L. Modesitt - Natural Ordermage

“Ale would be wonderful.”

“I’ll also put the honey cake in the cooler. That should keep it moist.”

Rahl settled onto the bench, careful not to bang the truncheon on the wood. He did watch Shahyla as she turned and entered the house, appreciating her grace and her shapeliness. Her figure was better than Jienela’s. For that matter, it was better than Fahla’s as well.

He blotted his forehead. He might as well enjoy the afternoon, especially since he was in no hurry to start the long walk back into Land’s End.

Shahyla returned with two large mugs, more like tankards in size. One was half-full, the other almost overflowing. She handed him the full one. “One nice thing about company is that Father doesn’t complain if I have a little ale.”

“Thank you.” Rahl took a swallow. “It’s good.”

“It should be. Father makes his own.” She settled onto the bench beside him.

“You have quite a spread here.”

“It’s the last of the old large holdings near Land’s End.” Shahyla sipped her ale. “It keeps all three of us busy.”

Rahl’s eyes took in the two shed-barns he could see and the chicken shack. “Do you grow everything you eat here?”

“No. We grow a lot, but it’s better to make the cheese and sell it and some of the steers every year than to spend too much time on growing things. We have a house garden, and that helps.”

“You must do a lot here, the cooking and helping with the animals.”

“Ma was a better cook, but Father and Semmelt don’t complain.”

“I’m sure you cook well, and you probably do everything else well also.”

Shahyla dropped her eyes, looking down into the tankard mug. After a moment, she lifted them. “You know I don’t read much. I’ve always had to work, since Ma was so sick. I do know my letters.”

“People make too much over reading,” Rahl said. “Doing is what matters, and you do a lot, more than any woman I know.”

“You’re a scrivener…”

“I’m sure you could read what I write, but it wouldn’t help with the cows or the cheese.” Rahl took another long swallow of the ale. It was stronger than what he got at home, but he had to admit that it was good. He reached out and touched the back of her hand just momentarily, caressing it with order. “It’s quiet out here.”

Shahyla gave a short, giggling laugh. “It isn’t in the morning. The roosters are crowing, and the cows want to be milked, and Father and Semmelt are shouting about what needs to be done.”

“Until you get everything in order?”

She looked down again.

“You’re the one who keeps everything going, I’d wager.”

“You’re nice, Rahl,” Shahyla said. “Do you like cows and bulls? Or horses?”

“I never thought about it. I haven’t ever ridden a horse or driven a team, and we don’t have a dog. They’d chew on the binding hides, Father says.”

“They might. We don’t have them because Father says they chase the cows, and it’s not good for the milk.” Shahyla smiled and gave the slightest giggle. “I think that’s because he doesn’t like them. The geese tell us if anyone’s coming, and the cats take care of the rats and other rodents.”

Abruptly, she looked at Rahl. “You didn’t have dinner today, did you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your stomach was growling. Leastwise, you should have some good cheese and bread.” Shahyla rose. “Come on inside.”

Rahl wasn’t about to object too strenuously. He was hungry, and his stomach had been muttering its discomfort.

Shahyla set him in the chair at one end of an ancient table that could easily have seated more than half a score, and then brought out a huge wedge of cheese and half a loaf of bread that was still warm. “We had plenty left after dinner.” Absently, she pressed the side of her thumb against her left eye to stop the twitching.

“I don’t deserve this…” Rahl grinned at her after several bites of bread and cheese. “But I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

She seated herself on the end of the dining bench to his right, putting her tankard mug before her. “I made the bread.”

“It’s very good. What else do you do when you’re not cooking?”

“Oh…I milk the cows and churn the butter, and take care of the chickens and collect the eggs. The garden’s mine, too, and I do most of the skinning when we slaughter. Semmelt’s too rough, and that’s hard on the hide. Could make a silver’s difference in what we get. I do what needs to be done.”

“What do they do? Besides feed and chase the cattle?”

“Everything.” Another giggle-laugh followed her words. “Yesterday, Semmelt and Father worked all day gelding and marking the male calves. They use a special curved knife. It’s real sharp.” Shahyla slipped off the bench and walked to the sideboard. “Here…see.”

Rahl looked at the knife. It almost seemed to be covered in a shifting reddish white film. Just looking at the knife made him uneasy. It wasn’t the gelding that bothered him; it was the gelding knife. He forced himself to nod. “It looks like it was made for just that.”

“It’s been in the family for a long time, Father said.” She replaced the knife in the drawer and returned to the bench. “Your stomach’s not growling.”

“No…and it thanks you. So do I.” Rahl touched her wrist gently-and briefly.

“What sort of books do you copy?”

“All kinds,” he replied. “I’ve been working on Tales of the Founders. ”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“I may not remember everything, but I’ll try.” Rahl took another swallow of ale, then cleared his throat. “Creslin was the son of the Marshal of Westwind…”

He told Shahyla the first two tales he’d copied and was about to start the third when the door opened.

“Ah…it’d be young Rahl, sure as I’m standing here.”

Rahl turned at the rough voice to see Bradeon coming through the doorway, barefoot. “Later, when you have time, Shahyla, if you’d be washing off my boots,” Bradeon went on. “Semmelt’s still over at the spring. Another of those clay pipes feeding the field troughs cracked. Made an awful mess. Some of the cows ripped up the grass there. Take all summer to grow back.” The herder shook his head.

Belatedly, Rahl eased to his feet.

Bradeon glanced out the small window toward the west, then back to his daughter. The sun was well past midafternoon. “I’d be thinking…”

“I know, Father.” Shahyla rose, then turned to Rahl. “Thank you for coming.” She looked to Bradeon. “He brought us a honey cake.”

The herder inclined his head. “Much obliged. Semmelt’ll be even more obliged.” Bradeon settled into the chair at the other end of the table, turning it sidewise so that he could rest his feet on the bench.

“I’d best get to what needs to be done,” Shahyla said. “I’m so glad you came.” She smiled broadly, revealing perfect, even teeth. “We’re not that far from town, but we don’t get that many folks coming out.” Her left eye twitched several times.

Rahl tried not to look at that, but just smiled. “It was a pleasure. I’m the one who’s glad to have come. I really liked the ale and the cheese.”

He followed Shahyla out onto the porch.

She stopped. “You’ll have to come more.”

“I’d like that.” He squeezed her hand gently, then released it before smiling at her one last time and heading down the steps toward the lane.

A hundred cubits down the lane, he turned. She was still on the porch. He waved. She waved back.

As he walked back along the lane, then along the High Road, Rahl considered the day. Shahyla was nice, if no-nonsense, and better-looking and smarter than he’d recalled. She was also interested in him. On the other hand, the gelding knife had bothered him. No, it had more than bothered him. It had disturbed him, so evil had it felt.