On the other hand, Torm hadn't been punished for killing little Miv, but rewarded for it. Studying the arts of war was the dream of his heart.
It burst out of me—"It's not fair!"
"Gavir," the teacher said.
"But it's not, Teacher-dí! Torm killed Miv!"
"He did not mean to, Gavir. Yet he is being made to do penance. He is not allowed to come with the Mother and the rest of us to Vente. He will live with his teacher and be subjected to a very severe discipline. Swordmaster Attec's pupils lead a hard, bare life of constant training, with no reward but their increase of skill. The Father spoke of it to Torm-dí while I was there. He said, 'You must learn self-restraint, my son, and with Attec you will learn it.' And Torm-dí bowed his head."
"But then Hoby—what did he do to be punished?"
The teacher was taken aback. "What did he do?" he repeated, looking at my scabs and swellings and splinted finger.
"But that—that didn't hurt the Family," I said, not knowing how to say what I felt. I meant that if Hoby was punished for what he'd done to me, it should be by his and my people, the slaves. That's why I hadn't said who hurt me. It was between us. It was beneath the Family's notice. But if Hoby was being punished for his attempt to defend Torm, clumsy as it had been, then it was so unfair that it must be a mistake—a misunderstanding.
"What happened to you was no accident," Everra said, "though in your loyalty to your schoolmate you say it was. But Hoby was insolent to me. And through me the authority of the Father acts in this classroom. That cannot be tolerated, Gavir. Listen now; come sit here."
He went to sit at the reading table, and I went to sit by him, as I would when reading with him. "Loyalty is a great thing, but loyalty misplaced is troublesome and dangerous. I know you're troubled. Everyone in the House is troubled. The death of a child is a pitiable thing. You're hearing wild, angry talk, maybe, in the barrack and the dormitory. When you hear such talk, you must think what this household is: Is it a wilderness? Is it a battlefield? Is it an endless, hidden war of sullen rage against implacable force? Is that the truth of your life here? Or have you lived here as a member of a family blessed by its ancestors, where each person has his part to play, always striving to act with justice?"
He let me think that over a minute, and went on, "When in doubt, Gavir, look up. Not down. Look up for guidance. Strength comes from above. Your part is with the highest in this House. Born wild as you were, a slave as you are, as I am, without family, yet you've been taken into the heart of a great household and given all you need—shelter and food, great Ancestors and a kindly Father to guide you. And as well as all that, nourishment for your spirit—the learning I was given and can pass on to you. You have been given trust. The sacred gift. Our Family trusts us, Gavir. They entrust their sons and daughters to me! How can I earn that honor? By my loyal effort to deserve it. I wish when I die it might be said of me, 'He never betrayed those who trusted him.'"
His dry voice had become gentle, and he looked at me a while before he went on. "You know, Gavir, behind you, in the wilderness you came from, there's nothing for you. In the shifting sands beneath you, there's nothing for you to build on. But look up! Above you, in the power that sustains you and the wisdom offered to you—there you can set your heart, there you can put your trust. There you will find treasure. And justice. And a mother's mercy, which you never knew."
It was as if he talked of the house I had dreamed of, that sunlit house where I was safe and welcome and free. He restored it to me in waking life.
I couldn't say anything, of course. He saw what comfort he had given me, though, and he reached out to pat my shoulder, as the boy in the courtyard had, a light, brotherly touch.
He stood up to break the mood. "What shall we take to read in the summer?" he asked, and