Chapter Eight #2
Jerrold decided he needed kavage after all. Amari was quick to offer a mug. It was for Petro’s own good, damn stubborn cuss. Mind, everyone in town knew Jerrold was right, yet they were all willing to let him be the target of Old Petro’s wrath.
“His entire Hearth wiped out,” Amari whispered. Jerrold heard the grief in her voice for a family she didn’t even know. He scowled into his kavage. He’d half a mind to point out that the Blood of Xy had been the ones doing the killing.
Just at that moment, little Lara, all blue eyes and black curls, caught his eye and gave him a wide, gummy grin, the dagger hilt shiny with her spit.
“Could you talk to him for us?” Orval asked. “Because that sounds like it would be perfect.”
Talk? Jerrold stared at the man, at the Lord High Baron. Talk? The Lord High Baron was asking?
“And Elder Petro would be welcome in our Hearth,” Amari added.
Jerrold gave her a sharp look. “He’s a bitter old man,” Jerrold warned. “Might want to hold off on that.”
“Jerrold,” his mother scolded.
“I would welcome his wisdom,” Amari said. “A Hearth is more than blood, in my tradition.”
“Maybe you should meet him first,” Jerrold grumped. Then he looked at Orval, Lord High Baron Orval, who looked back at him with a steady, and yes, damn it, honest gaze. “You could just order it done,” Jerrold said slowly. “Demand your rights.”
“I’ve recently had my fair share of someone ‘ordering it done’ to me,” Orval said with a wry look. “I’ll not do it to another without cause.”
Jerrold stared at the mug in his hand, then took a drink, looking at Orval over the rim of his mug. He didn’t know what to make of this man. These people.
“I will suggest it to Petro,” Mother Bercie said. “If Jerrold tries, Petro will rant for an hour before he really listens.” She rose to her feet. “I brought a few more foodstuffs in the back of a wagon, no need to waste a trip.”
“I’ll help with that.” Roth said, getting to his feet and navigating around Lara, who had scooted over to sit right in front of him.
“No promises, mind,” Jerrold rose as well. “Old Petro is as stubborn as his goats.”
The sun was still bright when they emerged from the gatehouse. The boy, Yfin, was standing there, with a string of dead pigeons that he held up for Roth to see.
“Good work, lad. Come help with the wagon,” Roth called.
Yfin laid the string out on the bench. It was quite a pile of dead birds. Jerrold squinted at it, then darted a suspicious glance at the Keep tower. Quite a pile. Almost more than one lad could do in such a short amount of time. Without help.
“Jerrold,” Bercie called, mounting the wagon. Roth and Yfin had the last of the baskets and sacks in hand and were carrying them toward the gatehouse.
Jerrold gathered up the reins and climbed up. He clucked at the horses, turned the wagon, and headed for home.
Once they were past the gates, his mother spoke. “It’s a good thought.”
“Don’t trust them,” Jerrold half-grumbled.
She gave him a disapproving look. “They’re right, that gatehouse is no place to raise those children, or to bear a child for that matter. Doesn’t Petro’s place have water cisterns with taps?”
Jerrold grunted. “If they still work.”
“Petro could supervise repairs.” She settled back on the wagon bench. “Would do him good to get out of the tavern and do some honest work.”
Jerrold nodded absently. To that point, it would do himself good to be able to stop in for an ale and not get harassed by the old man.
Roth eased open the door with his shoulder and let Yfin go first with his load. “Mostly foodstuffs,” he said to Amari, who smiled at the sight.
“I got a mess of pigeons,” Yfin said as he set his load on the table.
“And now you are going to dress them for me,” Amari told him firmly. “Outside. And save the feathers.” She tossed him an empty sack.
Yfin drooped and his face fell. “Yes, A’mum.”
Roth ruffled the boy’s hair. It wasn’t his favorite chore either. “I’ll help,” he said. “You go get started.”
Yfin shot out the door.
“That went better than I’d hoped,” Orval said. “I know neither of you approve, but let’s face it, staying here makes us dependent on their charity. That might not last.”
“It isn’t charity when you are the rightful Lord.” Rosalind shook her head. “And if King Xyrath learns you have surrendered the Keep, he will not be pleased.”
“Surrender?” Roth scoffed. “Orval didn’t surrender the Keep.
He just found a way to integrate himself further into the community, solve a problem for them, and keep us all the safer.
” He reached for an apple in one of the baskets, and bit into it.
“In point of fact, I am learning why Satia and Xyrath think you are so dangerous.”
That caught their attention.
“I am not dangerous,” Orval said slowly. “Anything but.”
“Oh, yes you are, both of you.” Roth swallowed and gestured with his apple.
“Orval, you may not wield a blade or have an army to commend, but you have ideas, and even more than that, you propose them and make them work. Turning thought into action is not an easy task,” Roth shook his head.
“And yet here you are, doing it. Changing minds. Changing hearts.” Roth pointed at Amari.
“Showing sympathy and a desire to fend for yourselves. Welcoming an elder into our midst. Earning their respect, and maybe, eventually, their trust.” Roth took another bite of the fruit.
“You may regret inviting the old man,” Rosalind pointed out.
Orval snorted. “Can’t be any worse than Aunt Xydell.”
Roth laughed, bowed, and headed out to help dress the pigeons.