“Try again,” Justyn ordered him, with a kind of weary disgust that angered Darian even further. What right did that old fake have to be disgusted with him? It wasn’t his fault that he had no magic! And as far as that was concerned, Justyn had no room to find fault with Darian on that score!
How long has it been since he did anything with real magic? I bet he couldn’t have kept that apple in the air any longer than I did!
Anger and frustration rose to the boiling point, and instead of doing as he was told, he swept his arm across the table in front of him, knocking apple, plate, and anything else in the path of that angry sweep off the table and onto the floor with a crash. The plate didn’t shatter, since it was made of pewter, but it made a lot of noise and acquired yet another dent. As Justyn opened his mouth to scold, Darian shoved his chair away from the table, sitting there with his arms folded over his chest, glowering, silently daring Justyn to do his worst.
Justyn visibly pushed down his own temper. “Darian, I want you to try again,” the wizard repeated, with mounting impatience. “And since you won’t do it properly, you can pick that apple up off the floor and put it back on the table with your mind - yes, and the plate as well! A bit more hard work will teach you to control your temper. A mage can’t ever lose his temper, or - “
“Why?” Darian snarled defiantly, interrupting the lecture on self-control that he had heard a hundred times already. “Why should I use my mind to float fruit around? There’s no reason to! It’s faster and easier to grab it like any normal person would!” And just to prove his point, he bent down and seized apple and plate and banged both down on the wooden tabletop. “There! Now that’s what a person with plain common sense does! You don’t have to muck around with these stupid tricks to get things done!”
Now, of course, was the moment when Justyn would launch into a lecture on how in magic one must practice on small things before one could expect to succeed in the larger, how he was being immature and childish, and how very ungrateful he was. Next would follow how it was criminal that he refused to obey, that he had such a wonderful gift and was apprenticed to a wizard who would teach him skills, and didn’t appreciate his easy circumstances when instead he could have been bound out to a farmer or the blacksmith -
Darian knew it all by heart and could have recited it in his sleep. And it wouldn’t make any difference if he protested that he didn’t want to be a wizard, that he hadn’t asked for this so-called “wonderful gift,” and that he didn’t see what was so wonderful about it. Justyn would ignore his protests, just as everyone else had, and did, and always would. For some reason that he did not fathom, every other person in the village was astonished that he didn’t appreciate being farmed out to the old fake.
But just at that point, there were sounds of thumping and a grunt of pain outside. Harris and Vere Neshem, a pair of the local farmers, staggered in through the door with Kyle Osterham the woodcutter supported between them, his leg wrapped in rags stained with fresh, red blood. Darian jumped immediately out of his chair and moved aside for them, shoving the chair in their direction.
“He was chopping up a stump and his footing slipped,” Vere said, as they lowered Kyle down into the seat Darian had just vacated. “Bit of a mess. Good thing we were close by.”
Since Justyn served Errold’s Grove in the capacity of a Healer far more often than that of a wizard, Darian had seen men who were worse wounded stagger in through the door, but Kyle’s leg was a bit of a mess. Surface cut, he noted critically. Ax blade probably hit the shin bone and skinned along the top of it. That’d peel back a lot of skin, but it’ll heal quickly as soon as it’s stitched, and it won’t leave much of a scar. Lucky if he didn’t break the shin, though. It would bleed a lot, and hurt a great deal, but it was hardly life-threatening. He edged out of the way a little more and got nearer the door.
Justyn rummaged through the shelves behind him, grabbing rags, herbs, a needle and fine silk thread, a mortar and pestle.
“Darian, boil some water,” he ordered, his back to the room as he hunted for something he needed.
But now Darian was in no mood to comply. This little incident only confirmed what he had been thinking. The people of Errold’s Grove didn’t need some fool who could suspend apples in the air, they needed a Healer, sometimes a Finder, sometimes a Weather-watcher, but not a wizard, and they never had needed a wizard in all the time Darian had been here. Most especially, they didn’t need him. It would make more sense for one of the girls to learn everything Justyn could teach about herbs and simples, distilling and potions, setting bones and stitching skin. So Darian just stood there, ignoring Justyn’s order, radiating rebellion and waiting for their reaction.
One of the farmers glanced at him with censure written clearly on his face. “Justyn,” he said in an overly loud voice, “is there any help you need?”
Justyn, who had been muttering to himself as he mixed herbs in the mortar, got flustered and distracted at the interruption. He had to dump the lot of what he was grinding out into the tiny fire, and start again. The fire flared up with a roar and a shower of multicolored sparks, and both farmers exclaimed in startled surprise, taking everyone’s attention off Darian.
That was all he needed. For once, Darian was not going to stand around and wait for people to give him stupid orders. Taking advantage of the distraction, the boy edged around behind Vere and made good his escape, sliding quickly out of the door before anyone noticed he was gone.
That’ll show him! That’ll show all of them that I’m not going to be treated like I have no mind of my own! I’m not a slave, and I never agreed to any of the things they‘ve done to me! They don’t give me the regard they‘d give a rooster; why should I stay and be insulted and made to do things I hate?
He didn’t want to be caught, though, so he moved around to the back of the cottage, plastering himself against the wall and ducking under the windows until he reached the side that faced the forest. He was just underneath the open window when he heard Justyn say in an exasperated tone of voice from which all patience had vanished, “Will you please boil that water, Darian? Now, not two weeks from now - “
But Darian was out of reach of further orders, and as he paused to listen to find out if either of the farmers was inclined to volunteer to go look for him, evidently Justyn looked around and saw that for himself, for there was a muffled curse.
“Useless brat,” the first farmer muttered. “We should have ‘prenticed him as a woodcutter to you, Kyle.”
Vere gave a snort. “He’d be just as useless there. Lazy is what he is. You oughta beat him now and again, Justyn. You’re too soft on him. Them parents of his spoiled him, and you ain’t helping by bein’ soft on him.” There was a clatter of metal as someone put the kettle on the hook over the fire.
Vere’s brother seconded that opinion. “Them two was useless to us and dangerous, Justyn. It’s in his blood, an’ you oughta beat it out of him, else he’ll bring somethin’ out of the woods that none of us’ll like.” Darian, lurking right beneath the window, heard every word too clearly to mistake any of it, and his stomach seized up inside of him as both fists clenched in an unconscious echo of the knots in his gut.