(eng) Michelle West - Essalieyan Chronicles SS 04 by The Weapon

Author:The Weapon [Weapon, The]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

II.

“LADY VERALAAN.”

The young woman so addressed arched both eyebrows and rolled her eyes in mock frustration. The Priestess who attended her almost snickered. But she didn’t speak, and after a moment, the Lady Veralaan ABreton turned almost regally. “Yes, Iain?”

“We have kept the Courtier waiting for as long as we can safely do so. He is, if I recall—”

“Lord Wendham,” she replied curtly.

“Lord Wendham, then, and if you know that much, you know he is seldom given to patience.”

“He has come to visit me,” she replied coolly. But she rose, wiping bloodstains from her hands upon the apron that hid her clothing. “And I have duties in the healerie that I consider to be more important.” But for all that, she spoke quietly. “Mother’s Daughter?” she said at last, and Emily Dontal, silent until that moment, nodded. The years had aged her. But not unkindly.

“He will wait, Lady Veralaan. Your reputation precedes you, and if you do not tarry for much longer, he will pretend not to be insulted.” She paused and added, “Rowan is capable of watching the healerie.”

“Rowan,” the healer said curtly, “is also capable of speaking for herself, Mother’s Daughter.” She turned to Veralaan, and offered the young woman a brisk nod. “I can watch the healerie. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tarry.” Her grim eye fell upon the pallets, the floor, the crowded confines of the room that was her life’s work.

Veralaan offered her a perfect bow. An unnecessary one. Rowan accepted it; long years had come and gone in which the arguments about form and necessity had at last been eroded by Veralaan’s tenacity. But as Veralaan left the healerie—by the interior doors—Rowan turned to the Mother’s Daughter, her gaze shadowed.

“Do you know why Lord Wendham has come?”

Emily Dontal frowned. “No.”

“I believe I do, Mother’s Daughter. There will be a funeral that Veralaan will be required to attend.”

“Whose?”

“I’m not certain,” she replied quietly. “But there has been death in the streets in the past two weeks, and if I had to guess, I would say the funeral of one, if not two, of her brothers.”

The Mother’s Daughter closed her eyes. But words didn’t require vision.

“She’s learned more here than we could have taught her had we planned it all,” Rowan continued, speaking words that should never have been spoken. “She’s seen, every day, what is done in his name, by his men. Or by those who serve him. She knows. No one speaks a word against her father. None of us speak of the wars—not in the temple. But the injured who come to us speak when they dream. The dying? She tends their injuries; she knows how they were caused, and even why. She hears.

“I was against her working in the healerie,” Rowan added softly. “From the beginning, even after she saved those three lives, I was against it. I do not know when that changed, Mother’s Daughter. But it has. Her presence here—it does something that my power can’t.”

“What?”

“It gives people hope.

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