Chapter Ten #2
Jerrold opened his mouth, but Bercie gave him a sharp look.
He rolled his eyes at her and refrained from the obvious, wise-ass comment.
“It’s for the best, that they be somewhere we can keep an eye on them.
” He didn’t say “offer them as lambs to appease a lion,” though that was part of his thoughts. The knot twisted tighter in his chest.
“I could put the wheels back on your cart,” Jerrold offered. “Those damn goats of yours are getting too damn fat, lolling in the fields. You could go out once in a while, keep a watch on things.”
Old Petro’s response was slow. “I don’t know,” he said. “Too many memories. Gotta think about that.” There was a long pause. “You’d put the wheel blades on too?”
“No,” Jerrold said firmly.
Bercie spoke up. “Might want to start breeding your goats again.”
That caught Jerrold by surprise. He looked at his mother, who was still facing forward, looking calm and serene.
“You’re thinking there will be trouble.” Old Petro said.
“There’s always trouble,” she replied. “Hope for the best. Plan for the worst.”
Damn knot in his chest got even more tangled.
Jerrold didn’t want to think on it, didn’t want to think about Orval looking overwhelmed and Amari starting to show, happily making plans, and that Rosalind wrinkling her nose at the dirt and Roth worried about defenses and giving Jerrold sharp looks, and the boy, roughly Cirda’s age.
And the babes, innocent, sleeping in their parents’ arms.
“Gee up,” he called to the horses, suddenly eager to get back to town and deal with the simple problems waiting for him there.
They’d been offered the farmstead. Which was when the arguments…discussions…began.
Orval stood, Lara in his arms, jostling the table and rattling the supper dishes. “Lara needs changing,” he said.
“And that’s another thing,” Amari shifted to let Orval past. “Far easier to do laundry with those cisterns working.”
“If they can be repaired,” Rosalind retorted. “And with enough servants—”
Orval left, climbing the stairs to their bedroom on the third floor, the loud voices following him.
He wasn’t sure they noticed he’d left.
He leaned back against the door, and took a deep breath.
He’d never dealt well with arguments and raised voices.
They made him uncomfortable and uneasy, enough that he needed to leave the room.
He envied Yfin. The lad had bolted his food and asked permission to go talk to his friends, then been out the door, quick as a wink.
Once he had closed the door of their bedroom, he took another deep breath. Amari, Roth and Rosalind weren’t fighting, he reminded himself. They were just discussing Old Petro’s farmstead. Loudly.
Lara cooed in his arms, chewing on her squishy fists, her eyes wide and bright.
Orval sat on the edge of the bed, smiling down at his daughter. Then his stomach tightened all over again, his supper a stone in his gut. Amari had found some peppers and the meat had been spicy…
That wasn’t the reason his guts were cramping and he couldn’t fool himself into thinking it was.
They were looking to him to make a decision.
It had been so much easier at home, back in Edenrich. His stipend, his books, his quiet hours of contemplation and study. The only real decision he had to make was whether to use his money to eat or buy books.
Yes, he’d had disputes with other learned men and women, but those were usually over pen and ink. A wave of longing swept over him, for the quiet and comfort of his books.
Lara chortled and waved her drool-covered fingers at Orval, reaching for his nose.
Orval smiled and leaned in, enduring the damp, sticky, priceless touch. Lara, his bright-eyed baby girl, his child-by-choice. It was his responsibility to care for her and Dalan and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
And caring meant making decisions, elements aid him.
Lara gave a tiny grunt and scrunched her face in concentration, which could only mean one thing. Orval sighed and rose to get the necessary supplies. Decisions and dirty nappies. Every parent’s doom.
Roth was right, the farmhouse was not that defensible. Yet Roth was wrong: the Keep didn’t offer that much more in the way of protection. Not without extensive—and expensive—repairs.
Rosalind was right, in that life in town might be easier, with staff and servants. They would be closer to the action and more visible to the people.
Orval frowned. But Rosalind was wrong, in a way.
Being out of sight, not pushing their presence on the townspeople, might make their welcome warmer.
Especially if they were seen to be doing the work that needed to be done to restore the farm, showing that they wanted to be self-sufficient and part of the community.
He poured water into the basin and started to clean the baby. Lara shrieked at the touch of the wet cloth, kicking, making it that much harder do the task right.
Orval struggled on.
Rosalind had also argued that the Keep was the proper setting for the Blood of Xy. To leave would diminish him in the eyes of the people of the Black Hills.
As if his withered leg didn’t already accomplish that. Orval was everything a Lord High Baron was not, lacking the warrior skills, not to mention the swagger.
What worried him more was her saying that the farmstead was no fitting place for the Blood and the future queen of Xy.
Who was currently blowing bubbles with her spit.
Orval moved fast, fastening her new nappy and starting to clean up after himself. The future queen of Xy wouldn’t stay distracted; bubbles didn’t last that long.
What if this precious girl didn’t want to be queen?
Orval paused in the middle of washing his hands. That hit him hard.
He was no stranger to being unable to live up to the standards of those around him.
He’d been set expectations that he couldn’t meet, no matter how hard he tried, and punished for his failures.
Shamed and embarrassed for being different, over something that was not his fault.
He looked down at Lara, who was now contemplating her toes and trying to put them in her mouth.
She caught his gaze, started to wave her chubby hands and babble, clearly trying to explain her new-found discovery to him.
He desperately didn’t want that kind of life for her, not in any way, shape, or form.
He remembered Xywellan, from when they had fostered together.
Wellan, who had enjoyed the peace of the library over the shouts of the sparring circle.
Wellan, who had been miserable, yet tried his best to do his duty to his kingdom.
And had died for it.
“Orval?” Amari called from the bottom of the stairs. “Is everything all right?”
Shame washed over him. He’d retreated, hadn’t he, in the face of the arguments, leaving her alone. She was convinced that the farmstead was an uncut gem, when all he saw was a run-down, neglected building with birds in the thatch and doors off their hinges.
“Yes,” he called. “Coming.”
Things had happened so fast for them, hadn’t they?
It felt like he’d loved her forever, but they’d been forced together so quickly—it had really only been less than a year.
So far, they’d managed well, resolving each others fears, facing and solving difficulties in agreement.
This was the first time he could remember really doubting her.
He owed her more than that, more than just his heart. He also owed her his trust.
Lara started kicking again, demanding his attention.
He gathered his girl into his arms. “Do you know, sweetling, that there is a passage in the Epic of Xyson that I have read over and over, but I don’t think I really understood it until today.
‘When the path before you is muddled and neither way is perfect, the need is not for the right choice. The need is for a choice. Indecision has slain many a warrior, stolen many an opportunity. Decide and commit.’” Orval opened the door and headed down the stairs.
“I guess if I want to teach you to deal with whatever challenges you decide to face, I have to go face my own, don’t I? ”
Lara clutched the edge of her blanket and gnawed on it.
As he entered the kitchen, Rosalind was speaking. “They need to find us another place, in town.”
Roth was nodding, but Amari was shaking her head. As he caught her eye, Orval saw that the light there was dimming.
“No,” he said firmly. “No, we will take the offer of the farmstead.”
Amari looked surprised, hope rekindling in her eyes.
“Our security is not based on walls,” Orval said. “It’s based on the people around us. The safety of the Keep is no better than at the farmstead.”
Roth shrugged, then nodded. “We could always retreat to the Keep.”
Amari relaxed, the tension leaving her body.
“As to the condition of the place, I trust my Hearth Mother in this. Her knowledge is greater than ours.” Orval tilted his head to Rosalind. “I mean, when was the last time you dealt with a thatched roof?” he asked.
Rosalind opened her mouth, then closed it, looking mulish.
“Most importantly,” Orval said, “this place offers the opportunity for the children to be raised happy and healthy. For now,” he fixed his gaze on Rosalind as he spoke, “our survival is more important than our supposed status.”
Rosalind bit her lip, but finally gave him a nod.
A shout from outside. “Come see,” Yfin called as he opened the door. “Look,” he said, holding up a string of rats.
“Yfin,” Amari exclaimed, “did you hunt those?”
“No, she did,” Yfin said, gesturing to the large cat rubbing against his legs. It was the ugly one Orval had seen outside, its mottled fur looking like a three-day-old bruise. “I think she likes me,” he said proudly.
“She likes the pigeon guts you leave for her,” Roth chuckled.
Yfin shrugged. The cat rolled over by his feet, batting at a dangling rat tail. “Think she will come with us?”
“Of course,” Amari said. “Every barn needs a barn cat.”
“So we’re going?” Yfin grinned, looking at them all. “Wait until I tell the others.” He ran off, the cat following behind, tail in the air.
“Guess this means they’ll follow too,” Roth said, rising to his feet and gathering up the plates.
“Guess this means we need to start packing,” Orval said. “And this time, no pease in the pot, thank you.”
Amari’s bright eyes and laugh was all the reward he needed.