fellis, please. How can you let him suffer so?”
“He wouldn’t if he would permit me to”
“No, no, never. How can you even suggest such a thing?”
“He didn’t object when I sewed up that shin wound … it’s much the same thing,” Ginia said urgently.
“But that was a natural wound,” Lady Winalla protested. “Oh, listen to him. Surely you can give him more fellis?”
“Yes, I can give him more fellis,” Ginia said through gritted teeth. “I can fellis him right into death!”
“Oh, no, don’t say that, Ginia. Please don’t say he’ll die.”
“I can’t say anything else and be honest, Winalla. If I do not operate…”
Winalia clamped her hands to her ears and, with a little shriek of protest, half-ran to her spouse, where he twisted and writhed in bed.
He died later that day, in a terrible agony which not even the massive doses of fellis or the application of numbweed on his abdomen could dull.
“No violation, no mutilation, just death,” Ginia murmured as she wearily stumbled away from the tragedy. “Once we knew so much more …” She shook a little and leaned on Oldive.
So the Telgar Gather was cancelled and, instead, the Lord Holders came to Fort Hold to confirm Groghe as the new Lord Holder. Fax was conspicuous by his absence.
“But then, he wasn’t invited,” Gennell said grimly, “because he has not followed the established procedure of taking formal Hold.”
“I doubt that bothers him,” Robinton remarked. “I wish I knew what he had planned at Telgar.”
That question was answered, in part or in whole, when Lady Relna of Crom and her two youngest children begged sanctuary from Lord Ashmichel and Lady Adessa at Ruatha Hold. Neither her spouse nor their two oldest boys had survived Fax’s forcible entry into their Hold.
Groghe began to drill every man in Fort between the ages of sixteen and fifty. Tarathel and Melongel grimly followed his example and doubled their border patrols.
The following winter, another bitterly cold one, MasterHarper Gennell died of a failing heart. Ogolly, Washell, and Gorazde -frail though he was – drummed messages about the country. They had known that Master Robinton was the named successor, but it would be spring before the requisite number of Masters could return to the Hall for a formal election. No one wished the Harper Hall to be leaderless at such a time. Robinton could hear the messages coming in and going out. He found that their import was muffled down in the kitchen of the Harper Hall – where Silvina, Lorra’s capable daughter, kept him company and poured out the numerous cups of clah he drank during the long wait.
Her mother had retired to her family home in South Boll three turns before and Silvina, as dark-haired and energetic as her mother had been, was headwoman in the Hall. Robinton liked her matter-of-fact attitude towards the duties and the disasters of the Hall – and the fact that she had been quite willing to bed him whenever he stopped there long enough to renew their friendship. She had more sense than to mention any sadness in his eyes, though she knew the memory of Kasia had not dimmed in the ten turns since her death. Vina accepted him as he was and made no demands, and gave him considerable relief and kindness. He was grateful, and that seemed to be enough for her. She was as big-hearted as her mother.
“The drums have stopped,” she said suddenly, about to pour him yet another cup of klah. “So they have,” he said, realizing that he could no longer feel the vibrations through the stone walls of the Hall. He swallowed and she grinned at his discomfort.
“You could have stayed above and kept count.”
“What if—’ He stopped at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. At least two people were approaching.
Silvina reached out a hand and gripped his.
A grinning Ogolly and Jerint appeared, a sheaf of small square hides in hand.
“Master Robinton, would you be willing to assume the responsibility of the Master of the Hall and Craft?” Ogolly asked formally, his tone belied by his wide grin and happy eyes.