“What is your need, Haras-hatani?”
(O gods, Duun-don’t.)
“What is your need, Haras-Thorn? Why did I get through your guard? To what are you vulnerable? Name me that thing.”
“You, Duun-hatani. I need you.”
The grip hurt. Bruised. “What am I to you, minnow?”
Words failed him. The grip grew harder. Gentler then. The eyes shifted, let him go and he could blink. Duun drew his hand back and Thorn was shaking.
“You understand what I did to you, minnow? You understand how easy it was? Do you think I could do it again?
(Duun holding him by the fire, Duun touching him, all the warmth there was. Not to be touched again. Not ever to allow that to Duun or anyone-) Tears stung Thorn’s eyes. (Your eyes are running. Do that tomorrow and I’ll beat you.) “Yes,” Thorn said. His chest ached. “Yes, Duun-hatani. Right now you could.”
Duun’s eyes on his. Dark and deep and cold as the artificial night. A second time Duun’s hand lifted. (I’ll hurt you this time, Thorn.) Thorn lifted his hand ever so slowly and opposed it. Duun seemed satisfied. Walked around him again and the skin of Thorn’s back crawled. His buttocks tensed. Once more to the side and in front of him.
Like a lizard-strike this time. Thorn flung up his hand and palm hit palm with a slap that echoed. No force then. No pushing, from either side. Duun signed with his other hand. Thorn accepted it, maintained wariness while Duun disengaged his hand and put it behind him.
Inviting a strike. (Try me, fledgling.)
“I’m not a fool, Duun-hatani.”
“You’re less one than you were,” Meaning the matter of the farmers, Thorn thought. It was all in these days Duun had ever hinted on the matter.
“I’m not ready, Duun-hatani.”
“The world doesn’t always ask if you’re ready, Haras. It’s not likely to.” Duun set his hands in his belt. “You’re going to have other teachers. Oh, I’ll be here. For now. But there’ll be others. Other young people. They’re not hatani. They know you are.”
(People like me, Duun? Are any like me?) But the question hung in his throat. (“What do you need, Haras-hatani?”) It was deadly. It opened him up in ways he knew better than to confess. “When?” he asked. (Duun, I don’t want other teachers.)
(Want, minnow? Do I hear want?) “Tomorrow. Mind, don’t show off. You’ll be better in some ways, worse in others. You’re good in math; you’ll learn to work new ways- not in your head, this time. On machines. They’re not hatani. If you hit one of them you’d kill him. Do you understand that? Your reactions are too quick. And they don’t know how to stop you. So your reactions have to be quicker. To keep from reacting at all- Do you understand that? Lay down the knife. Lay it down when you’re with these people. Let yourself be open. So. Stand still.” A third time Duun reached toward his face. Thorn’s hand lifted- stopped in indecision. (Trick? Or what he means?) He let Duun touch his jaw, let the touch trail down and beneath it. “That’s good,” Duun said. And drew the hand back again. “Remember that. They’re like that. None of them could stop you. None of them would have a chance. None of them know how to stand, how to move. They won’t touch you. That’s the one thing they’ll understand. Even if they forget that- don’t react. Understand, Thorn?”
* * *
* * *
VII
They were five: Elanhen, a youth whose back had black tipping on the gray, broad of shoulder, with a wary eye turned to the world and a diffident and ready grin; he was first and easiest in his manner (wisest, Thorn thought: the manner is all he gives the world, he keeps all the rest reserved.) There was Cloen, a smallish fellow whose belly-fur had dapples-(“Don’t remark on it,” Duun warned Thorn in advance when Duun described Cloen that way. “His baby-mark’s still with him.”) And Cloen was least outgoing, and quickest to frown. (He has a wound, Thorn thought; it bleeds into the water. Cloen would be an easy mark. If I were after him.)