Chương 51: Chapter 33: Money Matters - Part I

The title of Grove Knight spreads through the grove considerably faster than I would have preferred. Which is to say, Eammon learns about it before breakfast the following morning. I have absolutely no idea how. One moment, I am helping gather water from the well near the district wall. The next, the boy is staring at Garrick with the sort of admiration usually reserved for legendary heroes and particularly large monsters.

"So does that mean you're stronger now?" Garrick looks up from sharpening his sword, "No." Eammon frowns, "Not even a little?"

"No." The disappointment on the boy's face would be almost amusing if it weren't so immediate, "What was the point then?" Garrick pauses, apparently deciding whether the question deserves an answer, "I have a nicer scabbard." Eammon stares at him and Garrick returns the stare. The silence stretches. Eventually, the boy throws his hands into the air, "That's it?" The Guard Captain returns his attention to the sword, "That's it." Nearby, Aine bursts into laughter. I make the mistake of looking toward Garrick.

The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth tells me he is enjoying this far more than he should. The morning continues much as most mornings do beneath the Silverwood canopy. Aibell prepares breakfast while simultaneously attempting to convince Eammon that repeatedly poking the new scabbard will not reveal hidden powers. Aine immediately begins helping once she realizes it annoys her brother. Merrow watches the entire exchange with quiet amusement while sorting medicinal herbs beneath one of the Heartwoods.

For a time, I simply enjoy the moment. The grove feels peaceful, comfortably so. The sort of peace that arrives only after weeks of uncertainty. Perhaps that is why I fail to notice the expressions Aibell and Ciara keep exchanging throughout breakfast. The realization arrives later. Immediately after everyone finishes eating. Aibell clears her throat. I instantly become suspicious. Years of experience have taught me that nothing good follows that particular tone.

"Kaelen." There it is. I set down my cup.

"Yes?" Aibell folds her arms, "We need to talk." Across from her, Ciara nods in agreement. This somehow makes the situation worse. Individually, either woman is manageable. Together, they possess a remarkable ability to corner people with reasonable arguments.

"What happened?" I ask carefully.

"Nothing." That answer never means nothing. Ciara notices my expression, "It genuinely is nothing bad."

"That's exactly what people say before introducing problems." Aibell points toward me, "See?" Ciara sighs, "You've trained him to expect disaster."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have." The two women exchange a glance. I suddenly feel like I am missing part of the conversation. A sensation I am becoming quite familiar with. Eventually, Aibell pulls a chair closer and sits down. The movement immediately tells me this discussion is not going away.

"All right," she says.

"Let's talk about money." I blink, of all the possibilities I had considered, that one had not made the list.

"Money?"

"Yes. Money." The answer arrives with remarkable patience. The sort usually reserved for children or particularly oblivious druids. Ciara leans forward slightly, "The grove is stable now." I nod. That much is true. The Silverwood continues growing, the Heartwoods flourish. The district itself has begun recovering from years of neglect. Even the people living beneath the canopy look healthier than they did when we first arrived.

"What does that have to do with money?" The two women stare at me, then at each other, then back at me. A growing sense of concern settles into my thoughts. Eventually, Aibell speaks.

"Kaelen," her tone suggests she is explaining something painfully obvious.

"How exactly do you think we've been eating?" I open my mouth. I close it again. I suddenly realize I do not possess a satisfactory answer. The vegetables, fruits and some herbs come from the plants with boosted growth from the grove. Unfortunately, that realization creates an entirely different problem. Bread does not come from the grove, neither do spices, nor cooking oil or dozens of other items that somehow appear during meals without me questioning their origin.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Aibell watches understanding slowly dawn across my face, "There it is." I do not appreciate how pleased she sounds. Ciara tries and fails to hide a smile, "We've been receiving help," she explains.

"The district residents have been generous."

"Very generous," Aibell adds. I think back over the previous weeks. The occasional baskets left near the gates; deliveries from merchants; gifts from people grateful for the grove's healing. At the time, I had viewed them as isolated acts of kindness. Now that I examine the pattern more closely, the truth becomes difficult to ignore. The grove has been relying on charity. The realization leaves me distinctly uncomfortable.

"We can't keep doing that forever," Ciara says gently.

"No." The answer leaves me immediately. she is right. People help because they care, because they are grateful, because they are kind. That generosity should never become an expectation. For several moments, nobody speaks. The grove around us continues its daily routine. Birds move between branches overhead. Sunlight filters through the canopy. Somewhere nearby, Eammon and Aine are almost certainly causing trouble. Eventually, I rub my forehead, "All right." Aibell raises an eyebrow, "All right?"

I release a slow breath, "We need income." The words feel strange. It had somehow never occurred to me. Survival had consumed so much attention over the past months that I had neglected to consider what came afterward. Apparently afterward has arrived.

"What did you have in mind?" I ask. The question earns identical looks from both women. The sort that immediately informs me they have already discussed this extensively. I am beginning to suspect this meeting was less a discussion and more a presentation. Aibell straightens in her chair, Ciara smiles and suddenly I understand exactly how trapped I am. I suddenly understand why Garrick occasionally retreats from meetings.

"How long have you been planning this?" I ask. The two women exchange a glance.

"A few days."

"A week." Both answers arrive simultaneously. Aibell immediately points at Ciara, "It was not a week."

"It was six days."

"That's not a week."

"It is close enough." I look toward Merrow. The healer wisely refuses to involve herself. Apparently, everyone in the grove has decided I deserve this. Eventually, Aibell clears her throat and returns to the topic before the discussion can derail completely.

"The point is that we've had time to think about it." That much is obvious. I lean back in my chair.

"All right." The word seems to surprise them.

"What?" I gesture for them to continue, "You clearly have a plan." Aibell immediately brightens. That alone confirms my suspicions, "The district has jobs."

"Most districts do." She ignores me, "People work."

"Also true."

"Would you stop doing that?"

"Doing what?" Aibell narrows her eyes and I decide not to push my luck. Across from us, Ciara is already trying not to laugh.

"The point," Aibell continues, "is that everyone else has started rebuilding their lives." The amusement leaves her expression.

"Most of us haven't." The statement settles heavily over the table. She is right. I slowly nod, "Go on." Aibell glances toward Ciara. The older woman takes over, "The district has changed." Her gaze drifts toward the surrounding grove, "When we first arrived, people saw us as refugees." A brief pause, "They don't anymore." I had noticed that myself. The difference is subtle yet unmistakable. The curious stares have mostly disappeared. People no longer look at us with pity or concern or uncertainty.

We have become part of the district, part of Fallowspire. The realization feels strangely satisfying.

"We should start contributing properly," Ciara says. I find myself nodding again. The logic is difficult to argue with.

"What exactly does that look like?" The question earns another glance between the two women. Then Aibell points at herself.

"I need a job." The answer arrives so quickly that I almost laugh, "You sound very certain."

"I am."

"Why?" That actually gives her pause. For a moment, she looks toward the Silverwood canopy overhead, thinking.

"When Blackthorn fell, everything stopped. My life stopped." The table falls silent. Even Eammon and Aine seem to sense something important is being discussed nearby.

"I spent months thinking about what we'd lost." Aibell's fingers trace the edge of her cup.

"The inn." A small smile appears.

"My father yelling at customers." That earns a faint snort from me, "That sounds accurate."

"It is accurate. I kept waiting for things to go back to normal. They won't." Nobody argues. Nobody can. The life she knew is gone. Some losses cannot be undone. Aibell exhales slowly.

"So, I need something new." The statement feels less like a plan and more like a realization she has finally allowed herself to say aloud. For several moments, nobody speaks, then I nod.

"What did you have in mind?"

"A bakery." The answer arrives immediately. I blink, "A bakery?"

"Or an inn. But probably a bakery." I stare at her. Aibell shrugs.

"What?" The answer is so perfectly Aibell that I cannot help laughing. The tension dissolves almost instantly, "You've spent a week planning this and your conclusion is bakery?"

"It is an excellent conclusion."

"According to who?"

"Me." Unfortunately, her confidence remains entirely intact. Across the table, Ciara shakes her head, "She's actually serious." Aibell folds her arms, "Of course I'm serious. I know how kitchens work. I know how to bake. I enjoy feeding people." Very fair. The more she talks, the more obvious the choice becomes. I think of Rua; of the stories she occasionally shares; of the years spent helping in her father's inn.

The idea suddenly makes sense, although I still think an inn would have been the better choice, but each to their own, I guess.

"What about you?" I ask Ciara. The mother of two looks mildly surprised by the question, then thoughtful.

"I haven't decided entirely." That answer surprises me. Unlike Aibell, Ciara rarely speaks before having a plan, "I know I want to work." Her gaze drifts briefly toward the children, "I just haven't decided where I'm most useful." The statement feels very Ciara. She always thinks where she is needed, not what she wants. Merrow speaks before I can respond.

"Useful is a dangerous word." All eyes turn toward the healer. She continues sorting herbs as though she hasn't just interrupted the conversation, "You spend too much time measuring yourself by it." Ciara opens her mouth, then closes it again. Apparently unable to argue. Merrow notices my expression.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to." She is correct. Apparently, wisdom becomes significantly more irritating when directed at you personally and I have been finding that a lot lately. The conversation continues for some time after that. This simple mundane conversation about jobs, money and possibilities and it surprisingly feels good.

Seeing the people change from citizens to refugees, then survivors and now, slowly, citizens once again had tightened my heart more than I realized and now seeing them become citizens again make me feel proud. This time I didn't let fire claim everything, this time I succeeded.