fondness. “I bless the day you were given me as student, though in truth I often wonder who is student and who is teacher here. I shall miss you.”
Sudden alarm filled Wintrow's eyes. “Miss me? Are you leaving, have you been called to duty so soon?”
“Not I. I should have given you this news better, but as always your words have led my thoughts far from their starting point. I am not leaving, but you. It was why I came to find you today, to bid you pack, for you are called home. Your grandmother and mother have sent word that they fear your grandfather is dying. They would have you near at such a time.” At the look of devastation on the boy's face, Berandol added, “I am sorry to have told you so bluntly. You so seldom speak of your family. I did not realize you were close to your grandfather.”
“I am not,” Wintrow simply admitted. “Truth to tell, I scarcely know him. When I was small, he was always at sea. At the times when he was home, he always terrified me. Not with cruelty, but with . . . power. Everything about him seemed too large for the room, from his voice to his beard. Even when I was small and overheard other folk talking about him, it was as if they spoke of a legend or a hero. I don't recall that I ever called him Grandpa, nor even Grandfather. When he came home, he'd blow through the house like the North Wind and mostly I took shelter from his presence rather than enjoyed it. When I was dragged out before him, all I can recall was that he found fault with my growth. “Why is the boy so puny?' he'd demand. “He looks just like my boys, but half the size! Don't you feed him meat? Doesn't he eat well?' Then he would pull me near and feel my arm, as if I were being fattened for the table. I always felt ashamed of my size, then, as if it were a fault. Since I was given over to the priesthood, I have seen even less of him, but my impression of him has not changed. Still, it is not my grandfather I dread, nor even keeping his death watch. It's going home, Berandol. It is so . . . noisy.”
Berandol grimaced in sympathy.
“I don't believe I even learned to think until I came here,” Wintrow continued. “There, it was too noisy and too busy. I never had time to think. From the time Nana rousted us out of bed in the morning until we were bathed, gowned and dumped back in bed at night, we were in motion. Being dressed and taken on outings, having lessons and meals, visiting friends, being dressed differently and having more meals . . . it was endless. You know, when I first got here, I didn't leave my cell for the first two days. Without Nana or Grandma or Mother chasing me about, I had no idea what to do with myself. And for so long, my sister and I had been a unit. “The children' need their nap, “the children' need their lunch. I felt I'd lost half my body when they separated us.”
Berandol was grinning in appreciation. “So that is what it is like, to be a Vestrit. I'd always wondered how the children of the Old Traders of Bingtown lived. For me, it was very different, and yet much the same. We were swineherds, my family. I had no nanny or outings, but there were always chores aplenty to keep one busy. Looking back, we spent most of our time simply surviving. Stretching out the food, fixing things long past fixing by anyone else's standards, caring for the swine . . . I think the pigs received better care than anyone else. There was never even a thought of giving up a child for the priesthood. Then my mother became ill, and my father made a promise that if she lived, he would dedicate one of his children to Sa. So when she lived, they sent me off. I was the runt of the litter, so to speak. The youngest surviving child, and with a stunted arm. It was a sacrifice for them, I am sure, but not as great as giving up one of my strapping older brothers.”
“A stunted arm?” Wintrow asked in surprise.
“It was. I'd fallen on it when I was small, and it was a long time healing, and when