Мерседес Лэки - Passages

There were hoots and cheering from all around as some of the men moved in to help. To Jebren’s credit, he wrapped both arms around its neck and managed to keep a firm hold.

Which was, in point of fact, his second mistake.

The ewe twisted in his grip, and struggled, bringing its rear leg down on Jebren’s groin.

Every male sucked in a horrified breath, with a few groans and guilty laughter.

Cera covered her mouth with her hand.

Jebren’s eyes bulged out, but bless the man, he hung on, but his legs curled up into the air. Which rather gave the ewe more of a target.

“Let go!” Cera called out.

Jebren gave her a startled look, as if he hadn’t known she was there.

“I got her, I got her,” Young Meron grabbed the head. “Mind your—”

The ewe stomped Jebren again as Meron dragged her off.

Jebren wheezed painfully as he curled into a ball, his hands covering . . . Cera looked away. “Perhaps . . . I’d best fetch the Healer,” she said, her voice quivering as she backed away and fled toward the kitchen.

Bella was scolding Xenos as she entered. “—you didn’t let the dough chill long enough, nor fold it enough. What did you expect would happen?”

“All the joy is gone,” Xenos announced as he dropped a hard lump of a pastry on to the table.

“Listen to you,” Bella scoffed. “One mistake and you give up? You’ll get more dough and try again, that’s what you do. That’s how you learn.”

Xenos sighed in resignation. “I’ll pitch these—”

“You’ll not waste food in my kitchen. They’ll make teething biscuits for the babes.”

Bella rolled her eyes, then caught sight of Cera. She raised a questioning eyebrow.

“One of the ewes kicked Jebren in the, er, crotch,” Cera said. “Although why he wanted to learn shearing is beyond me.”

“You really are rather dense,” Xenos observed.

“Excuse me?” Cera demanded, even as Bella sputtered her indignation.

“Nothing.” Xenos started to remove his apron. “I will go heal his bits for the sake of future generations.”

Later, Cera sat and waited on one of the upper porches, cooled by the shade and the breeze, watching the sun drift down behind the hills. The chirras were out with their shepherds, getting in an evening feed, as were the rest of the livestock, coming out of the shade to graze. She could faintly hear the shuttle of the loom going back and forth, and voices in the kitchen as the staff prepared the evening meal.

Had it really been over a year since her husband’s death? Since she’d been given these lands by Queen Selenay? Given a new life and freedom? It felt longer to be honest. So much had changed, herself included.

It wasn’t perfect. She still struggled, as did her people. For every battle she faced, for every problem she solved, a new one arose.

Still.

Cera smiled. Perhaps perfection wasn’t the goal. Perhaps freedom meant struggle. Perhaps she needed to celebrate every victory, no matter how small, and try again in the face of every failure.

She could call so many people to aid her with this confrontation. Her people, her handmaiden, there was even a Herald close by. She was truly blessed by the Trine with her new family.

She didn’t summon them, although she knew they hovered.

She finally had what she needed to face Lord Thelkenpothonar.

One thing was certain; she was done with Rethwellan names. Honestly, all those historical syllables. Cera shook her head, and promised any future children they would not be so burdened. For they would be of Sandbriar and Valdemar.

Cera sat, hands folded in her lap, and waited. She still felt a flutter of fear, or uncertainty. But the only way out was to do.

A sound of steps. Athelnor bowed to Lord Thelken and gave her an anxious look. She smiled at him and shook her head. Athelnor smiled in return, bowed, and left.

“Ceraratha.” Thelken stood there, still radiating outrage.

“Thelken.” Cera gestured to the bench opposite hers. “Please, sit.”

He was still in his sweat-stained black clothing, but he had shed his coat and unbuttoned his high collar. “I want the truth,” he demanded, refusing a seat, so righteous and indignant. “Not the half-lies the Rethwellan Royal Court gives me, or the Crown of Valdemar. I want you to tell me what happened to my son.”

Cera nodded and did just that. She told him of their life in the Rethwellan Court, how Sinmonkelrath had been one of Prince Karathanelan’s supporters and sycophants. How they had traveled to Valdemar, and how Sinmon had fallen in with the Prince’s plan to seduce, win, and impregnate Queen Selenay.

How the Prince had achieved his goal—and then treacherously plotted to assassinate his own wife in order to become regent.

Thelken sank down to the bench as he listened, growing paler with her every word.

Cera explained how the Prince, Sinmon, and the other supporters had ambushed the Queen. How they had died fighting the Queen and her protectors. “There was no hunting accident,” she concluded. “But both Crowns preferred silence instead of the ugly truth.”

“My perfect, bright boy . . .” Thelken whispered, shaking his head, the arrogance gone from his face. “Always a dreamer. Always a schemer. Always falling in with others’ plans, always looking for the easy path.” His proud features spasmed with pain before he lifted his head to glare at Cera. “You could have stopped—”

“No,” Cera said. “I could not.” She opened her mouth to go on, to tell of the abuses she had suffered at Sinmon’s hands. But no. Might as well try to talk a sheep into shedding its fleece.

“I don’t suppose you were pregnant when . . .” Thelken’s voice trailed off and he flushed red.

Cera blinked and then narrowed her eyes at the thought that he’d try to claim otherwise. “No, Thelken,” she replied. “It’s been over a year.”

He nodded and looked off in a long, painful silence. “I’ve lost both my sons . . .” he whispered.

“You are welcome to rest here overnight,” Cera said briskly. Perhaps too firmly, but her willingness to be polite was stretching thin. “However, I am sure you will wish to depart early in the morning for your home.” She paused. “If you wish to go to Haven and demand more information, you can, of course. I doubt the Crown will offer you much more than I have. Perhaps even less.”

“I . . .” Any argument seemed to drain out of him. “Yes . . . perhaps you are right.”

Cera softened, a bit. The man was clearly devastated. “You have daughters, Thelken.”

“Daughters?” Thelken looked confused. “Well, of course, but they are not capable of—”

He cut his words off and flushed again. “Your pardon, Ceraratha.”

“Cera,” she said calmly.

Thelken cleared his throat. “Your father told me that as well when I went to see him. He served me jasmine tea and denied knowing any more than I did about Sinmon’s death. Does he know the truth?”

“No. It wasn’t his story to tell,” Cera said. “It was mine.” She’d had enough; more than enough. “I will see you again at the evening meal.” She gave him a clear nod of dismissal.

He stared for a moment, then got to his feet and jerked a shallow bow in her direction. He blundered toward the door, where she knew someone would guide him back to his chambers.

She rose then, moved over to the balcony and looked out. Over the fields, the stock, and the people.

Her lands, her people, her Sandbriar.

She knew full well the pressure Thelken felt. To have an heir, someone to care for her land and people when she was no longer able. Such a thing promised continuity and stability. The pressure would mount for an heir of her body. But perhaps, just perhaps, there was another way . . .