Out of the Darkness

“I’m not so sure I believe that,” Ealstan said.

Hestan smiled again, at least with half his mouth. “I’m sure I didn’t, not at your age. And you asked why being proud of what you’re good at is dangerous? I’ll tell you why: it can make you proud of yourself in general, and it can make you think you’re good at things you’re not.”

Ealstan considered, then nodded. If that wasn’t his careful, cautious father, he didn’t know what was. Using a cane, Ealstan got to his feet. “Well, I already told you: if you want me to come along, I will. And if our city fathers want to know where every last copper in the rebuilding of Gromheort is going, I’ll help you tell them.”

“Good,” Hestan said. “Truth to tell, I don’t think the city fathers care so much. Baron Brorda never did, back before the war, and things haven’t changed a great deal since. But the Unkerlanters want to know what everything is worth. Efficiency, you know.” In a different tone of voice, that would have been praise.

As Ealstan and his father walked toward the door, Saxburh toddled down the hall toward them. “Dada!” she said. She called Ealstan that with much more conviction these days than she’d shown when she first came to Gromheort. He picked her up, gave her a kiss, and then jerked his head back in a hurry so she couldn’t grab a couple of handfuls of beard and yank. She looked over at Hestan. She had a name for him too now: “Pop!”

“Hello, sweetheart.” Ealstan’s father kissed her, too. This time, Hestan’s smile was broad and rather sappy. He took to being a grandfather with great relish.

When Vanai came around the corner, Ealstan was glad enough to put Saxburh down. Handling her and the cane was awkward, and her weight put extra strain on his bad leg. “Mama!” Saxburh squealed, and dashed for Vanai as fast as her legs would take her. As far as the baby was concerned, Vanai was the center of the universe, and everyone and everything else-Ealstan included-only details.

“Out and about?” Vanai asked as she bent to scoop up Saxburh.

“Bookkeeping,” Ealstan answered.

“Ah,” she said. “Good. We can use the money. Your parents are wonderfully generous, but. ” She didn’t know what to make of generous parents-or of any parents, come to that. Ealstan didn’t care to think about what being raised by Brivibas would have been like.

Hestan switched to classical Kaunian: “You make it sound as if you were a burden. How long will it be before you understand that is not so?”

“You are very kind, sir,” Vanai replied in the same language, which meant she didn’t believe him for a moment.

Ealstan’s father understood the meaning behind the meaning, too. He let out a slightly exasperated snort. “Come on, son,” he said. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her when we get home.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Ealstan answered. “After all, she married me, so how much sense is she likely to have?”

Now Vanai snorted. “A point,” Hestan said. “A distinct point. That speaks well for your sense, but not for hers.”

Although Ealstan laughed at that, Vanai didn’t. “How can you say such a thing?” she demanded. “If he wasn’t mad to marry a Kaunian in the middle of the war, what would you call madness?”

“I knew what I was doing,” Ealstan insisted.

“You can argue about that later, too,” his father said. “Come on.”

Gromheort still looked like a city that had undergone a siege and a sack. Streets were largely free of rubble, but blocks had houses missing and practically every house still standing had a chunk bitten out of it. People on the street were still thinner than they should have been, too, though not so thin as when Ealstan fought his way into the city.

Some of the men weren’t undernourished at all: Unkerlanter soldiers doing constable’s duty, as Algarvian soldiers had before them. “When do we get to be our own kingdom again?” Ealstan asked, after walking past a couple of them.

“Things could be worse,” his father answered. “As I told you back at the house, when I grew up we weren’t our own kingdom. Swemmel could have annexed us instead of giving us a puppet king like Beornwulf. I feared he would.”

“Penda’s still my king,” Ealstan said, but he pitched his voice so no one but Hestan could hear him.

“Penda was no great bargain, either,” Hestan said, also softly. “He led us into a losing war, remember, and more than five years of occupation.”

“But he was ours,” Ealstan said.

Hestan’s laugh held both amusement and pain. “Spoken like a Forthwegian, son.”

A labor gang trudged past, its men carrying shouldered shovels and picks and crowbars as if they were sticks. They had reason to walk like soldiers: most of them were Algarvians in tattered uniforms. The men herding them along had smooth faces and wore rock-gray tunics, which meant they came from Unkerlant.

Ealstan eyed the few Forthwegians in the labor gang. “I keep wondering if I’ll see Sidroc one of these days,” he said.

His father’s face hardened. “I hope not. I hope he’s dead. If he happens not to be dead and I do see him, I’ll do my best to make sure he gets that way.”