The boys who hated Orem most were Cressam and Morram and Hob. They had not ruled before Orem came, but because of their ruthless torture of the younger boys they had been valuable enforcers for the smarter boys who did rule. Now they had no role at all within the House of God: they were fools at their schoolwork and none of the boys' games rewarded cruelty and ruthlessness. So they plotted Orem's death, partly for lack of anything else to do, and when they had settled on a plan, they practiced until they were sure they could bring it off quickly and unnoticed.

It was the day the offerings of hay came in. Orem stood with the other boys watching the stack grow higher and broader as the farmers brought their gifts to the House of God. Orem hoped to see his father, though he knew the chance was small that his own family would draw the lot to bring the village tithe.

Suddenly Orem found himself gripped by many hands and thrust under the hay. He writhed and twisted, but he was not in water, and they had practiced well. Orem did turn enough to see that Cressam held a torch. Then the hay fell down to cover him. He saw the whole plan at once. Cressam would stumble. The torch would fall. They would count the boys when the fire was out and only then discover Orem wasn't there. If any of the other boys saw it, they would not dare to tell; if Cressam and Morram and Hob had murdered once, they would not fear to do it twice.

So he did not try to leap forward out of the hay, where the flames would first erupt. Instead he plunged backward, burrowed deep into the stack. Behind him he heard the sudden roar, the shout of Fire. He could not see the flame, but he could hear it, and the heat and smoke came quickly. He did not have to think. His arms knew to burrow deeper into the hay, his feet knew to kick down hay behind him so the smoke would not be funneled in to where he meant to hide.

It was black as a sow's womb inside the hay, and because his eyes could not see, his mind did: remembered vividly the haystack fires that he had seen before. It never took more than a few seconds for the fire to reach all the way around, and only a minute or two for the flames to die down. Within the haystack there was always an unburnt core, a place where the flames could not reach. That was his hope.

But he also remembered raking through such a fire once, and he found the corpse of a mouse in the unburnt portion. There was no mark upon it, not a hair was singed, but he was still dead, eyes staring wide. Fire or not, the heat or the smoke had killed to the center of the stack, and Orem wondered what form his death would take and how much it would hurt. Then came the only miracle of his childhood. The haystack had been built upon firm, dry ground, but now his hand reached forward for support and found none. He slid and splashed into a pool of water that could not have been there. He had presence of mind enough to take one sharp, deep breath as he went under; then he let himself drift downward, downward in the water, not moving, trying only to remember up and down, and to estimate how long till the fire was out.

The priests looked at him in awe, and Prester Enzinn said what they all thought. "We drained this marsh a century ago, and just for you the water came up again and made a spring under the stack. God must love you, Orem. You are not meant to die."

From then on the priests and the other boys knew that Orem was protected, and they raised no hand against him.

In his learning he excelled. His hand was so fine they took him from the scribal class and set him to making manuscripts at the age of twelve. They let him do a new transcription of the prophecies of Prester Cork, and when he finished it they commended him for discovering seven new and hidden meanings in the rhymes and the diagonals. But whenever their praise tempted Orem to be proud, to speak boldly with the other boys, or to presume a friendship with a priest, he felt himself slip helplessly forward into a pool of water, felt his lungs wrench at him in a desperate plea for air, and he could not speak.

So the years passed in the House of God in Banningside, until the day his true father found him.

The Man with Golden Eyes

This is how you almost met your son, though you did not know you had a son, and how you set him on the course of life that led him to do the things you wish to kill him for.

The End or Education

Orem sat in tutorial, Halfpriest Dobbick across from him, studying his copy of the Waking of the Wines. He had, on a whim, written the words bud, bloom, blossom, and blood in the castings of the ages of the coops, and other such figures throughout the book. Dobbick frowned now and then, and Orem feared he had laid too many meanings into the book. He wanted to speak, to apologize, to explain. But silence, he knew, was the best policy.

pretending to be deaf, he was good at it.

If I were hungry enough, would I become a beggar, too?

Dobbick set down the book. "You have excelled yourself."

Orem did not know how tense he had been until he felt himself relax. "Is it good enough, then?"

"Oh, yes. I will certify it as your masterwork."

Orem was shocked. "My masterwork. But I'm only fifteen years old."

Dobbick sat back in silence, forcing Orem to wait patiently for him to speak. At last: "Your

education is finished, Orem."

"It can't be finished. I'm not half through the library, and my work is still raw—"

"Your work is the best we've seen in Banningside since God was first taught in this land. Who

do you think wrote the manuscript you copied of the Waking of the Wines?"

"I don't know. They're never signed."

"Prester Abrekem."

"Himself."

"The prophet who first taught Palicrovol the ways of God. And you improved on his work. Not

slightly—markedly. What more will we teach you in Banningside? The books you have not read contain nothing that you need—you have taken our most difficult books and swallowed them whole."

Orem had known he was doing well, but he had not conceived, not yet, that his education was through. "I am not a man."

"You are a man," said Dobbick. "You're the tallest creature in the House of God, will we still call you a boy?"

"I am not wise."

"We never said that we could teach you wisdom. Only that we would teach you what the wise men wrote." "I cannot take the vows."

for years yet.

"Why not?" asked Dobbick quietly. "The life is not bad here. You have been happy with us."

Orem looked out the window.

"Is it the wide world? Is that what draws you? But you need not stay within the House. You

could be a mendicant—"

"Not I—"

"Or even an outrider, our purchaser—or we could send you to the Great Temple in Inwit, they'd

be glad of you there, and we'd be glad of you upon your return."

"You don't understand."

"Do you think I don't?" Dobbick said. "You worry because you think you don't believe enough

to be a priest. It's a disease of the age of fifteen. When the flesh is stirring, the spirit seems unreal."

"If my flesh stirs I don't know it," said Orem. "My problem is not unbelief. My problem is too much belief."

Dobbick's eyes narrowed. "You were a child when you came here. Haven't you broken yourself of foolish superstitions?"

"There is magic in the world. The women who love the Sweet Sisters don't deny God. Why

must Godsmen deny the Sisters and the Hart?"

"The world is more complicated than you think."

"No, Halfpriest Dobbick. The world is more complicated than you think. I will not live in

one-third of the universe when I might wander through it all."