Rahl concealed a smile. His father, as good and solid a scrivener as he was, was order-blind. The order in his life resulted from following the rules and careful habit. Kian couldn’t have felt order or chaos if a black mage had arrived and filled the small dwelling with it or if one of the white wizards of Fairhaven had descended on white lightnings from the sky. So far, that had worked to Rahl’s advantage. Still, he was careful to avoid any of the black mages. Because Kian was a scrivener, and considered a learned man, Rahl had left school earlier than many others his age—and before he’d begun to realize his small abilities with order. While he doubted he had that much order-ability, he had no desire to call attention to himself.
He had a roof over his head, good‘ food, if plain, and plenty of time before he had to settle down.
“What do you think about Tales of the Founders?” asked Kian. “You’re reading it as well as copying it, aren’t you?”.
“Yes, ser.” Rahl paused slightly. He usually did in answering his father’s questions, both to give himself a moment to think and to create the impression of thoughtfulness even when he didn’t need the time. “I’ve only read what I’ve copied, but I don’t think the writer is telling the whole story.”
“That happened more than five hundred years ago,” replied Kian dryly, “and you know that he left something out?”
Rahl laughed easily. “Yes, ser. All stories leave something out. Otherwise, they’d go on forever and say little in too many words. It’s like copying a book. You don’t tell a customer all the things you do to make the book, from the binding and gluing to the illustrations and embossing, if it has any. You just say that you copied it. Books are like that. They don’t tell what people have for every meal.”
“Of course not,” snorted Kian. “But that doesn’t change things. You’re talking about something else. Say what you mean.”
Rahl wished he hadn’t said so much. Still, he offered a smile. “The story says that Creslin was a master blade, and that he killed scores of Hamorians, but it also says that he was raised in the Legend in Westwind, where no men bear arms. It doesn’t say how he became a master blade. You’re always telling me that to be good at anything I have to study, and work, and practice. That’s got to be true for a master blade, too. But there’s nothing about that.”
“It’s a legend,” replied Kian. “They leave things out.”
Rahl refrained from pointing out that he had just said that, suppressing his irritation at the fact that his father had ignored what he’d said just a few moments before. His father always ignored what was inconvenient. “It’s interesting, though. I’d like to, know how he and Megaera ever got together. She was supposed to be all chaos, and he was all order.”
“Opposites attract,” suggested Khorlya. “That’s something you’ll need to watch out for when it’s time for you to choose a consort. Great attraction beforehand sometimes means greater conflict afterward.”
“He’s got a consort-to-be, woman, if he’d only look. Shahyla is as good a catch as any young fellow could want. With but her one brother, she’ll hold all the upper pastures and half the herds one day. Bradeon’s getting grayer and frailer every eightday.”
Rahl nodded politely. One way or another, Shahyla was not going to be his consort. She was pleasant enough and not bad-looking, but from what he recalled from when they had been in school together she had the curiosity of a milk cow and the brains of a stone wall.
‘That’s if Bradeon doesn’t take a liking to some other young fellow and his family.“ Khorlya looked to her son. ”You’ll be needing to pay her a call on the end-days. I’ll bake you a honey cake to take with you. You can’t be calling empty-handed.“
“Will you make the kind with the almonds?”
“We might be having some left,” Khorlya said. “I’ll see.”
“You’re spoiling him,” replied Kian.
“It’s not for him, remember, dear. It’s for Bradeon and Shahyla. Poor man has no consort, and I hear tell that Shahyla’s so tied up with the milk cows and the creamery, she’s no time to bake properly.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt.” Kian pursed his lips. “Be there enough for a small one for us?”
Khorlya laughed. “I could manage that, I’m sure.”
Rahl finished the last of the heavy soup, and then took the last mouthful of bread, the corner with most of the conserve on it. He liked having a bit of sweetness at the end of a meal.
“Might I be excused?” he asked.
“Where are you going?” asked Khorlya.
“It’s a pleasant evening. I’ve been inside all day. I’m going to take a walk. If Sevien’s around, we’ll play plaques. Otherwise, I won’t be late.”
“Don’t be late at all,” suggested Kian. “You need the sleep for a steady hand. I promised that copy by summer. Good copying can’t be rushed. Means steady days, every day.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Let him go, Kian. I recall someone who sneaked back through the shutters more than once.”
“Was different then…” muttered the scrivener. His son and consort laughed.
Before Kian or Khorlya could say more, Rahl smiled and slipped off the bench and toward the door. “Not too late!” called Kian. “Yes, ser.”
Outside the house, in the fading twilight, Rahl stopped beside the pump and the cistern. Each house had one fed by pipes from the springs supposedly found or created by the black ordermastery of Creslin hundreds of years before. He washed up carefully, brushed the dust off his brown tunic, and smoothed his hair back in place. Then he checked the truncheon at his belt. With a smile, he walked out to the street and turned southward.
At the next corner, just short of Alamat the weaver’s place, he turned left and followed the street to the end, where a small wooden gate stood closed between two waist-high stone walls. Rahl unlatched the gate, entered the orchard, and closed the gate behind him. The pearapple blossoms had mostly fallen onto the sparse grass between the trees, and then faded into a white transparency, but there remained a faint scent, particularly around the trees in the higher and slightly colder southwest corner.
He walked silently down the line of trees toward the small storage barn with its closed and angled doorway that led down to the fruit cellar. To the right was an old wooden bench. Rahl took a rag from his tunic and wiped it off, then sat down.
After a time, he cupped his hands and concentrated, then did his best to imitate the soft call of a rat-owl. “Tu-whoooo…”
While he waited, he-listened, but all he heard were the sounds of insects, and the faint whisper of leaves in the light and intermittent breeze.
Before that long, he could sense a feminine presence slipping away from the house. He stood, but said nothing as Jienela neared. She wore a sleeveless summer tunic and loose trousers, and carried something, a cloak perhaps, although the night was warm for mid-spring.
He took her hand. “I hoped you’d hear.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Father’s doing his accounts tonight, and Mother’s over at Aunt Denya’s. They’re working on the consorting quilt for Jaired.”
“He’s getting consorted?” Rahl couldn’t imagine anyone putting up with the hot-tempered Jaired, especially since Jaired wasn’t the brightest copper in the wallet.
“It’s sort of a secret. With Coerlyne.”
“She’s…”
“I know, but… he’s been seeing her for a long time, and Father and Mother finally gave in.”
Rahl had the feeling that Coerlyne and Jaired might be having an addition to their soon-to-be family somewhat j, sooner than might ordinarily be the case. “We might as well sit down.” He gestured.
“I brought an old blanket. The bench can be hard, and it’s dirty.”
Rahl took the blanket, folding it twice and laying it on the wood. Then he gestured for Jienela to sit down.
“You always make me feel special.”
He settled beside her. “That’s not hard. You are.”
Carefully, oh so carefully, he brushed her with just a touch of order. Doing that, he’d discovered, not only left the girls with fairer and smoother skin, but also tended to make them more receptive to his caresses.
“Did I tell you that you’re beautiful?” Rahl let his fingers caress Jienela’s hand, then brushed back her long brown hair, his fingertips barely grazing her long neck.
Her eyes dropped shyly. “You’re kind, Rahl; but I’m not beautiful, not like Ermana.”
“Beauty is more than blond hair and blue eyes.” He smiled warmly, then added, “A kind heart and a welcoming smile are more beautiful. Every time you smile, I want to smile back.”
“You must tell all the girls that.”
“I haven’t told a single one that.” He hadn’t, and Jienela did have a nice smile. Besides, he tried to tell the truth about each girl. Truthful was always best, especially oh Reduce. After all, they each were special in different ways, and there, was no reason not to let each one know her best features. He squeezed her hand gently. “Your smile is special.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
“What did you do today?” he asked. “It had to be more interesting than what I did. I just sat at the table and copied, and thought of you!‘ He had thought of her, if not all that often.
“I helped Father in the morning, culling the fruit buds that were too crowded or wrong, and then worked in the house and barn with Mother.”
“At least you got to move around.”
“You don’t just sit there and copy all day, do you?”
“Not all day.” He laughed quietly. “I did go out to the shed and check on the next batches of ink, and I cut some rushes for Mother.” He squeezed her hand gently once more, then leaned forward and brushed her cheek with his lips.
“We’re too close to the house,” she whispered. “Let’s go up to the corner of the orchard. The grass is soft there, and you can still smell the pearapple blossoms. Father won’t hear us there.”
“Are you sure?” he asked softly.
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, gently. “Very sure.”
He stood, giving a hand to Jienela. Then he lifted and folded the blanket over his left arm, before offering his right to her. As they walked up toward the corner of the orchard, Rahl moved easily and confidently. He had a solid feel for where things were in the dark… as well as for other matters.
Rahl wasn’t too late getting home, just late enough that his parents were already half-asleep and relieved that he had returned. He’d gone to bed happily, with pleasant memories of the evening—and Jienela. It had been her idea, even if he had encouraged it subtly.
The next morning he was up as usual—just one moment before his mother was about to yell. He had to gulp down breakfast—gruel and bread—then get on with his chores. Finally, he made it to the workroom, where he settled into copying Tales of the Founders.-
“Might be better if you got up a mite earlier,” suggested Kian. “Your mother was reaching for the spare frying pan—the big iron one. And you were supposed to spar with me before we got to work. You’re still not good enough with that truncheon, and there are times when a man needs to be able to defend himself.”
“Yes, ser.” Rahl hadn’t realized about the frying pan, but he sensed his father was telling the truth about it and his sparring. Why did they always want more? It wasn’t as though he were a child anymore. He was up in time, and he worked hard. He did his chores, and he didn’t complain, yet whatever he did was never quite enough. He pushed back that retort and concentrated on the copying before him.
The morning was long and uninterrupted. Not a single person came by, either to have a letter written or to purchase anything. Rahl was more than ready when his mother called.
“Dinner’s ready!”
He still was careful to clean and rack his pen, cap the inkwell, and close the copy of Tales of the Founders from which he had been copying.
Dinner was far heartier than breakfast had been or supper would be. There were chunks of mutton in brown gravy and roasted potatoes, and freshly baked bread. Of course, there were dandelion greens and winter roots, but the roots didn’t taste bad in the gravy, and the greens were fresh.
Rahl only managed two mouthfuls before his mother cleared her throat. “Rahl?”
“Yes, Mother?” He didn’t like the feel behind the way she’d pronounced his name.
“Alamat’s niece Quelerya said you didn’t go to Sevien’s last night. She saw, you going through Dhostak’s orchard.” Khorlya looked at her son. “I’d hate to see you get tied up with Jienela. She’s pretty enough, but she’ll have nothing. The orchard’s barely large enough to support Dhostak and his family, and she’s got two older brothers. Word is that even the younger one’s going to be consorted before long—and to Coerlyne. Drover’s daughter, and she doesn’t so much as have a single copper penny to her name. And Jienela, she’ll not have much more than that, not with those two good-for-nothing louts they call her brothers. Three families’ll have to live off that orchard, four if you count Dhostak and Aryla.”
“She is pretty,” Rahl admitted, “but I don’t intend to get tied up with anyone now. I’m too young to take a consort.” Why were they always nagging him about a consort?
“Intentions are all well and good, Rahl,” interjected Kian, “but actions count more than intentions, and there are grass stains on the cuffs and sides of your trousers.”
Rahl managed not to flush.