“Fly home, Trynden. Go on now.”
It was Devon’s stern voice. He strode across the green with a frown. His face was ruddy from his early morning walk. Faran and his followers didn’t exactly back down, but there was a slight softening in their postures.
“Who was Trynden pretending to be this time?” Devon asked the mob. “Wonfred Black? Hirribla of the Dagger?”
Faran smiled.
“You think assaulting a defenseless boy is funny, Faran?” Devon asked. “I’ve a mind to take this matter to your father.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir.”
“Why won’t it be necessary?” Devon asked, circling behind the boys, clearly setting their nerves on edge. “Guill is serviced by Common Law. The penalty for assault under Common Law is at the discretion of the local Representative. Me.”
Faran’s shoulders slumped. The other boys took the opportunity to slink away.
“Tell me, Faran,” Devon said, allowing the lesser conspirators to flee. “How would you like to be shackled under Sam Gerrity’s compost silo? Spending your daylight hours counting maggots?”
“I wouldn’t like that, sir,” came the honest reply.
“If Guill was attacked by a host of dune skrim, would you fight?”
“I would die for this village, sir.”
“Does Trynden live in this village?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Why would a warrior fight for someone he beats like a cur?”
Faran’s face crumpled.
“Do what you think is right, sir.”
“If you learn from this, you could yet be a man,” Devon said. “But if it happens again, you’ll always be a cowardly boy in my eyes.”
“Makes sense to me,” Faran said, nodding vigorously.
“Get out of my sight.”
Catelyn was overwhelmed with affection for her father as the chastened young man departed the green.
“Elegant,” she said appreciatively. “That was worth at least six months of Instruction.”
“Representation is a thankless task, Cat,” Devon said. “Perhaps it’s for the better that you devote that brain of yours to something else.”
“Let’s walk,” Catelyn said, changing the subject.
“Fine,” Devon laughed. “What a pair of vigilantes we are.”
The pair passed under the gnarled and magnificent Seeing Oak, centerpiece of the village green. Hearth Street continued to the west. Troubled by Faran’s comments, Catelyn wanted to broach the topic of her family’s standing in Guill, but Devon was now focused on his errands.
“I have business with Marafair,” he murmured, steering Catelyn toward the farm supply depot.
She followed her father in, always intrigued by his business affairs. As a little girl she’d always relished the words men used in this depot. Hard words. Words of calculation and measurement. The brutal language of farming, a never-ending battle between man and the primitive elements that grasped at him, looking to tear him down at every opportunity. Men and women of the land found pause in here, their flagging hopes bolstered by the latest tools and shared knowledge.
Catelyn paused at a bin full of mean-looking scythes, her reflection caught in one of the polished blades. Scruffier than she’d hoped - that confrontation on the street had ruffled her feathers. Like her father, she was tall and willowy. Chestnut, shoulder-length hair framed a wholesome face. Whilst she wasn’t about to win an Andra beauty contest, she certainly couldn’t be written off as plain. Devon liked to say that intelligence shone like a beacon through the eyes, which was why she illuminated any room she walked into.
“Afternoon, Olem,” she heard her father say.
“La Berne.” Marafair sounded like he was focused on something else.
“I need an assortment of spring seeds for the cleared paddock,” Devon said.
“That’s the one by the drainage line, right? I have corn in stock. Trellis works too. That good for you?”
“Indeed. I’ll bring back the cart.”
Catelyn screwed up her face. Her father had many virtues, but the finer arts of farming weren’t among them. Nor was business acumen. Marafair was playing Devon like the gentleman farmer he was. Rearing corn required intense labor to set up the trellis works. The season had already gotten away from them. Most of the corn farmers in the district reaped multiple yields over spring and summer, but Devon would be starting well behind.
It was the kind of situation ripe for exploitation, and Marafair wasn’t above squeezing her father for extra gold. Catelyn couldn’t blame him - these common folk had mouths to feed and properties to run. But she’d heard enough. Perhaps one day Devon would recognize when the crowns were being lifted from his very pockets. A girl could dream.
Catching her father’s eye, Catelyn excused herself. Plenty of time to take the long way home and still make it before the breakfast table was cleared. She vaulted over the low fence in front of the bakery and hustled down the side alley. Feeling playful, she paused at the gazebo in Marber’s overgrown yard and swung around the faded, chipped poles. She didn’t know why the act meant so much to her; it was probably a fragment of her childhood she wasn’t quite ready to relinquish.
The day promised to break winter’s frosted spine. A lively breeze softened the impact of a sun no one had seen for months. The Southern Reaches was famous for its temperate climate, but Faran’s bitter observation looked to be correct - spring would emerge early this year. What that meant for the regional harvest was anyone’s guess.
Unwilling to be weighed down by such ruminations, Catelyn hurried along the dirt path that hugged the Marafair property. A farmhouse loomed to her right. The well-ordered fields hummed with activity. Larissa Marafair ran a particularly tight ship, keeping her sons at work until all their various chores had been completed.
If Devon was capable of exercising even half that discipline, Tavalen might actually deliver its first surplus. Catelyn had nine siblings, a mountain of untapped labor. She grinned at the thought. For a family that was becoming more ‘common’ by the year, the La Bernes still behaved like gentry. Catelyn pictured her wild sister Greta rising at four to milk a recalcitrant goat. It wasn’t a realistic scenario for the daughter of a Representative. Even a retired Representative.
The dirt track terminated at a ramshackle wooden fence, which Catelyn vaulted over with practiced ease. She padded over a sinewy ridge, her footfall muffled on stacked pine needles. From here, Tavalen lay waiting at the end of a lumpy dirt track. Her mother would be scooping bacon fat from a famously wide pan. Spread across a slab of fresh bread, Catelyn wouldn’t need to eat lunch. When her belly was full, she’d probably repair to her bedroom and scrounge a few more hours sleep. The echo of her night in the Old Wood was always more delicious under two or three winter quilts.
Dinner at the la Berne household could only be described in one way - raucous. Vesna la Berne was usually able to draft two or three helpers to help prepare a feast for twelve. Catelyn’s mother spent most of her days in the kitchen now that the cook had been let go. Tavalen still benefited from a footman and a maid, but neither were much help in the cookery. Today, two of Catelyn’s younger sisters had helped prepare and roast three trays of potato, carrot, sprout and beet.
Trying to ignore the mayhem unfolding around her, Catelyn stored her mushrooms in the larder and washed up. She was flushed with the sudden heat of the house as she made her way into the dining room. A succulent lamb leg took pride of place on the long table. The winter vegetables glistened with virgin olive oil.
One whiff was enough to set Catelyn’s mouth watering. Her night out in the open had left her with a ravenous appetite.
“And here she is,” older sister Hadley said with a knowing look. She looked as regal as always. As regal as a la Berne could be in days of faded wealth. Hadley had always been the socially conscious one, obsessed with outward appearance and determined that the La Bernes maintain their rightful position at the top of the Gui
ll food chain. To outsiders she would’ve appeared haughty and snobbish, but Catelyn knew better.
Even so, she avoided her sister’s searching gaze, glad for the distraction of children pushing through her legs. She took her place at the table with more shyness than she was used to. It was difficult to pin down her mood. Devon carved the meat with sharp efficiency - there was nothing to be gained in making hungry children wait. Catelyn eagerly received her plate and set to it.
“You couldn’t get changed, Cat?” Hadley asked. Her smile faintly bemused.
Catelyn realized her shift was still a little muddy and damp.
“I haven’t had time,” she replied, knowing a lecture was imminent.
“Guill might seem like a hen-pecked barn yard,” Hadley observed crisply, “but we shouldn’t forget our station.”
Hadley, more than any La Berne, believed in the social strata imposed by Hevral the First King over three thousand years ago. The King ruled supreme, then came the various noble families. Governors and prominent state officials came next, followed by captains of industry. At the bottom of the pyramid were the common folk. Hadley liked to think that their father’s career as a Representative, combined with his sprawling estate on the outskirts of Guill, positioned the family on a level above common folk. For her it wasn’t a matter of elitism but proper recognition.
“If the harvest fails, Guill won’t give a damn about ‘station,” Doran murmured through a mouth full of beet. “If Catelyn wants to scamper about like a farm girl, I call that good public relations.”
Catelyn couldn’t help but smile at her elder brother. He was tall, fair-haired, every inch a father’s first-born pride. As his sparring partner, Catelyn was strongly bonded to Doran, a connection that went beyond the usual gendered cliches of brother and sister.
“See you in the yard after lunch?” she asked, glad to shift the conversation in a new direction. Sunday was usually a “rest day”, but the pair invariably found an excuse to lift their weapons in the afternoon. Plus, Catelyn needed to vent her anger over what had happened earlier at the weir.
“Of course,” Doran grinned. “As long as you can cope with a heavier sword.”
Doran had recently taken up the broad sword. It was a bold decision considering that other boys his age were still using short swords. They would enjoy the upper hand until he grew accustomed to his blade, learning the subtleties of weight and balance. He would also need to develop his arms and upper torso. Catelyn respected her brother’s dedication as it stood him a much better chance of being accepted in Baron Duskovy’s garrison.
Doran’s broad sword didn’t agree with Catelyn’s slight frame, however. Time after time she was required to strap bundles of chaff to her torso so that Doran could go to work with his heavy blade. She didn’t mind at all, learning something new with every session. Doran had easily outstripped Devon’s modest knowledge and was essentially teaching himself.
“If Doran is good enough for the garrison, Catelyn should be too,” Vesna said from the far end of the table. Catelyn’s mother looked tired and drawn after so much cooking.
Devon, seated to Vesna’s right, flashed a grin in Catelyn’s direction. “We were discussing that very notion this morning,” he said evenly. “Of course, in an ideal world -”
“It’s not an ideal world,” Hadley said. “Catelyn would be well served to reconsider her decision to stay on in Guill.”
Catelyn sighed internally. It seemed there would be no escaping conjecture over her future. She knew Hadley disapproved of her decision to reject the Academy scholarship. Her older sister’s attitude was as predictable as it was righteous.
“My dear Hadley,” Devon said. “Catelyn’s decision is hers alone -”
“Catelyn isn’t a child anymore,” Hadley said, stiff with barely contained anger. “She has a responsibility, an obligation to enhance the family name. A golden opportunity has been frittered away and all you and mother can do is indulge her fantasies.”
Suddenly disinterested in her food, Catelyn laid down her knife and fork.
“How, pray tell, am I helping the family by moving to Lakeshore for semesters on end?”
“Don’t be so dim, Cat,” Hadley said. “Upon your graduation you could offer your services to any nobleman in the Kingdom. The family’s reputation would soar exponentially on the back of such an appointment.”
“That’s how you see me, Had? A mousy academic resolving property disputes?” Catelyn asked in a tight voice, close to tears. She’d resolved to stay strong during this inevitable across-the-table discussion, but something was corroding her defenses. Perhaps it was the unpalatable feeling that Hadley was right. Seeing Catelyn’s discomfort, Hadley softened a little.
“This has nothing to do with personalities, Cat,” she said. “It has everything to do with skills. You have been gifted a sharp mind, probably the sharpest in the family. As a woman, the only way you can leverage material and social gain from your talents is through academic pursuit. This family is sinking into the mud of Guill and we needed Catelyn to think big picture. Am I wrong?”
Catelyn turned away, knowing she was defeated. Under normal circumstances she could run rings around her forthright older sister, particularly on matters of logic and ethics, but not today. Not when Hadley was leavening her argument with self-depreciation. Had she actually admitted that Catelyn was the brightest spark in the family? That had been a killing blow. Hadley looked around at the older members of the family in turn, daring them to prove her wrong. The dining room had become deathly quiet. Not even Ril and Hettie, six and seven respectively, could muster any noise.
“Vesna and I have broken our backs to build the life we have now,” Devon said with wounded dignity. “I would humbly suggest, dear daughter, that you spend a few years traveling abroad before you cast judgment on our lot. The world is hideously ugly. Guill is safe.”
Despite her bombast, Hadley could clearly she see how she’d injured her modest, amiable father.
“No one respects what you’ve built more than me, papa,” she said. “I just hate seeing it fade away. It’s not on your back anymore. It falls to Doran. Myself. Catelyn. We shoulder the weight of our family name. When Tanis and the younger ones come of age, they will too.”
“I’m sorry,” Catelyn said stiffly, eyes locked on the table before her. “Hadley’s right. I had a chance to advance our cause and I threw it away. I’ll see about applying next year.”
“Don’t apologize, Cat,” Doran said, glaring at Hadley. “Our sister is too hard on you.”
“I will hear no more on this,” Vesna said in a hard tone. “Catelyn has a mind of her own and we must support her decision. She will continue to assist Doran until he is ready for Baron Duskovy. If the man will not hire women, I will train her myself.”
Hadley dropped her fork. The ring it made on her delicate china plate was immense in the silence. Andra cathedral itself could not have hoped to match it for resonance. And yet the matriarch of Tavalen offered no further explanation.
Where her husband had a learned, debonair bearing, Vesna was very much the pragmatic core of the family. Despite luscious black hair, her features had been battered from a childhood on the lip of a cold, restless ocean. Born on the Islands of Holy Light to a pair of aging mercenaries, her early life had been unique to say the least. What’s more, Devon’s first encounter with her was shrouded in a mystery that had never been fully revealed.
Catelyn did know that Vesna was a tough, swarthy woman from skilled fighting stock. Though she’d never seen live battle, she was trained in the use of the chrysalis mace. Catelyn liked to pepper her mother with questions, steadily piecing together the delightful image of her mother wandering the cold fens of her birthplace in a muddy dress.
Until now, Vesna had never shown the slightest inclination to join Doran and Catelyn in the sparring yard. For starters, there was an estate to run. What Devon lacked in faming expertise and financial acumen, his wife more than made up for in a strong
work ethic and the efficient use of resources. And though Catelyn and her siblings were reasonably self-sufficient from an early age, there was always an injury to treat or a broken seam to repair. Though some might say she lacked the gentle touch, Vesna was a strong, unwavering presence in Catelyn’s life and her children honored her for it.
“I look forward to it, mama,” Catelyn said quietly. There was no need to press her mother for details of this “training”; her bare pledge was more than enough. Besides, she didn’t want to inflame the situation further.
“Me too,” said eight-year-old Billy, returning to his food with relish. Like Catelyn and Doran, Billy was shaping up as a willing fighter but was years away from serious sparring. Devon chuckled, a sign for the younger children to relax again. Greta and Yolanda glanced at each other as they were prone to do, transmitting multiple messages that only made sense to their post-pubescent brains. Those two were as thick as thieves, despite not sharing many physical characteristics. Greta was a hardy little nugget, much like her mother. She was always traipsing mud through the house and preferred robust outdoor adventures. Yolanda was tall, sanguine and gentle - not hard to determine who’s daughter she was.
As the family settled into the companionable silence of a well-laden table, Catelyn couldn’t help but notice her brother Tanis’s pensive gaze. A thin, saturnine boy of sixteen years, Tanis was an enigma among his more colorful, animated siblings. He’d never shown interest in melee combat, archery, horse-craft or any of the more academic paths available to him, despite possessing a keen intelligence and a bone dry wit. In fact, Catelyn suspected Tanis to be the brightest of the la Bernes, despite the generally-held notion that she stand on that particular podium.
“I’d counsel against planning too far into the future,” he said with trademark reserve.
“Care to elaborate, Tanis? Devon said. His lined face had already collapsed into a frown.
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