Nerilka's Story (8 page)

That dinner was a very happy event for me. Alessan had taken the seat next to me, and I found his proximity strangely agitating. I tried to avoid touching him, but we were rather crowded on the benches, companionably so for everyone else. Since he was close to me, his arm resting on the table touched mine, occasionally his thigh brushed mine, and he grinned at me when Tuero said something particularly amusing. My heart raced, and I knew that my answering laugh was a little high and foolish. I was tired, I expect, overreacting to the success we were celebrating, and very much unused to the fine white Benden wine.

Then Alessan leaned against me deliberately, touching my forearm with his fingertips. My skin tingled.

“What’s your opinion of the Benden, Rill?”

“It’s made me giddy,” I replied quickly so that if he noticed my unusual behavior, he would know the reason, even though I wished to do nothing to lower myself in his good opinion.

“We all need to relax tonight. We all deserve it.”

“You more than anyone else, Alessan.”

He shrugged and looked down at his cup, his fingers idly twisting it around by the stem. “I do what I must,” he said, speaking in a low voice. The others were involved in an argument.

“For Ruatha,” I murmured.

He looked at me, mildly surprised at my rejoinder, his strange green-flecked eyes for once candid. “That’s perceptive of you, Rill. Have I been such a hard taskmaster?”

“Not for Ruatha’s sake.”

“This—” he waved his hand at the cartwheels and empty jars “—has not been for Ruatha’s sake.”

“Oh, but it has. You said so yourself. Ruatha can do this much for Pern.”

He gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. But his smile was kind, and I think he was pleased.

“Ruatha will be herself again! I know it!” It was safer to talk about Ruatha’s future.

There was an odd expression in his eyes. “Then Oklina spoke to you? You’ll consider staying on with us?”

“I would like to very much. The plague left me holdless.”

His warm strong hand closed on mine, squeezing lightly in gratitude. “And do you have any special requirements, Rill, to cement our relationship?” There was a real gleam in his eye now as he tilted his head toward Tuero.

His question had come up so unexpectedly that I’d had no time to think about anything beyond the fact that my wish to remain in Ruatha had been granted. I stammered a bit, and then Alessan once again gripped my arm.

“Think about it, Rill, and tell me later. You’ll find that I hold fair with my people.”

“I’d be surprised to find aught else.”

He grinned at my vehemence, poured more wine into my cup and his, and so we sealed the agreement in the traditional manner, though I had trouble swallowing past the lump of joy in my throat. Companionably, we finished bread and cheese, listening to the other conversations at the table and to the music outside.

“I wasn’t so taken with that Master Balfor, Lord Alessan,” Dag was saying, his eyes on the wine in his cup. He was speaking of the man presently designated to become Beastmaster at Keroon.

“He’s not confirmed in the honor,” Alessan said. I could see that he didn’t wish to argue the matter right now, especially not in front of Fergal, who was always listening to matters he ought not hear.

“I’d worry who else might have the rank, for Master Balfor certainly hasn’t the experience.”

“He has done all that Master Capiam asked,” Tuero said with an eye on Desdra.

“Ah, it’s sad to realize how many good men and women have died.” Dag lifted his cup in a silent toast, which we all drank. “And sadder to think of the fine bloodlines just wiped out. When I think of the races Squealer will walk away with and no competition to stretch him in a challenge. You say Runel died?” Dag went on. “Did all his bloodline go?”

“The oldest son and his family are safe in the hold.”

“Ah, well, he’s the right one for it. I’ll just have a look at that brown mare. She could foal tonight. Come along, Fergal.” Dag picked up his splinted leg and hauled it over the bench. For just a moment, Fergal looked rebellious.

“I’ll come with you, if I may,” I said, handing Dag the crutches. “A birth is a happy moment.” I needed some clean night air to fill my lungs, and clear my head of all that good Benden wine. And I also needed to be away from Alessan’s stimulating presence.

My heart was very full and beating erratically. I did not wish to embarrass Alessan with an overflow of gratitude, or any outpouring declaration of loyalty, though I felt both emotions intensely. By a freak of chance I had achieved a miracle: I had been invited to
stay
at Ruatha Hold. Forget that the rationale was prosaic; merely that I was useful, they trusted me, and Ruatha had to rebuild itself. I tried not to let my mind refine upon anything that Oklina had said, much less what Alessan had not. To be able to live at Ruatha was enough. I would be in his company, in the very place that had figured so often in my daydreams, that had been the focus of all happiness. Ruatha could once again be a happy place, and I would have the totally unexpected opportunity to achieve that.

Fergal was with us in a moment. He would not allow me to monopolize his grandfather’s company.

The night was clear, the air was fresh, and I could feel spring ascending from the warmer climes. We exchanged nods and smiles with the people sitting before the spit fire and along the cot line. I carried the glowbasket to light our path, though all three of us knew each flag, pebble, and clip to the beasthold by now. Fergal ran on ahead.

“If she hasn’t foaled by midnight, she’s not likely to,” Dag announced. “We need another colt.”

“Who’s the foal’s sire?”

“One of old Lord Leefs burthen stallions, so it’s a colt we need to bring the line back. You’re staying on with us, are you, Rill?” Dag was generally blunt.

I nodded, unable to answer, the joy and relief at my good fortune too precious to talk about. Dag gave a curt nod of his shaggy head.

“We have need of folk like yourself. Any more where you come from?” He gave me a sly sideways glance.

“Not that I know of,” I replied amiably, hoping to still his curiosity. We hadn’t had much time for personal conversations these past two-and-a-half days. Now I saw that I would have to develop an appropriate previous history.

“Not every woman can turn her hand to most chores in Hold and beasthold. Were you in a fair-sized place before the plague?”

“Yes, and it saddens me to think of those I lost.” Maybe that prevarication would suffice.

Some ethic in me refused to tell untruths. I sighed. One day the truth surely would come out, but by then I hoped to be so well established at Ruatha that I would be forgiven origin as well as defection.

Fortunately we had arrived at the beasthold. Pol and Sal were there, sitting on bales across from the mare, maintaining a discreet watch. They were soaping a leather harness from the pile of tack collected from Gather detritus as worth saving. Pol handed Fergal a breastplate, green with mold. The boy glanced first at Dag, who nodded, and then grimaced at Pol, but he sat himself down and took up a cloth. Dag and I found bales to sit on and straps to clean.

“Bestrum’s second son’s looking for cropland,” Pol said out of the contented silence.

“Is he?” Dag asked.

“Strong lad, good worker, got a girl in mind from the next Hold.”

“Think Bestrum will mind after losing the others here?”

“Likes Alessan. Boy’d do better here and Bestrum knows it. Fair man, Bestrum.”

“For sending you and Sal, yes, he is.” Dag kept nodding in approval. Then he looked up at Pol, eyes narrowed in speculation. “How long can he spare you? I’ve got all those mares to put to our stallions and this broken leg . . .”

“You said I’d be helping you, Dag,” Fergal complained, glaring at Pol, who ignored him.

“So you will, lad, but there’s more than two of us can handle.”

“Spring comes later in the mountains,” Pol said.

“We be-n’t needed a while yet,” Sal added.

“Shall I ask Holder Bestrum when I write Lady Gana about her children?” I asked.

“That would be kind of you.”

Tuero had established that Lady Gana’s daughter had died in the first wave of deaths, nursed by the old servant, who also succumbed. Both were buried in the first of the stark mounds. The son had worked hard helping Norman, the field manager of the racing flats, before they, too, collapsed and died. They lay in the second great mound.

“She be mighty restless,” Sal said, breaking the silence.

Fergal hopped up on the bale, stretching his neck and standing on tiptoe to see.

“She’s birthing,” he said with such authority that I had to smother a snicker.

Kindly, none of the men insulted him by looking. But we all heard the mare sink to the deep straw bedding. How clever of animals to improve on humans in this activity. We heard several grunts from the mare, no screams or long ululating cries, no weeping and complaining about her lot, or cursing the man who brought her to this condition.

“Hooves,” Fergal announced in a low voice. “Head coming. Normal position.”

I couldn’t keep from glancing at Dag, who winked at me, nibbling at a thick straw.

“Ah,” Fergal drawled. “Just one more push, my beauty, just one little effort on your part . . . ah, there.”

We heard the mare’s effort, the rustle and slither on the straw, and simultaneously the suspense was too much for us. We all reached the stall at the same time, peering over the partition as the mare began to lick the placenta from her foal. The head was free and the wet little body began to struggle, the overlong legs kicking with incredible strength for a creature so newly born.

“Hey, you’re blocking my view,” Fergal cried. He barged in beside Dag and hung onto the partition edge to pull himself up. “What is it? What is it?”

The foal was not helping us to sex it—its legs went out at angles to its body. It snorted in disgust at its helplessness. The mare nudged its rear, the little whisk of a tail. It repositioned its legs and made another stab at rising. Its legs did not cooperate, and it gave a high-pitched little squeal of frustration. Its feet scrabbled in the straw as the foal determined to find a purchase and rise. It had skewed about now, and as it flicked its tail in annoyance, its sex was revealed. Or, to be more accurate, it revealed that it was not a female.

“A colt foal!” Fergal yelled, having paid more attention to that critical detail while we were all enchanted by the creature’s sturdy independence. He flipped open the stall door and entered. “What a marvelous creature you are! What a splendid girl! What a brave mare! What a fine son you have!” Fergal stroked the mare’s nose and fondled her ears, his voice rich with approval. Then he began crooning to the colt, gently smoothing the neck to get it used to human touch. The newborn was far too involved in sorting out its legs to worry about any extraneous annoyance.

“He’s got a gift for ’em, he has,” Pol told us, sagely nodding his head.

“Delivered three in the hill meadows all by himself after I broke my leg.”

“I’ll tell Alessan,” I said.

“The more good news he gets, the better it’ll set with him,” Dag said, which struck me, as I walked quickly back up the road, as cryptic for the blunt runner handler.

When I got back to the Hall, Oklina and Desdra were gone, presumably to bed, for it was after midnight now. Tuero had propped his elbows on the table and was gesturing expansively at Alessan, who had his head down on his arms.

“That’s fair enough,” Tuero was saying in a very amiable and conciliatory tone. “If a harper can’t find out—and this harper is very good at finding things out—if a harper can’t find out, he doesn’t have the right to know. Is that right, Alessan?”

The answer was a long drawn-out snore. Tuero stared at him for a moment in mixed pity and rebuke, then pushed at the wineflask under his elbow and sighed in disgust.

“Has he finished it?” I asked, amused at the disappointment on Tuero’s long face. His long, crooked-to-the-left nose twitched.

“Yes, it’s empty, and he’s the only one who knows where the supply is.”

I smiled, remembering my trip with Oklina to the wine store. “The foal is a male, a fine strong one. I thought Lord Alessan would like to know. Dag and Fergal are watching to be sure it stands and suckles.” I looked down at the sleeping Alessan, his face relaxed, peaceful. He looked younger, so much less strained. Behind the lids, did those pale green eyes still flicker with their habitual sadness?

“I know I know you,” Tuero said.

“I’m not the sort of person a journeyman harper knows,” I replied. “Get to your feet, Harper. I can’t allow him to sleep in this uncomfortable position and he needs a proper rest.”

“Not so sure I can stand.”

“Try it.” I am tall, but not as tall as Tuero or Alessan, and not strong enough to shift Alessan’s heavy frame by myself. I looped one lax arm over my shoulder and urged Tuero, who had managed to get upright, to take the other.

Alessan was heavy! And Tuero was not a very able assistant. He had to pull himself up the stairs by the handrail, which I sincerely prayed was firmly secured to the stonework. Fortunately, Alessan’s rooms were at the head of the stairs. I hadn’t been past the sitting room, still furnished with the doss-beds and bits and pieces just cast down in the press of other tasks. Tomorrow, or the next day, perhaps we could begin to freshen up the inner Hold.