Sandry's Book Page 8

  “I love this work,” Lark murmured. “It’s soothing.”

  Sandry nodded, eyes never leaving the spindle. “No matter where we traveled, I watched the local women as they spun. It always seemed like magic.”

  “It is magic. And there’s magic you can do with it, if you have the power. To take something tangled and faulty, and spin it until it’s smooth and strong—now there’s work that’s worth doing!” She halted the spindle, keeping her new thread stretched between it and her hand. “Take it. Don’t let it spin backward, or the work comes undone.”

  Nervous and eager, Sandry obeyed. Both spindle and thread felt very warm to the touch. Lark slipped the wool rolag into the girl’s right hand, pressing the point where fiber became thread between Sandry’s thumb and two fingers.

  The girl squeaked with surprise and dropped the spindle. It whirled in reverse. The leader yarn lost its grip on the new thread, which untwisted itself. She was left with a handful of unspun wool. “Donkey dung!” Sandry blushed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to—”

  Lark chuckled. “I know exactly how you feel. It happens so much faster when it all goes to pieces. Pick it up. Lay two inches of leader yarn over two inches of wool fiber.” As Sandry obeyed, Lark went on, “Think of something outside the work—your heartbeat, perhaps, or your breathing. Twirl the stem clockwise. Draw the wool gently from the rolag into your thread. Let the spindle drop slowly to the ground as your new thread lengthens.”

  Sandry trembled still as she flicked the stem to the right. The spindle twirled. She had to let the tool fall, but she also had to feed bits of wool into the thread. She could only use one hand to steady her new thread, because didn’t she have to give the stem of the spindle another twirl? It must be winding down.

  She looked down just as the spindle slowed almost to a halt—then twirled in the opposite direction. The thread fell apart, dabs of wool dropping to the floor. “Cat dirt, cat dirt, cat dirt,” she muttered, smacking her forehead.

  Patiently, Lark helped her to begin again. “Think of a rhythmic sound—one you like to hear. One that’s soothing.” Lark’s voice was soft and as warm as honey. Listening made Sandry a bit drowsy. “Close your eyes for a moment and listen for it. It’ll help you keep control over the spin.”

  Eyes shut tight, Sandry listened, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she listened for. A rhythmic sound, a soothing one? Her thoughts skipped to the past, to last winter. After she had come out of the storeroom, Niko had found her a bedchamber in the Hataran king’s palace, above the room where the royal weavers did their work. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, at first she had refused to take an interest in anything. Why did she have to? Her entire world was dead.

  The beat of looms under the floor pressed on her. Without her wanting it, the bump-thwack they sounded, dawn to dusk, wove into her breath and heartbeat. One Sunsday, soon after Midwinter, all the looms fell silent. This happened every Sunsday, which was a rest day, but she had never cared before. Now she was restless, angry. She slept badly. The next day the chorus of looms began at dawn, and she sat up to listen. When Niko arrived an hour later, she still sat up.

  Looms sounding in her ears, Sandrilene fa Toren spun.

  “I have to wind the thread,” Lark murmured. The girl blinked and looked at her work. With the dedicate to guide her hands, she had managed to spin two entire feet of thread. It was perfect, except that there were four large bumps, each the same distance from its fellows.

  “Where did those come from?” she asked, confused. “I didn’t feel any lumps.”

  “You were thinking of new life,” Lark replied. “You thought of it, and you spun it.”

  “Then new life has lumps in it,” Sandry remarked. “Let me try this again.”

  “Better yet, we start afresh. Let’s take the old thread off.” The dedicate’s slender fingers undid the ties that bound Sandry’s thread to the spindle. She wound it onto a bobbin and put it in the girl’s lap. “Keep that,” she said. “And keep it safe. It’s your first thread—it’s important.”

  There was plenty of light remaining in the day when the Discipline residents gathered for supper, without Niko. Carving the chicken, Rosethorn looked around the table and said, “You, boy—”

  “Briar,” he said quietly. He was afraid to look at her. She might remember that he’d touched the plants that wound around strings, and punish him.

  “Briar, you have hands attached somewhere, do you not? Pass the bread to—” Rosethorn squinted at Tris.

  “Tris,” Lark said helpfully.

  Rosethorn made a face. “And you, Sandry—I’ll take that.”

  The girl handed over a bowl of rice, lentils, and onions.

  “And this one—” Rosethorn nodded toward the Trader.

  Daja stared into space, hearing the ring of fuller on hot metal—she didn’t notice that Rosethorn was trying to pass a dish of chicken to her. At last the dedicate thrust it under her nose. Daja came to herself with a start. “What?” she asked, startled.

  Briar snickered.

  “Daja, is it? I remember now. Well, Daja, would you be so kind as to relieve me of this?” Rosethorn demanded. “Before my hand falls off?”

  A blush stained Daja’s cheeks. Hastily she took the plate.

  Rosethorn looked at Briar, who was eating as fast as he could. “Slow down,” she ordered. “By the time it reaches us, the food no longer tries to run off the dishes.”

  Briar met her gaze. Under fine brows—knit together in her normal, irritated expression—she had large, brown eyes with a touch of humor in their depths. His pace slowed. As if his mouth had a mind of its own, Briar heard it ask, “What does it mean when a tree has some green leaves and some brown?” He cringed, waiting for a slap.

  Rosethorn frowned. “Did you see it in the fall?”

  “No. Today.” She wasn’t going to hit him? It’s what any grown-up would have done, back in Deadman’s District in Hajra.

  “Then the stem that has brown leaves is dead. The whole tree may be sick, or dying. Where did you see it?”

  He winced. It had been hard enough just to ask. He wasn’t at all ready to mention Dedicate Crane. “Around,” he said vaguely.

  Rosethorn sipped her juice. “Well, if you see it again, around, let me know. Perhaps I can help. There’s no reason for any Winding Circle tree to be sickly.”

  Once the table was cleared, Lark took the large slate on the wall nearest the hearth off its hooks and lay it on the table, along with a stick of chalk. “The schedule,” she said, black eyes impish. “Yours includes chores and lessons—”

  All four children groaned.

  “I knew you’d be happy,” Lark commented. “Now, first in the day, everyone cleans her—or his—room. Some mess is all right, but make your beds, sweep your floors, and clean your washbasins before you come to breakfast. After that, we’ll do chores inside the house….” She bent her curly head over the slate and began to write.

  Briar frowned. “What if I don’t know how to do any chore stuff?”

  Lark smiled. “We’ll show you.”

  “I’ve done housework forever,” Tris said glumly. “It’s not hard to learn.” She looked at the others, wondering how good they would be. Sandry had probably had servants all her life. The only things Tris knew about Traders were tales of secret rituals and how they cheated merchants. Did the tales mention cleaning and sewing? She couldn’t remember if they did. “I’d better not get stuck doing all the work,” she muttered.

  “You won’t,” Lark replied. “That’s why I do a schedule. As the moon goes from full to full, you all share the chores. No one gets stuck with the hardest ones every time.”

  “We have terrible ways to ensure no one cheats,” Rosethorn said, leaning back in her chair. Four pairs of eyes fixed on her as the children tried to guess if she was joking or not. The tiny smile on her lips was not at all reassuring.

  “After chores,” Lark announced, “you learn to meditate, under Niko’s super
vision.”

  “What’s meditation?” asked Daja.

  “It’s clearing your mind,” replied Lark.

  “It’s controlling your mind,” Rosethorn said at the same time.

  Lark smiled. “As you can see, it serves more than one purpose.”

  “It’s priest stuff,” grumbled Briar. “Real people don’t need it.”

  “But you’re no longer a real person, boy,” Rosethorn commented wickedly. “You live here—you’re halfway to being a priest yourself.”

  “Meditation teaches self-control,” Lark told the children firmly, with a look at Rosethorn that said Behave! “It teaches discipline. You learn to govern and organize your mind. Since a few of you were sent here because it was thought you were ungovernable—” Sandry, Tris, and Briar turned red—”meditation could turn out to be the most important thing you do here.”

  “It can’t hurt, and it might help,” added Rosethorn.

  Lark examined the slate. “After that, midday and cleanup. Then, during the summer, Winding Circle has a two-hour rest period, during the hottest part of the day. That time’s yours. After it, we’ll arrange for lessons of some kind—I’ll take care of that sometime this week. Then supper, and cleanup. Here we bathe daily, after supper, in the Earth temple. Free time for a while, then bedtime.” She looked at Daja and Briar. “We didn’t take you to the baths last night because you were still getting settled. That was an exception, not the rule.”

  “Aren’t temple baths just for dedicates and novices?” asked Sandry.

  “We have permission to bring our charges,” Lark replied. “It’s easier on everyone.” She looked at the children’s faces. “Don’t look so glum. On Sunsday your time is your own, provided you behave. And there are holidays, and days when your teachers won’t be available. We’ll try not to work you to death. Any questions?”

  No one said a word.

  “Then get your bathing things and meet us here.”

  The group split up to collect soap and sponges, the undyed robes given to them by the temple, and wooden shoes to keep their feet out of the dirt. When they assembled at the back door, the only one missing was Briar.

  Rosethorn stuck her head into his room. The boy was inspecting one of the plants that she had pulled from the ground during the day. “Come on, my lad,” she ordered. “That nettle had better go back in the compost heap, where it will do me some good. I don’t want it seeding in my garden.”

  “I washed day before yesterday,” he retorted. “How can a plant do good in a heap, and not the garden?”

  “It helps the compost to ferment, so the compost makes better fertilizer. The fertilizer helps plants I want to grow. If the nettle stays in the ground, it chokes out other plants. Get moving.”

  He stared at her, gray-green eyes stubborn. “You and Niko! I never washed so much before. I’ll catch my death.”

  “Nonsense. Think how nice you smell.” When he didn’t move, Rosethorn’s eyebrows twitched together. “I have used up my week’s allowance of patience, boy. Everyone bathes here, every day. You don’t have a choice.”

  He bit his lip. If he refused, she might get rid of him—and she knew about plants. Then he thought of something and grinned. Unlike Sotat, here the sexes bathed separately. He’d wait until the women entered their side of the bathhouse and return to the cottage. Making a note to wet his hair to convince them, he gathered his things and followed the others outside.

  A slender, long-haired figure in an undyed robe awaited them at the bathhouse. “I hoped to find you here,” said Niko with a charming smile. “I thought I’d be company for Briar.” He draped a thin arm around the boy’s shoulders, steering him toward the door to the mens’ baths. “I know all these new experiences must be unsettling for you.”

  Briar scowled at Lark and Rosethorn, who ducked their heads to hide grins.

  “Have a nice wash,” Sandry teased as she walked by him.

  “Make sure to get behind your ears—kid,” Daja added.

  “Where did she learn that bit of street argot?” inquired Niko. “No, don’t tell me—I know. Come, Briar. The sooner we begin, the sooner you can dry off.”

  As the girls entered the main chamber of the women’s baths, Tris backed up a step, shaking her head. “Now what?” demanded Rosethorn. The handful of bathers already in the pool turned to stare.

  “I’m not bathing in front of people,” Tris said, crimson-faced. “I thought you had private baths, like in the girls’ dormitory. It’s not decent.” And they’ll torment me because I’m fat, she added silently.

  “I can’t wash in the same water as kaqs,” objected Daja. “I can’t.”

  The two women looked at Sandry, who shrugged. She was used to all kinds of bathing customs. In Hatar, the sexes washed together in large pools like these.

  Rosethorn tapped a foot. She seemed about to speak, and not happily. Lark stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I’ll show them where the private tubs are,” she said gently. “Come on, girls.”

  Daja scrubbed in quiet misery. If her family had seen her at Frostpine’s, they would not have stopped at the whippings they’d given her in the past, when she was caught watching metalsmiths. They might have declared her trangshi themselves. “Traders trade—they don’t do,” her mother had told her time after time. “We don’t handle, we don’t work. We pay lugsha the lowest price we can get for their pieces, then we sell at the highest profit. It’s all right to smile, listen to their tales, compliment them on their craft, if it means closing the trade. It is not all right to show an interest on our own account.”

  I’m so confused, Daja thought, drying off. I don’t know what’s proper anymore. I don’t even have anyone to tell me what’s proper. Maybe I must work it out for myself. And how am I supposed to do that?

  6

  When the porridge came to him the next morning, Briar took a ladleful, placed it in his bowl, looked at the result, then added another. No one scolded him or took the pot away. He considered adding more and decided not to push his luck. He was still trying to see what was allowed and what wasn’t.

  Once Lark and Rosethorn asked the blessing, he began to eat greedily.

  “Slow down,” Sandry told him, soft-voiced. “It’s bad for your digestion to eat so fast.”

  “Leave me be. I eat how I want to eat,” he grumbled.

  Shaking her head, Sandry picked up the honey pot and added a large spoonful to his bowl. “You need the sweetening,” she informed him.

  “Give him the whole pot, then,” murmured Daja.

  Lifting the pitcher, its sides beaded with damp from the coldbox, Sandry poured milk onto Briar’s food. “And that helps, too. You look like you need all the honey and milk you can stand.”

  Briar glared at her, offended. “Did I ask you to stick your neb in my life?”

  She gave him an extra-sweet smile that Daja recognized instantly as being Sandry at her contrariest. “You didn’t, but that’s all right. I’ll do it anyway. I’m like that.”

  He was about to swear at her, but the look in her bright eyes made him think twice. She was like no one he’d met in his life, this girl-Bag. If he yelled at her, he had the sneaking suspicion that she might give as good as she got.

  “Well, if we’re going to be fancy.” Standing, Rosethorn went into her workshop.

  Briar inspected the white and gold on top of his cereal, stirred everything gingerly, and tasted the result. Temple porridge had been good before—not like the thin slop he’d scrounged at home—but now it was rich and sweet. He told himself that nicked food tasted better, but he knew it was a lie.

  Rosethorn came back with a twist of heavy paper. Carefully she sprinkled brown dust into everyone’s bowls and added more to the pot before she sat. “This is cinnamon—it comes from the eastern caravans. Dedicate Crane tries to grow the trees in his greenhouse, but he isn’t succeeding.” She grinned as she stirred the powder into her breakfast.

  When the boy tasted the addition, he began t
o shovel food into his mouth as fast as he could swallow. Sandry opened her mouth to protest, then gave up.

  “I don’t see why you and Crane can’t declare a truce, Rosie,” complained Lark. “You liked each other once.”

  “Before he decided to play tricks on plants,” retorted the other woman. “He treats their need for the change of seasons like—like a parent who thinks his child’s love of a favorite blanket is babyish, so he takes the blanket away. Crane acts as if plants are wasting their time during fall and winter.”

  “Plants need to die?” asked Briar, startled.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” snapped Rosethorn. “They need to rest. It’s not the same thing.” Taking his empty bowl, she ladled in more porridge. “Well, he’s underfed,” she said defensively to Lark, who watched her with a knowing smile.

  After breakfast, all of them set about doing their scheduled chores. Briar was saved from having to admit he couldn’t read the marks Lark had made on the big slate by Lark herself, who showed him how to scrub the cottage’s small privy. For a change Briar had no thought of abandoning the work or even of doing it badly. He had plenty to think about that morning. Chief in his thoughts was the small tree he had seen not only the day before, but in his dreams as well.

  When he returned to the cottage, the girls were finishing up their own chores. Rosethorn had gone into her workshop and closed the door—Briar could hear the sound of a sweeping broom in there. Lark was reading a message-slate that had been brought to her by one of the temple’s runners.

  “As soon as you’re finished, you’re all to meet Niko at the Hub,” Lark told the four. “Go straight there, mind—no side trips along the way.” Digging in her pocket, she produced one of the round iron tokens that indicated they were supposed to be roaming and tied four short threads around the hole at the top of it. She handed it to Daja. “Stay together. Remind Niko that you’re to come back here for midday.”