The Steerswoman's Road by Rosemary Kirstein Page B

fire and rested there.
    Bel watched him silently, then turned to Rowan for answers.
Rowan told her about Reeder’s boy, and Bel listened, eyes wide.
    “People should be careful with magic,” the Outskirter said. “He
ignored the warning. It was a stupid thing for him to do.”
    “Boys are stupid,” Tyson said bitterly. “It’s in them to be
stupid, and to do stupid things. That’s how they learn. Adults should know
better.”
    “It’s not your fault.” Rowan put a hand on his shoulder and
studied his face. “He was down there already. He was looking for mischief. It’s
horrible, but he found it himself.”
    He turned to her. “He would have left it alone, after the
guard-spell warned him. But he saw us. And I—I dared him.”
    She had no answer. It was true.
    “Perhaps he thought he’d be immune,” Bel said. “Perhaps he
fancied himself a sailor.” The idea set off in Tyson some chain of thought
that forced his eyes closed in pain.
    The room was thick with dampness and cooking scents. The air
was dark and close. The fire painted their faces with warm light. Rowan
remembered such a light, such air, such faces.
    She had been a very young girl, perhaps five years old. The
harvest was in, and it was very late at night. There was still much to do, and
the family had brought their work by the firelight.
    Her mother and father were husking fist-sized ears of maize.
A morning rain had soaked the ears, and they gave off a visible steam in the
heat. Her aunt, a narrow, fragile-looking woman, was sorting beans, and her
uncle sat close to the firelight, squinting as he carefully repaired a wicker
basket.
    Young Rowan was shelling peas, very bored. She absently
counted the number of peas in each pod, wondering if they would go past ten.
Ten was all she knew.
    The adults’ conversation seemed not to pertain to her, and
she accepted it as a dull background to a dull job. Presently there was a
lull, and her aunt began to sing a little song in a high thin voice. Rowan
became more interested and stopped counting to listen.
    The song was about a bird. Rowan liked that, as she was fond
of birds, and there were so few around. The bird, a swallow, flew alone in an
empty sky. In the morning it came close to earth and flew very fast, skimming
the fields. Later it began to rain, and the swallow passed a barn. Looking
inside, it saw that all the animals were in their stalls, warm and safe. At
night, it flew high above an empty castle and looked down on the towers,
circling around. At last it found a nest and slept, while the mysterious moon
crossed the skies. Rowan thought it was a fine song.
    But when it was finished she happened to look over at her uncle
and saw that he was silently crying. He had stopped his work and closed his
eyes. Tears ran down his weathered cheeks.
    Rowan was surprised. There was nothing to cry about. The only
thing that had happened was that her aunt had sung a song. The other adults
ignored her uncle. That upset Rowan; someone was unhappy, no one was paying
attention, and it was not right.
    Then it came to her that somehow the song was not about a
bird but about sorrow. She was confused. There was nothing in the song except
the bird, and what it had done. Still, she knew it was so.
    Later, after she had been put to bed, she crept outside and
stood alone in the back yard. With her back to the house, she could see out to
the edge of the cultivated land, past the funeral groves, where the desert
began. The sky above was wide and empty; she thought of a tiny bird high up in
that sky, looking down on her. She tried to remember the song and sang it to
herself. As she sang it, her own eyes filled with tears, although she could not
see why they should.
    It came to her that there were reasons behind events,
reasons she did not know, and that the world contained many things that were
other than what they seemed. She thought that perhaps if she could fly very
high, she might see a great deal.
    Rowan still knew the