His mother dusted him with flour and clucked at the length of his hair, then spun him around in time to have his brother’s wife, Tora, catch him up in a hug redolent with the scent of the first wild strawberries.
“Oh, stop making such a fuss over him,” Gran snorted. “He’s just come home; he hasn’t saved the country single-handed.”
Seven, ten, fourteen . . .
When he tried to step away, he discovered he had a toddler wrapped around each leg. They held him in place long enough for Annamarin’s mother to appear, and while she was exclaiming over his appearance, Jor’s cousin Tomlin, Uncle Trey’s youngest . . .
“Took an ax to the thigh last fall, poor thing.”
. . . limped into the summer kitchen followed by the rest of the settlement’s children, four dogs, and a goat.
He only managed to free himself from their welcome by reminding them he had a Companion to tend to.
Jors set the saddle aside and let his forehead fall to thump against Gervais’ withers.
:They’re glad to see you.:
:I know. And I’m glad to see them.:
:But?:
:But I’m Jors with a Companion.:
:You are my Chosen.: Gervais’ mental voice was matter-of-fact. :Why do you need to be anyone else?:
:I don’t . . . That isn’t . . .: He turned to rest his cheek against the warmth and ran a hand up under Gervais’ mane. :Am I a terrible person?:
:No. You are a Herald. You cannot be a Herald and a terrible person. Therefore you are not a terrible person.: Responding to a nonverbal prompt, Jors scratched along the arc of his neck. :It is not terrible for you to want your family to see you as you are, not as you were.:
“See lo, where yonder Herald stands!”
Jors turned to see Ammamarin just inside the lean-to, barely visible over an armload of hay.
“I know it’s tragic,” she said, “but this is the best of what’s left. There’s not a lot of grazing yet, but Mika’s been taking the goats to the south clearing if the Wonderous One doesn’t mind sharing.”
“His name is Gervais. Have you forgotten?”
“He’s too beautiful for a name.” She spread her arms, the hay dropping into the manger. “He is a song walking above the mud we less lovely creatures tread upon.”
:Have I mentioned that I like her?:
:You have.: Jors pulled his brushes from the saddlebag. “Trust me, he walks in plenty of mud.”
“Can I help?
“You could play something for me.”
“I only know three real songs.” But she perched on the edge of the manger and pulled out her pipes. “Mostly, I just twiddle, you know, make stuff up.”
Jors draped his jacket beside her, then bent to brush the dirt from Gervais rear leg. “So make stuff up.”
He didn’t know what he’d expected, but her twiddles were just that; random notes strung together. Not unpleasant but not exactly music either.
:You know what you expected.: One hoof up on Jors’ knee, Gervais rested his weight against Jors’ shoulder. Jors grunted and pushed back.
“Annamarin!”
The twiddling stopped. Jors dropped the hoof and straightened. Their grandmother looked between the two of them and snorted. “That woodbox won’t fill itself, child. And no one will be pleased if the bread is baked only half through. Don’t look to him!”
“He’s a Herald!” Annamarin declared as she jumped down.
“Am I blind now? Woodbox!”
“If this labor ruins my hands and I can tragically no longer play, you’ll weep with sorrow at the loss!”
“If that woodbox doesn’t get filled, you’ll be sorrier. And you,” Gran added as Annamarin ran off. “Did you think I wanted you to encourage such nonsense? I will smack that minstrel if she returns. Filling the child’s head with clouds. You need to tell her what comes of running off, away from one’s family in search of adventure.”
“Gran, I . . .”
“You didn’t run off, did you? You rode. It’d be different for that one, wouldn’t it? There’d be no pretty white clothes and a sense of self-importance for her. She needs to know what’s out there, doesn’t she? And she needs to know what’s here. Safety, security, no one goes to bed hungry–your grandfather and I created this from nothing, I’ll thank you to remember. You missed a spot, there on the left leg above the hock.” Shaking her head, she met Gervais’ eyes. “I’m sure he does his best. He never was much for chores either, always off in the woods with a bow. Still, I’m pleased to see you don’t look like he’s been neglecting you. He missed another spot there . . .”
His Uncle Trey, his father, and his older cousins came home at twilight. They’d spent the day marking trees to be cut when the ground dried, those that had been winter-killed and those topped off in spring storms. Jors was astounded to see that Uncle Trey, a mountain of a man with more energy than any other three combined, was now almost entirely gray and his broad shoulders had begun to stoop.
“We’ll put you to work tomorrow, lad!” Cheeks flushed, his uncle clapped him on one shoulder; he looked a little surprised when Jors didn’t so much as sway and added, “I’m sure you’ve forgotten what hard work’s like.”
Breakfast the next morning was porridge and berries–the berries offered slightly squashed from his nephew’s fingers. The boy shrieked with laughter as Jors pretended to eat the fingers too. When his mother ruffled his hair as she bustled past the long table, he realized too late he was becoming the Jors that was. The Jors they all still believed him to be.
“You’ll work with your father and me,” Uncle Trey declared on the way out of the common dining hall..
Jors paused, half into a borrowed jacket. “With both of you?”
“Is that a problem?” Gran demanded.
“I imagine you’ve forgotten most of your forest craft,” his uncle said.
The day would be a test.
Jors didn’t tell them he’d tracked harder quarry than pheasant and deer over the last few years–mostly because he couldn’t figure out a way to do it that wouldn’t sound like bragging. And while he’d done plenty of hard work as a Herald, he’d forgotten how hard this work was, so, as the day went on, he kept his mouth shut.
“Let it go, Trey,” his father laughed at last. “My boy’s still the best tracker in the family for all he spends most of his time with his ass in a saddle.”
“Wasted skills,” Uncle Trey sighed.
When they stopped at midday, they’d nearly reached the western edge of the grant. Sitting together on a rock shelf, they divided up the food they’d been carrying and, when they were settled, Jor’s uncle smacked his arm with the side of his fist and nodded toward a stand of beech, four good-sized trees that had all been topped off. “What do you think, lad?”
“No point saving them,” Jors noted, accepting a biscuit. “Best to take them down and open a hole for new growth. It’s beech. The mill will take them for short boards if you stack them now and come back when the ground is dry enough for the sled and the oxen. And there’s enough limb wood there to keep the ovens going.”
“Well done,” his father crowed. “Couldn’t expect a better answer than that, Trey.”
The other man snorted, straightened, and stared into the distance. “Pity we can’t see if you’ve remembered how to shoot,” he said. “Look at the size of that stag.”
Jors stood up on the rock to give himself a better angle. Frowned. The distant silhouette was off slightly. “I don’t think that’s a stag. I think it’s a dyheli.”