Read Online Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One by Veronica Dale - Free Book Online
Authors: Veronica Dale
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in your barn, and if Mama’s cane is any indication, they’re beautiful. Let me and Etane take them to the fair. We’ll set them out next to my honey pots, and I bet they’d go for a good price.”
She was amazing, always bringing new brightness into his life. But something he made, that people would spend coppers on? “I don’t think they’d be good enough to sell.”
“Nonsense,” Ane said. “Let us women be the judges of that.”
“There’s not enough in the box to bother with.” Now it was his turn to get smacked by Mariat’s spoon—but he noticed the blow was a gentle tap compared to what Etane got.
“Then get busy, Sheft. The fair’s at the end of Acorn, and you only have a few weeks.”
A cold thought—that the Rites would take place shortly after that—he pushed out of his mind.
“Now that’s settled,” Ane said, “I want you to see the beautiful cloak my sister left me. Show him, Mariat.”
Mariat took it from one of the pegs beside the door. The cloak was a truly sumptuous garment—long and hooded and made of thick, green wool.
“The Okrup villagers gave this to my sister,” Ane said, “in gratitude for all the medicines she made for them over the years.” She stroked the lining with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly. “After I no longer need it, daughter, it shall be yours.”
“Not for a long time yet,” Moro said, reaching for the last slice of bread.
Ane passed the cloak to Sheft for his inspection. The green wool felt soft in his hands, but as he held it, the room seemed to darken. As had happened in the wheat field, sounds around him drained away. A picture flashed into his mind: new grass blanketing a quiet grave. He was clutching the folds tight in his fist and eased his grip.
“As long as I’m up,” a voice said. “Anyone want more tea?”
From far away, he heard himself say, “No thank you.” He didn’t want to look at the cloak anymore and draped it over the back of his chair. What was wrong with him? It felt as if some other place and time had edged into the room.
Mariat’s hand touched his shoulder and her hair brushed against his cheek. She was bending close to him and her eyes were soft with concern. “Are you all right, Sheft?”
“Yes.” He put his hand over hers. “Yes, fine.”
Ane was trying to push herself up from the table, so Etane jumped to her side, helped her to her chair by the fire, and got her settled in.
“Sheft,” she said, “before you have to leave, read me the story about the creek.”
Pleased that she asked, but still feeling strangely distanced, he retrieved the red book of tales that he had placed on the mantle, and sat cross-legged on the carpet at her feet. He found the place and read.
“ Once in a land far to the south, there was a small creek that ran over rocks and through fields until it came upon a vast desert. It tried to cross, but found that its waters merely sank into the sand. The creek swirled about, looking for a way through, but could not find one. Just as it was about to give up and become a quagmire, the sun spoke.
‘You can only save your life if you lose it.’
The creek trusted the sun and stilled itself. It slowly dried up as the sun drew its water high into the air, until it was a cloud. The wind blew the cloud over the desert. There the cloud emptied itself in joy, and fell over the land as rain, and under it the desert bloomed.”
As he read the tale of trust and sacrifice, his throat unaccountably filled with so much emotion his voice came near to cracking. The story, luminous yet full of pain, impaled him on a sweet-sharp point. As he finished reading, it seemed that a gentle hand pulled the blade out of him, and released the life that watered the thirsty ground.
As if in a dream, he saw Ane lean back with a contented sigh. Mariat covered her with the cloak, a cloak as green as a desert in bloom. A clear thought broke over him: one day it would cover his body.
“It’s
She was amazing, always bringing new brightness into his life. But something he made, that people would spend coppers on? “I don’t think they’d be good enough to sell.”
“Nonsense,” Ane said. “Let us women be the judges of that.”
“There’s not enough in the box to bother with.” Now it was his turn to get smacked by Mariat’s spoon—but he noticed the blow was a gentle tap compared to what Etane got.
“Then get busy, Sheft. The fair’s at the end of Acorn, and you only have a few weeks.”
A cold thought—that the Rites would take place shortly after that—he pushed out of his mind.
“Now that’s settled,” Ane said, “I want you to see the beautiful cloak my sister left me. Show him, Mariat.”
Mariat took it from one of the pegs beside the door. The cloak was a truly sumptuous garment—long and hooded and made of thick, green wool.
“The Okrup villagers gave this to my sister,” Ane said, “in gratitude for all the medicines she made for them over the years.” She stroked the lining with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly. “After I no longer need it, daughter, it shall be yours.”
“Not for a long time yet,” Moro said, reaching for the last slice of bread.
Ane passed the cloak to Sheft for his inspection. The green wool felt soft in his hands, but as he held it, the room seemed to darken. As had happened in the wheat field, sounds around him drained away. A picture flashed into his mind: new grass blanketing a quiet grave. He was clutching the folds tight in his fist and eased his grip.
“As long as I’m up,” a voice said. “Anyone want more tea?”
From far away, he heard himself say, “No thank you.” He didn’t want to look at the cloak anymore and draped it over the back of his chair. What was wrong with him? It felt as if some other place and time had edged into the room.
Mariat’s hand touched his shoulder and her hair brushed against his cheek. She was bending close to him and her eyes were soft with concern. “Are you all right, Sheft?”
“Yes.” He put his hand over hers. “Yes, fine.”
Ane was trying to push herself up from the table, so Etane jumped to her side, helped her to her chair by the fire, and got her settled in.
“Sheft,” she said, “before you have to leave, read me the story about the creek.”
Pleased that she asked, but still feeling strangely distanced, he retrieved the red book of tales that he had placed on the mantle, and sat cross-legged on the carpet at her feet. He found the place and read.
“ Once in a land far to the south, there was a small creek that ran over rocks and through fields until it came upon a vast desert. It tried to cross, but found that its waters merely sank into the sand. The creek swirled about, looking for a way through, but could not find one. Just as it was about to give up and become a quagmire, the sun spoke.
‘You can only save your life if you lose it.’
The creek trusted the sun and stilled itself. It slowly dried up as the sun drew its water high into the air, until it was a cloud. The wind blew the cloud over the desert. There the cloud emptied itself in joy, and fell over the land as rain, and under it the desert bloomed.”
As he read the tale of trust and sacrifice, his throat unaccountably filled with so much emotion his voice came near to cracking. The story, luminous yet full of pain, impaled him on a sweet-sharp point. As he finished reading, it seemed that a gentle hand pulled the blade out of him, and released the life that watered the thirsty ground.
As if in a dream, he saw Ane lean back with a contented sigh. Mariat covered her with the cloak, a cloak as green as a desert in bloom. A clear thought broke over him: one day it would cover his body.
“It’s
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