Authors: Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
Kassia glanced over her son’s head to where his four-year-old cousin Lenci
watched, one grubby finger hooked in her mouth. “That’s
good of you, Beyla. I’m
sure Lenci would love a bit of your cookie.”
He sniffed the cookie again, sighed and turned sparkling
eyes on his mother. “I’ll thank Mistress
Devora the next time I see her, I promise.”
“Hmmm.
Hoping she’ll
give such a courteous young man another cookie, I’ll bargain.”
Grinning, he bounced away to where the little girl waited
for him, his hands already working to tear the glorious treat in two.
Still smiling, Kassia continued on into the house. Her
sister Asenka was there at the table that divided kitchen from living area,
carefully slicing carrots into a stew pot. She glanced up as Kassia came in,
then tossed her head and smiled, her eyes shifting to the long loaf of bread in
her younger sister’s
arms.
“Ah,
Kiska! You went by the bakery, did you?” Her brow knit ever so slightly. “I’m not sure we can
afford—”
“Mistress
Devora sent it along as a gift for our dinner. That and a cookie for Beyla. He’s sharing it with
Lenci—I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Asenka’s
mouth twitched in something that was not quite a smile. “Why that’s
sweet of him. He’s
a good little boy. Very helpful around the house. And you . . .” She broke off, turning her eyes back to the carrot she was slicing.
Shik
!
Shik
!
whispered the knife.
Shik
!
Kassia wrapped the bread in a piece of linen and laid it on
the sideboard, eyes distracted momentarily by the satiny sheen of the polished
surface. Her fingers caressed the wood, letting the grain of it pull them back
and forth.
“And
our neighbors are so giving,” Asenka blurted. “Baked
goods, clothing, extra milk . . . Why I was saying to Blaz just
yesterday how easy this past winter was compared to . . .” Her voice dissolved beneath the susurration of her knife.
Kassia watched her older sister out of the tail of her eye
for a moment, reading the averted eyes, the flushed cheeks, the too-crisp
movements of her hands. It required no shai faculty to taste the unease in the
little kitchen. She turned to Asenka, preparing to ask what was wrong when the
open front door was filled with Blaz Kovar.
Asenka jerked upright, then hunched her shoulders again. “You frightened me,” she said, in a tone that did not quite accuse him. Coming from the
usually even-tempered Asenka, it sounded almost waspish.
Blaz, his broad face closed and emotionless, glanced from
Kassia to his wife before pulling a rag from his belt and wiping his hands with
it. “Have you
spoken?”
Asenka’s
face seemed paler than it had a moment ago. “No. Kassia just came in. She was helping me with
din—”
“You’d best be telling her
your news, Aska.”
Asenka brought her head up, color returning to her face in a
flood. Her eyes locked momentarily with her husband’s, then Blaz was gone. Asenka gazed down at the
carrot in her hand as if she’d
never before seen it.
“What
news?”
Her sister looked up at her, face pale again. “It’s just . . .
I . . . Oh, Kassia, I’m
pregnant.”
Kassia caught a flash of the underlying emotions, then. Like
her sister’s
expression, they fluttered back and forth between a frown and a smile—anguish and felicity.
She smiled. “Are
you happy, Aska?”
“I . . .
Oh, of course I’m
happy, Kassia. It’s
just . . . well, it’s
a bit of a surprise. I don’t
know how it happened.”
Kassia raised her brows. “Aska, by now, you don’t know how it happens?”
Her sister waved the carrot, laughing, but still not
releasing her anxiety. “You
know what I mean. Blaz . . . well, he’s been on one of the herbals. I’ve never known them to
fail if they’re
taken as they should be, but . . .” She snorted delicately. “I’m certainly not going
to accuse my husband of carelessness.”
Kassia nodded. So, Blaz had finally found a way to be rid of
her. “Five
children. Do you know what it is yet?”
Asenka shook her head. “Blaz wanted me to go up to Lorant and have one of
the Mateu cast a divination, but . . .” She glanced at the door and
lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “I
wanted you to do it. I’m
surprised you didn’t
know I was pregnant before I did.”
Kassia laughed. “I
don’t know
everything, Aska. Sometimes when I’m
distracted, I don’t . . .
listen very well.”
“You’ve been distracted, I
know.” Asenka gave the carrot a shake, then started peeling it. “Blaz . . .
isn’t an easy man
to get along with always.”
Blaz wasn’t
an easy man to get along with
ever
, Kassia thought, but she
kept her peace. “And
now he wants me to leave—oh,
not that he hasn’t
always
wanted me to leave, but now he has ample reason.”
Asenka’s
head came up, eyes glinting. “This
house is half mine. I should tell him if I want to let part of my half to my
own sister—”
“Aska,
there is not enough room in this little house for nine people. There isn’t enough room in it
for eight, but you’ve
made do. I understand this isn’t
your decision. Please, don’t
torture yourself that you should have done more. Beyla and I will go.”
“But
where will you go? Janka’s
in no better situation than I am, and you make so little with your herbals and
such. I suppose if you had more reading students, you might—”
Kassia moved to lay a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Let me worry about
that, Aska. I’ll
think of something.”
She would have to think of something, for Beyla’s sake, whether it was
coming up with more exciting herbal cures and enhancers or finding more folk
who wanted to learn to read and write. But neither of those things were
entirely practical. She wasn’t
the only one in town who could do adequate herbals and there were a good number
of folk who wouldn’t
touch anything she’d
prepared anyway. As for reading—those
that wanted to learn usually went to Lorant and those who didn’t, simply didn’t. What did it avail a
blacksmith or a shepherd to read?
Despair was trying to settle on her. There really was very
little she could do in a village like Dalibor and the thought of moving to a
city like Radom, Ratibor or Tabor terrified her. Asenka was right about Janka,
too—not only was
their elder sister’s
situation similar to Asenka’s,
but even if it weren’t,
she’d hardly be
inclined to take her younger sibling and nephew in. That reality, perhaps, was
the hardest for Kassia to bear.
Feeling her sister’s
melting eyes on her, she murmured, “I’ve got to go think,” and fled outside.
But first
, she thought,
first
,
I have to get this wretched weight out of my soul.
She wandered aimlessly for a while, making an effort to
think, but doing very little thinking. At length, she found herself back down
by the river, standing on a little stone jetty that thrust into the broad
stream to shield the village fishing boats from the current. Her eyes went
where they would, and they would go across the river to the dark tangle of dead
trees and brush that almost hid the ruins of lost Dalibor.
There had been cottages among those trees once, not that
long ago. She had lived in one of them with her husband, Shurik, and Beyla.
From where she stood, she could just catch a glimpse of a broken wall. Stone—that would have been
her parent’s
house. Her house, and Shurik’s,
had been made of wood. It was gone, washed away along with her father, her
husband . . . her life.
The river smelled gently green and sang sweetly, yet it was
easy—too easy—for Kassia to bring
back the terror and fury of that night three years ago, when the storms had
reached their peak, when the Pavla Yeva, swollen and enraged, had swarmed her
banks and over-run the lower reaches of Dalibor.
Because both mother and daughter were shai. That’s what the villagers
had said. Because of them, the river had escaped its banks. Because of that,
Mat had taken their men.
It was true in a sense; Jedrus Telek and Shurik Cheslaf had
died because they lived on the northern bank of the Pavla Yeva and they had
lived there because their women were shai. Since that night Kassia had lived
more or less in hiding—her
hair covered along with her burgeoning shai senses, her magics bottled up to be
dispensed only in the most mundane or secret of ways, she clothed herself in
bright village garb while her mind, her soul, wore widow’s black.
This was an anniversary of sorts, Kassia realized. This was
her third spring without Shurik, without her family. Three years, and she still
mourned. She squeezed her eyes closed and thanked Itugen and Mat that she yet
had Beyla. Had she lost him, too . . .
Anger welled in the reaches of her heart—a rising swirl of
furious pain. She tore the green scarf from her head and flung it to the
stonework at her feet, leaving it behind her to flutter in the capricious
breezes off the Pavla Yeva.
oOo
The marketplace at the edge of the village was aswarm this
late in the morning with vendors and patrons from Dalibor and beyond. Increasingly,
landed folk from the lower foothills and high meadowlands of Teschen province
joined the dwellers of Dalibor, old and new, to do their spring shopping. Tabor
was four or five days’ journey, Ratibor nearly as far to the southeast; they made do with the
simple goods offered by Dalibor. Though these days, to be sure, those goods
were not as simple as they once had been. The ascent to the royal throne of the
Zelimirids had done more than ease tension between Tabor and the provinces, it
had caused a reversal of fortune that had begun in the capital and trickled
like fresh spring water throughout the once-forsaken land.
Prosperity of any color gave the citizens of Dalibor reason
for optimism, however guarded. That, in turn, made them believe they could afford
tolerance. It was because of Kiril Zelimir and his successor, Michal, that
Kassia could now walk through this marketplace, head uncovered, and cause only
a minimal stir. Minimal, if she could make herself believe the hostile stares
and startled glances did not bruise, or the frankly curious regard of the
well-dressed newcomers did not embarrass.
Wending her way among the colorful stalls, some of which
were permanent now, she concentrated on the scents of the day—fish and fruit,
incense and spice, young pine and sun-basted stone. Her goal was the booth of
one Ursel Trava who owned roughly one third of the cottages in lower Dalibor.
If she was to find a home for herself and Beyla, it was to Ursel Trava she must
go. She heard his voice before she saw the booth where he sold goods of dubious
origin. Big, loud, gruff—it
became him. It was a voice well-suited to growling out amounts—the voice of lock
gears.
Kassia slipped between two young men, who eyed her with the
rapt gaze of fish-hawks, and stood just within the doorway of Trava’s booth. It was one of
the few permanent structures here. Built of whole tree trunks, bark-peeled and
polished (and taken, no doubt, from the lower fringes of Lorant’s wood), it sported a
roof of hewn beams and red cloth. It was bought, Kassia knew, with the anguish
of those who’d
lost their poor little houses to Trava after the flood. He’d traded goods for the
houses—cloth for
clothing, planting grain, farming implements, even fishing boats. Now about a
quarter of the residents of old Dalibor paid rent on cottages they had once
owned.
Hiding her disgust, Kassia placed herself at Trava’s right hand, waiting
for him to finish haggling with a woman who was trying to purchase some
gardening tools. He paid Kassia no heed until the woman, grudgingly satisfied
with her purchases, collected them and hauled them away in a handcart. When she
had gone, Trava pulled a bag from around his waist and put her money into it,
counting the coins out one at a time, listening to each one fall as if the
sound bespelled him.
When the last coin had fallen, he sighed deeply from his
bear’s chest. “So, Mistress Telek.
You are without your scarf today. Have you lost it? Perhaps I can sell you a
new one.” He had yet to look directly at her.
“I
have no need of a scarf, Mister Trava. I have need of a house.”
He cinched up the bag and returned it to his belt. “A house? I thought you
lived with Kovar.”
“My
sister is expecting another child. There’ll be no room for my son and me. I need to rent a
cottage.”
“So.
Kovar finally got rid of you, did he? A thing he’d been wanting since the day you all moved in, to
hear him talk.”
Kassia ignored him. “One
room will do nicely. Near the river.”
Now he did look at her—a brief, flicking glance through glittering black
eyes. “I would
think, Mistress Telek, you would dislike the river as much as it seems to
dislike you.”
“I
love the river, Mister Trava. It reminds me of my home and family. Do you have
any houses for let?”
He nodded. “Some.
Near the river they’re
cheap, too. Not many are willing to live along there now.” He turned to face her, his eyes assessing. “You have money?”
“How
much?”
“Twenty
rega. Paid every fourth Matek.”
“Twenty
rega for a one-room cottage by the river?”
“A
fair price I think . . . for you.”
Kassia’s
hands, tightened into fists, struggled with the reins of a temper threatening
to bolt. “For me?”
Trava shrugged his huge shoulders. “It’s
possible, you know, that after you’ve
lived in the place, no one else will let it. There’s still ill-will here for you shai and not a few
who think you’re
a jinx. So, I think twenty’s
fair. What will you do to make a living? It can’t be easy trying to peddle herbals to people who’re afraid you might
poison them.”
Kassia bristled, fists clenching. “What matter what I do for a living, sir, if I pay
my rent on the day?”