“Dame?” I sketched the curtsy of greeting and she gestured in return.
“There has been a message, and a full convocation is ordered.” She was frowning. “Go you and tend the small still. This is not a time when my work should be so interrupted.”
She pulled at the flapping ends of her veil and went past me with a firm step as one who would speedily answer some hail that she might the more quickly return to her task.
A message? But no one had ridden through the Dale, past the village. The flapping of wings past the tower when I had first ascended? A bird? Perhaps one of the trained, winged messengers used by the host. Abbess Malwinna had lessoned many of them in her active days. The war—had our belief in peace been only rumour? Did the Hounds now bay on the borders of Norstead?
But these were only thoughts, and come war or lasting peace, if I did not give thought to Dame Alousan’s distilling there would be real trouble for me in due time.
The still room was odorous as always, though most of those smells were sweet and clean. And now there was a fragrance, arising from the vessel by the still which was so entrancing that I feasted my nostrils as I obeyed the orders laid upon me. That task was done, the liquid safely bottled, the apparatus washed thrice as was the custom, and yet Dame Alousan returned not. Outside afternoon became early winter evening. I blew out the lamps, latched the door, and crossed to the main hall of the Abbey.
There was the twittering of voices, growing the shriller by the moment as women’s voices do when there are no lower masculine notes to hold them in scale. Two lay sisters were setting out the meal for guests on the fable, but none of the Dames was present. By the fireplace gathered all those who had taken refuge, some for years, within these walls.
I hung my shawl on the proper hook by the door and went to the fire. In that gathering I was neither bird nor cat. I do not think that some ever knew just how to accept me: whether as a fosterling of a noble house once on a time and of the rank, say, of a Captain of company’s daughter; or whether I was to be counted one of the community though I did not wear the veil and coif. Now, as I joined them they took no note of me at all, and the chitter-chatter was deafening. I saw that some, usually sparing of word, were now striving to out-talk their companions. Truly a stoat had been introduced into our house of hens!
“Gillan, what think you!” The Lady Marimme was all rounded lips and wide, astonished eyes. “They are coming here—they may reach here by the Hour of the Fifth Flame?”
Kinsmen home from the wars, I thought. Truly something to set the Abbey a flutter. But—why the convocation lasting to this hour? The Dames would not be moved by any such guesting, not even that of a full company of horse. They would merely draw into their apportioned section of the Abbey until the men of the world had departed beyond their gates once again.
“Who comes?” I then named her nearest kin. “Lord Imgry?”
“He and others—the brides, Gillan, the promised brides! They march to the waste border by the north road and they will guest here this night! Gillan, it is a fearsome thing they do—Poor, poor ones! We should offer prayers in their names—”
“Whyfor?” The Lady Sussia came up in her usual unhurried way. She had not the soft beauty of Marimme. But, I thought, she will be regal all her life, and eyes will follow her after other beauty fades with the years.
“Whyfor?” repeated Marimme, “Whyfor? Because they ride into black evil, Sussia, and they will not come forth again!” She was indignant.
It was then Sussia repeated aloud what had been something of my own thinking on the subject. “Also they may ride from evil, birdling. All of us have not soft nests nor sheltering wings about us.” She must be speaking for herself. Did she indeed have some foreknowledge that the train which would guest with us this night would take her with it in the morning?
“I would rather wed steel, in truth,” cried Marimme, “than ride on such a marriage journey!”
“You need not fear,” I said then, for I guessed she spoke the truth, if somewhat wildly. Her fear was like a sickness, stretching out its shadow from her mind and heart.
But over Marimme’s shoulder I saw Sussia look at me oddly. Again it was as if she had foreknowledge. And in me a second time that warning of my own stirred. I could breathe in trouble as I could the aromatic smell of the leaves burned with the firelogs to freshen the hall.
“Marimme, Marimme—”
I think she was glad to turn from us to answer that call, to join the maids who were betrothed and so safe from alarms, as if their safety could cloak her also. But Sussia still faced me, her face locked as ever against any revealing of herself.
“Watch her, as shall I this night, “ she said under cover of their chatter.
“Why?”
“Because—she goes!”
I stared at her, for the moment struck dumb with amazement. Still I knew she spoke the truth.
“How—why—?” I did not finish either question for she was speaking swiftly, her hand on my arm drawing me a little away, her voice low and for my ear alone.
“How do I know? I had a private message this seven night. Oh, yes, I thought that I might be chosen, there was much to warrant it. But my kinsmen have had other plans for a year, and when the suggestion was made that I might be included in the Bargain, they made sword troth for me at once. While war raged I was landless. Now that the Hounds are hurled back into the sea from whence they came, I am mistress of more than one manor, being the last of my immediate line.” She smiled thinly. “Thus am I a treasure for my kin. I go to a wedding indeed this spring, but one in the Dales. As to why Marimme—beauty draws men, even when there is no dowry to fill the purse or line manor with manor. But a man who wants power can try for it in different ways. Lord Imgry has the granting of her hand. He is a man who hoards power as a captain hoards his men—until the attack trumpet. Then he will risk much to get what he wants. He has offered Marimme in return for certain favours. And the others believe that such a flower offered the Riders will sweeten the dish, since all the brides are not so choice.”
“She will not go—”
“She will go—they shall see to that. But she will die—such a draught is not for her drinking.”
I glanced across to Marimme. Her face was flushed, she made quick graceful gestures with her hands. There was a feverish gaiety about her I did not like. Though what was all this to me, who was an outsider and none of their blood or company?
“She will die,” again that statement delivered with emphasis.
I turned to Sussia. “If the Lord Imgry is set on this and the others agree, then she can not escape—”
“No? Oftentimes have men agreed upon a thing and women changed their thinking.”
“But even if another were offered in her place, would they agree to the choice, seeing as how it is her beauty which made her it in the first place?”
“Just so.” Sussia continued to watch me with that strange, knowing look, almost as if she sensed in me something so closely kindred that we thought with one thought and had no need for words between us. And I was thinking of Norstead, of the dust of changeless years, of my own place and part in this my world. And as many thoughts, some less than half formed, sped thus through my mind, the Lady Sussia retired a little, dropped her hand from my arm. Once again there was a curtain between us and matters were as they had always been.
I knew a spark of anger then, thinking—“she has used me!” But that lasted only for the space of an eye-wink. For it did not matter what tool of That Which Abides is used to open the future. To let some small resentment cloud one’s mind is the action of a fool. Twelve brides would guest here tonight, twelve and one would ride out in the morning. Twelve and-one!
As to planning, I knew much about the Abbey and its inhabitants. Much I could learn through eyes and ears in the hours to come. And proudly I set my wit and will against any of High Hallack, be they Dame, lady, or lords of the host!