He took a slow, deep breath. “Mother!” He called out. “Mother, I'm home!”

For two breaths, nothing happened. Then a door was slowly opened. A gray-haired woman peered out. She squinted in the early morning light as she peered about the yard. She finally spotted them on the far side of the garden. She lifted a hand and clutched at her throat, staring wide-eyed. She made a small sign against wild spirits. Kennit gave a sigh of exasperation. He began to pick his way through the garden, his crutch and peg awkward in the rows of softened earth. “It's me, Mother. Kennit. Your son.”

As it always had, her caution exasperated him. He was halfway across the garden before she was all the way out the door. She was barefoot, he noted with distaste, and dressed in cotton tunic and trousers like a peasant. Her pinned up hair was the color of wood-ash. Never a slender woman, she had thickened with the years. Her eyes widened as she finally recognized him. She hurried toward him at an inglorious trot. He had to suffer the indignity of her squashy embrace. She was weeping before she even reached him. Over and over, she pointed at his missing leg, gabbling in sorrow and query.

“Yes, yes, Mother, it's all right. Now have done.” She clutched at him, weeping. He seized her hands firmly and set them back from himself. “Have done!”

Years ago, her tongue had been cut out. Although he had had nothing to do with that and had sincerely deplored it at the time, over the years he had come to see it was not an entirely unfortunate incident. She still talked endlessly, or tried to, but since the event he could steer the conversation as he wished it to go. He told her when she agreed with him, and when a topic was settled. As now.

“I can't stay long, I'm afraid, but I've brought you a few things.” He turned her determinedly and led his awe-stricken cavalcade toward the intact cottage. “The chest has a few gifts for you. Some flower seeds I thought you would like, some cooking spices, some cloth, a tapestry. A bit of this, a bit of that.”

They reached the door of the cottage and went inside. It was spotlessly tidy. Bare. On the table were smoothed shingles of white pine. Brushes and dyes were laid out beside them. So, she still painted. Yesterday's work still rested on the table, a wildflower done in intricate and realistic detail. A kettle of water bubbled on the hearth. Through the door into the second room, he glimpsed the neatly made bed. Everywhere he looked, he saw signs of a simple and placid life. She had always liked things that way. His father had loved opulence and variety. They had complemented one another well. Now she was like half a person. The thought suddenly agitated him beyond his self-control. He paced a turn around the room, then seized Ankle by the shoulders and thrust the girl forward.

“I've thought of you often, Mother. See, this is Ankle. She's your servant now. She's not very bright, but she seems clean and willing. If she turns out not to be, I'll kill her when I come back.” His mother's eyes flew wide in horror and the crippled girl crouched down, babbling for mercy. “So, for her sake, do try to get along well together,” he added almost gently. Already he wished he were back on the deck of his ship. Things were so much simpler there. He gestured at his prisoner.

“And this is Captain Haven. Say hello and then good-bye for now. He will be staying, but you needn't bother much about him. I'll be putting him down in the old wine cellar under the big house. Ankle, you will remember to give him some food and water now and then, won't you? At least as often as you were fed and watered aboard the ship, right? That seems fair to everyone, now doesn't it?” He waited for answers but they were all gaping at him as if he were mad. All save his mother, who clutched the front of her blouse and wrung the fabric between her hands. She looked distressed. He thought he knew the problem. “Now, remember, I have given my word that he is to be kept safe. So I insist you do just that. I'll chain him up well, but you must see to the food and water part. Do you understand?”

His mother gabbled frantically at him. He nodded in approval. “I knew you wouldn't mind. Now. What have I forgotten?”

He glanced at the others. “Oh, yes. Look, Mother. I've brought you a priest, too! I know how you like priests.” His eyes drilled Sa'Adar. “My mother is very devout. Pray for her. Or bless something.”

Sa'Adar's eyes went wide. “You're mad.”

“Scarcely. Why do people always accuse me of that when I'm arranging things to my liking instead of theirs?” He dismissed the priest. “Now, these two, Mother, are going to be your neighbors. They have a baby on the way, they've told me. I'm sure you'll like having a little one around, won't you? They're both handy at heavy work. Perhaps the next time I come to visit, I'll find things in better repair. Perhaps you'll be living in the big house again?”