semiconscious Svengusta alone.
âWhatâs that yer doing, boy?â the old man slurred.
âReturning a shadow of the favorââ Karl stopped to catch his breath. ââthe gods of war have showered upon me.â Without his characteristic flatness, it wasnât funny.
âLet me show you how itâs done,â Svengusta said, and joined him against the chapel wall.
âYou people are outrageous,â Christopher said.
Svengusta yawned. âWhatâs that, boy?â
Christopher realized heâd spoken in English. The language problem seemed insurmountable, so he went on into the chapel. The others eventually followed him into the main hall, where the flickering chandeliers reflected off the booty piled under the stern gaze of the frieze above the fireplace. The sight chilled Christopher, but Svengusta looked at the wooden god and chuckled.
âBeen a while since heâs seen that,â the old man mumbled, dropped his winter cloak absently on the floor, and went into the living quarters.
âAt least itâs one of ours,â Karl said, and followed.
Left to the last, Christopher couldnât think of anything clever to say.
Helga was still up, sewing by her light-stone. Svengusta fell into bed and was snoring within seconds. Christopher was struggling to get into his top bunk when he realized Karl was standing in the doorway, looking at him, waiting for something.
He looked around to see what Karl wanted, until his foggy brain kicked in. He wasnât that drunk.
âShe doesnât belong to me,â Christopher said.
Karl grinnedâor tried to, but it came out as a leerâand shut the door. Christopher undressed and crawled into his bunk and tried to ignore the muted giggles from the next room.
The noise was not the problem. The problem was that he was still frightened of what he had done today, and of what he had been prepared to do. He needed someone to comfort him, someone to treat him the same even though everything was different now. But his bed held nothing but memories.
âGet up, old man,â Karl said, and he didnât mean Svengusta. Christopher blinked, rubbed his eyes and his aching temples.
It was morning already. He got dressed, came out into the kitchen where everyone else was eating breakfast, apparently unmarked by the excesses of last night.
Except Helga. Helga was positively glowing, a radiance that flared every time Karl spoke to her or glanced in her direction. His relief that he would not have to deal with Helgaâs crush was swiftly ruined by concern. He hoped Karl would let her down easy.
âI wish to apologize in advance, Pater. You asked me to teach you to ride,â Karl said as they walked to the stable. âIf I correct you, it is only for the sake of your horse.â
âOf course,â Christopher said. âAnd call me Christopher.â
Christopher had been on the back of a horse one or two times before. The experience had little in common with riding the magnificent Royal. Especially the way Karl defined riding. Karlâs own horse, though smaller and more nimble than Royal, was barely able to keep up with the huge stallion. âKeep upâ being the operative phrase, since under no circumstance would Royal allow the other horse to pull ahead of him.
They saw a lot of the surrounding countryside, or at least Karl and the horses did. Once they got to trotting, Christopher mostly saw shooting stars of pain from his spine. When Karl finally decided that any more saddle time would cause Christopherâs ineptitude to risk injuring the horse, they turned back to the stable. Christopher was a limp rag that had been through the wringer too many times; Karl was unsparing, and left him to unsaddle and brush down the warhorse under the supervision of a stable boy. The boy was merciless in the way all ten-year-old experts are with incompetent adults.
Christopher waddled back to the
âWhatâs that yer doing, boy?â the old man slurred.
âReturning a shadow of the favorââ Karl stopped to catch his breath. ââthe gods of war have showered upon me.â Without his characteristic flatness, it wasnât funny.
âLet me show you how itâs done,â Svengusta said, and joined him against the chapel wall.
âYou people are outrageous,â Christopher said.
Svengusta yawned. âWhatâs that, boy?â
Christopher realized heâd spoken in English. The language problem seemed insurmountable, so he went on into the chapel. The others eventually followed him into the main hall, where the flickering chandeliers reflected off the booty piled under the stern gaze of the frieze above the fireplace. The sight chilled Christopher, but Svengusta looked at the wooden god and chuckled.
âBeen a while since heâs seen that,â the old man mumbled, dropped his winter cloak absently on the floor, and went into the living quarters.
âAt least itâs one of ours,â Karl said, and followed.
Left to the last, Christopher couldnât think of anything clever to say.
Helga was still up, sewing by her light-stone. Svengusta fell into bed and was snoring within seconds. Christopher was struggling to get into his top bunk when he realized Karl was standing in the doorway, looking at him, waiting for something.
He looked around to see what Karl wanted, until his foggy brain kicked in. He wasnât that drunk.
âShe doesnât belong to me,â Christopher said.
Karl grinnedâor tried to, but it came out as a leerâand shut the door. Christopher undressed and crawled into his bunk and tried to ignore the muted giggles from the next room.
The noise was not the problem. The problem was that he was still frightened of what he had done today, and of what he had been prepared to do. He needed someone to comfort him, someone to treat him the same even though everything was different now. But his bed held nothing but memories.
âGet up, old man,â Karl said, and he didnât mean Svengusta. Christopher blinked, rubbed his eyes and his aching temples.
It was morning already. He got dressed, came out into the kitchen where everyone else was eating breakfast, apparently unmarked by the excesses of last night.
Except Helga. Helga was positively glowing, a radiance that flared every time Karl spoke to her or glanced in her direction. His relief that he would not have to deal with Helgaâs crush was swiftly ruined by concern. He hoped Karl would let her down easy.
âI wish to apologize in advance, Pater. You asked me to teach you to ride,â Karl said as they walked to the stable. âIf I correct you, it is only for the sake of your horse.â
âOf course,â Christopher said. âAnd call me Christopher.â
Christopher had been on the back of a horse one or two times before. The experience had little in common with riding the magnificent Royal. Especially the way Karl defined riding. Karlâs own horse, though smaller and more nimble than Royal, was barely able to keep up with the huge stallion. âKeep upâ being the operative phrase, since under no circumstance would Royal allow the other horse to pull ahead of him.
They saw a lot of the surrounding countryside, or at least Karl and the horses did. Once they got to trotting, Christopher mostly saw shooting stars of pain from his spine. When Karl finally decided that any more saddle time would cause Christopherâs ineptitude to risk injuring the horse, they turned back to the stable. Christopher was a limp rag that had been through the wringer too many times; Karl was unsparing, and left him to unsaddle and brush down the warhorse under the supervision of a stable boy. The boy was merciless in the way all ten-year-old experts are with incompetent adults.
Christopher waddled back to the
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