Sorcerer's Son by Phyllis Eisenstein Page A

out to Sepwin. “You see?”
    “Do they never bite you?” Sepwin asked.
    “Never.”
    Slowly, Sepwin sank to his knees. “My lord,” he murmured, “are you some sort of wizard?”
    Cray smiled. “I know a few things, especially about spiders. That doesn’t make me a wizard.” He leaned down and extended his hand. “If you’re not afraid of a few spiders, you can still have a ride to the village. I think after that fall you’d rather not walk.”
    Sepwin looked up and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I am not afraid,” he said, and he took Cray’s hand and mounted Gallant.
    “I haven’t much silver,” Cray said, kicking his horse to a slow walk, “but you’re welcome to a piece of it.”
    “Where are you bound, my lord? I mean, Master Cray?”
    “For Falconhill, Master Feldar.”
    “Where would that be?”
    “You don’t know?”
    “No.”
    “Well, neither do I, precisely. It’s in the west somewhere.”
    “I am from the south. Somewhere. Have you some business at this Falconhill?”
    “Yes, Master Feldar. I seek word of my father, who went to Falconhill once and never returned.”
    “Perhaps it is a dangerous place.”
    “Perhaps. Would you care to go there?”
    “I, sir? Not if it is dangerous.”
    “I have been traveling alone for a long time,” said Cray, “and I was thinking that it’s a dull journey without other ears than my horse’s to talk to. And you have no pressing destination.”
    “True enough, Master Cray.”
    “And you would never go hungry as my companion.”
    “You have a compelling argument, young sir. But why would you wish to burden yourself and your horse with a cripple?”
    “Are you so different from other men, Master Feldar?”
    He was silent a moment, and then he said resolutely, “No, I am not.”
    “Then perhaps we will find you a horse for yourself in this village. Gallant would tire carrying both of us all the time.”
    “You would buy me a horse?”
    “Don’t expect another like Gallant, though.”
    “Master Cray, you are mad to treat a stranger so!”
    “You asked for alms, did you not?” He shrugged. “Besides,we may find you some useful work at Falconhill. I have heard that it is a great holding.”
    “But your father—the danger—”
    “You can always tell them you met me on the road and hardly know me at all.” He kicked Gallant to a faster pace. “There is the village already. We can stop and fill our flasks at their well.”
    Small, dirty children ceased their play to point and exclaim at the beautiful horse as Gallant walked slowly past the low wall that marked the village boundary. The well was in the center of the enclosed space, and when Cray and Sepwin dismounted there, the children crowded around them, stroking the horse’s legs and flanks, as high as they could reach. Although Gallant tolerated this attention quietly enough, with Cray standing at its head muttering soothing nonsense, a woman ran from one of the huts and pulled the children away one by one, scolding sharply.
    “An animal that large,” she said, her voice pitched to rise above the tumult of their complaints. “You don’t know what he’ll do, you little fools. Get away now, get away from him!”
    “A fair morning to you, good wife,” Cray said, smiling broadly. “It’s a wise mother that looks after her young ones so well.”
    She glared at him. “Who are you, stranger, and what do you want?”
    “My friend and I have been long upon the road, good lady, and we came to ask if we might fill our flasks and water our horse at your well.”
    “I suppose you may. There’s a trough for the horse.” She flicked a thumb toward a low wooden basin some paces from the well. “Fill it at your pleasure.” She walked away.
    Cray smiled again and nodded at her retreating back, and then he dropped the bucket into the well and began hauling water up. He had scarcely splashed the first measure into the trough when he felt a small hand tugging at his surcoat. He looked down at a tow-headed child of six or seven summers. “Yes?”
    “May I ride the horse?”
    Cray