“And don’t you be eating any of those, Gird. He could almost taste one, the sweet juice running down his throat . . . “I know.” With a grunt, he lifted the basket, almost hip-high, and leaned sideways to balance the weight it was piled high with plums, the best from their tree. No playing about with the other lads and lasses. You’re to be home right away, Gird, mind that. “I’m not scared.” His mother flicked her apron over his shirt again, and landed a hand on his backside. Are you a big boy, or only a baby, then?” “You take that basket to the lord’s steward, now, and be quick about it. You’re bold enough when it’s something you want to do.” As she spoke, she raked at the boy’s thick unruly hair with her fingers, and wiped a smudge of soot from his cheek. “You don’t need to be hanging on my skirts any more. “You’re big enough now,” said the boy’s mother. In the year of his birth, and far away, the boy already lived who would make his parentage worthless. Yet he could not forget his parentage, or the promise of magic. He knew he was well off, and shrugged away the hopes he’d once had of being adopted into the lord’s family. It was not enough to live on, but it supplemented his farm’s production. With his father’s gifts, he started well above the average, and as well he had the position of a market judge in the nearest town. He would inherit a farmstead, he was told, and in due time he had his own farm. His lord provided: the family prospered, and the youth, as he grew to be, had no trouble finding a wife. He also had no magic, and when the lord lost hope that he might show a useful trace of it, he found the boy a foster family in one of his villages, and sent him away.
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He had no peasant accent he had no lack of manners or bodily grace. The boy showed a quick intelligence, a lively curiosity he learned easily and could form the elegant script of Old Aare by the time he had seen six midwinter festivals. His mother could be his nurse, but his rearing would be that of a young lord, until his ability or lack of it appeared. In the lord’s hall, the infant’s future was quickly determined. She hardly believed the change, and having a priest of Esea in the birthing room convinced her only that the high lords had no decency. She had the healing hands, a legacy of a great-grandmother’s indiscretion in the days when such indiscretions meant a quick marriage to some handy serf. The new mother grunted, and the midwife returned to her work, ignoring the light she was determined not to need.
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perhaps.īehind, in the birthing room, the midwife glowered at the glowing patch of air, and sketched her own gesture, tossing a handful of herbs at it.
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Perhaps this one would inherit the birthright magic . . . Not a monster, a manchild whole of limb and healthy. With a final sniff, the priest sketched a gesture that left a streak of light in the room long after he’d left, and departed, to report the successful birth. The stupid slut might try that some of them did, being so afraid of the lord’s magic, although anyone with wit enough to dip stew from a kettle ought to realize that the lords meant no harm to these outbred children. With that as proof, no fond foolish peasant girl could hide the child away from his true father. The priest, sent down hurriedly in the midst of dinner from the lord’s hall, dabbed his finger in the blood and touched it to a kerchief, then cut with silver scissors a lock of the newborn’s wet dark hair, which he folded in the same kerchief.
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“Esea’s light on him,” muttered the priest, as the midwife mouthed, “Alyanya’s sweet peace,” and laid the wet pink newborn on his mother’s belly. Errors are mine they did their best to straighten me out.
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But special thanks to Ellen McLean, of McLean Beef masters, whose stock has taught me more than a college class in Dairying ever did, to Joel Graves for showing me how to scythe without cutting my ankles off, and to Mark Linger for instruction and demonstration of mixed-weapon fighting possibilities. Too many people helped with technical advice and special knowledge to mention all and leaving any of them out is unfair. In memory of Travis Bohannon a country boy from Florence, Texas who gave his life to save his family from fire.