Stonefather

“Not proud, sir,” said Runnel. “But Runnel of Farzibeck won’t die here to have a waterless coward rise in his place.”

“Waterless coward?” said Demwor. “Farzibeck — it’s in the mountains, is it?”

“West of here, along the Utteroad,” said Runnel. “Just beyond the pass over the Mitherkame.”

“So you’re named Runnel out of piety. You serve Yeggut?”

“I come here to find I may be the only one who does,” said Runnel.

Demwor put a hand on his shoulder once more, and Runnel flinched, but the hand was kindly this time. “You’ll do, I think,” said Demwor. “A boy from a mountain village, with a watername that means devotion, not ambition. Yes, that’s better. You were right to stand your ground and not give up the name.”

Demwor patted his shoulder and walked back toward the house.

Lark wasn’t having that. “Is he hired then, sir?”

“Yes,” said Demwor.

“What’s his wage?” she demanded.

“Same as yours,” said Demwor.

“That’s not right!” she shouted. “I’ve worked here two years already!”

“But he carried the waterjar full.” And Demwor was gone into the house.

Lark was furious. “Drown him and all his kittens,” she muttered fiercely.

“He hired me,” said Runnel.

“At far more wage than you’re worth,” she said.

“If you like, I’ll give you part of it, since you brought me here.”

For a moment her eyes lighted up. And then she backed away. “I won’t have no man thinking I owe him.”

Runnel shook his head. “Your precious treasure is safe from me,” he said. “I owe you, for bringing me here.”

“I thought you’d almost ruined everything when you refused to change your name.”

“It turned out all right,” said Runnel.

“How did you know it would?” she asked.

“I didn’t.”

“So you meant all that?” She seemed astonished.

“It’s my name,” said Runnel.

“You are the most ignorant person I’ve ever known. What’s a name?”

“You guard your purity,” said Runnel, “and I guard mine.”

Her eyes and nostrils flared and she swung as if to slap him, but then she didn’t actually hit him. Nor, however, did he flinch. “Don’t you ever dare to compare your name with my purity, as you call it. Someday I mean to earn my dowry and marry, not be some kitchen slut making coin on the side or winning favor from the master or the steward. Purity is the only treasure that a poor girl has, which is why I took this job, because people leave me alone, which means I have hope. While your name — it’s not famous, it’s not important, it’s worthless. So don’t you dare compare them again, ever!”

She stalked away from him, into the house, leaving him to finish his water, which he did.

What’s worthless to you might not be worthless to me, he said silently. But he couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Somehow he had managed to lose her friendship after all. It would be just like home.

He leaned against the cistern and closed his eyes. He had a job. He would be paid money. He had no idea what money was worth, but he was being paid the same as Lark, and she believed it was enough that she could save up a dowry.

She was young, and might be counting on ten years or more to build up what she wanted. But he was even younger, and could work longer before marrying. As a farmer, he had only just started doing men’s work, and not yet the full range of that. But here, he would learn everything and grow into whatever jobs were too hard for him.

Lots of hard work. Years of it. Why was he so excited?

It was because he would be with a stonemage. What did he care if he was only a cobblefriend and not one of the higher orders? He might even see magic done.

Meanwhile, there were practical benefits. Like this cistern. He could feel how it worked inside — the water in the tank above seeped right through a porous stone that trapped anything that shouldn’t be in it. It was slow for the water to seep its way through the rock, but all impurities were removed — ironic that the purest, cleanest water in Hetterferry should be in the stonemage’s house.

The porous stone was a surprise, though. He had never known rock like this, not in any of the outcroppings he had climbed. He wished it were outside the cistern where he could get his hands on it. If only he were a stonemage so he could understand how the filtering worked.

Dangerous thought. He must not wish to be a stonemage. He had taken an oath not to become one. If Demwor hadn’t made such a fuss about how he shouldn’t be one, he wouldn’t be wishing he could be one right now.

It didn’t matter. Mages were magical people, not ordinary farm boys.

Mages could go out into the world in the shape of their beloved — beast mages as the beast they favored, elemental mages in bodies of stone or wind or water, lightning or sand or metal. They could not be confined, not the ones with real power. Runnel imagined himself as a stonemage like Brickel, his new master. He could walk the earth in a stone body, and then what weapon could harm him?

I hope I can see my master in his stoneshape. Or must he keep such things secret, because Demwor was here to watch?