Read No True Way for Free Online

but she has my support, if that counts for anything.”
    Syrriah assured her that it did and asked her to give her report to Joral to make it official.
    Mayor Quentlee paused at the top of the last staircase, on a landing with a dark-paneled airing cupboard filled, Syrriah knew, with the linens and feather pillows for the bedrooms in this wing.
    â€œLet the Herald enter,” he told the guard, “and don’t interrupt them.”
    The guard sketched a brief bow to Syrriah, acknowledging her authority. She raised the latch and entered.
    The sitting room was empty; it felt stuffy and smelled of sorrow. Syrriah paused to swing open the casement windows, letting in the fresh spring air. When her children were sick, unless it was bitterly cold outside, she’d open the windows, bring the clean air in, let the stale air out.
    The promise of better things.
    She found Lady Meriette in her bedroom, sitting in a chair by the fireplace. The woman’s reddish-blond hair lay lank along her shoulders, and her skin, unnaturally pale as if she’d suffered a long illness, made her blue eyes look washed out, distant.
    She was wan, thin, and had all those emotions swirlingaround her. Emotions she used to keep locked inside, Syrriah realized. Emotions that had escaped, and now Meriette couldn’t quite fit them back in.
    â€œHello,” Syrriah said, flinging open the casement.
    Meriette focused on her, and the lady’s eyes widened as she took in Syrriah’s whites, the clothing that indicated Syrriah was a Herald. Still, she said nothing.
    Syrriah dragged another chair over, a twin to the padded wingback Meriette huddled in. The plump cushions spoke of comfort, and the upholstery fabric, red and gold with blue quatrefoils, spoke of wealth.
    It was, Syrriah noticed absently, a tricky and intricate weave.
    She took Meriette’s cold hands in hers, noting the thinness of the lady’s fingers. “My name is Syrriah,” she said. “I’m an intern Herald, but I was also the lady of a manor keep until a few short years ago. I ran a household much like yours, overseeing a village much like Blenvane.”
    She took a deep breath and engaged her Empathy Gift again, surrounding herself and Meriette with as much calmness and peace as she could muster. She couldn’t directly affect another’s deep emotion—no Herald could—but she could make the other woman feel more at ease. She could influence emotions, not radically change them.
    â€œIt’s not an easy thing, supporting your husband and maintaining a large household,” Syrriah went on. “We carry much of the burden unseen. Our lords are the figureheads, the ones handling the estate, yet we’re the most scrutinized. Sovvan gifts are late, an important dinner isn’t organized, and our lords are the ones who are judged.”
    Meriette flinched. She hadn’t met Syrriah’s gaze yet. A growing horror gnawed at Syrriah’s gut.
    Among the Heralds, men and women were equal—age and experience and reputation mattered more than gender. But in outlying villages, the outskirts of Valdemar, patriarchy reigned to various degrees, sometimes in subtle fashion.
    Syrriah’s husband never made her feel that way; he’d accepted her as his partner. But while she might have had the keener negotiation skills (no doubt a factor of her latent Empathy), her half of the bargain had been the hearth and home, being the hostess.
    She had supported him and had been valued for it . . . but in that sense, she’d also been defined by him.
    â€œRaising children, too,” she went on. “I had four, all grown now. You have two, they tell me, still young. You haven’t been allowed to see them, have you?”
    Her children had left her young, but at least she’d known they’d be safe and cared for at Haven.
    Meriette shook her head, her ginger hair nearly covering her face.
    â€œThat is a