The Bone Doll’s Twin. Lynn Flewelling
went straight back to the ostler for the horses. No more town for him. As Tobin went to mount, he found he was still holding the marbles. He didn’t want them, but didn’t dare anger his father further by throwing them away, so he jammed them into the neck of his tunic. They slid down to where his belt cinched in, heavy and uncomfortable against his side.
‘Come on, let’s go home,’ his father said, and rode away without waiting for Tharin.
Silence hung heavily between them on the homeward journey. Tobin felt like a hand was clutching his throat, making it ache. He’d learned long ago how to cry silently. They were halfway home before his father looked back and saw.
‘Ah, Tobin!’ He reined in and waited for Tobin to ride up beside him. He didn’t look angry anymore, just weary and sad as he gestured vaguely back towards the town and said, ‘Dolls … they’re silly, filthy things. Boys don’t play with them, especially not boys who want to grow up to be brave warriors. Do you understand?’
The doll! A fresh wave of shame washed over Tobin. So that was why his father had been so angry. His heart sank further as another realization came clear. It was why his mother hadn’t given him one, that morning, too. It was shameful of him to want them.
He was too shocked at himself to wonder why no one, not even Nari, had thought to tell him.
His father patted his shoulder. ‘Let’s go home and have your cake. Tomorrow Tharin will start your training.’
But by the time they reached home he was feeling too sick in his stomach to eat any honey cake or wine. Nari felt his forehead, pronounced him played out, and put him to bed.
He waited until she was gone, then reached under his pillow for the four little stick people hidden there. What had been a happy secret now made his cheeks burn. These were dolls, too. Gathering them up, he crept next door and put them down in one of the toy city’s market squares. This was where they belonged. His father had made them and put them here, so it must be all right to play with them here.
Returning to his room, Tobin hid the unwanted sack of marbles at the very back of his wardrobe. Then he crawled between the cold sheets and said another prayer to Sakor that he would be a better boy and make his father proud.
Even after he cried again, it was hard to sleep. His bed felt very empty now. At last he fetched the wooden sword Tharin had given him and cuddled up with that.
Tobin didn’t forget the bad memories of that name day, but – like the unwanted sack of marbles gathering dust at the back of his wardrobe – he simply chose not to touch them. The other gifts he’d received kept him happily occupied over the next year.
He learned sword play and archery in the barracks yard with Tharin, and rode Gosi every day. He no longer cast a longing eye at the Alestun road. The few traders they met on the mountain track bowed respectfully; no one pointed at him here, or whispered behind their hands.
Remembering the pleasure he’d felt making the wax horse at the shrine, he begged bits of candle end from Cook’s melting pot, and soon the window sill in his bedchamber was populated with tiny yellow animals and birds. Nari and his father praised these, but it was Tharin who brought him lumps of clean new wax so that he could make bigger animals. Delighted, Tobin used the first bit to make him a horse.
On his eighth name day they went to town again and he was careful to behave himself as a young warrior should. He made fine wax horses at the shrine, and no one snickered later when he chose a fine hunting knife as his gift.
Not long after this, his father decided it was time for Tobin to learn his letters.
Tobin enjoyed these lessons at first, but mostly because he loved sitting in his father’s chamber. It smelled of leather and there were maps and interesting daggers hanging on the walls.
‘No Skalan noble should be at the mercy of scribes,’ his father explained, setting out parchments and a pot of ink on a small table by the window. He trimmed a goose quill and held it up for Tobin to see. ‘This is a weapon, my son, and some know how to wield it as skilfully as a sword or dagger.’
Tobin couldn’t imagine what he meant but was anxious as always to please him. In this, however, he had little luck. Try as he might, he simply could not understand the connection between the crooked black marks his father drew on the page and the sounds he claimed they made. Worse yet, his fingers, so adept at moulding wax or clay from the riverbank, could not find a way to control the scratchy, skittering quill. It blotted. It wandered. It caught on the parchment and spat ink in all directions. His lines were wiggly as grass snakes, his loops came out too large, and whole letters ended up backwards or upside down. His father was patient but Tobin was not. Day after day he struggled, blotching and scratching along until the sheer frustration of all made him cry.
‘Perhaps we’d best leave this for later,’ his father conceded at last.
That night Tobin dreamt of burning all the quills in the house, just in case his father changed his mind.
Fortunately, Tobin had no such difficulty learning the sword. Tharin had kept his promise; whenever he was at the keep, they met to practice in the barracks yard or the hall. Using wooden swords and bucklers, Tharin taught Tobin the rudiments of sweeps and blocks, how to attack and how to defend himself. Tobin worked fiercely at these lessons and kept his pledge to the gods and his father in his heart; he would be a great warrior.
It was not a difficult one to keep, for he loved arms practice. When he was little he’d often come with Nari to watch the men spar among themselves. Now they gathered to watch him, leaning out the barracks windows or sitting on crates and log stools in front of the long building. They offered advice, joked with him, and stepped out to show him their own special tricks and dodges. Soon Tobin had as many teachers as he wanted. Tharin sometimes paired him against left-handed Manies or Aladar, to demonstrate how different it was to fight a man who held his weapon on the same side as your own. He couldn’t properly fight any of them, small as he was, but they went through the motions in mock fights and showed him what they could. Koni the fletcher, who was the smallest and youngest of the guard, was closest to him in size. He took a special interest in Tobin, too, for they both liked to make things. Tobin made him wax animals and in return Koni taught him how to fletch arrow shafts and carve twig whistles.
When Tobin had finished his practice for the day the others would shoot with him, or tell stories of the battles they’d fought against the Plenimarans. Tobin’s father was the great hero of these tales, always in the forefront, always the bravest on the field. Tharin figured large as well, and was always at his father’s side.
‘Have you always been with Father?’ he asked Tharin one winter day as they rested between drills. It had snowed the night before. Tharin’s beard was white around his mouth where his breath had frozen.
He nodded. ‘All my life. My father was one of your grandfather’s liegemen. I was his third son, born at Atyion the same year as your father. We were raised together, almost like brothers.’
‘So you’re almost my uncle?’ Tobin said, pleased with the notion.
Tharin tousled Tobin’s hair. ‘As good as, my prince. When I was old enough, I was made his squire and later he made me a knight and granted me my lands at Hawkhaven. We’ve never been separated in battle.’
Tobin pondered all this a moment, then asked, ‘Why don’t I have a squire?’
‘Oh, you’re young for that yet. I’m sure you will when you’re a bit older.’
‘But not one I’ve grown up with,’ Tobin pointed out glumly. ‘No boy has been born here. There aren’t any other children at all. Why can’t we go live at Atyion, like you and Father did? Why do the children in the village point and stare at me?’
Tobin half expected Tharin to put him off, talk