"Look -- we're tired, we don't know anything about your land, and our friend, who might, is not even half-conscious."
So that was what was making Keth's voice sound like she was walking on glass.
"I seem to be making a mess of this," the man replied ruefully. "I am Roald. one of the Heralds of Valdemar. And you may believe your large, hairy friend there, that any Herald is to be trusted."
:They are, mindmate,: Warrl confirmed. :With more than life. There is no such creature as a treacherous Herald.:
All right, Tarma thought, worn past exhaustion. We've got no chance out here -- and you've never been wrong before this, Purface.
"Lead on, Herald Roald," she said aloud. And wearily hoped Warrl was right this time, too.
Eight
Tarma clasped her blue-gray pottery mug in both her hands and sniffed the spicy, rich aroma of the hot wine it contained a trifle warily. The stuff was too hot to drink; not that she minded. The heat of it had warmed the thick clay of the mug, and that, in turn, was warming her hands so that they no longer ached in each separate joint. And the heat gave her an excuse to be cautious about drinking it.
She blinked sleepily at the flames in the fireplace before her, trying to muster herself back up to full alertness. But she was feeling the heat seeping into her bones, and with the heat came relaxation. The fire cast dancing patterns of light and shadow up into the exposed rough-hewn beams of the square common room, and made the various trophies of horns and antlers hung on the polished wooden walls seem to move. She didn't want to stir, not at all, and that had the potential for danger.
She was wearing, bizarrely enough, some ofRoaId's spare clothing, all of her own too thoroughly soaked even to bother with. A Kal'enedral in white -- Warrior bless, now that's a strange thought. Roald was the only one of them near to her size; off his horse he was scarcely more than a couple of thumblengths taller than Tarma, and was just as rangy-thin. He was exceedingly handsome in a rugged way, with a heavy shock of dark blond hair, a neat little beard, and eyes as blue as his horse's.
I thought I'd never be warm again. She settled a little more down into her chair and the eiderdown they'd given her to wrap around herself, and blinked at the kyree stretched out between her and the flames. Warrl was fast asleep on the red-tiled hearth at her feet, having bolted a meal of three rabbits first. He trusts them. Especially Roald. Dare we?
Her chair was set just to one side of the fireplace, practically on the hearthstone. Directly across from her, Kethry was curled up in a second chair, wrapped in eiderdown, looking small and unwontediy serious. She'd been summarily stripped of her wet gear, the same as Tarma, but opted for one of Lady Mertis' soft green wool gowns. Jadrek had been spirited away as well, and regarbed in Stefansen's warmest-heavy brown wool breeches and tunic and knitted shirt.
If Roald hadn't come when he did -- Star-Eyed, we came perilously close to losing him. If I'd known he'd taken enough of that painkilling stuff to put him out like that --
Jadrek was pacing the floor beside the two chairs and within the arc of heat and light cast by the fire. He limped very badly -- walking slowly, haltingly, trying to shake the fog of his medicines from his head so that he could talk coherently again. He was moving so stiffly that Tarma hurt just watching him.
I wonder; he knew we were in bad trouble when we stopped that last time. I wonder if he didn't dose himself on purpose, figuring that we'd either find shelter and he'd be all right, or that we wouldn't, and while he was unconscious the cold would kill him painlessly and get him out of our hair. That's something a Clansman might do. Damnit -- I like this man. And he has no reservations about Stefansen and this Herald. But I do. I must.
Stefansen's wife, Mertis (that had come as a shock to Jadrek, that Stefansen had actually wedded), was seated in another chair a bit farther removed from the fire, nursing their month-old son. I like her, too. That's a sweet little one -- why do I have to distrust these people?
Stefansen, who resembled Idra to a startling degree, (except that on a man's face the features that had been harsh for a woman were strong, and those that had been handsome were breathtaking) was talking quietly with Roald, the two of them sitting on a pair of chairs they'd pulled up near to Mertis. A most domestic and harmonious scene, if you could ignore the worry in everyone's eyes.
Good thing we had Jadrek to vouch for us, or Stefansen might have left us to freeze, and be damned to his Herald friend. He did not like the fact that we'd come looking for him out of Rethwellan. He's still watching me when he thinks I'm not paying any attention. We're both like wary wolves at first meeting, neither one sure the other isn't going to bite.
This turned out to be Roald's own hunting lodge, which, since it was not exactly a small dwelling, told Tarma that whatever else he was, the Herald was also a man of means. It was now the "humble" abode of the Prince-in-exile, his bride of ten months, and their infant son. Valdemar had given Stefansen the sanctuary he needed, but it was a secret sanctuary; the King and Queen of Valdemar dared not compromise their country's safety, not with Rethwellan sharing borders with both themselves and their hereditary enemy, Karse.
The wine was cool enough to drink now, and Tarma had decided she couldn't detect anything dangerous in it. She sipped at it, letting it soothe her raw throat and ease the cold in the pit of her stomach. While she drank, she scrutinized Mertis again over the edge of the mug.
Tarma watched the gentle woman rocking her son in her arms, studying her with the same care she'd have spent on the reconnoitering of an enemy camp. Mertis was not homely, by any means, but not a raving beauty, either. She had a sweet, soft face; frank brown eyes that seemed to demand truth of you; wavy, sable-brown hair. Not the land of woman one would expect to captivate an experienced rake like Stefansen. Which meant there was more to her than showed on the surface.
Then again -- Tarma hid a smile with her mug as she thought of the moment when Roald had brought them stumbling up to the door of the lodge. Mertis had been everywhere, easing Jadrek down from his grip on Kethry's saddle, helping him to stumble into the warm, brightly lit lodge, building up the fire with her own hands, issuing crisp, no-nonsense orders to her spouse, the Herald, and the two servants of the lodge, without regard for rank. That just might have been her secret -- that she had been the only woman to treat Stefansen like a simple man, a person, and not throw herself at his feet, panting like a bitch in heat.
Or it might have been a half dozen other things, but one was a certainty; Tarma knew love well enough to recognize it when those two looked at each other. And never mind that Mertis was scarcely higher in birth than Kethry.