Terisa sighed softly. “We’re ‘two of the most powerful people in Mordant,’ but we’re only a ‘minor problem.’ ”
“All we need is practice,” he repeated as if that would reassure her. “By the time he gets around to us, we’ll be ready for him. If he tries to touch Domne, we’re going to tear his hand off at the wrist.”
After a pause, he concluded like a man affirming an article of faith, “There isn’t anything else.”
Maybe that was true – she didn’t know. She had gone as far as she could at the moment. He assumed she would do what he wanted: that was enough. It would give her time to think. Time to rest. She needed rest badly. With everything still unresolved, she looked up at him and said, “Speaking of Domne, I think you ought to take me to Houseldon. I want to meet your family.”
She couldn’t be sure in the dim light, but she thought she saw him almost smile.
For some reason, however, her acquiescence – and the idea of returning home – didn’t improve his mood. If he did smile, he did so in a way which denied laughter. His bitterness may have lifted a bit, but the dour humor which replaced it was equally iron and ungiving.
With a crisp accuracy entirely unlike the eager, accident-prone manner she remembered, he repacked his supplies, then watered the horses and saddled them. “Take the bay,” he said, indicating one of the mounts. “Quiss had her trained to carry pregnant women. Quiss has been pregnant a lot. I think Tholden wants to have seven sons, too.” His tone seemed gentler when he talked about such things, but that impression may have been created by what he was saying rather than by the way he said it. “But so far he only has five children, and two of them are daughters.”
The air was warmer now; nevertheless Terisa kept the blanket over her shoulders as she climbed onto the bay. This was only her second experience with a horse, and the saddle seemed dangerously high. The blanket was awkward to hold closed – but not as awkward as her torn shirt. The last thing she wanted at a time like this was to ride into Houseldon with her chest exposed.
When she was seated, he adjusted her stirrups. Then he swung up onto his own mount, an appaloosa with a look of harmless lunacy in its eyes, and led her away.
The hillside sloped downward from the Closed Fist for some distance, then became rumpled, like a rucked-up skirt. Even in the shadow of the mountains, the light was strong enough now so that she could see wildflowers scattered across the grass; but she didn’t realize how bright they were – how much brighter they were than she remembered them – until she and Geraden reached the direct sunshine. Then color seemed to burst from the grass wherever she looked: blue and lavender; mauve; yellow shot with orange; the rich, rich red of poppies. There were trees on the hillsides, too, but most of them grew down in the folds of the terrain, along the river. Mountains with snow still on them ranged north and east as well as south of her, so that she and Geraden seemed to be riding out from between their arms. As far as she could see toward the northeast, however, toward the Care of Domne, the hills were primarily covered with open grass and wildflowers.
Geraden was right: the bay was easy to ride; her gait instilled confidence. He and Terisa were soon down among the low hills, and she began to feel secure enough to attempt a trot. The whole sensation – the horse, the morning sunshine, his presence beside her – was so much more pleasant than the time she had gone riding with him and Argus that she couldn’t hold in a smile.
“Yes,” she heard him murmur as if he were answering a question. “The Care of Domne is beautiful. It’s always beautiful, no matter what happens to it – or to Mordant. No matter who lives or dies, no matter what changes. Some things—” He looked around in an effort to see everything at once. “Some things remain.”
He thought for a moment, then said, “Maybe that’s why the Domne was never willing to fight. And why King Joyse loved him anyway.”
“I don’t understand.”
Geraden shrugged. “In a way, my father is the Care of Domne. The things he values most don’t need to be fought for because they can’t be hurt.”
Terisa concentrated on her seat while the horses worked their way up a steeper hillside. After that, the ground seemed to have been smoothed out by the hand of the sun. It wasn’t level, but the slopes were long and comfortable, and the grass appeared to flow all the way to the horizon.
She probably should have been thinking about her strange talent for Imagery. After any number of denials, she had discovered that her talent was real. Surely that changed her situation, her responsibilities? But she didn’t feel that anything had changed. She had already chosen her loyalties in the struggle for Mordant, committed herself. And without glass there was nothing she could do to explore or define her abilities – whatever they actually were.
At the moment, she wasn’t interested in herself. She was interested in Geraden.
“Tell me about your family,” she suggested. “You’ve talked about them before, but it feels like a long time ago. I’d like to know who I’m going to meet.”
“Well, you won’t meet Wester,” Geraden answered absently, as if his family had nothing to do with what he was thinking. “He’s away rallying the farmsteads. That’s probably just as well. He’s the handsome one. Women fall in love with him all the time. But he’ll break your heart. The only thing he cares about is wool. If wool were glass, he’d be the greatest Imager in the world. We aren’t sure he knows women even exist.
“Tholden is the oldest, of course. He’s the heir – he’ll be the Domne when our father dies – and he takes that very seriously. He wants to be the Care the same way our father is. And he’s good at it. But he’d be better if he trusted himself enough to relax.
“He and the Domne can be pretty funny sometimes. He’s a compulsive fertilizer – he wants everything to grow like crazy. So he goes around shoveling manure onto anything that has a root system. And my father follows him with a pruning saw, muttering about waste and cutting back everything Tholden just encouraged to grow.”
In the distance, Terisa saw a flock of sheep, moving gently like foam rolling on the green sea of the grass. Two small dogs and a shepherd kept the flock together without much difficulty: the day was untroubled, and the animals were placid. Geraden and the shepherd waved at each other, but neither of them risked disturbing the flock with a shout.
“The sheep are still out,” Geraden commented. “We could drive them into Houseldon, but what good would that do? They’re probably safer as far away as they can get.”
He rode for a while in silence before returning to her question. “Anyway, you’ll meet Tholden’s wife, Quiss. And their children. She’ll make you comfortable in Houseldon, or die trying.
“Minick is the second son. He’s married, too, but you probably won’t see his wife. She hardly ever leaves the house. That’s too bad – I like her. But she’s so shy she gets in a flutter when you just smile at her. Once she ruined her best gown by curtseying to the Domne in a mud puddle.
“I like Minick, too, but he’s a little dim. He’s the only man I know who thinks shearing sheep is fun. He and his wife are perfect for each other.
“That leaves Stead, the family scapegrace. He’s in bed right now with a broken collarbone and several cracked ribs. He just couldn’t keep his hands off the wife of a traveling tinker, and the tinker expressed his disapproval with the handle of a pitchfork.
“The strange thing is that Stead means well. He works hard. He’s generous. Every day is a new joy. He simply adores women – and he can’t imagine why any man doesn’t make love to every woman there is. They’re too precious to belong to anyone. He isn’t jealous of the husbands he cuckolds. Why should they be jealous of him?
“Other than that, only about three hundred people live in Houseldon. It’s the Seat of the Domne. What serves as government in this Care is there. Anywhere else, Houseldon would be just another village, but in Domne it’s the marketplace as well as the counting house and the court of justice.
“Also the
military camp. The Domne maintains six trained bowmen, mainly in case a bear or two or a pack of wolves comes out of the mountains and starts raiding sheep. But it’s also their job to do things like rescue Stead from that tinker, or sit on people who get belligerent when they’ve had too much ale. On the rare occasions when the Domne decides he has to fine somebody for something, they collect it.
“That’s what we have to defend ourselves with,” Geraden concluded as if this were the question Terisa had asked. “Six bowmen, plus farmers with hoes and shepherds with crooks – as many as Wester can talk into it.
“That’s why Houseldon needs us.”
The way he drifted from his subject disturbed her. She had always liked hearing him talk about his relatives. Sometimes, the contrast to her own family had saddened her; today it was a pleasure. She was looking forward to meeting his father and brothers. She wasn’t ready to start thinking again about the trouble which had driven her here.
And what he suggested didn’t sound right, coming from him. To give up everything to which he had ever aspired in order to do nothing more than fight for his home: that didn’t sound like him. Like Artagel and Nyle in their different ways, he had never been able to stay at home. He had too much itch for the rest of the world, too much sense of possibility: he couldn’t contain himself in Domne. She didn’t question his love for Houseldon and the Care, for his father and brothers. But she felt strongly that he was the wrong man for the job he had chosen. He had chosen it as much out of bitterness as out of love: it didn’t fit him.
She saw another flock of sheep. Then the ground became more level; fields appeared, watered by ditches from the river and streaked with the delicate green shoots of new corn; the horses reached a road. She and Geraden were the only people on it, but that came as no surprise to her. Everyone except the shepherds was probably busy preparing for the defense of Houseldon.
Then she saw Houseldon itself ahead.
She had forgotten that Geraden had called it a stockade.
The whole village was walled by timbers taller than she was; from horseback, she was barely able to see the thatched roofs of the houses past the top of the stockade. The timbers had been set into the ground and then lashed together with vines of some kind. To her, the idea of a stockade didn’t sound especially impressive; she had grown up with concrete and steel. But when she actually saw that timber wall, she thought it looked remarkably sturdy. Mere men on horses wouldn’t be able to break it down. Red-furred creatures armed with scimitars and hate wouldn’t be able to break it down. They would need a catapult or a battering ram.
Or fire.
Thinking about fire, she clutched the blanket around her shoulders and shivered.
The gate, a massive shutter of timbers trussed with strips of iron, stood open. The men guarding it hailed Geraden in a way that suggested they knew where he had gone, and why. Houseldon wasn’t a place for people who liked secrets.
As he and Terisa rode through the gate, Geraden asked the guards, “Where’s the Domne?”
One of them shrugged. “At home? With that leg, he doesn’t get around as easily as he used to.”
Geraden nodded and led Terisa down the main street of the village.
She wanted to ask what was wrong with the Domne’s leg, but she was too busy looking around. The dirt street was little more than a lane; yet it served as a thoroughfare for wagons and cattle as well as people. If the street had been busy, she and Geraden would have had trouble getting through. This morning, however, they caused most of the traffic themselves: it was composed almost entirely of people who came out to see Geraden – and her.
In contrast to the lane, the square-fronted buildings on either side were substantial: solidly erected as well as large. They had stone foundations, deep porches, windows covered with oiled sheepskins. Working with rough planks and mud plaster, the inhabitants of Houseldon had constructed homes and shops meant to endure; and the characteristic thatch of the roofs was apparently used because it was practical – cool in summer, warm in winter, easy to replace – rather than because it was cheap. In that way, the houses were like the people, who were dressed primarily in tough fabrics and simple styles, intended to last.
The spectators looked at Geraden and studied Terisa with unabashed curiosity. One rowdy spirit – she didn’t see who it was – shouted unexpectedly, “Looks like you made a good choice, Geraden!” but Geraden didn’t react.
He certainly didn’t need to defend himself. Several voices muttered imprecations at the rowdy spirit on his behalf, and one old man said clearly, “Hold your tongue, puppy. If you had his problems, you would drown yourself in the Broadwine.”
Just for a second, the gloom in the background of Geraden’s expression lifted, and his eyes sparkled a little.
Terisa was abashed by the realization that she was blushing.
For several minutes, he steered her horse past a number of intersecting lanes and paths – past public watering troughs, a granary or two, a shop that sold foodstuffs and utensils, at least six merchantries which dealt in wool and sheepskins, and one tavern rendered unmistakable by a huge sign over the door that announced succinctly: TAVERN. Then, without warning, he stopped in front of a house and swung off his mount.
This building was somewhat larger than its neighbors. Apart from its size, however, its only distinguishing feature was the plain, brown-and-russet pennon that fluttered from a pole jutting out of its thatch. Geraden tossed his reins over the porch rail, then turned to offer Terisa a lift down, muttering, “This is it.”
There was a woman on the porch. A line of rope ran from one end of the porch to the other, and over it hung a large rug, rag-woven from scraps of wool. The woman held a short flail in one hand, and the air around her was dim with dust: apparently, she had been beating the rug. Terisa was immediately struck by her corn silk hair and sky blue eyes, by the flush of exertion on her cheeks and the strength in her hands. She had the bosom of an Earth Mother and the shoulders of a stonemason, and she propped her fists on her hips to greet Geraden as if she weren’t entirely ready to let him enter her house.
A child only a little bigger than a toddler peered from behind her skirts, then ducked into hiding.
“You took long enough,” she said in a voice that directly contradicted the severity of her manner. “Da’s been fretting.”
“Quiss,” he replied like a man who had forgotten how to laugh and didn’t want to get angry, “this is Terisa. The lady Terisa of Morgan. She’s an arch-Imager.” He seemed to fear that Quiss wouldn’t take his companion seriously enough. “After Vagel, she’s the most powerful Imager in the country.”
Quiss raised her blue eyes to Terisa’s face. She didn’t smile, but her gaze felt as friendly as sunshine. All at once, Terisa forgot to be self-conscious.
“She’s also cold and tired, and probably hungry,” Quiss pronounced, “and she isn’t used to horses. What are you waiting for? Bring her in.”
Terisa smiled helplessly.
Geraden reached up for her hand. His eyes gave away nothing: he was too iron to be dented by Quiss’ manner. Terisa included him with her smile, then lost it because she suddenly began to ache for the Geraden who would have chuckled happily at Tholden’s wife. When he didn’t respond, either to her smile or to her sadness, she took a deep breath for courage and let him help her off the bay.
Her legs began to shake as soon as her feet hit the ground – a consequence of her unfamiliarity with horseback riding – but after she took a step or two the trembling eased. Geraden might have wanted to withdraw his hand, but she didn’t give him the chance; she clung to him as she went up the steps onto the porch.
Still without smiling, Quiss unexpectedly took hold of Terisa’s shoulders and gave her a quick hug, a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome, Terisa of Morgan,” she said. “I don’t know anything about Imagery – but I know Geraden. You are very welcome here.”
Terisa had no reply. An awkward moment passed while she groped for a way to
explain how glad she was to be here. Then the child hiding behind Quiss’ skirts broke the silence.
“Ma, the lady don’t smell good.”
Quiss started to turn. “ ‘Doesn’t,’ Ruesha. Not ‘don’t.’ And that’s no way to talk to a lady.”
Geraden was faster, however. “Imp!” he barked. “Come here. I’m going to paddle your behind until you can’t walk for a week.”
Squealing with an obvious lack of fright, the child sprinted into the house. Geraden followed, thundering his boots on the floorboards as he pretended to run.
This time, Quiss did smile, half in apology, half in pleasure. “Ruesha says what she thinks,” she said, “like too many of her uncles.” Then she wrinkled her nose humorously. “But it’s true, you know. You don’t smell good. They must have treated you pretty badly after Geraden got away.”
Terisa was smiling herself; a small trill of music ran around her heart. There was hope for Geraden yet. Perhaps just for a second, he had been surprised out of his defeat. She sounded incongruously happy as she replied, “They put me in the dungeon.”
Quiss’ eyes resumed their sky blue sobriety. “A dungeon they haven’t cleaned for decades, apparently.” The bare idea affronted her. “Come. I’ll introduce you to the Domne. Then we can go get you a bath. And some clean clothes. That will give his father a chance to try to make sense out of Geraden.”
With one strong arm wrapped companionably around Terisa’s shoulders, Quiss steered her into the house.
The room they entered was so dark that she could hardly see. The only light came from the coals in the hearth, the barely translucent window covers, and the reflection of daylight through the doorway. As her eyes adjusted, however, shapes began to emerge from the dimness: a bulky cast-iron stove beside the fireplace, several doors into other rooms, a rectangular wooden table long enough to seat ten or twelve people.