Chapter 5 – Hovelroot

  Jezza

  Jezza really hadn’t been prepared for her mom’s hair to be gray. The older gnomish woman who currently stood with her hands clasped over her mouth; clad in a simple yellow robe; shorter than her and made shorter by age; looked so tired. She looked sore.

  But her eyes were the same brilliant, sky-blue as ever. The ones she’d given Jezza. Clear, focused eyes. Ones that, when they first saw the unconscious elf draped over Djanara’s shoulder, immediately began to calculate.

  “Oh no,” the old gnome said, “have you killed Blackburn’s boy?”

  Still mom.

  Miss Hovelroot. Sonnja Diedre-Kerbie-Hovelroot. That’s what her full name-chain would be. Should be. But no, here it was either Sonnja or Hovelroot. For the tallfolks’ comfort.

  Even though the real Hovelroots, as they would say, lived two towns over.

  Four names. So humble. Jezza’s own chain stood four long. She’d taken none of her mother’s. Wanted to earn them out in the world.

  Out in the world. Where other gnomes had rattled off their chain of twelve names casually and were allowed to be upset when someone rudely interrupted.

  “He’s sleeping. Tap on the chin.” Jezza explained. She was thankful, at least, that their humble home toward the edge of town had been built with consideration for tallfolk visitors. Djanara was able to move comfortably within the living area, but she waited silently by the door.

  “Lay him down, I’ll take a look,” Sonnja motioned to an arrangement of cushions in the corner, where Djanara deposited Callen. The old gnome placed her hand on the raised, reddened section of his jaw, then breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Well, it’s not broken,” Sonnja said. “If he has loose teeth when he wakes up, I can fix those then.”

  Djanara, still silent – as they’d discussed – nonchalantly sat herself in one of the tallfolks’ chairs and crossed her arms.

  “Mom, it’s good to see you,” Jezza said. “This is Djanara, she sailed me here.”

  Jezza then stopped talking and sat on a gnomish chair.

  Being a wizard was not a specific job title, but something more ephemeral. It was a thing one did, wizardry, but also a thing one was. The word itself was derived from old Common well before The Red War and meant simply wise one.

  People of Terria – not Berr, they’d never seen one, but Terria – had conceptions about wizards. Opinions of them, even.

  One of these common conceptions was such: wizards had poor social skills.

  This much was often true. The study of logic and reason demanded coldness and criticality. It demanded accepting your own wrongness many times over until being wrong became a mere step on the path to being right.

  It really did take a lot to understand that being aggressively correct was not the way to win friends.

  Jezza had mighty struggles with this for a long time. She was, at first, too haughty in her adventuring years, inviting anger and criticism. The world outside of the university humbled her. Added certain non-academic skills to her repertoire. Taught her to apply certain things she’d learned in school.

  Anthropological studies and theater. They’d been such surprising help in this regard. People could be studied and understood. Their language, their class, their dress, their history, their faith. Culture influenced people in predictable ways. And what was socialization but a performance of self?

  This was how Jezza did it. That thing. Walked her queer little ass into a union joint and didn’t get punted. Pure stage drama. Knowing the scene and existing in it.

  Just like now.

  She’d come to know Djanara on a more personal level. But the warrior hadn’t mentioned her history at all. That’s why Jezza had never mentioned she was confident she knew the warrior’s history. There was only one possible solution for why Djanara’s brutality was so disciplined.

  And she definitely knew her mom’s history. As well as how she was.

  Those were the reasons she knew to sit. Quietly. And allow this bridge to build without her.

  “Hello Djanara,” Sonnja said, with genuine warmth. “Thank you for bringing my daughter home.”

  The wolf shot Jezza a look, who nodded briefly, before responding.

  “Don’t mention it,” Djanara said, before adopting one of her scarier expressions.

  No-no, you’re not scaring her off from being decent, Jezza thought.

  “Would you like a drink?” Sonnja chimed. Her face was friendly.

  “Not unless it’s liquor,” Djanara responded, sarcastic.

  “Obviously it’s liquor,” Sonnja stood up straight. There it was. Full bearing. It caught the warrior off guard. “You don’t have your land legs yet, right?”

  “Er, no,” Djanara stuttered, re-examining the old gnome. “Hills here make it better though.”

  “I thought so too, that’s why I brought Jezza here after my service in the Beastfolk Wars,” Sonnja said, fluidly moving toward the pantry. It gave Djanara a chance to give Jezza a brief look of wild surprise.

  I know, right, thought Jezza, who shrugged and nodded her head toward Sonnja.

  “You were there?” Djanara asked, turning her full attention to the woman preparing them drinks.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I was a healer on a mercy ship,” Sonnja said, being generous with the fermented juniper. “Patched up all manner of y’all. We didn’t have a side, just healed anyone we found floating.”

  “Dangerous,” Djanara grunted. “The wolf-folk navy would never go after a mercy ship, but some of the others’ might.”

  “Thankfully,” Sonnja returned to them now, passing out drinks, “we were allowed to fly the Bavolian flag. Not who you want to piss off.”

  “Still happened,” Djanara said, taking the pewter mug.

  “I know,” Sonnja gave a sigh, and sat with a sad look. There was a brief, meaningful silence. Djanara was the one to break it.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Djanara said.

  “Sonnja Hovelroot,” Sonnja replied.

  “Sonnja Diedre-Kerbie-Hovelroot,” Jezza interjected. Both looked her way. She shrugged. “You should say your whole chain when you introduce yourself, mom. Other gnomes do.”

  “Well, you know how it is here,” Sonnja put her hands together. “It’d be strange.”

  Jezza wanted to say so much about what it was like to interact with other gnomes outside of Berr. There weren’t many here to begin with. The ones that were here had similarly had their names shortened. They also didn’t really do anything gnomish. In Woodpine, she’d studied her own race like a topic; watched other gnomes engage their whimsies without hesitation or guilt. A whole culture existed around gnomish joy, but not here in this place.

  She could say none of it, though, as a furious woman’s voice bellowed from the front door, followed by a banging.

  “Hovelroot!” shouted the voice. “Gene says he saw some kind of monster taking my precious boy to your place!”

  That would be Ailred Blackburn’s voice. The town’s spiritual leader. It was a voice that haunted Jezza in a way that no true monster ever had. A voice entitled to the world it did not understand, yet angry still, wanting for more.

  “He’s fine, Mother Blackburn,” Sonnja called, rising to go to the door. “Just asleep. No monsters here either.”

  “Open the door at once!” Ailred commanded. Jezza shot Djanara a look, shaking her head. Djanara nodded her agreement.

  This was definitely the time for them to be background.

  Sonnja opened the door to reveal the elven woman, dressed in her green-white preacher’s robes, face painted an outraged pink.

  “What is going on here?” Ailred demanded.

  Age. It changed people. Took and added things. Jezza was only thirty-six – seventy good years left, if she kept her body up; and yet, she’d felt her own changes already. She imagined if she’d been sixteen instead of twenty-three in that back alley, with that mercenary tussle, she’d be dead. Too idealistic at sixteen. Just grubby enough at twenty-three to turn her fire on a thinking, talking opponent. Those kinds of changes.

  So, why had eleven whole years not changed Ailred at all?

  Same pale-blonde hair, tied up in a neat bun. Same wrinkles – deep crevasses in her brows, carved in from being angry for years at a time. Same intrusive nose, pointed down at her mom.

  Her internal monologue was the air. She had a name for it when it was busy: Socrates.

  The same why as always, dear Jezza, Socrates told her.

  Sonnja and Ailred exchanged words, Jezza wasn’t hearing them. Kind ones from her mother, awful ones from Ailred. They were unimportant. The important moment would come in a few seconds, and Jezza was prepared.

  Resistance to change and new ideas, Jezza told Socrates. Gets ‘em every time.

  Every damn time! Socrates lamented.

  The important moment commenced. The one where Ailred, satisfied she’d unleashed enough anger on her mother, would notice other things, such as Callen resting on the cushion pile.

  Then, Jezza.

  Their eyes met.

  She’d had no time to prepare this for Callen. It happened too quick. She would forever be thankful for Djanara breaking the illusory spell her anxiety had wrapped her in.

  All at once, the gnome was not background. She remembered staring into the fatal eyes of an octoseer. Had to. Best way to keep up with counter-spelling it. One missed incant in that moment would have made her dust.

  Jezza stared into this small, small woman’s eyes with the same intensity and focus she had then.

  Ailred, still angry, visibly recoiled.

  “Why are you looking at me like that, Ja-” Ailred shot a glance at Sonnja, “Jezza?”

  Oh, you’ve placed in a respect token, Socrates noted, only several thousand more to go.

  “Like what, Ailred?” Jezza asked. She used her teacher voice, making the whole thing uncanny.

  “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Ailred forced a horrible wooden smile.

  “Not really,” Jezza said.

  “Jezza!” Sonnja exclaimed. Jezza did not react at all. Could not react, if she wanted to maintain the weaveless spell.

  “Listen to your mother,” Ailred turned colder. “That was very rude. Did you come back to my village just to cause problems? During Yule of all times?”

  “No,” Jezza said, “I came here to see mom. And the first thing that happens is your grown child assaults me.”

  There. Right. There. The truth flashed in Ailred’s eyes. The look Jezza had had so many nightmares about. The one she’d just intentionally pushed Ailred to.

  Her true feelings. The true depth of her personal hatred for Jezza. She’d seen less hateful looks from people actively attempting to kill her.

  Because Jezza asked questions about what you taught, Socrates sighed. Hard questions. Ones that made you look and feel small. And you aren’t supposed to be small, are you? Jezza is.

  Jezza matched that hatred, deep inside, and she knew it. White-hot hatred. If she surfaced it, things would become explosive. Not great. So, she countered Ailred’s gaze with glacial condescension, as though she were a student with a lame excuse. Gave an understated scoff.

  Apologies, Ailred, Socrates explained, you are not worthy of an antagonist role in Jezza’s life.

  Ailred’s hateful look gave way to momentary confusion, before sealing back up to poisoned warmth.

  “I know you and Callen had disagreements,” Ailred said, “but he would never hurt you. He just wants to be liked by his friends, what’s wrong with that?”

  Jezza did not deign to respond to such nonsense, but Djanara did. Just a grunt. Enough to get Ailred’s attention, however, now nervously looking toward the sailor. Thankfully, Jezza didn’t have to wrest control of the situation back – Callen stirred. The elf moved his head around on the cushions, and then mumbled: “mommy?”

  “I’m here, dear!” Ailred said, entering the home. She looked nervous about approaching Callen, since Djanara was seated so close. Djanara did not help the situation by smiling with mirth.

  Slowly, silently, the elf man sat up and rubbed his face. Sonnja walked to him now, very gently placing a hand on his jaw, which he allowed. The older gnome spoke a brief incant – the one for emotional soothing, Jezza was amused to realize – and then gingerly ushered Callen to his feet. Keeping well clear of Djanara, Callen walked over to Ailred near the door, eyes placid.

  Ailred turned her full attention on Jezza again.

  Socrates billowed inside: by Mistral’s strings, more? Know when you are beaten.

  “Apologize,” Ailred commanded.

  “Absolutely not,” Jezza responded. “Additionally: fuck yourself.”

  Ailred began to stoke more fury, but Sonnja interjected.

  “Mother Blackburn, nobody’s hurt,” Sonnja raised her palms. “I’m sure Jezza’s sorry for her reaction the same as Callen’s sorry for provoking her. She’s probably tired and grumpy after her trip. I’d like to visit with my daughter now, if you don’t mind.”

  Ailred squeezed her palms into fists, but then closed her eyes, exhaled, and adopted an ominous calm.

  “Very well,” Ailred said.

  I like how you’re the one who punched him, Socrates laughed.

  My reality warping powers are no match for these folks, Jezza, amused at herself, smiled in a genuine fashion.

  The elves stepped out the front door, and naturally, demanded the last word.

  “Hovelroot,” Ailred said, curt. “You’ve been such a great boon to this village. I am so sorry about the demon that crawled out of you.”

  Ooh, you really got a stitchfly up her ass! Socrates cheered.

  The pair of elves left, and Sonnja closed the door behind them, the home descending into the first peaceful quiet since their arrival.

  Sonnja and Djanara were looking at her, both with such concerned faces.

  Jezza thanked them both internally.

  She’d been all over Spirea, to Highwinter and back, becoming a professor; while her childhood bully had been existing, becoming drunk. And Ailred, once her final authority, was now just a small, petty old woman, incapable of even utilizing the power she preached. Lanya, the green-scaled dragon goddess, had only ever expressed herself through one person’s magic in Berr: her mom’s. Never Ailred or her chapter people.

  Once she’d made it to Woodpine, she’d learned that meant something:

  It meant she was correct and always had been.

  “I’m alright,” Jezza smiled. No more stage drama. “Let’s start visiting for real now, okay?”