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“Well, then, you’ll have time to reach the Greenhaven Waystation after you eat and no time to get much farther if you don’t.”

He was still speaking to a Herald, not to Trey Haden’s nephew. No one with sense rode into the forest after dark. “I’d be happy to stay and share your meal.” Jors shrugged out of his jacket. “If you’ll let me share in your labor.”

The half dozen men mixed in with the sheep, every one of whom had stopped working when Gervais trotted into the compound, shared a reaction Jors couldn’t hear above the bleating, but, given the laughter, he assumed it was at his expense. Speculative laughter, though, not dismissive.

Heavy brows rose until they disappeared under the thick gray curls. “Thank you for the offer, Herald, but we’re nearly done. Just this lot to send out to join the rest.”

The rest were dotted over the hillside behind the compound, like a spatter of ink against the new green, surprisingly sleek without their fleece. He had had no idea that lambs actually gamboled.

“You settle your Companion, Herald Jors.” The oilskin crinkled as Verain’s grip tightened around it. “You’ve done what you do.”

:You knew he was almost finished, didn’t you?: Gervais asked as they headed over toward the stables.

:Hillside covered in shorn sheep, only a few left in the pen—it wasn’t hard to work out.:

:So it was an offer without meaning,: Gervais snorted.

:Nothing of the kind. I made it to acknowledge the value of his work; in turn, he acknowledged the value of mine.:

:Your family values you.:

Hand up under Gervais mane, Jors paused mid-scratch. :We weren’t talking about my family.:

Gervais snorted again.

:I think that could be arranged.:

“No, they’re tougher than those sheep of the Holderkin. They’re hardy, ours. Can forage on their own all over these hills, even though the land’s rougher than a . . .” Cheeks flushing, suddenly becoming aware of who he was talking to, Raymond, Verain’s eldest son, cleared his throat and continued without the profanity he’d been about to add. “They don’t need supplemental feeding and they may be small, but I saw a ram take down a wolf once. Well, a young wolf. They’re not much for goring, not with their horns turned back so . . .” Grinning, he sketched the ram’s horn’s curl over his own ears. “. . .but they’ve heads like rock, and if they charge you, you’ll know it. We don’t have a lot of trouble with wolves; they tend to stay clear where there’s people about, and these sheep, they’re smart enough to stay out from under the trees for the most part, though they head for the highest ground about if they can. Expect to be chasing them down from the High Hills some season. You saw how they didn’t have wool on their faces or legs, Herald? That’s to help them move through brush,” he continued before Jors could answer. “They don’t get caught up so easily. And their fleece . . .ah, the fibers are fine and soft, not so long and coarse as those of the Holderkin. We shear them twice a year, spring and fall. Give us a few years to get this flock well established, and the finest woolens at Court will be from our sheep.”

“Are they all black?” Jors wondered.

“You’re thinking it’s wool that won’t take dye much.” Rodney nodded. “True enough, but they throw gray on occasion, and I’ve a mind to breed to white. Still, nothing wrong with black woolens is there, Herald?” He waved a hand at Jors’ Whites, then back at his own dark clothing. “Black’s slimming, they say.”

“Husband! Did you just say Herald Jors looks fat?”

Rodney turned to look up at his wife, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, although no words came out. Just as Jors was about to protest for him, her lips twitched. Rodney roared with laughter, caught her around the waist, and dragged her down onto his lap, where he kissed her soundly. “I said nothing of the kind, and well you know it,” he declared when they parted long enough for speech. “Now, did you actually have something to say, or are you just interrupting our talk to cause trouble?”

Twitching her tunic back into place as she slid off his lap, she nodded across the great room to where Verain stood talking to a younger version of himself. “Ryan came in to say that ewe you’re so fond of has led another revolt. If you want to keep her out of the stew pot, you’d best get over there and mount a spirited defense.” When Rodney–who’d surged up onto his feet at the news–glanced down at Jors, she tugged him back to her lips by his beard and murmured, “Go. I’ll entertain the Herald.”

For a big man, Rodney could move quickly when he had too. He was almost across the room, already gesturing at his father and brother, by the time his wife dropped into his chair. She shook her head at the crusts left behind by his empty bowl, then turned to Jors and said, “Elane. I imagine you were introduced to a dozen people all at once, shoved into a chair, and told to eat up, so I don’t expect you to remember.”

He didn’t actually. “Your husband is the younger son?”

“Middle. Ryan is older and Ricard . . .” Elane pointed to where a young man walked up and down by the windows, a squalling infant on one shoulder. “. . .Ricard is two years younger. The family runs to boys, but I’ve five sisters so I’m hoping . . .” Her hand dropped to her belly. “. . . to even the odds.”

There was only one thing that could mean. “Congratulations.”

“What?” Her gaze dropped to her hand. “Oh. Thank you. I haven’t known long; it’s still so new. We haven’t been married a year yet.” She half-turned in the chair to smile at her husband, and when she turned back, she frowned. “Are you all right, Herald Jors?”

He schooled his expression before she could define it, hurriedly raising his mug. No one would ever smile across a room that way at him.

:My lips do not move in such a way, Heartbrother.:

A moment later, ignoring the smug, self-satisfied reaction from his Companion, Jors accepted the cloth Elane offered and coughed out an apology.

She waved it off. “Please, you got very little on me. And besides, we were almost relatives, you and I. My father is Dominic Heerin . . .”

Jors nodded in the pause. Heerin owned the mill his uncle brought their logs to.

“. . . and your cousin Hamin was courting my sister Tara. Came to nothing, though. I remember when we heard you’d been Chosen. It was all anyone could talk about. I’d just turned twelve, and I spent all that summer out by the track with flowers braided into my hair hoping another Companion would come by and Choose me. Eventually, my eldest sister dragged me home by the ear and told me Companions preferred useful people over those who shirked their chores.”

Elane shared her husband’s fondness for monolog-ing, Jors noted, and he wondered what their conversations with each other must be like. “This must have been different for you,” he said. “From a house full of sisters and lumber to so many men and sheep.”

“A little different, yes. But not so hard to get used to. Rodney loves this land, for all its rock and hills and the dangers of the forest so close. At first I loved it for his sake, but I’m growing to love it for its own. And the sheep, well, you’ve already noticed their main failing, but he’s determined to breed to white–that ewe he’s defending threw gray twins this season–and he admires them for their toughness as much as the fine wool of their fleece. My sisters say when they see me now, I’ve nothing to talk of but sheep and Rodney. Well, Rodney and sheep.” Her laugh drew her husband’s head around, and he paused in his argument long enough to toss a smile in her direction. “It’s always the way, though, isn’t it, as you move between birth family and found family. This is what made me . . .” She held out one hand palm up and then the other. “. . . and this is what I am. And I’ll tell you this much, Herald Jors . . .” She winked and stood as her father-in-law approached. “. . . shepherds have much softer hands than men who toss lumber about all day.”