Fortress in the Eye of Time by C. J. Cherryh Read Free Book Online

faces had beards, and looked like Mauryl. Some were smooth-faced. Some looked more afraid than angry. Mauryl’s face went through such changes of expression, and such changes portended important things to him—but the changing statues, Mauryl assured him, portended nothing.
    He had been aware, too, in this growing curiosity about faces, that his hair was dark, where Mauryl’s was silver, that Mauryl had a long beard and his face was, until lately, smoother than the statue’s stone; that Mauryl’s hands were wrinkled and his were not—his hands looked more like the stone hands that in places reached from the wall, not the clawed ones, but the hands with fingers. He was aware, now that he thought about it, that his face must be changing in some way, and different than Mauryl’s in more than the beard.
    He was thinking about such things when, the next day, he leaned over the rain barrel out by the scullery and saw just a shadow of a boy, hardly more than a shadow, but not, surely, a wicked and dangerous Shadow, as Owl was to the birds.
    The shadow was his, true, but he could see in it no reason for his face to be rough or whether it was a good face or a frightening face. He thought that the sun was wrong, and his hair was shading the water, so he moved, and held his hair back at the nape of his neck—but it hardly helped. It was a dark barrel and the sun did little to light it.
    But it did seem, looking critically, that his nose was straighter, and his skin was smoother, and his brows were thinner than Mauryl’s. It was like and not like the stone faces. He made faces at the water-shadow. The shadow changed a little, where light reached past his shoulder.
    The kitchen door opened. Mauryl looked out. He looked up.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Mauryl asked.
    â€œLooking at my face,” he said, which sounded strange. “Looking at the shadow of my face,” he said, instead.
    â€œClever lad.” But Mauryl’s voice was not pleased. “Do you see all this wood?”
    He looked in the direction Mauryl looked, at the large jumbled pile of timbers that had always stood by the door.
    â€œBeing such a clever lad,” Mauryl said, “do you see this axe?”
    The axe stood by the door inside. Mauryl came out with it in his hand. He thought Mauryl would cut wood, as Mauryl did now and again: Mauryl had always said the axe was too dangerous. Mauryl found it hard to work without his staff, but he would lean on it and pull out the smallest pieces and chop them into kindling.
    So he stood and watched as Mauryl set one small piece of wood over the bigger one he used for a supporting piece and set to work, leaning on his staff with one hand, chopping with the other.
    â€œYou see,” Mauryl said, “first to this side and then to that side.” Chips flew. He liked to watch. The wood that came out of the gray beams was lighter, and the newest chips were always bright among those that littered the area around about. Mauryl made faces when he worked. The small piece became two pieces. “Do you see?”
    â€œYes, master Mauryl.”
    â€œYou try a bigger one, if you’re such a strong young man, with so much time to spare.”
    He took a fair-sized one. He set it where Mauryl said; he took the axe in his hand. Mauryl showed him how to hold it in both hands, where to set his feet, and showed him how to be careful where the axe swung. His heart was beating faster with the mere notion that Mauryl trusted him with Mauryl’s own work. The axe handle he held was smooth and warm from Mauryl’s hands. When he lifted it and when he swung very slowly at Mauryl’s order, he felt the weight of it as something trying to weigh down on him.
    â€œVery good,” Mauryl said. “Now, always minding where you put your feet and mind the path of the axe, swing it faster this time and aim true. Never chase the wood. If the wood moves, stop and put it back.