Free Crucible by Mercedes Lackey Page A

“Oh, my lady. I failed you so.”
    â€œWhat?” Cera coughed, trying to look her handmaiden in the eye. “How so?”
    â€œI knew, I knew how he beat you, and I didn’t—” Alena drew in a ragged breath. “I could hear, through the walls, I saw the bruises, but I did nothing, Lady, and I should have—”
    â€œOh, Alena . . .” Cera sighed, and pulled her into a hug. “Sinmon would have, would have—” She shuddered at the thought. “He would have discharged you, or worse, if you had tried. No, no—”
    â€œI was so afraid, and I should have found a way, or been braver, or truer to you—” Alena wept even harder, and they clung to one another and cried and cried until there were no more tears.
    A deep cough came from the road. Gareth, trying to get their attention. “My lady, the sun is setting. We’d best get back on the road.”
    â€œA moment,” Alena snapped.
    â€œEh?” Gareth called back. “Ladies, you’re speaking Rethwellan. Been speaking it for a while.”
    Thank the Trine for that.
“A moment,” Cera called in the language of Valdemar. She and Alena made themselves presentable in a flurry of wet handkerchiefs and combs. They helped each other through the brush, emerging to find a worried Gareth standing with the animals.
    â€œI’m fine,” Cera said. “Let’s be on our way.”
    It wasn’t long before she was back in the warmth of her chambers. Marga and Alena fussed, with blankets and hot tea, stoking up the hearth. Alena brought her dinner on a tray.
    Cera settled into her chair, dug her toes into the thick rug, and ignored the food next to her. Instead, she pulled the blankets up to her shoulders.
    Despite the warmth, she was suddenly cold.
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    In the morning, as was her custom, she passed through the Great Hall and went to the small dessert kitchen for breakfast.
    The Great Hall was filled with the families she had gathered from surrounding farms and moved here for the safety and security their numbers offered. She was greeted as she skirted the tables filled with old men and women and children. Ondon’s village wasn’t the only place lacking in the able-bodied. She’d have to try to get a letter off to her father with the last caravans.
    The larger kitchens were going strong, filled with bakers and spit-boys, the cooks in command. But the smaller dessert kitchen was a haven of quiet, and she and the core staff had taken to eating breakfast in its relative peace.
    Athelnor was already at the table, a bowl of porridge and cream before him. “Good morning, my lady,” he said, his face wrinkling with his smile. “Did you sleep well?”
    â€œYes, thank you,” Cera lied, not quite feeling up to returning his good cheer. She took a cup of tea from Marga with a grateful glance.
    â€œAre we going out again?” Gareth was stuffing his face with warm bread.
    â€œDon’t talk with your mouth full,” Marga admonished.
    â€œYes, Grandma,” Gareth said with a full mouth and a cheeky grin.
    â€œI don’t think so,” Cera said carefully as Alena put a bowl of hot porridge in front of her. “I’m thinking of staying in today. It looks like rain, and I’ve got a chill from yesterday.”
    She didn’t miss the glance Marga and Athelnor exchanged, but they didn’t say anything. Alena gave her a narrow look, but Cera ignored her. She was cold. And it did look like rain.
    â€œBesides, I want to review the accounts and tax records we must forward to Haven,” Cera said. As a merchant’s daughter, she’d a fondness for neat rows of numbers, tallying up the household’s income and expenses. The soothing simple sums, with clear answers.
    â€œOf course,” Athelnor said. “Although I thought you were saving that task for when the snow came.” He