Dorran asked to speak to Calen in the kitchen, and he said sorry three times before he sat down.
“Sorry, sir. May I have a word? Sorry. It is a small one.”
“Sit,” said Calen.
Dorran sat. He put both hands flat on the table, the way Tobin did when he wanted something still. The kitchen was quiet at that hour. The bread for the morning had been set to rise under a damp cloth, and the lamp over the hearth was turned low to save oil.
He had done the morning count at the gate, standing on the bottom step with the roll in both hands.
Ear had stood at his shoulder the whole time, with his scarred ear turned toward the road. He had said nothing, which from Ear was as close to praise as the Keep came.
Calen had heard him do it from the yard. Dorran had said sorry before every name, all seven of them, and Ear had not once told him to stop. The count had ended on time, which was more than Calen had expected for a boy who had failed the Trial with fifty-two.
“Sorry,” said Dorran, to the table. “I want to ask for the re-sit.”
