Free No True Way by Mercedes Lackey Page B

lands and the manor. Let’s start with the books, shall we?” She looked over at Marga. “And then I will want a tour of the manor and to see the flocks.”
    Athelnor looked slightly dazed. “The flocks?”
    Helgara coughed behind Cera. Cera ignored her. “The sheep,” she confirmed. “And the goats. And where did the wool for my comforter come from?”
    Athelnor and Marga just gave her dazed looks.
    *   *   *
    They left Cera’s purse with Athelnor, planning the best way to use the funds.
    Helgara followed along on their tour, more from a sense of amusement than an interest, to Cera’s way of thinking.
    The walk through the manor house was a quiet one. Marga showed her the empty suites and bedrooms, the linen closest filled with perfectly folded blankets and bedding smelling faintly of lavender and cedar chips. Shelves filled with pillows and feather comforters. Beds and furniture covered in dust cloths.
    Clothing was carefully cleaned and folded, ready and waiting to be worn. One room in particular struck her. “My Lady’s solar.” Marga opened the door. “She used it for her sewing and embroidery and tapestry work.”
    Cera’s breath caught in her throat. Fabric. Needles, precious needles. Thread and floss and wool organized in shelves and cubbyholes. A loom filled the center, waiting. Her fingers tingled with anticipation.
    Delicate handkerchiefs were piled high, ready for a lady’s use. Cera picked one up, admiring the bright golden flowers interlaced with a twining ivy vine. At Marga’s nod, she tucked one in her sleeve.
    While the unused rooms and bedding were pitiful, worse still were the empty pantries, the bare buttery, the unused storage that should be chock full of supplies. “We consolidated everything into the dessert kitchen, where the delicacies were prepared for the feasts in the GreatHall,” Marga said quietly. “The main kitchens, where the meats were roasted, those are closed and cold.”
    â€œShow me,” Cera commanded.
    And so it was. Great hearths with tall iron roasting spits and great copper kettles that had gone dark with disuse. Empty and sad and . . . lonely was the only word Cera could find that seemed to fit, if kitchens could be called lonely.
    â€œBefore the wars,” Marga’s voice echoed on the stones. “Before the wars, this manor house was filled with people, especially at shearing and lambing seasons. Before the wars . . .” she repeated, and then lapsed into silence. She didn’t need to say more.
    They ended in the Great Hall, standing in the quiet there, looking at the portrait.
    â€œI’ll have it taken down, Lady,” Marga said, her voice heavy. “It’s been draped since my lady’s death, and that was long before the wars even began.”
    â€œLeave it,” Cera said softly. “Before the war this land may not have been prosperous, but it provided. I would honor their work and their care of their people and build on it.”
    â€œAs you wish, My Lady,” Marga’s voice didn’t carry much hope. “I’ll see to our noon meal, and then—”
    â€œSheep,” Cera said firmly. “And outbuildings. I may need to borrow some boots.” She swished her skirts back. “Slippers are not the best in the barns.”
    Marga blinked, curtsied, and left them standing there.
    Helgara chuckled. “I think you will do well here, Lady Cera.”
    Cera frowned. “There is much to be done.”
    â€œTrue enough, but a good start I think,” Helgara said. “I must return to my Circuit, and best be about it.”
    â€œBefore a meal?” Cera asked, not anxious to lose a friendly face.
    â€œI’ll eat on the road,” Helgara said, “and be at the Waystation by late tonight. My route brings me back through here in the Fall. I hope to see you well established by