by Karen Hertzberg on Apr 05, 2006
Roses and Rain
By Merriandra Eldaronde
She knew, without looking, that the sky outside was painted in shades of gray. The brilliant sun that had crept across the floorboards and had lured her from the warm
bed with such incredible promise had receded now, hidden behind the thick banks of clouds.
Even inside, as she bent forward, stretching, to clear the remains of supper off the wooden trestle table, she could smell the change in the air. It was as if the dampness had permeated the walls. Once again, everything would grow dark by mid-afternoon, and the gloom and sadness would spread itself across the city. For no less than a month, there had been precious few hours when the mist had not wrapped the cobbled streets in a fierce embrace. Sometimes the rain drove down so ferociously that travelers burst through the door of the inn, gasping, soaked to the bone, their faces and hands reddened by the stinging assault.
It was true enough, she thought, that the day had dawned bright with more than the prospect of sunshine. At mid-morning, several merchant ships dropped anchor in the harbor, arrivals spurred by the advent of fair weather. The Weary Arms had seen a steady trade, brisk enough so that she had been unable allow herself even a moment for thoughts of her past, or her future. In fact, she had been hard pressed to keep the patrons supplied with fresh-baked bread and full tankards of ale. If Wilasne himself hadn’t stepped in, setting aside his translations for an apron and the spigot, she would never have managed to set the soup to boiling and bake the pies.
Wincing, Renna straightened and almost dropped the plates she held balanced in one hand. She couldn’t stretch so far, anymore, she reminded herself with a restless sigh, massaging the small of her back with her free hand. She wondered when she would have to swallow her pride, take a cut in her wages, and ask Wilasne to hire an assistant to do all the bending and lifting.
“Not yet,” Renna pleaded softly, patting her swelling abdomen, “Not yet, little one.” The shape of her dresses and artful arrangement of her aprons, so far, had been able to hide the truth of her condition, but soon the questions would come. Three months now, until Renna expected her babe to be born. Three months, midsummer, and it wasn’t likely to be much earlier or later, since the circumstances surrounding her disgrace had all taken place in the space of a single night…
Renna closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and hefted her tray of dirty dishes. She couldn’t afford to waste her time thinking about him, yet again. Those thoughts and memories would haunt her, true enough, when she lay in her bed, the candles snuffed, the sound of the rain a constant companion.
With several hours yet until Fadinglight, the common room of the Inn was all but deserted. Renna hurried into the kitchen, only to stop short on the threshold, the plates making a cacophony as they shifted and slid into each other. Renna stared in surprise, but a tiny smile played across her lips. Wilasne, it seemed, wasn’t completely useless in the kitchen after all.
The owner of the inn was bent over a basin, suds towering up over the sides and spilling onto his arms and aprons. His sleeves were pushed up and his glasses were now rakishly angled on his hawk-like nose. Wilasne Watchword had to bend, for he was an exceedingly tall, lithe man who had reminded Renna, years ago when she first met him, of a knife. Fate, it seemed, had chosen well when it whispered in her parents’ ears and told them to choose the Weary Arms as the place to stay on the day they first brought their daughter to New Targonor. Now, the knife-like scholar who happened to own this property, and who also happened to be far more skilled with a quill, and, truth be told, more skilled with a weapon than with baking pans, was Renna’s only true friend.
“Wil,” Renna smiled as she spoke, shaking herself out of her memories and crossing the wide boards to come up beside him, dropping her tray heavily on the counter next to the basin. “Wil, why don’t you get back to your commission? We’ve had a good noon, but your work with the ink is mor’n likely to pay my wage!” She was teasing him now, trying to be casual, but every time she looked at Wil, she couldn’t help but be reminded of the debt of gratitude she owed him.
He studied this woman who had come to him in terror and desperation, and he knew that he had been right to lend her his support. She was such a beauty, indeed, even with her hair hacked short, bleached, and bound back under a scarf. With the weather so dismal and the business of the inn so slow, Wil felt fortunate that he
hadn’t needed to work beside Renna every day. He could easily have asked her to be his wife. Yes, he felt that strongly about her beauty, her strength, and her kindness, but he knew that she would have refused, and that the sadness would have come back into her eyes, and she probably would have left this refuge. He couldn’t stand the thought of Renna out there on her own, and so he remained her friend, and her confidant.
“I’ll finish the dishes, Wren,” he answered, almost dropping a mug through his soap-slick fingers, “You’ve more than earned your keep already. Wouldn’t you like an hour or two of free time, maybe visit the merchants and see what wares those ships brought? Or what news?”