Free Crucible by Mercedes Lackey Page B

hesitated, but he didn’t question her further, to Cera’s relief. “After breakfast, I will bring them to your rooms.”
    â€œI’ll hunt, then,” Gareth said with satisfaction, his voice cracking just a bit.
    â€œWell, if you are wandering the woods, watch for walnuts.” Marga put more bread and a crock of butter on the table. “Acorns too, if you see any. As many as you can get.”
    â€œYes, Grandmother,” Gareth stuffed the rest of his bread in his mouth, grabbed his boar spear, and bolted for the door.
    â€œAnd mind you dress warm,” she called behind him.
    Cera tried to relax into the warmth and comfort of routine as she ate. The idea of a day filled with columns and numbers was a good one. A comfortable one.
    A safe one.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    A few days later, Cera looked up from the account books to find Alena glaring at her, tray in hand.
    â€œA fine thing, burying yourself in work like this for days on end,” Alena said. “’Tis a fine sunny day out, and maybe one of the last few we see before winter sets in.”She set the tray down, shoving the account books to the side. “I’ll just open the shutters, and—”
    â€œNo,” Cera snapped. “Leave them be.”
    â€œBut, my lady,” Alena put her hands on her hips. “You can’t hide—”
    â€œI can do as I will,” Cera glared at her handmaiden. “And it is not your place to say otherwise.”
    Alena stepped back, her hands wrapped in her apron, the hurt clear on her face. “As you say, Lady Ceraratha,” she said quietly, and disappeared through the door—leaving Cera to sit alone, guilt and shame burning a hole in her gut.
    After a moment, she set the tray on the floor, drew the account book close, and set back to work.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    She’d lost track of the hours and days, because the numbers filled her head, shutting out all other thoughts. But the numbers that she loved so well had twisted on her. Columns and figures no longer added up, and she’d made more mistakes then anything else. Deep in the accounts, lost in frustration, her anger flared when her door opened again.
    â€œI asked not to be disturbed,” Cera snapped.
    â€œI ask your pardon, Lady Ceraratha. I thought to pay my respects.”
    Cera looked up, blinking in the dim light, to see an older, middle-aged woman dressed in white standing in the door. She had a no-nonsense face, short gray hair, and a slight worry wrinkle between her brows.
    â€œHerald Helgara,” Cera rose stiffly. “I did not know you were due. Has the comfort of your Companion, Stonas, been seen to?”
    â€œOh, yes,” Helgara said, coming farther in and shutting the door behind her. “Even now some of the younger children are looking for flowers to weave into his mane and tail.”
    Cera smiled at the idea, but it faded as she realized that she had failed in her duties. “Forgive me,” she saidas she returned to her seat. “I should have welcomed you myself.”
    â€œMarga told me that you have been ill,” Helgara settled in one of the stools near her writing table. “I was sorry to hear it.”
    â€œMy thanks,” Cera said, shifting the papers around on her desk. “How goes your Circuit?”
    â€œWell enough, until now,” Helgara said. “I broke off my regular Circuit to return here. Another Herald has taken my place.”
    â€œWhy so?” Cera asked.
    â€œFor you,” Helgara said softly. “Word came that the Lady of Sandbriar had taken ill.”
    A pang filled Cera’s chest—yet another thing she was at fault for. “I’m sorry,” she said. “A passing thing, really. Nothing that you need concern yourself with.”
    There was a long silence. Then Helgara sighed. “You have been up here for some time, days now, I understand. You have canceled your plans