There was a good smell of fresh-baked bread, and the spicy, unfamiliar smells of some kind of cooking food. In a long room just off the hall where they left their packs, at a couple of long tables, what looked like four or five dozen women were crowded together, eating soup out of wooden bowls, and there was such a noise of rattling bowls and crockery, so much shouting conversation from one table to another and from one end to the other of the dining tables that Romilly involuntarily flinched – after the silence of the trails through forest and desert, the noise was almost deafening.
“There are a couple of seats down there,” said the woman who had admitted them. “I am Tina; after supper I will take you to the housemother and she can find you beds somewhere, but we are a little crowded, as you can see; they have quartered half the Sisterhood upon us here, it seems, though I must say they’re good about sending army rations here to feed them. Otherwise we’d all be living on last year’s nuts! You can go and sit down and eat – you must be wanting it after that long ride.”
It did not seem that there was any room at all at the table she indicated, but Jandria managed to find a place where the crowding was a little less intense, and by dint of some good-natured pushing and squeezing, they managed to wriggle into seats on the benches, and a woman, making the rounds of the tables with a jug and ladle, poured some soup into their bowls and indicated a couple of cut loaves of bread. Romilly pulled her knife from her belt and sawed off a couple of hunks, and the girl squeezed in next to her – a good-natured smiling woman with freckles and dark hair tied back at her waist -shoved a pot of fruit spread at her. “Butter’s short just now, but this goes pretty good on your bread. Leave the spoon in the jar.”
The spread tasted like spiced apples, boiled down to a paste. The soup was filled with unidentifiable chunks of meat and strange vegetables, but Romilly was hungry and ate without really caring what it was made of.
As she finished her soup, the woman next to her said, “My name is Ysabet; most people call me Betta. I came here from the Tendara hostel. And you?”
“We were in Hali, and before that, in Caer Donn,” Romilly said, and Betta’s eyes widened. “Where the king fled? Did you see his army there?”
Romilly nodded, remembering Orain and a banner in a strange street.
“I heard Carolin was camped north of Serrais,” Betta said, “and that they will march, before snow falls, on Hali again. The camp is full of rumors, but this one is stronger than most. What is your skill?”
Romilly shook her head. “Nothing special. I train horses and sometimes hawks, and I have handled sentry-birds.”
Betta said, “They told us that an expert in horse-training was to come from Hali! Why, you must be the one, then, unless it is your friend there – what is her name?”
“She is Jandria,” Romilly said, and Betta’s eyes widened.
“Lady Jandria! Why, I have heard of her, if it is the same one, they said she is cousin to Carolin himself – I know we are not supposed to think of rank, but yes, I see she has red hair and a look of the Hasturs – well, they said they would send a Swordswoman from Hali, and a woman adept at horse-training. We will need it – did you see all the horses in the stable? And there are as many more in the paddock, and they were taken as a levy from the Alton country in the Kilghard Hills . . . and now they are to be broken for Carolin’s armies, so that the Sisterhood will ride to battle for Carolin, our true king . . .” Then she looked at Romilly suspiciously. “You are for Carolin, are you not?”
“I have ridden from before daylight till after dark, today and for the last seven days,” Romilly said, “By now I hardly know my own name, let alone that of the king.” It seemed very hot in the room, and she could hardly keep her eyes open. But then, remembering that they had fled from the possibility of being followed by Lyondri Hastur, she added, “Yes; we are for Carolin.”