By Patricia A. Mckillip
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It’s none of my business. ” The harpist smiled. ” “I know. That’s why my father finally sent me to Caithnard—I kept asking questions. He didn’t know how to account for it. ” He stopped again, rather abruptly, his mouth twitching slightly. The harpist said, his eyes on the approaching land, “I never knew my own father. I was born without a name in the back streets of Lungold at a time when wizards, kings, even the High One himself passed through the city. ” Morgon’s head lifted again. He said speculatively, “Danan Isig was ancient as a tree even then, and Har of Osterland.
I’m sorry. ” His eyes dropped to the rough, iron-bound planks of the pier; he answered the quiet, skilled stranger impulsively. ” “My mother wanted to see Caithnard. My father had come two or three times to visit me while I was at the College of Riddle-Masters at Caithnard. That sounds simple, but it was a very courageous thing for him to do: leave Hed, go to a great, strange city. The Princes of Hed are rooted to Hed. When I came home a year ago, after spending three years there, I found my father full of stories about what he had seen—the trade-shops, the people from different lands—and when he mentioned a shop with bolts of cloth and furs and dyes from five kingdoms, my mother couldn’t resist going.
I would sell my name for it, but not the grain my farmers have scorched their backs harvesting, or the horses they have raised and gentled. ” “There’s no need to justify yourself to me,” the harpist said mildly. Morgon’s mouth crooked; he touched it absently. “I’m sorry. ” His eyes dropped to the rough, iron-bound planks of the pier; he answered the quiet, skilled stranger impulsively. ” “My mother wanted to see Caithnard. My father had come two or three times to visit me while I was at the College of Riddle-Masters at Caithnard.
The Riddle-Master of Hed (Fantasy Masterworks 19) by Patricia A. Mckillip