“Yes, domine,” said Esca, in the mock submissive voice he knew Marcus loathed. But he was angry, and he wanted Marcus to be angry: it was only fury that gave Esca the dignity to sit still, gripping the edge of the chill stone bench with sweaty hands, and not bate like a frightened hawk at the sound of the shears singing on the whetstone.
But Marcus only set aside the whetstone. “Truly,” he said. “If I hurt you, squawk.”
“I’m not a bird,” Esca snapped.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Marcus replied, and if his words were not an apology, his tone was. His leg dragged on the early fallen leaves as he came to stand behind Esca, tugging Esca’s left wing – his good wing – to see that it was fully open. Esca wished he would start with the right, because then at least the dreading would be over. But he forced himself to stretch his wings wide, so Marcus would not pull on them.
He hated this: sitting still, spreading his wings till the bad wing ached, and letting his masters cripple him. The good little slave. So obedient. Where now the chieftain’s son?
He had fought, the first time, until the soldiers threatened to pinion him. They held him down: they broke his right wing.
That badly healed wing grounded Esca as thoroughly as clipping could, but masters always insisted on clipping anyway. And Esca held still for it, though it was a degradation, because he was so afraid of pinioning. Coward.
Marcus smoothed Esca’s flight feathers. Esca dry-swallowed. The new-grown feathers were still tender: if Marcus cut them too short, they would bleed. “Have you ever clipped – ” Esca started, and stopped himself, because his voice was near to shaking.
“Yes,” Marcus replied. Esca hated the gentleness of his voice. He was going to clip Esca’s wings: he did not get to be kind about it.
The shears snicked. Esca clenched his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see his wingtips flutter onto the fallen leaves. “When?” he asked.
Snick. Another feather. Marcus did not reply, and Esca suddenly did not want to know: he did not want to learn that Marcus’s legion had defeated thus-and-such tribe, and clipped such of them as had wings, and sold them into slavery.
But at length Marcus said, “My uncle – my other uncle, who I lived with in Rome – had a winged slave.”
They were silent after that. The shears rasped through another feather. It brushed against Esca’s ankle as it fell. Esca gagged.
no subject
“Tell me if I hurt you.”
“Yes, domine,” said Esca, in the mock submissive voice he knew Marcus loathed. But he was angry, and he wanted Marcus to be angry: it was only fury that gave Esca the dignity to sit still, gripping the edge of the chill stone bench with sweaty hands, and not bate like a frightened hawk at the sound of the shears singing on the whetstone.
But Marcus only set aside the whetstone. “Truly,” he said. “If I hurt you, squawk.”
“I’m not a bird,” Esca snapped.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Marcus replied, and if his words were not an apology, his tone was. His leg dragged on the early fallen leaves as he came to stand behind Esca, tugging Esca’s left wing – his good wing – to see that it was fully open. Esca wished he would start with the right, because then at least the dreading would be over. But he forced himself to stretch his wings wide, so Marcus would not pull on them.
He hated this: sitting still, spreading his wings till the bad wing ached, and letting his masters cripple him. The good little slave. So obedient. Where now the chieftain’s son?
He had fought, the first time, until the soldiers threatened to pinion him. They held him down: they broke his right wing.
That badly healed wing grounded Esca as thoroughly as clipping could, but masters always insisted on clipping anyway. And Esca held still for it, though it was a degradation, because he was so afraid of pinioning. Coward.
Marcus smoothed Esca’s flight feathers. Esca dry-swallowed. The new-grown feathers were still tender: if Marcus cut them too short, they would bleed. “Have you ever clipped – ” Esca started, and stopped himself, because his voice was near to shaking.
“Yes,” Marcus replied. Esca hated the gentleness of his voice. He was going to clip Esca’s wings: he did not get to be kind about it.
The shears snicked. Esca clenched his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see his wingtips flutter onto the fallen leaves. “When?” he asked.
Snick. Another feather. Marcus did not reply, and Esca suddenly did not want to know: he did not want to learn that Marcus’s legion had defeated thus-and-such tribe, and clipped such of them as had wings, and sold them into slavery.
But at length Marcus said, “My uncle – my other uncle, who I lived with in Rome – had a winged slave.”
They were silent after that. The shears rasped through another feather. It brushed against Esca’s ankle as it fell. Esca gagged.