“About what I figured,” the Shin’a’in said laconically. “Did you truss her up, or what?”
“I sent her up to the bower with the rest of her hysterical relatives,” Keth told her, the mage’s mouth set in a thin line of distaste. “And I sent Kero to bed, once she’d looked in on her brother. She’s made of good stuff, that girl.”
“She should be,” Tarma replied, pleased that Kero hadn’t fallen apart once she’d reached safety. “But it doesn’t necessarily follow. Well, I’m for bed. And see that you fall into one sometime soon.”
“Soon, hell,” the mage snorted. “I’m going now. There’s nothing to be done at this point that can’t be handled by someone else. There’re half a dozen helpers, fresher and just as skilled.”
Tarma clutched the tunic above her heart. “Blessed Star-Eyed! You’re delegating! I never thought I’d see the day!”
Kethry mimed a blow at her, and the fighter ducked. “Watch yourself, or I’ll turn you into a frog.”
“Oh, would you?” Tarma said hopefully. “Frogs don’t get dragged out of their beds to go rescue stupid wenches in the middle of the night.”
Kethry just threw her hands up in disgust, and turned to find one of her “helpers.”
The tallow should be ready about now, Kero thought, setting her mortar and pestle aside long enough to check the little pot of fat heating over a water-bath. The still-room was dark, cool, and redolent with the odors of a hundred different herbs, and of all the “womanly” places in the Keep, it was by far Kerowyn’s favorite. Dierna was still having vapors every time she set foot outside the bower—now converted from armory back to women’s quarters by Dierna’s agitated orders—so Grandmother Kethry had entrusted the making of medicines to Kero’s hands.
It keeps me busy, she thought, a little ruefully. And at least it’s useful-busy. Not like Dierna’s damned embroidery. Some of the recipes Kethry had dictated from memory, and they were things Kerowyn had never heard of; she was completely fascinated, and retreat to the still-room was not the boring task it usually was.
Retreat to the stillroom was just that, too—retreat. Dierna’s relatives, the female ones in particular, were treating her very strangely. Part of the time they acted as if she was some creature as alien and frightening as Tarma’s giant wolf. The rest of the time they acted as if she was a source of prime amusement. They spoke to her as little as possible, but she was certain that they made up wild stories about her once they were on the other side of the bower doors.
They certainly don’t seem to spend any time doing anything else, she thought sourly, as she carefully removed the pot of melted fat from the heat, and sifted powdered herbs into it. They’re amazingly good at finding other places to be whenever there’s real work to be done.
She beat the herbs into the fat with brisk strokes of the spatula, taking some of her anger at the women out on the pot of salve. She was very tired of the odd, sideways looks she was getting—tired enough that she had continued to wear Lordan’s castoffs, rather than “proper, womanly” garb, out of sheer perversity.
I’m cleaning, and lifting, and tending the wounded—when I’m not out drilling the boys in bow or in the still-room, she thought stubbornly. Breeches are a lot more practical than skirts. Why shouldn’t I wear them? Grandmother and that Shin’a’in woman do—
She had to smile at that. And they are one and all so frightened of Grandmother and her friend that if either one of them even looks cross, they practically faint.
The salve smelled wonderful, and that alone was a far cry from the medicines she used to make here. She sighed, and stirred a little slower, feeling melancholy descend on her. Life, was not the same; it didn’t look as if it would ever be the same again.
It isn’t just them, it’s everything. It seems as if no one treats me the same anymore. Not the servants, not Wendor, not even Lordan. Why has everything changed? It doesn’t make any sense. I haven’t changed. Of course, Father—
The thought of Rathgar made her feel guilty. She knew she should be mourning him—Dierna certainly was. The girl had ransacked Lenore’s wardrobe for mourning clothes, and had them made over to fit herself and her women. She’d carried on at the funeral as through Rathgar had been her father instead of Kero’s.
She carried on enough for both me and Lordan, Kero recalled sardonically. Maybe it’s just that I really never saw that much of him when Mother was alive, and when she was gone, he really never had much to say to me except to criticize. Really, I might just as well have been fostered out, for all that I saw of him. I knew Dent and Wendar better than I knew him! She sighed again. I must be a cold bitch if I can’t even mourn my own father.
She heard footsteps on the stone floor outside just then, and the door creaked open. “So here’s where you’ve been hiding yourself,” said a harsh voice behind her. “Warrior bless! It’s like a cave in here! What are you doing, turning yourself into a bat?”
“It has to be dark,” Kero explained without turning, wondering what had brought the formidable old fighter here. “A lot of herbs lose potency in the light.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” The Shin’a’in edged carefully into the narrow confines of the stillroom, and positioned herself out of Kero’s way. “My people don’t store a great deal, and that little only for a season or two at most. Don’t tell me you like it in here.”
“Sometimes,” Kero told her. “It’s better than—” she bit her tongue to keep from finishing that sentence.
“It’s better than out there, with the hens and chicks clucking disapproval at you,” the Shin’a’in finished for her. “I know what you mean. The only reason they keep their tongues off me is because they’re pretty sure I’ll slice those wagging tongues in half if I find out about it.” She chuckled, and Kero turned to look at the old woman in surprise. “We never have been properly introduced. I’m Tarma—Tarma shena Tale’sedrin, to be precise—Shin’a’in from the Hawk Clan. I’ve been your grandmother’s partner for an age, and I’m half of the reason your father disapproved of her. “
“You are?” Kero said, fascinated by the hawk-faced woman’s outspoken manner. “But—why?”
“Because he was dead certain that she and I were shieldmates—that’s lovers, dear. He was dead wrong, but you could never have convinced him of that.” Tarma hardly moved, but there was suddenly a tiny, thin-bladed knife in one hand. She began cleaning her nails with it. “The other half of the reason he disapproved of her was because he was afraid of both of us. We didn’t know our place, and we could do just about any damned thing a man could do. But that’s a cold trail, and not worth following.”
“Are you the reason we could get Shin’a’in horses to breed?” Kero asked, suddenly putting several odd facts together.”
Tarma chuckled. “Damn, you’re quick. Dead in the black, jel’enedra. Listen, I’m sorry I was so hard on you, back on the road the other night. I was testing you, sort of.”