The Swordsman's Oath (Einarinn 2) by Juliet E. McKenna

heir?”
    “He’s been keeping what’s left of the tenantry in shelter and food, young man.” Jetta’s eyes were bright and not only with passion. “The Sieur is always mindful of the obligations of the House.”
    “You think I’m not? Don’t you start blaming me,” Temar snapped. “I’ve been working from first light to last moon, both halves of summer, to keep what’s left of the estates producing some sort of income. I’d have an easier time milking pigs for cheese and probably have more to show for it! Why do you think I’ve not been back here for so long?”
    “Don’t you start ripping into me, just because you’re feeling guilty, young man. I put you over my knee when you wore soft shoes and I’ll do it now if need be.” Jetta’s smile belied her words and she put a plate of sweetcake in front of Temar.
    “Thank you.” He took a piece and felt unaccountably comforted.
    “Are you dining here?” Jetta closed the cupboard and moved to the hearth to swing a kettle over the fire.
    “It would seem so. Grandfather has ordered me to attend him in his study beforehand.” Temar’s sarcasm had somehow lost its edge.
    Jetta sniffed. “What have you been saying to upset him so badly, then?”
    “How do you know he’s upset?” Indignation colored the guilt in Temar’s face.
    “Why else would Master Othneil be ringing down for a bridesbell tisane?” Jetta pointed to the open door of the lackey-lift in the corner of the room.
    “Is he ill?” Temar tried to ignore the qualm in his belly at the thought.
    “No more than any man of his age but his winter cough has started early and he’s spending too much time in his study and not enough in his bed.”
    So much for imagining his grandfather had nothing to do with himself. Temar dragged the newly polished silver clasp out of his hair with an irritable gesture and could not think what to say.
    “So, how’s your mother?” Jetta busied herself with cups and hot water.
    “She’s very well, thank you.” A fond smile lightened Temar’s whole face. “She’s growing her hair for a wedding plait.”
    “Is she now?” Jetta halted, smiling herself, herb canister in hand. “So who’s going to be cutting that to lay on Drianon’s altar?”
    “He’s Rian For Alder; do you know the name?”
    Jetta frowned momentarily. “He deals in wool, doesn’t he? The family run sheep in the mountains on the Bremilayne road?”
    “That’s him.” Temar nodded. “They’ve been friends for a couple of years now and he’s finally persuaded her to marry him. I’m so pleased, for him as well as her. He’s a good man and I know he’ll make her happy.”
    “I’ll tie a ribbon to Drianon’s door to wish her well. She certainly deserves some happiness!” Jetta remembered what she was doing, and tied sharply fragrant herbs into a scrap of muslin. She dropped the bundle into a cup of hot water. “Have you told the Sieur?”
    “Not yet.” Temar poked at his tisane with a silver spoon. “I think it would be best if she told him herself but she’s always been so nervous of him. She thinks he’ll feel she’s betraying Father’s memory and the D’Alsennin name.”
    “Nonsense!” Jetta shook her head emphatically. “He’ll be delighted for her and I know your father would never have wanted her to spend so long as a widow, not once her year’s-mind was spent in the Sieur’s care.”
    Temar fished the steeped herbs out of his cup and sipped the steaming drink carefully. “That’s what I told her.” He stared unseeing, into the fire. “I wish I knew what advice he’d give me, Father I mean.”
    “What about?” Jetta covered one of his hands with her own.
    “I want to join Messire Den Fellaemion’s colony.”
    Jetta stared at him. “Is that what you came to tell your grandfather?”
    Temar nodded. “I have to do something, Jetta, or I’ll go mad from frustration. Things are going from bad to worse and I’ll be cursed if I join the rest of the