07



The response to the noise of mallet and kettle was instant, and a bit alarming: a child about Charis’s age appeared at the top of the hill that hid the house from view, stared for a second, then went tearing away, yelling at the top of her lungs: “Riders! Riders!”

Charis shrugged. Serifar returned the gesture as best he could, saying, “I don’t suppose they see people on horseback very often.”

They rode over the hill, and saw the house in a valley beyond. It was a big, sprawling farmhouse of whitewashed stone, surrounded by outbuildings of the same stone, with animal pens and fenced pastures all around, and there were a lot of people down there. Serifar felt himself making the worry face. That many people could be dangerous, if they got mad. There were men among the animals, climbing over fences to come closer, and men and women and children coming out of the house. The men casually held dangerous tools. The women prevented the swarming children from going any nearer.

One man, one of the largest, with white-streaked dark hair and crinkled eyes, came out ahead of the others.

“Well, now, girl, you had me expecting a raiding party, the way you were hollering. But all I see is poor clothes and fine horses. How did that come to be, I wonder?”

Serifar looked down at himself, dressed in Kastor’s spare clothes and a too-large jacket Randan had outgrown. He glanced at Charis, whose clothes were better, but unadorned and travel-worn. Did the man think they were horse theives?

Charis edged his horse a step closer. “We’d like lodging for a few days. My father will pay you for it when he arrives.”

“I see,” said the farmer. He scratched his beard. “Meaning no disrespect, but I find myself a bit nervy. You see, there’s a foreign look about you, and there’s savages in the wood these days.”

“Savages?” Then Charis got himself under control. “The ones you mean, that have been killing people -- they’re not Kyri. They’re bandits. My father is dealing with them. We’re to wait for him somewhere safe. He’ll pay you well -- are you laughing at me?”

Serifar leaned over and hissed, “Charis, please, be more humble. You need shelter.”

“You’re a proud one, you are,” said the farmer, with a bit of a grin. “I bet your father’s someone really, really important. And we’re to treat you like a little prince and wait on you hand and foot, for the promise of money we haven’t seen.”

Charis’s chin went up. He sucked in his breath so his nostrils drew in, and Serifar knew he was about to wreck their chances. He spoke quickly to prevent it. “Please, friend, don’t let his manner fool you. He’s a very sweet boy, really, it’s just we rode all day yesterday and then we only got to rest about an hour and then we rode all night and what time is it? And he’s cold and I’m scared and we can’t get down because we couldn’t get up again and if we don’t stay at the first house Kastor will never find us and --”

“Whoa, whoa!” The farmer held up his hands, laughing. “I’ll tell you what. You let me hang on to that little sword of yours, son, and I’ll let you stay.”

Charis was aghast. “It was a present from my Da!”

“Oh, not to keep. Not if your Da pays his debts.”

“My father is an honest man,” said Charis, and he took his sword from his belt.

The farmer recieved it with mock solemnity. “I’ll just put this somewhere safe. My name is Marten, and that’s my wife Lily, and this is our farm. Lily, would you make our guests comfortable?”

Released from suspense, the farm’s population immediately swarmed. The visitors were plucked from their horses and half-carried into the house, stripped of boots and wet socks, and bundled into chairs by the fireside with blankets around them. Between fussing women, children shouting questions, and men clomping in and out talking about horses, Serifar couldn’t make sense of a single word that was spoken to him. He looked to Charis for help, but the boy had fallen asleep the moment he was warm, a half-empty mug of tea in his hands. The matronly woman whom the farmer had called Lily took the mug away before it could tip. Then she offered a full mug to Serifar.

When he reached for it, though, she wouldn’t give it. “Both hands, or you’ll spill it,” she said.

“But I only have one hand.”

“Eh?” She looked at the empty sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you’d just pulled it in to be warm. Well, be careful.” She let him take the mug.

Someone else said, in a loud whisper, “A one-armed nursemaid. That’s an odd thing.”

Another person answered, “Don’t think she’s a nursemaid, with a face like that.”

A third whisperer put in, “But she’s so skinny! Not the boy’s mum, that’s for sure.”

At that, it dawned on Serifar that they were talking about him. He turned to them, astonished. “I’m not a ‘she’,” he said. “Why are you calling me ‘she’?”

They stared.

He realized that their whispers had not been loud at all, that he wasn’t supposed to have been able to hear them. He was about to explain that he was a Mara, and could hear very well, but remembered that Kastor had said not to mention that.

Lily took the situation in hand. “Of course. Don’t insult the boy. How old are you, son, fifteen? Sixteen? You’re not brother to His Highness, I’ll wager, or you’d have been the first to talk. His manservant?”

Serifar shook his head. “I’m just Serifar. Charis is my friend. His father is my friend too. They’ve been very kind to me. They take care of me.”

Someone whispered, “Not the sharpest knife in the kitchen, is he?”

Serifar let them think he didn’t hear.

“Well, dear,” Lily soothed, “you rest yourself, and there’ll be dinner soon. There’s always room for a few more. My husband might act suspicious, but I’m sure he would’ve helped in the end no matter what you said. Couple of children on their own, how could we turn you away? And I’m certain you got those horses honestly.” The way she said it, he sensed she wasn’t sure at all.

“The mare is Charis’s own,” he assured her. “The one I was riding is Kastor’s horse. His name is Aunethan. He’s a cavalry horse. He’s very brave, for a horse, but he won’t let other horses go too close. And he eats hair.”

“He’s a fine horse,” she soothed. “But why were you riding him? I’d think this mysterious Kastor fellow who’s fighting the bandits would want his warhorse along.”

Serifar furrowed his brow. “I suppose... because horses are loud. Because when Kastor was walking in the woods, I couldn’t hear him at all. Or see him. And I have very good ears. And eyes.”

Lily exchanged a look with one of the other women, then turned back to Serifar with a strangely concentrated expression. “Tell me, son -- what was your name again?”

“Serifar. Which means ivy.”

“Tell me, Serifar-which-means-ivy, why would this Kastor of yours go off fighting bandits single-handed?” She caught herself, with a glance at his empty sleeve. “I mean... alone. Or at all, for that matter. What kind of person would do that?”

“A good person,” Serifar answered instantly. That was an easy one.

“What, you mean he’s doing it only because it’s right? Like some knight-errant in a fairytale?” She clearly didn’t believe it.

He hastened to assure her. “Just like that. And also because if everybody gets scared of Kyri there might be a war, he said. I don’t quite understand how, but I’m sure he’s right, he’s very smart. And beautiful,” he added, though he didn’t know if that would matter.

The women looked at each other, and some seemed on the verge of laughter, while others seemed puzzled. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned that.

Lily said, “Whatever sort of fellow he is, he must be impressive. At least, you’re sure fast to blow his horn.”

One of the women stifled a laugh in her sleeve. Another flushed pink.

Not sure what was so funny, Serifar went on being serious. “He’s very strong. He’ll come for us. And he’ll pay money, he has some, I saw it.”

“Of course he will. I’m sure he’s honest as the day is long. But how will you pay for your lodging if he doesn’t come?”

“He will! He’ll win! I know it!”

“All right, all right, calm down. I shouldn’t be pestering you with questions, weary as you are. Rest your head, son. Give me that cup; are you done?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy.” She patted him on the head. The women gathered the children, and everyone went into other parts of the house.

He tried to rest. But he was almost done healing, so what did he need rest for? He didn’t want to sleep; he didn’t want to miss anything. The room they’d put him in was empty now, except for him and Charis. It was boring.

He got up, putting his blanket over Charis. He walked back and forth a bit, testing his leg. There was still a shallow depression of missing muscle there -- he could feel it through his trousers -- but he had no trouble walking. He just had to adjust his gait a little. After a bit of thought, he shed his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. Maybe people wouldn’t be confused about his gender if he wasn’t hidden in that enveloping garment. Kastor’s spare shirt and trousers were baggy on him, but not so much that one couldn’t tell he was male. He put his socks on, since they hadn’t been very damp, and the low slipper-like shoes that were all Kastor had been able to get for him from the matron of the last village. He was glad he didn’t have boots, because he didn’t think he could have put them on with only one arm.

He hoped his other arm would grow back soon. This was very inconvenient.

The sound of distant voices led him through an entry room sodden with melting snow, rank with the smells of wet wool and leather, down a hall toward the smell of food. He’d meant to announce himself, perhaps ask for some work to do, but paused when he heard his name. He was curious to hear what was said about him in his absence. It sounded as if all the women were talking about him.

“’It means ivy’,” someone said. “In what language? Boy looks Nestrian, but --”

“Boy looks like a girl.”

“That too.”

“And lucky for him, I suppose. You can guess why that knight of his took him in, lackwit that he is.”

“If the knight’s not pure figment.”

“I think he’s real. Not that I think he’s really after bandits, or at least not just out of the goodness of his heart. But it takes all kinds, I guess.”

“I don’t get it. You say the fellow took the boy in because he looks like a girl? What use is that?”

“Think about it.”

“I’m thinking, and I think it makes no sense.”

“He’s the knight’s bumboy, of course. I hear noblemen do that all the time.”

“What’s a bumboy?”

“Honestly, Kina. You’ve been married how long? You’ve got no call being so innocent. There’s ways a man can use a boy like a girl. Understand?”

“Oh. Oh! But... how?”

“Up the bum, stupid.”

“Eh, yuck!”

“Or they suck on it.”

“Ew!”

“I pity your husband, woman, I really do. Any case, all that poor boy’s got to offer is a pretty face, and look how he’s taken care of. Gets to ride the warhorse. Clothes aren’t even patched. Who’d do that for a one-armed simpleton, without they were getting something for it?”

“Poor lad. Think he understands what’s going on?”

“Who can tell? But I feel for the little one, if he has to see that kind of thing.”

“True, true.”

“Little one’s not altogether right either. Did you notice? One leg’s shorter than the other. He walks funny. Kind of like this.”

“Might be a cramp.”

“No, she’s right, his hands aren’t the same. One’s bigger than the other.”

“And what do you suppose the mysterious Kastor’s missing, his head?”

“Well, we know what he’s not missing.”

Gales of laughter.

“Now, now,” someone said when they’d calmed. “It could be just like the boy said. Could be this Kastor fellow’s really a good-hearted man, and he took in the one-armed lad out of pity alone, and he’s chasing down those bandits for the good of us all. You can’t know it’s not true.”

“I know it’s not likely.”

“Still, it won’t do to go around assuming the worst. ‘Good morning, Serifar-which-means-ivy, and what do catamites eat for breakfast?’ Besides, the son’s got an attitude on him, you have to think the father’s someone important.”

“You can bow and scrape to a little kid if you want. I’m not.”

“I don’t mean that. Just don’t be rude, all right? Think about it -- if the story’s true, and the father’s slaughtering bandits as we speak, what’s he going to do if he shows up and hears his boy was mistreated?”

There was a pause.

“Well then. Who wants to go bring our guests to the table?”

Serifar stepped into the kitchen. “We can bring ourselves.”

There were five women in the kitchen; Lily was the oldest, and looked amused. The rest looked variously guilty, down to the youngest, who was blushing. “Well now,” said Lily. “And how long have you been standing there?”

“Since ‘it means ivy in what language.’ Angelic, since you’re asking. I don’t really understand most of what you said, but I know Kastor hasn’t asked anything of me. He hasn’t even asked me to stir the soup or brush the horses. He’s just a good man. Why is that so difficult to believe?”

Lily’s eyes narrowed. “You suddenly sound a lot smarter than you did before.”

“I was confused. There were too many of you. Too much noise. And I’ve had a minute to think. I’m not a simpleton, though.”

“I see.” Lily pressed a warm buttered loaf-end into his hand, smiling at him. “Well, you can bet we’re sorry for what we said about your... your friend. It’s just that hardly anyone in the world is that good. Everybody’s too busy staying alive to help much, it seems.”

“But you’re helping.”

“Ah, but we expect something in return.”

Serifar frowned around a mouthful of bread. “Not this ‘bumboy’ thing you were talking about, I hope. That sounds rather uncomfortable.”

They laughed. Lily patted his arm. “Money will do. And if I can’t believe anyone’s as good as you say your friend is, I’ll at least believe he pays his debts.”

“But he is that good. I think... I think it’s easy for him to stay alive. So he has more to spare. Do you see?”

“Yes, son, I see. Now you’d best go collect your little friend, bring him to the table. It’s through that door, you see? That’s where we all eat. We’ll start bringing the food out in just a few minutes.”

Feeling vaguely offended, knowing he wasn’t being taken seriously, he just gave a short nod and left.

Seeing Charis, though, made his bad temper vanish. The boy looked so small, curled up in the chair like that. Let people say whatever they wanted about Serifar, if they would keep Charis safe. He knelt beside the chair to touch one little hand.

Charis started up with a cry. “Da, don’t!” Then he blinked and snuffled, and his eyes began to focus. “Oh. Serifar. I... I was asleep.”

“Yes. It sounded as if you were having a bad dream.”

“I was.” He frowned. “I was... I saw... he was killing them, and... it sounds stupid, but there was too much blood in people, it was like spilling a bucket, and... and they didn’t... they took a while to...” As he spoke, he was slowly shaking his head, and his chin was crumpling. He looked up, and his eyes were so distressed that Serifar couldn’t help but reach out.

With a sob, Charis buried his face in Serifar’s shoulder, taking handfuls of his shirt, and bawled.

“I was so scared, I thought it was real, I was so scared...”

Serifar petted the child’s hair, hugged with his single arm, wishing more than ever that he had two. He used the words that Charis had used the night before. “It’s going to be all right. Everything will be fine.”

“I was scared of my own father! What’s wrong with me?”

“Well... he did kill someone. He said so. And he was going to kill the bandits. We knew that.”

Charis caught his breath mid-sniffle.

“I’m sorry. I said the wrong thing.”

“No.” Charis sat back, wiping his eyes on his sleeves. “No. You’re right. I knew it, I knew -- and what was I thinking, that death was pretty? I read about it, I heard old people telling war stories, and -- but I didn’t think about it, what it would really be like. How could I think it wouldn’t be awful?”

“But, Charis --”

“No, I understand now, why he got that funny look when I talked about fighting and killing. I didn’t know it would be like that.”

“Yes, but --”

“In a way I’m right to be scared of him, because I know he’s dangerous, but I also know he’d never hurt me. He’s been trying to keep that stuff away from me.”

“But Charis!”

“What?”

“If you didn’t know what it was like, how did you dream about it?”

Charis thought about this for a moment. Then he grinned, even while he mopped tears from his chin. “My grandma’s a witch. I heard it skips a generation.” His eyes widened and his smile grew more genuine. “And in the dream, he won. So it won’t be long now before he finds us.”



But Kastor didn’t arrive that night. After being stuffed full of food, introduced to everyone -- twenty-eight people, including children -- and shown around the enormous house, they were instructed to bed down in the children’s dormitory. Their baggage, they were told, was already there. Charis went to visit the horses. Serifar investigated the room where they were to sleep.

Small children trailed him. It had seemed at first that there were swarms, but in fact there were only five little ones, and three big ones. Two of the big ones were hired hands, nearly grown; the other was a girl the age they’d assumed Serifar was. She’d given him some very odd looks at dinner. Neither she nor the big boys were in evidence now, though. Only the little ones slept in the dormitory. This was a room at the top of the house, under the pointed roof. Serifar could only stand upright in the very middle of the room. There were five cotton-stuffed mattresses ranged at neat intervals down the room. As soon as the door was closed, the children scrambled to shove the mattresses closer to the stove at the end of the room.

“We’re not supposed to,” explained the girl who’d first announced them. “But it gets cold up here.”

“Where should I put ours?”

The girl shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Sleep by me!” cried a smaller child.

“What happened to your arm?”

“How old are you?”

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

“He’s a boy, stupid, or he’d have boobs by now.”

“Did that other boy really have a real sword?”

“Is his Da really a knight?”

“What’s your horse’s name?”

“Is that your horse?”

“Why do you have a scar on your face?”

“How come your eyes are purple? Is that normal where you come from?”

“Do you like raisins?”

Serifar seized gratefully on the pause after the last question. “Yes! Yes, I like raisins.”

“Here.” The boy who’d said it was a bit bigger than Charis, with blond hair and big ears, and a very odd smile. He put something into Serifar’s hand.

Serifar raised it toward his mouth, but he didn’t smell a raisin smell. He looked at the little dark thing in his hand. It was a rat dropping.

He didn’t understand. Why had they given him a rat dropping, and said it was a raisin?

“Awww,” said the boy. “Look, he’s gonna cry.”

The door creaked. “Who’s gonna cry?” Charis paused just inside the doorway, and looked at each face in turn. “What’s wrong, Serifar?”

“I don’t get it. He said it was a raisin, but it’s a rat dropping.”

One of the little ones snickered. The blond boy laughed out loud. “He’s really stupid, isn’t he? Does he piss himself when --” The boy’s words cut off with his wind as Charis punched him in the solar plexus. He was gathering himself to return the punch, when Charis’s cane swept one of his feet out from under him, sending him sprawling.

“Anyone else want to pick on my friend?” Charis gave them a grin that was alarmingly similar to the one Kastor had been wearing when he’d questioned the bandit. He planted his cane and leaned on it. “Look, I’m a cripple, what can I do to stop you? And Serifar, well, he’s a simpleton, right? Serifar, what are the exact words Mistress Lily used when she was chiding this girl here about getting her sleeve in the soup?”

Serifar didn’t understand the point of this, but he obediently answered, doing his best to give the correct intonation. “’Mind your sleeve, girl! I swear, Becca, you grow clumsier every day. Neither soup nor sleeves are free, you know, and it’s me that’ll have to wash that out, and don’t you stuff your mouth full of bread when I’m talking to you!’ And Becca said, ‘Surry grmmma.’ And crumbs came out.”

All the children were gawking at him, wide-eyed.

The girl named Becca was flushing a little, but she came closer. “Can you remember everything everyone said?”

“If I want to.”

The boy who’d been knocked on the floor, now upright again, was taking a closer look at Charis. “You’re a tough little guy. For a foreigner.”

Charis glared at him for a moment, then grinned. “Don’t forget it.”

Their popularity secured, they were the toast of the children’s dormitory until well after bedtime.

After being told a dozen times to quiet down and go to sleep -- these orders being delivered by the teenaged girl, Caril, who had a room of her own next door -- the children finally fell silent. One by one they dropped into murmuring. And, in the case of the smallest one, thumb-sucking. The glow of the stove faded until the room was nearly dark. There was quiet throughout the house.

Serifar went to sleep, but woke up almost immediately. He couldn’t stay asleep. There was no need for it. He lay awake, staring into the dark. He felt restless, anxious, fidgety. At last he gave in and got up.

It was an easy matter to sneak out of the house without waking anyone. He stepped onto the packed snow of the yard, suppressing a gasp when the sharp frozen edges of footprints cut into his bare feet. He made his way gingerly to the less well-trampled area on the south side. He leaned on the fence and looked into the night. He felt as if he ought to be able to see Kastor if he looked in the right direction, though he knew there was no way.

After perhaps an hour had passed, he heard the sound of the door latch. He turned to look, wondering if someone was coming to talk to him. But Caril closed the door behind her and slipped toward the hay barn without seeing him.

Curiosity drew him after her. He made far less noise than she was making, though he wasn’t as quiet as Kastor. She moved as if hiding, but she was easy to see. She kept turning her head suddenly, but once she looked right at him and didn’t see him. Maybe the night was darker to her than it was to him. When she reached the barn, she opened the small side door, letting out a faint spill of light. He heard her say softly, “Ned?”

The voice of one of the teenaged farmhands answered. “Over here.”

Her voice took on a different tone, a wheedling tone. “Mm, I’m so cold, it’s so cold tonight.”

“I’ll warm you up. C’mere,” said Ned.

Serifar crept up to the barn and knelt to put his eye to a crack wide enough to show light. He was very curious to learn what these two were doing that was so secret.

At first he was confused. They were just hugging and nuzzling together. Did they have to be secret about showing affection? Then they kissed each other, but not at all like mothers kissing children. This was something entirely different. It was beginning to make him nervous, but he couldn’t stop watching.

After a time of this, they sank to their knees in some hay, and began removing each other’s clothing, all the time mouthing and pawing whatever skin they exposed. Serifar’s curiosity concerning what was under female clothing that made them different was wiped from existence when Ned’s clothes came off. Though not quite mature, the farmhand did his share of work, and it had given him a very interesting shape. Serifar was not prepared for how interesting. He had his hand pressed over his mouth to keep quiet, because something was struggling to jump out of his throat. A word, a cry, he didn’t know. He wanted to run, but he kept watching.

Now Ned was wheedling. “Lemme put it in this time. Just a little.”

“Nuh-uh. What if I got pregnant?”

“But just a little, don’t worry, I won’t finish in there, just --”

“Oh, you can say don’t worry. Boys don’t have to worry, but girls do. Besides, you like this, I know you do.”

The next moment, Serifar learned what the women in the kitchen had meant. He had to stop watching then. He got up very carefully, hand still covering his mouth, and went toward the darkest place he could see, a stand of trees at the corner of the fence. He knelt down in the snow. He pushed his hand into the snow, but it wasn’t cold enough. He put snow on his face, but he still felt too warm.

After a long time, his heart slowed enough that he was fairly sure it wouldn’t break his ribs. He was able to breathe without it rasping in his throat. The snow had begun to feel cold. Then he let himself remember, so he could decide whether to forget.

The thing with the mouth in the groin was scary. He was scared of that. He was alarmed by what the idea did to him. Closing his eyes, he carefully isolated the picture, and then willed it gone.

It didn’t go.

He groaned. He’d forgotten that he couldn’t forget -- how strange. Perhaps he’d been wrong about remembering everything he didn’t erase, if the loss of that power could slip his mind. But this meant he was stuck with that. That scary thought. And all the rest of it. And everything he saw or heard or thought, for the next fifty years...

Suddenly he was desperate for Kastor to be there to explain things, and the fact that wishing didn’t make it so was unbearable. He wanted Kastor to be there to tell him, in that deep rough voice, how it made sense, how it was possible to live with this. He wanted to hide his face in Kastor’s shoulder the way Charis had done to him today. Or... not quite like that. Because after that he wanted to be kissed the way Ned had kissed Caril, which was not at all like a mother kissing a child, and he wanted it to go on and on forever and ever...

He had to put snow on his face again. He decided not to think about this again for a while. It was terrifying. He needed Kastor to explain it, and now he didn’t know if he dared ever speak to Kastor again.



When he eventually went back to the dormitory, he was able to make himself stay asleep until morning. After that, there was no time to brood. Time began to spin out of control the moment the first of the children woke, and just got faster from there.

Charis was dragged around by the children, who had to show him everything. This left Serifar alone. The farmhand Ned made a halfhearted effort to find some one-handed work to occupy him, but when Serifar wouldn’t do anything but blush and mumble, Ned gave up.

Serifar wandered into the kitchen. There he was set to work stirring things and carrying water. The women were surprised when he put a bucket of water on the table. They grabbed at his arm, squeezing and prodding it, wondering how such a skinny thing managed it. A minute later, he saw a big-armed woman moving a stock pot a little smaller than the water bucket, and saw how her arms wobbled when she lifted it to the iron stove. He gathered that he should probably not just pick up the water bucket and set it on the table anymore, unless he wanted to tell them what he was. His lapse hadn’t alarmed them, though. They called him honey. They wanted to know how old he was. He parroted back Lily’s guess from yesterday, and told them fifteen. They assured him he was only skinny because he was growing. They told him there was a one-armed smith in the village of Downel, and the fellow did just fine. Had a water-powered trip-hammer to do the work of the other arm, how clever.

He said what was polite, and smiled and nodded for them, and this kept them happy. He stirred sauce. He worked the pump.

Before he’d quite got hold of morning, night was falling. Kastor still hadn’t arrived. He and Charis assured each other that it took more than a day or two to mop up a group of bandits. Kastor would be there tomorrow.



Tomorrow came and went.



On the third day, Lily took Serifar aside. She’d given up her idea that he was a lackwit, so she spoke to him as the elder of the two. She wanted to know how long they planned to stay. If Kastor was a fiction, now was the time to speak up. Surely a place could be found for them around here, if they were homeless. Those fine horses would buy a lot of charity.

Serifar shook his head, trying to keep fear from his voice. “One week. If he’s not here by then, we’re to send a message to Charis’s mother, and she’ll come get him.”

“So what you mean is, one week plus however long it takes to send this message and get a reply. And if the reply never comes?”

“It doesn’t matter! Kastor will come back!”

She sighed, shaking her head. She put a hand on his good shoulder. “Son, I hate to say this --”

“Then don’t!” He shrugged her off. “Don’t say it! Don’t think it! You don’t understand! If he doesn’t come back, then -- I don’t know what, I’ll explode or turn to a pebble or something horrible, and Kastor wouldn’t let that happen!”

Her face showed solemn surprise, but there was a little twinkle in her eyes that meant she was smiling inside. “Why, Serifar, I’ve never seen such loyalty. Or could it be that you understood more of what we said the other day than you want me to believe?”

“What?” He shook his head sharply. He knew which conversation she was referring to, but -- “What’s that got to do with loyalty?”

“The way you talk about him, it sounds as if you love him.”

“I do, but what --” He paused. He blinked several times, as things began to fall into place. The warm feeling, then the kissing, then the mating that made people family. That was how it worked. It was all related. “Oh. I didn’t realize...”

She tried to ask him something else, but he was already walking away, half-dazed, with a ringing in his ears.

He sat on the porch, watching a couple of cows munching hay. Sometimes someone would come by and say something to him, but he didn’t respond. He was reviewing all his memories in light of his new understanding. So much that had been opaque to him was coming clear.

When the farm’s partriarch found him still there at nightfall, Marten made enough of an effort, was irritating enough with his hair-ruffling and shoulder-patting and snapping fingers in front of eyes, that Serifar emerged from his reverie.

“Look, son,” Marten said, “your friend’ll come up to the house when he gets here. You don’t have to sit out here in the cold.”

“I know.”

“Come on in. Have some supper.”

“No, thank you. I don’t need any.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No.”

“Be sensible. Come in.”

“Not until he gets here.”

Lily said, “It’s no use. I’ve been trying all day. I think his brains are frozen.”

“He’ll catch his death. Come on, boy.” The farmer grabbed Serifar’s arm and hauled him upright.

Sudden anger boiled through Serifar’s veins. He tried to pull his arm away, but the farmer didn’t let go, and the result was that Marten was pitched headfirst into the yard. The man gave a whoop, more startled than hurt.

“No!” said Serifar. “I said I’m going to wait for him!” He stalked away to the southern fence. He jumped to the top of a fence post to get a better view.

He heard their hushed voices behind him. “How’d he do that?” “What is he?” “Is he even human?” The same old fear. This time, as he refused to blame them for it, he was nevertheless angry. Why did people have to be such cowards?

Then he heard Charis, good old stubborn Charis, sticking up for him yet again. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. How can you be scared of him when you’ve watched him eat peas?”

“Scared?” That was Marten. “Don’t think that’s quite the word. It’s just funny, how he’s so much stronger than he looks. He’s such a little thing, but --”

Serifar didn’t hear the rest, because he was busy seeing instead. There was a bit of movement in the edge of the woods.

He strained to make it out, but it was gone. Had he imagined it? No, there it was again, nearer now. It didn’t move like Kastor, not so smoothly. It was a lurching, plodding thing that came out of the woods and started across the snowy field. Man-shaped and black. He held his breath. Then the figure raised its head, shaking dark hair away from a pale face, and straightened --

“Kastor!” Serifar went across the field at a run. His scarred leg betrayed him once, sending him tumbling, but he rolled to his feet and kept running. He skidded to a stop just short of a collision.

Kastor stood still, swaying a little. His eyes looked strange, larger and more sunken than before, and he smelled of blood, both old and fresh. He swallowed before speaking. “Is Charis...?”

“There.” Serifar pointed at the house. “We’re fine, and you... you look awful, Kastor, are you hurt? Can I --”

“Nah.” He swung a clattering bundle from his back and dropped it. “Just tired of carrying that crap. Grab it for me, will you?” He began a smile. Then he fell over.

Serifar caught him clumsily, but couldn’t keep him upright, had to lower him to the snow. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered with something sticky and dark. “Oh. Oh dear.”

“This is your Kastor, then?” Marten loomed over Serifar. Several of the others were behind him.

Serifar held up his sticky hand in wordless pleading.

“Ah, shit,” said the farmer. He began barking orders, and everyone scrambled. They bore Kastor away with them.

Serifar was left alone with a bloodstain in the snow, the bundle, and one of Marten’s older sons. That man bent to prod the bundle, peeling away the filthy blanket that wrapped it. He stepped back with a gasp.

“Well I’ll be damned. He really did go after those bandits.”

“What is it?” Serifar asked, though his curiosity was weak at the moment.

“Have a look.” The man held the wrapping aside so he could see.

Weapons. Dozens of them. Bows, swords, arrows, knives, enough for a small army. All of them reeking of stale blood.

Serifar raised his hand and sniffed the fresh blood there. He dabbed it on his tongue. There was a particular pattern in it, a special note sounding to his senses. He knew he would always be able to tell that pattern from all others.

“That’s... uh... kinda creepy, kid.”

“Mm?” Serifar looked up at the man. “Didn’t you ever love someone?”

“Uh... I have work to do.” He hurried away.

Serifar went more slowly. Much as he wanted to return the favor and sew up Kastor’s wounds, he knew he’d be useless with only one hand. He wouldn’t be allowed near, he was sure.

He was mistaken. As soon as he set foot in the house, he was directed to the bedroom where Kastor lay. Charis was already there, kneeling by his head, gripping one of his hands. Kastor was awake, with a little sardonic smile on his cracked lips. He winced sometimes while the women worked to strip his armor off, but the smile stayed. He didn’t miss Serifar’s entrance, and flopped a hand as if trying to reach. When Serifar took it, though, he hissed and pulled it back, leaving a fresh smear of blood on Serifar’s palm.

“You look better,” Kastor croaked. “They treat you well here?”

Serifar nodded, then realized Kastor’s eyes had closed. “Yes. They’re nice.”

“Fine. Horses?”

Charis answered this one. “In a good warm barn, Da, and I visited every day.”

“Good, fine. Hst. Just cut it off, woman, it’s wrecked anyway!” This for Lily, who was trying to undo the caked and sticky ties of his shirt.

She called for a pair of shears, and Caril ran off. Kastor grunted annoyance. He used an elbow to push himself toward sitting.

“Help me up, boys. Don’t need to be treated like a corpse.” When Charis and Serifar had pushed him up, he took handfuls of his shirt and pulled. It was half shredded anyway, and it went to pieces. Underneath was flesh so caked and smeared that it was hard to tell where the wounds were. He looked down at himself and grunted in surprise. “That looks terrible. Help me get my boots off, don’t want them cutting those. Can’t... get more...” He was sagging. Lily caught him and eased him back down.

She glared at Charis and Serifar. “If you want him to live, you’ll help me keep him lying down, not encourage him to thrash around and open his wounds anew.”

Chastened, they nodded. She tugged at Kastor’s boots, to no effect. She reached for the shears Caril had brought. Charis said quickly, “Buckles! On the side. He’ll be mad if we wreck his boots, ma’am.”

While Lily struggled with the boots, more women closed in with steaming pans of water, and began mopping at Kastor’s skin. Serifar, backed into a corner to keep out of the way, was alarmed by how quickly the water turned red. Lily got the second boot off, and blood poured out of it.

Shortly Charis was in the way too, and was sent to be by Serifar. He curled his feet under him and leaned against Serifar’s side. Serifar hugged him, and they waited.

The women swarmed like ants, murmuring to each other. Sometimes Kastor woke, and grumbled. The women soothed him. They put his blood-crusted earrings in a little bowl by the bed; when they tried to take off the necklace with the gold key, it wouldn’t come off, so they left it. They found his back was hurt the worst, and turned him over to begin there, stitching and swabbing. It was difficult to see, with all those people in the way, but Serifar got the impression from what they said that the worst wound was just under the shoulderblade, and it was a wonder it hadn’t gone into the lung. Most of the wounds were small punctures, narrow and deep, and the women didn’t seem optimistic about his chances of survival. They worked with a will, though, as hours slipped by.

Sometimes Charis would murmur, “It can’t be as bad as they say. He’ll be all right.” Trying to reassure himself as much as Serifar. Serifar would agree, “He’s half immortal, he’ll make it.”

At last, the work was finished. Kastor was wrapped in bandages literally from head to foot, from a nicked ear to a cut that had half-removed two toes. Some men were called in to lift him so the women could change out the bloodstained sheets.

“Thought he’d be bigger,” one of the men said. “Considering what he did.”

“Lords of light, he’s in rotten shape,” said Marten, as they settled Kastor onto clean bedding. “He gonna make it, Lily?”

“Gods willing. It’s up to them now.”

From the way the farmer shook his head, that wasn’t an encouraging answer.

Charis said, “Sir? Is there a healer somewhere around here? Even just a priest who knows a few charms, that would be better than nothing.”

The farmer and his wife looked up in surprise, as if they couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of that. The farmer said, “He can afford it. Had to put his purse in the lockbox. Never saw so much gold in my life.”

“Send a runner,” Lily suggested.

“Send a rider,” said Charis. “Duaradda can carry double, if it’s me and someone light. Someone who knows the way.”

“Right. Come on, then.” He beckoned Charis, who sprang up, eyes afire with determination.

When Serifar stood to follow, Lily called his name. “Stay and help me here.”

He hesitated. Then he sighed, understanding. “I’d just get in their way. I know. Do you mean only that, or is there something I can do for him?”

The smile she gave him surprised him. He hadn’t thought the cynical woman was capable of such a gentle smile. “Just be nearby. He’s sleeping now -- and no wonder, with how much blood he’s lost -- but I think he’s a stubborn one, and he’ll wake any minute. Let him wake to a familiar face.”

“I’m sure he’d rather wake to Charis,” he said, but he took the low stool she offered and sat by the head of the bed. He reached out to smooth aside some strands of hair that had fallen over Kastor’s eyes, escaped from his bedraggled tail. “Ma’am? I think we should take his hair down. The tail is making his head lie funny, his neck will cramp.”

“Ah, so it is. Let me help.” She cradled Kastor’s head so Serifar could tug off the leather thong that held the tail. It was hard to do it gently, because it was tied so tight, but he did it, pulling out only a few hairs in the process. When Lily let Kastor down again, he looked more comfortable. And younger, more wounded, more vulnerable, with his tangled hair lying in a cloud around his too-pale face. Serifar’s eyes started stinging, and he sniffed.

Lily patted him on the back. “Now, don’t cry, son. You don’t want him waking up to that face.” She dabbed at a tear with her apron. “All snotty, and with your chin crinkled up. Be brave. You were brave enough to stand down my husband when he tried to bring you in -- can’t you be brave now?”

“But that’s his job.” The words were out before he considered them. He thought for a moment, and nodded. He knuckled his eyes and sat up straight. “All right. I’ll try.”

“That’s a good boy. Now, I’m going to go fetch some wine, for he’ll be thirsty when he wakes. You just watch over him, like the little angel you are.” She patted his head and left.

So he sat looking down at Kastor, and his thoughts were not comfortable ones. He wished he hadn’t spied on the couple in the barn, or understood what Lily had told him. The sight of Kastor’s eyelashes dark on his cheek, his long pale fingers lying curled on the blanket, made Serifar tense inside, and full of painful tenderness. But the width and knotted muscle of Kastor’s shoulders was frightening, and he had no idea what to make of the black stubble that shadowed Kastor’s jaw. He was terrified that Kastor would die, and afraid of his waking. Part of him wanted to run away and hide.

But it wasn’t the strongest part. The strongest part of his mind remembered that this was the man who’d found him in the swamp, insisted on helping him despite the villagers’ fear, taken him along when they wouldn’t welcome him, taught him so much, protected him -- and protected Charis, who was also his beloved friend. His own fear was insignificant, compared to that.

Lily came back with a pewter pitcher and a horn cup. She smiled at him, and left again.

He put his hand on Kastor’s forehead. It was hot and dry. Kastor mumbled incomprehensibly and turned his head. Serifar had seen that kind of behavior before; it was a fever. People more often died than recovered, when they tossed and murmured like that. He’d walked through a village once where half the people were sick that way. More than half of those had died.

He had only worried about that for a few minutes, though, when Kastor’s eyes flew open. They struggled to focus, found Serifar’s face, and closed again. Kastor sighed in relief, smiling a little. “Wasn’t sure which part was real. Got some water?”

“Wine. Let me help.” Serifar poured wine into the cup, then realized he couldn’t both lift Kastor’s head and hold the cup. He groaned. “I want my arm back. This is silly.”

Kastor solved the problem by raising himself on one elbow, taking the cup himself. He gulped it dry. That seemed to exhaust him; he fell back on the pillow, breathing hard.

“Be careful,” Serifar begged. “You could open your wounds!”

“Doesn’t matter. Nestrians. Wine’s red like blood, so... idiots. Get me some milk. Mare’s milk, for choice.”

“Yes, Kastor.”

Lily looked alarmed when he dashed into the kitchen, and he hastened to assure her that his hurry wasn’t because Kastor had died.

“He’s awake, and he wants mare’s milk.”

“Mare’s milk?” She glanced at another of the women, who shrugged. “He must be delirious.”

“No, ma’am, he’s lucid, and he wants milk. Mare’s if you have it, but any kind will do. He doesn’t want any more wine.” When they didn’t hurry to comply, he added, “He’s very wilful. If you won’t give it to him, he’s likely to go looking for it.”

Lily snorted. “Well, if it won’t help, it won’t hurt either. We’ll bring it.”

He didn’t waste any more time, but dashed back to Kastor’s side. The wounded man chuckled at his skidding entrance. “See your leg’s feeling better.” He coughed. “The milk?”

“They’re getting it.” He resumed his seat beside the bed.

“Ah.” Kastor’s eyes wouldn’t focus; they roved over the ceiling, making him look like a madman. “Serifar, you need a nickname. Your name’s too long. Serifar. Can’t say it fast either. End up tied in a knot. Seri. That’s a girl’s name. No good.”

“My name means ivy.”

“You’re joking. That’s too perfect. Can’t call you Ivy though. Girl’s name.”

“They thought I was a girl at first. Here, I mean.”

“Not surprised. Don’t want people to keep thinking that. Do you?”

“No. But I don’t know how to think of a nickname, Kastor.”

“My friends call me Kas.”

Glowing inside, Serifar repeated it. “Kas.”

Footsteps in the hall. Lily bustled in with a pitcher, and two other women hovered in the doorway, staring at Kastor. Why they should need to stare now, when they’d washed and bandaged him not two hours ago, Serifar didn’t understand. Lily stopped Kastor from trying to sit up. She lifted him, but when she tried to put the cup to his lips he grabbed it in his bandaged hand.

“Cow’s milk,” he said sadly after tasting it. “And with the cream off.”

“Already made butter. If you don’t want it --”

“’S fine.” He gulped it down.

She took the cup away and lowered him. “You should rest now. Sleep, if you can.”

“Fever. I know. Can feel it. Not delirious, though. You took good care of my boy?”

“Yes, sir. Our grandchildren are quite taken with him. And your... Serifar has been very helpful in the kitchen.”

“Course he has. Naturally good. Born that way. I’ll have some more of that milk.”

Reluctantly, she let him drink the whole pitcher.

“That’s better,” Kastor sighed. “Listen. That bundle I brought? Still got that?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Right. Don’t mess with it. ‘S proof. Very important.”

“We brought it inside, but we won’t touch it any further.”

“Good.” His eyes sagged closed. “Damn. Gotta sleep.”

The women stood in the hall, talking in low voices. Serifar didn’t try to overhear -- he was afraid of what he learned by eavesdropping -- but he caught a few words here and there. The topic seemed to be that Kastor didn’t behave the way they expected him to, and his armor and weapons were very strange, but that didn’t matter much because he was extremely handsome and had definitely killed a lot of bandits. Kastor slept uneasily, frowning and muttering, fingers twitching. It seemed to calm him when Serifar smoothed down his hair, so he left his hand there, though it felt like his palm was being slow-roasted by the heat of Kastor’s fever.

Finally, near midnight, the front door banged, and a swarm of voices came in. A stranger, a priest, came charging in. He didn’t give Serifar a single glance, but bent over Kastor, palm hovering over the blankets in the vicinity of Kastor’s heart.

The priest was a wiry man just past middle age, darkly tanned, with a frizz of curly gray-blond hair escaping his queue. His woolen robe, which he wore open over more ordinary clothes, was brown with green trim, and there was a symbol embroidered on the breast that Serifar didn’t recognize. It looked like a curved knife and a paintbrush. The man moved his hand around, never quite touching the blanket, frown deepening with each moment.

He turned to the doorway, where Marten stood with his hands on Charis’s shoulders. “The fever’s well advanced. He’s been stabbed many times, and the blades were none too clean. Who did this?”

“Bandits,” Charis announced. “There were twenty-two of them. Da killed them all.”

The priest raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but dismissed the subject. “I’ll do what I can; I can’t cure the fever entirely, but I can reduce it so it doesn’t harm his mind. I’ll have to bring his temperature down at intervals over the next several days, so I suggest preparing a cot for me. As for the wounds themselves, they would be a waste of my energy. To mend even one of these would exhaust me. Better that I fight the fever, so his own strength can mend his hurts. Do you understand, son?”

Charis nodded.

The priest looked at Serifar. “And who are you?”

“His friend,” said Serifar in a small voice, afraid he was going to be sent away.

“Well, son and friend, I suggest you each take a hand. I may be able to use your strength as well. You might get to feeling tired, but don’t fight it.”

They obeyed, clasping Kastor’s hands, and the priest began to pray.