and held out his glass. “You'll find it harder than you think.”
Oruen just smiled.
----
Chapter Three
Idisio quickly decided that learning to ride a horse would always be one of his least favorite memories. If, of course, he lived through it; after the fourth time the horse threw him, that began to seem highly unlikely. Either the falls would break something vital, the horse would step on something critical, or Scratha would lose the remnants of a short temper and throttle him.
“I should have stayed on the streets,” Idisio muttered, glaring nose to nose with his horse. It stared back with deceptively sleepy eyes.
“I should have left you there,” Scratha said. He rubbed at his eyes, glanced around, and turned his horse away from the road at a sharp angle. “Lead the horse,” he called back over his shoulder.
Idisio slogged over loose, sandy ground, walking-weed hitching at his ankles and legs. He spared a moment's weary gratitude that his master had allowed the time to change into more suitable traveling clothes before the disastrous riding lessons began. The sturdy linen of his new outfit had held up well so far, although Idisio suspected he'd be spending hours picking out the tiny green seeds.
If, of course, they ever got around to resting. Idisio stumbled, legs threatening to give way under him. It occurred to him, through a grey haze, that he wouldn't be standing, let alone walking, much longer.
“Sit down before you fall over,” Scratha said at last. “I'll come back for you.” He took the reins from Idisio's hand. Not caring whether he fell in the middle of a patch of walking-weed or blood ants, Idisio felt the ground come up under his body and was aware of nothing more for a while.
When his eyes were willing to open again, he found Scratha carrying him, cradling him like a child. Idisio mumbled incoherent protest, ashamed.
“Quiet,” Scratha said, astonishingly gentle, and Idisio's eyelids, like undeniable, heavy weights, slid closed again.
The next time he woke, accumulated aches and bruises hammered at Idisio before his eyes were fully open. The smell of smoke came next, and the unmistakable aroma of food; Idisio's stomach woke with a loud growl at that. A woman laughed nearby.
Idisio struggled to sit up and focus sleep-bleared vision. Scratha knelt beside him.
“Don't get up,” Scratha said. “Your feet are wrapped. I'll bring you some food, if you're of a mind to eat.”
Idisio nodded, and the woman laughed again. Blinking past Scratha, the boy saw an old woman sitting cross-legged by a low table; her hair was pure white, her face lined and weathered like a thick log after a sandstorm. With no stiffness to her movements, she reached to scoop food from a wooden platter into a wide-mouthed wooden bowl, then turned a sharp, bright glance his way.
Fine, wide glass windows spilled light across the plain wooden floors and low, desert-style furniture. Large, colorful sitting cushions surrounded the table; the old woman sat on a deep purple one, and Idisio had been laid out on a wide bench covered with several more. Tall, glazed earthenware vases stood around the room: some as tall as Idisio, and all with dried or fresh flowers in them. A squat cookstove hulked against one wall, large enough to give heat to the room in cold weather; shelves nearby held jars of vegetables, meats, jams, and jellies. Glass jars, and well-made; this woman had to be as wealthy as a desert lord herself, to have so many fine things.
“What's your name, boy?” the woman asked as Scratha squatted beside Idisio again, bowl of food in hand.
“Idisio,” he said, taking the bowl from his master. A hunk of fresh bread, a pile of folded eggs speckled with green and red herbs, and a thick wedge of sourfruit; the food from the palace kitchen seemed to have been years ago. Idisio tore through the food, casting aside all his lessons on manners, slowed only by gulps from the mug of cool water his master
Oruen just smiled.
----
Chapter Three
Idisio quickly decided that learning to ride a horse would always be one of his least favorite memories. If, of course, he lived through it; after the fourth time the horse threw him, that began to seem highly unlikely. Either the falls would break something vital, the horse would step on something critical, or Scratha would lose the remnants of a short temper and throttle him.
“I should have stayed on the streets,” Idisio muttered, glaring nose to nose with his horse. It stared back with deceptively sleepy eyes.
“I should have left you there,” Scratha said. He rubbed at his eyes, glanced around, and turned his horse away from the road at a sharp angle. “Lead the horse,” he called back over his shoulder.
Idisio slogged over loose, sandy ground, walking-weed hitching at his ankles and legs. He spared a moment's weary gratitude that his master had allowed the time to change into more suitable traveling clothes before the disastrous riding lessons began. The sturdy linen of his new outfit had held up well so far, although Idisio suspected he'd be spending hours picking out the tiny green seeds.
If, of course, they ever got around to resting. Idisio stumbled, legs threatening to give way under him. It occurred to him, through a grey haze, that he wouldn't be standing, let alone walking, much longer.
“Sit down before you fall over,” Scratha said at last. “I'll come back for you.” He took the reins from Idisio's hand. Not caring whether he fell in the middle of a patch of walking-weed or blood ants, Idisio felt the ground come up under his body and was aware of nothing more for a while.
When his eyes were willing to open again, he found Scratha carrying him, cradling him like a child. Idisio mumbled incoherent protest, ashamed.
“Quiet,” Scratha said, astonishingly gentle, and Idisio's eyelids, like undeniable, heavy weights, slid closed again.
The next time he woke, accumulated aches and bruises hammered at Idisio before his eyes were fully open. The smell of smoke came next, and the unmistakable aroma of food; Idisio's stomach woke with a loud growl at that. A woman laughed nearby.
Idisio struggled to sit up and focus sleep-bleared vision. Scratha knelt beside him.
“Don't get up,” Scratha said. “Your feet are wrapped. I'll bring you some food, if you're of a mind to eat.”
Idisio nodded, and the woman laughed again. Blinking past Scratha, the boy saw an old woman sitting cross-legged by a low table; her hair was pure white, her face lined and weathered like a thick log after a sandstorm. With no stiffness to her movements, she reached to scoop food from a wooden platter into a wide-mouthed wooden bowl, then turned a sharp, bright glance his way.
Fine, wide glass windows spilled light across the plain wooden floors and low, desert-style furniture. Large, colorful sitting cushions surrounded the table; the old woman sat on a deep purple one, and Idisio had been laid out on a wide bench covered with several more. Tall, glazed earthenware vases stood around the room: some as tall as Idisio, and all with dried or fresh flowers in them. A squat cookstove hulked against one wall, large enough to give heat to the room in cold weather; shelves nearby held jars of vegetables, meats, jams, and jellies. Glass jars, and well-made; this woman had to be as wealthy as a desert lord herself, to have so many fine things.
“What's your name, boy?” the woman asked as Scratha squatted beside Idisio again, bowl of food in hand.
“Idisio,” he said, taking the bowl from his master. A hunk of fresh bread, a pile of folded eggs speckled with green and red herbs, and a thick wedge of sourfruit; the food from the palace kitchen seemed to have been years ago. Idisio tore through the food, casting aside all his lessons on manners, slowed only by gulps from the mug of cool water his master
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