2. Novélim

The timber guard hut which Kalas al Delsin and his companion, Egbert al Oland, occupied had neither fire-pit nor brazier. Both young men were wrapped in the blankets from their cots. Egbert lay on his bunk, complaining about the cold. Kalas sat at the table, whetstone in hand, carefully sharpening his short sword.

Thump, thump! The noise from outside was regular and insistent.

'There's someone at the gate,' Kalas observed. Egbert feigned deafness.

'Egbert!'

'Let them knock,' said Egbert, shrugging dismissively. 'Open that door and you'll set free what little heat we have.'

The noise continued.

Ignoring Egbert's protests, Kalas put down the whetstone, sheathed his sword, and stood. Taking up his spear and shield, he opened the door of the guard hut. With the The hammering was loud and insistent.

Thick snow blanketed the outer courtyard, but at least it had stopped falling. The wind too, had dropped. The howling storm that tore and ravened had become a brittle breeze. Despite this, the cold caught his throat, and he coughed.

'I'm coming! Who's there?'

'Messenger from Yâlen! Sir Danard, Lord of Yâlen requires assistance from his liege!'

The voice was high-pitched and desperate The effort being used to force every word out was apparent. Wondering what emergency had driven a child to trudge through the snow to Novélim, Kalas placed his spear against the wall and struggled to lift the heavy wooden bar from its rest.

'Egbert,' Kalas yelled as he exerted his strength. There was no answer from his fellow guard, Egbert had closed the door. With considerable effort, Kalas lifted the bar unaided.

'Give it a push, lad,' Kalas shouted, struggling to open the gate over the snow.

There was no reply, but Kalas felt the gate slowly shift as additional pressure was applied from the outside. The messenger wasn't wasting breath on a reply, but instead concentrating his effort into pushing. Eventually, the gate moved.

At five-and-a-half-feet, the youngster who stumbled through the gap the moment it was wide enough was taller than Kalas expected. Although it was partially hidden beneath a snow-covered cloak, he noticed the well-used falchion hanging at the messenger's left hip. A pair of striking eyes, the blue of a summer sky, peered up to assess him.

As the cold wind nipped at Kalas' cheeks and lips, he examined the messenger carefully. He could see very little of the person under the clothes. The eyes were the only part exposed to the elements. There was a lot of sense in the exhausted boy's attire. He had a blanket wrapped and pinned around his head, and a leather cowl over that. When Kalas began to push the gate shut, the boy added his shoulder to the effort. Together, they dropped the bar back in place.

'My thanks.' Kalas picked up his spear. 'This way.'

He led the messenger past the kennels and stables, and through the gates in the high stone wall that separated the manor's inner courtyard from its outer.

Novélim Manor was one of the newest, and finest, manor houses in Asólade Hundred. Three storeys of stone with a pitched roof of red tile—it even had chimneys. The building was little older than Kalas himself. Upon entering the inner courtyard, many visitors stopped and stared in awe at the building; the weary messenger did not. Walking up to the door, Kalas lifted the ornate horse-head knocker and let it fall. The noise echoed around the empty yard.

'Kalas al Delsin, I bring a messenger from Lord Yâlen,' he bellowed.

Stepping behind messenger, who was still breathing heavily, he bashed the crusted snow from the boy's cloak. He then reached forwards and did the same to the boy's chest. The lad whimpered and stepped backwards.

'No,' the messenger muttered, finishing the job himself.

Kalas shrugged, and looked meaningfully down at the sword hanging from the youngster's hip. The sky-blue eyes stared back, but there was no understanding in them.

'Take off the sword,' Kalas ordered.

'Sorry!' The messenger hastily pulled off two pairs of mittens, revealing three-fingered archer's gloves beneath.

After tucking the mittens under an arm, the messenger fumbled to unbuckle his sword belt. Kalas was staring at the slender, cold-reddened thumb and little finger with slowly dawning realisation when the manor door opened. The faint hint of warmth that escaped from the hall was quickly dissipated by the wind.

'Inside, now,' the manor's plump and balding little chamberlain ordered, his breath frosting in the sudden influx of cold air.

Kalas stepped smartly inside. The messenger, still fumbling with his—or her—sword belt, followed. The plump man closed the door and barred it. That done, he turned to the messenger.

'I am Torbrys, Chamberlain to Lord Novélim,' the man said as he assessed the young stranger. 'You are?'

Panting and shaking, the messenger finally unbuckled the sword belt and handed belt, scabbard, and falchion to Kalas. She then pushed back her hood, unpinned the blanket around her head, allowed it to fall away, and shook out an untidy mane of thick corn-blonde hair. The girl's nose was crooked, as if it had once been broken, and there was an inch-long scar on her left cheek.

Kalas recognised her immediately. While she certainly wasn't the prettiest of things, he wondered why he'd never before noticed the blueness of her eyes. Chamberlain Torbrys recognised her, too.

'Master Torbrys.' The girl lowered her head and attempted a clumsy curtsey. That done, she looked straight into the chamberlain's face and tried not to appear exhausted. 'I am…'

Torbrys interrupted, demonstrating the remarkable memory for names and faces that made him indispensable to his lord. 'You are Lysha, daughter of Dikel al Rakath. Your father is a yeoman in the service of Lord Yâlen. He, and you, and your brother—Uthber—attend services at the chapel here. What brings you out in this foul weather, Lysha al Rakath?'

'I bring a message from my Lord Yâlen. He asks aid from his liege. He requires an Ebaséthè of Peóni.' Lysha, was leaning against the wall trying to regain some strength. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she replied clearly.

Torbrys looked her up and down, assessing her appearance and demeanour, and shook his head. Turning away from her, he briefly reopened the outer door. 'Girl, here!' he bellowed, before turning back to Lysha. 'Best get some of those clothes off, daughter of clan Rakath.'

Lysha was obviously confused and alarmed by the request. Kalas was trying to give her a reassuring smile, which only seemed to worry her more, when a skinny middle-aged woman scurried through the outer door

'Take this lass across to the kitchens and make her fit to be presented to his lordship. And do what you can to dry whatever clothes she removes,' Torbrys told the woman. 'When she's ready, bring her back to Kalas. He'll be waiting here.' He glanced meaningfully at Kalas.

'Wait here,' Kalas repeated, nodding as he acknowledged the order.

Torbrys turned on his heels and scuttled through the inner doors into the great hall. Lysha followed the servant out into the cold. Suddenly alone, Kalas stamped the snow from his boots, wiped a drip from his nose, and thought about Egbert. Though rarely vindictive, Kalas revelled in the fact that the unheated entrance hall to the manor was warmer than the guardhouse in which his companion still languished.

It was several minutes before Lysha returned; the cloak and the sodden old leather greatcoat she'd been wearing were gone, as were several other layers of clothing. She was a different person, lithe and slender in a blue tunic and green kirtle. Kalas noticed that she'd been given a pair of dry slippers, too. He wondered how many layers it had taken to turn her into the shapeless creature he'd let in through the gate. Then he remembered his attempt to brush the snow from her chest, and felt himself blush.

'Warm, isn't it?' he asked her.

'Not warm enough to redden my cheeks, Kalas,' she said archly, folding her arms. Her unwavering gaze showed him she'd remember his actions. 'And that's despite the fact it's taken me almost a full watch to walk here. I've never known such cold. Are the chills affecting your villagers?'

'I hear tales that many are ill,' he said. 'But they say Mother Bredyth is dealing with it. Why?'

Lysha was about to reply when the door behind them opened. Falling silent, the two youngsters turned. Chamberlain Torbrys stared up into Kalas' face, nodded, turned away from them, and led the way into the great hall. Lysha stepped forward, Kalas grabbed her shoulder and silently indicated that she should wait.

'Lysha, daughter of Clan Rakath brings a message from your vassal, Lord Yâlen, my Lord,' the chamberlain announced.

Kalas released Lysha and, spear in hand, escorted the disarmed girl into the hall, into the presence of his lord. Twenty feet away, the moustachioed Sir Terris alri Doulzarn, Lord of Novélim, sat in an ornately carved high-backed chair. His back was to a blazing fire and he was toying with a silver-handled dagger. His discarded hat lay on the table in front of him. His long grey hair was thick around the sides of his head, but only a few wisps remained on top of his pate. Flickering torchlight reflected through his thinning hair.

To Sir Terris' left was his son-in-law, and named heir, the burly Sir Hadred; he looked bored. To Sir Terris' right was the eldest of Terris' daughters, Hadred's wife, the dark-haired Lady Emyla. Unlike her husband, Lady Emyla was alert and attentive. Kalas felt the pressure of her searching gaze.

Alongside Lady Emyla sat the manor's chaplain, the Matakéa Fryda, resplendent in the red-trimmed white robes that indicated her status. Kalas bowed his head to the nobles and noted that Lysha's curtsey was much better than the one she'd given the chamberlain.

The chamberlain walked across the hall to stand between Sir Terris and Sir Hadred. Kalas looked around the room. There were no other occupants of the great hall proper, but Sir Terris' youngest daughter, Lady Dylza, was leaning over the balcony. The seventeen-year-old's waist-length, chestnut-coloured hair tumbled over her shoulders and framed her face. Catching Kalas' gaze, she fluttered her eyelashes and smiled; he hastily turned to face his lord.

'Speak, girl,' Sir Terris ordered.

'My Lord.' Lysha curtseyed again. 'I am here by order of my Lady Maris. My own lord, Sir Danard, is bedridden. The chills sweep across our vill… across Sir Danard's lands. I'm sure you know, my lord, that our own Ebaséthè—Davveth—died soon after the seasons changed. I am here to request that…'

'Prettily put, girl, but to no avail. You're going to ask for Mother Bredyth's assistance. It's impossible! She's not a young woman.'

'Charity, my lord,' chaplain Fryda began, leaning forwards to catch Sir Terris' eye.

Lady Emyla silenced the priestess with a glower and a curt gesture.

'There's nothing charitable about sending Mother Bredyth out in this weather,' Sir Terris told the priestess gruffly. 'Look at the young lass before us! She's young and fit, yet she can barely stand. She's exhausted!' He turned his attention back to Lord Yâlen's messenger. 'How long did it take you to get here girl?'

'Three hours, my lord?' Lysha guessed. 'Perhaps a little more.'

'A journey that should take less than an hour!' Sir Terris grumbled the words through the bushy grey moustache that hid his lips. 'I'm well aware of Mother Bredyth's reputation as a healer, girl, and I am bound to assist my vassal. If I can! Answer me this, lass. Would you send your grandmother out in this foul weather?'

Kalas watched Lysha as she struggled to find a suitable answer. After a few moments, the girl spoke. Her words were slow and careful. 'If my grandmother could save someone's life, my Lord, I would ask her whether she thought that she could manage the journey. I would let her decide for herself.'

'Laráni's tits, lass!' Sir Terris barked out a harsh laugh.

Matakéa Fryda tried to protest the blasphemy, but he ignored the priestess' squeaks.

'What did you say your name was?' Sir Terris asked.

'Lysha al Rakath, my lord.'

'When you get back to Yâlen, tell old Danard that he's chosen a fine messenger. Tell him I said so! After fighting through the snow to get here, I should have realised you were a warrior, despite your stature!' Sir Terris chuckled, and glanced over his shoulder at his chamberlain. 'Torbrys, speak to the kitchen. Whether Mother answers yeah or nay, Lysha yeoman's-daughter will need sustenance for her return journey. Mulled ale, bread, and warm honey—give the lass a slice of the ham, too. She deserves it!'

'As you command, my lord.' With a brief nod, Torbrys left. Sir Terris turned his attention to his man-at-arms. 'I have work for you, Kalas! Stop staring at the lass, and fetch Mother Bredyth. We'll see what she has to say about this. Go!'

A flick of his lord's hand, and Kalas was dismissed.

'My lord.' Kalas bowed his head and hurried from the hall to do his lord's bidding.

Arriving at the guard hut, Kalas peered inside. It was empty. Cursing his colleague, he tramped across to the servant's quarters and peered inside. Egbert was sitting on a bench in front of the fire pit warming himself, while sharing a jug of mulled ale with Sir Terris' one-eyed falconer. The latter's children were playing on the floor around them.

'I'm to fetch Mother Bredyth, at our lord's command,' said Kalas brusquely. 'I'll use the postern.'

Turning on his heels, he left without closing the door. Egbert would have to stand up to close it. Whether he would follow to the postern gate and bar it was another matter. As Kalas pulled up the hood of his cloak, he heard Egbert's curses, and the door slam. A glance over his shoulder was enough to confirm that Egbert had remained inside.

While the main gate was wide enough for two horses abreast, the postern was merely man-sized. Consequently, it was a lot easier for Kalas to open it, and to pull it closed behind him. He couldn't secure it, of course, as the bar was on the inside. That, however, was Egbert's problem. He'd told his fellow guard where he was going, and why. An open gate was Egbert's dereliction, not his own.

With the wind whipping at his cloak, Kalas tramped through the village. As he forced his way through the deep snow, he tried to imagine Lysha's journey. Although the thick quilt of his armour protected his body, the gusting wind had already begun to chill his face and hands. He suspected that three hours in this weather would freeze the marrow in his bones. Lysha had walked through the rage-filled howls of the storm, not merely these grumbling, blustering remnants.

Although not born in Novélim, Kalas had lived there most of his life. He'd been raised by his uncle—the village beadle—and had no memories of any other home. While Mother Bredyth's cottage was simply one more snow-covered lump in the featureless white landscape, he could pick it out with ease. As he walked towards the one-roomed daub and wattle hut, Kalas worried about his future.

His uncle's eldest son had recently returned home to marry Chamberlain Torbrys' daughter. Kalas had been told that he must give up his position in the manor. The post belonged to clan Delsin, as the beadle clan. Ancient agreements bound them to provide one guard for the manor. There was, his cousin had assured him, a guard's position at Jédes Keep. Unfortunately, the storm had prevented him from travelling. If he couldn't get there soon, there was a chance the post would be filled.

As he approached the priestess' cottage, Kalas noticed footprints in the snow. They were impossible to miss. There was only one set of prints, and he tried to determine whether they meant that the priestess had left, or if she had a visitor. He was no huntsman but, given the length of the stride, he suspected the latter.

When he knocked at the stout wooden door, it took Mother Bredyth only moments to open it. In deference to the season, the elderly priestess' robes were snow-white.

She stared up at him in surprise. Bredyth was a tiny and stooped old woman, more than a foot shorter than Kalas. So far as he knew, she'd been in the village forever. Formally, she was Ebaséthè Bredyth, priestess of the goddess Peóni, but she'd simply been "Mother" to the village residents for as long as anyone could remember.

'Saint Brómel and Saint Angryl,' Bredyth exclaimed. 'News travels fast, even in this weather! The snow stops, and the visitors turn up. Am I going to have every young man in the village battering at my door just because a pretty young girl arrived with the snows? Come in, Kalas. You'll have to wait your turn.'

'News?' asked Kalas. He wondered how the priestess knew of Lysha's arrival, and why she considered her pretty. 'I have a message, Mother. Sir Terris asks if you could find time to attend him at the manor.'

'He "asks if I can find time," does he? How unusually polite of him,' Mother said sarcastically. She shook her head. 'Those are your words, not his, Kalas. Your aunt has taught you your manners. Come inside while I find my cloak. This door's been open long enough. Hopefully Harlin will be good and cold by now.'

As he ducked under the doorframe, Kalas finally saw inside the cottage. His friend Harlin al Kleve, apprentice to the village's horse-breeder, was sitting on a bench. Harlin was stripped to the waist and shivering in the draught. A girl with short-cropped, tousled black hair was hunkered down behind him. She had her ear to his back, and an arm about his waist to steady herself.

'I can't hear any rattles in the lungs, but his breathing is fast.'

As she spoke, the girl released Kalas and stood. She was a snub-nosed little thing with eyes the colour of ripe hazel nuts. She tilted her head to look up at Kalas, and he noticed a large cherry-red birthmark on the side of her neck.

'Foolish girl! His breathing is fast because you had an arm around his waist. His chest is clear, and there's no sign of fever. He's only here because he heard there was a pretty young priestess in the place, aren't you Harlin?'

'No, Mother,' the tall and burly young man's protest was half-hearted.

Kalas was surprised that Harlin would tell so blatant an untruth to his priestess. She, however, was not.

'Don't lie to me, Harlin! Sweet Peóni knows your every sinful thought, and so do I. Now get out, I'm summoned to the manor, and I'm taking young Ryssi with me. I don't want to leave her here, else you try to take advantage of her.'

'Mother!' Harlin tried to continue his protest, but the old lady glared and touched a finger to her lips; he fell instantly silent.

'You're young, fit, and well, Harlin. Go back to your master and don't bother me again!'

Standing, Harlin hastily pulled on vest, undertunic, and tunic. That done, he picked up his cloak, threw it over his shoulders, and left. When he closed the door, Mother turned her attention to Kalas.

'Sit,' she ordered, indicating the bench recently vacated by Harlin. 'Tell me everything!'

Transfixed by the old woman's gaze, and in awe of her powers, Kalas was unable to resist. He found himself telling her the entire story of Lysha's arrival.

'So, I'd best prepare a poultice for the fool Egbert, for after he's been flogged, again!' Mother shook her head in despair. 'But I'd expect better of you, Kalas. D'you want young Ryssi to go out and roll in the snow for you? Then you can rub her nubbins, too,' the old lady added.

'Mother!' Kalas protested. 'I thought Lysha was a boy.'

'Then perhaps there's no hope for you, lad,' Mother said. She indicated Ryssi. 'Or perhaps your luck is in. Look at her! Hair cropped as short as a boy's, and pretty enough, but no chest that I can discern. That excuse could serve you again, Kalas.'

'Mother,' this time Kalas and Ryssi spoke in unison. The old woman chuckled.

'I'm sorry for teasing you, my children. You're honest and hard-working, Kalas; that, and a bit of luck, might be enough to see you through life.'

Stepping back, Mother turned to address her raven-haired companion. 'Ryssi, this is Kalas al Delsin. He's man-at-arms for Sir Terris up at the manor house. Kalas, this is the Ebaséthè Ryssi al Chert. She arrived with the storm. She's come directly from the leper colony at Poynter. Take her hand in greeting.'

Trusting to Mother's goddess, gentle Peóni, Kalas did as he'd been asked.

'Good day to you, Ebaséthè Ryssi.'

'May Peóni bless you and keep you safe, Kalas,' Ryssi replied politely.

'A decent and proper sentiment, Ryssi,' Mother said. 'But Kalas is not of our flock, he looks to Laráni, the Lady of Paladins for guidance. Now, let's get ready to meet young Terris.'

Moving to the corner of her hut, she rifled through the collection of blankets and old clothes piled at the bottom of her straw-filled mattress. She threw Ryssi a pair of worn and torn mud-brown leggings, a green tunic that was little more than child-sized, and an old blue cloak.

'White, for the season,' Ryssi protested, dropping the clothes.

'Strip, girl,' Mother ordered. 'The leggings and tunic will be unseen under your robes, and you'll need them in this weather. From what Kalas has just told us, one of us will be walking to Yâlen. It won't be me.'

'Peóni requires…'

'Peóni requires her clergy to live, Ryssi. Dead you can't preach; dead you can't help others. Saints may be martyrs, but failing to dress for the weather isn't martyrdom, it's stupidity,' said Mother harshly. 'You're quick and clever, but much too ready to obey without thinking. The Goddess gave you a good brain, use it.'

'But the cloak,' Ryssi protested as she unfastened her belt and began to pull her tunic over her head.

'By the Goddess, lass! Weren't you listening when I told you that you obey without thinking? There's no need to show Kalas what tiny little nubbins you have. At least wait until I've chased him outside before you remove your robes.' Mother motioned Kalas to the door. 'As for the cloak, you'll need it! White for the season, yes! But, not enough layers, and dressing all in white in a snowstorm? That would be the death of you. It would be the death of anyone. That cloak is old and well-worn, but it's one of Sir Terris'. It's good and thick and warm, and it's visible, which could prove invaluable in this weather.'

Mother opened the door and, after a surprisingly firm push on his back, Kalas found himself standing in the cold outside the cottage.

'Wait there, Kalas.'

Mother closed the door firmly. By the time it reopened, Kalas' arms were folded under his cloak and he was stamping his feet in a futile attempt to keep them warm. Despite this, the cold had penetrated to his core, making him cough. Mother strode out. 'Keep up, lad,' she ordered as she scampered rapidly over the snow. 'Let's see what young Terris will give us for our help.'

'We require nothing…' Ryssi began.

Mother's cry of annoyance was enough to silence her.

'When we get to the manor, Ryssi, you will not speak. In the great hall of Novélim, young Terris has an abundance of firewood, warm clothes, and food; out here, my flock have little. He can be nudged towards generosity, but it isn't his natural state. Say nothing. Leave the talking to me.'

The postern gate was, much to Kalas' annoyance, still unbarred. He closed and secured it, and led the two women across the yard. It seemed that the chamberlain had been watching for them, because as they hurried into the inner courtyard, the manor house door opened and Torbrys beckoned them inside. He stared curiously at Ryssi as she passed him. The moment Kalas—who was bringing up the rear—entered the outer hall, Torbrys slammed the door shut and barred it.

'Cloaks,' Torbrys ordered. The serving woman at his side stepped forwards to take the cloaks from them. The chamberlain then turned to Mother. 'Who is this, Ebaséthè Bredyth?' he asked, indicating Ryssi.

'It seems gentle Peóni smiles upon your lord, Torbrys,' Mother said. 'This is Ebaséthè Ryssi. She was on her way Erönè, but took shelter with me when the snows began to fall.'

Torbrys nodded. 'That is fortunate,' he said. 'I bid you welcome to Novélim manor, Ebaséthè Ryssi.'

'May Peóni bless you and keep you safe, sir,' Ryssi replied.

'Yes indeed. May Peóni bestow her copious bounty on both you and your young wife, Chamberlain Torbrys.'

'Please behave yourself, Mother,' Torbrys muttered, before throwing open the doors to the great hall. 'Gentle Peóni's servants, Ebaséthè Bredyth, and Ebaséthè Ryssi, my lord,' he announced loudly as he led the two women into the room. Kalas followed, spear in hand.

The noble quartet still sat in their chairs, but they had been joined by Sir Terris' tall and gangling squire. Gorayn. A nervous lad of thirteen years, he stood at his lord's left shoulder. At the back of the hall Lysha was busily using her final crust of bread to scrape the last of the warm honey from the wooden bowl in front of her. She briefly glanced up at the arrivals.

'Mother,' Sir Terris nodded politely at the elderly priestess.

'My Lord Novélim.' Mother began with the most perfunctory of curtseys. She then nudged Ryssi, and curtseyed for a second time. This time the younger woman curtseyed too. 'Your man Kalas has told me why I have been summoned here. I understand that your vassal, Lord Yâlen, requires Peóni's aid. I am here to offer it.' She held out a hand, and indicated Ryssi.

'It seems my goddess must favour you, my lord, for she has sent this young Ebaséthè to me. Ryssi arrived with the storm. A storm she was ill-equipped to deal with. She will need food, a good warm cloak, and at least one more layer of clothing for her journey. If you have two pairs of breeches, two tunics, and a pair of good shoes, that should suffice for such a difficult journey.'

'But, Mother…' Ryssi began.

'Shush, girl,' Mother ordered. 'Don't worry yourself; the Lord Novélim is not like those northern Lords you've told me of. Asólade is not like the north of Káldôr. Here, our great nobles treat their guests with respect. My Lord's generosity is well known. He'd not begrudge a poor priestess food clothing, and alms.' Mother indicated Lysha, who was pouring herself the last of the mulled ale from the jug in front of her. 'See how well he treats the servant of his vassal, the Lord of Yâlen.'

'One day, Mother, someone will whip you!' Sir Terris growled. 'But, as you often remind me, you brought me into this world, and you kept me here. Perhaps your goddess does smile on this house, but you demand too much! Is there anything else you require? My best horse, perhaps?'

'Demand, require? I follow the teachings of humble Peóni, sire. I know that avarice is a sin. I demand nothing, I require nothing, I simply beg for compassion. I could be sending this fresh-minted Ebaséthè to her death—at your request—my lord. Warm clothing is essential for such a journey, and—like most of my brothers and sisters—Ryssi has nought but the robes she stands in. No coin, no provisions, nothing. It is for this reason I beg that you ensure that she is provided with enough clothing to keep her warm and safe for the journey. It is, after all, a journey she will undertake on your behalf.'

She stepped forwards, moving a fraction closer to Sir Terris than was socially acceptable. 'This journey isn't one you or I would wish to undertake. Is it?'

'It is not,' the Lord of Novélim agreed.

Sir Terris' mouth was obscured by his moustache, so Kalas couldn't be certain, but he though he saw the glimmer of a smile in his master's eyes. Mother turned her attention to Lysha, who had been watching the exchange with interest.

'It seems, My Lord, that you and I will be sending two young women out into the storm,' Mother continued. 'I hope that you will remember this day—remember Peóni's sacrifice—when I petition for my flock in your court.'

'Hah!' Sir Terris laugh was a short bark. 'I'll remember this day, Mother, as I remember all our discussions. But two tunics, two pairs of breeches? The storm is passed, the weather has broken.'

'The snow will be back before nightfall, my lord,' Mother told him. 'I can hear it in the wind, smell it on the air.'

'You're sure?' Sir Terris asked. He leaned forwards in his chair and searched the old woman's face.

'I can't be certain,' Mother admitted. 'But you know my talents. And I'm sure that you know that I would never lie to you, my lord. I am a humble servant of the Lady of Truth, the Guardian of the Meek. I do naught but follow the guidance of my Goddess.'

'If the weather is likely to turn, then she shall have the clothes you beg for, and young Kalas here will escort both women to Yâlen. No one shall say that I refuse aid to my vassals.' He nodded at Lysha. 'Or that I would send a priestess of Peóni out to her death.' Turning to his daughter, he asked, 'What can we do to provide warm clothing for the young priestess, my dear?'

'When Lysha yeoman's-daughter arrived, Matakéa Fryda mentioned charity,' Lady Emyla reminded her father. 'Perhaps she can find some warm clothes for the Ebaséthè Ryssi. Protecting Peóni's servants is, after all, her sacred duty.'

'If that is your desire, my lord,' the Laránian priestess offered.

'It is,' Sir Terris told her. 'Torbrys, as we're sending Kalas and the Ebaséthè Ryssi out into the storm, we'd best feed them, too. More ale, bread, and honey, and I'll have more of the mulled wine.'

The wide, woollen scarf wound around Kalas' head also covered his nose and mouth; the Ebaséthè Ryssi was now almost unrecognisable under her many layers; and Lysha was once more swaddled inside the clothes in which she'd arrived. The trio were standing in the outer courtyard. In front of them, Mother, Sir Terris, Matakéa Fryda, and Chamberlain Torbrys shivered in the wind.

Sir Terris stepped forward and addressed his young man-at-arms with grim solemnity. 'You act for me, Kalas. It is your bounden duty to keep these young women safe.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Gatekeeper!' Sir Terris bellowed. There was no reply.

Ignoring Sir Terris' curses, Mother stepped forwards and raised her arms. 'May Saint Rogin, Saint Manut, Saint Taran, and Saint Tera guide your steps and keep you safe, my children,' the old woman said. 'You go to do Peóni's work, to bring aid to those who need it. Gentle Peóni will watch over you.' She stepped forwards, raised the first two fingers of her right hand, and gently touched each of them on the forehead. When she'd done, Mother moved back, and Matakéa Fryda stepped forwards.

'Gatekeeper!' Sir Terris bellowed again. 'Fetch him, Torbrys!'

Torbrys strode over to the guard hut, and pushed open the door. 'He's not there, my lord.'

'Not there? Damn the man. Dereliction of duty! I'll have his hide for this. Find him!'

Matakéa Fryda attempted to ignore the events occurring behind her.

'May Laráni give you the strength to carry out this task. Hers is the sword which defends you; hers is the shield which protects you. Take her blessings with you.' Fryda grasped first Kalas, then Lysha, by the shoulder. Turning her attention to the young priestess, she bowed and made the sign of the sword. 'Ebaséthè Ryssi, Laráni provides her servants to protect you.'

There was a moment's silence. Mother glared at Ryssi, who looked puzzled.

'Peóni's humble servant gratefully accepts Laráni's protection.' The elderly priestess made the formal reply. 'Doesn't she, Ryssi?'

'Oh, yes, mother. Thank you, noble Matakéa,' Ryssi said, finally remembering the correct response. 'With protection comes a promise. Laráni's followers will receive whatever aid this servant of Peóni can give.' The promises exchanged, Ryssi curtseyed.

Having watched the exchange, and doubly blessed, Kalas turned and unbarred the main gate. With Lysha's help, he slowly pulled it open. Mother led the way as they passed through it.

'Where in Balgashang is my gateman?' Sir Terris shouted. 'Must I close my own gate? Laráni's tits!'

As they left, Kalas and his companions could clearly hear Sir Terris venting his anger on Egbert. As he led his two companions along the road to Yâlen, Mother trudged back to her cottage.

'I will pray for your safe deliverance,' Mother promised. 'But now I must prepare a poultice. That fool Egbert will need one after he's been whipped.'

'Well, this is an adventure,' said Ryssi. 'Where is this place Yâlen? What's the trail like? Will we be there before dark?'

'We'll head east, along the river,' Kalas began. 'It's…'

'Save your energy,' said Lysha gruffly. 'If that old priestess is right about the storm, you'll need it. I doubt we'll be back before dusk.'

In silence, the trio trudged off through the snow.