“Oh, foster-brother, do not be angry with me! Do not be angry with me!”
“Come here—and give me your shoulder—to that bench yonder,” Randvar commanded between breaths.
When it had been twice repeated, the boy obeyed shrinkingly. As soon as he felt the weight lighten on his shoulder, he would have drawn back into the darkness again if the hand had not slipped down his arm to his wrist and held him. He curved his other arm before his face, then, and began to wail anew.
“I beseech you not to scold me! I have had all the blame that I can stand!”
“I am not going to scold you,” the song-maker said wearily. His head had fallen back heavily against the wall behind him, and his eyes were shut. “It has happened to older people than you to think that the man who gives them hard words is their foe and the man who smiles on them is their friend. If you have not found out yet that you behaved badly, no good is to be had from talking about it.”
The boy burrowed further into the bend of his arm.
“I hate Olaf,” he sobbed.
“It is likely that you do now, since he has stopped making much of you,” the Songsmith returned sternly, “still it should be remembered for a while longer that you thought enough of him once to try to take my life for his sake.”
Wriggling, the culprit tried hard to pull away. “Now you are scolding me, though you said you would not. You know I did not mean to stab you.”
His foster-brother shook the arm he held. “Never lie to me, Eric!”