woke very early. I got up and went down to the stables. For once I was there before my father; but he soon came, yawning, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Hello, Orrec,” he said.
“Father,” I said, “I want to—About the snake.”
He cocked his head a bit.
“I know I used my hand and eye. But I don’t think I killed it. My will—It wasn’t any different. It was just like all the other times.” I began to feel an aching pressure in my throat and behind my eyes.
“You don’t think Alloc did it?” he said. “It’s not in him.”
“But you—You struck it—”
“It was unmade when I saw it,” he said as he had said the day before, but some flicker of consciousness or question or doubt passed through his voice and eyes as he spoke. He considered. The hardness had come back into his face, which had been soft with sleep when I first saw him at the stable doors.
“I struck the snake, yes,” he said. “But after you did. I am sure you struck first. And with a quick, strong hand and eye.”
“But how will I know when I use my power, if it—if it seems just the same as all the times I tried to and didn’t?”
That brought him up short. He stood there, frowning, pondering. Finally he said, almost hesitantly, “Would you try it out, the gift, Orrec, now—on a small thing—on that bit of a weed there?” He pointed to a little clump of dandelions between the stones of the courtyard near the stable door.
I stared at the dandelions. The tears swelled up in me and I could not hold them back. I put my hands over my face and wept. “I don’t want to, I don’t want to!” I cried. “I can’t, I can’t, I don’t want to!”
He came and knelt and put an arm round me. He let me cry.
“It’s all right, my dear,” he said when I grew quieter. “It’s all right. It is a heavy thing.” And he sent me in to wash my face.
We spoke no more about the gift then, or for some while.
♦ 6 ♦
W e went back with Alloc for several days after that to mend and build up the fence along our southwest sheep pastures, making it clear to the shepherds on the other side that we knew every stone of those walls and would be aware if one were moved. Along on the third or fourth day of the work, a group of horsemen came towards us up the long falling pastures below the Little Sheer, land that had been the Corde domain and now was Drummant. Sheep trotted away from the riders, blatting hoarsely. The men rode straight at us, their pace increasing as the hilltop leveled. It was a low, misty day. We were sodden with the fine rain that drifted over the hills, and dirty from handling the wet and muddy stones.
“Oh, by the Stone, that’s the old adder himself,” Alloc muttered. My father shot him a glance that silenced him, and spoke out in a quiet, clear voice as the horsemen cantered right up to the wall—“A good day to you, Brantor Ogge.”
All three of us eyed their horses with admiration, for they were fine creatures. The brantor rode a beautiful honey-colored mare who looked too delicate for his bulk. Ogge Drum was a man of about sixty, barrel-girthed and bull-necked. He wore the black kilt and coat, but of fine woven wool, not felt, and his horses bridle was silver-mounted. His bare calves bulged with muscle. I saw them, mostly, and little of his face, because I did not want to look up into his eyes. All my life I had heard ill of Brantor Ogge; and the way he had ridden straight at us as if in assault, reining in hard just short of the wall, was not reassuring.
“Mending your sheep fence, Caspro?” he said in a big, unexpectedly warm and jovial voice. “A good job too. I have some men good at laying drystone. I’ll send them up to help you.”
“We’re just finishing up today, but I thank you,” Canoc said.
“I’ll send them up anyhow. Fences have two sides, eh?”
“That they do,” my father said. He spoke pleasantly, though his face was as hard as the stone in his hand.
“One of these lads
“Father,” I said, “I want to—About the snake.”
He cocked his head a bit.
“I know I used my hand and eye. But I don’t think I killed it. My will—It wasn’t any different. It was just like all the other times.” I began to feel an aching pressure in my throat and behind my eyes.
“You don’t think Alloc did it?” he said. “It’s not in him.”
“But you—You struck it—”
“It was unmade when I saw it,” he said as he had said the day before, but some flicker of consciousness or question or doubt passed through his voice and eyes as he spoke. He considered. The hardness had come back into his face, which had been soft with sleep when I first saw him at the stable doors.
“I struck the snake, yes,” he said. “But after you did. I am sure you struck first. And with a quick, strong hand and eye.”
“But how will I know when I use my power, if it—if it seems just the same as all the times I tried to and didn’t?”
That brought him up short. He stood there, frowning, pondering. Finally he said, almost hesitantly, “Would you try it out, the gift, Orrec, now—on a small thing—on that bit of a weed there?” He pointed to a little clump of dandelions between the stones of the courtyard near the stable door.
I stared at the dandelions. The tears swelled up in me and I could not hold them back. I put my hands over my face and wept. “I don’t want to, I don’t want to!” I cried. “I can’t, I can’t, I don’t want to!”
He came and knelt and put an arm round me. He let me cry.
“It’s all right, my dear,” he said when I grew quieter. “It’s all right. It is a heavy thing.” And he sent me in to wash my face.
We spoke no more about the gift then, or for some while.
♦ 6 ♦
W e went back with Alloc for several days after that to mend and build up the fence along our southwest sheep pastures, making it clear to the shepherds on the other side that we knew every stone of those walls and would be aware if one were moved. Along on the third or fourth day of the work, a group of horsemen came towards us up the long falling pastures below the Little Sheer, land that had been the Corde domain and now was Drummant. Sheep trotted away from the riders, blatting hoarsely. The men rode straight at us, their pace increasing as the hilltop leveled. It was a low, misty day. We were sodden with the fine rain that drifted over the hills, and dirty from handling the wet and muddy stones.
“Oh, by the Stone, that’s the old adder himself,” Alloc muttered. My father shot him a glance that silenced him, and spoke out in a quiet, clear voice as the horsemen cantered right up to the wall—“A good day to you, Brantor Ogge.”
All three of us eyed their horses with admiration, for they were fine creatures. The brantor rode a beautiful honey-colored mare who looked too delicate for his bulk. Ogge Drum was a man of about sixty, barrel-girthed and bull-necked. He wore the black kilt and coat, but of fine woven wool, not felt, and his horses bridle was silver-mounted. His bare calves bulged with muscle. I saw them, mostly, and little of his face, because I did not want to look up into his eyes. All my life I had heard ill of Brantor Ogge; and the way he had ridden straight at us as if in assault, reining in hard just short of the wall, was not reassuring.
“Mending your sheep fence, Caspro?” he said in a big, unexpectedly warm and jovial voice. “A good job too. I have some men good at laying drystone. I’ll send them up to help you.”
“We’re just finishing up today, but I thank you,” Canoc said.
“I’ll send them up anyhow. Fences have two sides, eh?”
“That they do,” my father said. He spoke pleasantly, though his face was as hard as the stone in his hand.
“One of these lads
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