"What were you thinking?!" Merewald shouted. Folcred tried to remain composed but Merewald in one of her rages was worse than all the name-less horrors of Dol Guldur at the gates of the Fortress. Children hid, the men walked with down-turned faces and the women exchanged frightened looks when word spread of the Healer's dark mood.
She dumped some foul smelling herbs in boiling water and started to mix a thick paste. She was physically trembling with anger, her knuckles white against the bowl.
"Stop your noise, child!" she snapped at her patient. Ailith stopped crying instantly. Merewald was the only person who still frequently called her a child and it humiliated her every time.
"It hurts!" she whimpered. Merewald rolled her eyes and spread some of the paste over the deep gashes in Ailith's side. The Warg had just missed her, its claws only raking her side. It was a miracle.
"There is no pain like that of childbirth. Wait until you are trying to bring new life into the world; then you will know the meaning of pain," Merewald muttered. She helped Ailith to sit up and then started to wind bandages around her. "That is going to scar, I'm afraid. A good reminder for you not to act so rashly in the future," she sniffed, clearing up her materials.
Grimfast entered Ailith's chambers, his arm in a sling and his face pale under his beard.
"You were supposed to protect her!" Merewald screamed even before the door had closed behind him. He flinched as she advanced on him.
"We need her! How dare you compromise us like that! Suppose she ended up in the belly of a Warg tonight, would you be the one to ride and tell the King? Tell him how we have failed, tell him how we need a new Lord to come and force his ways upon us!" she bellowed. She stopped to take a few deep breaths and then pinned Grimfast and Folcred down with an icy eye. "If you ever put her in danger like that again, I will cut off your beards! And that will only be the start!" she snarled. She gathered up her Healing materials and herded the men from Ailith's room. Ailith felt her side and winced. The smallest touch sent pain blossoming through her.
"My lady, you need some new clothes," her maid said timidly. Ailith glanced up from the document she was reading.
"Fine. If you want me to make them, then you will be waiting a long time. I was always hopeless at sewing," she smiled. She stood up and held out her arms as the maid circled her, taking measurements. She winced as pressure was accidently put on her scars.
"Sorry, my lady!" the maid cringed. She smiled weakly.
"It's still a little bit tender. Why are you taking such tight measurements anyway? I don't need any new shirts," she asked. The maid paused.
"Lady Merewald thought you would like some new dresses for your birthday," she said flatly. Ailith sat back in her chair and regarded the girl coolly.
"Hala, would you be lying to me?" she said playfully. The girl blushed and hurried from the room. Ailith smiled and turned back to the document. She couldn't help but wonder what Merewald was planning.
She soon found out. On the evening of her birthday, she returned to her chambers after a gruelling hour with Léonere in the map-room to discover her new dresses lying on her bed. She picked up the chainmail shirt. It was beautiful craftsmanship, the fine links embossed at the shoulders with golden leaves. She looked through the other clothes, the riding trousers, the breastplate. Lastly, she unfolded the cloak. Her father's cloak. Rider green, with a small ivory clasp in the shape of a horse.
"Do you like it?" Merewald said from the doorway. She turned, her face beaming.
"I love it," she said truthfully.
"Since Folcred and Grimfast think that you are capable of joining them on raids, we thought it was time you had proper armour," the Healer sniffed, her eyes flashing dangerously. "In fact," she said lightly, stepping forward to join Ailith by the armour. "We thought you might like to wear it tonight. To take the Oath of the Riders."
"Do you think I am ready?" Ailith asked timidly.
"No."
Ailith stared down at the armour. Her eyes welled with tears and she angrily wiped them away.
"Honestly child, don't cry," Merewald said firmly. "None of those boys are ever ready to take their oaths as far as I'm concerned. Grimfast and Folcred insist that you are ready, as they always do. Come, I will help you to get ready."
Her Riders were waiting in the Great Hall. Some effort had been made to neaten up; beards and hair had been combed, armour had been cleaned. She appreciated it.
Léonere was waiting on the raised dais that usually held the High Table. She walked proudly towards him, her father's cloak billowing behind her and tried not to grimace as she knelt in front of him. Her half-healed wounds throbbed under the chainmail as her muscles moved.
She carefully recited the words of the Oath. She had heard them a hundred times before, in both Meduseld and the Fortress. Every word she pronounced clearly, her eyes never moving from Léonere's. When she was finished, he motioned for her to stand. She turned to face her new brothers and they raised their tankards to toast her, the new Rider of the Riddermark.