"Your warrior was right," the Lady said.
"Yes."
"You never doubted her?"
"I never doubted that she told us the truth," I said.
"So you never feared that you would pay the price of treachery?"
I didn't know what to say to her.
"Did you believe I could do you harm?" she asked me gently.
I chose my words carefully. "My warrior told me that people may do a thing when they're afraid that they wouldn't do if they thought it over."
The Lady knit her brows in a troubled frown.
"You have nothing to fear from me," she said.
"Why did you hold me in my warrior's place?"
I was relieved to hear no hint of petulance in my voice. It sounded like the most innocent of questions.
"I couldn't have kept her locked in the armory week after week. How else could I have held her here?"
The Lady was watching me closely. Perhaps she was trying to learn how I felt about what she'd done, or perhaps she was trying to create in me the feelings that would best suit her.
"Your warrior expected me to ask her to offer her own life as a guarantee," the Lady said. "Sometimes it's best not to do what someone expects."
"I wish you had spoken to me about it afterward." It was the plain truth, simply said.
The Lady's face put on an injured look. "You should have come to me with your worries. I would have been glad to ease your fears."
It was all very well now to say I should have come to her, but at the time I didn't feel that she would welcome me. I knew it would be unwise to show the anger I still felt toward her or the distrust that came from my anger.
"I thought you would do what was best," I told her.
She seemed pleased with my answer. The injured look disappeared, and I saw the woman I believed her to be, the woman who would do whatever was necessary for the safety of her people, even if some of her people paid too great a price.
"If there is ever anything you wish to ask me," the Lady said, "you must not hesitate."
I nodded.
"Do you have any questions for me now?"
I shook my head. What good would it do me to ask a question when I couldn't trust the answer? Then I thought of something.
"What will you do with the prisoners?" I asked her.
"The prisoners? What do you think I should do with the prisoners?"
The amusement in her voice told me that she didn't expect an answer. I gave her one anyway. "I think you should let them go home."
"Go home? Why would I do that?"
"To show them we have no fear of them."
"So I should take them to our northern border and turn them loose?"
"Yes."
"If I were to do such a thing, what guarantee would I have that they will leave us in peace?"
"Give them food to carry with them. Enough to see their families through the winter. Why would they trouble us if they had all they could carry?"
"Should I also give them back their weapons?"
Her words mocked me, but I answered her with sincerity.
"No, Lady," I said. "That would be foolish."
"Tell me again why this is a good idea." This time her voice had less amusement in it and more curiosity.
"Sometimes it's best not to do what someone expects. Besides, what else can you do with them?"
"I could send them to the mines in exchange for salt or copper."
"When?"
"Next spring, when the caravans arrive."
"Then you will have to keep them through the winter."
"Yes."
"So you'll have to feed them anyway. And the men will be unhappy to have the trouble of watching them."
"It will give the men something to do," she said.
"And many of the prisoners are in ill health. They may spread disease among us."
The Lady's eyes grew dark. "I would be within my rights to kill them all."
I think she meant to frighten me. I had been frightened enough already. I would not frighten again so easily.
"You could do that," I said, "but I've heard stories about the blood of the slain poisoning the ground. And when their people hear what became of those men, they will be angry."
"No," she said. "They will be afraid, and they will leave us alone."
"If as many of your warriors were taken alive from the battlefield and then put to the sword, what would you feel?"
I saw the answer in her eyes.
"These men have people at home who love them," I said.
"Yes," said the Lady. "Just as Eramet had people here who loved her."
"The man who killed her was defending his friends." I hoped Sparrow would forgive my speaking for him. I hesitated for just a moment before I said, "He has already lost his hand because of it."
"What?"
"Has no one told you?"
She said nothing, but her surprise revealed the answer. I wondered why Vintel hadn't told the Lady what she'd done.
The Lady got up from the bed and went to stand before the fire. For several minutes she was silent, preoccupied with her own thoughts. Then she turned back to me.
"What has your mother told you of the war?"
"That her sisters died," I said. "And I've heard the songs sung about it."
"The songs are sung to heal our hearts, but they never do. All they do is cause the young to believe that war is a glorious adventure."
"I never believed it."
"No," she said. "I can see you don't believe it, and that is your mother's doing."
I supposed it was. For all my dreams of becoming a warrior, war had never seemed a glorious adventure to me. All my life the shadow of war had lain over my mother's heart.
"The last thing I want is another war," the Lady said. "When I was young, I learned the ways of war, but no one taught me how to keep the peace. If anyone knows how to do that, she must be the wisest woman in the world."
A fire roared on the hearth in the great hall. It was the warmest place in the house except for the kitchen, and almost the entire household had gathered there.
I didn't see Maara at first. I finally found her sitting on a bench in a dark corner. As crowded as the room was, no one was sitting near her. I was not at all surprised. Her arms were folded across her chest, and her face wore a fierce expression. I knew her well enough to know she meant nothing by it, but I understood how she must appear to other people.
"Have you eaten?" I asked her.
She nodded without looking at me.
I'd had no breakfast, and I was hungry.
"I haven't," I said. "Shall I go now?"
"Yes, go ahead."
She sounded impatient with me. Before I could ask her why, I saw Sparrow coming down the stairs. I waved to her, and she saw me and waved back. Maara seemed lost in her own thoughts, so I said nothing more to her and went with Sparrow into the kitchen. We filled our bowls with porridge and sat down on the floor in a corner of the kitchen where we wouldn't be in the way.
"What did the Lady want?" Sparrow asked me.
"I'm not sure."
I had a bit of a guilty conscience about speaking for the prisoners. After all, it was Sparrow, not I, who had been injured by them. Though I didn't believe for a minute that the Lady would consider seriously anything I'd said, I didn't like to keep what I had done from Sparrow.
"Do you hate the man who killed Eramet?" I asked her.
She had been about to put a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. She stopped and set the spoon down in her bowl.
"Why?" she said.
"I told the Lady what happened to him."
Sparrow frowned. "Vintel shouldn't have done that."
I was surprised to hear her say so. "Why not?"
"Because he was helpless, and because his cry is still ringing in my ears. I wish the man had never been born, but I don't wish him dead now."
"Vintel never told the Lady what she did."
"No, she wouldn't.
Vintel has her own way of doing things, and she sees no need to explain to anyone what she does or why she does it."
I wondered if Sparrow knew that Vintel and the warriors with her had once failed to protect Maara, and if she knew Vintel well enough to tell me why.
"Why did you tell the Lady about it?" Sparrow asked me.
"I asked her what she was going to do with the prisoners," I replied. "She asked me what I would do with them, and I told her I would let them go home. She reminded me that one of their warriors had killed one of ours, so I told her the price he had already paid for it."
I watched Sparrow's face, to see if she objected to what I'd done, but she only nodded and took a spoonful of porridge.
"Do you think I did wrong?"
Sparrow shook her head. "Did the Lady summon you to ask your advice about the prisoners?" Now she was teasing me.
"No," I said. "I doubt she'll pay any attention to my advice."
"What did she want, then?"
"She asked me if I was frightened."
"Because she took you hostage?"
I nodded. "She said I had nothing to fear from her."
"I didn't think so," Sparrow said.
"I think she wanted to make sure of me. I think she wanted to draw me close to her again. She wanted to know if I still trust her."
"Do you?"
Ever since the idea came into my head of leaving the Lady's household, I was cautious about revealing my thoughts to anyone. I trusted Sparrow, but I knew better than to tell her I was contemplating treachery. I nodded, and it occurred to me that I was lying to Sparrow as much to protect her as to protect myself. It was the same reason Maara had lied to me.
"I don't believe the Lady ever meant to harm me," I said. That much was true.
The healer came into the kitchen.
"There you are," she said, when her eyes found me.
Sparrow and I stood up to greet her.
"I need your help," she said to me. "One of the prisoners is badly injured. The Lady has asked me to tend him."
Sparrow and I glanced at each other. I thought I knew which prisoner it was, and I was certain of it when the healer said, "I hope you have a strong stomach."
"There are some things I need to do," said Sparrow. She gave me a sympathetic look and left the kitchen.
I helped the healer make a poultice. I set a cloth to soak in sage water while she crushed a collection of herbs in a mortar. She pounded them vigorously, muttering to herself all the while. I think she didn't care much for the idea of tending strangers.
She laid out the cloth and spread the crushed herbs over it. Then she folded it over several times. She searched through the contents of a basket, drew out a flint knife, and tested its edge. While she was gathering what she needed, I slipped into the drying room and wrapped a generous handful of valerian root in a clean cloth.
The men's house smelled strange to me. I looked around with curiosity. It was half the size of the main house, and the entire downstairs was one large common room. The prisoners were crowded together at the end farthest from the fire. Half a dozen armed men guarded them, though it was hardly necessary. They seemed to have no inclination to resist their captivity. Many of them were asleep on the floor. All of them looked worn out. They had been fed, and scattered around them were empty bowls that had been licked clean. Not a crust of bread remained among them. I saw a few men pick crumbs from their clothing, or even from the floor, and put them into their mouths.
The injured man lay moaning in a corner. He burned with fever and was unaware of us until the healer touched him. Then he threw out his uninjured arm and would have knocked her over if the man beside him had not caught it first.
The healer called for several of the prisoners to come and help her. She motioned to them to hold his arms and legs while she carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage from his injured arm. The smell turned my stomach. Although I tried not to look, my eyes glanced at his mangled flesh against my will. Some of it was black. The healer took out her flint knife to trim it away.
The man beside him shouted at her and took hold of the hand that held the knife. Two of our warriors had come to stand beside us while we were among the prisoners, and one of them would have struck the man, if the healer hadn't stopped him. She understood the man's fear for his friend and showed him by signs what she was going to do. He nodded that he understood. Then she began to trim the injured man's blackened flesh away. He screamed once and struggled for a moment. Then he grew still.
"Is he dead?" I asked the healer.
"No," she said. "His spirit left his body for a while, because of the pain."
I had recovered from my revulsion, and I watched, fascinated, while the healer worked. Now that the man's spirit had fled, she cut more deeply into his flesh and pulled slivers of broken bone from the wound. Then she freed a flap of skin large enough to cover the raw flesh. She had the wound stitched up and the poultice applied to it before the man's spirit returned.
"I wish I'd brought something for his pain," she said.
I reached into the pocket of my tunic and drew out the package of valerian root. She smiled and took it from me.
"You have a healer's heart," she said. She took one of the empty bowls from the floor and handed it to me. "Fill this."
I went to the hearth, where there was a cauldron of hot water. I dipped some into the bowl and took it back to the healer. She showed the injured man's friend how to measure out the powder in the palm of his hand, so that he didn't use too much of it. Then she stirred it into the hot water. When it had steeped a while, she gave some to the injured man.
As we left the men's house, several of our warriors gave us puzzled looks. I didn't mind. I felt much better about everything.
That evening, when the household gathered for the evening meal, the Lady rose from her place at the high table and stood patiently until the hall was quiet. She gave no introduction. She spoke plainly what was in her mind.
"There are many here who remember the war."
She paused to look around the room at the faces of the people. The young ones waited expectantly for her to go on, but the ones with wrinkled faces and grey showing at their temples grew solemn at her words.
"For the first time in many years," the Lady said, "strangers have set foot upon our land. They have come, not because we have done them an injury or because they seek adventure, but because they are hungry."
A few puzzled looks appeared on the faces around me.
"Today I was reminded of a story my mother used to tell me. I'm sure you have all heard it. It is sometimes called 'The Queen's Mirror,' and it contains a wisdom I'd forgotten. After I thought about that story for a while, I called together the women of the council. They agree with me that we should allow the strangers to return to their homeland."
The Lady waited for the protests she evidently expected, but no one said a word. I think everyone was too surprised to speak.
"Out of the bounty the Mother has given us this year," she said, "I will send with them two dozen of our cattle and all the grain they can carry."
I hardly saw the stunned faces of the people around me. I was too stunned myself to see them. I couldn't comprehend what I had done. Letting the prisoners go was an idea that had just come into my head. Now it had become real. Now it was going to happen.
"I wish I could explain to you the wisdom of this plan," the Lady said. "I can't. But one thing I do know. If these men are lost, more will take their place. Then they will come, not for food alone, but also to avenge their dead, and they will take our blood to ease their hearts."
The Lady paused for a few moments to study the faces around her. I think she was surprised that the silence still remained unbroken.
"There is one thing more we must decide," she said. "We have lost one of our own. Those to whom she belonged have a right to ease their hearts with blood. I want any person here who feels that injury to tell me now, will you give up that right or will you demand a li
fe?"
Namet, who sat next to her, stood up. "I give up my right," she said.
The Lady looked around the room until her eyes found Sparrow, who was sitting next to me at the companions' table.
Sparrow stood up and said, "I give up my right."
The Lady's eyes went next to Vintel, who sat gazing into her bowl, as if she was thinking only of her supper.
"Vintel," the Lady said at last. "Do you give up your right?"
Vintel looked up. "Eramet did not belong to me," she said.
Although there was no longer a formal bond between them, Eramet had been Vintel's apprentice. From what Sparrow had told me, I knew there was still a bond of love between them, and from Vintel's actions at the river, it was plain that she felt the injury keenly, whether or not she claimed her right to feel it.
Vintel said nothing more.
"Then we are agreed," the Lady said.
She sat down and motioned to the servants to bring the evening meal.
The companions had little to say about the Lady's plan. They were surprised, but what happened to the prisoners was the Lady's responsibility, and they only shrugged their shoulders and went on to talk about things they found more interesting.
I looked around the room and saw doubt in many faces. Some of the older people clearly had misgivings. A few spoke quietly among themselves. Perhaps they would protest privately to the Lady, but none of them would challenge her in front of the household, especially as she had the consent of the council.
Sparrow leaned close to me and whispered, "I'll be sleeping in the companions' loft tonight."
I nodded.
"Are you still sleeping in your warrior's room?"
"Yes," I said.
"Too bad. I'll miss you."
I blushed.
"That's all right," she said. "I understand."
After the evening meal, Maara went upstairs. I followed her, and from the landing at the top of the stairs, I saw her stop in the doorway of Namet's room. She said a few words I couldn't hear, then went on into her own room. When I joined her, she was coiling the braided thong around her fingers.