To Storm Heaven - Esther Friesner [1]
“Nothing can justify what I have done,” she wheezed, shaking her head. “Nothing!” “You are not responsible for what others choose to believe.” The maiden slid her arm under Se’ar’s back and tenderly lowered her to the pallet once more, feeling the nubs of her spine poking against the ageslackened skin.
The old woman gazed up into the maiden’s tranquil face and sighed. “You are a good gift, Ma’adrys. I Wish I could tell you how often I have prayed to the Lady of the Balances to work her holy transformation on you and make you my own blood. But she would not hear the prayers of a cheat and a trickster.” ,It doesn’t matter,” the maiden comforted her.
“Even though I am not your blood kin, in all these years you have never begrudged me a single mouthful of your bread.” The old woman sighed. “I only hope that you haven’t suffered for sharing it. It was contaminated with the taint of how I earned it. Oh Ma’adrys, what if that’s it? What if that’s what’s kept you from your :heart’s desire? What if that’s the flaw that Bilik saw in you when he forbid you tom?” “Hush,” the girl repeated, dabbing at the old woman’s waxen face with the damp cloth. “Don’t upset yourself. That’s over and done with.” “But you’re such a clever girl, such a good girl, you shouldn’t be excluded just because—” “Mother Se’ar, what good will it do either of us knowing why my petition was refused?” the girl asked quite reasonably. “It won’t change the way things are.” “True, true.” The old woman’s voice trailed away like water trickling through stones. Her eyelids lowered. It seemed that she slept. The maiden settled back to oversee her rest.
The old woman’s words came suddenly, taking the girl by surprise. “Maybe it wasn’t my fault after all,” Se’ar murmured, her eyes still closed. She spoke as if she were alone in the hut with none but herself to hear. “The girl’s kind, yes, but headstrong, too bold about speaking up to the men, too demanding. Well, who can hold her to blame for that? Father lost in the winter storms before the Feast of Flowers, mother died birthing her, poor youngling left to run wild.
Not that she ever had a proper mother to start, that one. Easy to see where the daughter’s strange ways come from. Yes, everyone knew. Where that mother of hers came from, I’ll never know. Mad, most likely, and driven out of her own village by folk with more sense than we ever had. All her high-sounding talk, all just ravings, ravings. Offensive to the Balance, her life thrown back into the scales to pay for her words, poor soul. Poor mad soul.” Beside the deathbed, the maiden Ma’adrys sat back on her heels, her back unnaturally stiff, her face drained of all expression. She tried to exclude the old woman’s babbling from her mind, but she could not: It was nothing she hadn’t heard before, all the village talk of her dead mother. As a child she’d gotten into more than a few fist fights with the other children when they’d taunted her by repeating the things they’d heard their parents say. She’d lost more battles than she’d won, and the elders had always punished her afterwards for the few fights she did win. When she was a little older, she’d tried to train herself to play deaf to the gossip and the snide remarks, the whispers she always heard behind her back, but it was beyond her best efforts. In time, she’d learned that there was only one safe thing to do when someone— even a dying woman no longer responsible for her own ramblings—spoke of her mother.
‘TII be right back,” she announced, rocking back on her heels and standing without needing to push herself up from the ground. “The air in here’s too sour to do you any good. We should burn some dawnsweet flowers to freshen it. It’s early in the season for them, but I think I saw a patch in bloom in Avren’s meadow yesterday. I won’t be gone long.” She was out the door before Se’ar could utter a word to stop her.
The old woman never noticed her departure. Her eyes remained closed, her wrinkled lips moving over words that