“Are you all right?”
He looked more surprised then frightened and returned the hug with wet enthusiasm. “I fell.”
“I know. The bridge broke.”
Brock twisted around to look, and clutched at Jors’ arm. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.” His heart slamming painfully against his ribs, Jors grabbed a stirrup and hauled himself onto his feet. “Come on, we’re almost there.”
The tanners’ holding looked deserted as they stumbled up to the buildings. Jors called out a greeting, but the wind and rain whipped the words out of his mouth.
Brock grabbed his arm. “Smoke,” he said, pointing to the thin gay line rising reluctantly from a chimney. “I’m cold.”
“Me, too.”
All thoughts turned to a warm fire as they made their way over to the building, the Companions crowding in close under the wide eaves.
:We’ll be right back as soon as we find someone.:
:Hurry, Chosen.: Gervis sounded completely miserable. Covered in mud almost to his withers, his mane hanging in a tangled, sodden mass, he looked very little like the gleaming creature who’d left the Waystation that morning. Calida, if anything, looked worse.
Jors considered leaving Brock with the Companions, but the other man’s breathing sounded unnaturally hoarse so he beckoned him forward as he tried the door. The sooner he got him inside the better.
The door opened easily. It hadn’t even been latched.
“Hello?”
Stepping inside wasn’t so much a step into warmth as a step into a space less cold. It looked like they’d found the family’s main living quarters although the room was so dim, it was difficult to tell for sure. The only light came from a small fire smoldering on the fieldstone hearth and a tallow lamp on the floor close beside a cradle.
“No.” Brock charged across the room, trailing a small river in his wake. “No fire beside baby!”
Remembering what Lorrin had told him about Brock and babies, Jors held his position by the door. The younger of two, what he knew about babies could be inscribed on the head of a pin with room left over for the lyrics to Kerowyn’s Ride.
Squatting, Brock picked up the lamp. “No fire beside baby,” he repeated, began to rise, and paused. “Baby?” Leaning forward, he peered into the cradle.
“Is it all right?” The lamp and the fire together threw barely enough light for Jors to see Brock. He couldn’t see the baby at all.
Setting the lamp down again, Brock stretched both hands into the cradle. When he stood and turned, he was holding a limp infant across both palms, his broad features twisted in sorrow. “Baby is dead.”
:Jors!:
Jors spun around as the door slammed open and five people surged into the room. They froze for an instant, then the man in front howled out a wordless challenge and charged.
Bending, Jors captured his attacker’s momentum then he straightened, throwing the other man to the floor hard enough to knock him breathless. The immediate threat removed, he faced the remaining two men and two women. “I am Herald Jors. Who is in charge here?”
“I am,” the older woman snarled.
The hate in her eyes nearly drove Jors back a step. He didn’t need Brock’s whispered “mean lady” to know who she was. It took an effort, but he kept his voice calm and understanding as he said, “The child was dead when we arrived.”
“Dory came to say the babe was sick, not dead,” she spat as the younger woman ran silently forward and snatched the body from Brock’s hands. “The Moonling killed him.”
“He did not . . .”
“You’re here and he’s there,” she sneered. “You can’t see what he did.”
Spreading his hands, he added a mild warning to his tone. “And you weren’t even in the building. I understand this is a shock . . .”
“You understand nothing, Herald.” She placed a hand on the backs of the two remaining men and shoved. “Have the guts to support your brother!”
They sprang forward, looking like nothing so much as a pair of whipped dogs.
“Jors?”
He ducked an awkward blow. “Outside, Brock. Now!” If anything happened to him, the Companions would get Brock to safety.
“There’s two of you and one of him, you idiots! Don’t let him protect the half-wit!”
:Chosen?:
:It’s all right.:
Fortunately, neither man was much of a fighter. Jors could have ended it quickly, but as they’d just suffered a sudden terrible loss and weren’t thinking clearly, he didn’t want to do any serious damage. After a moment, he realized that had it not been for the old woman goading them on, neither would have been fighting. Maybe I should have Gervis deal with . . .
He’d forgotten the first brother. The piece of firewood caught him on the side of the head. As he started to fall, he felt unfriendly hands grab his body.
“No!”
Then the hands were ripped away, and he hit the floor. Two bodies hit the floor after him, closely followed by the third.
“Never hit a Herald!”
“Get up, you cowards! That’s a Moonling—not a real man!”
“But, Ma . . .”
He killed my grandson”
Hers. Jors thought muzzily. Not grief. Anger. Anger at the loss of a possession.
“You never loved him!”
Apparently, the child’s mother agreed.
“You always complained about him! You said if he didn’t stop crying you were going to strangle him! If anyone killed him . . .”
“Don’t you raise your voice to me, you cow. If you were a better . . .”
“ENOUGH!”
The doors slammed open again. Hooves clattering against the floor boards, the Companions moved to flank Brock. From Jors’ position on the floor, it looked as if there were significantly more than a mere eight muddy white legs.
“Don’t lie there with your idiot mouths open! They’re just horses!”
“They’re not just horses, you stupid old woman!”
:Gervis?:
:I’m here, Heart-brother.:
Jors felt better about his chance of recovery. Gervis was angry but not frantic.
“A baby is dead. Is time for crying, not fighting. A Herald is hurt. You hurt a Herald.”
:Is that Brock standing up to the mean lady?:
:It is.:
:Good for him.:
“You will cry, and you will make the Herald better!”
“I will not.”
No mistaking that hate-filled voice.
“Then I will.”
Nor the voice of the child’s mother.
For the first time, Brock sounded confused. “You will cry?”
“No. I will help the Herald.”
:Out of spite . . . :
:You need help, Heart-brother. Your head is bleeding. Spiteful help is still help.:
Jors got one arm under him and tried to rise. :If you say . . .:
:Chosen!:
His Companion’s cry went with him into darkness.
Jors woke to the familiar and comforting smell of a stable. For a moment he thought he’d dozed off on foal-watch, then he moved and the pain in his head brought everything back. :Gervis!:
:I’m here.: A soft nose nuzzled his cheek. :Just open your eyes.:
Even moving his eyelids hurt, but he forced them up. Fortunately, the stable was dark, the brightest things in it, the two Companions. He could just barely make out Brock tucked up against Calida’s side, wrapped in a blanket and nearly buried in straw. :How long?:
:From almost dark to just after moonrise. Long enough I was starting to worry.:
He stretched up a hand and stroked the side of Gervis’ face. :Sorry.:
:The young female made tea for your head. There’s a closed pot buried in the straw by your side.:
The tea was still warm and tasted awful, but Gervis made him drink the whole thing. :I take it we’re in the stable because you and
Calida wouldn’t leave me?:
:The old woman said the young woman could do as she pleased but not in her house. I do not want you to be in her house.: The obvious distaste in the young stallion’s mental voice was hardly surprising. Even on short acquaintance the old woman was as nasty a piece of work as Jors ever wanted to get close to. :Brock told two of the young males to carry you here.:
:He just told them what to do and they did it?:
:They are used to being told what to do.:
:Good point,: Jors acknowledged.
:And,: Gervis continued, :I think they were frightened when they realized they had struck down a Herald.:
:They knew I was a Herald!:
:Knowing and realizing are often different. Had the blow struck by the child’s father been any lower, they would have killed you and that frightened them, too. They were thankful Brock took charge. He saw you were tended to, he was assured you would live without damage, he groomed us both, and then he cried himself to sleep.:
:Poor guy. Good thing he was there. If he hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have put it past the mean lady to have finished the job and buried both our bodies.:
:The Circle would know.:
:We’d still be dead. Is this why Calida insisted on bringing him?:
:She has told her Chosen we need no assistance and convinced her not to ride to the rescue. The Herald Isabel agreed but only because she felt the townspeople would lay the blame on Brock.:
:That’s ridiculous.:
Gervis sighed, blowing sweet, hay-scented breath over Jors’ face. :There is already much talk against him taking a Companion.:
All of which he needed to know but didn’t answer his question. About to ask it again, he stopped short. :Calida can reach Isabel from here? I couldn’t reach you from here!:
:Nor I you.:
He sounded so put out by it, Jors couldn’t prevent a smile. :Never mind, Heart-brother. Calida and her Chosen have been together for many years; when we’ve been together for that long, I’ll hear you if I’m in Sorrows and you’re in Sensholding.:
:I’d rather we were never that far apart.:
Jors wrapped one hand in Gervis’ silken mane. :Me either.:
:Sleep now, Chosen. It will be morning soon enough.:
When Jors opened his eyes again, weak autumn sunlight filtered into the stable. An attempt to rise brought Gervis in through the open door. He pulled himself to his feet with a handful of mane and, throwing an arm over his Companion’s back, managed to get to where he could relieve himself.
:The old woman made them bury the child this morning.:
:They’re only a day’s ride from town; they can’t wait for a priest?:
:The bridge is gone. The priest cannot come.: He pawed the ground with a front hoof and added. :I don’t think the old woman would send for a priest even if he could come.:
:Do you know where they are?:
:Yes.:
Jors took a deep breath and, holding it, managed to swing himself up on Gervis’ bare back. :Let’s go, then.:
The tanners had a graveyard in a small clearing cupped by the surrounding oak forest. When Jors arrived, the three men had just finished filling in the tiny hole. As Jors stopped, half hidden by a large sumach, Brock wiped the tears from his face on Calida’s mane and stepped up to the grave.
“There is no priest. I will say good-bye to the baby.”
“I’m not listening to a half-wit say anything,” the old woman snarled. She turned on one heel and started down the hill. “I only came to see the job was done right. Enric, Kern, Simen; back to work, there’s hides to be sammied.”
Two of the three moved to her side, the third looked toward the young woman and hesitated. “He was my son, Ma.”
“He was my son, Ma.” She threw it mockingly over her shoulder. “Look around you, Simen. I’ve buried a son, two daughters, and a husband besides, and it don’t make hides tan themselves. Stay and listen to the half-wit if you want.”
“Dory?”
She lifted stony eyes to Simen’s face. “Better do as your ma says,” she sneered. “ ’Cause you always do as your ma says.”
Scarred hands curled into fists, but they stayed at his side. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“I don’t’ care.”
“Fine.” But when he turned, Brock was in his way.
Jors tensed to urge Gervis forward, but at the last instant, for no clear reason, he changed his mind.
“Stay and say good-bye.” A heavy shove rocked him in place but didn’t move him. “Stay.” And then gently. “Say good-bye to baby.”
Simen stared down into Brock’s face, then wordlessly turned back to the grave.
Brock returned to his place and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “Sometimes,” he said, “babies die. Mamas and papas love them, and hug them, and kiss them, and feed them, and they die. Nobody did anything bad. Everyone is sorry. The baby wasn’t bad. Babies are good. Good-bye, baby.”
“His name,” Simen said, so quietly Jors almost missed it, “was Tamas.”
Brock nodded solemnly. “Good-bye, Tamas. Everyone is sorry.” He lifted his head and stared at Tamas’ parents standing hunch-shouldered, carefully apart. “Now, you cry.”
Dory shook her head. “Crying is for the weak.”
“You have tears.” Brock tapped his own chest. “In here. Tears not cried go bad. Bad tears make you hurt.”
“You heard Aysa. She buried a son and two daughters. She never cried.”
“She is the mean lady,” Brock said sadly. “You can’t be the mean lady.” He opened his arms and, before Dory could move, wrapped her in one of his all-encompassing hugs.
Jors knew from experience that when Brock hugged, he held nothing back.
It was a new experience for Dory.
She blinked twice, drew in a long shuddering breath, then clutched at his tattered sweater and began to sob. After a moment, Brock reached out one hand, grabbed Simen and pulled him into the embrace.
“Cry now,” he commanded.
“I . . .” Simen shook his head and tried to pull away.
Brock pulled him closer, pushing Dory into his arms and wrapping himself around them both. Simen stiffened then made a sound, very like his son might have made, and gave himself over to grief. All three of them sank to their knees.
:These people need help.:
Gervis shifted his head. :It seems they’re getting it.:
With the funeral over, Jors pulled himself into something resembling official shape and sought out Aysa.
“Your son attacked a Herald.”
“His son just died. He was mad with grief.”
“You goaded his brothers . . .”
“To stand by him,” she sneered triumphantly. “I never told no one to hit you. And now I’m givin’ you and that half-wit food and shelter. You can’t ask for more, Herald.”
Given that he and Brock were trapped on her side of the river, he supposed he’d better not. “About the bridge . . .
Without the bridge, there was no way back. The river wasn’t particularly wide, but the water ran deep and fast.
“You come out here to stick your nose in on us, then you’re stuck out here till we head in to town and we ain’t headin’ nowheres until them hides is done. We wasted time enough with Dory having that baby. You want to leave before that, then you and the half-wit can rebuild the bridge yourself.”
“That’s fair. I can’t expect you to drop everything and assist me.” His next words wiped the triumphant sneer from her face. “I’ll have them send a crew out from town.”
“You can’t get word to town.”
He smiled, hoping he looked a lot more confident of the conversation’s outcome than he felt. “There’s a Herald there and I already have. By this time tomorrow, there’ll be a dozen people in the valley.”
“Liar.”
“Heralds can’t lie, Ma.”
“Shut up!” Aysa half turned and Kern winced away as though he expected to be hit. Lip c
urled, she turned back to Jors. “I don’t want a dozen people in the valley! And it don’t take a dozen people anyway. And the water won’t be down enough tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll have them come when the water goes down.”
“You won’t have no one come. My boys’ll rebuild.”
“Then the townspeople can help.”
“My boys don’t need help. They ain’t got brains for much, but they can do that. You let them know in town I’m hostin’ you and the half-wit till then.”
It was a grudgingly offered truce, but he’d take it.
Jors wasn’t surprised that Aysa’d refused help. The last thing she’d want would be her sons exposed to more people, to people who’d make them realize they were entitled to be treated with kindness. Over the next few days, while they waited for the water to recede, she proved that by keeping him by her side, keeping him from interacting with anyone else at the holding.
Brock, she considered no threat.
Which was a mistake.
Because Brock treated everyone with kindness.
“You call that supple? ! I could do better chewin’ it! How could you be doin’ this all your life and still be no damned good? You’re pathetic.” Enric and Kern leaped back as she threw the piece of finished leather down at their feet. “Pathetic,” she repeated and stomped away.
“Mean lady calls me names, too,” Brock sighed, coming out from behind the fleshing beam and picking up the hide.
Enric ripped it out of his hands. “We ain’t halfwits.”
“Mean lady calls me half-wit. Not you.”
“You are a half-wit!”
“Are you pathetic?”
Kern jerked forward, face flushed. “You callin us pathetic?”
“No. It hurts when people call names.” Brock looked from one to the other. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“If your half-wit falls in a liming pit,” Aysa snarled as Jors caught up, “my boys’ll stand there and laugh.”
“You taught them that.”
“I’m all they got.”
“They’re terrified of you.”
“Good.”
“Dory isn’t.”
“You think one of my boys is stupid enough to pick up a weakling?” Aysa nodded toward the garden where Dory heaped cabbage into a basket. “But she does what I say like the rest. If she doesn’t like it, she can leave any time.”
Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 20