Free Ward of the Philosopher by D. P. Prior Page A

his free hand, he applied pressure to her head. She choked and gasped. Her vision began to blur.
    “It is not my intention to hurt you,” the man said.
    A shadow fell across the room.
    “Wish I could say the same.”
    It was Vassilis.
      Eumelia only saw his ragged silhouette against the half-light outside. He drew his sword and strode toward them.
    The old man swung Eumelia in the way, but Vassilis still raised his blade. In that instant, the old man released his choke hold and turned to snatch up the baby. Eumelia screamed and fell to her knees.
    “Please,” she begged. “My baby. Please.”
    Vassilis pushed past her and swung his sword. The old man ducked beneath its arc, holding little Aris against his chest. Vassilis went for a punch, but again, the old man was too quick. He slammed his shoulder into Vassilis and tripped him as he pushed past.  
    Eumelia made a grab for the hem of the old man’s toga, but he spun and kicked her in the chin. The room careened, and she slumped to the floor.
    Vassilis made it to his feet and charged. This time, the old man held the baby under one arm, and struck Vassilis in the sternum with the palm of his free hand. Vassilis grunted and dropped like a stone.
    “My baby!” Eumelia wailed. “Where are you taking him?”
    The old man looked at her, eyes full of pity.
    “Another place, another time. But there is no need to worry. I have it all planned out for him, Mother. It’s for the best. Trust me.”
    A corona of green light flared around him, and then the old man and baby Aris were gone.
    Eumelia shuddered with sobs that refused to come. Her head swam from where he’d kicked her. Beside her, on the floor, Vassilis groaned and rolled to his back, gasping for breath.
    Her baby…
    Baby Aris was gone.
    But the thing that struck Eumelia like a knife to the heart was the uncanny feeling that she knew this man who had taken her child from her, this man who had called her Mother.

TRACES OF THE ANCIENTS

    Isle of Maranore, Urddynoor, Year of the Reckoning: 878

    S unlight lanced through golden leaves, dappling the loamy earth that sucked at Deacon’s new boots. Scarcely out of their brown paper wrapping, they were already spattered with mud. A sweet scent wafted from the vining honeysuckle in the hedgerows that marked the bounds of home. Twenty yards from the garden, and you were beneath the roof of oak and alder; thirty, and you were in another world.  
    Friston Forest in the autumn was the only place in the whole of Urddynoor he wanted to be right then. It would have been perfect, if his father hadn’t been up on Craven Head with the Coastal Watch, patrolling the cliffs in search of reavers. It was the first time Jarl Shader had missed his son’s birthday.
    Deacon’s bulldog, Nub, yipped and was off into the bracken with a waggle of his stumpy tail. Deacon cast a worried look back toward the garden gate. His mother, Gralia, wouldn’t know if he went a bit farther than he was allowed, would she? It wasn’t like she was keeping watch, and anyhow, he was seven now. All the other kids his age went about the forest by themselves; he could hear them laughing and screaming from his bedroom window after they came back from the schoolhouse.
    He touched the prayer cord dangling from his belt. That had been Gralia’s gift to him on waking; that and the boots she was going to scold him for now. He fingered one of the knots you were supposed to unpick when you prayed. It was best way to grow closer to the Lord Nous, his mother had told him. The thought flooded him with warmth, quickly replaced by a tinge of guilt.  
    His eyes flicked between the big hedge at the back of the house and the undergrowth the bulldog had disappeared into. It wasn’t just the rule about not wandering off that was worrying him; the tutor was coming today, just like they’d always known he’d come. Seven was the age they’d set, his mother and father. It wasn’t fair. The other kids got to learn together