"Well, then. If you wish to emulate her, I can obviously find no objection to the practice."

Kal grimaced. You had to watch yourself when speaking with Hesina; she liked to twist words about. He leaned back against the wall of the town hall, watching his breath puff out in front of him. Perhaps a different tactic would work. "Mother, why do people hate Father?"

"They don't hate him," she said. However, his calmly asked question got her to continue. "But he does make them uncomfortable."

"Why?"

"Because some people are frightened of knowledge. Your father is a learned man; he knows things the others can't understand. So those things must be dark and mysterious."

"They aren't afraid of luckmerches and glyphwards."

"Those you can understand," his mother said calmly. "You burn a glyphward out in front of your house, and it will turn away evil. It's easy. Your father won't give someone a ward to heal them. He'll insist that they stay in bed, drinking water, taking some foul medicine, and washing their wound each day. It's hard. They'd rather leave it all to fate."

Kal considered that. "I think they hate him because he fails too often."

"There is that. If a glyphward fails, you can blame it on the will of the Almighty. If your father fails, then it's his fault. Or such is the perception." His mother continued working, flakes of stone falling to the ground around her. "They'll never actually hate your father-he's too useful. But he'll never really be one of them. That's the price of being a surgeon. Having power over the lives of men is an uncomfortable responsibility."

"And if I don't want that responsibility? What if I just want to be something normal, like a baker, or a farmer, or…" Or a soldier, he added in his mind. He'd picked up a staff a few times in secret, and though he'd never been able to replicate that moment when he'd fought Jost, there was something invigorating about holding a weapon. Something that drew him and excited him.

"I think," his mother said, "that you'll find the lives of bakers and farmers are not so enviable."

"At least they have friends."

"And so do you. What of Tien?"

"Tien's not my friend, Mother. He's my brother."

"Oh, and he can't be both at once?"

Kal rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

She climbed down from the stepladder, patting his shoulder. "Yes, I do, and I'm sorry to make light of it. But you put yourself in a difficult position. You want friends, but do you really want to act like the other boys? Give up your studies so you can slave in the fields? Grow old before your time, weathered and furrowed by the sun?"

Kal didn't reply.

"The things that others have always seem better than what you have," his mother said. "Bring the stepladder."

Kal followed dutifully, rounding the town hall to the other side, then putting down the ladder so his mother could climb up to begin work again.

"The others think Father stole those spheres." Kal shoved his hands in his pockets. "They think he wrote out that order from Brightlord Wistiow and had the old man sign it when he didn't know what he was doing."

His mother was silent.

"I hate their lies and gossip," Kal said. "I hate them for making up things about us."

"Don't hate them, Kal. They're good people. In this case, they're just repeating what they've heard." She glanced at the citylord's manor, distant upon a hill above the town. Every time Kal saw it, he felt like he should go up and talk to Laral. But the last few times he'd tried, he hadn't been allowed to see her. Now that her father was dead, her nurse oversaw her time, and the woman didn't think mingling with boys from the town was appropriate.

The nurse's husband, Miliv, had been Brightlord Wistiow's head steward. If there was a source of bad rumors about Kal's family, it probably came from him. He never had liked Kal's father. Well, Miliv wouldn't matter soon. A new citylord was expected to arrive any day.

"Mother," Kal said, "those spheres are just sitting there doing nothing but glowing. Can't we spend some to keep you from having to come out here and work?"

"I like working," she said, scraping away again. "It clears the head."

"Didn't you just tell me that I wouldn't like having to labor? My face furrowed before its time, or something poetic like that?"

She hesitated, then laughed. "Clever boy."

"Cold boy," he grumbled, shivering.

"I work because I want to. We can't spend those spheres-they're for your education-and so my working is better than forcing your father to charge for his healings."

"Maybe they'd respect us more if we did charge."

"Oh, they respect us. No, I don't think that is the problem." She looked down at Kal. "You know that we're second nahn."

"Sure," Kal said, shrugging.

"An accomplished young surgeon of the right rank could draw the attention of a poorer noble family, one who wished money and acclaim. It happens in the larger cities."

Kal glanced up at the mansion again. "That's why you encouraged me to play with Laral so much. You wanted to marry me off to her, didn't you?"

"It was a possibility," his mother said, returning to her work.

He honestly wasn't certain how he felt about that. The last few months had been strange for Kal. His father had forced him into his studies, but in secret he'd spent his time with the staff. Two possible paths. Both enticing. Kal did like learning, and he longed for the ability to help people, bind their wounds, make them better. He saw true nobility in what his father did.

But it seemed to Kal that if he could fight, he could do something even more noble. Protect their lands, like the great lighteyed heroes of the stories. And there was the way he felt when holding a weapon.

Two paths. Opposites, in many ways. He could only choose one.

His mother kept chipping away at the eaves, and-with a sigh-Kal fetched a second stepladder and set of tools from the workroom, then joined her. He was tall for his age, but he still had to stand high on the ladder. He caught his mother smiling as he worked, no doubt pleased at having raised such a helpful young man. In reality, Kal just wanted the chance to pound on something.

How would he feel, marrying someone like Laral? He'd never be her equal. Their children would have a chance of being lighteyed or darkeyed, so even his children might outrank him. He knew he'd feel terribly out of place. That was another aspect of becoming a surgeon. If he chose that path, he would be choosing the life of his father. Choosing to set himself apart, to be isolated.

If he went to war, however, he would have a place. Maybe he could even do the nearly unthinkable, win a Shardblade and become a true lighteyes. Then he could marry Laral and not have to be her inferior. Was that why she'd always encouraged him to become a soldier? Had she been thinking about these kinds of things, even back then? Back then, these kinds of decisions-marriage, his future-had seemed impossibly far-off to Kal.

He felt so young. Did he really have to consider these questions? It would still be another few years before the surgeons of Kharbranth would let him take their tests. But if he were going to become a soldier instead, he'd have to join the army before that happened. How would his father react if Kal just up and went with the recruiters? Kal wasn't certain he'd be able to face Lirin's disappointed eyes.

As if in response to his thoughts, Lirin's voice called from nearby. "Hesina!"

Kal's mother turned, smiling and tucking a stray lock of dark hair back into her kerchief. Kal's father rushed down the street, his face anxious. Kal felt a sudden jolt of worry. Who was wounded? Why hadn't Lirin sent for him?

"What is it?" Kal's mother asked, climbing down.

"He's here, Hesina," Kal's father said.