The wound to his head had healed. He and Tavis had spent only a few nights back in Glyndwr Castle, recovering from their harrowing encounter with the brigands, before riding forth again, intent on reaching the Moorlands. But even that had been too much time. They could no longer afford to stop in the City of Kings, as they had once intended. Still, it had taken nearly all Grinsa’s strength of will to ride so near to Audun’s Castle without stopping to see Cresenne and his daughter. It would have added only a few leagues to their journey-merely half a day’s ride if they pushed their mounts. But he knew that once he reached the castle, once he kissed Cresenne and held Bryntelle in his arms, he would never find it within himself to leave them again. Bryntelle was four turns old now; from what Cresenne had told him it seemed that she was growing quickly, becoming more aware of her surroundings with each passing day. He hadn’t spent much time around babies as a Revel gleaner and so knew far less about them than he should have. But he had no doubt that she had changed enormously in just the two turns since he had left her. She was his child, and every day she awoke to a world that didn’t include her father. He begrudged every moment he spent away from her.
Tavis had been watching him throughout the day, as if gauging his mood. Grinsa sensed that the boy wanted to say something, but that he feared the gleaner’s response. The two of them had been journeying together for nearly a year now, and in that time Grinsa had come to care deeply about the boy. In the beginning, when Tavis still acted the spoiled noble, Grinsa had glimpsed the promise of wisdom and strength that dwelled within the young lord, and had agreed to act as his protector as the two of them attempted to establish Tavis’s innocence and learn what they could about the conspiracy. More recently, he had come to view Tavis as a friend.
But he knew that for the boy, their relationship remained more complicated, and in many ways more difficult. Tavis had been exiled from his home, reviled as a butcher throughout the land. Where once he had looked to his father and Hagan MarCullet for guidance, and to Hagan’s son, Xaver, for friendship, he now looked to Grinsa for all. To Tavis, the gleaner had become not only his guardian, but also his mentor and his closest friend. And while he was usually willing to speak his mind to Grinsa, it sometimes took him some time to gather the courage to do so.
Grinsa sensed that Tavis was now doing just that, and he didn’t push the boy. They rode in silence, as the sun burned a slow arc across a hazy blue sky, and a warm breeze made the tall grasses of the Moorlands bow and dance. Heat rose from Elined’s earth, liquid and sinuous, distorting the horizon, creating the illusion of lakes and rivers where none existed. A hawk circled high overhead, crying plaintively, and wild dogs shadowed the two riders at a safe distance.
“We can still go back,” Tavis said at last, his voice so low that the words were nearly lost amid the wind and the thudding of their mounts’ hooves. He glanced back over his shoulder. “I can still see the castle walls from here. It wouldn’t cost us more than a day.”
“We can’t spare a day,” the gleaner said, hearing the weariness in his own voice.
“We’ll ride at night, Grinsa. We’ll make up the time.”
He smiled, though his chest ached “Thank you, Tavis. I’m grateful for the offer. But I can’t.” The boy started to say more, but Grinsa shook his head. “I can’t leave them again. Best to be done with all this so that when I return to them, it’s for good.”
Tavis nodded. “All right.”
It almost seemed that he understood. Perhaps he did.
After a time, the boy said, “I still think we should ride into the night. Kearney and the others have at least eight days on us. I’d like to close the gap a bit.”
“Kearney’s men are on foot. We draw nearer to them every day that we ride.”
“I know. Still. . ” He shrugged.
Tavis had seemed eager for this war since Helke and his confrontation with the assassin. He had told Grinsa some of what happened that stormy day, enough for the gleaner to understand that Cadel had been unarmed when Tavis killed him, and that the young lord felt that he had acquitted himself poorly, even in victory. Though Tavis had denied it, Grinsa believed that he hoped to find some measure of redemption in the coming war, as if heroism on this new battlefield would erase the stain of all that had happened to him since Kentigern. He couldn’t say that he shared the boy’s eagerness for war, but neither could he deny that he wished to waste as little time as possible on their journey northward.
“Very well,” Grinsa said. “We’ll continue on past sundown.”
Tavis nodded his approval, and they rode on, both of them silent, the young noble seemingly absorbed in his thoughts, Grinsa trying desperately to think of anything other than Cresenne and Bryntelle.
Late in the day, they came to a small village nestled in a gentle crescent of Binthar’s Wash. The village didn’t amount to very much-a smithy, a wheelwright’s shop, and a meager marketplace that, even on its busiest days, could not have accommodated the carts of more than a dozen peddlers. Within sight of the hamlet, there were several farms situated on either side of the wash, and the two riders decided that they would stop to see if they might purchase some food. The stores they had been given by the duke of Glyndwr several days before were running low, and Grinsa didn’t want to slow their travels later in the journey in order to search for provisions. Most of the sellers, it seemed, had already packed up their wares for the day, but one man, a white-haired farmer who walked from one end of his cart to the other with a pronounced limp, sold them enough cheese, salted meat, and black bread to last them several days. His prices were somewhat high-Grinsa had the distinct impression that the man had marked Tavis as a noble and had realized that his was the only stall still open-but the time they would save later by buying now was worth the extra gold.
As Tavis and the gleaner rode out of the village, they came across two young boys wrestling in the dirt beside the road. At first Grinsa assumed that the two were playing, but as he and the noble drew nearer to the lads, he realized that their fight was in earnest. They were pummeling one another with their fists, clawing at each other with filthy hands. Grinsa started to yell something at them, but before he could, Tavis was off his mount, lifting one of the boys off of the other and holding them apart.
One of the boys had blood seeping from his nose, though he clearly had gotten the better of the fight. The other had a cracked lip and a nasty scrape on his cheek that was caked with blood and road dust. This second child fought to keep from crying, and the other boy knew it, judging from the smirk he wore.
“What’s this all about?” Tavis demanded, sounding very much like an angry parent.
Neither boy answered. The one with the bloodied lip swiped at a tear with the back of his hand.
“You,” Tavis said to the other child. “What’s your name?”
“Colum,” the boy said, insolent and sullen. “Colum Gulstef.”
“Why are you fighting, Colum?”
The boy shrugged.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard of Tavis of Curgh?”
The boy looked up, suddenly fearful. Then he shook his head. “You’re just saying that. Tavis of Curgh is in prison, or dead, or something. He’s not here.”
Tavis ran a finger over his face, tracing his scars. “You see these? I got them in the dungeons of Kentigern, from the duke himself.”