Мерседес Лэки - Passages

Cera started toward the chirra barns, waving greetings to the people she saw. For the next handful of weeks, the ”hot” would dictate the life of her people. Work would slow as the crops grew under the sun. The worry would be keeping the animals cool, especially her northern-born chirras . If they could learn to adapt to Sandbriar, she had high hopes for the soft wool of their undercoats.

Everyone was in the process of withdrawing into the shade. Until now, she hadn’t appreciated the way the buildings were built to deal with the brutal heat. Windows placed to catch the breezes and channel them into the depths of the structure. Wide porches to shade the houses and thick trees to block the sun’s incessant rays from the roofs.

Who on earth would be traveling to see her in this weather? A suitor, perhaps. That was one of the other benefits of the ”hot”; it kept all but the most determined suitors away in this season. She’d made it known that she was a working landowner, with little time other than after the dinner hour to sit and be courted. Since the heat made travel difficult for man and beast, it normally would have afforded her a respite.

Until now.

Cera shrugged. The idea of a suitor arriving no longer caused her to worry. She’d make her own choices—to her benefit and to Sandbriar’s.

She passed the building where one of her previous would-be suitors, Emerson the tapestry weaver, had set up his loom, still working on finishing his grandmother’s tapestry. No sound of the shuttles being worked, so he was probably preparing to rest for the afternoon as well. Thankfully, Emerson was far more interested in her wool than in herself, and he had made that clear to all and sundry.

She saw Withrin Ashkevron peering out the barn door and hurried her steps, not wanting to keep him waiting. He smiled as she came up to the large barn doors. “Just about to hang the coolers.”

Ager, once the old Lord’s chirra herder, was there as well, and he nodded at Cera as she walked in. Some of the stable boys were tying long strips of linen to rods and filing troughs of water that sat in the doorways where the breeze came in. Men were in the lofts to haul the rods and wet linen up and hang them, letting the strips hang down, cooling the barn.

The chirras were all settled in the center of the barn, chewing their cuds, blinking their sleepy eyes at her. Every once in a while, one ear would twitch and then all the ears would twitch, like a wave. Cera smiled at the sight and then gave Ager a hopeful look.

The thin, spare man shrugged. “So far, they are doing well. They’ve spaced themselves out, see, so that the breeze gets between them.”

“No signs of heat stress,” Withrin said. “Time will tell if they can truly get accustomed. It is hot,” he said ruefully, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Aye, ya need to adjust too, northerner,” Ager said kindly. “Your first time in the ‘hot.’ Best get ya to a cool place and hunker down. I’ll stay with the beasts.”

“Emerson’s stopped working,” Cera said innocently. “At least, I didn’t hear him at the loom.”

“Oh, er,” Withrin grabbed his hat, grinning sheepishly. “Well, I’ll just go check on him, shall I?”

Ager and Cera exchanged a glance as he trotted out of the barn. “Think he’ll ever work up the nerve?” Ager asked softly.

Cera arched an eyebrow. “Will you?”

She regretted it immediately when Ager’s face fell. “Alaina and I seem to be on the outs,” he said gruffly. “I need to make sure the boys keep the troughs full. Excuse me, milady.”

So much for being the perfect lord of the manor. Cera could have kicked herself.

“Best leave that alone,” Old Meron’s voice came from one of the stalls.

Cera walked over to him, concerned. Old Meron’s brain storm had left him with a limp arm and walking with a cane, but he prided himself on keeping watch over the barns. “You shouldn’t be out in the ‘hot’,” she scolded.

“Just checkin’ on guests,” he said, nodding into the stall. His three dogs were flopped down on the floor, their tongues hanging out.

Cera peered in.

A Companion lay within, somehow glowing white against the dark wood of the stall walls. Curled up in the fresh bed of hay next to Stonas was Helgara, the Herald who had been attacked by bandits before the Midsummer Festival.

“Helgara,” Cera said softly. “How are you?”

“Lady Cera,” Helgara opened drowsy eyes. “Still having trouble with my eyes. Dizziness, too, but much better than dead.”

Stonas snorted his agreement.

“Xenos does what he can,” Helgara continued. “But some of the healing must be left to time and nature.” She smiled. “Not that he admits that.”

“Sounds like Xenos,” Cera said. “Will you be cool enough here?”

“Yes,” Helgara yawned. “I wanted to go out on patrol with Gareth and the Guard that Haven sent. But I was overruled.”

Stonas snorted again, his opinion fairly clear.

“Stonas is right,” Cera said. “And it was good of Haven to send us support. Those bandits were getting too bold. Sleep well,” she added, as Helgara’s eyes drifted closed.

Old Meron was waiting when she came out of the stall. “Did you see they caught that old ewe, finally?” He nodded to one of the open pens where one of the biggest sheep Cera had ever seen was penned. The ewe put her head over the pen wall and loudly bleated her displeasure.

“Where did they find her?” Cera asked.

“Down by the river, hiding in the bushes, where I said she’d be. Hates shearing, she does, but mighty fine wool off that old girl.” Old Meron limped over as his dogs followed. “Keeping her off feed, so her stomach’s empty when we shear her this afternoon. Teach them that wants to learn how to shear and skirt a fleece.”

“You best get yourself home,” Cera scolded.

“Clacking like an old woman now, are ya?” Old Meron grinned, but he put his hat on. “Come on boys, time for cool water and sleeping off the hot.” He mock-glared back at Cera. “You too, milady.”

Cera laughed and headed back to the manor. Alaina would be waiting, with cool cloths, and her bed turned down. But as she strode through the yard, a runner came up, breathing hard. “You’re wanted at the gate, milady.”

Probably that suitor Hurlbert had warned her of. Cera nodded to him, and started toward the main gate.

She ran into Gareth, coming to find her, a stormy look on his face. “Don’t understand a word they say, but I don’t like anyone who treats horses that way,” he muttered to her.

Cera nodded, looked toward the gate—and lost her breath.

Lord Thelkenpothonar, Sinmonkelrath’s father, sat on his fine horse, observing all about him with disdain. When he saw her, an all too familiar scowl crossed his face, one she’d seen on her late husband’s face many a time.

Usually just before he raised his fists to her.

Cera froze.

Lord Thelken dismounted and then stumbled, swaying as he grabbed for his horse’s mane. The man was flushed, his shirt and coat sweat-stained. His people looked no better, and the sweating horses were breathing heavily and drooling.

Anger flooded through her, that anyone would treat his people and animals that way. Cera breathed, then moved forward. Her people were milling about as Lord Thelken’s men tried to assist him.

As she drew close, Lord Thelken glared at her. “I’ve come for the truth, girl,” he spat in Rethwellan.

“I might not speak that tongue, Lady Cera,” Gareth spoke in Valdemaran. “But I know rude when I hear it.”

“Greetings, Lord Thelkenpothonar,” Cera kept her tone polite in the face of his righteous indignation. She gave Gareth a quelling glance, and he stepped back, still scowling at the man.