Uncle Edryd’s reddened eyes poured tears. He kept wiping his face with a large handkerchief.

 He did not speak until Arawn swallowed his last bite of bread. “They’re dead, lad, your parents. The Fox King’s filthy Slayer took them because they had magic, which that king feared. If the Slayer found you, you’d be dead too.”

Silence stretched between them. “Understand?”

When he did not say anything, his uncle clutched Arawn’s tunic, then let it go to wipe his messy face again. “What’s your name?”

“Arawn,” he said, not surprised this uncle he never met did not know.

“Arawn—for everyone else, you’re my serving boy, Arawn—” Uncle Edryd cast his gaze about the cooking space, spied the string of onions hanging over its shelf, and said, “Onion, get that in your head. You’re Arawn Onion. You’ll call me master, run and fetch as I tell you.”

 Arawn did not respond.

Uncle Edryd slapped the table. “Speak, lad.”

Arawn spat, “I’ll kill him.”

His uncle sat back.

“One day, the man who did this, I’ll kill him.”

His first grudge against his uncle was the man’s bitter laughter.