which she must wake and rise to unpleasant reality. What use to stmggle so over bringing in a tiny crop of grain? Her husband was dead. She’d no child of his to carry on for.
Yet go on she must—Druyan knew no way to simply lie down and cease breathing, not on her own. So she’d go on, day to day, hour to hour, as one did, and not think about it, if thinking hurt. She’d bring in her crop, and this pathetic scoundrel would help her, since he professed himself willing. She looked back at him, sitting now a bare yard from Rook’s eager face, not moving except to tear the cheese with his alarmingly white teeth.
“What are you called?” Druyan asked, wondering why she troubled with the courtesy.
“Kellis,” he answered, almost choking again on a mouthful too large and too little chewed.
The Barley Harvest
The captive was clumsy at farm work. Perchance he’d never been good at such honest toil and so had taken up the more congenial career of raiding. Or maybe his wound made stooping to sever barley stems with the iron sickle a problem. There was no knowing—he didn’t complain or try to shirk, just went on slowly, with dogged concentration, striving to cut grain and not his fingers. Dalkin had needed to show him how to wield the sickle—pleased as a cock robin at owning a skill a grown man didn’t possess. The man didn’t know how to bind a sheaf, either, and Dalkin puffed still more as he demonstrated.
The boy was less willing to be sent off to fetch the shepherd girls, but Druyan was adamant and she was the mistress, the giver of orders. It was fairly obvious by then that she was in no real danger of being overpowered by her prisoner, even granted that he was armed with a sharpedged tool; and necessity pressed. Every able hand on the place had to be set to reaping. Every hour of dry daylight had to yield something for Splaine Garth. The sheep could feed unobserved, other chores could be ignored or postponed, but the grain must be cut.
Of course, Druyan herself couldn’t be reaping if she stayed primly atop Valadan, keeping Travic’s bow carefully trained on her prisoner, but Enna wasn’t at hand to protest when she abandoned that ill-conceived promise. Any fool could see it made no sense, not now there was only one man to consider in place of four. The prisoner wasn’t going to attack anyone—he could judge the odds weighted so heavily against any success. If he tried anything, it would be running, and between Rook and Valadan, that wasn’t likely to be so much a danger as a delay. And there was nowhere he might run to—Splaine Garth was a pocket farm, surrounded by moor. and marsh.
Kellis misliked the iron sickle. Dislike was not at all a strong enough term-the tool terrified him. The boy laughed when he didn’t know how to use it—but Kellis didn’t want to know how. He didn’t want to grasp barley stalks in one hand and then swing. a fell crescent of cold iron—keener and more deadly than the best flint knife—at them with the other. He wasn’t even sure his shins were safe.
There was a smooth wooden handle on the tool, but Kellis could feel the iron rang buried not very deeply under the wood—it wanted to bite his lingers, just as much as the sharper blade did. More, because it thought to take him unawares. Kellis blinked sweat out of his eyes, struggled to make the pale grain stalks come into focus. I’m going to cut my hand off, he thought helplessly. His head was pounding, and every movement made the world dip and sway around him, as if viewed from a ship’s deck in heavy weather. It was not the time to be learning to use a deadly instrument . . . but he had no choice. He had pledged he would work, and this was what he was set to do.
Even if he set aside his pledge, escape demanded that he be able to run, and he could barely keep himself upright. He could smell the sea, but reaching it would avail him nothing-. All the other directions were equal mysteries to him, and
Yet go on she must—Druyan knew no way to simply lie down and cease breathing, not on her own. So she’d go on, day to day, hour to hour, as one did, and not think about it, if thinking hurt. She’d bring in her crop, and this pathetic scoundrel would help her, since he professed himself willing. She looked back at him, sitting now a bare yard from Rook’s eager face, not moving except to tear the cheese with his alarmingly white teeth.
“What are you called?” Druyan asked, wondering why she troubled with the courtesy.
“Kellis,” he answered, almost choking again on a mouthful too large and too little chewed.
The Barley Harvest
The captive was clumsy at farm work. Perchance he’d never been good at such honest toil and so had taken up the more congenial career of raiding. Or maybe his wound made stooping to sever barley stems with the iron sickle a problem. There was no knowing—he didn’t complain or try to shirk, just went on slowly, with dogged concentration, striving to cut grain and not his fingers. Dalkin had needed to show him how to wield the sickle—pleased as a cock robin at owning a skill a grown man didn’t possess. The man didn’t know how to bind a sheaf, either, and Dalkin puffed still more as he demonstrated.
The boy was less willing to be sent off to fetch the shepherd girls, but Druyan was adamant and she was the mistress, the giver of orders. It was fairly obvious by then that she was in no real danger of being overpowered by her prisoner, even granted that he was armed with a sharpedged tool; and necessity pressed. Every able hand on the place had to be set to reaping. Every hour of dry daylight had to yield something for Splaine Garth. The sheep could feed unobserved, other chores could be ignored or postponed, but the grain must be cut.
Of course, Druyan herself couldn’t be reaping if she stayed primly atop Valadan, keeping Travic’s bow carefully trained on her prisoner, but Enna wasn’t at hand to protest when she abandoned that ill-conceived promise. Any fool could see it made no sense, not now there was only one man to consider in place of four. The prisoner wasn’t going to attack anyone—he could judge the odds weighted so heavily against any success. If he tried anything, it would be running, and between Rook and Valadan, that wasn’t likely to be so much a danger as a delay. And there was nowhere he might run to—Splaine Garth was a pocket farm, surrounded by moor. and marsh.
Kellis misliked the iron sickle. Dislike was not at all a strong enough term-the tool terrified him. The boy laughed when he didn’t know how to use it—but Kellis didn’t want to know how. He didn’t want to grasp barley stalks in one hand and then swing. a fell crescent of cold iron—keener and more deadly than the best flint knife—at them with the other. He wasn’t even sure his shins were safe.
There was a smooth wooden handle on the tool, but Kellis could feel the iron rang buried not very deeply under the wood—it wanted to bite his lingers, just as much as the sharper blade did. More, because it thought to take him unawares. Kellis blinked sweat out of his eyes, struggled to make the pale grain stalks come into focus. I’m going to cut my hand off, he thought helplessly. His head was pounding, and every movement made the world dip and sway around him, as if viewed from a ship’s deck in heavy weather. It was not the time to be learning to use a deadly instrument . . . but he had no choice. He had pledged he would work, and this was what he was set to do.
Even if he set aside his pledge, escape demanded that he be able to run, and he could barely keep himself upright. He could smell the sea, but reaching it would avail him nothing-. All the other directions were equal mysteries to him, and
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