. Which was only fitting, Otter thought, as he gazed down at the weathered stone. Jaida had always favored a harp of maple wood. Its bright sound suited her lilting voice.
The sweet woodruff he’d planted so long ago sprawled now over both grave and stone. Bending over with a slight groan—damn, but this mist was crawling into his bones—Otter pushed aside the exuberant tangle of whorled leaves so that he could make out her name.
His fingers brushed against something hard and smooth, something that rocked, then steadied itself with a soft clink of pottery against stone. Curious, Otter pulled it out from beneath the woodruff.
It was a small, narrow-mouthed jar, its pale blue glaze crackled and crazed. He could see something inside, but it was too dim to make out what it might be. Charilon joined him as he turned the jar upside down into his other hand. The dried remains of some flowers spilled into his palm.
No, not a jar; a vase.
“What is that stuff?” Charilon asked. “Or, rather, what was it? And who…”
Though the dried flowers were so withered as to be well-nigh unrecognizable, Otter felt certain he knew what they were. “Bluebells,” he said grimly. “Leet.”
Charilon leaned closer for a better look. “Are you certain it’s bluebells? And does that have to do with—oh, that’s right; bluebells are a part of his family’s crest.” Charilon shook his head. “He still hasn’t forgiven you, has he?”
“For what? That Jaida married me instead of him, or that she died bearing my child?”
“Both. Either.”
Otter sighed and poured the crumbling flowers back into the jar. “No, he hasn’t. For either thing. Although the first was hardly my fault. She couldn’t stand the way he sniffed around to find out hurtful things so he could hold them over people’s heads, or how he did petty things to get back at those who crossed him.” He set the little vessel back down; no matter who left it here, it was Jaida’s now. “I’ve always been surprised that he hasn’t tried to ‘punish’ me somehow for her death.”
“It’s odd,” Charilon said, half to himself. There came a long silence while the other bard stared down at the weathered gravestone; Otter suspected that Charilon saw something quite different in his mind’s eye. He waited for the man to gather his thoughts as the grey mist swirled around them.
“Odd,” Charilon repeated vaguely. “How it’s back to Leet…”
Baffled, Otter asked, “What do you mean, ‘back to Leet’?”
Shaking his head like a man waking from a doze, Charilon said, “Oh—thinking about Leet made me think of Sether again. He—Sether, that is—he’d seemed happy enough. But I wonder…”