him and cuddled up with that.
Chapter 7
T obin didn’t forget the bad memories of that name day, but—like the unwanted sack of marbles gathering dust at the back of his wardrobe—he simply chose not to touch them. The other gifts he’d received kept him happily occupied over the next year.
He learned swordplay and archery in the barracks yard with Tharin, and rode Gosi every day. He no longer cast a longing eye at the Alestun road. The few traders they met on the mountain track bowed respectfully; no one pointed at him here, or whispered behind their hands.
Remembering the pleasure he’d felt making the wax horse at the shrine, he begged bits of candle end from Cook’s melting pot, and soon the windowsill in his bedchamber was populated by tiny yellow animals and birds. Nari and his father praised these, but it was Tharin who brought him lumps of clean new wax so that he could make bigger animals. Delighted, Tobin used the first bit to make him a horse.
O n his eighth name day they went to town again and he was careful to behave himself as a young warrior should. He made fine wax horses at the shrine, and no one snickered later when he chose a fine hunting knife as his gift.
N ot long after this, his father decided it was time for Tobin to learn his letters.
Tobin enjoyed these lessons at first, but mostly becausehe loved sitting in his father’s chamber. It smelled of leather and there were maps and interesting daggers hanging on the walls.
“No Skalan noble should be at the mercy of scribes,” his father explained, setting out parchments and a pot of ink on a small table by the window. He trimmed a goose quill and held it up for Tobin to see. “This is a weapon, my son, and some know how to wield it as skillfully as a sword or dagger.”
Tobin couldn’t imagine what he meant but was anxious as always to please him. In this, however, he had little luck. Try as he might, he simply could not understand the connection between the crooked black marks his father drew on the page and the sounds he claimed they made. Worse yet, his fingers, so adept at molding wax or clay from the riverbank, could not control the scratchy, skittering quill. It blotted. It wandered. It caught on the parchment and spat ink in all directions. His lines were wiggly as grass snakes, his loops came out too large, and whole letters ended up backwards or upside down. His father was patient but Tobin was not. Day after day he struggled, blotching and scratching along until the sheer frustration of it all made him cry.
“Perhaps we’d best leave this for later,” his father conceded at last.
That night Tobin dreamt of burning all the quills in the house, just in case his father changed his mind.
F ortunately, Tobin had no such difficulty learning the sword. Tharin had kept his promise; whenever he was at the keep, they met to practice in the barracks yard or the hall. Using wooden swords and bucklers, Tharin taught Tobin the rudiments of sweeps and blocks, how to attack and how to defend himself. Tobin worked fiercely at these lessons and kept his pledge to the gods and his father in his heart; he would be a great warrior.
It was not a difficult one to keep, for he loved arms practice. When he was little he’d often come with Nari to watch the men spar among themselves. Now they gathered to watch him, leaning out the barracks windows or sitting on crates and log stools in front of the long building. They offered advice, joked with him, and stepped out to show him their own special tricks and dodges. Soon Tobin had as many teachers as he wanted. Tharin sometimes paired him against left-handed Manies or Aladar, to demonstrate how different it was to fight a man who held his weapon on the same side as your own. He couldn’t properly fight any of them, small as he was, but they went through the motions in mock fights and showed him what they could. Koni, the fletcher, who was the smallest and youngest of the guard, was closest to him
Chapter 7
T obin didn’t forget the bad memories of that name day, but—like the unwanted sack of marbles gathering dust at the back of his wardrobe—he simply chose not to touch them. The other gifts he’d received kept him happily occupied over the next year.
He learned swordplay and archery in the barracks yard with Tharin, and rode Gosi every day. He no longer cast a longing eye at the Alestun road. The few traders they met on the mountain track bowed respectfully; no one pointed at him here, or whispered behind their hands.
Remembering the pleasure he’d felt making the wax horse at the shrine, he begged bits of candle end from Cook’s melting pot, and soon the windowsill in his bedchamber was populated by tiny yellow animals and birds. Nari and his father praised these, but it was Tharin who brought him lumps of clean new wax so that he could make bigger animals. Delighted, Tobin used the first bit to make him a horse.
O n his eighth name day they went to town again and he was careful to behave himself as a young warrior should. He made fine wax horses at the shrine, and no one snickered later when he chose a fine hunting knife as his gift.
N ot long after this, his father decided it was time for Tobin to learn his letters.
Tobin enjoyed these lessons at first, but mostly becausehe loved sitting in his father’s chamber. It smelled of leather and there were maps and interesting daggers hanging on the walls.
“No Skalan noble should be at the mercy of scribes,” his father explained, setting out parchments and a pot of ink on a small table by the window. He trimmed a goose quill and held it up for Tobin to see. “This is a weapon, my son, and some know how to wield it as skillfully as a sword or dagger.”
Tobin couldn’t imagine what he meant but was anxious as always to please him. In this, however, he had little luck. Try as he might, he simply could not understand the connection between the crooked black marks his father drew on the page and the sounds he claimed they made. Worse yet, his fingers, so adept at molding wax or clay from the riverbank, could not control the scratchy, skittering quill. It blotted. It wandered. It caught on the parchment and spat ink in all directions. His lines were wiggly as grass snakes, his loops came out too large, and whole letters ended up backwards or upside down. His father was patient but Tobin was not. Day after day he struggled, blotching and scratching along until the sheer frustration of it all made him cry.
“Perhaps we’d best leave this for later,” his father conceded at last.
That night Tobin dreamt of burning all the quills in the house, just in case his father changed his mind.
F ortunately, Tobin had no such difficulty learning the sword. Tharin had kept his promise; whenever he was at the keep, they met to practice in the barracks yard or the hall. Using wooden swords and bucklers, Tharin taught Tobin the rudiments of sweeps and blocks, how to attack and how to defend himself. Tobin worked fiercely at these lessons and kept his pledge to the gods and his father in his heart; he would be a great warrior.
It was not a difficult one to keep, for he loved arms practice. When he was little he’d often come with Nari to watch the men spar among themselves. Now they gathered to watch him, leaning out the barracks windows or sitting on crates and log stools in front of the long building. They offered advice, joked with him, and stepped out to show him their own special tricks and dodges. Soon Tobin had as many teachers as he wanted. Tharin sometimes paired him against left-handed Manies or Aladar, to demonstrate how different it was to fight a man who held his weapon on the same side as your own. He couldn’t properly fight any of them, small as he was, but they went through the motions in mock fights and showed him what they could. Koni, the fletcher, who was the smallest and youngest of the guard, was closest to him
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