No True Way (6 page)

Cera stopped, startled, about to protest.

“Nay, I'll take a bed gladly after I've seen to Stonas.” Helgara leaned in to Cera. “No fear. I'll not leave you friendless this night.”

Cera just squeezed her hand in reply. She followed the woman through the door and down a confusing maze of hallways and corridors, Alena at her side. In her exhaustion nothing made sense, except a door that opened on a cold room, with a large bed and a trundle at its foot.

“I've mulled cider,” an older woman said softly. “We'll light the fire as quick as we can.” Their trunks were bustled in, carried by young boys who looked half-asleep themselves. Cera moved stiffly, accepting the warm cup as she watched the fire leap to life.

She remembered little else, other than crisp sheets, soft blankets, and the bliss of a steady surface beneath her as she slipped into slumber.

*   *   *

Cera awoke slowly to a room filled with light and warmth. The fire still burned on the hearth, and light spilled through the shutters. She stretched beneath the blankets, enjoying the comfort. Her fingers found the softness she'd felt the night before, and she marveled at the wool coverlet. She'd never felt wool like that, and she wondered idly what animal it was from. Or maybe they had a special weave?

She drew another deep breath and was content for a moment more, until she truly woke. Sandbriar, she was in Sandbriar. With a rush of energy, she threw back the
bedding, her bare toes descending to the woolen rug, and blinked at the room about her as she stood.

Her door cracked open, and Alena popped her head in. “You're finally awake,” she said softly with a smile, as she eased in with a tray. “The Herald and the Steward are in the kitchen talking, and the Cook's putting on breakfast. I'm to bring you to the Great Hall as soon as you're ready.”

“What are they like?” Cera gulped tea as Alena dug into their trunks and pulled out a dress for her.

“Nice enough,” Alena said, but there was worry on her face. “But they're talking more around me than to me, if you know what I mean.”

Cera nodded, dressing quickly and seeing to her hair as best she could.

She followed Alena through the hallways to find herself in what had to be the Great Hall, a dark and shadowed affair with a vaulted ceiling and high, shuttered windows. A small fire burned in the hearth behind the high table, or at least it looked small in the vastness of the large fireplace. There were two settings there. Herald Helgara stood before one, dressed in her white uniform.

Behind her, a portrait hung on the wall, a lovely picture of a man and a woman with gentle faces, and two bright-eyed fair boys. The frame was draped in black mourning cloth and tied back with black ribbons. A garland of dried flowers graced the lower part of the frame. A palpable aura of sadness and grief hovered in the air.

Cera walked around the table to stand before her place.

“I'll tell them you are ready to be served.” Alena whisked off through a distant door, leaving them standing there.

“Good morning,” Helgara said from the far end of the table, a good ten paces from where Cera stood. The Herald had an odd glint in her eye.

“This is ridiculous,” Cera said.

Helgara laughed, and then covered it with a cough.

Cera leaned over, scooped up her place setting, and started toward the door. “I think we'd be far more comfortable in the kitchens, Herald.”

Helgara had taken up her dishes as well. “As you see fit, Lady.”

Cera pushed through the door and into a warm, bright room filled with the smells of baking bread and frying eggs. She'd caught them all in the process of preparing a tray, presumably for herself and Helgara.

“Good morning,” Cera said politely. She moved to an open spot at the wooden table and started to set down her dishes. “It makes little sense for me to dine alone in the Great Hall. This would be far more to my liking.”

They stood staring at her, although Alena was trying to cover her smile. An older man, a middle-aged woman hovering near him, and a lad with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Various young women, kitchen workers surely, and another stout woman who had to be the cook.

“Lady Ceraratha.” Helgara's voice was rich and amused, but ever so proper. “Allow me to introduce you to your Steward, Athelnor, and your Chatelaine, his wife, Marga.” Helgara continued about the room, naming all in turn. Cera nodded to each, until Helgara finished, then they all stood in sudden silence.

“I'm famished,” Cera said and settled on a stool. “Is there any porridge?”

The room returned to life as they scrambled to serve her.

*   *   *

“Herald Helgara has told us of the death of Lord Sinmonkelrath.” Steward Athelnor cleared his throat. “I would extend my condolences, my Lady.”

They had settled in his office, a small room crammed with documents and the dry scent of papers and ink. Athelnor had moved bundles to allow Cera to sit, and now he hunched behind his desk, his wife hovering at his side. Helgara had waved off a chair and leaned against the doorjamb, her arms folded over her chest.

“Thank you,” Cera said.

“My Lady, I have done my best to follow your late Lord's instructions, but it has been difficult,” Athelnor continued apologetically. “I've sent the sums he demanded, but—”

“At a cost, you understand,” his wife jumped in, her tone holding no apology. “We've closed off rooms, drained our supplies, kept the household to a minimum. If you think to fete guests at this time, Lady—”

“There will be no guests,” Cera said firmly. “None but myself and Alena. I have left the Court and will take up residence here. I will not be entertaining.”

Athelnor sighed in relief. “We can see to your comfort and amusement, Lady Ceraratha, but I admit it will be a strain on our resources. Our coffers are limited and—”

“Lady Cera,” Cera said firmly. “And I do not seek amusement, Athelnor. I wish to ease my grief with work. Money I have, a gift from Her Majesty, which will refill the coffers. What I wish to know are the conditions of the lands and the manor. Let's start with the books, shall we?” She looked over at Marga. “And then I will want a tour of the manor and to see the flocks.”

Athelnor looked slightly dazed. “The flocks?”

Helgara coughed behind Cera. Cera ignored her. “The sheep,” she confirmed. “And the goats. And where did the wool for my comforter come from?”

Athelnor and Marga just gave her dazed looks.

*   *   *

They left Cera's purse with Athelnor, planning the best way to use the funds.

Helgara followed along on their tour, more from a sense of amusement than an interest, to Cera's way of thinking.

The walk through the manor house was a quiet one. Marga showed her the empty suites and bedrooms, the linen closest filled with perfectly folded blankets and bedding smelling faintly of lavender and cedar chips. Shelves filled with pillows and feather comforters. Beds and furniture covered in dust cloths.

Clothing was carefully cleaned and folded, ready and waiting to be worn. One room in particular struck her. “My Lady's solar.” Marga opened the door. “She used it for her sewing and embroidery and tapestry work.”

Cera's breath caught in her throat. Fabric. Needles, precious needles. Thread and floss and wool organized in shelves and cubbyholes. A loom filled the center, waiting. Her fingers tingled with anticipation.

Delicate handkerchiefs were piled high, ready for a lady's use. Cera picked one up, admiring the bright golden flowers interlaced with a twining ivy vine. At Marga's nod, she tucked one in her sleeve.

While the unused rooms and bedding were pitiful, worse still were the empty pantries, the bare buttery, the unused storage that should be chock full of supplies. “We consolidated everything into the dessert kitchen, where the delicacies were prepared for the feasts in the Great
Hall,” Marga said quietly. “The main kitchens, where the meats were roasted, those are closed and cold.”

“Show me,” Cera commanded.

And so it was. Great hearths with tall iron roasting spits and great copper kettles that had gone dark with disuse. Empty and sad and . . . lonely was the only word Cera could find that seemed to fit, if kitchens could be called lonely.

“Before the wars,” Marga's voice echoed on the stones. “Before the wars, this manor house was filled with people, especially at shearing and lambing seasons. Before the wars . . .” she repeated, and then lapsed into silence. She didn't need to say more.

They ended in the Great Hall, standing in the quiet there, looking at the portrait.

“I'll have it taken down, Lady,” Marga said, her voice heavy. “It's been draped since my lady's death, and that was long before the wars even began.”

“Leave it,” Cera said softly. “Before the war this land may not have been prosperous, but it provided. I would honor their work and their care of their people and build on it.”

“As you wish, My Lady,” Marga's voice didn't carry much hope. “I'll see to our noon meal, and then—”

“Sheep,” Cera said firmly. “And outbuildings. I may need to borrow some boots.” She swished her skirts back. “Slippers are not the best in the barns.”

Marga blinked, curtsied, and left them standing there.

Helgara chuckled. “I think you will do well here, Lady Cera.”

Cera frowned. “There is much to be done.”

“True enough, but a good start I think,” Helgara said. “I must return to my Circuit, and best be about it.”

“Before a meal?” Cera asked, not anxious to lose a friendly face.

“I'll eat on the road,” Helgara said, “and be at the Waystation by late tonight. My route brings me back through here in the Fall. I hope to see you well established by then.”

“That is my hope as well,” Cera said firmly. “But you've time for a warm lunch before you depart. And tell me of these Waystations. I have not heard of these before our arrival. Why do you not house in the manor?”

*   *   *

The Herald was a distant blur down the road when Cera turned to Athelnor. “Where can I find some boots?”

“You were serious,” Athelnor looked at her in wonder.

“Steward, I am the daughter of a wool merchant, and I know the trade. Take me, or find me a guide.”

“I'll take her.” The young boy from the morning popped up. “The herd's in the far fields, and I can saddle the mules.”

“Your son?” Cera asked.

Athelnor swallowed hard. “My grandson, Lady. My son—his father—was lost in the war, his mother died not long after.” He looked away. “Gareth will take you, Lady, and guide you well. It should be safe enough, so long as it's light. Mind you keep her clear of the worst of the mud, now,” he scolded the boy.

“Yes, Grandfather.” Gareth pelted off toward the stables, calling back over his shoulder. “There's boots in here, Lady. Bet you can find some to fit.”

Cera followed after him, a smile on her face.

*   *   *

Cera frowned at the shepherd. “These sheep have not been sheared.”

The field beyond the gate held a fairly sizeable flock. The shepherd was an old man, grizzled and gray, walking with a staff, with three large dogs at his side. It had taken Cera a few moments to realize that his right arm was lifeless, and his one eye sagged.

“Aye,” he said slowly. “Few enough to get that done, there is.”

“We'll lose them to the heat if we do not,” she said.

“Some,” he admitted. “Not all.”

“One's too many,” she said. “Bring them into the barns tonight, as tomorrow we will begin.”

“Who's gonna clean 'em?” The man gaped at her. “Who's gonna shear them?”

“We don't need the wool clean, not this year,” she pointed out patiently. “We just need the wool off. As to who, I will. Take me some time—”

At this the man guffawed. “You can't,” he said.

“The hell I can't,” she replied, and left him standing in the midst of the herd.

As she mounted, she caught Gareth staring. “You can shear a sheep?”

“Yes,” she said. “What is over there?” she asked, pointing to the tip of a rooftop she could see in the distance.

“That's old Ronal's place. Nearest farmstead to the manor house.” Gareth said. “His widow lives there with her kids.”

“They know how to shear?” Cera asked, turning her mule.

“Aye, I think,” Gareth said. “Why?”

Cera rolled her eyes and kicked her mule, urging it in that general direction.

*   *   *

It was near dark when Cera rode her mule back through the manor house gates.

“My Lady,” Marga greeted her. “We thought you lost. Whatever has kept you—” Her voice cut off as she saw the wagon following Cera and Gareth.

Cera knew it was quite a sight, driven by an older woman and filled to the brim with kids, furniture, and baggage. Tied behind were a cow and a calf, crates of chickens squawked on top of the pile, and a pig with six squealing piglets was tucked in the back .

“My Lady?” Marga asked.

“I visited two of our farmsteads,” Cera dismounted gratefully. It had been some time since she'd ridden that distance. “I found two families, one cowering behind stout walls, fearing bandits, another dealing with leaking roofs and collapsing barns. I've brought them here until we can see to their safety and their homes. Makes far more sense to gather together.” She straightened her back. “At least four of them know how to shear.”

“My Lady,” Marga looked slightly horrified as she dropped her voice to a whisper. “They will . . . this is above their station.”

“Marga,” Cera said patiently, “I will concern myself with that if they are alive next spring, agreed?”

“Agreed,” Marga had the grace to look embarrassed. “I will see to this, my Lady.”