Chapter Twenty-One
The Black Hills
Rosalind’s words hit Halithe deep in her gut, striking the old wall of disapproval and expectations she could never meet, never live up to.
Her clothes were dusty, her hair in disarray; she was a disappointment, a failure.
For a horrible moment, that devastating sensation of burning rose in her throat. She was alone and never enough for—
Ritathan’s shoulder brushed hers, the barest pressure on her arm. Quiet and strong and supportive. Aramal shifted forward, as if to protect her. The pressure in Halithe’s chest eased, replaced by clarifying anger.
“Tarwain is my father.” She lifted her head, looking Rosalind in the eye.
“But to him, I am marriage fodder and nothing more and have been such since my blood first came in.” She shifted her gaze to the Lord and Lady, who watched her intently.
“I have chosen a different path. I am apprentice to Ritathan. My loyalty is to him and to my Guild. None other.” She stood defiant, willing herself to that stillness she had seen Ritathan use so well.
From the glances they shared, she hadn’t convinced Roth or Rosalind. The Lady High Baroness’s eyes flicked to the Lord High Baron, who gave the briefest of nods. As if they were speaking a language known only to them.
“I see,” the Lady said, adjusting the child on her hip.
She gave Halithe a long, considering look, then nodded.
“Well, it seems there’s much to be discussed.
But we don’t talk on an empty stomach, not at my Hearth.
” She stepped forward and plopped the child into Halithe’s arms. “Here, take Dalan. Roth, take the gentlemen for a wash at the well before they eat. Halithe can wash in the kitchens with us. Then we’ll bring out the food. ”
There was an awkward pause, then everyone moved as commanded, with no protest. Halithe looked at the child in her arms in wonder, as he looked back at her. His dark eyes sparkled and he grabbed at her hair with chubby fingers and a crow of delight.
“Come,” the Lady said, and Halithe followed her into the manor.
Unlike the enormous castle kitchens Halithe had occasionally glimpsed in Edenrich, this kitchen was small and stark, with just the basics.
Still, the ceiling was hung with strings of onions and garlic and with herbs drying in racks.
A pot of soup on the hearth, the smell of pork and beans heavy in the air.
Loaves of bread on the table, with crocks of butter.
A servants’ meal, surely, this plain fare.
Rosalind gave the pot a stir, then took it from the hook. “It’s ready,” she said. “I’ll take it out.”
“Here, Halithe.” The Lady High Baroness was standing at a trough. “Let’s get you washed.”
Dalan squealed and lunged forward. Halithe panicked, for fear of dropping him, but the Lady was ready and caught him. “He loves water,” she said, laughing as she turned a tap and water flowed into a stone basin. “There’s soap; towels are under here.”
The water ran lukewarm over her hands. Halithe washed quickly, taking a moment to splash her face. Might as well, seeing as Dalan was already splattering her, and his mother, and everywhere else that he could reach, playing with soap bubbles.
The Lady stopped the water and started drying those chubby little hands. “If you’d get those bowls there,” she said, nodding toward a shelf.
Halithe did as she was bid, realizing that there were no servants. Rosalind, back for a second trip, gathered bread and butter and more cutlery.
Outside, she found that the men had returned, freshly washed and looking grim.
Roth poured a bucket of water into a pitcher.
Ritathan and Aramal pulled benches and chairs to one of the tables.
One of the chairs wobbled badly and Aramal frowned as he set it to one side. “That’s in need of some work.”
“As is most of the place,” Orval said, settling on the end of a bench with Lara in his lap and stretching out his bad leg. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“But you’re Lord High Baron,” Halithe blurted out.
“Lucky to be alive, I imagine.” Ritathan said.
“You have to understand—” The Lord started off but the Lady interrupted.
“No,” she said firmly. “No politics until we’ve given thanks to the Hearth and eaten.”
There was a hesitation, then everyone obeyed. Halithe settled on the bench by Aramal as Rosalind returned with two small bowls, clearly for the babies. She watched as Orval lifted his head and caught Amari’s eye. At her nod, he spoke.
“Our thanks to the Hearth, for this food, and to the land that has provided by the work of our hands and our bodies. Onward, may we ever flourish in your bounty, and be ever grateful for your gifts.”
“Bean soup?” Rosalind asked as she started to serve from the large pot.
“Is that pease porridge?” Ritathan asked, a touch of horror in his voice.
“Pease is for the babes,” Orval said, offering a small spoonful to Lara. “Thinned a bit, mind you.” He paused, lifting his chin. “Although it is a perfect food source, you know.”
That brought rather odd snorts and eye rolls from the Lady, Roth, and Rosalind.
Halithe had attended many a meal that had been stilted and strained, but none with babies at the table. Certainly none where a noble fed his own children.
The little girl, Lara was calmly and cheerfully eating every spoonful her father offered, gazing at them all with her wide, blue eyes.
Dalan was dodging his mother’s efforts, laughing as he spit the pease everywhere. The Lady High Baroness just smiled and kept offering more, regularly wiping his face with the spoon.
“More on him than in him,” Ritathan grumbled, wiping at his tunic.
“It will be some time before he learns any manners,” Rosalind said.
“Or needs to,” the Lord High Baron said, chuckling.
Halithe stared at her bowl, remembering the feel of a wooden spoon rapping her knuckles for any misbehavior.
“Eat,” the Lady urged.
Everyone dug in, accompanied by a clatter of dishes and the passing of plates.
Roth cut thick slices of bread as Rosalind filled people’s bowls.
The soup was good, thick and rich, with onion and a touch of garlic.
There were crocks of creamy butter to spread on the bread and cold well water to drink.
It was plain fare, but warming and perfectly lovely, except for the silence.
Everyone was fiercely concentrating on their food, except the Lord and Lady, who were focused on feeding the children in their laps. But the quiet grew steadily, everyone watching everyone else with considering glances.
Dalan laughed and waved pease-y hands in the air.
Halithe seized the moment, going with a tried and true gambit. A good way to get someone to talk? Ask about their children. “So cute,” she said warmly to the Lady. “Your son looks so much like you, while Lara takes after her father. How old are they?”
Instead of the warming smile she expected, she was met with suspicion and odd looks. Nothing changed, really, but there was a stiffening of shoulders all around.
“Our twins are ten months old,” Amrai said stiffly.
“Young, to be sure,” Aramal observed quietly. He reached over and offered Dalan a finger. Dalan glommed on, pulling and squirming in the Lady’s lap. “Let me take him,” he offered. “So you can eat in peace.”
“You sure?” the Lady hesitated. “He’s quite the mess.”
“Aye.” Aramal lifted the child easily and put him on his lap. Ritathan leaned back to avoid the mess. Aramal threw the mage an amused look as he kept talking. “These rough hands have tended babes before.”
“So you are from Athelbryght?” The Lady reached for bread and butter. “I have heard of their wines.”
“That’s not our only crop,” Aramal said as he let Dalan gnaw on his finger. “We have wheat and barley and fruit trees as well.”
“So you’re a farmer, then,” Lady Amari pulled her bowl closer and picked up her spoon.
“Farmhand, more like,” Aramal responded. “At least I was, until I decided to walk this path.” There was a subtle nod of his head toward Ritathan, who had his nose buried in his food.
The Lady hummed, giving him a nod.
“Very few crafts I haven’t put my hand to,” Aramal said.
“There’s always a need. I’ve seen to livestock, and figured out how to fix most things.
Not a blacksmith, mind, but I can…” he continued, his voice low and strong.
Halithe ate, listening, watching as the tensions in shoulders and eyes eased all around.
Heads nodded. More soup was dished out, more bread passed.
Halithe took another piece, even risked mopping up the last bits of her soup with some crust. No one scolded her; in fact the Lady held out the basket. “Another slice?”
“No, thank you,” Halithe said. “That was very good.”
“It was.” Aramal stood, Dalan still in his arms, scraping his chair back along the floor.
“And in thanks, I’d like to fix that chair. I think there is a workshop off that barn?”
Dalan waved sticky hands, kicking as Aramal held him out to the Lady. “There is, although sorely neglected, I fear,” Amari said as she took the boy from Aramal. “You are welcome to use what you find there.”
“Halithe, I’ll need another set of hands.” Aramal said, then put a hand on Ritathan’s shoulder as the mage made to rise. “No, Ritathan. Stay and talk.”
Halithe looked at Ritathan, who was settling back on his seat. At his sharp nod, she rose, bobbed the Lady a curtsey, then followed Aramal out into the sun.
Aramal seemed to know where he was going, chair in one hand. She waited until they were out of earshot before speaking. “Doesn’t it bother you? That they will be talking about us?”
“No,” he gave her a wry look. “I’ve always been better at the doing than the thinking. They’ve decisions to make and I’d just be drumming my fingers on the table.” He gestured ahead. “Here, look,” he said.