Ceybold lay on the ground, curled into himself with his arms covering his head. His father stood over him, wielding what looked like a washing bat. He brought the bat down with a savagery that made Bron’s stomach flip and Ceybold howl as he cowered under the bludgeoning.
Spittle flew from Yeoman jin Silsu’s mouth as he screamed insults with each blow, calling his son every filthy name, questioning his legitimacy and his intelligence. Bron understoodonly half of the tirade, bellowed in slurred, nearly incoherent sentences.
Drunk, The man was so cupshot, he could barely speak but still sober enough to beat his son half to death with the washing bat.
Outraged by the injustice of what he witnessed, Bron promptly forgot his obligation to the tannery, climbed over a part of the fence in need of repair and crept toward the yeoman who continued to hammer Ceybold with the bat. He spotted an empty ale jug--probably lifted from one of the taverns and never returned--and grabbed it.
Yeoman jin Silsu never heard the steps sneaking up behind him. Bron swung the jug, striking the older man on the side of the head. He went down hard, still clutching the bat in one white-knuckled hand. Bron didn’t hesitate. He yanked the bat away, tossing it far over the fence. The jug followed, landing with a soft thunk somewhere among the trees. Despite the lump swelling on his head, the yeoman was still alive, his breathing slow and regular, his ruddy features paling as unconsciousness overcame drunken rage.
“Is he dead?”
Bron glanced to where Ceybold had rolled to his hands and knees before climbing unsteadily to his feet. He was a mass of bruises and bloody welts, looking far worse than any of the aftermaths from fights with Bron. “No.”
Ceybold shrugged, wiping away a line of blood that trickled from his nostril. “That’s too bad.”
His voice lacked any emotion as he stared at his sire sprawled on the ground. From what he’d seen earlier and how Ceybold acted now, Bron guessed there was no love lost between father and son. “What do you want to do with him?”
Yeoman Silsu didn’t react when Ceybold nudged him hard with his foot. “Leave him here if I could, but someone elsewalking through these trees will notice, and I’ll have some explaining to do.”
Even before Bron had smashed the jar against the man’s head, he’d already accepted his fate for coming to Ceybold’s rescue. Terror churned in his stomach at the idea of standing before the village justiciars in a trial that would surely end with him in the gaol and his mother in tears. Still, he didn’t regret what he’d done. Hazarin might cry over his imprisonment, but she would never be ashamed of a son who hadn’t simply watched as a boy was bludgeoned to death.
“I can help you carry him inside,” he said. A quick once-over of Ceybold’s bedraggled state had him doubting he’d be able to lift a handful of stockings. “Or if you can’t lift, hold the doors open, and I’ll drag him.”
Ceybold’s face, so admired by the girls in Panrin, hardened. “I’m fine,” he snapped. “You take his shoulders; I’ll take his legs.”
Though Yeoman Silsu was a thin man, he was still a fully grown adult, and one who was currently dead weight. By the time the two boys half carried, half dragged him into the foyer and dumped onto one of the couches in the house’s family parlor. He lay sprawled across its length, mouth opened in a rattling snore that reeked of strong spirits and garlic.
Bron held a hand over his nose and backed away. Ceybold watched his father several moments more with a calculating expression that made Bron wonder how much longer the yeoman might draw breath if was left alone with his son.
When he finally turned to regard Ceybold, resignation had replaced that scheming look. “What are you going to tell everyone?”
Bron shrugged. “I was on my way to the tannery and forgot something at home. What’s there to tell?” He didn’t like Ceybold any more now than he did two hours ago, but he didn’t wishthe joys of such a father on anyone, even the new bright star of Panrin. All that gold-plated charm hid an unspoken pain. It wasn’t necessary to add more to an already heavy burden.
Ceybold stared at him without speaking as shock, then relief, seeped into his expression. “Why?”
Bron snorted. “Why not? It doesn’t mean I won’t beat your arse in the road again, especially if you bother Disa.” He gestured to the yeoman. “I’m sure he didn’t see me hit him. I can’t stop you from telling him I did. Do what you have to.”
He left without saying goodbye, arriving at the tannery for an ear-blistering by the master tanner and the unenviable task of liming a batch of fleshed and salted hides. Ceybold owed him for that one.
A fortnight after the event at Silsu House, Bron woke to his mother’s voice calling him to wake up. He had visitors. His heart set a rapid beat, dread pumping hard through his body as he bolted out of bed and hurriedly dressed. He’d been waiting for this—a pack of constables at his door, come to drag him to the gaol for attacking Yeoman Silsu. Ceybold had finally gotten around to snitching on him.
Instead of the village law ready to haul him away, Ceybold himself stood at the threshold. Hazarin eyed them both with raised eyebrows before giving Bron a smile. “I’ll leave you to it then.” She nodded to their visitor. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ceybold.”
The boy bowed. “Likewise, Mistress.”
Bron stared at his adversary. “What do you want?”
“Are you working at the tannery today?”
The odd question raised all Bron’s suspicions. “Nooo.” He still had chores to complete around the house, but he was done with the tannery until the next brawl with Ceybold—which might very well be this morning.
Ceybold twitched at the hem of his shirt, betraying an unexpected reticence. “A few of us are going to Galloris Bridge and play Dead Man’s Flight on the rope swing. Do you want to go? We’ll meet at the mill after lunch.”
Stunned by the invitation, Bron gawked at him in silent amazement. No one had ever invited him to anything except for Disaris and her family. The boys in his age group no longer challenged him; they simply excluded him. He’d thought himself just fine with that. Most of them were dumber than dog shit in his opinion. There were better ways to spend his free hours.
But this invitation sparked a yearning inside him: for acceptance, inclusion. What a strange twist of fate that his most current antagonist would be the one to offer such a chance.
Wary of the sudden overture, he scowled at Ceybold. “Is this a trick? Because if it is, all of you can count on payback.”
