The Gathering, page 18
part #1 of The Hundred Series
It must have been the early hours of the morning before the last box was unwrapped. It was a deceptively simple, but beautifully carved, set of candlesticks. Without asking, Mariah immediately set them onto the table.
Yvonne took a look around the room. From being an overwhelming, orderly, display of closed boxes, it was now an overwhelming, utterly disordered, riot of colour and texture and scent.
“Do we have to give it all back?” Mariah asked. She was sitting on a chair, looking about her with a slightly dazed expression.
Yvonne looked around the room. She may have underestimated the townspeople, she thought. Every single item in the room, however beautifully made, or however frivolous, was one that they could use. From the excellent wine she had been sipping through the evening, to the confectionery the children had delighted in, to the leather that would make them each a good pair of shoes or boots, to the saddle blankets, to the swathes of linen that would make shirts and clothes for them. Even the perfume, overwhelming with all the other scents, was delicate and would be lovely on its own.
There was nothing in here that she did not want in her house.
“No,” she said, at length. She took the last sip of wine out of her glass. Joel had topped up the glass for her through the evening, perhaps thinking she had not noticed. Her head was clear, though. And she had the rest of the case, as well as the rest of the bottle. It was a luxury she could not have imagined.
She set the glass down to find the children looking at her with identical expressions of astonishment.
“We’ve never had so much before,” Joel said.
“I know,” she answered. “Nor have I. But we can use all of it.” Her mouth curved up. “We can all get new boots,” she told them, and had to laugh at the relief on their faces. Joel might not care as much, but none of them liked wet feet. And perhaps the Cressins would take some work from her, now that they had their son back. “Although, I am sorry, Mariah, it looks like a lot of sewing for you.”
Mariah laughed, a brilliant, lovely sound.
“I love sewing,” she said, and sprang out of her chair, almost dancing across the floor to a bolt of silk cloth. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”
It was exactly what she had needed, Yvonne thought. A brief respite before the hunt began in earnest.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A few days later, and, between them, they had found a storage place, or a use, for all the gifts, the dining room returned to a simple, functional, room. Yvonne had cast preservation spells on everything that needed to be kept fresh, the large pantry next to the kitchen now half-full.
After Yvonne had simply put one of the fragranced candles onto the narrow table in the main entranceway, thinking that the scent would carry up the stairs, Mariah had rolled her eyes and taken over. About half of the candles had been unpacked, Joel and Mariah delicately sniffing each one to make sure it wouldn’t irritate their far more sensitive senses. The single candle in the entranceway was now a display of five, artfully set among some of the ribbons used to tie the boxes. Every one of the public rooms had a set of candles, each room with its own, subtle, fragrance, and Mariah had made a display of some of the empty, patterned, boxes on the half-landing at the main staircase, commanding Yvonne to put a preservation spell on the pile to keep it free from dust.
Amused at being ordered about, Yvonne had complied and had to admit that, with the changes Mariah had made, the building no longer felt neglected, left empty too long because of the haunting. Instead it was, tentatively, beginning to feel like a home. It did not feel quite like her home, Yvonne thought. Not yet.
But it was a familiar and comfortable space. And theirs for years to come. A place from which Mariah and Joel could do some exploring of their own, find out what they wanted to do with their lives. A place of peace for her to come back to. A town nearby with people who might, over time, be friends.
It had been a few days of blessed peace. No middle-of-the-night-calls from the Rangers. No calls from supplicants, seeking a Hunar’s aid. No more missing children.
A few days of domestic peace. A rare event. Long enough for the worst memories of the quarrel to settle in, become just one more set of bad memories, for the fresh scent of wulf blood to fade, overtaken by the fragrance around the house, for the bite of steel into flesh to be overtaken by the far more familiar noises of Mariah and Joel bickering, the steady flow of the river outside, and the contented murmurs from the horses when she went to see them in the mornings.
Peace would not last. It never did.
By the third day, her skin was prickling with the sense of coming danger. One quarrel had been destroyed. There were still many more youngsters missing, the nagging sensation in her chest of an unfulfilled promise growing more pressing with each day.
One more day, she told the promises she had made. One more day, and then she would act. The scale of the problem was bigger than she had imagined possible, based on Guise’s map. And she was only one mind, one person. More was needed.
This day, she needed for planning.
The promises settled, grumbling as they faded into the background.
One more day, she told them. She could not do this alone. Help was on its way. The letters she had written on the barge, brief, blunt, to the point, sped on their way with spells behind them, had found their targets, replies sent just as swiftly. She had called for a Gathering. The Hundred had responded. Help was on its way.
The promises settled some more, the uneasy sensation of unfulfilled promise giving way to anticipation.
The house was spotless. She had cleaned every room with a dose of magic, the power co-operating with her this once, not draining her. There was a feast cooking in the kitchen. A roast big enough to feed most of Sephenamin’s range, if she chose to.
She finished her final check of the upstairs and came down to the entrance hall, full of the fresh green scent of the candles Mariah had set there, to find Mariah and Joel standing together at the bottom of the stairs, for once not arguing, with identical expressions of determination on their faces.
“Who is coming to stay?” Mariah asked bluntly.
Yvonne drew in a breath, shoulders bowing. A few days of peace at an end. She had not told them everything. She never told them everything. When they had been younger she had wanted to protect them from the worst of the world, and the habit had stuck when they had grown. She still did not want to share some of the ugliness with them, wanting to shelter them a little longer. Just a little, even though they were no longer small.
“It’s the Hundred, isn’t it?” Joel said, eyes narrowing. “It can’t be Adira, or another of the Sisters, as she would only need one room. I saw you counting the rooms,” he explained, in response to her silent question.
“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Mariah said, determination vanished into smiles. She practically danced on the spot. “Why didn’t you say so, Kalla? It’s been ages since we’ve seen them.”
Not since Elinor’s funeral, in fact. The Hundred rarely gathered in one place, and never for very long. It tended to be solemn and awful occasions that drew them together. Like Elinor’s funeral. Yvonne could not remember much of the funeral itself. Her chest had hurt so much that breathing had been difficult, her entire being shaken with the barely-understood knowledge that her teacher, and closest friend in the world, was no longer.
Reminded of the death, for a moment all Yvonne could do was stand and breathe, the pain coming back as it always did.
“Mariah,” Joel said, his tone firm, “it must be serious.” Solemn and awful occasions, Yvonne thought again, throat closing again. No funeral this time.
“It is,” Yvonne said. She did not want to say anything more. They might be considered adults in some lands. Both of them old enough, or very nearly, to have their own households, their own spouses, even their own children. But they were still under her care, and she still wanted to protect them. Their lives had not been easy. They had endured a lot because of their natures, because of where they came from, and because of her. Hunar and human, mixing with wulfkin.
“They’re definitely coming? And today?” Mariah asked. “How did you manage that?”
“Letters,” Yvonne answered, voice dry. Mariah had teased her, many times, over the years for her letter writing. In rare moments of peace in the evenings, settled with bright candles around. It was one of the only ways she had to keep in touch with the rest of the Hundred, and the few other people across the lands that she counted as friends. “Replies came yesterday.” Delivered by a boy from Fir Tree Crossing who had been pale and wide-eyed as he handed the letters across. Perhaps scared of coming near to the haunted house. Perhaps awed by approaching a Hunar. Or for other reasons Yvonne could not guess at.
The replies had arrived far more quickly than she had dared hope for, many of her fellow Hunar already on the way when they had sent word. The Hundred were travelling with all the resources available to them, at speeds few Kings could manage, pulled by her brief letters. She did not know where they had all been, or how they were getting here, but they would all be here today.
“What we going to feed them?” Mariah asked.
It was such a practical matter to raise that Yvonne wanted to laugh.
“Use your nose. There’s a huge roast on the spit. And the market cart was here earlier,” Joel observed. “Haven’t you been in the kitchen? It’s stocked full.”
“Really?”
“Will you set the dining table, please?” Yvonne asked, suddenly wanting a bit of time to herself.
The Hundred had always been kind to her children, some of them in a very distant way, and it was hardly surprising that Mariah was looking forward to the visit from her favourite aunts and uncles. Joel was more wary. And that made her heart break again. A few months ago, before the fight, before his first kill, he would have been as bright-eyed and delighted as Mariah was.
She did not wait for an answer, going past them to the kitchen, but, for once, found no peace there.
Elinor had been a very skilled cook, and had been horrified by the plain fare that Yvonne could produce, taking time to teach Yvonne some of her skill. Normally, Yvonne found cooking soothing. Occupying her hands, and at least part of her mind, preparing food was a good distraction from the many worries she carried. Today, as she moved about the kitchen, measuring out the necessary spices, she could hear Elinor’s voice.
Not too much of the ground red pepper, or that’s all you’ll be able to taste. A little more of the rosemary - it can get overwhelmed by the pepper.
Elinor’s voice was so vivid that she turned her head, expecting to see her dearest friend sitting at the table, a mug of tea in front of her, light catching her red hair, finding the streaks of white and the fine lines of age across her face. Hunar lived long lives. The years did, eventually, leave their mark.
There was no one there. Empty space. The sunlight caught a few motes of dust. The chairs were all tucked into place, the table surface clear. Her eyes burned as she turned back to the pot.
In her distraction, she had measured the ingredients wrong, and had to add even more rosemary to compensate.
Eventually, it was done.
The kitchen was full of the scent of cooking, and Mariah and Joel had been back-and-forth, making sure that there were enough glasses and cutlery and plates. They had not said anything to her, although she had seen their sideways glances. They pretended to be lighthearted, chattering about nonsense, even getting together pitchers of plain water, and pitchers of water flavoured with fruit, without needing to be asked. As they carried the pitchers to the dining room, her heart ached again. Somewhere along the way, she had done something right in raising them.
When the first hoof beats sounded on the bridge, her chest didn’t ache quite so much, and they were all ready.
Joel and Mariah had changed into clean clothes and, miracle of miracles, had washed their hands and faces without needing to be asked. Yvonne herself had managed a quick bath and changed into her least worn set of clothes. Even in her own house, among her family and the Hundred, she still carried her weapons. The Hundred would expect nothing less.
It was no surprise to see that first to arrive was Annabelle, with her apprentice Idal in tow.
Annabelle slid off her horse, a handsome black mare that was new since the last time Yvonne had seen her fellow Hunar, and came forward to Yvonne in a rustle of fabric, the riding dress exquisitely made and wholly impractical for hard travel, her perfume enveloping Yvonne as she gave her a quick, hard, hug. Flighty and vain on the surface, Annabelle was a more than adequate Hunar, the expensive clothing hiding a warm and generous heart.
Idal was an excellent foil to her. As slender as she was, he was quiet and unassuming, exchanging polite nods with Yvonne and slightly warmer greetings with Joel and Mariah, before asking where he should take the horses and then their bags. They had an extra horse with them for their luggage. Of course they did. Annabelle would never travel with fewer than three bags, and five changes of clothes.
Leaving Joel and Idal to deal with the horses and the bags, Annabelle practically dragged Yvonne inside the house, exclaiming as she went, Mariah following them.
“Where on earth did you find this place? It’s so old and antiquated. Oh my goodness, is that an actual cobweb? How delightful. Spiders are excellent house guests. And did you say it was haunted? Actually haunted? Not one of those fanciful imaginings of the locals? How on earth do you occupy your time here? You’re so far away from everything civilised. That town is charming and quaint, but surely not much can go on there. There was not a single theatre that I saw. And I can smell your cooking. How fabulous.”
Annabelle drifted through the house, from the entranceway, to the sitting room, to the dining room, and then onto the kitchen, chattering all the way. Yvonne followed out of politeness and habit, Mariah biting her lip to hold in the occasional laugh even as she examined Annabelle’s clothing for the detail of it.
Before Yvonne had time to do more than offer Annabelle a drink, in a rare pause between words, the wards shivered, closely followed by Joel coming in through the house’s back door, Idal with him, to let her know that there was another group of riders on their way.
“Oh, that must be the others. I think we passed them on the road. Idal, did we pass them?”
“They had gathered at the last tavern on the highway,” Idal said. “I think it was everyone else.” His mouth tilted up in a mischievous smile. “You didn’t want to stop, remember?”
“No, of course I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to get here,” Annabelle told Yvonne, giving her another, brief hug. “And see my dear friend. It has been such a long time. Too long.”
Yvonne agreed, another bittersweet pang shooting through her. The Hundred were the ones she trusted most in the world, besides her children. They could not stay together long. There were too few of them, and too many people in need. Times together were rare, and precious.
She shook off the melancholy and went to the front door just in time to see the rest of the Hundred arrive in a great cavalcade.
“There are too few of us,” Annabelle murmured, voice carrying her sadness.
Yvonne agreed. Far too few, for all the ill in the world. And their numbers had lessened, not grown, over the years. Far fewer now than there ever had been, since the first Hunar so many years ago. So Elinor had said. And that was before her own death.
Yvonne swallowed the returning pain. She was the youngest Hunar to bear the name. Idal showed promise, but he was not ready. A long way from ready. She remembered the final test, and knew, bone-deep, that he would fail if he tried it now.
And it was not just the test. The Hundred were trained to skills few humans knew about. Magic. Healing. Weapons. They were keepers of secrets that could tear the world apart, much like the first Hunar and his brother had tried to do. The most dangerous knowledge was never revealed before the final test, when the prospective Hunar had been accepted.
And Idal was not ready for that burden yet.
More than one of the others had suggested if he had a different teacher he might progress faster. Elinor had overruled the mutterings. He was working at his own pace, she had said, voice stern, eyes hard as she looked around the group. As they all had, she reminded them. It had taken Dundac almost a decade to train, and Idal was not even half-way through that.
Yvonne missed Elinor. Missed her wisdom and her way of speaking her mind.
But she was gone, and the rest of the Hundred were far fewer than they should have been, or needed to be. Never a full Hundred, not since the time of the first Hunar. So called for those who had stood with the first Hunar against his enemy, his own brother. A hundred brave souls against an onslaught.
Hunar had always been rare. Now not even a dozen.
But they were Hunar. The magic of the Hundred had called them the same way it had called her. And they had endured the same training, and the same trials, as she had. And dedicated their lives in the same way. Committed to helping others, to answering the call when somebody asked for their help.
And as they got off their horses and came forward she greeted each one with a smile, seeing a few of the others also hiding a tear or two even as they also smiled. Too few of them. And only ever gathered for solemn and awful occasions.
There was Pieris, more grey in his hair than she remembered, with his quiet smile and brief, heartfelt hug. Suanna, bending slightly to give Yvonne a swift peck on the cheek, as slender and austere as ever. Dundac, who folded her in a cinnamon-scented embrace, grown even rounder since she had last seen him. Mica, who ignored her dislike of being touched, instead lifting her up and whirling her around. Difficult to be angry with him as he laughed, setting her down as soon as she asked, and she laughed in turn when he gave Suanna the same treatment, much to the older woman’s disgust. Firon, whose hug was brief and abstracted, looking as though he had acquired even more sorrows than she had. And, finally, Sillman, pure white hair as sleek as ever, a contrast to his dark, well-fitting clothes. Unofficial leader of the Hundred. Not for the first time, Yvonne thought that Sillman’s taste in clothing was at least as expensive as Guise’s.
