Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [3]
“Put some wood on the fire now, child. I need more light.”
Jill picked out the thinnest, pitchiest sticks and fed them into the fire burning in the hearth. The flames sprang up, sending flares and shadows dancing round the room. Jill sat down on the straw-covered floor in a corner to watch the priestess. On her pallet Mama lay very still, her face deadly pale, oozing drops of sweat from the fever. The priestess picked up a silver jar and helped Mama drink the herb water in it. Mama was coughing so hard that she couldn’t keep the water down.
Jill grabbed her rag doll and held her tight. She wished that Heledd was real, and that she’d cry so Jill could be very brave and comfort her. The priestess set the silver jar down, wiped Mama’s face, then began to pray, whispering the words in the ancient holy tongue that only priests and priestesses knew. Jill prayed, too, in her mind, begging the Holy Goddess of the Moon to let her mama live.
Macyn came to the doorway and stood watching, his thick pudding face set in concern, his blunt hands twisting the hem of his heavy linen overshirt. Macyn owned this tavern, where Mama worked as a serving lass, and let her and Jill live in this chamber out of simple kindness to a woman with a bastard child to support. He reached up and rubbed the bald spot in the middle of his gray hair while he waited for the priestess to finish praying.
“How is she?” Macyn said.
The priestess looked at him, then pointedly at Jill.
“You can say it,” Jill burst out. “I know she’s going to die.”
“Do you, lass?” The priestess turned to Macyn. “Here, does she have a father?”
“Of a sort. He’s a silver dagger, you see, and he rides this way every now and then to give them what coin he can. It’s been a good long while since the last time.”
The priestess sighed in a hiss of irritation.
“I’ll keep feeding the lass,” Macyn went on. “Jill’s always done a bit of work around the place, and ye gods, I wouldn’t throw her out into the street to starve, anyway.”
“Well and good, then.” The priestess held out her hand to Jill. “How old are you?”
“Seven, Your Holiness.”
“Well, now, that’s very young, but you’ll have to be brave, just like a warrior. Your father’s a warrior, isn’t he?”
“He is. A great warrior.”
“Then you’ll have to be as brave as he’d want you to be. Come say farewell to your mama; then let Macyn take you out.”
When Jill came to the bedside, Mama was awake, but her eyes were red, swollen, and cloudy, as if she didn’t really see her daughter standing there.
“Jill?” Mama was gasping for breath. “Mind what Macco tells you.”
“I will. Promise.”
Mama turned her head away and stared at the wall.
“Cullyn,” she whispered.
Cullyn was Da’s name. Jill wished he was there; she had never wished for anything so much in her life. Macyn picked Jill up, doll and all, and carried her from the chamber. As the door closed, Jill twisted round and caught a glimpse of the priestess, kneeling to pray.
Since no one wanted to come to a tavern with fever in the back room, the big half-round of the alehouse stood empty, the wooden tables forlorn in the dim firelight. Macyn sat Jill down near the fire, then went to get her something to eat. Just behind her stood a stack of ale barrels, laced with particularly dark shadows. Jill was suddenly sure that Death was hiding behind them. She made herself turn around and look, because Da always said a warrior should look Death in the face. She found nothing. Macyn brought her a plate of bread and honey and a wooden cup of milk. When Jill tried to eat, the food turned dry and sour in her mouth. With a sigh, Macyn rubbed his bald spot.
“Well now,” he said. “Maybe your da will ride our way soon.”
“I hope so.”
Macyn had a long swallow of ale from his pewter tankard.
“Does your doll want a sip of milk?” he said.
“She doesn’t. She’s just rags.”
Then they heard the priestess, chanting a long sobbing note, keening for the soul of the dead. Jill tried to make herself