Over the next few weeks, two more small tremors hit Dern, and rumors of magic and 'imbalances' increased. Triss, Behn, and Galen continued to train whenever Triss was off duty, and the rest of the time Galen devoted to studying medicine. He'd invented two new salves for healing bruises—something he found he needed after practicing with Triss.

Between his salves and his naturally quick healing, he'd managed to keep the minor injuries he sustained a secret from Harrald. That is, until one day after Triss had landed a few hard blows to his ribs, and the older man came home unexpectedly while he was treating himself in the kitchen.

Galen hastened to pull his shirt on as soon as he heard the door bang open, but when he turned and saw Harrald in the entryway, he knew he hadn't moved fast enough. If he'd walked in on Galen kissing a girl, Harrald couldn't have looked more shocked.

"Galen... Are you hurt again?" he asked, approaching almost cautiously.

Galen crossed his arms, and kept his eyes on the rough stone floor. "It's nothing. Just a bruise or two."

"Galen. Look at me."

Taking a deep breath, Galen raised his eyes and obeyed resentfully.

"What happened?"

He huffed and looked away again. Harrald had a knack for detecting lies, and would only wear him down until he was satisfied.

"I was training with Triss, alright? I'm learning to fight."

"What? Why?"

The perplexity in his tone just pissed Galen off.

"To defend myself, obviously. So I'm not so... so defenseless," he snapped, a bit defensively. "It's just a few bruises, like I said. Why do you care so much?"

"Galen, you have to be careful," Harrald said slowly. "You're not—"

"Not like other boys." Galen finished sharply. "I get it. I'm small, and weak, and an easy target, or whatever. Why do you think I want to learn to fight? I'm tired of being different."

He tried to push past Harrald, but the older man caught his shoulder in a large, rough hand and held him fast.

"That's not what I mean, Gale. When I say you're different, I don't mean you're weak. I mean..."

"What!?" Galen demanded impatiently. "What do you mean? Why's it such a big deal if I get hurt now and then? Everyone does."

He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. Harrald's missing arm and twisted back were proof the older man knew that well enough.

When Harrald spoke, though, his tone was soft.

"You're not 'everyone.'"

Galen rolled his eyes, annoyed once more. He knew his adoptive father loved him as much—maybe more—than if he'd really been his son, but sometimes his protectiveness was over-the-top.

"I'm seventeen. I'll be eighteen, come autumn. There are Guards younger than me, risking their lives every day. You can't protect me forever."

Breaking free of his father's grasp, he marched towards the stairs. He'd almost reached the top when Harrald spoke again.

"I know that, Galen."

If he'd remained steadfast and demanding, Galen might have ignored him, but the weary resignation in his father's voice made him pause and look back.

Harrald stood at the bottom of the worn wooden steps, the remaining red in his grizzled beard catching the evening light streaming through the thick, uneven glass of the kitchen window-panes. He rested his hand on the rail and looked up at Galen with an expression so full of regret, Galen couldn't look away.

"I know that," he repeated, "and maybe I should have done this earlier, but... Well, perhaps it's time you understand."

He mounted the steps, passing Galen at the top, and led the way into his own room. From the top of his wardrobe, he took down a long wooden box, clearing a thick layer of dust from it with a puff of breath, and sat on the bed. He patted the spot beside him on the ragged patchwork quilt, and—undeniably curious—Galen joined him there.

"This... is everything you were found with," Harrald said heavily, lifting the box's lid with his one hand and setting it aside. "Except your pendant, of course."

Inside, Galen saw three items: a small piece of thick silk fabric, which once might have been purple, a small gold ring, and a scrap of yellowed paper, folded up.

Harrald picked out the paper and handed it to Galen. It felt dry and fragile, as if it might crumble into dust, and he unfolded it carefully, revealing what looked like a letter written in a language he didn't understand.

"At first, only three words were visible," Harrald said, pointing. "Galen... his mother's."

Galen saw that, strangely, a large space separated the words.

"I recognized the script as Pyrran, though," Harrald went on, "and I'd spent enough time in Pyrr to learn a few of their tricks. Invisible ink, activated by heat. Got a fire going, passed a flame under it, and then I could read the rest."

"What..." Galen cleared his throat. His feelings were a tangled mess, but curiosity was still the strongest among them. "What does it say?"

Harrald sighed and read aloud, tracing the words with his gnarled fingertip.

"The babe is called Galen, son of Exandra. I surrender him to your protection, to nurture and safeguard until the threat has passed. Be warned, he shares his mother's gift, and may be thereby discovered. Take care he avoids injury, and contact with the injured, at all costs. When the time is ripe, we will come for him."

Harrald let his hand drop, and then ran it through his wiry hair.

"I recognized the name—Exandra—as Pyrran. There'd been a lot of trouble in Pyrr, at the time—some sort of magic war the rest of Sakkara stayed clear of. The mention of a 'gift' got me thinking you might be connected to that, somehow. Anyway, it was clear you'd been left for someone else to find. Figured it was important, but I waited for hours, and no one came.

"It wasn't my business, I told myself.You weren't mine to take. And what did I—an uneducated Thrynian—want to be tangling myself up with Pyrran mages for? But you were so tiny, and the snow was coming, and your little fingers and toes were already so cold, and I..."

He stopped and sighed again, dropping his hand to his lap.

"I brought you back to camp with me. I thought I'd go back to the woods, and leave a note of my own, and whoever was meant to come for you would find it, and come pick you up. But..."

He laughed.

"Funny thing is... I never imagined I'd have a child, much less want one. But you were so sweet, and tiny... I guess I fell in love, a little. Pretty soon, I couldn't bear the thought of someone taking you away from me, so instead of leaving a note, I hid this one, and brought you all the way back to Dern."

Galen's throat hurt with more emotions than he had names for, and his voice came out dry and rough. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Harrald fixed him with a sharp, blue gaze. "Can't you guess?"

Galen shook his head. "I'm Pyrran. So what? And I don't have magic."

"Don't have magic." Harrald exhaled a laugh. "Galen, you heal three, four, times faster'n usual. Your 'potions' or 'remedies' or whatever you call 'em are more effective than should be possible. And... Thrynnis, do you not remember?"

Galen shook his head again. "Remember what?"

Harrald licked his lips. "When you were about five, I had... an accident at the forge. I was still gettin' used to the one arm, and angry at the lack of the other, and I spilled molten iron on myself. Damned stupid mistake. 'Course it hurt like a trip through all thirteen hells, and I was screaming as much with anger as pain—here I've got the one good hand left, and I go an' ruin it—and you come runnin' out to see what happened. That snapped me out of it, of course, and I did my best to reassure you, but you were just beside yourself with worry and... compassion, I guess. Then you just... grabbed my hand, and then next thing I knew, it was healed—completely uninjured—and you were lying there, unconscious, dead to the world. Took you three days to wake up, a week to walk again, and a month before you fully recovered."

He glanced at Galen.

"You really don't remember?"

Galen strained his memory. "I remember... a bad illness, at about that age. But..." He shook his head.

Harrald nodded. "I've done my best, ever since: to keep you safe, and keep you away from anything that might trigger something similar again. See, a few weeks after, a strange fellow came through town, asking after a lost Pyrran boy—almost like something called him here. Luckily, the one thing you can count on in Thryn is a lack of trust in outsiders, so no one pointed him my way. That was a lucky escape, I figure. These days... I wouldn't count on it again. Now, they won't see you as 'Harrald Varek's little boy' but as 'that Pyrran-looking lad, what lives with the old one-armed fella.' I can't protect you anymore, Galen. And if anyone suspects you're a mage..."

"I'm not..." Galen shut up, the denial dying on his lips. Harrald had never lied to him before—except by omission, it seemed—and he had no reason to doubt his account. On the other hand, a lot of smaller, strange incidents made more sense to him now. "I'm... a mage?"

Harrald shook his head. "Nah. You got inborn magic, is all. If you train it, you might be a mage someday. Your mother was, for certain. Pyrran mage-royalty, if the marks on that band are anything to go by." He pointed to the gold ring, and Galen picked it up and turned it over, carefully. On the outside, it was plain and unmarked, but on the inside, a strange series of symbols were engraved on the band—like a serpent tangled with a vine.

"Mage... royalty?" Galen whispered.

"Don't get excited," Harrald said, laughing ruefully. "Pyrr is pretty much mage and royalty-free, these days. I'm guessing that's why whoever your mum was, she wanted you out of there. Just about every mage in Pyrr is dead—assassinated in the 'great purge,' right before Pyrr joined the empire, and right about the time I found you. And now—even if you're not a mage—having any magic at all won't set you up to fare much better in Thryn, right now."

Galen digested this, turning the ring over in his hands.

"But why? He asked, looking up at the only father he'd ever known. "Why didn't you tell me? If I'd only understood..."

Harrald shrugged, and his shoulders drooped. "Maybe I was wrong. You can blame me all you want for that. But... well, at first I was just trying to keep you safe. And later, as you got older... like now..." He sighed, and smiled ruefully. "I was... just trying to keep you safe."

Galen felt he ought to be angry, or indignant—furious, even, for having the truth kept from him. Instead, unexpected tears stung his eyes and, moved by instinct, he pulled his father into a rare hug.

For a moment, Harrald remained stiff, almost holding his breath; and then, at last, he relaxed and returned Galen's embrace, recognizing the love and forgiveness in it. His shoulders shook once as he drew a shuddering breath, and then he drew back, his emotions in check and his face serious again.

He raised his hand and touched the side of Galen's face, brushing the back of his fingers against his cheek.

"You understand, though, don't you, Gale?" he asked, resting his hand on Galen's back. "Right now, one mistake could make you a target. Do you understand how careful you've got to be?"

Galen nodded, setting the ring in the box with the letter and replacing the lid, even as he recalled Triss's story about the 'mage' in Galos.

"Yes... I understand."

He tried to hand the box back, but Harrald shook his head.

"That's yours by rights, lad. Best you keep it."

Galen nodded, rose, and carried the box back to his own room, lost in a swirl of conflicting thoughts.