Apparently satisfied that his young charge was on his way home, Brendan pulled a small nylon container from his saddlebag. The roughly rectangular container sported several pockets and compartments, one of which produced a plastic pouch of antiseptic pads. Brendan tore open one of the pads and daubed it with a gentle and skillful hand on Eric’s back. As cold as Eric was beginning to feel, the pad felt even colder where it touched his skin; but there was no stinging and the pain in the welts started to fade almost immediately.
“This will ease the pain and start the healing process, but have these looked at as soon as you get home.” He put the used pad into a separate section of the container and returned it to the saddlebag. Retrieving the discarded clothing, he shook them once to remove the leaves, then tossed the bundle to Eric. “The temperature is dropping rapidly, better put these on. I didn’t think his pants would fit, or I would have had him leave them as well.” He walked over to his horse, which had wandered a few paces away and was nibbling at the long grasses clustered in a small patch off the trail.
Eric wasted no time in tearing away the remnants of his pants and pulling the heavy linen shirt over his head. The welts on his back smarted as the cloth slid over them, but the warmth of the shirt—which hung nearly to his knees—more than made up for any discomfort. He watched his benefactor with interest as he buttoned the collar at his neck and quickly donned the vest. Besides the obvious gratitude he felt for the man Brendan, he was fascinated with what he perceived as an odd mixture of personality traits. It was clear that Reid looked at him in only one way, as his teacher, and Eric had to admit to himself that that was how he looked at his own teacher, Master McLaren. But McLaren was one-dimensional, trained as a Master and executing that function flawlessly.
But this man was somehow different. He dealt with his pupil with ease, even when stern brutality was called for, but there was something else about him that Eric could not quite identify. A worldliness, perhaps, or a familiarity with things long past that were missed in his life. Eric knew nothing about this man, but felt himself liking him despite his strangeness. Even now, as Brendan produced an apple from his saddlebag and proceeded to slice it into chunks for his mount, he seemed to exhibit a oneness with the animal, gaining its trust and submission much in the same way he had gained his own.
“Thank you,” he said.
Brendan stopped mid-slice on the apple and turned to face him. “So, you do speak, then.” He gave the last piece of the apple to the horse, then reached into the saddlebag and pulled out another. “Catch.”
Eric snagged the apple easily, and nodded thanks before biting deeply into the fruit. He hadn’t realized, until this moment with the tart juices dripping coldly down his chin, just how hungry the activity of the last hour had made him. He finished most of the apple in a few bites, then said, “I’ve never seen a horse like that. May I…”
“Of course.” Brendan patted the horse several times as Eric neared to reassure the animal that the small stranger meant no harm. He pointed with the knife at the last bit of apple in Eric’s hand. “He’ll be your friend for life if you give him that.”
Eric approached cautiously, holding the apple out in his palm, and reached up to stroke the horse’s head with his other hand. The animal snorted once and reared his head back, but quickly overcame any suspicions it had and eagerly took the treat from Eric’s hand. “I’ve never seen anything like him,” he repeated. “He’s beautiful.”
“You’ve got a good eye for horses. My Mistress’ House has one of the finest privately owned bio-bred farms in Sol system.” The man continued stroking the horse’s neck in silence as a feeling of awkwardness fell over them. After a moment, Brendan cleared his throat and turned to him. “Are you all right?”
The welts still hurt a good deal, but Eric nodded. “The pain’s gone; I’ll be fine,” he said. He scanned the woods around him, then up at the sky. The cloud cover had thickened and that, combined with the lateness of the day, had caused the backwoods to grow dimmer. “I’d better be getting back.”
Brendan followed the boy’s upward gaze, then glanced at the timepiece on his wrist. “You may be right. Besides, it looks like rain may be on the way, although it’s difficult to be certain in the backwoods.” He patted the horse’s neck one last time and easily swung himself up into the saddle, then bent down from the saddle and held out his hand. “Climb up, Eric, and I’ll give you a ride back to Woodsgate.”
Eric had reached up to accept Brendan’s hand, but hesitated now and stared in shock. How did this man know him? He studied the man’s face, and saw that he apparently regretted having admitted what he knew, or at least wished he’d chosen a better way of admitting it. Taking the horseman’s hand in his, he placed his foot in the open stirrup and swung himself up behind the saddle.
They rode in near silence for the next hour; when they spoke it was only to discuss some aspect of the trail or the weather, or to speculate on the type of animal tracks that were visible on the trail itself. They stopped once so Eric could relieve himself, and they took advantage of the break to share the last of the apples from his saddlebag.
They stopped again where the trail crossed the hard-surface access road, with Woodsgate looming vast and foreboding in the gray light at the end of the road. The security cameras had detected their approach, of course, and several armed Imperial guards waited at the open gate. McLaren was there, pacing, as were several of his Master’s attendants. Eric thought it odd that McLaren held back. When they were still nearing the gate, Eric had thought he’d seen the Master running forward to greet them or—more likely—to assure his safety. But now he waited with the others. Did McLaren know the horseman? He would have to ask later.
Still several dozen meters distant, Brendan brought the horse to a halt. “This is as far as I go.”
Eric swung himself down from the horse and stood looking up at Brendan. “Thank you for your help,” he said simply, then turned his back on horse and rider and headed for the gate and the pacing Master.
“I can only apologize for their actions,” Brendan called after him, “but I can say this: You handled yourself well back there.”
Eric stopped. The guards bristled nervously and tightened their grip on their weapons until he raised a hand, making them relax somewhat, and turned sharply back to face the rider.
“You watched it all, didn’t you.” It was an accusation, not a question. He stepped closer, his eyes confidently meeting Brendan’s. “Why did you wait so long to do something to stop it?”
“For that, I cannot apologize.” The horse, apparently nervous at a potential confrontation with the armed guards, snorted impatiently and he patted his neck reassuringly, soothing the animal. “For I am a teacher,” he continued, “and you needed to learn an important lesson, Young Prince.”
He pulled at the reins, swinging the horse about, and trotted down the road, finally disappearing into the backwoods.
Chapter Eleven
Javas, Emperor of the Hundred Worlds, stared out over the fog-shrouded Kentucky hills surrounding Woodsgate. He sat on the balcony of his personal suite at the family estate, enjoying the brilliance of the changing colors sweeping the wooded river valley to the southwest, and inhaled deeply of the autumn air. I stayed away from Earth too long again, he thought. I’ve missed this place… I’ve missed my son.