Crucible (6 page)

Cera froze, terrified. All she could see was her husband Sinmonkelrath, spewing hateful, hateful words, fists raised to deliver yet another beating, his face enraged as he came toward her.
“Stupid, rude cow!”

Cera cried out in anguish, for there was no help, no hope, and she deserved every word, every blow—

She moaned and raised her arms to ward off the coming blows.

Ager pulled up, his face clear of anger and covered in confusion. “What?” He looked at his fists in horror.

Gareth had already exploded through the door, boar spear clutched in his hands, looking for blood. He surged forward, his spear aimed at Ager's chest.

“No!” Ondon whacked down on the spear with his cane, making the point just miss Ager and dig into the floor.

Cera felt hands tug on her skirts, and she let Alena pull her out and away. She staggered out, still stunned, feeling somehow there and not there. Trying to breathe.

She could hear men's voices arguing in the hut behind her, but the words were indistinct, muffled by the pounding of her heart.

Alena pulled her close. “Let's get you home.”

• • •

Ondon stayed with Ager, “to give him a talking to.”

Gareth glowered as he mounted, but Cera insisted he come with them. The headman would deal with Ager in his own way. She wanted nothing more than to be gone from this place.

They were halfway home when her numbness wore off. Cera slipped from her saddle, ran into the concealing brush, and dropped to her knees as she threw up.

She was aware of the commotion behind her, but was helpless to do aught but try to breathe through her heaves.

And when all that was left to bring up was bile, and not much of that, all she could do was pant and stare at the disgusting mess of vomit and feelings scattered over the autumn leaves.

“Here now,” Alena whispered at her side as a gentle hand rested on the back of her neck.

Cera shuddered as the touch cut through her pain. Alena pulled her back to sit, her skirts a jumbled mess around her.

“Is everything alright?” Gareth called.

“My lady's using the woods,” Alena called back. “Keep to the road.” She sat down beside Cera. “Here,” she used a waterskin to dampen a handkerchief. “It's alright now, you are safe,” she crooned as she wiped Cera's face.

“No,” Cera coughed, trying to clear her throat. “Oh, Alena, Alena, I thought I was free of him.”

“You are, you are—” Alena started to weep.

“No, no . . .” Cera could barely force out the words through her tears.

Alena leaned in, pressing their heads together. “Oh, my lady. I failed you so.”

“What?” Cera coughed, trying to look her handmaiden in the eye. “How so?”

“I knew, I knew how he beat you, and I didn't—” Alena drew in a ragged breath. “I could hear, through the walls, I saw the bruises, but I did nothing, Lady, and I should have—”

“Oh, Alena . . .” Cera sighed, and pulled her into a hug. “Sinmon would have, would have—” She shuddered at the thought. “He would have discharged you, or worse, if you had tried. No, no—”

“I was so afraid, and I should have found a way, or been braver, or truer to you—” Alena wept even harder, and they clung to one another and cried and cried until there were no more tears.

A deep cough came from the road. Gareth, trying to get their attention. “My lady, the sun is setting. We'd best get back on the road.”

“A moment,” Alena snapped.

“Eh?” Gareth called back. “Ladies, you're speaking Rethwellan. Been speaking it for a while.”

Thank the Trine for that.
“A moment,” Cera called in the language of Valdemar. She and Alena made themselves presentable in a flurry of wet handkerchiefs and combs. They helped each other through the brush, emerging to find a worried Gareth standing with the animals.

“I'm fine,” Cera said. “Let's be on our way.”

It wasn't long before she was back in the warmth of her chambers. Marga and Alena fussed, with blankets and hot tea, stoking up the hearth. Alena brought her dinner on a tray.

Cera settled into her chair, dug her toes into the thick rug, and ignored the food next to her. Instead, she pulled the blankets up to her shoulders.

Despite the warmth, she was suddenly cold.

• • •

In the morning, as was her custom, she passed through the Great Hall and went to the small dessert kitchen for breakfast.

The Great Hall was filled with the families she had gathered from surrounding farms and moved here for the safety and security their numbers offered. She was greeted as she skirted the tables filled with old men and women and children. Ondon's village wasn't the only place lacking in the able-bodied. She'd have to try to get a letter off to her father with the last caravans.

The larger kitchens were going strong, filled with bakers and spit-boys, the cooks in command. But the smaller dessert kitchen was a haven of quiet, and she and the core staff had taken to eating breakfast in its relative peace.

Athelnor was already at the table, a bowl of porridge and cream before him. “Good morning, my lady,” he said, his face wrinkling with his smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Cera lied, not quite feeling up to returning his good cheer. She took a cup of tea from Marga with a grateful glance.

“Are we going out again?” Gareth was stuffing his face with warm bread.

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” Marga admonished.

“Yes, Grandma,” Gareth said with a full mouth and a cheeky grin.

“I don't think so,” Cera said carefully as Alena put a bowl of hot porridge in front of her. “I'm thinking of staying in today. It looks like rain, and I've got a chill from yesterday.”

She didn't miss the glance Marga and Athelnor exchanged, but they didn't say anything. Alena gave her a narrow look, but Cera ignored her. She was cold. And it did look like rain.

“Besides, I want to review the accounts and tax records we must forward to Haven,” Cera said. As a merchant's daughter, she'd a fondness for neat rows of numbers, tallying up the household's income and expenses. The soothing simple sums, with clear answers.

“Of course,” Athelnor said. “Although I thought you were saving that task for when the snow came.” He hesitated, but he didn't question her further, to Cera's relief. “After breakfast, I will bring them to your rooms.”

“I'll hunt, then,” Gareth said with satisfaction, his voice cracking just a bit.

“Well, if you are wandering the woods, watch for walnuts.” Marga put more bread and a crock of butter on the table. “Acorns too, if you see any. As many as you can get.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Gareth stuffed the rest of his bread in his mouth, grabbed his boar spear, and bolted for the door.

“And mind you dress warm,” she called behind him.

Cera tried to relax into the warmth and comfort of routine as she ate. The idea of a day filled with columns and numbers was a good one. A comfortable one.

A safe one.

• • •

A few days later, Cera looked up from the account books to find Alena glaring at her, tray in hand.

“A fine thing, burying yourself in work like this for days on end,” Alena said. “'Tis a fine sunny day out, and maybe one of the last few we see before winter sets in.”
She set the tray down, shoving the account books to the side. “I'll just open the shutters, and—”

“No,” Cera snapped. “Leave them be.”

“But, my lady,” Alena put her hands on her hips. “You can't hide—”

“I can do as I will,” Cera glared at her handmaiden. “And it is not your place to say otherwise.”

Alena stepped back, her hands wrapped in her apron, the hurt clear on her face. “As you say, Lady Ceraratha,” she said quietly, and disappeared through the door—leaving Cera to sit alone, guilt and shame burning a hole in her gut.

After a moment, she set the tray on the floor, drew the account book close, and set back to work.

• • •

She'd lost track of the hours and days, because the numbers filled her head, shutting out all other thoughts. But the numbers that she loved so well had twisted on her. Columns and figures no longer added up, and she'd made more mistakes then anything else. Deep in the accounts, lost in frustration, her anger flared when her door opened again.

“I asked not to be disturbed,” Cera snapped.

“I ask your pardon, Lady Ceraratha. I thought to pay my respects.”

Cera looked up, blinking in the dim light, to see an older, middle-aged woman dressed in white standing in the door. She had a no-nonsense face, short gray hair, and a slight worry wrinkle between her brows.

“Herald Helgara,” Cera rose stiffly. “I did not know you were due. Has the comfort of your Companion, Stonas, been seen to?”

“Oh, yes,” Helgara said, coming farther in and shutting the door behind her. “Even now some of the younger children are looking for flowers to weave into his mane and tail.”

Cera smiled at the idea, but it faded as she realized that she had failed in her duties. “Forgive me,” she said
as she returned to her seat. “I should have welcomed you myself.”

“Marga told me that you have been ill,” Helgara settled in one of the stools near her writing table. “I was sorry to hear it.”

“My thanks,” Cera said, shifting the papers around on her desk. “How goes your Circuit?”

“Well enough, until now,” Helgara said. “I broke off my regular Circuit to return here. Another Herald has taken my place.”

“Why so?” Cera asked.

“For you,” Helgara said softly. “Word came that the Lady of Sandbriar had taken ill.”

A pang filled Cera's chest—yet another thing she was at fault for. “I'm sorry,” she said. “A passing thing, really. Nothing that you need concern yourself with.”

There was a long silence. Then Helgara sighed. “You have been up here for some time, days now, I understand. You have canceled your plans for your trips, and there is a shearing festival that you had been planning that also seems to have been canceled.”

Cera looked away.

“Young Gareth can tell me little, other than a man threatened you, and you wept like your very heart was broken.”

Cera stared down at her work.

“Alena is very loyal, very quiet, and very worried,” Helgara continued. “She has a haunted look about her.”

Cera stared at her goose-quill, watching her breath disturb the feathers.

“Did that man, the one named Ager, did he harm you, Lady?” Helgara asked softly. “If so, I will see him brought to justice.”

“No, no.” Cera shook her head. “It was nothing like that, really it wasn't.” Guilt washed through her again, for it
was
her fault. “I shouldn't have disturbed that poor man. I overreacted.”

“Is there anything you wish to talk to me about?” Helgara asked gently.

“No, no,” Cera said again. “I'm fine.”

Helgara waited for a moment and then started to rise from her seat. “Very well. If there is aught you wish to—”

Cera glanced at her when her words cut off. Helgara's eyes looked unseeing into the distance.

After a long moment, Helgara sank back to the stool, with an odd, reluctant look on her face. “Stonas says I should speak to you about—” She swallowed and let her gaze drop to the floor. “About a private matter. I'd ask that you hold it in confidence.”

“Of course,” Cera murmured, puzzled at the sudden change in the Herald.

“There are those of Valdemar who think we Heralds and Companions are perfect.” Helgara did not lift her eyes. “Strong, courageous. Without flaw.”

Cera was confused. “Of course. You are Chosen of the Companions and the Heralds of the Queen.”

Helgara folded her hands together in her lap. “We are far from perfect,” she said, her voice oddly clipped. She paused for a moment, as if looking for words. “Stonas has . . . nightmares.”

Cera watched as the older woman studied her own hands.

“Stonas and I share a strong gift of Mindspeech,” Helgara continued. “He has . . . vivid nightmares of the Tedrel Wars. Except nightmare is too tame a word.” The Herald drew a deep breath. “They are too real to be dreams. Flashes of images, of fighting, of death at our hands . . . he becomes lost in the horrors, and because of our link, I—I become lost with him . . .” Helgara choked.

Cera blinked. The calm, strong woman in front of her was tearing up.

“I awake, drenched in sweat, my heart racing, sword in hand, at fever pitch and battle-ready. Stonas is usually in worse shape, pounding at the stall walls, ready to kill
any that stand between me and him.” Helgara's hands clenched tight together. “This doesn't bode well for those around us during these nights. It is one reason I do not have an intern with me these days.”

“There's no getting back to sleep,” she continued. “For we both tremble at the memories, made worse by the guilt he feels for having pulled me in. There is no rhyme or reason to these . . . attacks. It shakes us every time. If we are at a Waystation—” Helgara's eyes crinkled with a flash of humor. “—which aren't half as bad as you think they are, by the way, I will take my bedding and curl up with Stonas. We watch the sun rise and comfort ourselves with the hope of the new day. It takes us time to recover. But each time, we find our way out through the darkness. We endure.”

Helgara finally lifted her eyes to Cera, and she had to look away from the pain she saw there.

“Together,” Cera whispered. “You do it together.”

“Admittedly,” Helgara said. “But are you really alone?”

Cera said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“Another Herald is covering my Circuit,” Helgara said. “I obtained permission to accompany you on your journeys, help you to learn more about your people. I'd also offer to teach you and some of the younger ones some defensive techniques. Certainly young Gareth needs a few lessons. A boar spear is not a perfect weapon.”