Chapter Seventeen #2
“Hush. What coin we have must last us through Grimsvold, so we’ll eat from our own stores. And we wouldn’t mind sleeping in
the stable if you offer reduced rates.”
“Nonsense,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that our inn is not putting on its best face right now. All our rooms are at reduced rates, and the porridge is free.”
Titus the elder gives me a startled look. But I know this is what Ma would say. Grandda raised her to have a soft heart and
a generous spirit, despite her occasionally sharp tongue.
Ovidia rises and wipes her hands on her skirt. “Thank you so much, Dama Angarsold. I’d take your hand, but I’ve been knuckle-deep
in muddy hooves.”
“Your girl all right?” I ask.
“She is now. Just had a rock stuck in her foot.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I need to finish putting out fresh linen. When you and big Titus are done here, we’ll get as much porridge
as we can into little Titus and . . .” I look toward the girl, who has conceded the battle to the goat and settled for tying
her to a post.
“My daughter, Salina,” Ovidia says.
“. . . as much porridge as Titus and Salina can eat. Our blacksmith lives just over the hill there. He can check your wagon
wheels this afternoon.” I pretend to ignore the grateful tears in Ovidia’s eyes when I add a cheerful, “See you inside. And
please. Call me Bria.”
It turns out Salina and her brother Titus can eat a lot.
Oats are expensive, and we won’t get another delivery until spring, but Ma is so happy to have guests that I try not to think about it.
Six of us are squished around the dining table—I’m shoulder to shoulder with big Titus—while Ma flits around making sure everyone has food and drink, and then seconds on food and drink.
Finally she takes a bowl for herself, adds a generous dollop of honey, and sits on the cot to eat.
“Where did you travel from?” she asks between bites. “Corth, I suppose.” Not sitting at the table is no obstacle to getting
acquainted with her guests.
“We’re from a tiny town called Villa Bonoth,” Ovidia says.
“That’s right on the Corthan border,” Titus volunteers. “West of Florentia.”
“You know it?” Calvus says. “I think you’re the first person we’ve encountered who’s heard of it.”
“Have you been there?” Ovidia presses, leaning forward.
“No,” Titus says. In the ensuing silence, he realizes his answer is insufficient. “I, uh, I have . . . distant relatives in
Corth. I know a little something about it.”
“But you weren’t born in Corth,” Ovidia says, which may or may not be her way of observing his obvious Dhakaran heritage.
“No,” Titus says.
Ovidia sits back, clearly disappointed. Maybe she’s eager to talk of home. Maybe she’s missing it so badly it’s like a pain
in her chest.
“Tell us about Villa Bonoth,” I say. “What’s it like?”
Ovidia brightens and opens her mouth to say something, but Calvus speaks first. “Not much to tell. Not anymore.”
“We had a plum tree,” Salina says. These are the first words she’s spoken since arriving. Her voice is soft and sad, her eyes
downcast.
“Salina does love her plums,” Ovidia says with a gentle smile.
“And climbing!” little Titus says. “Lina is the best tree climber. I’m a good tree climber too, but Lina is bigger.”
Ma says, “Tell me, why would you leave such a perfect plum tree to come here?”
“The soldiers came,” the boy says.
“What?” Titus says, looking up from his bowl of porridge in alarm. “What soldiers?”
“The king’s soldiers,” says little Titus.
“Our town was commandeered,” Calvus clarifies. “By royal decree of King Jaydeth. Villa Bonoth is now a military border outpost.”
Ma is horrified. “He forced you out of your homes?”
“Not exactly,” Ovidia says. “The commander said we were all welcome to stay and no one would lose their homes. But then soldiers
moved right into our cottage, our neighbors’ cottages, and started using up the stores. . . .”
“They ate all our plums,” Salina says.
“Among other things,” says Ovidia. “They broke most of our furniture in a drunken brawl one night, ruined the rug with ale.
Some of the soldiers demanded that I . . .” She swallows hard. “We ended up sleeping with the chickens, just to keep out of
their way.”
“That’s terrible,” Ma says. “The king should be ashamed.”
“Oh, no, no, we would never speak ill of our king,” Calvus says. “Or his army. I’m sure it was just these few—”
“It became clear that our home was no longer our own,” Ovidia says.
“And we decided to leave with what possessions remained before things got worse.” She looks at her tiny daughter as she says this, and I see Salina through her eyes: a doe-eyed girl with shining brown hair and perfect skin, lips like a tiny pink bow that soften her already strong Corthan chin.
She’ll be a beauty someday, no doubt about it.
“All our neighbors left,” Calvus says. “Well, everyone who had someplace to go. Villa Bonoth is just . . . gone. By the time
we left, it wasn’t even recognizable as home.” He sets his spoon down and puts his face in his hands.
Beside me, Titus is heavy as a stone. Thinking about the monster who is his father, no doubt. Ma is studying him too, a question
in her eyes. She knows his parentage, but I’m almost sure she would never hold it against him.
“Well, you’re here now,” I say to Calvus and Ovidia. “And you’re safe.”
Ovidia’s eyebrows raise. “You sure about that?” she says. “Seems like we’re not the only ones to fall upon misfortune.”
I’m not sure how much to tell her, so I’m grateful when Ma jumps in with her usual forthrightness. “We were raided.”
Ovidia gasps. Little Titus’s eyes grow wide as saucers.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Ma says. “They’re no longer a threat.”
“Sounds like that’s quite a story,” Calvus says.
Ma smiles sweetly. “It most certainly is.” But she offers no more. Titus slumps a little with relief.
“You crossed the entire confederacy to get here,” I say before they can ask follow-up questions.
“It was a long, hard road,” Ovidia says. “Started off with four mules, down to two.”
“Why so far?” asks Ma. “Surely you have family in Corth.”
“My brother married a Grimsvolder,” Ovidia says. “They have a townhome in Ysavo. They’ll take us in.”
“Grimsvold is a good place for starting over,” Calvus says. “Taxes are high, but the roads are good, trade is good, and the currency is strong.”
“Grimsvolders are welcoming to refugees, we’ve heard,” Ovidia says. “More so than Suratians and Iolans. And Corth just didn’t
feel like home anymore.”
We’ve heard this a hundred times from guests, migrants, and traders who see Grimsvold as some kind of paradise. They’re not
wrong; I happen to believe Grimsvold is the greatest nation in the Sunderland. But it’s not perfect. No place is.
“It takes months to reach Ysavo in perfect weather,” I say. “But winter in those mountains . . .”
“The mountains are what make Grimsvold so strong,” Ma says. “Or so my da always said. It’s impossible to march a large army
across the border, so King Raddivorg doesn’t have the added expense of border protection.”
“See, that sounds good to us,” Calvus says. “No one commandeering a whole village for a border outpost.”
Ma sets down her empty bowl beside her on the cot and leans toward the table. “But those same mountains make winter travel