Misery's Child (The Cadian Chronicles) (6 page)

“I know how to
stir a pot, Tesla,” Marta said haughtily.

“Really?” Tesla’s
voice arched. “Well, that’s a trick you didn’t learn in my kitchen, I dare
say.”

“It’s not your
kitchen,” Marta bridled, moving the ladle around in the pot with a distinct
lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll thank you to remember that.”

“Please, spare me
your airs, child. I’ve no time to curtsey.”

Marta was about to
stick out her tongue when her father appeared in the doorway.

Rowle was tall
compared to most men of Kirrisian, almost six feet. Large boned and thickly
muscled,
he was lean and wizened, his skin red-tinged and
leathery from sun and wind. His was an intelligent face with quick eyes darting
beneath bushy gray brows, the top of his
bald head
shining. The air of command sat easily on his shoulders the way lesser men
might wear a cloak. Marta thought no man in the entire realm as handsome as her
own father.

“And what a
pleasing picture this is to return home to!” Rowle laughed, his voice filling
the room. “My calla Marta tending the home fires like a proper little wife!”

“Father!” Marta
flew into his open arms, snuggling her face against his riding cloak and
inhaling the glorious mingled scents of horses and ale and open air. “I’m so
glad you’re home!”

“What a good girl
you are to greet your old father so warmly!” Rowle took her hands as he stepped
away, looking her over with approval. “By Oman’s beard, child, but you’ve grown
another inch since I left!’

Marta giggled. “I
have not! You’ve only been away a fortnight!”

“Aye, don’t
disagree with me, daughter,” he warned with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re
growing into a fine young woman. Tis proud I am to see you here helping our
good Tesla—”

Tesla snorted
again, causing Marta’s eyes to roll menacingly in the old woman’s direction.
Rowle turned his attention to the pot on the hearth.

“Lamb stew, if my
nose does not deceive me! Darlin’ Tesla, it’ll be a feast fit for a king, by
the smell of it.” Rowle reached a huge arm around the cook’s waist and
squeezed, bringing a rare smile to Tesla’s grim face.

“Nonsense,” she
said, blushing to her hairline. “Barely fit for a vidor, but we’ll make due. No
one goes to bed hungry tonight, my lord Rowle.”

Aye, there’ll be
time enough for hunger this winter, Rowle thought to
himself
,
aiming a small prayer towards Oman’s Isle that this year would not be so harsh.

In summer, the
fields and the boats yielded enough to keep them eating regularly, but after
the first killing frosts, the household diet dwindled. By spring, there was not
much left in the pantries but charoots, dried mushrooms and shooma grain for
gruel and hard bread. There was always the sheep herd, but slaughtering a sheep
in winter was hardly worth the trouble, so skinny and tough they were. Besides,
a dead mid-winter sheep was one whose coat would yield far less wool than a
sheep left alive until spring sheering; nor could a dead sheep breed and yield
more sheep. Fresh food was limited to any fish that Ry and Cal brought in and
the winter storms made fishing chancy at best. Last winter, two of the goats
they depended on for milk had frozen to death and the gruel had been reduced to
nothing but water and tasteless grain.

If we can just hang on another two summers.
Until Lillitha reaches her sixteen summer in time for her offering
at the Single Moon.
Please, Oman. Let her be the Chosen One—

Shamed overwhelmed
him; how had he been reduced to this? His was a noble name, his lineage one of
the highest and most prized in all of the Realm, traced back as far as Martel
the Warrior, who fought at Belah’s side. Offering his eldest daughter to Oman
was a duty and a privilege. So why did he feel like some tavern scully hoping
to sell his daughter for a good price?

Marta peered up
into his face and saw the shadow flickering over his features. He cupped her
face in his large hands and kissed her gently on the forehead.

“Go and call your
sister in to supper, Marta.”

When she looked up
into his eyes, Marta wondered at the sadness she saw there. It puzzled her, but
she forgot it even before she reached the stairs.

Chapter 3: The Grail of the Dead

They stood as
Yannamarie entered the room, gliding soundlessly. It spooked Marta, how quietly
the woman could move.

The cadia stepped
to one side and waited, hands clasped and eyes straight ahead, as her charge
stepped into the small hall with tiny, unhurried steps just as Yanna had taught
her. Lillitha halted before her father, bowing deeply as he took her proffered
hands and brought them to his lips.

“My Lilli,” Rowle
sighed, his blue eyes crinkling into lines long ago etched there by the sea and
the open fields. “How is it possible for a child of mine to be so pretty?”

“Welcome home,
father.” Was this her voice, so careful and polite?
 
She fought the urge to jump into his
arms, longing to feel the rough stubble of his beard against her cheek. “I’ve
missed you so. I trust your trip went well?”

He squeezed her
hands tightly before letting them go, as if he read her thoughts and understood
why she could not embrace him, just as he could do more than hold her hands.

“Well enough,
daughter. A long ride to be sure.”

He winked at her,
folding her arm into his and escorting her to the end of the table. Only when
Lillitha was settled, with Yanna to her right, did everyone sit down again.

Rowle occupied the
head of the table. To his left sat Marta, then Ersala. Opposite Ersala sat
Paul, eleven summers-old, all elbows and knees, squirming as if he might shoot
out of his chair at any minute. Between Paul and Rowle there was an empty
chair, the place set with a metal trough and a goblet unlike the simple wooden
cups from which the rest of the family drank. It was the Grail of the Dead.

Ersala filled the
grail from a jug while the rest of them bowed their heads. She spoke in the
ancient tongue of the Omani:

“Let this cup
stand in memory, that the blessings of remembrance fall gently upon this
house.”

“Mother Leah, hear
our prayers,” came the ensemble response.

And then the
silence shattered.

“Marta, put that
down this instance! Will you never learn?”

“But
Mother—”

“Don’t ‘mother’
me—.” Ersala took the biscuit from Marta’s hand and returned it to the
platter, then handed the platter to Yannamarie even as Marta howled in sudden
pain. “Paul, don’t kick your sister again! Have you washed your hands?”

Yanna plucked two
biscuits from the platter, laying one in her trough and the other on
Lillitha’s. It was customary that the consecratia be served first, then the
rest of the family, beginning with the men, according to seniority, then
finally to the women, again according to age.

“But I always get
the smallest,” Marta grumbled. “I hate being last.”

Yanna’s sharp,
thin eyebrow arched in Marta’s direction, her lips stretching in an expression
that might have been pity, scorn or amusement. It was impossible to tell, but
it galled Marta just the same. She wished it were permissible to stick one’s
tongue out at a cadia.

Rowle reached out
to pat Marta’s hand and chuckled. “There are biscuits aplenty tonight, calla
Marta. Tesla’s cooked enough to fill even your stomach. Bottomless though it
seems.”

Ersala shot a
warning glance at her youngest daughter,
then
smiled
wanly at Rowle. “Your business, my husband? I trust all went well?”

“Well indeed,
wife.”

Rowle spoke of his
trip to the far southwestern border of Kirrisian and the farmers there who had
invented a new instrument for sheering sheep. “Quite impressive it is. We’ll
try it out ourselves come spring.”
 

Marta’s mind
wandered; she had little interest in sheep; they were smelly, dirty things so
stupid they could drown in a rain puddle. Instead she nibbled on her biscuit
and watched the bowls and baskets make their way around the table.

“No, not so much,
Yannamarie,” her sister was whispering. “I’m not so hungry, really.”

The cadia paid her
no heed. Lillitha blushed—a hopeless habit she would never
outgrow—as she caught Marta’s baleful eyes staring at her trough.

“And things here?
All was peaceful, I trust?” Rowle took the bowl from Yannamarie and ladled the
steaming stew onto his own trough. He did not mention the two executions he’d
presided over, the real reason for his trip. The deaths, though deserved,
weighed heavily on his heart; he would talk with Ersala later in the privacy of
their bedchamber. As always, she would remind him of the service he did in
protecting his people. Her words, sensible and true, would ease his burden.

“Father, can I go
with you on your next journey?”

“Paul, don’t talk
with your mouth full,” Ersala sighed. “And you are too young to even ask such a
thing.”

“Now, wife, the
boy is eager to see and learn, aren’t you, Paul? Perhaps next summer we will
take a short journey together. If your mother agrees, of course.”

“I’m not so very
young,” the boy disagreed. Unlike his sister Marta, Paul did not whine, only
stated his case with his mother’s pragmatic reliance on fact. “I am more than
eleven summers now. Jonil was only ten when you first took him with you.”

“And look how well
he turned out,” Marta muttered, low enough that only Paul could hear her. Or so
she thought. Yannamarie’s dark eyes cut towards her, the cadia’s face still
frozen in that unreadable mask.

“What did you say,
girl?” Ersala demanded sharply.

Marta knew her
mother hadn’t caught her words clearly; if she had, Marta would be on the floor
from one of Ersala’s blows.

“I said, will you
please hurry and pass the stew before I faint from hunger, muma.”

That was a cruel remark, young Marta—

Marta jerked
toward the source of the voice but the cadia’s lips were still and unmoving as
she returned Marta’s stare.

Will you never learn charity for the wounds of
others?

The voice rolling
in her head had to be a cadian trick. How dare she? Marta’s eyes flashed fury
at the silent, black-robed woman,
then
flickered
around the other faces at the table.

No, they can’t hear me. I’m speaking only to the
one that needs correction. Do you not know how much your parents still grieve
for your lost brother?

Marta felt the
anger building inside her. A buzzing heat seemed to push at the top of her
skull. The words were silent and yet they seemed to scream, taking their
substance from the fever that fought to be free:
Get out of my head
,
you witch
!

Yanna flinched, and
then a small smile played at the corners of her mouth.

Marta felt dizzy.
She steadied herself by grasping the edge of the table with both hands.

As you wish, little one.
The voice was soft and silky now, as if the cadia
were pleased and not much surprised that Marta had answered her.
Your head is not a very pleasant place to
be. Filled with resentments that writhe like snakes....

I said get out!

“Marta? Marta!”
Ersala banged her fist on the table.

“W-what?” Marta
turned to her mother with a dazed expression.

“Mayhaps you are
about to faint from hunger,” her mother snorted, holding out the bowl of stew
impatiently. “Take it.”

“I almost forgot,”
Rowle said as he speared a chunk of lamb with his knife. “Tullus sends his
greetings.”

“Tullus? You went
as far as Jeptalla?” Ersala’s voice peaked with disapproval.

“‘Twas not so very
far, wife. Only another half-day’s ride.”

“Jeptalla,
father!” Lillitha’s eyes were alight. “You saw King Tullus? And Scearce?”

“Yes, how are
they, father?” Marta joined in, her heart twisting at the smile he aimed
towards Lillitha.

“You supped with
King Tullus?” Paul leaned his elbows on the table. “I met him once, didn’t I?
When I was very little?”

“I hardly see how
you could remember,” Marta said loftily. She could barely recall the long-ago
trip to Tullus’ Seat. If she had been just five, Paul had to have been only two
summers along. “You were still wearing a dress.”

“Not the time we
all went to Jeptalla, you dolt,” Paul chided her. “Of course I don’t remember
that. At the fair, in Margarie, I mean.”

“Yes, you did,
Paul.” Rowle grinned at his son. “I seem to recall you squealing like a piglet
when Tullus swung you ‘round and ‘round in the air.”

“He was fun,” Paul
observed sagely, munching on another biscuit. “I liked him.”