A Journey of the Heart (25 page)

I went to greet my sister and walk with her the last few miles. She had changed so much I doubt I would have recognized her if I had run across her unexpectedly. When I left home, she was a child. Now she was a woman, taller than I by several inches and less lighthearted than I remembered her.

When we arrived at Merin's house, it was suppertime. I stood with Tamar in the doorway, as my mother had stood with me two years before. The Lady was in her place, waiting for us, and she beckoned to me to bring my sister forward. As she had done with me, she drew her sword and laid its point against Tamar's breastbone. Tamar simply smiled at her. I wondered if she saw, as I had seen, a vision of the battlefield. My memory of that vision came back to me, as clear and vivid as it was the first time I looked into the Lady's eyes.

I spent the evening with Tamar, introducing her to the other companions and helping her make a place for herself in the companions' loft. I wanted to get used to this young woman who had replaced my baby sister, and I wanted to hear about what was happening at home, but I worried about Merin. Late that night, although she should have been in bed, I tapped lightly on her door.

"Come in," she said.

I found her sitting by the window, looking out at the night.

"Is she settled in?" Merin asked me.

I nodded. "My sister has never been the least bit shy. She has already made several lifelong friends."

Merin smiled.

"She brings news of our mother."

The briefest shadow crossed Merin's face. Then she shrugged. "I'm sure she has had plenty to keep her busy."

"My mother kept Tamar at home until she nearly burst with impatience," I said. "She very much wanted to come with her, but she was afraid to be away from home for even a few days."

Merin looked alarmed. "Is she in danger?"

"There are travelers in the hills, living on whatever they can forage -- wild game and birds' eggs, and whatever they can dig up out of the ground. Sometimes they approach our people, to trade wild food for meat or grain, and when they leave, a sheep or two may disappear. Other than stealing food, they haven't been a trouble to us, but my mother was afraid that if she left, they might be tempted to take advantage of her absence."

"I understand," said Merin.

I don't believe she did.

Laris had taken her band of warriors home with her, all but Kenit. Even if he could have found a wet nurse, the baby was too young to travel such a distance, and Kenit wouldn't leave him. At night the baby stayed in the kitchen with Reni. During the day, when he wasn't at Reni's breast, he slept in the folds of Kenit's cloak. Everyone had gotten over being startled by the sudden thrust of a tiny fist or the strange wails and gurgles that emerged from Kenit's clothing.

One evening I found Kenit sitting outside the earthworks, his baby in his lap. He beckoned to me, and I sat down beside him.

"I never thanked you for the help you gave his mother," he said.

"I wish I'd had more help to give her," I replied.

The baby reached out and clutched at my sleeve.

"Would you like to hold him?" Kenit asked.

I nodded, and he handed the boy to me. I laid him down in my lap and offered him a finger, which he grasped and drew into his mouth. Though he was only two months old, he was quite heavy, fat and strong and very healthy.

"Will his grandmother raise him?"

Kenit shook his head. "His grandmother isn't well. She depended on her daughter to care for her. Now she has no one left. Another family took her in, but they have no place for a child."

"What will you do with him?"

Kenit set his jaw. "I'm going to keep him, if I have to bribe every servant in Merin's house to help me care for him."

I doubted he would have to do any such thing. Every woman in the household had been drawn to the babies like bears to honey.

"Who will nurse him when Reni leaves?" I asked.

"Reni isn't leaving. She changed her mind about going home. She feels safer here."

The boy began to fuss, and Kenit took him from me. "He favors her. Don't you think he favors her?"

"He does," I said.

In truth I thought I saw more of Kenit in him. The child's black hair was curly like Kenit's, while his mother's had been straight, and he had Kenit's strong jaw. I did see his mother's beauty in his eyes. Knowing he would find her nowhere else, Kenit gazed upon his sweetheart in his baby's face.

For the first few weeks that Tamar was in Merin's house, I tried to spend as much time with her as I could. I had little time to spare. My first duty was to the Lady. While her body was growing stronger, I had to work hard to keep her in good spirits. I was still an apprentice too, of course, and Maara had me practice with the bow every day, so that I wouldn't lose the strength I needed for it.

When I did find time for her, it seemed that Tamar had little time for me. She was quickly becoming popular with the other companions, and they were all glad to teach her. I was a little disappointed that she didn't look to me for help and guidance, although I understood that perhaps she preferred not to stand in the shadow of her older sister. I tried not to mind too much.

One thing I did mind was the way she treated Maara. On her first evening in Merin's house, right after supper, I brought Tamar to where Maara was sitting by the hearth and introduced her to my warrior. Tamar said the proper words, but her eyes slid away from Maara's face, and I caught a look in them I didn't like, as if Maara were beneath her notice. The next day I took her to task about it.

"She's funny-looking," Tamar said.

"She's my teacher and my friend," I told her. "I have the greatest respect for her. You would do well to look more deeply into people, and to judge them, not by what they look like, but by their hearts."

Tamar pouted. "I couldn't see her heart."

"When did my sister become so foolish?"

Tamar laughed at me. "You haven't changed a bit," she said. "Always frowning, always serious." She took my face in both her hands and, as she had done when we were children, tried to turn my frown into a smile. For the first time I was not charmed by it. I took her hands and held them.

"You're not at home anymore," I said. "You can't be the baby here."

She paid no attention to me.

The spring festival was only a few days away, and at last we were enjoying pleasant weather. Not even on the warmest nights did anyone suggest building a bower out of doors. This year no one wanted to linger long outside the fortress walls.

From the frontier came nothing but bad news. The cattle raids had not yet ended. Our outlying farms had been attacked and lives were lost. This time last year the house had been full of people. This year most of our warriors were still at the frontier. This time last year the people of Merin's house were giddy with springtime. This year fear clouded our sight, so that the sky was not as blue as a springtime sky should be.

What frightened me the most was how often the elders went down into the place of ritual or to the oak grove, where I had more than once found the blood of sacrifice poured out upon the ground. Even the elders -- whose tranquil faces always reassured me that they had seen everything that could happen under the sun -- even the elders were afraid.

We dreaded the sight of an oxcart coming from the north, bringing us our wounded or our dead. We dreaded the sight of a messenger, though we hurried to the great hall to hear the news he brought. We were careful not to speak about our fear. We kept it to ourselves. To speak of it would make it real.

One morning when I looked in on the Lady, her haggard look told me she hadn't slept well. Many nights her sleep was troubled. Although she denied it, I suspected that some nights she never slept at all. I made her a tea of chamomile, and into it I put a drop of something stronger, distilled from oil of poppyseed, to ensure that she would get the rest she needed. Then I made her go back to bed.

Early in the afternoon she woke and asked for me. She was weak and a little groggy, from sleep and from the drug I'd given her, but she insisted on getting out of bed. I helped her dress. Then I took the shutter down and set a chair by the window for her.

A fragrant breeze was blowing. The clear spring light fell over Merin's arm where it rested in her lap. Her skin was pale against her gown of meadow green, and in its loose folds her body appeared frail and insubstantial. She could have been a queen of the fairy folk, who at any moment might shimmer and vanish into the air.

I sat down on the foot of her bed.

"Why haven't you been sleeping well?" I asked her.

"Dreams," she said. "Cruel dreams."

She gazed unseeing out the window.

"Are you having nightmares?"

"Nightmares? No, not nightmares. Beautiful dreams."

"If your dreams are so beautiful, why can't you sleep?"

She turned and looked at me. "If I could sleep and never wake, I would."

By now I was used to hearing remarks like that from her, and I didn't dignify it with an answer.

"Tell me about these dreams," I said.

She shook her head. "I dream what should have been."

"You can't live there."

"No," she said. "Not yet."

I did not intend to allow her to resume a courtship with her death.

"Not for a long time yet," I told her. "My mother gave you into my care before she left for home, and I refuse to let you break her heart."

"She left me in your care?"

I nodded.

A sly look came into Merin's eyes. "Is that the only reason you take such good care of me?"

"You know better," I replied.

A faint blush crept into her cheek. "Still," she said, "it's nice to hear."

The door flew open. We turned and saw Vintel standing in the doorway.

Merin got slowly to her feet. "You presume too much," she told Vintel.

The ice in Merin's voice sent a shiver down my backbone, but Vintel ignored it, nor did she so much as glance in my direction.

"There is a matter that requires your attention," Vintel said.

Merin waited. She appeared to rest her hand lightly on the windowsill, but she was using it to steady herself.

"It should be plain enough by now that the northern tribes have given up hope of a crop this year," Vintel said. "That means the fighting will go on all summer. It's time we sent for help."

She paused, but she had more to say, and Merin waited for her to say it.

"A small band of warriors has arrived from my sister's house," Vintel said. "They tell me more can be spared. With your permission, I will send for them."

"Your sister may keep her warriors," Merin replied. "I sent to Arnet's house for help a week ago."

The look of surprise on Vintel's face gave Merin a great deal of satisfaction. One corner of her mouth lifted. "Did you think I wasn't paying attention?"

Vintel was bolder than Merin expected her to be. "I did," she admitted.

"You were mistaken."

Vintel came into the room and closed the door behind her.

"You have been very ill," she said. "You should let others lift the burden of responsibility from your shoulders for a little while, until you're stronger."

"The burden of responsibility always rests upon my shoulders," Merin said. Then, in a soft voice, she added, "When I'm no longer able to bear it, you may try to take it from me, if you can."

Vintel looked confused. "I meant no disrespect."

She sounded petulant, like a child whose clumsy efforts to help are unappreciated.

Merin's hand on the windowsill trembled, and she sat down. "Was there something else you wished to speak to me about?"

Vintel shook her head. "No. Nothing else." She turned to go.

"Perhaps we should call a meeting of the council," Merin said, "so that we can hear the wisdom of those who have lived through other times of trouble."

Vintel didn't care much for that idea, but she dared not refuse. "Let them meet soon," she said. "I have no time to waste here."

"We'll meet first thing tomorrow morning then."

Vintel nodded her assent and left us.

"Well," said Merin. "That was interesting."

"It was?"

I had found the encounter rather frightening, but Merin's dark eyes sparkled, as if she had taken pleasure in sparring with Vintel.

"She overstepped a bit," said Merin, "and she knew it." She settled back into her chair. "What will Vintel tell me, do you suppose, when a large band of warriors arrives from her sister's house?"

"Will she send for them anyway?"

"She has already sent for them."

"How do you know?"

"Vintel is clumsy. There's only one reason for her to send to her sister's house for help. Her sister's warriors will be loyal to her, not to me. She sought my permission because she knew that without it, it would appear that she was preparing to challenge my authority. And of course that's exactly what she's doing. That's why I sent to Arnet's house. Arnet's warriors will be loyal to Namet, and through Namet, to me."

I was surprised to hear her show such confidence in Namet.

"I thought you and Namet didn't get along," I said.

"She and I have had our differences, but I trust her loyalty. Don't you?"

"Of course."

For a few minutes we were silent. Merin stared out the window, a thoughtful look on her face, while I tried to understand what had just happened between Merin and Vintel.

"Why did you decide to call a meeting of the council?" I asked her.

"I want the council to know what Vintel suggested and that I refused her offer."

"So that when her sister's warriors arrive, the elders will see there's treachery in it?"

"Something like that," said Merin.

"Why do you tolerate Vintel?"

Merin leaned forward in her chair and took my hand. She squeezed it hard enough to make me wince. "I need Vintel." She spoke softly, but a cold fire burned deep in her eyes. "We all need Vintel. In troubled times, warriors like Vintel come into their own. When this troubled time is over, wisdom and cooler heads will prevail, and Vintel will have to step back into her proper place. The danger now is that Vintel's power will grow so great that she cannot be made to step back. It is in times like these that great houses fall."