Read Online The Hero and the Crown by Robin McKinley - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin McKinley
Ads: Link
and thought no more about weddings.
She had taken some time away from her leather-working to begin
experimenting with the fire ointment. Most of the ingredients she found easily,
for they were common things, and a first sol’s education included a little basic
herb-lore—which Aerin had learned gladly as an escape from deportment and
history. One or two things she asked Hornmar for, from his stock of horse cures;
and he, thinking she wished perhaps to try some sort of poultice on Talat’s weak
leg, granted her the run of his medicines as he had his tool chest, and again asked
no questions. She was aware of the great boon he offered her, and this time she
couldn’t help but look at him a little wonderingly.
He smiled at her. “I love Talat too, you know,” he said mildly. “If I can aid you,
you need only to ask.”
Teka and the redroot were a little more difficult.
“Teka, what is redroot?” Aerin asked one afternoon as she applied an uneven
patch to a skirt she had always detested, and glowered at the result.
“If you spent a quarter of the time about your mending that you have over that
old saddle, you would be better turned out than Galanna,” said Teka with
asperity. “Rip that out and do it again.”
“If you spent a quarter of the time about your mending that you have over that
old saddle, you would be better turned out than Galanna,” said Teka with
asperity. “Rip that out and do it again.”
Teka grinned. “No. She takes out a great gash and puts in a whole new panel of
different cloth, and it’s a new dress.”
“I would like to make a new floor mop out of this thing,” replied Aerin.
Teka lifted it out of Aerin’s hands and squinted at it. “The color has not worn
well,” she explained, “but the cloth is sound. We could re-dye it.” Aerin did not
show any marked access of enthusiasm for this plan. “Blue perhaps, or red. Don’t
overwhelm me with your gladness, child. You’re always wanting to wear red, in
spite of your flaming hair—”
“Orange,” murmured Aerin.
“You could do quite well with this skirt in red and a golden tunic over—Aerin!”
“It would still have to be patched,” Aerin pointed out.
Teka sighed heavily. “You would try the patience of Gholotat herself. If you will
do something useful with that wretched bridle that has been lying under the bed
for the last fortnight, I will re-dye your poor skirt, and put a patch on it that not
even Galanna will notice—as if you cared.”
Aerin reached out to hug Teka, and Teka made a noise that so sounded like
“Hmmph.” Aerin fell off the window seat and made her way over to the bed on
her hands and knees and began to scrabble under it. She re-emerged only slightly
dusty, for the hafor were dutiful floor-sweepers, held the bridle at arm’s length
and looked at it with distaste. “Now what do I do with it?” she inquired.
“Put it on a horse,” Teka suggested in a much-tried tone.
Aerin laughed. “Teka, I am inventing a new way to ride. I don’t use a bridle.”
Teka, who still occasionally watched Aerin and Aerin’s white stallion in secret to
reassure herself that Talat would do her beloved child no harm, shuddered. It was
the luck of the gods that Teka had not been watching the day Talat had jumped
the fence. “I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Someday,” Aerin went on with a bold sweep of her empty hand, “I shall be
famous in legend and story—” She stopped, embarrassed to say such things even
to Teka.
Teka, holding the skirt to the light as she made deft invisible stitches around
the patch, said quietly, “I have never doubted it, my dear.”
Aerin sat down on the edge of the bed with the bridle in her lap and looked at
the fringe on the bed curtains, which were the long golden manes of the
embroidered horseheads on the narrow canopy border, and thought of her
mother, who had died in despair when she found she had borne a daughter
instead of
She had taken some time away from her leather-working to begin
experimenting with the fire ointment. Most of the ingredients she found easily,
for they were common things, and a first sol’s education included a little basic
herb-lore—which Aerin had learned gladly as an escape from deportment and
history. One or two things she asked Hornmar for, from his stock of horse cures;
and he, thinking she wished perhaps to try some sort of poultice on Talat’s weak
leg, granted her the run of his medicines as he had his tool chest, and again asked
no questions. She was aware of the great boon he offered her, and this time she
couldn’t help but look at him a little wonderingly.
He smiled at her. “I love Talat too, you know,” he said mildly. “If I can aid you,
you need only to ask.”
Teka and the redroot were a little more difficult.
“Teka, what is redroot?” Aerin asked one afternoon as she applied an uneven
patch to a skirt she had always detested, and glowered at the result.
“If you spent a quarter of the time about your mending that you have over that
old saddle, you would be better turned out than Galanna,” said Teka with
asperity. “Rip that out and do it again.”
“If you spent a quarter of the time about your mending that you have over that
old saddle, you would be better turned out than Galanna,” said Teka with
asperity. “Rip that out and do it again.”
Teka grinned. “No. She takes out a great gash and puts in a whole new panel of
different cloth, and it’s a new dress.”
“I would like to make a new floor mop out of this thing,” replied Aerin.
Teka lifted it out of Aerin’s hands and squinted at it. “The color has not worn
well,” she explained, “but the cloth is sound. We could re-dye it.” Aerin did not
show any marked access of enthusiasm for this plan. “Blue perhaps, or red. Don’t
overwhelm me with your gladness, child. You’re always wanting to wear red, in
spite of your flaming hair—”
“Orange,” murmured Aerin.
“You could do quite well with this skirt in red and a golden tunic over—Aerin!”
“It would still have to be patched,” Aerin pointed out.
Teka sighed heavily. “You would try the patience of Gholotat herself. If you will
do something useful with that wretched bridle that has been lying under the bed
for the last fortnight, I will re-dye your poor skirt, and put a patch on it that not
even Galanna will notice—as if you cared.”
Aerin reached out to hug Teka, and Teka made a noise that so sounded like
“Hmmph.” Aerin fell off the window seat and made her way over to the bed on
her hands and knees and began to scrabble under it. She re-emerged only slightly
dusty, for the hafor were dutiful floor-sweepers, held the bridle at arm’s length
and looked at it with distaste. “Now what do I do with it?” she inquired.
“Put it on a horse,” Teka suggested in a much-tried tone.
Aerin laughed. “Teka, I am inventing a new way to ride. I don’t use a bridle.”
Teka, who still occasionally watched Aerin and Aerin’s white stallion in secret to
reassure herself that Talat would do her beloved child no harm, shuddered. It was
the luck of the gods that Teka had not been watching the day Talat had jumped
the fence. “I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Someday,” Aerin went on with a bold sweep of her empty hand, “I shall be
famous in legend and story—” She stopped, embarrassed to say such things even
to Teka.
Teka, holding the skirt to the light as she made deft invisible stitches around
the patch, said quietly, “I have never doubted it, my dear.”
Aerin sat down on the edge of the bed with the bridle in her lap and looked at
the fringe on the bed curtains, which were the long golden manes of the
embroidered horseheads on the narrow canopy border, and thought of her
mother, who had died in despair when she found she had borne a daughter
instead of
Similar Books
