Wizard Pair (Book 3) (2 page)

"Should I know you?"

"You live on my land." She leaned closer, her image separating from the flames and taking on a more solid form. "Well, on my father's land. Everyone around here does." Her brows wrinkled as she squinted at him. "You do live around the castle, don't you? I suppose you could be leagues away."

"I live near castle Black. We farm the land for Baron Rieck. Is that the castle you mean?"

"Yes, that one. The Baron is my father." She straightened up as she said it.

Zhimosom bowed down. "My Lady, forgive me. I did not know it was you. I apologize. I will not bother you again." He sat up and tried to suppress the connection he had with her through the fire, but she fought to keep it open. Zheet had told him often of the danger of getting close to the Nobility. It was to be avoided at all cost.

"Don't go." She reached out to him. Her hand extended from the fire, looking even more solid.

Zhimosom shied away from contact. He knew the penalty for a commoner who touched someone of noble birth. He didn't want to spend a day in the stocks, exposed to the crowds and the cold. He backed away from her and tried to break the connection. He struggled to ignore the flames and the image, but he felt her holding on, almost as if her insubstantial hands had grabbed him, dragging him back to the fire.

"I am truly sorry, My Lady. Please forgive me." He fought to blank the image from his mind, but it didn't help. She was still there, her hand reaching out of the fire. He gave out a yelp and slid away.

"I don't mean you any harm." She withdrew her hand. "You are the first person I've been able to talk to like this. Please stay a while. I would like to learn more of you, Zhimosom. You see, I'm lonely here, in the castle. Please, let's just be friends."

"Folk like me are not meant to be friends with folk like you." Zhimosom tried to relax at her insistence. He stopped struggling to break the connection, but he was still nervous about talking to one of the Nobility.

"Zhim! Stop playing with that fire." Zheet sat up bleary eyed. When he caught sight of the woman in the fire, he came wide awake. "Who's that?"

"That's ... Rotiaqua ... She's the Baron's daughter."

"What?" Zheet demanded. He looked at the fire. "Get her out of here. You don't want to get involved with Nobility."

Zheet bowed his head low. "Please forgive my son. He is a fool."

Zhimosom tuned to Rotiaqua. "Please go." His heart raced. Would she let him go this time? What would Zheet do if she held on to him again?

Before he could complete his though, she faded out and the fire settled back to normal.

"What do you think you're doing?" Zheet hit Zhimosom across the back of the head. "The Baron?"

"The Baron's daughter," Zhimosom said stepping backwards towards the fireplace, trying to keep his distance from his father.

"The Baron's the one who took your mother, and your brothers. His men burned down our house with your mother in it. He drafted your brothers into his army and they were both killed.

"You know what the Baron did to me, don't you?" Zheet reached for the ties that held his pants in place, fumbling with the cords.

Zhimosom had seen the scar before. He knew the story that Zheet loved to tell when he had a little bit of ale in him.

"I've seen your scar." Zhimosom held out his hands to shield his eyes and stop his father from undressing. "You were stabbed with a spear. You were lucky to survive. Now they leave you alone. I know all that."

Zheet stared at him, retied his pants, and sat down.

"She came to me in the fire. I didn't seek her out," Zhimosom explained as he sat at the table, ready to jump if Zheet came at him again.

"Stay away from the Baron and his daughter." Zheet shook his finger at Zhimosom. "You can't imagine how much trouble you can get yourself into."

"Yes, father." Zhimosom crawled to his bedroll and lay down. She had seen him as plainly as he had seen her. While he was intrigued by her, he knew what a danger it was talking to the Baron's daughter. He shuddered at the thought.

The wheat had come up nicely. The tall stalks were laden with heavy golden heads, their light brown tassels sticking straight up in the air, rippling in tune to the slightest breeze. The weather held out and there had been no rain for most of the moon. Harvest season was well under way. Everyone around labored to get the wheat in before the rain came and made the fields a muddy mess.

Zhimosom and Zheet helped the neighboring farmers, bending their backs to the hard work that was the culmination of the summer growing season. Zhimosom had just finished his midday meal and was putting a new edge on his scythe with the sharpening stone he had found while planting this very field.

He drew the stone along the edge of the blade from the shaft to the point, careful to hold it at just the right angle to create the sharpest edge he could. He wished he'd been able to afford a better blade, perhaps one made from a broken sword. One of those would hold an edge better than this rusty old thing, and it would make the harvest go that much easier.

He imagined a blade made of the sparkling sky iron that was used to make the best swords. He visualized his own blade taking such an edge, that it would glide effortlessly though the golden stalks. If only ...

"Zhim!" Zheet stood at the edge of the field, where they'd ceased their labor. "Get back to work."

Zhimosom jumped up, pocketed the stone, and ran after his father. He swung the scythe back and attacked the fragile golden stalks, cutting them as close to the ground as he could. The trick was in the rhythm. Swing the scythe back and forth and it takes almost no effort. Fight with the tool and he'd be exhausted in no time.

The blade swept through the stalks of wheat as if they were made of butter. It sliced them cleanly almost at ground level leaving nice neat shocks of grain, and short prickly stubble that looked like an old man three days after a clean shave. Zhimosom swung the scythe back and forth, imagining the blade sparkling in the sun like the sword of some knight. It seemed to slip through the grain with greater ease as the day wore on and the sheaves stacked up.

Early in the afternoon, a shrill whistle wafted across the field. Zhimosom searched for the source. The sheaves of tied wheat stood tall like soldiers on parade, marking a long straight column all the way to the road. The women and girls worked behind the men, gathering the shocks into bundles and tying them tight to keep the wheat off the ground so it wouldn't spoil if the rains came before it was all packed into the barns.

The cart trundled through the field they'd harvested the day before. A lethargic ox pulled it slowly along, as several young boys picked the sheaves up and stacked them on the cart as it lumbered through the field, leaving dark tracks in the golden stubble.

A pair of horses in fancy harness, pulling an over-sized four-wheeled wagon, plodded up the road. The wagon was half full of wheat, the golden sheaves straining at the wooden stays.

The driver reined the horses to a stop beside one of the carts that had just exited the field. Curious, Zhimosom headed towards them, but Zheet grabbed his arm and stopped the boy.

"Stay right here, son." Zheet turned his back on the wagon and tugged on Zhimosom's arm, urging him to do the same.

"What's going on?" Zhimosom looked over his shoulder at the wagon. The man who had dismounted was talking to the one who guided the cart.

"That's the Baron's man, here to collect his due."

"But there's hardly enough wheat to feed the townsfolk all winter. Why does he have to take his due before we have enough to eat?"

"That's the way it is, son. The Baron owns the land. We only get to live on it so long as we give him the first third of every harvest."

"Why does he own the land?"

"His father owned the land before him and his father before him, all the way back. It's always been that way, and it always will be. Just stay out of it."

A sharp whistle called again. Zhimosom looked over his shoulder. The Baron's man was pointing at him.

"What should I do?" Zhimosom turned to his father.

"Ignore him. Pretend you didn't hear anything. Keep looking away."

Zhimosom saw the man striding towards him and turned his head away from the road. A tingle made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He turned just in time to see the driver of the wagon stop and draw his whip.

The pain of the whip burned the back of his legs. He clenched his teeth and bit down hard to stifle a scream. He turned slowly, aching, wanting nothing more than to drop to the ground and cry out in pain.

"When your betters call, you come running. You understand me, boy?" The man coiled the whip.

"Yes, sir." Zhimosom bowed his head. He tensed up waiting for another blow, but none came.

"Get up in that wagon and stack those sheaves - neatly.” The driver pointed out how the sheaves were arranged in overlapping rows. “See how the first load was put down? Follow that pattern. You think you can do that?"

"Yes, sir." Zhimosom climbed into the wagon. The men offloaded the cart and the sheaves of wheat came sailing over the stays. Zhimosom caught them and stacked them carefully in the alternating patterns he'd been shown. The breeze had died and the afternoon sun was hot, raising a sweat that made the chaff stick to him as if it were paste. The pain in his legs grew worse as he worked, making the job even more unpleasant.

Soon the cart was empty and the Baron's man jumped up on the seat to examine Zhimosom's work. "You do nice work, boy. Yes, you do." He motioned Zhimosom to sit. "You stay on the wagon; I have another farm that should fill her up, and I can use a hand like you."

The Baron's man gave a snap on the reins and the wagon started off, bouncing along the dusty dirt road. Zhimosom looked back at Zheet standing in the field. His father would have to finish without his help, and Zhimosom was in for a long hard day and an even longer walk back to his hovel after he was done.

The Baron's man worked Zhimosom until the boy was ready to drop. He finished filling the wagon just before sunset, when the driver abandoned him without so much as a word. Zhimosom approached the farmer whose wheat had been taken, and begged a place to sleep. He could not make it home before it grew too dark to be out on the road.

"Be gone, you thieving rogue," farmer Falk said.

"Please, kind sir. You know my father, Zheet. We live a few farms down the lane. I was taken from the field and pressed into service. You can see the Baron's man cares not for me. He has abandoned me here without a way home ere the night falls."

Zhimosom had seen small children scurrying about the farm. He knew the farmer could not count on them for much help yet. He looked around until he spied a broken section of fence that had been hastily repaired.

He pointed to the sagging rails that were in peril of falling apart at the insistent nudging of the pair of underfed sheep within. "I will repair your fence if you will but feed and shelter me for the night."

The farmer glanced at the fence and back to Zhimosom, tapping his foot on the rocky ground. "You look strong enough to swing an ax. We don't have enough meat to go around, but I can offer you bread and some cheese." He looked down his nose at Zhimosom. "Mind you, not a lot of cheese. We don't have much of that to spare either."

Zhimosom bowed his head. "I am grateful for whatever you can spare me. I'll fix your fence in the morning and then I'll be on my way."

The farmer nodded and Zhimosom followed him inside.

"This is Issula," Falk said, introducing his wife. He gestured to the oldest daughter. "My daughter Ewora and the rest of the brood."

The children swirled around him, asking questions and talking incessantly, as children do, while Issula prepared the evening meal.

"Children, please let our guest have a moment's peace and quiet," Issula said.

She shepherded the smaller children onto the bench across from Zhimosom, and served them their dinner on well worn wooden plates. They quieted down as they dug into their meager stew.

Ewora spread a threadbare cloth on the table in front of Zhimosom and deposited several pieces of heavy dark bread and a lump of hard white cheese on it. "Sorry for the setting. We don't often get company." She averted her eyes as she spoke.

"I'm just grateful for the shelter and a meal. The Baron's man plucked me from the field and pressed me into service this afternoon. I wasn't sure when I'd be going home or even if I'd be going home."

Issula clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Those men are bad. They take more than's their due and don't mind that we've nothing to feed our children come winter."

"We do all right," Falk interrupted. "I've heard tales of some folk driven off the land and into the cities where they get pressed into working for the rich folk until they tire out and die. We're fine here. There's enough land to feed the family and sometimes even a little extra to get something nice."

The next the morning, Zhimosom repaired the fence and was ready to start the long walk home when a pair of men on horseback rode up the dusty lane and into the yard. One was a knight and the other his squire. The squire held a staff with strange colors on it. These were not the Baron's men.

As they drew close, Zhimosom saw that the knight's armor was stained and dirty, and battered. It had a sword slash across the front that should have cost the wearer his life. The knight was dirty and looked as if he hadn't bathed in a moon. These men must have been in a battle recently.

He reined in his horse. When he caught sight of Zhimosom, he leaped to the ground and handed the reins over without looking directly at the boy. "Water my horse and feed her. I've had a long ride and she's tired.

"You." He pointed at Falk. "We need a meal - a good meal. I'm hungry."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we are poor. We barely have enough to feed the family. I have nothing to offer you save bread and cheese."

The knight scanned the farm, laying eye on the pen that sheltered the sheep. Most farms had one or two of them, as their milk was used to made cheese, and their wool to make winter clothes.