Chapter Twenty-Five
Waerington
“You and the others were supposed to be watching them,” Jerrold frowned at his son, who was stuffing breakfast in his mouth as fast as he could. “Now I come to find out you have been training with them.”
“Da, I know,” Cirda’s mouth was full as he protested. “But—”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Mother Bercie chided.
Cirda, freshly washed and hair still damp, closed his mouth to chew with all the concentration he could bring to bear.
“And why did I have to learn this from Roth?” Jerrold grumbled. “He thought I knew. From you.”
“Daaa,” Cirda sputtered.
Mother Bercie tapped her fork against the plate. Cirda hunched and chewed,
Jerrold did not let his mouth curve into a smile. He just enjoyed the quiet, which was brief and fleeting. Had he really ever had this much energy, even when he was young?
It wasn’t like anything had changed here in his mother’s kitchen.
Crammed to the rafters with jars, crocks, bowls, and plates, all piled haphazardly on the various shelves.
Dried herbs, mushrooms and fruits hung from the rafters on old twine, each in a place so familiar he knew when and how low to duck his head when he moved about. Some things never changed.
But some things did. Jerrold drew a tired breath and took another bite. It wasn’t that he was really angry, but the Blood seemed to be worming its way into his life like mold or dry rot.
Cirda swallowed, took a huge gulp of his drink, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Da, it was a free afternoon,” he protested, ignoring his grandmother’s sigh. “The Lord didn’t show for his battle lesson, so we got out of his history lesson.”
“He uses a sword?” Jerrold asked.
“Nah, a knife,” Cirda took another bite, chewed, then spoke. “He’s got that gimpy leg an’ sometimes it cramps on him and the Lady comes out and scolds him.”
“That’s not their full title,” Bercie said slowly.
Cirda nodded as he took a breath. “He said Lord High Baron was too many words for anyone to say, but that lady, Rosalind, she fussed and said we had to be respectful, so they settled on Lord and Lady. Capt’n Roth said it was ‘disrespectful enough to be respectful.’” Cirda shrugged.
“They’re nice and all, and the Lord does make history kinda interesting, but fishing is better. ”
“Since when do you get covered in muck while fishing?” Bercie passed him more bread.
Cirda tore off a hunk and slathered it with butter.
“We heard some sheep, and thought they were from Old Petro’s, so we chased them but—” he launched into the tale, like he and his friends had been on a grand adventure, not just running through the woods.
Words spilled out like water as Cirda ate and talked, rattling the table with his enthusiasm as he waved his fork and knife in the air.
Jerrold shot a glance at his mother, but she seemed amused enough to give up scolding him. Jerrold didn’t have the heart either. Rare enough to see the lad act like a lad. But Lord of Light, it made him feel tired.
“Still. You are supposed to be learning what you can and reporting back,” Jerrold said, sounding grouchier than he intended. “What about these new people?”
Cirda’s face dropped but he nodded, growing serious.
“They’s nice enough,” he said. “Leeda is fun, but she doesn’t know anything.
Yfin had to bait her hook. And that Rye guy is a scribe.
Are all scribes that scary looking? He scowls at everyone.
Aramal is from Athelbryght. Said he’d teach us to make fish hooks at the forge, when he’s done fixin’ things. ”
“Did the others get quite so mucky?” Bercie asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Cirda grinned. “Except prissy Moreta, more worried about her hair than anything. Girls.” He rolled his eyes as if appealing to the Gods. “But I got her in the back of the head with a big heap of mud, so—”
“Cirda,” his grandmother scolded.
“But Gran, she’d got me with some pine sap!” Cirda was clearly mortally offended.
“You and the others were supposed to be keeping an eye on the Blood, from hiding, and learning what you could.” Jerrold said. He tore off more bread.
“We did, until they spotted us,” Cirda squirmed in his chair as he defended himself.
“We take sword class with Capt’n, and then we eat, and then Hisself teaches us our letters and tells us history, only it’s more like stories.
” Cirda picked up his knife. “Yfin is teaching us knife fighting.” He grinned.
“Da, did you know? ‘Always bring a scarf to a knife fight.’” He pronounced it dramatically, raising his knife in the air and jostling the table.
“And you are learning your letters?” Bercie asked calmly.
“Aye,” Cirda slumped a bit. “Writing’s hard. So’s figuring.”
“I know,” she said. Jerrold saw the crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes crinkle as she fought to hide a smile. “Not nearly as fun as knife fighting.” There was real sympathy in her voice. “But just as important.”
“Aye, Gran,” Cirda said. “Can I be excused? I want to go practice some.”
“After you see to those clothes of yours,” Bercie said. “You left them crumpled on the floor last night. You aren’t leaving them for me to wash.”
“Aw, Gran,” Cirda complained.
“See to them,” Jerrold said. “Then come out to the yard and show me that move.”
Cirda lit up with a grin and bolted, the door slamming shut behind him. The quiet crept back into the room.
“A scribe, my ass.” Jerrold scowled and glanced at his mother. “Scribes don’t just walk through portals.”
“Yes, dear,” Bercie said.
“Those kids were supposed to be protecting us, watching them,” Jerrold growled. “Not playing with them. How many of the young ones are out there, anyway?” He bit into his chicken leg and tore the meat off the bone.
“Six or seven,” Mother Bercie said. “All about Cirda’s age.” She took a sip of kav. “The Blood are feeding them. Their stores can’t be generous—”
“We provide most of it,” Jerrold pointed out.
“But she’s feeding them, the Lady High Baroness,” Bercie observed, looking down at her plate. “How did things go at the quarry?”
Jerrold made sure to swallow before he spoke. He’d taken the Lord High Baron to the marble works the other day. “Fine,” he said grudgingly. “Orval asks more questions than a passel of kids, except he seems honestly interested.”
“About?”
“About the tools, and the methods, and whether it’s safe to cut marble.” Jerrold snorted. “Safe,” he shook his head. “Not so much about ‘how valuable’ or ‘how fast’ but safe? And no mention of tithes, taxes, or fees.”
“He cares.” Bercie pushed back her plate and poured more kav for both of them.
“It was his idea to move his family rather than demand we fix up the keep.” She tilted her head.
“And didn’t he suggest we rig scaffolding and scattered tools about, make it look like it’s being repaired, in case any ask questions? ”
“Aye,” Jerrold begrudged it, but truth was truth.
He pushed his own plate back, and took up his kav.
Hot and dark and bitter, just as he liked.
“He wants to send a messenger to Edenrich. To the King. Says it’s better to fill their heads with his words, before they get their own ideas.
Wants to write to the king about starting up the old quarry, and how there’s need to train oxen and men, and rebuild the quarry works.
Says he’ll let me read anything he gives the messenger before it’s sealed. ”
“Not a bad idea.”
“I was thinking of sending Rasfel to Edenrich. He’s some city experience.”
Bercie nodded. “I hadn’t given a thought to the oxen,” she murmured.
“In the old days, we had trained oxen and stone-singers. But not now.” Jerrold sighed. “That Orval is smart, I’ll grant you that.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And forthcoming.”
“So far.” Jerrold said. “And yes, he’s asked us for almost nothing beyond what is necessary—well, except for paper and books. Who has books?” He shook his head.
“He’s trading his scribe skills for tangibles,” Mother Bercie pointed out. “And his people’s skills. The Lady of Laughter help that Rosalind if she tries to teach them manners.”
“She’s snooty,” Jerrold grumbled, then grimaced.
“I’m to ride out this afternoon, go over some old maps he found at the manor.
Lanning asked me to inquire if that Rosalind would be willing to teach his youngest, Dayva, fancy stitching, in trade for labor.
Seems she isn’t interested in carpentry, more into the weaving and sewing like her mum. ”
“Just because Rosalind sounds ‘snooty’ doesn’t mean that there aren’t real dangers to royal Court life,” his mother said. “I have memories, but she has experience. As does Captain Roth. And apparently, Yfin.”
Jerrold stared into his dark, pitiless kav. “Wonder if Cirda realizes he may need to use those skills against them some day.”
For a long moment there was no sound but the quiet crackle of the fire.
“Against a cripple and a woman with babes?” Bercie asked, her voice low.
“Ma,” Jerrold spoke slowly, not looking up, “I know you cared for his aunt and I know I am named for her husband, but that Orval is of the Blood of Xy. Can we really trust them?”
“If having them here holds off the Wyverns from Edenrich, then yes,” Bercie said calmly. “And we don’t need to trust them blindly. Their actions will speak for themselves. And so far—”
“So far,” Jerrold scoffed.
“Cirda hasn’t had the same kind of childhood you had,” Bercie tapped her finger on the table. “He hasn’t known what we have known.”
“I fear for him,” Jerrold breathed out.
“Think of it this way,” his mother said. “Since the death of your namesake, Edenrich has repeatedly sent men of war to subdue us. Now they have sent a man of words. I doubt it was their intention, but perhaps they have sent us the Lord High Baron we need. If we hold our minds open to the idea.”
Jerrold leaned in, putting his hands on the table, preparing to rise. His mother set her wrinkled hand on his. He hesitated, looking down at her weathered hand, then looked up.