Another silence fell between them. Garin stared down the road, seeming lost in thought. Bran wondered how much he had accepted. Seeing fire summoned before him was one thing; it was another entirely to believe in fairy tales.
The youth glanced over, eyes again alight with curiosity. "Where did you learn sorcery?"
Bran pretended to study something in the distance. "That's enough on magic for now," he said without taking his eyes away. "We can't neglect your knowledge of castle cutlery, can we? Now, in the dining hall, there are three spoons, two forks, and two knives…"
The youth patiently listened to the explanation of proper dinner etiquette that followed, though his raised eyebrow let Bran know that the deflection wasn't lost on him.
At the end of the long days, when the boy's head was soaked as thickly with knowledge as an oilcloth, only one thing could provoke him from his bedroll.
"Are you a coward?" Bran would taunt, then toss him a long branch, or however long they could find that day.
The youth would scramble up, grab the end of the branch, and brandish it like it were real steel. "Come and see!"
Even the mage's molten eyes watching them couldn't dampen their fun.
During their sparring sessions, Garin seemed to truly come alive. Curious as he was, tales of long-dead generals and heroes didn't have the same appeal as the blood-pumping work of slamming a stick against your opponent.
Though he failed more than he succeeded in hitting Bran at all. Not one to go easy on an opponent, Bran would sidestep, roll, and block every attempt Garin made at getting through his defenses, then beat him back and tell him his mistakes, piecing out proper technique bit by bit. Only one in a hundred strikes found him, and most of those were when his back was turned.
"What did you expect?" Bran said one time when Garin slumped to the ground, rubbing at fresh welts after another failed assault.
"I expected these to be lessons in the sword, not dancing," the youth grumbled.
Bran laughed. "Every fight is a dance, and the one who knows the choreography will sweep the performance." He extended a hand. "Let's make sure you're not the partner with two left feet, shall we?"
Grumbling under his breath, Garin took his hand and let him pull him upright.
On the twelfth night since they'd left Hunt's Hollow, after Garin had slumped into his bedroll and immediately fallen asleep, Bran joined Aelyn at the fire. The mage had magicked himself a rough stool from nearby deadwood and sat staring into the flames.
"I'd ask what you see there," Bran said, "if I didn't know better."
Aelyn turned his gaze on him, and the flames reflected in his eyes made them seem even more fiery than usual. "I'm to assume you disbelieve infernal divination?"
"Have you met those channelers? Kooky, the lot of them." Bran shook his head. "No, any kind of forecasting into the future is a fool's errand. Each man and woman forges their path."
He didn't like the look of the elf's smile as he shifted his eyes back to the flames, and his silence even less.
"You're too fond of the boy," Aelyn said as if they'd been speaking of it the whole time.
Bran hesitated. "I've an interest in his growth. But only a cold snake like you would see harm in that."
"You let your guard down around him. Like in the ruins. You allowed the darkness that possessed him to infect you as well. Or do you deny it?"
Shame rose in him. "I don't know about that, Aelyn. I have demons enough of my own for a tantrum like that."
"Perhaps so. But the catalyst was our Enemy's enchantment, not what the boy had done. Because you care for him, you allowed the Night to touch your mind as well."
"Then what would you suggest? Walk silently the whole way to Halenhol? Teach him nothing of fighting and the World so that he can stumble his way through it? I suppose that's the way you were raised — playing with magic until you learned it?" Bran snorted. "A grown man's blindest spots are in his own past, and that's even truer of the long-lived elves."
Aelyn set his gaze flatly on him. "You have accepted him as your apprentice, that much is clear. Though what he's apprenticing in is far from certain. But, student or not, you cannot protect him from the evils of the East. No matter how much you teach him, when he inevitably comes in contact with the Enemy, it will be his will pitted against the boy's, and he will be found wanting."
Bran found his fists were clenched and loosened them. "I don't see why he needs to come against the Night again. Not if elven mages don't lead us into fell ruins."
"With the company you keep, how could you doubt it?" Aelyn waved a lazy hand. "Do as you will. But heed my warning, Magebutcher. We need your legend, not the man behind it."
Bran forced a smile onto his lips. "Whatever I've done and been, I've never claimed to be more than a man."
Not waiting for an answer, he stood and walked away from the firelight.
Only when the darkness surrounded him did he allow the tight smile to drop. Staring up at the yellow moon Cressalia, he let his mind slowly turn. He had thought himself safe for a time. Over the past five years, he had secretly protected Hunt's Hollow and the East Marsh from the encroaching East. Defender of the Westreach — hadn't he been given that title for a reason? If he could protect all of civilization, could he not protect a single boy?
A moonsinger didn't need to croon the answers for him to know them. Magebutcher, Ringthief, Red Reaver — those were his true names, honestly earned through his own immoral and bloody actions. He'd be a fool to believe he could ever live up to the royally conferred, pompous title "Defender of the Westreach."
He'd been accused of many things, a fool the most common among them. But he'd more often than not proved them wrong.
"I must remember who I am," he murmured to the moon. "I must remember I am no chicken herder, and never have been. I must remember that though I was born Brannen Cairn of Hunt's Hollow, he died when I left for war. I must remember—"
He stopped short. Soon enough, others would remember his name. For a little while longer, he would remain the Bran whom Garin thought he knew.
Before the World pulled back the wool and revealed the sheep to be the wolf.
A Nasty Flock of Chickens
Sixteen days on the road, four towns passed — and still no horses for sale.
Garin's feet dragged through the muddy street, freshly moistened by the morning's rain. Sixteen days of endless walking and ceaseless speaking. He'd now seen more towns than he could count on his hands, but he didn't feel any excitement for it.
Traveling, he decided, wasn't all it had promised to be.
But however disappointed he might feel, Aelyn's irritation eclipsed it. "King's coin," the mage grated as they left the fourth village. "What good is a king's coin if it can't buy horses?"
He glared at Bran, who was whistling rather cheerfully. Garin didn't know how he could be so nonchalant under the elven mage's stare.
"This is your fault," the mage pointed out.
"It is," Bran agreed heartily. "Just because you can take anyone's horse by the King's seal doesn't mean you should. And what's the rush? It's a marvelous day!"