Sorcerer's Son by Phyllis Eisenstein

about his head so as to cover his left eye.
    Cray surveyed the youth’s torn and dirty cloak, the worn wrappings on his feet. “Is it food you want, beggar, or money?”
    “Food first, good my lord, or I shall not live long enough to reach yonder village. And after
    whatever small coins you might be able to spare.” He clasped his hands and raised them toward Cray. “Anything, my lord. A crust of bread. A rind of cheese. Anything.”
    Cray squinted up at the sun. “It may be a little early in the day for a noon meal, but I shall eat anyway. And you shall share it.” He glanced down the road, gestured with one hand. “I see a likely shade tree; shall we sit there?”
    The beggar nodded eagerly, and he ran beside Gallant as the horse took its rider to the designated place.
    Cray dismounted and tied Gallant’s reins to the tree. Then he drew bread and cheese from his saddlebags, and cold rabbit and a flask of water. He laid them on the shield as on a table, to keep them from the dust of the road.
    Cray had seen cripples before, in the webs of his mother’s castle, but in his brief travels away from home, he had never encountered one in the flesh. As he divided the food with his knife and watched his companion wolf that allotted him, he could not help wondering what lay under the rag bandage. At last, as they licked the last traces of grease from their fingers, he said, “How did it happen?”
    The other peered at him through one narrowed brown eye. “How did what happen, my lord?”
    “Your eye.”
    The beggar touched the rag with one hand, protectively. “I was born this way.”
    “You can’t see with it?”
    “I can see
    a little. But it isn’t pretty. People don’t like to look at it. So I keep it covered.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Feldar Sepwin, my lord.”
    Cray grinned. “I’m not your lord. I’m not anybody’s lord. My name is Cray Ormoru.”
    Sepwin bobbed his head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”
    “And you needn’t call me sir.”
    “I call everyone sir. A beggar must.”
    “Ah
    or there wouldn’t be any alms.”
    “You have it, young sir.”
    “Have you no family, Master Feldar?”
    “They tossed me out, sir. Because of my eye.”
    “What sort of family would do that?” Cray asked.
    “Farmers, sir. Plain peasant farmers.”
    “They tossed out a good pair of hands. Unless
    there is something else amiss with you.”
    Sepwin shook his head. “Just the eye, sir. Folks don’t like to look at it. Folks don’t like to think about it.”
    “Can it be so ugly?”
    Sepwin looked away. “You would think so, I’m sure.”
    Cray picked up his shield and hung it at its place on the saddle. “Where are you bound, Master Feldar?”
    He shrugged. “Anywhere, sir. It doesn’t matter.”
    “Would you care to ride behind me to the village? Gallant can easily carry both of us that far.”
    “My lord, that would be more than kind.”
    “Not ‘my lord’. Just Cray.” He mounted lightly. “Now up with you. Take my hand and put your foot in the stirrup there.”
    Awkwardly, Sepwin clambered upon the saddle, settling himself behind Cray. He was there only a moment when he pushed away and slid over Gallant’s rump, landing heavily on the dusty road. He scrambled to his feet, one hand pressed to his right hip, which had taken the brunt of the fall. “My lord,” he said hastily, “the back of your neck is covered with spiders!”
    Cray felt of his neck with gentle fingers, and the spiders crawled onto his hand and scurried up his sleeve. “They won’t hurt you,” he said.
    Sepwin’s single eye was wide. “You knew they were there?”
    ‘They’ve been there ever since I left my home. They are my friends.“
    “Strange friends you have, my lord.” Sepwin backed away, one limping step. “I was born a farmer, and I don’t fear spiders, but I have never seen so many in one place at one time. And what a place!”
    “They cling wherever they can,” said Cray. “Usually, most of them are in my sleeve.” He coaxed one brown-and-white mite onto his open palm and held it