The Gallant by Janny Wurts

Author:Janny Wurts [Wurts, Janny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Janny Wurts
Published: 2019-07-04T04:00:00+00:00

Late Summer – Early Autumn 4995

Chapter VII

No matter that the Sighted tracker’s report cleared the blame for Edlie’s murder and the illicit fire set in the grove. The friendless trial that followed soon burst Lisianne’s idyllic assumption she had reached the comfort of a safe haven. The lifestyle that sustained a free wilds outpost by necessity did not favor a leisurely convalescence. More, she discovered her town-based acquaintance with clanblood left her woefully underinformed. Not even the connected awareness demanded of the royal family or her scholarly grasp of the strictures that ruled the Paravian interface prepared her for the field enclave’s relentless austerity.

Existence here left no leeway for disability, ignorance, or slackers. No trees were axe cut where Riathan foaled. What scant fuel the children gleaned from deadfalls, and the law-bound constraints set upon proscribed territory, prioritized the limited use of open fire for cooking and tanning. Every hour of every day was dictated by the unremitting demands of supply. The added needs of an invalid posed an onerous burden to the able-bodied. Through the prolonged light at the ending of summer, the concerted bustle of industry flowed past while Lisianne lay prostrate, wracked by bouts of disjointed delirium. Dreams trampled continuity, steeped in the agony of unrequited loss that followed exposure to Athera’s mysteries. Time’s measure was clocked by the diurnal reports of the watch scouts who tracked the proximity of the Paravian presence that might set the camp on the move at short notice. Hours blurred together, steeped in the fragrance of birch smoke, strained honey, and bramble-berry jam, or the less appealing, rancid taint of brain-tanned hide, and flensed trout being smoked into jerky. The clan young ran wild as lynx kits, the intervals between their instruction by elders filled by raucous tussling, or boisterous contests of stickball that raged hither and yon through the tents. Their rampaging play received little censure. Often, Lisianne wakened to a circle of toddlers crowded against her fur pallet. Curious, inquisitive, they clambered over her legs, lively with chatter until their rumpus drew notice and a laconic adult sent them packing.

Lisianne let them toy with her long hair. Soon, one or several agile sets of fingers roped her down, immersed in the serious practice of braiding the elaborate patterns that identified their birthright and heritage.

No chance arose to share the traditional games recalled from her own childhood. Once Lisianne regained her cognizant focus, the healer’s word in the tallymark’s ear assigned work for her empty hands.

“Clothing, first,” stated the earnest young man sent to assess her destitute straits. “Fabric tears to rags in the wilds. Your shift can be salvaged, cut down as a shirt. The leftover scrap will patch Verrain’s smallclothes. After that, you’ll draw hide from our common stores for two sets of field leathers. Nothing else will withstand the rough wear. I’ll send someone skilled to help strip out the lacing and demonstrate use of an awl for a lockstitch.”

If the task blistered genteel fingertips raw and stretched Lisianne’s patience like punishment, she rose to the challenge.

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