There were others who might do more for the bishop, Selden knew. There were charms that kept fevers down, spells that would bind wounds, all manner of things a healall might do ... but the bishop was an old man and worn thin. Worn out, really. He was ready for death. And, thankfully, not afraid. He needed no strengthening of his faith, no consolation, no reminders of God’s grace. What more could Selden do?
Would the village grieve him? Selden didn’t know. Matron would, of course.
And when could he ever be replaced? Cald Mere was so far north, so distant from any real throne. The people here had a taste of freedom, there was no doubt of it, but its cost came heavily: the hardest of lives and bone-grinding poverty (Selden’s father would have exclaimed, “God love ‘em! They have not even a pot to piss in!) Restless sons would leave for the wars and most would never come back, intoxicated as they were with the spilled blood and free-flowing wine, free women too, and song.
It was sad to consider, so Selden pushed it from his mind.
“I have a job to do, Primus,” Selden whispered. “Even if it means taking a talented boy from his village.”
The bishop slept.
“And what about this boy’s having a destiny? It can’t be to plough dirt, can it? Not if he has the gift. That would be the sin you would have welcomed, Primus.”
Selden pushed his thoughts away again.
“We’ve put that behind us anyway.”
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