Owlflight

hurt a great deal, but it was hardly life-threatening. He edged out of the way a little more and got nearer the door.

Justyn rummaged through the shelves behind him, grabbing rags, herbs, a needle and fine silk thread, a mortar and pestle.

“Darian, boil some water,” he ordered, his back to the room as he hunted for something he needed.

But now Darian was in no mood to comply. This little incident only confirmed what he had been thinking. The people of Errold’s Grove didn’t need some fool who could suspend apples in the air, they needed a Healer, sometimes a Finder, sometimes a Weather-watcher, but not a wizard, and they never had needed a wizard in all the time Darian had been here. Most especially, they didn’t need him. It would make more sense for one of the girls to learn everything Justyn could teach about herbs and simples, distilling and potions, setting bones and stitching skin. So Darian just stood there, ignoring Justyn’s order, radiating rebellion and waiting for their reaction.

One of the farmers glanced at him with censure written clearly on his face. “Justyn,” he said in an overly loud voice, “is there any help you need?”

Justyn, who had been muttering to himself as he mixed herbs in the mortar, got flustered and distracted at the interruption. He had to dump the lot of what he was grinding out into the tiny fire, and start again. The fire flared up with a roar and a shower of multicolored sparks, and both farmers exclaimed in startled surprise, taking everyone’s attention off Darian.

That was all he needed. For once, Darian was not going to stand around and wait for people to give him stupid orders. Taking advantage of the distraction, the boy edged around behind Vere and made good his escape, sliding quickly out of the door before anyone noticed he was gone.

That’ll show him! That’ll show all of them that I’m not going to be treated like I have no mind of my own! I’m not a slave, and I never agreed to any of the things they‘ve done to me! They don’t give me the regard they‘d give a rooster; why should I stay and be insulted and made to do things I hate?

He didn’t want to be caught, though, so he moved around to the back of the cottage, plastering himself against the wall and ducking under the windows until he reached the side that faced the forest. He was just underneath the open window when he heard Justyn say in an exasperated tone of voice from which all patience had vanished, “Will you please boil that water, Darian? Now, not two weeks from now - “

But Darian was out of reach of further orders, and as he paused to listen to find out if either of the farmers was inclined to volunteer to go look for him, evidently Justyn looked around and saw that for himself, for there was a muffled curse.

“Useless brat,” the first farmer muttered. “We should have ‘prenticed him as a woodcutter to you, Kyle.”

Vere gave a snort. “He’d be just as useless there. Lazy is what he is. You oughta beat him now and again, Justyn. You’re too soft on him. Them parents of his spoiled him, and you ain’t helping by bein’ soft on him.” There was a clatter of metal as someone put the kettle on the hook over the fire.

Vere’s brother seconded that opinion. “Them two was useless to us and dangerous, Justyn. It’s in his blood, an’ you oughta beat it out of him, else he’ll bring somethin’ out of the woods that none of us’ll like.” Darian, lurking right beneath the window, heard every word too clearly to mistake any of it, and his stomach seized up inside of him as both fists clenched in an unconscious echo of the knots in his gut.

They were at it again. In front of him, or behind his back, they never let up, not for a minute! He felt his anger boiling up again, felt his face getting hot and his eyes starting to burn with the misery of loss he had vowed never, ever to show. He wanted to storm right back inside and confront both of those miserable old beasts, but what good would it possibly do? They’d only say to his face what they’d just said to Justyn.

With a strangled sob, he wrenched himself around and ran off - not into the village, but into the woods beyond, where the villagers were too cowardly - unlike his Mum and Dad - to go.

His feet knew the path, so he didn’t need to be able to see to find his way to one of his many hiding places. That was just as well, since unshed tears of anger and grief kept him from seeing very clearly. Darian wasn’t old enough to remember a time when things had been other than hard here at Errold’s Grove, but until last year, he had been happy enough. He hadn’t spent much time in the village itself, and although he hadn’t had any playmates, he hadn’t felt the need of them. Solitary by nature, he enjoyed the mostly-silent companionship of his parents.

Errold’s Grove lay on the very far western edge of Valdemar; nominally it was part of Valdemar, but the people here seldom saw a Herald more than once a year, and of late it had been longer than that between visits. Not that a Herald would do Darian any good, but the Heralds’ absence made the villagers feel neglected and forgotten, and that made them even harder on anyone who didn’t conform.

And Darian would never conform. He hated the village, he hated the people who saw no farther than the edges of their fields and wanted nothing more. He wanted more; he was stifling for want of freedom, and felt as if he were starving on a diet of confinement and mediocrity. He’d been out there where these villagers feared, and he remembered it far more vividly than anything that had happened to him in this dull little huddle of huts. Once he’d traveled the deep Forest he was never the same again, and he didn’t want to be part of this insular flock of humanity.