the steward's not with the count in this. You saw that. But you have to come in, Gird, on your own. If they chase and capture you—"
"I can't be a soldier," said Gird. "I can't do that—what they did—"
"So I should hope. They don't want you now, anyway." Even in his misery, that hurt. He knew he'd been a promising recruit, barring his slowness in learning to read; he knew the sergeant had had hopes for him. And now he'd lost all that, forever. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he'd also lost plentiful free food. "We can use you," Arin went on. "We always could."
His mind was a stormy whirlwind of fear and grief and shame. He could imagine what the sergeant would say, the sneers of the other men, the ridicule. And surely he would be punished, for disgracing them so, and breaking his oath of service. Would he be left like Meris, a cripple? Better to die . . . and yet he did not want to die. The thought of it, hanging or the sword in his neck—and those were the easy ways—terrified him. Arin's look was gentle.
"Poor lad. You're still just a boy, after all, aren't you? For all the long arms and legs, for all the bluster you've put on this past spring."
"I'm—sorry." He could not have said all he was sorry for, but a great sore lump of misery filled his head and heart.
"I know." Arin sighed. "But I'm not sorry to think of you working beside me, Gird, when this is over. Come now: wash your face again, and let's be going back."
He felt light-headed on the way, but the stiffness worked out of his legs quickly. His soiled uniform rolled under his arm, he followed Arin down paths he hardly remembered.
"We need to hurry," said Arin over his shoulder. "They were going to start searching again this morning, and I'd like to get you down to the village before they set the dogs loose."
"What—what happened, after—"
"After you bolted? Near a riot, that was, with everyone screaming and thrashing about. It took awhile to settle, and the count had more to think of than you. Then your sergeant came to our place, and talked to father. Said you'd deserted, and they'd have to hunt you unless you came back on your own, and even if you did it might go hard with you. He didn't like the count's sentence on Meris any more than the rest of us, but . . . he had to go along. He took out a few of the men late in the evening, calling for you. I was sure you'd come up here."
"I didn't think," said Gird. "I just couldn't stand it—"
"Mmm. Then the steward came, after dark." Arin stepped carefully over a tangle of roots and went on. "Said we'd lose the holding, the way the count felt. He'd come down to show off his inheritance to his friends from court, all those fine lords and ladies, and then Meris hit him with an onion—"
"He what!"
"That's right. You probably don't know what really happened. Meris was stealing fruit, thinking everyone would be busy out front, but the count wanted to show the ladies the garden, and hurried through. So when Meris was spotted, he ran straight into the count and knocked him flat, in front of his friends, and then fired an onion at him from the top of the wall. Probably thought it was a guard. Poor lad."
Gird was silent, thinking what sort of man would cripple a boy for such a ridiculous mistake.
"He was wrong, of course, and now we're all in trouble, from the steward on down, but—" Arin flashed a grin back over his shoulder. "At least you didn't take part in it—and if they want to call it cowardice, well, I say brave men have better to do than batter rash boys into ruin."
"I don't want to die," said Gird suddenly, into the green silence of the wood.
"No one does," said Arin, "but sick old men and women. Did you think a soldier would never see death?"
"No, but—but I didn't think it would be like this. If it is, I mean." He didn't expect an answer to that, and got none. Early sun probed through the leaves, shafts of golden light between the trees. The wood smelled of damp earth,
"I can't be a soldier," said Gird. "I can't do that—what they did—"
"So I should hope. They don't want you now, anyway." Even in his misery, that hurt. He knew he'd been a promising recruit, barring his slowness in learning to read; he knew the sergeant had had hopes for him. And now he'd lost all that, forever. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he'd also lost plentiful free food. "We can use you," Arin went on. "We always could."
His mind was a stormy whirlwind of fear and grief and shame. He could imagine what the sergeant would say, the sneers of the other men, the ridicule. And surely he would be punished, for disgracing them so, and breaking his oath of service. Would he be left like Meris, a cripple? Better to die . . . and yet he did not want to die. The thought of it, hanging or the sword in his neck—and those were the easy ways—terrified him. Arin's look was gentle.
"Poor lad. You're still just a boy, after all, aren't you? For all the long arms and legs, for all the bluster you've put on this past spring."
"I'm—sorry." He could not have said all he was sorry for, but a great sore lump of misery filled his head and heart.
"I know." Arin sighed. "But I'm not sorry to think of you working beside me, Gird, when this is over. Come now: wash your face again, and let's be going back."
He felt light-headed on the way, but the stiffness worked out of his legs quickly. His soiled uniform rolled under his arm, he followed Arin down paths he hardly remembered.
"We need to hurry," said Arin over his shoulder. "They were going to start searching again this morning, and I'd like to get you down to the village before they set the dogs loose."
"What—what happened, after—"
"After you bolted? Near a riot, that was, with everyone screaming and thrashing about. It took awhile to settle, and the count had more to think of than you. Then your sergeant came to our place, and talked to father. Said you'd deserted, and they'd have to hunt you unless you came back on your own, and even if you did it might go hard with you. He didn't like the count's sentence on Meris any more than the rest of us, but . . . he had to go along. He took out a few of the men late in the evening, calling for you. I was sure you'd come up here."
"I didn't think," said Gird. "I just couldn't stand it—"
"Mmm. Then the steward came, after dark." Arin stepped carefully over a tangle of roots and went on. "Said we'd lose the holding, the way the count felt. He'd come down to show off his inheritance to his friends from court, all those fine lords and ladies, and then Meris hit him with an onion—"
"He what!"
"That's right. You probably don't know what really happened. Meris was stealing fruit, thinking everyone would be busy out front, but the count wanted to show the ladies the garden, and hurried through. So when Meris was spotted, he ran straight into the count and knocked him flat, in front of his friends, and then fired an onion at him from the top of the wall. Probably thought it was a guard. Poor lad."
Gird was silent, thinking what sort of man would cripple a boy for such a ridiculous mistake.
"He was wrong, of course, and now we're all in trouble, from the steward on down, but—" Arin flashed a grin back over his shoulder. "At least you didn't take part in it—and if they want to call it cowardice, well, I say brave men have better to do than batter rash boys into ruin."
"I don't want to die," said Gird suddenly, into the green silence of the wood.
"No one does," said Arin, "but sick old men and women. Did you think a soldier would never see death?"
"No, but—but I didn't think it would be like this. If it is, I mean." He didn't expect an answer to that, and got none. Early sun probed through the leaves, shafts of golden light between the trees. The wood smelled of damp earth,
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