Fire Dragon - Katharine Kerr [42]
Someone pounded on the door.
“Who is it?” Lilli called out.
“Just me, my lady.” Clodda's normally cheerful voice trembled. “You've barred the door, and I can't get in.”
“I'm sorry.” Lilli got up and went to the door. “I didn't mean to worry you.”
She unbarred the door, opened it wide, and let Clodda come in. The maidservant dropped her a brief curtsy.
“I was ever so afraid you'd been taken ill,” Clodda said.
“Not ill, truly.” Lilli hesitated. Telling someone about Branoic's death would make it horribly real—but it's real anyway, she told herself. “Branoic's dead. Nevyn told me last night. He used dweomer.”
Clodda's face turned pale. “Oh my lady!” Her voice shook with tears. “That wrings my heart.”
“Mine too.”
“No doubt.” Clodda pulled up a corner of her dirty apron and wiped her eyes. “Oh, it's so sad. My poor lady.”
With a sigh Lilli sat down on the edge of the bed. “It must be well into the morning. Why is the light so cold?”
“Clouds, my lady.” Clodda looked at her sharply, as if wondering if Lilli had gone mad with grief. “It's going to rain, I wager.”
“Oh. Rain. Could you go to the great hall and find me somewhat to eat? Bread would do.”
“I will. Lady Elyssa has been asking for you. That's why I came up and knocked.”
“I'll dress, then. If you see her, ask her if she'd just come to my chamber.”
Clodda must have seen the lady in the great hall, because Elyssa herself brought Lilli a basket of bread and butter in but a little while, just as Lilli had finished combing her hair. Elyssa set the basket on the table and considered Lilli for a moment in the harsh grey light streaming in the window.
“Clodda's right,” Elyssa said. “You do look ill. Your cheeks—they're all red and raw!”
“I'm always a little bit ill.”
“Or is it from tears? She told me that you're convinced Branoic's dead.”
“Don't you believe me?”
“It was Clodda I was doubting, not you. I suppose you must have been—er, what does Nevyn call that?”
“Scrying.”
“My heart goes out to you, lass.” Elyssa looked away, biting her lower lip. “Another good man gone.”
“Oh ye gods, I wish I could weep some more. I feel like a bit of old rag the cook used to scrub a pot or suchlike. All soiled and wrung out and twisted.”
Elyssa nodded. She seemed to be searching for words, then sighed and held out the basket of bread.
“Here. Do eat.”
Lilli took a piece of bread and bit into it. Her grief robbed it of all its savor, but she forced herself to keep eating to reassure Elyssa.
“You look more than a little unwell,” Elyssa said, watching her. “I was going to ask if you'd like to visit us up in the women's hall, but I think me you'd best stay here and rest.”
After Elyssa left, Lilli threw the half-eaten chunk of bread back into the basket. She went to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, knelt, and opened it. Right on top lay the pieces of Branoic's wedding shirt, which she'd not quite finished embroidering. He'd never wear it now. He had died too far away to even be buried in it. Next to it lay the little knife she used for cutting thread, a short blade but sharp. She took it out and her little mirror with it.
She propped the mirror up on the mantel, and by twisting this way and that, she could see well enough to chop off her hair, a twist at a time, sawing it short with the sewing knife as a sign of her mourning for her betrothed. She'd heard bards recite old tales from back in the Dawntime, when mourning women gashed their faces as well. For a moment she was tempted—not to mourn Branoic but to keep Maryn away. With a shudder she laid the knife down. In the mirror her face looked back, puffy-eyed, pinched, the short hair all ragged. She turned away, remembering how he looked, sitting on the edge of her bed.
“I did love you,” she whispered.