(Backdated entry)
Tremaen pulled and scowled at the piece of lace on his sleeve. He didn't care that Auntie Aselma had made it, or who she was to the village of Attia, or even that she was coming. It was his naming day, eight years old and nearly grown. He should be able to decide whether he wanted to wear lace or not, and he most decidedly did not. Mother told him he could take it off right after Auntie Aselma left, but he still didn't have to like it.
Fidgeting in a ladder-back chair, he watched his mother flit about the room doing last minute dusting. He always thought that Kiratu Guenlyn was the prettiest woman in the whole world with her light brown skin, eyes, and hair, the last streaked in midnight blue. It only recently occurred to him that he must look like the father he didn't know, because he was all pale and green-haired. It didn't bother him though. A lot of children in the Willows didn't know who their fathers were.
Guenlyn came over and smiled at him, and he returned it. Until, of course, she smoothed down a bit of hair, and Tremaen was morally bound to roll his eyes at her.
The distinctive sound of a stick rapping against a door announced the dreaded arrival of Auntie Aselma. Tremaen hopped off his chair and dutifully stood next to his mother as she answered the door. Auntie warmly greeted Guenlyn, and gave her usual greeting to Tremaen, which meant she stared down her beaky nose at him and scowled, made a passing comment about the lace, then promptly forgot he existed. Mother asked him to go play in the garden. She didn't seem pleased to see Auntie today, and he certainly didn't blame her. He wanted to give his mother a hug, but decided to do what he was told, because he knew Auntie would say something if he didn't.
The tiny house garden held a thousand things, but many he could not touch. Tremaen had done so, once, and he thought he could still feel the sting in his backside. How was he supposed to know the plot under the window was for healing herbs? He just liked the yellow flowers one of them blossomed in the spring.
He pondered for a moment climbing the drooping willow, but the last time he'd tried to swing from it's branches he'd discovered the hard way that he was far too big now to be doing so. His broken arm had only just healed. Staring around for a moment, he spotted the pansies, all in shades of pink and purple. Mother had never said anything about them. Maybe a small bouquet would cheer her up.
Tremaen spent a long time, at least a long time to an eight year old boy, picking just the right pansies and arranging them just in the right way. Of course, he'd gotten dirt all over his new coat, and did his best to brush it off with an equally dirty hand. Failing, he decided that it really didn't matter because he really wanted to give his mother the flowers. With purpose in mind, he headed back in the house.
Mother was still visiting with Auntie in the sitting room, Mother sitting in a silk cushioned chair and Auntie half-leaning on her walking stick, staring out the window, white streaked red hair glimmering with a halo of dust in the sunlight. Tremaen started to burst right on in, but something stayed him right outside the door, just to the side where they did not see him. Both women wore their important discussion faces, and Mother looked most distressed.
“Mehtar Kotari, in Vesh, is looking for apprentices for stable hands,” Auntie said. “Breeding is an honorable trade.”
“For us?” Mother looked down at her hands. Tremaen pressed himself against the wall, brows furrowing. “Aselma, he's my child.”
“The two of you were in my home less than an week. My garden started flourishing, every dish in the cupboard broke exactly in the same way, and Kischy bore a litter of seven-toed kittens.”
“Isn't that what you were trying to do, with the cat?”
Tremaen started peeking fearfully around the corner, flowers forgotten in his hand.
“With no success for many years. Don't you see? It didn't pass him over. It's random in him.”
Mother thumped the table with the palm of her hand. “Why? Why does it matter? I bore the Benefactor a son. The oaths are over. Sending the boy away won't make him come back, no matter how much you wish it. Kiratu women must make their own prosperity now.”
Instead of yelling back, Auntie closed her eyes and hung her head. Tremaen didn't understand a word of what was said, save that they were talking about him. “You mistake me, my dear girl. It's for the boy's sake I come here. He is not like other boys born to us. He is a child of the Benefactor, and if he stays with us he will be lost to madness, or worse. He must learn to be a normal boy to be a normal man.”
Mother slowly sat back down again. Tremaen found his lip quivering. No, he refused to cry. “But why the Realmsman? Surely he'll reject him.”
Auntie spoke slowly and patiently, approaching the chair where Mother sat. “Master Mehtar knows nothing of what we are, not even the rumors that dog us, so he will not treat the boy strangely. He was Chosen into a good family by a level headed woman, who, I will add, I have already spoken to. They have two twin children about his age, a boy he can learn from and a girl. Perhaps at age, the girl will take our boy in. It's the best thing for him, and us, Guenlyn.”
“He will be able to come home from time to time?”
“Of course.”
The flowers fell from Tremaen's hand as he understood one thing. He was being sent away. His mother finally turned her head to see him standing there, and he scowled at her. Whoever these people were, he resolved to hate them. Especially this girl they wanted to choose him.