No True Way (4 page)

She had supported him and had been valued for it . . . but in that sense, she'd also been defined by him.

“Raising children, too,” she went on. “I had four, all grown now. You have two, they tell me, still young. You haven't been allowed to see them, have you?”

Her children had left her young, but at least she'd known they'd be safe and cared for at Haven.

Meriette shook her head, her ginger hair nearly covering her face.

“That is a tragedy,” Syrriah said, more harsh than she intended, letting her own emotions bleed through. But the vehemence in her voice caused Mariette to finally look up at her again, and that was when Syrriah was able to see the almost completely faded medallions of bruises just above Meriette's eyes.

She looked into Meriette's eyes, opened her Empathic link wider than Cefylla—outside, but always connected to her—warned against, and understood the truth.

She'd seen this before, had helped other women in Traynemarch Reach deal with it.

“Meriette,” she said, with a gentle pressure against hands that now weren't quite as cold, and a gentler pressure against the woman's emotions, “your husband wasn't a kind man to you, was he? When I was the lady
of a manor keep, I saw this happen to women in the village, and I did what I could to help. The Heralds never stand for this. But if we're to help you, you need to tell me what happened.”

Meriette took in a deep breath, a deeper breath than she'd probably allowed herself in years, decades. It rattled through her, and when she exhaled, it was as if a window had been opened, releasing the stale, sick air of illness and finally allowing in the sweet, clean air of truth and release.

“He . . . hurt me,” she said, her voice a rasp, unused for so long. Possibly for years, really. “I thought . . . I thought for a long time that it was my fault, that I wasn't good enough, and then that it was . . . bearable, because Meri and Ethan were safe.”

Her children, Syrriah knew.

“But then—then, he shook Ethan, threatened him, and I couldn't take it—I had to stop him!” Meriette was sobbing now, her words nearly incomprehensible. She didn't need to say any more. Syrriah gathered her up and held her while she wept, a release that had been a decade in coming.

Over the next hour, she coaxed Meriette to speak and also carefully probed her mind with the lightest of touches, confirming the details the lady still couldn't bring herself to speak. Her lord had been well-loved in the community; nobody knew what he was truly like in private, not even the servants. She hid or explained away her injuries, for who would believe her?

In truth, it would still be hard to convince some people, especially only on the basis of Meriette's words. Syrriah went to the door and asked the guard to fetch Joral. For a moment she expected to have a problem asking
him to leave his post, but he did so without question, and she remembered: she was a Herald, considered the voice of the Monarch, honorable and just above all.

When Joral stepped into the bedroom, Meriette flinched.

“This is my partner,” Syrriah said. “He's a Healer. Will you let him examine your wounds? I won't let him hurt you.”

“Very well,” Meriette said. Beneath the tired resignation in her voice, Syrriah heard an undercurrent of resilience. She was still, after all, the lady of the manor keep.

Syrriah and Joral worked together, examining not only the fading but still visible bruises, but also using their Gifts to explore more deeply. Old breaks to the collarbone, ribs, forearm. Injuries that could be hidden, or explained away by clumsiness.

Lord Prothal had known exactly what he was doing.

Syrriah kept her anger in check, not wanting to let even the tiniest shred of it influence Meriette.

Joral waited in the sitting room while Syrriah helped Meriette dress and comb her hair. Then the three of them went down to the manor keep's main hall, where Mayor Quentlee waited.

Fires warmed the room from the two great stone fireplaces at either end, and a servant had put out bread, cheese, and sausages, along with slices of juicy melon.

Lady Meriette had taught her staff well.

“Lady Blenvane,” Quentlee greeted her, standing and brushing a kiss on her cheek. Her eyes widened, brightened with tears. She clearly hadn't expected him to be gracious.

She'd braced herself for the worst, probably since the
moment she'd stopped her husband from hurting anyone ever again, Syrriah realized.

Joral relayed the facts to the mayor, allowing Syrriah to add details as necessary. Then he gave the verdict, one that would be upheld because the Heralds' word was law.

“Lady Meriette Blenvane acted to prevent a child from being harmed and to protect herself from future harm,” he said. “Given those circumstances, she deserves no further punishment. It will be up to the village to decide whether she continue as lady of the manor keep until her son is of age, or whether another should be appointed. Herald Syrriah and I are in agreement, however, that we believe Lady Meriette is capable of handling the duties of her deceased husband.”

Mayor Quentlee nodded. “On behalf of the village of Blenvane, I accept your ruling and will inform the village of the decision.” He looked at Meriette and added, “Given that no one may question the Heralds' verdict, there is no need to explain the reasons behind your action. That will remain a secret.”

“No,” Meriette said, and this time the strength in her voice was clear. “I want my story told, and I will be the one to tell it. No woman—no woman, man, or child—should ever suffer in silence as I did, and only by my honesty can I help anyone in this village who finds themselves in need.”

*   *   *

Syrriah hadn't wanted adventure, hadn't wanted her life to change. She might have been reluctant, but she'd done her best at the Collegium, done her best on the road with Joral, despite her aches and pains and the desire to be safe and warm in a home of her own.

Being a mother and the lady of the manor keep had been her life, a life she'd loved, but she'd lost her purpose when her children had left and Brant had died.

She'd been given an opportunity for a new life. One where she could use her Gifts and effect more change than in just one village.

For the first time, she felt ready for the adventure.

For the first time in a very long time, she knew what her purpose was.

Brenda Cooper

A thin trickle of foot traffic made its way back into Goldleaf from the ripening fields as the sun finally released its heat and sent long, slanting rays across the road.

Helen sat amid the hedgerows, glancing down the road from time to time, only to be continually disappointed, as it was either empty or held only one or two people she already knew. Some waved at her or stopped to say hello, perhaps on their way to her family's inn, the Robin's Rest.

When she wasn't watching the road, Helen played with a fine, carved wooden Companion her grandmother had given her two years and three days ago, on the day she had turned seven. While she waited, Helen made up adventures for the Companion to share with a small doll she'd made from straw and an old shirt.

She couldn't have told herself why she expected to see a Herald and a real Companion soon. She was certain she had known a day in advance about the Herald and Trainee pair that had come through last year, and right now she felt the very same way. Like there was an itch on her heart.

While she watched, Helen hummed the tune from
“The Innkeep's Daughter,” a song about a young woman who saved a field Herald from a band of notorious thieves. She liked to imagine herself being that brave, although she liked to imagine herself as a Herald even more.

The gloaming turned to true dusk. She stood and rubbed the silver hooves clean on the inside of her dress and tucked her doll into a pocket. Before setting out for home, she looked back down the road one more time, finding it empty again.

Inside, she set her toys down on her very own small shelf by the door between the kitchen and the herb garden, breathing in warm air that smelled of soup made with the first of this year's tomatoes and some of the last of the rootstock from the cellar under the inn. Just-browning bread waited in the big, open oven that was the pride of the inn's kitchen.

Helen raced upstairs to kiss her grandmother's papery cheek. The old woman stirred lightly but said nothing. Helen's grandfather sat near his wife, his blue eyes saddened with weeks of watching her fail. He also said nothing, but he and Helen exchanged a smile.

Helen was the youngest daughter of the fifth generation that had run the Robin's Rest, and she and her siblings would eat later. For now, she started preparing plates and bowls of food, moving easily through the dance of meals that flowed from the oven to the long wooden trestle tables. Her mother sweated as she stirred and ladled, cut and chopped. From time to time Helen filled water cups. Her sister Magen handled the mead, fending off good-natured compliments with humor, even though she blushed at a few of them. Helen's brother Dravon snuck in from time to time when he took a break
from caring for the horses and stole ends of bread for his favorite dog.

Most patrons were local single men too tired to put together their own meal after a long day in the fields. Three merchants sat quietly in a corner, trading stories. With no Bard or unusual traffic to keep the common room busy late into the night, the room started to quiet only a few candlemarks after the last of the sun faded.

Helen's mother sent her up early to sit with her grandparents. She had Helen bring fresh water, a single cup of soup, and a piece of fresh bread with berry jam.

Her grandfather took the tray from her. “How are you, child?”

She smiled. “Good. I was hoping we'd see a Herald today, but there isn't one.”

“Your grandmother always knew when a Herald was coming,” he told her.

Her heart thrilled. Maybe she wasn't imaging the feeling. She thought about sitting by the window, but it had grown too dark to see the road now anyway. She chose a seat on a well-worn couch where she could see her grandfather's face clearly. “
How
did she know?”

He looked at her grandmother tenderly, and then searched Helen's face for a moment, as if looking for a resemblance. “She told me once that it was like having an extra sense, only it wasn't always there. Just when it was needed.”

“Like a Healer's gift, or a Bard's gift?” She put a hand on her heart, which still felt itchy. “Or a Herald's?”

“Some gifts are great and noticeable, like the Bard who came through here last winter and warmed us all through the worst of that ice-storm.” His voice was still strong, like a younger man's, except he had to stop more often for
breath than he used to. “But other gifts are small and seem to appear only when Valdemar needs them.”

While Helen thought about that, her grandfather touched his wife's pale cheek and held her hand briefly in his before he took a bite of the bread. Last night, he'd tried to feed the old woman, and she had refused.

Tonight, he didn't even try. That made Helen a little sad, but she didn't say anything about it. Instead, she asked, “Can you tell me about grandmere's extra sense?”

“If you had been alive while she was still running the kitchen, you might have noticed that the best meals always graced our tables on the days that Heralds and Bards and Healers came through town. If women smelled her best pies cooking during the day, they scraped up their pennies to eat with us at the inn.”

“Really?”

“Would you like me to tell you a story?”

She nodded. He often told her stories while they sat by her grandmere these last few months.

He looked solemn. “This is a long story. Are you ready to settle in?”

She thought about going down for her horse and doll, but decided she was old enough to leave them. She wiggled around a little and tucked a pillow under her arm. “Yes.”

“I loved your grandmother Ella from the time she was twelve, and she loved me. There was never any question between us about who we would marry, except that her eyes always turned a tiny bit over the horizon toward Haven. I used to look as well, hoping against hope that no lone Companion would come and take her away from me.

“None did.

“Even though none came to Choose her, Ella knew
whenever a Herald was headed toward us. She also knew about Bards and Healers and would be sure I knew to be here on those nights. But she lived and breathed for the visits of Companions. She would brighten a day or two before they came, and she would lay out the best feed and clean every corner of the stables. You know the big stall with no door where we put them when they come? She did that herself, pulling out a wall and taking a door off of its hinges, and she used both elsewhere in the barn to make the smaller pens for goats and sheep in storms.”

“I know which ones you mean,” Helen replied.

Her grandfather acted as if he hadn't heard her interruption, as if he were in some other place and time. “She loved the company of Companions. The best part was that they seemed to love her back. Even though she was never Chosen, it was almost as if she and they were greeting each other as old friends. She would whisper to them, and they would whicker back to her and let her brush out their manes and tails. They would touch her shoulders with their soft noses and bump her lightly.

“Heralds came through once a month or so then, instead of once a year like now.”

“Was that for grandmother?” Helen asked.

“No, I don't think so,” he said. “The road between Haven and Jackstown wasn't in yet, and so we used to have a lot more traffic through here. More bandits and thieves worked the road when this was a main trade route. Heralds had to work harder to keep the roads clear.” He took a deep breath and glanced at his wife's still face, pausing to be sure she still breathed. “Ella always spent a whole day preparing for Heralds. I used to wonder if they timed their travel days to end up here instead of the next town over.”

Helen sighed happily, imagining herself sweeping the stable floors and bringing in sprigs of sweet-smelling herbs to decorate the stall doors. If only she didn't have a brother! She would much rather work in the stables than in the kitchen.

“This story is from before Ella was old enough to make the pies and tell the town, and even from before I proposed to her.” He leaned toward Helen. “This story is from when she was just a year or so older than you. It starts on a day in the fall, when the wind blew round the inn and scratched at the shingles on the roof and people rushed after any leftover harvest that wasn't covered and dry.

“Ella woke up normally and did her chores. The wind grew stronger, and clouds scudded and piled and filled the sky up. She was standing by the stoop watching the sky darken when she knew that a Herald was on the way. She scrubbed up the stall and went to her grandfather and got him to give her some extra good grain he was keeping against a hard winter. She put on her cleanest shirt and watched by the barn door. The children were all girls that generation, and Ella the only one of them who liked hay in her nose and scritching the barn cats.

“A tinker came in, with his cart full of pots and nails. He settled into the upstairs room. Then a set of three travelers came from the other direction, one of them handing her the reins to all three horses and giving out orders, ‘Feed and water them, but leave their tack close.'

“That was a strange command, since the barn had a good, dry tack room in the middle of it. The horses were all so hot and fractious Ella had to work hard to get them properly cooled down and watered and fed. One was a swaybacked nag with a sore hoof, one was far too fine to go with the nag, and the other had clearly worn a
harness more often than a saddle from the places its coat was rubbed shiny. The combination seemed as odd as the command about the tack. This put her on edge a little, but before Ella had time to even go in and get a good look at the people who owned the mixed batch of horses, her Herald came in.

“Only he didn't look like one.

“His leather workman's clothes were stained brown and black and had clearly never been Whites. His hair was mussed, and he looked as though he hadn't slept in days. His Companion was just at thoroughly disguised. His beautiful white coat had been dyed black and brown, and his mane and tail had both been turned black as night. Blinders covered his blue eyes, and his bridle had a cruel bit.

“Ella wasn't fooled for a moment. The bit hung too loose in the animal's mouth to cause pain or give the rider much control, and no paint could hide the fine bones and honed musculature of a Companion from
her
. He was the Herald she'd been waiting for, and he looked tired and wary and worried.

“At first he just handed her the reins to his ‘horse,' but then he stopped a moment, as if someone were speaking to him. He frowned thoughtfully at Ella and then said, ‘Lock him in a regular stall and don't treat him any different,' and pressed a coin into her palm.”

“‘Lock him?' she asked, aghast.”

Helen gasped. Everyone knew you didn't lock up Companions.

“‘Yes.' He was very firm with her, and he was a Herald, so she did what he said and treated the Companion like a horse. He acted like one, too, and didn't allow Ella to groom him.”

Helen stretched her feet out. “Did grandmother hear the Companion talk to his Herald in his mind?”

“No. She knew when they were coming, but not because they told her. In most ways, your grandmother was a very ordinary innkeeper's daughter.” He shifted a bit and looked fondly at his wife. “Ready to settle down and listen to the rest?” He seemed slightly happier than he had for days, as if it were a relief to tell this story.

“Yes, Grandpapa.” She tucked her feet under her and rearranged her pillows.

“Your grandmother put the Companion in a stall near the best of the three other horses and far away from the tinker's jackass. She fed him and watered him, feeling edgy all the while, as if the world were simply not right. The painted Companion and the brown-clothed Herald and the three mismatched horses all added up to something bad.

“As Ella was stacking the grain buckets in their corner, hail pounded on the roof and set two of the horses to stamping their feet. The Companion looked up over his box-stall door, head high, scenting the air. Ella stayed with the animals until the hail passed and they calmed, and then she dashed into the common room to grab a bowl of squash and venison stew.

“When she got there, she stood in the kitchen doorway with her bowl. The Herald in disguise sat in the corner of the common room eating quietly, looking as unheraldlike as possible.

“The three men with the three strange horses were eating together. She'd seen the tall, thin one with the cruel eyes when he left the horses off for her to tend. Now she got her first good look at the other two. One was as big around as two men, but girthed in muscle rather than
fat. He had a half-moon shaped scar on his right cheek, and he looked as hard and dangerous as the first one. The third man was less noticeable, the kind of man that can blend in with any crowd and look like the least interesting person there. At least that was what he was like until he looked at her, and then she felt a deep, cold evil when she met his eyes.

“Twice, she saw the big one with the scar glance toward the Herald.

“Your great-grandfather didn't seem to like the situation any more than Ella. He was known for having a sense of danger and for keeping people safe inside his inn. As soon as Ella finished eating, he came to her and spoke softly in her ear. ‘Go to bed and bar your door.'

“She did, but she sneaked out of the window and went into the stables, where she talked to the restless horses to try to calm herself. She felt as nervous as the animals, with the wind whistling through every hole in every board and keeping the barn cold and uncomfortable in spite of its sturdy walls.

“Even the barn cats paced and occasionally let out sharp whines and yowls that crawled up Ella's neck and made her worry more. She climbed up into the rafters with the hay and the cats, trying to soothe the half-wild felines so the horses wouldn't be worried by them. The Companion was just below her, and she saw him pace and worry.