The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(13)

Brental laughed, not harshly but ruefully. “Lad ... Cerryl... you'd not ask for anything, would you?”

Cerryl met Brental's gaze evenly. “I'd rather not.”

“There are times to ask, and times not to. When you cannot walk, it be time to ask.” The redhead shook his head. “I've got an old pair of boots. They'll do better than these. Wait here.”

“The boards ...” Cerryl glanced toward the mill door.

“All right. You get the boards-barefoot. I'll meet you here before you go back into the mill.” Brental stood and gestured. “Rinfur! Watch the oxen for a moment.”

Rinfur crossed the road. “Have to get the team.”

“I'll be back in just a moment.”

“Yes, master Brental.” Rinfur shook his head.

Before Rinfur could see his feet, Cerryl stood and began to walk slowly, if more quickly than if he had worn boots, to the second lumber barn. The handcart was inside the door, and he pushed it to the right. The floorboards were on the low rack on the far right, and barefooted as he was, he was glad that he'd swept the second barn the day before.

He inspected each board, letting his eyes check it, and holding it a moment, trying to get a feel of the wood before stacking it on the handcart. Sort of a golden oak, somewhere between black oak and white, floor oak wasn't bad. Three lengths he set aside because the knots were obvious, and two because he could sense, somehow, that the boards were weak.

Once he had the golden oak floorboards stacked in four short piles, he pushed the cart slowly back out of the barn and along the cool stones of the causeway back toward the mill.

Brental was standing by the oxen by the time Cerryl and the handcart reached the mule cart beside the millrace wall.

“Da ... he's still jawing with master Hesduff. Got some boots here, and a bucket of water. Sit back down.”

Cerryl sank onto the wall.

Brental took a soaking rag and sponged away dust and blood. His eyes widened. “Darkness... what you did.” The redhead shook his head. “Cerryl. You have to wash your feet several times a day, no matter what. Till these heal. You understand?” Brental's brown eyes bored into Cerryl. “And wash 'em right 'fore you go to bed.”

“Yes, Brental.”

“Cerryl?” called Dylert.

“You stay here.” Brental stood and pushed the handcart toward the mill, calling out, “Cerryl got the boards. I was coming this way, so I thought I'd bring 'em for you.”

“Good.”

“Good day, master Hesduff,” said Brental.

“Good day, young Brental. Hard to believe I'm a-looking up to you.”

As the three talked inside the mill door, Cerryl looked at the fresh blood welling across his bruised and blistered feet, then squared his shoulders.

“Good boards for rough cut... Pick them out, Brental?”

“No, master Hesduff. Young Cerryl did. Has an eye for wood, I'd say.”

“Does indeed ... Would you load those on the cart? Now ... about the timbers, Dylert?”

Brental slipped back out of the mill, pushing the handcart.

Cerryl stood and walked over to the back of the mule cart. “I can load these.” He took the top pair of floorboards.

“We can get it done twice as fast together,” Brental said mildly.

Cerryl didn't object. His feet still hurt, if not so much as before. Neither spoke while they stacked the boards.

“Brental! Bring that cart back.”

Brental nodded and wheeled the cart back into the mill, returning shortly with eight six-cubit timbers laid across it.

Again, Cerryl helped Brental load the timbers into the mule cart. Brental tied them in place with two lengths of hemp as Hesduff and Dylert strolled out of the mill.

“We'll be seeing how these work out, and I'll be back before long.” The crafter nodded to the millmaster.

“And we'll be here, Hesduff.” Dylert smiled politely.

“Sure you will be. A pleasure, Dylert. Always a pleasure.” Hesduff untied the mule and climbed onto the cart seat, then flicked the reins.

As the cart creaked away and down the road, Brental slipped up beside Dylert and began to speak to his father in a low voice. Cerryl might have been able to hear them if he strained, but he just sat on the wall dumbly, fearing the worst. If only he'd had some coppers before he started at the mill... if only his feet hadn't grown so fast... He wanted to shake his head but didn't. What good would it have done?

Once the mule cart left, Dylert walked over to Cerryl. He shook his head. “Cerryl?”

“Yes, ser?”

“Have I been cruel to you? Have I beat you? Or failed to feed you? Or clothe you?”

Cerryl looked at the stones of the causeway. “No, ser. Never, ser.”

“Boy ... you ask for little. I know that. But there's a time for brains and a time for pride. What if Brental hadn't seen? How long afore you'd never walk again?”

“I'm sorry, ser. I did not think.”

“No, you didn't. You've had a hard life, but I'd not make it harder. Don't you, either. Take care of your body, boy. Be the only one you have.” Dylert nodded at Brental. “You say those old boots of yours will fit?”

“Be better if he didn't work in the mill for a day or two. Ought to go barefoot.”