“Where did you get me?”
“I pulled you from the river, little fish. You were drowning and I saved you.”
“Is that truth, Duun?”
“I lied.” Duun reached out the finger of his hand and brushed Thorn’s cheek, where a light down had grown. Hair began to grow and darken elsewhere on Thorn’s body. Thorn’s hope and his despair. (It’s worse than nothing, Thorn cried, before the mirror in the bath. I’m all in patches, Duun!) Other signs were on him. “I tell you, I think you should cut this, little fish; you’re right: it’s here and there-I’d make it even.”
“Stop it. Don’t distract me! I want an answer, Duun.”
“Ah. You uncover my tricks, do you?” “I want an answer, Duun.” “The minnow has hatani tricks.” “I want an answer, Duun.”
Duun pursed his lips. Laid his ears back. “Put that answer with my hand. Beat me and I’ll answer you.”
Thorn’s shoulders slumped. His head bowed. True defeat. Then he glanced up with a piercing, anxious look.
“Duun-Duun, tell me the truth. One truth. Be fair to me. Do you know?”
“Yes,” Duun said, and gazed at him steadily until Thorn turned his face away.
* * *
* * *
IV
Faith am I when all you trust has died;
Truth am I when all you know has lied.
Choice I bring when the choice you had is sped;
Promise am I when all other faith has fled.
Vengeance am I but I come to you at cost;
One gain am I when all else you want is lost.
Thorn sang. It was a hatani song. Duun listened, as to the other lessons, listened half-dreaming as he played. There was a sweetness in Thorn’s voice, all unsuspected, a skill in his hands which ran upon the strings. Perhaps it was a native fierceness that made the boy love this song; perhaps it was the innocence of that downlands child who questioned a hatani’s scars, happy in ignorance. Perhaps Thorn only loved the tune. He sang it well.
Duun took over the dkin and strummed out a new rhythm with his two-fingered right hand. Rapped the beat on the sounding-board, and Thorn with native skill took the beat on the small drum.
The young head bent to the music, young eyes looked up slyly from beneath a fall of dark hair, lately shaven lips widened in a grin. Thorn had given up on the hair of his face. That on his body he still cultivated. Besides, the razor burned. (You look better, Duun had told him, when Thorn had done the deed and crept out for approval. And Thorn looked profoundly relieved.)
Vulnerable. Oh, vulnerable, young Thorn.
Green beneath the summer sun,
White beneath the snow,
All fair my land,
And fair the one I know
Whose paths run down
To mine in evenglow.
Love and women and things of the world. “A hatani has no kin,” Duun said while his hands played on. “When you are hatani to the heart you will not have me.”
The drum stopped. But there was no question. Thorn had betrayed himself and Duun had gone no further; Thorn kept his own counsel, grown wary in his years. And having done that much, Duun kept the melody going, gentle harmony. “When I lost the most of my hand, I thought I would never play. I recovered that. Other things I lost. You gain no virtue from loss you never know. There will never be love, Thorn. Never. Do you know that word? -Take up the beat.”
Thorn picked it up, bowed his head till his eyes were hid.
“I tell you,” Duun said in the low beat of the strings, the counterpoint of the drum. “There’s always something left to lose. When you think there’s nothing more you’re a fool, Thorn; there’s something till you’re dead. And after that-gods know. Do you know how old you are?”
Thorn looked up. The beat skewed, recovered itself.
“They know in the city. I know. The meds don’t come. Half a year and they don’t come. You know why, Thorn?”
A move of the head. No. There was dread in Thorn’s eyes.
“Well,” Duun said, “they don’t. Maybe they know what you are.”