"Sorcerer's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Phyllis Eisenstein)

As they were preparing to mount, the small boy piped, “Before you leave, sir, may I see your eye?”

Sepwin looked at him, and with his free hand he pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. He said nothing.

The father cuffed his son. “What sort of question is that?” To Sepwin he said, “Forgive the boy, sir. He’s very young and full of curiosity.”

His hand covering the cheek that had been struck, the boy said in somewhat muffled tones, “Eda says his eyes aren’t both the same color, Father, and I don’t believe her.”

“What nonsense!” said his father. The girl who had ridden Gallant ran to join them, “It’s true—one is brown and the other is blue. Isn’t it true, stranger?”

Sepwin shook his head. “The child is imagining things.”

“The covered eye is blue, it really is! I saw it!”

“It is an empty socket,” said Sepwin, and he grasped his horse’s mane to pull himself up.

“Your father will beat you for lying when he comes home!” the boy shouted at his playmate.

“It’s true!” she said.

The boy’s father laid a hand on Sepwin’s arm, kept him from mounting. “Is it true?” he asked.

Sepwin faced him. “What if it were?” he demanded.

The man opened his hand, showed the silver and copper. “I could not bargain with such a one.”

“You have bargained with me,” said Cray, one hand on the cantle of Gallant’s saddle.

“There is nothing wrong with my eyes.”

“But the horse is for him,” the man said, nodding toward Sepwin. “Let him show his eye.”

“It is an ugly wound,” said Sepwin.

“I have a strong stomach.” He glanced at the boy and girl. “Go, children. There is nothing here for you to see.”

“But father—” the boy began.

“I said go.”

Reluctantly, the lad moved off, and at another glance from his father, the girl followed, casting many a backward look as she went.

“What nonsense is this?” asked Cray.

“Take off the bandage,” said the man to Sepwin, “or you will not ride my horse beyond these walls.” The other men, who had drawn back when Sepwin chose his horse,

crowded close now, their own horses forgotten and ambling loose toward the water trough. The men nodded to their fellow’s demand. “Take off the bandage.”

Sepwin stood with his back against his mount’s flank, one hand clutching the crude rein that hung from its rope halter. His lips were tight, his face pale in spite of its tan. “Leave me alone,” he said.