Chapter Twenty-Eight
Waerington
“They should not have been invited.” Jerrold grumbled under his breath.
“Hush,” his mother said as she stepped forward to welcome the Lord and Lady to the Summer Solstice Festival.
Waerington had already begun celebrating, although it was only early afternoon.
Jerrold had been keeping an eye open, watching for them.
Yes, the community had so far given them a grudging welcome, but there were still some hard hearts and unwelcome glances.
Jerrold didn’t want to spend the entire night worried about their safety.
But to their credit, the Lord and Lady just walked into the square, no fanfare, no fuss, babes in hand. Rosalind was with them, as were Roth and Yfin. Rye, Aramal, and Leeda followed close, with Old Petro stumping behind. To his satisfaction, the group paused and looked around in clear admiration.
The square was covered in bright banners and flags, all flapping in the breeze. The windowboxes of every window that overlooked the square were full of flowers blooming in all colors. Later, when the sun went down, the lanterns would be brough out, and the town and its people would glow.
Jerrold took pride in his people, his town. He tried to relax, tried to enjoy the moment, but dread haunted him. It could all be taken away in an instant.
“Come join us,” Bercie said, guiding Orval and Amari to a set of benches that formed a square for families with young ones, with blankets spread on the ground between them. “Wethe has a new salve for diaper rash.”
Orval and Amari’s faces lit up as they started over, carrying their children, Rosalind and Roth behind. Leeda and Yfin’s faces reflected their horror as they made to follow.
Jerrold chuckled in sympathy. “Cirda,” he called to his son, “Leeda and Yfin are here.”
“Yay,” Cirda popped out of the dancing, running toward them. “Come watch the grappling. Dayva and the others are already there.”
The youngsters made their escape, running past Rye and Aramal. “Is there ale?” Rye asked.
Jerrold gestured to the far side of the square.
Rye started that way, muttering something about “rash,” and Aramal went with him. “It’s important to them,” Aramal pointed out.
Jerrold didn’t hear Rye’s response but Aramal’s laugh rang out clear.
He turned his attention back to the larger group and coughed to get their attention. “Lord High Baron, Lady High Baroness,” he said with a respectful nod. “There’s folk that have come in from the surrounding areas that want to meet you.”
“They can wait for a bit,” Old Petro grumped. “Let ‘em get settled.”
Orval and Amari exchanged a glance, then Orval set the child he held down on a blanket. “Stay, Amari,” he said. “Best not keep them waiting.” He rose, straightened his tunic, and limped forward. “Lead on,” he said.
Old Petro went stomping over to where the elders held court. Roth placed himself at Orval’s shoulder. He exchanged a look with Jerrold and shrugged.
Jerrold nodded, accepting the watchful eye, and lead the way to the group of elders. The men and women seated there wore a mixture of closed, suspicious, and guarded expressions. They’d set a bench aside, clearly intending a confrontation.
Jerrold made Orval known to them and stepped back.
Orval limped forward, greeted them, took his seat. Old Petro sat on the same bench and glared at the others, daring them to make a comment.
No one was that dumb.
Roth moved to stand to the side with Jerrold. “You’ve set watches?” he asked quietly, glancing around.
Good to know that the weaponsmaster shared his fears. Jerrold nodded, still watching Orval. “Yes,” he said. “On the walls, the roads, and where that portal opens. We rotate regularly, give everyone a chance to enjoy the day.”
“Hmm,” Roth acknowledged with an approving nod, still looking around.
“We might as well sit,” Jerrold said. “This might take a while.”
Jerrold watched the faces of the people he’d known for many a year, hard as the rocks they mined, hard as the soil they farmed.
Watched as they listened…no, as Orval listened and they talked, answering his questions.
It quickly became clear that the Lord High Baron knew more than just what Jerrold had told him…
how…ah, the kids. He listened to the kids.
Jerrold let out a breath as those faces started to ease.
“Ale,” Old Petro insisted, and others rose and mugs were passed.
“How does he do it?” Jerrold muttered. “Most of our elders lost family in the war. They should be spitting on the Blood of Xy.”
“I have no idea,” Roth replied. “Maybe because he is not what they expect? Maybe because he is more than his bloodline? Maybe because the bloodline rejected him?” Roth shrugged.
“He’s the first of the Blood not to come at us with a sword in his hands.” Jerrold nodded, taking an offered mug.
“Aye,” Roth sighed, taking one as well. “I try to train defense into him, but he is too trusting. I worry he would greet with open arms the man who would thrust a dagger in his heart.”
Jerrold grunted in understanding.
The musicians started up again, now playing a raucous, roundabout, pattern dance.
The dancers all formed circles, then started swaying and twirling, clapping as the circles interwove with each other.
Jerrold spotted Rosalind being pulled into the dance by other women, flushed and grinning, trying to follow the steps and laughing at her mistakes.
He listened with half an ear to the talk, watching her skirts swirl.
The circles spun until the music crashed to a halt, then the dancers broke ranks, laughing and calling for drink.
Rosalind, her hair in disarray and her color high, stopped in front of Jerrold and Roth, smiling.
“Better than your stuffy court dances?” Jerrold asked gruffly.
She frowned, happiness vanished like a snap of his fingers. “Better than sitting there like a rude lump,” she said shortly, then stalked away.
Jerrold shifted uncomfortably and caught the side glance Roth gave him. From across the square, he saw Bercie glaring at him.
Jerrold sighed. “Gonna get us some more ale.”
Roth nodded.
The crowd around Orval never got smaller, but people moved in and out. Jerrold relaxed his guard a bit. The lanterns would be lit soon; those with small kids tended to head home once it got dark.
The music stopped. “My throat’s dry,” one of the drummers called, and folks laughed and passed a mug of ale.
“Seems to me you aren’t working hard enough,” Old Petro bellowed.
The drummer set his drink down and wiped his mouth. “And what would you have me play, Old Petro?”
Old Petro levered himself up off the bench and walked to the platform as the crowd watched. Using his cane, he tapped out a rhythm on the boards. People began to cheer.
Jerrold put his mug down with a thud and rose.
Love of the Lady, they’d said they weren’t going to do this; everyone had agreed.
But it was too late, the young ones had already swarmed into the square, summoned by the code and the calls of the others.
Not all the faces around them were happy, but Old Petro just repeated the code.
“Something?” Roth asked.
“Something.” Resigned, Jerrold sat back down and picked up his ale. Roth gave him a puzzled look, then the music caught his attention.
The pipes had started, brisk and in time with Old Petro’s cane. The young ones swirled in the middle of the dance area, gathering and grouping, and then the pipes went still.
The dancers froze.
Waiting.
The drummers raised their sticks, and as one, brought their mallets down, with a beat that matched that of a racing heart.
The kids leapt up into the air and started the true dance, wild steps and high leaps, using each others’ shoulders to get even higher.
As the music rose and the beat got louder and somehow faster, people began throwing some of the dancers into the air to be caught by others.
“What in the world?” Orval stood and limped forward, agog at the sight. Roth stood as well.
The drums crashed and the dance moved closer to the tavern. The crowd there parted, clearing the way, laughing and calling encouragement.
The dancing grew wilder, and Jerrold was pleased to see that Cirda was being tossed the highest. Yfin and Leeda were watching, their mouths hanging open. It was quite a sight.
Then the drums crashed again, and the dancers ran to the front of the building. As a long horn sounded with the drums, they swarmed over the building, straight up the front wall, and disappeared over the roof just as the music ended.
After a silent beat, heads popped up along the roofline, then they each aided the others to slide and climb back down to the square.
Over the cheering and the exclamations of praise, Roth gave Jerrold a hard look. “There are stories told of the Black Hills that say that the warriors washed over the Keep walls like an ocean wave swamps a ship.”
“Never seen the ocean,” Jerrold said. “Heard wild tales, tho. Hard to know what is true and what is not.”
“I’m starting to think there might be more truth in those stories than I knew,” Roth said.
Jerrold smiled into his mug.
Eventually, Halithe made her way back to where Amari was sitting.
She felt tired and worn out in a good way.
Cirda and Dayva stayed behind, watching the grappling.
They’d tried to explain the moves and rules to Halithe, but it all moved so fast. It also made her oddly anxious, watching men and women trying to throw each other to the ground with a crowd cheering them on.
It was all friendly enough, but the rivalries seemed strong.
She tucked herself in between Rosalind and Amari, who seemed to be arguing with the locals over the best methods of salting beans. Which was fine. Halithe sat and let the words flow over her, and felt at peace.
The sun was just touching the tops of the trees and lanterns were being lit. The whole square seemed to glow.
The music stopped and the leader called out, “A luring dance. Come, gather your bowls and spoons, young and old.” He took a deep breath and went on, “Life is short and full of bitter, so lure your love with a bit of sweet.”
The crowd rustled as many stepped forward with bowls in one hand and spoons in the other. Someone took a stick of chalk and drew circles for all to stand in, scattered close to the center of the square.
The music started. Halithe craned her neck, searching for Dayva’s brother, whom she’d met once when he came to give Dayva a ride home at day’s end, wondering if he was in this first dance.
Amari’s breath caught.
Halithe followed her gaze to see Orval standing in a chalked circle, a teasing smile on his face and a bowl in his hands.
Once he had Amari’s attention, he started tapping the side of his bowl with his spoon. All around, others were tapping their bowls in the same way.
With much laughter, some of those watching moved closer and started dancing, teasing their interest with their steps.
“Would you?” Amari asked, and handed a sleeping Lara off to Halithe before she could answer. The Lady stood, brushed down her skirts as if considering her choices, lifting her chin and giving Orval a look.
Then she joined the dance.
Those being lured twirled and danced, men and women, stomping their feet and clapping their hands, approaching their loved ones and darting away, with much laughter and cajoling.
Amari made the full round of the circle, skipping back when Orval extended the spoon, laughing and spinning away. She was clearly teasing him, and he clearly had no doubts that she’d come to him eventually.
They were each so lost in the other, as if in their own world. Halithe wondered if that was truly possible, to feel that way with another person. To share something so…wonderful.
Finally Orval was the last waiting and Amari the last resisting. The crowd around them clapped, and stomped their feet, sharing their joy. With a final twirl, Amari drew closer, her eyes never leaving Orval’s face.
Orval held out the spoon, close to her lips, and she took it in her mouth.
Then she jerked back, sputtering, her hand over her mouth, laughing and gasping.
“Pease?” she choked out.
Orval used Amari’s confusion to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her close, covering her face with pease-y kisses, getting it all over both their faces as the crowd cheered.
“Is that pease porridge?” Mother Berice asked.
Halithe and Rosalind laughed, though some of the people around them looked confused. Roth looked at Dalan in his lap. “Your Da has a strange sense of humor,” he said to the sleeping child.
“And a strange sense of taste,” Berice said drily.
Which made them all laugh again.
The dance was over, the musicians were taking a break. Orval and Amari returned to sit and clean themselves up, looking so happy it made Halithe’s heart ache. Amari was trying to explain the joke, and Mother Berice just rolled her eyes. Halithe took the chance to slip away.
There were quiet corners, hay bales where one could sit and have a private chat, or maybe steal kisses from a lover. Halithe pressed herself out of sight and pulled her spoon from her pocket.
What a special thing it would be, to have that kind of connection in one’s life. She mused on it as she polished the spoon, making it gleam in the light.
She sheltered it in her lap, cupping it in her hands so that no one could see what she was doing.
“Show me,” she breathed, and focused her will.
The image flickered, then wavered, and then solidified. Caris, warm and lovely, walking down a hall lighted with candles and glowing in her golden gown. Halithe cradled the spoon in her hands, looking down with delight. She sighed, thinking on—
“Impressive,” Rye towered over her, craning his head to look over her shoulder.