“You get wet about the same if you run or you walk.” Rinfur shook his head. “You walk to your room and hang up your clothes, and they got time to dry.”
“While you shiver in your blankets,” answered Viental. “Not for me, thank you.”
Cerryl sat cross-legged on the planks of the porch floor, his eyes on the darker clouds to the southwest, over the mines, over the old house where he had lived as long as he could remember until he’d come to the mill. Was Syodor out in the rain, using it to uncover new gleanings? Or were his aunt and uncle sitting before a warm hearth? He rubbed his forehead, aware of a dull throbbing growing above and behind his eyes.
“Be raining for a long time,” Rinfur said with a shrug, stepping out from the porch and striding toward his room in the first lumber barn. “Might as well get wet so as I can get dry soonest.”
“I can always get wet,” answered Viental with a deep laugh. “Better to stay dry, I say.”
The rain dripped off the edge of the eaves steadily, in a pattern that seemed to pound into Cerryl’s skull. Abruptly, he stood.
“Going to get wet, are you?” asked Viental.
“It will happen sooner or later,” the youth answered, starting down the stone steps.
“Not for me,” called Viental.
Cerryl walked through the rain and the growing twilight back to the barn. Once inside his room, he pulled off the damp canvas jacket and hung it on the peg by the door.
At least inside his room, the pounding of the rain wasn’t quite so pronounced. Still, for a time Cerryl sat on the edge of his pallet, trying to ignore the splatting of the rain and the throbbing in his skull that almost kept rhythm to the patter of the rain on the side of the barn.
Tap! Tap!
Cerryl frowned, then went to the narrow door, opening it.
A broad-shouldered figure stood there, patch over one eye.
“Unc—”
“Hush!” Syodor’s hand covered Cerryl’s mouth. “Not a word. Follow me.”
“In the rain?” asked Cerryl, inadvertently massaging his forehead again, trying to relieve the dull pressure behind his eyes.
“Only safe way,” said Syodor, the water dripping off his oiled leathers, turning and slogging across the meadow grass away from the lumber barn.
Cerryl threw on his too-small canvas jacket and followed his uncle toward the line of oaks across the hill.
Crack!
A line of lightning flashed, followed by the drumroll of thunder.
Cerryl winced. The lightning—or the thunder—kept thrumming through his skull, but Syodor plunged onward, toward the ancient oaks.
“Couldn’t do this, lad, except when I knew the rain’d last. Had to do this afore long.”
Do what? Cerryl wondered but did not ask, just stepped up beside his uncle and kept walking, his boots squishing on the wet grass and soggy ground. His hair was soaked again, and rain began to ooze down his neck. He shivered, more from his headache than from the chill of the cold water seeping down his spine.
“Wish you were older, but there be a time for aught and all, and that be now . . .” The gnarled miner’s voice died away as he came to a stop under the dark oak, the last one in the line leading from Dylert’s house across the hill and overlooking the lower meadow. Syodor reached inside his oiled leathers and handed Cerryl a small oblong package—something wrapped in old mine canvas. “Brought these for you, young fellow. Don’t you be opening ’em here. Rain be spoiling them.”
“What . . . are they?” Cerryl could sense the faintest of white glows, even beneath the canvas.
“Books, your da’s books. Wish I could have taught you letters.” Syodor shrugged. “Best no one knew you lived, and we feared anyone knew letters’d tell the mages. They might have come for you.”
Even as he wiped water away from his eyes, Cerryl kept his face calm, ignoring the headache as well. Finally, he asked, “Uncle, you never told me. What happened to my da? And mother?”
“The white mages killed your da . . . with their magic. They sent the lancers after your ma. She finally went to ’em. That was after you were safe with us.” Syodor peered out from under the oiled leather hood. “Figured they knew about her, she did, but not about you. You were but a mite then, fit in my hand.”
“But why?” Cerryl swallowed. “What did he do?”
“Your da . . . I don’t know . . .’cept your ma, she told Nall that he took some books ’cause no one would teach him. That he wanted to learn how to be a real mage, not a rock mage nor a hedge mage. He learned his letters somewhere. Never did say where.” The miner looked away from Cerryl and downhill toward the damp clay of the road from the mines.