“Of course. You begin to read by learning how the words you know are written.”
Cerryl refrained from wincing at Erhana’s self-satisfied tone.
“Isn’t there a book that has all the words you don’t know?”
“That’s a dictionary. Siglinda has one. They have lots and lots of words and how to spell them and what they mean.”
Cerryl fingered his chin. Where could he find one? “A dictionary?”
“That’s right.” Erhana sighed.
In the momentary silence, Cerryl could hear voices in the kitchen. He strained to pick out the words.
“. . . no sense in telling him now . . . good thing he was up in the woods when Wreasohn came . . .”
“Have to tell him sooner or later, Dylert . . .”
“Can’t stay here, not forever . . .”
“Hush . . . he’s still on the porch. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Best let Erhana help him with his letters, then. Poor lad.”
In the growing darkness, Cerryl swallowed. Something awful had happened to Syodor and Nall . . . but what? And why? Who would harm a partly crippled old miner and his consort who were helping a cousin raise sheep?
“You’re quiet, Cerryl,” ventured Erhana.
“Oh, I was still thinking about dictionaries,” he lied quietly. “They must be hard to come by.”
“I guess so. Siglinda always says hers is worth its weight in gold.” Erhana shrugged. “I don’t know as they’re worth that much.”
“Books aren’t cheap,” he pointed out. “They have to be copied page by page.”
“Siglinda says there are lots of scriveners in Lydiar. When I’m rich, I’ll hire one and have him copy all the books I want.”
The porch door opened, and Dyella peered out. “Are you still out here, Erhana?”
“Yes, Mother.” Erhana stood, clutching the grammar. “I’m coming.”
“Best you be. Canning the early peaches we are tomorrow.” Dyella glanced toward Cerryl. “And more logging for you as well, Cerryl.”
“Another side slope.” Dylert’s voice rumbled out from the kitchen.
“Yes, ser,” said Cerryl, easing his way toward the steps. “I’ll be ready.”
“Till the morn,” said Dylert just before Dyella closed the door behind Erhana.
Cerryl’s boots clumped on the planks of the porch, noisy because he was too tired to move silently. He walked slowly down the steps and the path to his room. His legs and back still ached. He glanced back at the house, looming up like a black blot in the late twilight. What had happened to his aunt and uncle? Had they died in a plague? Of the bloody flux? In an accident?
Around him, the chorus of insects rose and fell, rose and fell as he meandered slowly down toward the finish lumber barn.
Why didn’t Dylert want to tell him? How could he find out?
He almost stumbled as he opened the door to his cubby room. The screeing glass? That he could try.
After closing the door, and the window door as well, he eased the silver-rimmed mirror from its hiding place and set it on the stool. Then he sat on the edge of the pallet and began to concentrate, trying to visualize Syodor’s weathered face, strong hands, and leather eyepatch, Nall’s gray hair and probing eyes.
The mists swirled . . . finally revealing a burned-out cot. The roof timbers were black, the mud-brick walls cracked. The windows, ringed in black, gaped like a skull’s eye sockets. Lines of blackness seared the grass around the walls.
“No . . .” Cerryl tightened his lips, refusing the tears that welled up inside him. “No.”
He sat, rigid, on the edge of the pallet, well into the full darkness of night, the blank mirror on the stool before him showing nothing.
XIX
THE GRAY AND the dun plodded slowly across the hill, dragging the log harness. Rinfur guided the big horses, his eyes watching them, the log they dragged toward the wagon ramp, and the road ahead.
Dylert, Viental, and Brental stood waiting until the last log was dragged up the ramp. Then they rolled it sideways onto the wagon.
While the four men loaded the cut logs onto the wagon, Cerryl had continued sawing the smaller lengths of pole pine branches into sections a cubit long, wood for cooking and heat, stacking each length neatly in the pile.
Despite the leather gloves Dylert had given him, Cerryl’s hands were blistered, and his fingers ached—along with his arms, legs, and back. He kept sawing, stopping only to blot back the sweat that continually threatened to run into his eyes. His shirt was soaked, and his feet felt like they rested in pooled sweat inside the heavy boots.
“Cerryl, lad,” called Dylert as Viental and Brental wedged the last log in place on the wagon bed, “rack that saw back on the side of the wagon and take a breather.”