“Back to your writing, Disaris!” the schoolmaster snapped, adding emphasis to his command with the thwap of his pointer cane against the table he used as a desk.
Half the students jumped in their seats, startled, then jumped a second time when the door to the schoolroom flew open to bang against the opposite wall, and the wind howled a maniacal greeting as it rushed inside to savage the hearth fire into nothing more than sputtering ash.
The figure perched on the threshold slammed the door behind them. Bundled in multiple layers of clothes and furs, they were unrecognizable until they removed the scarf covering their face and bowed to the schoolmaster.
It was the first time Bron would meet Ceybold jin Pasith. He and Bron were the same age, of similar height and build,but that’s where the similarities ended. Ceybold was all the things Bron was not—wealthy son of a land-owning yeoman, handsome, and instantly popular, not only among those in his age group, but younger and older alike. Where Bron was guarded and quiet, Ceybold could charm the stinger off a hornet with his conversation. The boys his age wanted to emulate him and be his friend, while every female from five to seventy-five fell for his flirtatious banter, even Disaris—until he purposefully tripped her as she made her way to the schoolmaster’s desk with one of her assignments.
That had started the first of many clashes between Bron and Ceybold, with Disaris joining in. It had taken the schoolmaster and two of the older students to pull the boys apart and another to peel Disaris off Ceybold. Three black eyes, two bloody noses, missing hair, and several scratches later, the three miscreants were sent home with dire promises from the furious schoolmaster that he’d be visiting each household to speak with their parents.
Bron’s punishment had been a week of volunteering his labor to the local tannery. Seven days of coming home with blistered hands from working hides with a fleshing knife on the fleshing beams created a new appreciation for every scrap of leather he wore or used in daily life. He didn’t care that his mother practically boiled him alive in a shallow wooden tub she kept in the back garden. The smell of blood in his nose and the feel of bits of flesh and fat under his fingernails had him scrubbing his skin raw every evening, and that was before Hazarin let him in the house.
“You understand why you’re being punished, Bron?” she asked him after his third day at the tannery. They sat across from each other at the table, the single candle set in the middle providing a warm pool of light by which to eat. Bron paused from shoveling food into his mouth, certain his stomach hadbecome a bottomless pit in the past few days. He nodded and swallowed the mouthful he’d just spooned between his lips. “Yes, Amman. I shouldn’t be fighting.”
She shook her head. “No. Sometimes you have no choice, and Ceybold deserved the black eye and bloody nose he got. But in that instance, you made fighting your first choice. You showed disrespect to your schoolmaster by fighting in his domain, and you never asked Disa what she wanted to do. Ceybold offended her, not you.” She sighed, and a tiny smile flitted across her mouth. “That girl. I wonder if she jumped into the fray to defend her honor or defend you. She’s very protective of you, Bron.” A frown line across her brow replaced the smile on her lips. “You need to keep that in mind. Disa is fearless, which makes her reckless at times.”
Bron lowered his head. “I’ll apologize to her when I see her again. And Master Feypas too.” He scowled at the food in his bowl. “Do I have to apologize to Ceybold?”
“I’m sure his father will insist upon it. If that happens, I’ll leave it up to you.” Hazarin’s voice hardened in a way that made Bron almost feel sorry for Ceybold’s father. “If you don’t wish to, and he continues to demand it, I’ll step in.”
To Bron’s (and his mother’s) surprise, the new Yeoman jin Silsu never appeared on their doorstep wanting an apology for his son. The only ones to visit were the still-incensed schoolmaster and Disaris’s mother, Gheza.
Master Feypas accepted Bron’s remorse on the condition that he help make new sets of wax tablets. Bron had groaned inside but quickly acquiesced under Hazarin’s sharp gaze.
Gheza had come seeking help. “Please, Hazarin,” she implored. “As soon as Bron is done at the tannery, may I borrow him for an hour each night? I’ll put him to work. We’ve plenty to keep him busy.” She wore the look of the hunted. “Disa is certain Bron’s dead and carrying on nonstop at the tragedy of it all.”
Hazarin had guffawed and waved Gheza inside the house. “Of course. Come inside. I’ll make you tea. You look like you need it. Bron can go to your place now and let everyone know you’re here for a while.” She gestured with a thrust of her chin at Bron. “Ask what needs doing, and stay out of the way. Once Mistress Gheza returns, you come home. And remember, you’re there to work, not chase fireflies with Disa.”
He didn’t need to be told twice and shot out of the house as if lightning struck at his heels. Disaris’s father stopped him at the front garden gate. Bron gave a quick bow. “Ser, my amman sent me to you. Mistress Gheza is having tea with her. I’m supposed to help you until she comes home.”
The words came out in a rush, and he glanced past Reylan’s tall frame, hoping to spot Disa. She was nowhere to be seen. He glanced back at her father, waiting for permission to enter the front garden and praying he wouldn’t receive yet another dressing down from an annoyed or outraged adult.
Reylan opened the gate and ushered him in with a wave of the pipe he held in his hand. To Bron’s shock, the man returned his bow with a slight one of his own. “We owe your mother a great debt for sending you to us,” he said around a pale stream of smoke. “And we owe you a debt as well, lad.” He waved the pipe again. “But keep this between us.”
Bron nodded, puzzled. Considering he was still serving out punishment for bad behavior in the village school, he couldn’t imagine what Disaris’s family could possibly owe him.
Reylan patted him on the shoulder, giving him a small push toward the house. Warm candlelight glowed from two of the windows and spilled through the crack made by the partially opened front door. “You defended my daughter against a bully, even at the cost of that pretty thumper you’re wearing.”
Bron gingerly touched his bruised eye, trying not to wince. The purple was slowly fading and turning green, but it still hurtto raise his eyelid beyond half-mast. Reylan’s admiration made it hurt less. “It was worth it, and that arsehole is wearing two thumpers,” he said, then winced again. “Sorry, ser.”
Reylan grinned. “I knew those few tricks I taught you last year might come in handy. You’re a natural brawler,” he said. “You’ve the instinct for knowing when to strike and where. And you aren’t afraid to take a hit. That alone gives you an edge.” He gave Bron another gentle push. “Go inside. Disa is keeping an eye on Luda. If you’re here to help, you can watch Luda too until Gheza returns.”
He barely made it inside before Disa catapulted herself into his arms and nearly broke his ribs in an enthusiastic hug. “You’re here!” she shouted in his ear, deafening him for a moment and making her infant sister cry.
“I’m not dead, Disa,” he said, half carrying her to where Luda stood on wobbly legs, her pudgy face splotchy and wet with tears as she raised her arms to Bron. Soon, he had both sisters in his arms and staggered toward the chair Reylan favored to collapse in its seat.
As promised, he remained with Disa and the baby for the next hour while Reylan worked in the nearby barn. He and Disa exchanged their opinions on Ceybold’s character failings despite his looks and family riches. Disa made him tea while he kept Luda occupied with a ribbon trick he’d learned from the village baker’s daughter. By the time he returned home, he was in a far better mood and not dreading the coming morning and another day working at the tannery. At least that was almost over.
The scraps with Ceybold, however, weren’t. To his credit, and Bron’s surprise, the most popular boy didn’t rally his own private army of sycophants to face down his adversary. “Just you and me,” he told Bron one afternoon as they glared at each other in the middle of the road leading to Silsu House. “I don’t needanyone else, and you don’t need that attack dog masquerading as a girl to help you.”
Bron nodded. “Fair enough.”
As spring rolled forward and the days grew longer, a betting pool was started at the Wren’s Feather tavern, one based on how many times the yeoman’s son and the midwife’s boy would tangle and who would win the most fights. Bron volunteered at the tannery so often, the master tanner finally offered him a paid position which Bron politely declined.
The adversarial relationship between the two changed abruptly one spring morning when Bron took a short cut to the tannery that had him passing by the back garden of Silsu House. The manor itself was set far back from the main route leading into Panrin, protected by high fencing and a gate, and hidden from view by tall hedges. The rear part of the estate was hemmed by a copse of trees that acted as a barrier between the estate and the rolling wheat fields inherited by Ceybold’s father.
With many of the trees still bare from winter’s sleep, Bron could see the back of the house, its outbuildings, and dead gardens in desperate need of a harrowing. He raised his hand to make a rude gesture at the house but paused when he heard the sound of raised voices, then a pained yelp followed by the repeated cry to stop. Please stop.
Alarmed, he raced toward the sound, skidding to a stop behind the concealment of a large birch at the sight before him.
