Book of Heroes: George of Sedona I - 10. Enemies and Friends

Chapter 10: Enemies and Friends

Paxunt was the first Arcadian city of any size that George had seen. “It’s a little disappointing, after Barbicana,” he said as they approached. The walls of the city were gray stone, unlike the bright, white stone of elven cities and towns. There was only one flag visible. It was white. In the center was an escutcheon.

“Argent, in base a chevron gules?” George recited. “Gold, with a red chevron at the bottom.”

“Good, except the chevron is understood to start at the bottom and reach the fess point, the center of the shield, unless specified otherwise,” Arthur corrected gently. “It’s a very ancient escutcheon, the Baron of the Northern Marches—presently, Baron Jephthah.

“Jephthah?” George asked. “But that’s from the Bible.”

“Um, hum. That name is in the Bible,” Arthur began. “It’s the name of an unusual hero. He was the son of a whore who later became leader of a band of brigands before he was recruited by the Hebrews to help them claim some land from a different tribe. Jephthah promised God—he’d switched to the Hebrew god by then—that if God would grant him victory, he’d sacrifice the first person who he saw come out of his house when he got home. Well, Jephthah won. The first person who came out the door of his house was his only daughter. So he sacrificed her.”

“You mean…he gave her to God, like a nun or something,” George said, thinking back on his two years of Catholic school.

“No,” Arthur said. “It’s pretty clear that Jephthah killed her on an altar. The specific words were a burnt offering.”

George was silent. Then, “And God was okay with that?”

“That,” Arthur said, “is a very good question. According to Bible scholars, God was pleased with that, and Jephthah didn’t sin…even though he broke the thou shalt not kill rule.”

“Wow,” George said, softly.

“This particular Jephthah,” Arthur said, pointing to the flag that flew over Paxunt, “has been baron for, oh, at least a couple hundred years. I have memories from Prince Aladil that he and the elves don’t get along. I don’t know why, but I do know that there’s very little trade between the western parts of Elvenhold and Arcadia.

“Looks like there’s a line at the gate,” he added.

“We’ve been in Berkshire, trading metal,” Arthur told the guard when they reached the gate. “We’re taking it to Bowling Green. We’ll stay here only long enough to rest the horses, and buy supplies for the trip.”

“You’ll be a citizen of Arcadia, then,” the guard said. “What about the boy?”

“Actually, no. Although I was born in Carter, I’ve lived outside the country until now. So I’m not a citizen.”

“You’ll need to swear sojourner’s oath, then,” the guard said, marginally less friendly. “The sembler’s a cleric.”

“Is that all there is to becoming a citizen?” George asked as they walked from the cleric back to where they’d tied their horses.

“No, actually,” Arthur said. “We’re not citizens, just permitted to live in the country. It’s just a formality…no, I shouldn’t say that. It’s more than just a formality. We took a real oath. But not everyone who enters the country takes the oath…just the ones who happen to go through a guarded border post, or run into an inquisitive guard.”

“I heard you tell the guard you were metal traders.” The voice came from behind Arthur. Arthur had been aware of someone behind him, but had not been too concerned. The gate area was crowded. In a practiced move, he handed the reins of his horse to George and turned.

There were two men. Both were human. Both wore daggers, but neither looked particularly dangerous. “Yes,” Arthur replied. “It’s our first time, though. Not very much to trade, this trip. Perhaps another time.”

“You’d trade with elves?” one of the men asked. There was a definite distaste in his voice. Arthur was instantly on his guard, and increased the control he’d placed on his breathing and other vital signs in case one of the men were a sembler.

“Trade’s trade,” Arthur said, noncommittally.

“You’ll not find much market for elven stuff here,” the second man scoffed. Both turned and walked away. Arthur watched them until they were out of sight, and then sighed.

“Come on, George,” he said to the boy. “Let’s find a bath. I feel a little bit dirtier than I did before.” He took the reins of Aurorus, and led the horse into the city. George followed closely.

The inn was clean, and the innkeeper-publican was courteous, perhaps because he didn’t ask where they were from. The room looked comfortable, but the boys lingered only long enough to drop their equipment, and for Arthur to cast a spell on the door. A crowd of boys, friends of the innkeeper’s sons by their talk, was leaving the bath as Arthur and George arrived. By the time they were in the soak, they had the place to themselves.

“Arthur,” George began. “Why did those two men seem not to like elves?”

“More truth than seeming,” Arthur replied. “There was a definite dislike in their voices and in their minds. It reinforces what I said earlier, that there’s not much trade between Elvenhold and Arcadia in these parts, and the baron doesn’t get along with the elves. I can’t imagine why, but there seems to be some sort of prejudice, here. Prejudice, by definition, is based on ignorance. Someone on Earth said it…let’s see if I remember. Oh yes, Bigotry is the anger of ignorant men. In any case, we’ll have to be on our guard. No need to volunteer that we’ve come from Elvenhold. Officially, we’re from Carter. Rather, I’m from Carter and you’re apprenticed to me. Let people think you’re from there, too.”

George nodded, and snuggled into Arthur’s side, putting his arm around the older boy’s waist. “I liked the elves. It’s too bad these people are so prejudiced.”

In the common room, a conversation with a different tone was being held. “They’re lying,” the first man said. “Said they were trading in metal, but they had naught but what was on their horses. If they’re traders, they’re trading in something smaller and more valuable than metal. Jewels, maybe.”

“Elves.” The second man spit. “Elves are good at jewelry, and there used to be dwarven mines in the border mountains. Some say they’re still there, and that they trade gems with the elves.”

“They paid for their room with silver,” the publican added, “and their horses…well, you saw them.”

“Yeah,” said the first man, “Elven. Don’t look like it at first eye, but study them. They’re both fine horses. Better than a tyro trader would have, I say.”

“Where are they, now?” the second man asked the publican.

“In the bath, as like,” that man replied. “They were headed there…Hey, boy!”

One of the publican’s sons stuck his head into the common room. “Yes, Da?”

“Those boys who just arrived. Where are they?”

“In the bath. They were just getting there when we finished.”

The publican turned to the two men, but they had left.

Meanwhile, Arthur and George had dried each other and were about to dress when Arthur froze.

“What is it?” George asked.

“Listen,” Arthur said. “Listen for magic…”

“It’s like a car burglar alarm,” George said, his eyes open wide in surprise.

“It is a burglar alarm,” Arthur said. “I thought you might sense it in familiar terms. And, it’s the alarm on the door to our room. Quick, come on!”

Pulling on only his tights, Arthur grabbed his dagger and rushed for the door. George followed Arthur’s example, and the two boys ran, barefoot and silent, up the back stairs.

The door to their room was open. Arthur looked and saw two images in the magical field. He held up two fingers so that George could see them. Arthur crept down the hallway and peered in the door. Two men had their backs to him. One tossed down Arthur’s saddlebags, and was about to pick up George’s—the ones that held the remaining skystone metal, and an ingot of mithral.

Arthur took two quick steps into the room. “Not so fast, gentlefolk,” he said.

The men turned. Both drew daggers. Seeing Arthur as the greater threat, they attacked him. Arthur warded off the first man’s attack, but his dagger caught in the guard of his opponent’s weapon. The second man was quick to take advantage of the situation. With a broad, sweeping motion, he thrust his dagger toward Arthur.

George stepped into the fray and blocked the second man’s intended blow. As the man turned his face and weapon toward the boy, George thrust his own dagger into the man’s abdomen, pushing it in to the hilt. The man grunted, and caught himself on the doorpost. He seemed to hover over George, as his blood flowed from his stomach, onto George’s hand and down his arm. George bit his lip to keep away the blackness that crawled at the edge of his mind, and held firm. The man reeled to one side, and collapsed onto the floor. As he fell, he pulled himself off George’s dagger.

Arthur, meanwhile, had disarmed the second man, who was standing—cowering, rather—beside the window. When Arthur looked to George, the uninjured man leapt through the window. There was a crash from below, and then the sound of running boots across the courtyard.

“Okay, George?” Arthur asked. I misjudged, he thought. It went faster than…George could have been killed!

George starred at the man on the floor. He was still alive, clutching his stomach and groaning. George’s dagger pointed toward the man; his hand was steady.

“I’m okay, Arthur,” the boy said softly. “But I’m not ready to kill. Can he be healed?”

Racing footsteps heralded the publican’s eldest boy, summoned by the sight of a man dropping from a window into the courtyard. Arthur sent him for a healer, and then bound the injured man’s wound tightly.

The healer came, with his apprentice, and took the man into the common room. The reeve came with his apprentice. Arthur’s explanation was substantiated by the publican’s son, who told of the man who had leapt from the window. “He was not a guest…and what he was doing in this room…” The boy did not complete the thought.

The reeve’s apprentice was a sembler, who verified Arthur’s account of the events.

The publican lingered until the others had left, and then sent his son to the bath for the rest of Arthur and George’s clothes.

“I ask your forgiveness. Those men…we gossiped in the common room. I told them how fine your horses were, and that they were elven. I’m afraid I led them to you, unaware.”

Arthur looked at George, but said nothing. What? George thought. Arthur raised an eyebrow. Oh, George thought. “I’m okay, Arthur, truly I am,” the boy said.

“There was no harm done, except to a would-be thief. If he really were a thief. Probably not in the guild, do you think?”

The publican shook his head. “This doesn’t seem the work of the Thieves Guild, but my responsibility...”

“I cannot fault you, Master Publican,” Arthur said. “Again, we suffered no harm.”

*****

Arthur and George returned to their room, and dressed for dinner. George looked at Arthur. “Why didn’t you just spell the door so it wouldn’t open?” he asked.

“The alarm spell is nearly silent, and only a trained magic user or a very good thief who was looking for it would have known it was there or would have known they had set it off. A door spelled shut? That would be a dead giveaway that we were magic users.”

“And, you didn’t heal that man, even though you could. Wait,” George held up his hand. “You knew he wasn’t going to die right away, and you didn’t want anyone—especially him—to know you were a healer, right?”

“Very good, George,” Arthur said softly. He waited.

What else? George thought. “The publican. You didn’t fault him. You said we were partly to blame. And…A kindness is always repaid, right?”

“Very good, again, George. The publican, if not our friend, is now at least more kindly disposed toward us. We do need to stay here a couple of days. The horses need rest and we need supplies.”

“Is that all, George?” Arthur asked.

George looked at his dagger, which he’d carefully cleaned, and at his hand, scrubbed clean of blood. “I didn’t kill him. I might have, if the knife had gone in a little higher, if he were a little shorter, if I were a little taller, if the dagger were a little longer, if…if…if. I didn’t kill him, but I could have.”

“There is a big difference between might have and could have,” Arthur said gently.

“Yeah, I know. I’m…I’m glad you caught that. I didn’t know how to say it. As soon as I saw him turning toward me, I knew he might die. Even before my dagger went in, I knew he might die. I knew it was okay if he died because I was defending myself and…and you. Not Good, not even Right, but okay. For a minute after the dagger went in, and the blood ran down my arm, I thought he might die, and I was…sad. Not sick…not like I was before…but sad that he had to die in Darkness.”

George stopped talking when he realized that he was enfolded in Arthur’s arms. The boy returned Arthur’s embrace. “Thank you, Arthur. You promised to protect me, and you have. You promised to teach me, and you have. Please don’t stop. Please tell me there’s more to learn.”

“A whole lot more, George,” Arthur said as he kissed the boy.

Arthur and George had just finished their dinner when one of the publican’s boys came to their table and sat down uninvited. The boy, a tween, addressed Arthur, quietly. “My uncle…he is very grateful to you. Had it become widely known that a guest nearly came to harm, and that he was responsible, it would have made trouble for him. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, just as quietly. “However, the fault was not entirely his. We had seen those men at the gate. They overhear me tell the guard we were traders in metal. They spoke to us, and I thought I’d dissuaded them that we had anything of value. They followed us here. Your father only reinforced an opinion they already held. First, that we were carrying something valuable; second, that we dealt with elves.”

Arthur paused. “Does it bother you that we dealt with elves? That we ride elven horses? That we came here from Elvenhold?”

The tween answered, softly and in Elvish. “My mother’s name for me is Brae.” He continued, still softly, in the common tongue. “It’s an Old Elvish word for the hillside above the banks of a stream. I call myself Banks. There are too many here who dislike elves, and Brae is not a human name. My mother’s mother is elven. I inherited human features from my grandfather and parents, although I have my grandmother’s eyesight.”

“The publican is your uncle, then? And not your father?” George asked.

“Yes…the two boys, there, and three more you saw; they’re his sons. My parents live with mother’s family and some of father’s brothers on a holt three days north of here. I visit them during festivals.”

*****

“Why is there such prejudice against elves?” George asked Banks.

The older boy disentangled himself from the blankets and straightened them before lying down again. “The baron,” he said. “The baron has made it known that he dislikes elves, and most people suck up to the baron.”

“But why does the baron dislike elves?” George pressed.

“Long story,” Banks said as he yawned. “Give me a kiss, and I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

On the next morning, Arthur prepared to leave the inn to buy supplies. “George, you’ll be safe as long as you stay at the inn. If I go out alone, it’ll be less likely that anyone will recognize me. Anyone looking for us will be looking for two boys.”

“Yeah, and no one’s going to remember the color of your hair,” George scoffed. “Or how tall you are, or…”

“You’re right, of course,” Arthur said. “Watch.”

A twist of his hands, and Arthur’s hair was stuffed under a cap that also shrouded his eyes. His sword went into a leather scabbard. “I like to keep it free, but it’s a little too obvious that way.”

“Ah, thank you!” Arthur said as Banks came in with a handful of plain brown cloth: pants, shirt. “Banks’ clothes…instead of tights and jerkin. So, what do you think?”

“If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t know you.” George laughed.

After Arthur left, George helped Banks sweep the stable and lay out new straw on the floor. The boys filled the mangers with hay and made sure the water troughs were running freely. Banks urged George up into the hayloft. “No one will come here,” he said. “Oh, uncle and the other boys know that’s where we’ll be, but they’ll leave us alone.”

“So,” George said. “You promised a story if I gave you a kiss.”

“Maybe I’ll just give your kiss back,” Banks said.

“Maybe I’ll take it back,” George said. “But first, the story.”

“Oh, all right,” Banks said, propping himself up against a hay bale.

“Most stories start out A hundred lifetimes ago, or, if you’re an elf, A thousand lifetimes ago. But this one happened when I was a boy, not much more than 100 years ago. An army of humans and elves had won the Battle of Derry, defeating an army of brigands who had been rampaging through this part of Arcadia, and nearby Elvenhold. The brigands were lured to the battle by stories of riches to be had in Derry. The Baron of the Western Marches wasn’t invited to participate. I don’t know why. One story goes that it was a miscalculation…King Oberon and Prince Elgin didn’t think they would need the baron’s army. Another story says that they planned the battle to be in Carter rather than so close to Paxunt. Another story says that the baron was involved with the brigands, but I don’t—no matter how much I dislike the baron—I don’t believe that.

“Anyway, after the battle, in which much glory was earned—but not for the baron or his men—some of the elves passed through Paxunt on their way home. One elf, a general, was entertained by the baron. The elf returned the baron’s hospitality by winning the baron’s daughter’s love, and taking her—against her father’s wishes—to Elvenhold. The baron hates elves, and doesn’t hesitate to make that clear.

“That’s the story. Now, what about the kiss?”

*****

For the next several days, George spent his time with Banks while Arthur—in disguise—wandered the town, absorbing the feel of a human city, and gathering supplies.

“I’ve got most of what we’ll need for the trip to Bowling Green. I’ll get the rest, tomorrow, and we’ll leave the next day. The man who was injured—” Arthur began.

“The one I stabbed,” George interrupted. “It’s okay, Arthur.”

“The man you stabbed has refused to name his accomplice, and is being held for the baron’s court, in five days. The accomplice hasn’t been found. I doubt that he’ll come back, though. He’s not a nice person, but he’s probably smart enough to know that we’ll be on our guard. He’ll stay away.”

“Arthur?” George said, “I know the rules are different here, and I’ve been thinking about Jephthah and the thou shalt not kill rule.”

“That rule—which was created by the priests and scribes of the Hebrews—only applied to other Hebrews, you know,” Arthur said.

“Huh?” George said.

“Not more than a chapter or so after giving those instructions, the Hebrews’ god instructed them to attack a city and kill all its inhabitants. And those orders from their god continued over and over throughout the Old Testament. No, it’s pretty clear that the no-killing rule only applied to each other, and definitely not to unbelievers. The Muslim’s holy book is even more specific, and it’s abundantly clear that killing other believers is bad, but that killing non-believers is not only good, it’s very good,” Arthur said.

“But right and wrong…how can they be so confused?” George asked.

“Black and white, right and wrong—these are products of binary logic, either-or logic. That’s fine for a child, but you’re old enough and smart enough to realize that everything comes in shades and nuances.

“Even killing is neither entirely evil nor entirely good. Killing an especially Evil person in order to defend an especially Good person is still a little bit bad.”

*****

A light tapping on the door wakened Arthur. He nudged George while holding a finger to the boy’s lips. When he felt George nod, Arthur slipped from the bed and walked softly to the door. There was another light tapping just as he reached it. By this time, Arthur had sensed that there was but one person, Brae, in the hallway. He opened the door. “Come in, Brae,” he whispered.

When Arthur had closed the door, he whispered again. “Light please, George.” A lucifer skritched. A flare of light was followed by the sharp smell of sulfur and the soft glow of a candle. Arthur saw that George was standing beside the bed, dagger in hand. Arthur nodded. “Good, George. Thank you.”

“Brae…what?” George asked.

“Uncle sent me,” Brae said. “There are three men in the common room. They are looking for you.”

Arthur and George had planned to leave as soon as the city gates opened on the morrow, and had gone to bed early. “What hour is it?” Arthur asked.

“Not yet matins,” Brae answered. “Do you want to come to the boys’ room?”

“Thank you, but no,” Arthur said, “If they are really looking for us, and have any skill, they would find us there…and put you and the other boys in danger. In fact, you’d be in danger in any case.” As he talked, Arthur had been putting on his clothes. Now he buckled on his sword. George had followed Arthur’s example and was dressed.

“Brae, thank you, again, for your warning. We must lead danger away from you and the inn. I don’t want to confront them in the common room. That couldn’t be good for your uncle. George and I are going out the window. Would you take our packs and saddlebags to the stable?”

Brae mutely nodded. Arthur and George eased over the windowsill and silently dropped to the dark courtyard.

The lantern above the inn’s sign was still burning brightly when Arthur and George stepped around the corner from the courtyard into the street. The door was open to the soft autumn night, and more light spilled into the street. “Wait here, George,” Arthur cautioned as he strode to the door and looked into the common room.

There were three men sitting at a corner table, their backs to the wall. A quick glance around the room assured Arthur that these were the men Brae had meant. The only other persons in the room were sitting at the stammtisch…they’d be regulars, friends of the innkeeper. Arthur stepped into the door only far enough that his face was illuminated.

The publican saw him first, and the three men at the table saw him an instant later. Arthur looked squarely into their startled faces before stepping backward into the street. He turned and stepped to the side, so that he would be in the shadow as the men came out the door. For a minute, Arthur was concerned that they might not follow. Then, he heard booted feet on the stone floor of the common room. Arthur put his hand on his sword, but did not draw it. A quick glance showed that George had followed Arthur’s lead. The boy’s hand was on his dagger, but it remained securely in his belt.

A single man came to the door and stood, outlined by the light of the common room. His face was barely visible in the light of the lantern over the sign. He held his hands, palms forward and empty, at his side.

“I…we…mean you no harm,” he said. Only then did he look to his right, and then his left, where he saw Arthur in the shadows. “We would speak with you.”

Arthur stepped into the light, but kept his hand on his sword. “Swear you mean no harm,” he said, carefully monitoring the man’s bio-signs and the magic field.

“I swear for myself and my companions, we mean you no harm and will do you no harm,” the man said.

Arthur relaxed. “Let’s go into the common room.”

The man turned and walked toward the table. “George,” Arthur said. “Would you go retrieve Banks and our packs and saddlebags?”

The boy looked dubious, but Arthur gestured reassurance and turned back to the inn.

Arthur sat at the table facing the three men. He said nothing, but raised his eyebrows in question as he looked at the first man.

“My name,” the man said quietly, “is Brown. These are Green and Red.” He gestured to the other men.

Arthur nodded, but remained silent.

Brown began, “As you have discovered, there is an antipathy in Paxunt toward elves and Elvenhold. The antipathy is not universal. We know that you came from Elvenhold, and that you trade with elves. That has become common knowledge since you stabbed the brigand who tried to steal from you.”

He continued, addressing Arthur’s obvious puzzlement. “The reeve is in the employ of the baron, and owes his loyalty—and his position—to him. The brigand will not stand trial. In fact, he’s already been released. Oh, don’t worry, he and his friend have left the city. They’ll stay away for a while, until you leave and the few people who know of the incident forget it or become distracted by other things.

“Green obtained this information … you need not know how … ”

Green spoke. “Until recently, we enjoyed trade with Elvenhold. Today, the trade is limited. Caravans still travel from here to Barbicana, and to Elvenhold through Carter. But the quantity and quality of goods has declined, and gets worse, each year.”

The man identified as Red continued the narrative. “You apparently travel freely in Elvenhold. There is a demand in both Arcadia and Elvenhold for certain…goods…that cannot go by caravan, small things, valuable things. There could be great profit for you.”

They think we’re smugglers! Arthur thought, and they want me to smuggle for them. Arthur scratched his left eyebrow. He no longer listened to what Red was saying but was closely observing Brown. He was not disappointed. The man touched his right ear as if brushing away an insect. Arthur gave the third sign, and received the fourth in return. The other two men had watched the exchange. Now, they sat, silently.

The signals themselves meant little. They were a part of the simplest code, known by every footpad who had ever been in the Thieves Guild, and probably by many more people, as well. As Heir Apparent, Prince Aladil had been initiated into the Thieves Guild. When he became king, he would in secret receive their fealty. As possessor of much of that boy’s knowledge, Arthur knew these, and other deeper recognition signals. Now, he thought, how to let them down, gently, without endangering us or anyone else, or making promises I can’t keep.

“The men who entered our room, they were strangers, I take it?” he asked. He used the form of the word meaning, not of us.

“Not of us,” Red replied, confirming that they were not members of the Guild—at least, not locally.

“I suspected as much,” Arthur said, “but I thank you for your confirmation. I feel much better.” He chuckled, to make the men think he was relieved not to have injured a fellow Guild member.

“Masters,” he began…A little humility might help…You honor me with your trust. However, I have a Master…The Light, and not the Balance that you serve…and a task to perform…Getting George to Bowling Green, where we can make his sword, and training him to use it before he runs into something I can’t handle, and he can’t deal with using only a dagger. I must leave, tomorrow, and may not return to Paxunt for some time…if ever.”

Red frowned, but Brown nodded his head. “I feared as much. You appear young. You are also bold and intelligent. Your master has a fine servant. Commend us to him, if you will. We drink at the Sign of the Loon. Thank you for giving us your time.” He held out his hand. Arthur stood and shook the man’s hand. He sensed no animosity, only disappointment. He and George, and the innkeeper and his family, were in no danger from these men. Arthur left by the front door, and beckoned to George.

“Thieves!” George said, after Arthur had described the conversation. “They were just thieves?”

“Not just thieves,” Arthur replied. “Members of the Guild, and apparently fairly prosperous. Their clothes were of good quality, they spoke intelligently, and they seemed honorable.”

“Honorable? As in honor among thieves,” George sputtered.

“Actually, yes,” Arthur said, “actually. The Thieves Guild does not serve the Light, as I do; but, they do not support Evil, either. They have a set of rules that constrain them to, well, reasonable limits. They don’t steal from the poor, or the middle class. They don’t engage in murder or kidnapping or extortion, and they do not smuggle things like dangerous drugs. They punish their members who stray from these guidelines. Within their own rules, they are honorable.”

“That’s a funny definition of honor,” George grumbled.

*****

“We’ll not get far, today, George,” Arthur said as they mounted their horses. Because of the interruption during the night, they’d been unready to leave at first light.

Brae had given George a long, hard hug. “Be safe, George,” he’d whispered to the boy. “Vale, amoretto.”

“Vale, bonus filius meus,” George replied. “Be strong, be happy.”

“You liked Brae?” Arthur asked when that boy was no longer in sight.

“Yes,” George said. “He was nice. He called me little cupid when we kissed goodbye. I told him he was my good friend…” The boy’s voice trailed off and he got a faraway look in his eyes.

“Penny for your thoughts, George,” Arthur said after several miles had passed.

“I’ll never see him, again, will I? He’s the first person on this world I’ve thought of as a friend…that I’ve wanted to call a friend. I mean,” the boy said hastily, “not like you…you’re so much more than a friend…I mean of all the people we’ve met…all the boys I’ve shared…”

“Do you feel differently about Brae than, say, Darryn and Greyeyes and Brightstar? Than Adrian and Worthen, or any of the others we’ve met?”

George rode silently for a few minutes. “Actually, yes,” the boy said in unconscious imitation of Arthur’s mannerism. “Actually, I did. It was because he was…well, alone, I guess. I mean, he had his cousins, and they seemed to get along really well. But, everyone else we’ve met has someone closer.”

After a few more minutes, George added, “And, I felt closer to him than to anyone—except you!—I’ve met. I think that’s because he’s different, too.”

Arthur nudged Aurorus until he and George were riding knee to knee, and then reached his hand out to George.

“Paxunt was a tough town for us, George. I’m glad you made a friend, and I’m sorry you had to leave him. You’re growing up, and…I guess sometimes that’s hard. I know that’s not a good answer, but I just don’t have another.”