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For the men of Trosk, every step closer to home was agony.

            They set out from Geristan with the rising sun, streaming out beneath the town's front gate in a long column of men, metal and horses. Captain Jerriod led the way, flanked by Pedrum on his left and Lieutenant Neel, leader of the princess's Knights, on his right. The townspeople watched their departure, crowding windows and doorways on all sides. Princess Ellorae spent the whole route from barracks to gate waving her handkerchief at everyone from the plush comfort of the carriage. People ate it right up; some parents even sent their children running forward with handfuls of yesterday's flowers or sweet treats for the princess and her ladies. Personally, Tarun thought it rather poor form on the part of the Knights of Amenthis to be letting even children pop up to the carriage window unchallenged like that. What did he know though? He was just a lowly footsoldier, doomed to walk all the way from Geristan to Derbesh while the Knights rode.

            'May they all go saddle-sore', thought Tarun to himself.

              That had been nearly three days ago. In that time, the Fourth Company had only managed to reach the halfway point of the Old Mountain Road through The Teeth. Just that morning Tarun had looked up and seen the faintest thread of what he knew to be a wooden bridge, suspended nearly a league overhead from the northern stretch of the mountains to the south. Here, at the intersection between the Ridgeline on the roof of the world and the Old Mountain Road on its floor, they stood at the center of the world. Unless of course you asked a loyal subject of Goran, in which case Amenthere was the center of the world.

            Yet another rattle from the princess's carriage wheels made Tarun twitch his head in annoyance. If it weren't for that infernal thing, they might have been on the eastern side of the Teeth by nightfall. As it was, the carriage and accompanying cart made for slow going. That and the chill autumn wind that whistled through the mountain pass only served to make the men of Trosk more depressed than they already were. To be passing so close to Trosk and yet be forbidden from turning their sore feet homeward...

            The only thing that kept Tarun from being as utterly miserable as the rest of his companions was the ever-present lure of The Academy. He had always intended to leave Trosk anyways, hadn't he? If he could just maintain his composure, keep his mind on the present and his eyes on the prize, then he could perhaps endure that torturous moment when they passed by the branch off the main road that led north to Trosk. Tarun didn't know how the other men were going to cope when that time came.

            Unlike their company's unhappy newest recruits, the rest of the Fourth was in downright high spirits. Being tasked with even the unexpected duty of escorting Princess Ellorae east seemed to have been received as a great honour amongst the other soldiers. No amount of shrill gusting or stuck carriage wheels on the rocky mountain ground could dampen their spirits. The Gorian soldiers bantered, laughed, and even whistled little tunes as they plodded their way across The Teeth. Jerriod seemed to be willing to allow this slight dip in professionalism, seeing as the princess had commented on the second night about how 'delightful it was to see such happy subjects'.

            Tarun had another problem too, besides the ever-looming nearness to Trosk, the misery of his neighbors and the contrasting cheer of the rest of the Fourth Company. This particular problem wore a sunflower-yellow cloak. Without warning, Tarun found himself unable to think a logical thought whenever the princess' strawberry blonde handmaiden left the confines of the carriage. Their traveling convoy had to stop before sunset every night to set up a proper camp, complete with pavillion and central fire circle for the comfort of their royal nusiance. The significant irritation which built in Tarun's gut as he pitched tent poles seemed to evaporate without his consent when the carriage doors opened and the princess and her entourage appeared. It really was becoming something of an issue. What he wouldn't give to catch the handmaiden alone for another witty exchange.

            The women always kept closely grouped together around their mistress though, and the Knights of Amenthis likewise kept the rest of the soldiers at a distance. They wouldn't suffer even so-called 'loyal servants of Goran' to approach Princess Ellorae, and so Tarun had to content himself with watching at a distance for however long the ladies chose to linger between carriage and pavillion. The colours of the womens' cloaks were particularly stark against the grey walls of the Teeth and the faded brown of the lichen. Winter would be swift in coming this year; Tarun could smell it on the mountain air. He wondered if winter ever came to Derbesh.

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            That night - the third since leaving Geristan - Tarun was surprised when, long after the rest of the men not on night's watch had turned in, Jerriod approached him by the campfire. The Captain stood in silence while Tarun snapped a quick salute before returning to stoking the glowing embers. When Jerriod still remained watching even after flames were once again crackling, Tarun waited, uncertain.

            "Sit, soldier," said Jerriod.

            Tarun was about to point out that sitting down wasn't usually permitted for men on guard duty, but thought better of it. Still eyeing Jerriod, he seated himself on the nearest, flattest rock. His light travelling armor creaked at the joints, making Tarun wince. How were men supposed to keep metal clean and polished while on the road anyways? He hoped Jerriod hadn't noticed.

            Rather than comment, Jerriod also folded his legs and sat down on a nearby boulder. The older man's gaze glowed like coals from the fire beneath his black brows.

            "We'll be nearing Trosk by the end of tomorrow," he said. The tone was neutral, but it was a loaded statement all the same.

            "Yes, sir."

            "Do you miss it?"

            The question caught Tarun off guard. Unsure if he'd heard Jerriod correctly, he hesitated.

            "Sir?"

            "Do you miss you home, Thrymmson?"

            "I..." Tarun feared a trick or trap within the seemingly simple question. There was really only one answer that would make any sense to a reasonable man. "Yes."

            "The girl who sought you out with news of your brother after the skirmish, she's your...?" Jerriod probed, clearly thinking something along the lines of a wife or significant other.

            "My sister." Tarun corrected him quickly. "My younger sister, Lhara."

            "Your sister, ah. And does she have anyone with her, a mother or friends perhaps?" Tarun's rising hackles at such a direct line of questioning must have been apparent despite his best efforts, for Jerriod held up a diverting hand. "I ask only because you and the other men of Trosk must be thinking of those left behind, wishing you could go to them. Am I right?"

            "Lhara isn't alone. Even if she were, she can manage without me, better than most her age I should think."

            "Nevertheless, there are others from your village among our ranks who may not be so pragmatic while parted from their loved ones. Can you think of any who might be so driven to return home that the penalty for desertion would mean little?"

            More than a few easily came to mind. Joar, the cobbler openly mourned the absence of his wife Devina and their children. Andris made no bones about how uncomfortable his life had become without his now-widowed ma, Alina. Garrit was worried about how Torl and Rhena would cope with the argali flock with Torl's crippled leg. Hengar had Eima and their infant son waiting for him.

            Jerriod nodded even though Tarun had said nothing. "There is no need to say, I know there are many. And I also know that you all remember what I told you about what will happen if the men of Trosk refuse to serve their time in the royal army?"

            'Any refusal of these terms in any form, and I will have the rest of Trosk burnt to the ground too, after executing the guilty parties.' Oh yes, Tarun remembered. So did everyone else. That was why, even as the men of Trosk grieved the nearness of home and their families, no one had made any mention of a desire to leave the Fourth Company.

            "Yes...sir."

            "Good. That is also why I sought you out tonight, Tarun. I know that, with Trosk so close at hand, there may be some who find themselves unable to resist its draw. I want you to help your fellow soldiers remember their duty."

            That did not sound well to Tarun. "Remember their duty?" he asked, forgetting to address the captain as 'sir'.

            Whether he noticed the lapse or not, Jerriod did not comment. "Yes. Remind the men of Trosk of the previous leniency shown to them, and of the consequences should they choose to abandon this company. And if all else fails, and they will not listen to reason, I would ask that you come to me, that we might restain potential deserters before their actions become their undoing."

            Serving as a good example to his fellow enlisted men was one thing, but this was something beyond that. To report a friend, a neighbor, possibly even a kinsman to Jerriod, well...Perhaps Thyge's previous accusations back in the barracks at Geristan wouldn't be so unmerited after all. Tarun found himself in the rare position of having no good answer.

            Jerriod was reaching into the scarlet folds of his cloak. "I know you must also be missing your books, left behind in Trosk. Once we are all past the mountains in one piece, perhaps I may be able to lessen the loss."

            When Jerriod withdrew his hand from his cloak, Tarun's eyes widened covetously. Nestled in the captain's hand was a small, fat book with water-stained pages.

            The Royal Word, by Colette Belryn. The little volume had clearly seen better days, but that mattered not a whit to Tarun. A book that he had never read before might as well be worth its weight in silver and gold. He licked his lips like a starved wolf, scarcely daring to tear his eyes from the wrinkled cover lest it dissapear back into Jerriod's cloak.

            "Once we're past Trosk," Jerriod repeated "then you may have this book for your own." The corner of his mouth twitched in an approving smile at the unmasked desire on Tarun's face. "The Royal Word is required reading for first-year students at The Academy, and an excellent resource for those who wish to serve Goran and its throne with distinction. Can I count on you, Thrymmson?"

            Tarun just barely managed to compose himself enough to give a straight answer. All thoughts of Thyge and the others seemed distant and unimportant in the moment. He even felt like the armour which he wore might just speak the truth of his purpose in life now.

            "You can count on me, Captain Jerriod."

            "Excellent. In that case then, I will bid you goodnight. The road is long, and there are many no-doubt restless nights to be had between here and Derbesh."

            The ragged little book vanished from view, once again tucked into one of Jerriod's pockets as he stood. Tarun watched the captain leave the ring of firelight. When Jerriod's bright red cloak had vanished into one of the many cloth tents in which the soldiers slept, a long breath escaped Tarun.

            He barely had but a minute to regather himself though when the soft crunch of gravel underfoot warned him of another presence nearby. Tarun sprung to his feet, suddenly aware of his duty as guardsman.

            To his immense surprise, it was not a soldier who stood facing him in the firelight but the handmaiden in the yellow cloak. The shadows cast her narrow chin and soft jawline into clear relief against the hollow of her throat. Her hood was down upon her shoulders, and the coils of rosy-gold hair piled atop her head reflected sparks of amber by the fire's glow. She was short, short enough that even Tarun loomed over her. The appraising glint in her leonine brown eyes banished all notion of others looking down upon her though. Tarun swallowed hard.

            "Good evening, my lady."

            "Good evening. You are called Thrymmson?"

            "Tarun, lady. Tarun Thrymmson of Tr-...of the Fourth Company."

            "Of Trosk, but you needn't say it," the handmaiden said asutely.

            Without waiting for invitation or confirmation, she stepped around Tarun and settled herself on the stone where he had been sitting. Her sunny cloak fell back, revealing simple yet expensive looking skirts of layered winter cotton. Eminently practical for traveling in the mountains, Tarun thought. Smoothing her dress, she fastened her attention back on Tarun. Curiously, he also noted that her gaze centred on his forehead rather than his face. He wondered if his thoughts were as plain to read there as they felt.

            "Even if your name didn't place you as one of the mountainfolk, your face certainly would. You're one of the new recruits Captain Jerriod spoke of at Geristan?"

            "Yes, my lady. I was...recruited into the army from Trosk some weeks ago."

            The handmaiden's eyebrows raised. "I see."

            Tarun was at a loss. Did she want him to leave her be? Did she want him to linger? She had come to the fireside after he was already there though, and appropriated his seat to boot. The look she had pinned on him didn't suggest that she wanted Tarun to leave either. Undecided on what to do or say, Tarun bided his time instead by stepping back to a more polite distance and clasping one wrist behind his back.

            "Why does Captain Jerriod believe that you're the man to keep the other mountainfolk in check?"

            The directness of the question caught Tarun even more off-guard than he already was. "I...suppose he believes that my kin trust my judgement. Although likely closer to the truth is that they recognize my wits, even if they don't always trust me."

            Tarun didn't know why he had added the last bit, but there it was. The handmaiden's brow twitched imperceptibly, as though in a frown. Her small fingers found their way to a miniature gold eagle dangling from her bracelet.

            "And why would they not trust you? You are one of their own, are you not?"

            "It's not that, my lady. I am born of Trosk, as surely as I stand before you now. I am a secondborn son though, as well as the son of a low-lander."

            "You are also educated." Before Tarun could even open his mouth to reply, she nodded as though he had already confirmed her statement. "The Royal Word is a staple of any literate Gorian's bookshelf. It is merely that though; a staple. There are however many finer entrees from the world of writing for the seasoned scholar."

            "You were listening to my entire conversation with Captain Jerriod?" Tarun asked. "Why?"

            The handmaiden shot a look at Tarun. "Manners, soldier."

            "My apologies, Your Ladyship," Tarun quickly placated, dipping his head.

            "But yes, I was listening. And I would like to counter Jerriod's offer with one of my own."

            From within the folds of her yellow cloak, she produced a book. Unlike Jerriod's ragged, waterlogged copy of The Royal Word though, this book was perfect. It was bound with a handsome green leather cover, slightly darkened with age but still soft enough to gleam in the firelight. The words Second: The Deeds of Amentherian Heirs Unknown were embossed in spiralling silver print across the front. Tarun even caught sight of a clean white ribbon bookmark tucked between the pages. Tarun thought it might just have been love at first sight.

            "It's beautiful," he said, utterly sincere.

            "Isn't it though?" The handmaiden stroked the book's spine with a slim finger. "And all you need do for me to give it to you, Tarun Thrymmson, is nothing."

            "Nothing?" Tarun was incredulous. Only a fool would give away such a treasure for nothing. He stopped the hand in middair which he hadn't even noticed was reaching out toward the book.

            "Nothing. Jerriod wants you to stop any of your kinsman who try to flee for Trosk, I want you to let them go. Keep silent and turn a blind eye on your night's watches. Surely that is no hardship?"

            Tarun was beginning to wonder if this entire evening was some kind of odd dream. Such a request made no sense, to say nothing of what kinds of consequences could follow if he accepted. An image of The Giant's Shoe in Trosk burning flashed across his mind's eye.

            "But...I don't understand! Why on earth would you, one of Princess Ellorae Amenthis' ladies-in-waiting, want there to be desertion from the royal army?"

            The handmaiden did not bat a single eyelash at Tarun's disbelief. She merely settled Second in her lap and folded her hands atop it, watching the centre of Tarun's brow as he stared at her. When at length she spoke, it was in a low murmur which Tarun had to lean in to properly hear.

            "My lady, the princess, wishes it. She is unsettled, reasonably so, by the violent Factionist uprisings throughout Goran. With so many Gorians beyond just the south flirting with notions of rebellion, how can she be certain of the loyalties of even the crown's own soldiers? And what man would be more likely to sway to Factionism than a man forced into conscripted service at the expense of his home and family? What man could be more dangerous, so close to the princess, for that matter? Princess Ellorae will have willing soldiers only in her entourage, or none at all."

            The handmaiden swept the campsite and the tents where the soldiers slept with her sharp gaze, leaving Tarun a second to consider. It sounded very much like the sort of soft-hearted, uncertain logic which could be expected from a girl like Princess Ellorae. She was frightened, far from the safety of Castle Armathain and the protective authority of her brother, the king. Rather than risk possible rebellion within the untested ranks of the Fourth, Ellorae would instruct the night's watchmen to simply let deserters go free. Even Tarun, reluctant soldier that he was, thought it was a miserable excuse for authority and leadership. Still, who was he to argue with what amounted to permission not to betray his own folk? There was still Captain Jerriod to reckon with though...what would the captain do if Tarun simply let any potential escapees go free as they passed Trosk? That would be the end of his hopes for The Academy, without a doubt.

            Tarun was undecided. He did know though that the handmaiden was watching him with those golden-brown eyes, waiting for his answer with a precious book tucked beneath her hands. She was pretty, Tarun decided, in a hawk-like kind of way. Or perhaps a lioness; all eyes and subtle claws beneath soft paws.

            "Can the Princess Ellorae guarantee my life, in the event that Captain Jerriod should charge me with the escape of any men near Trosk? Can she guarantee the protection of our village?"

            "She can, and she will. Although I have no doubt of Jerriod's wrath, Princess Ellorae will no doubt be equal to the task of containing it."

            "With all due respect to Her Highness ...I do not share your certainty, my lady."

            "You don't have to, Thrymmson," said the handmaiden primly. "And I would prefer if you would address me as Lady Elowen. 'My lady' is far too familiar."

            Tarun failed to see how that was, but was more than satisfied at having the handmaiden's name to use in its stead. His satisfaction turned to outright joy when Elowen placed the leather-bound volume Second in his hands.

            "Study it well, soldier. There is much within that text which might be of interest to a secondborn such as yourself. Goodnight."

            "Goodnight...Lady Elowen," Tarun called after her into the night. Elowen slipped away toward the princess's pavillion on silent feet, leaving a faint trace of some foreign fragrance in her wake. Clutching the book to his chest, he sank down onto the rock once more. The text stamped on the cover passed beneath his tracing fingertip like eddies of current in a mountain stream. It was just about the most wonderful thing he had ever held.

            How he was going to survive the next couple of days as the Fourth passed by Trosk, Tarun had no idea. The thought never once occurred to him though that he too might slip away and desert the army. The world was wide and Tarun had absolutely no intention of returning to his former life. He was far too caught up and swept away. 

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