“I don’t want to go, Duun.”
“They’ll come later and gather up the things we’ll want. These-” Duun polished the blade. “These we take.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“I know that.” Duun looked at him. Tears shimmered in Thorn’s eyes. “The countryfolk get the land. It’ll belong to them now. It’ll pay, maybe, for what I had to do. Do you understand me, Thorn? Haras? Do you hear?”
“Yes, Duun-hatani.”
“We’ll fly out of here. We’ll go to a place where the wind stinks and you won’t understand a thing you see. You’ll ask me your questions in private. There’ll be people around us. Always. No more hunting. No more woods. Just steel. Just thousands and thousands of people. A lot of shonun like that life. You’ll learn to.”
Thorn bowed his head onto his arm, against his knee. Duun was aware of him. Duun looked only at the blade, gently polished the razor steel in small strokes of an oiled cloth. Oil-smell and steel. Steel and oil. His half-hand held the cloth, the whole left hand held the blade.
“Give it away, Thorn. You’re hatani. Hatani own nothing. Only the weapons, the cloak on your back. This time it’s only a place you lose. When you’re what you will be, you’ll own nothing at all. I only used this place. You and I. It was a stage. It’s gone now.”
Thorn’s face lifted. He had smeared his face with wiping it. His lashes were wet. “I’m sorry, Duun.”
Duun’s hands stopped in a long silence. Then he took up the motion again. “You lost a year, perhaps. A year here. Maybe two. Then we’d have gone, all the same. It’s not much, two years. Your eyes are running. Do that tomorrow and I’ll beat you. Do you hear?”
“Yes,” Thorn said.
They started in the dawn: they walked slowly on the winding track and there was no anger evident in Duun. “Joiit,” Duun said once, naming a birdsong. Thorn thought then that in the people-teeming place Duun described to him there could be no birds; and the sound from the woods made his heart ache. The very wind in the leaves did that. The silken feel of the dust under his sore feet. His arm ached as he walked. His head was light. They had closed up the house and walked out of the yard. And once Duun had looked back and Thorn did, just when the house was going out of view. It looked no different than it ever had when they left it in their hunting. The light was the same on the brown stone walls, with the hiyi growing here and there in lavender-edged green; all of it was from this distance, in the morning, stained and tinted like the earth. It was like every morning. The house appeared to wait for them. Would go on waiting, through the days. Someone would come, Duun said, to strip the rooms. The countryfolk would come and take it back. The children would explore the rooms, play tag in the yard-
-hunt in the woods. They would know the old tree that was good to lie on in the sun; the hollow rock that overlooked the little pond back in the hills; they would know the tracks and trails where Duun had led him-
Thorn shed no tears. When his heart hurt that much he looked away at the sky, the road, he said something, no matter what, he clenched the fingers of his wounded arm, which made it ache and took his mind away.
He did that when the bird sang. And when the wind blew in the leaves that way; and when he realized he could smell things even scent-blind as he was, like dust, and grass, and the rough-raw scent of lugh-flowers, which was strong when one bruised them, when Thorn-the-child pulled off their heads and found his hands all sticky with sap, all one flavor with the sunlight and the giddy golden blooms-
Everything came flooding in. Sights afflicted him with farewells, all along the road. And Duun was silent for the most part. (Duun was young here too. He knew the old tree, the stone-the paths-he showed them to me. I took them from him. Duun!)