The rock was getting heavier; I could see his hand droop. Neither Oreg nor I gave him reason to throw. I was safely distanced by being on the ground, Oreg leaned negligently against a trio of sapling aspens. Everyone else was farther away. The Tamerlain, I noticed, had disappeared somewhere.

“You might as well drop the rock,” said Oreg. “He’ll sit here all day until you do.” He caught the boy’s eyes. “If you don’t believe in futility, you might as well give up the hostility, too. It’s as easy to stay angry with a puppy as it is to be angry at Ward. Ask Tosten someday if you don’t believe me.”

The rock dropped at last, and the tough front cracked a bit as tears welled in the boy’s eyes. “What do you want with me?”

I sat up and pinned him with my eyes. “I want you to be safe. I want to bring you back with me to Hurog—as my father should have.”

“I’m a bastard. The son of a whore and your father,” he spat, then added the bit he certainly seemed to think damning. “And the whore was your father’s cousin.”

Oreg made tisking sounds with his tongue. “The Tallvens have certainly done a job on you, haven’t they. In Shavig, cousins marry all the time.” That was overstating matters, but for a good cause. “Duraugh’s son is married to Ward’s sister—your sister, too—and no one thought a thing about it.”

Tychis begun to look faintly alarmed—which was better than the fearful defiance he’d displayed before.

“No one says you have to marry a cousin,” I soothed. “But you do have to be polite around Beckram and Ciarra—that I will insist upon.” Since politeness was the last thing he was worried about, it succeeded in distracting him.

“Do you know how to ride a horse?” I asked, changing the ground under him.

He shook his head. I stood up and held out a hand. “Well then, come and meet your mount and I’ll get you started. By the end of this trip, no one will ever know you weren’t born in the saddle.”

The bait was too great. Soon he was sitting on a bay gelding, newly named Death-Bringer. I’d given Tychis several choices of names. From the size of the horse’s barrel I’d have called him Hay-Mower. But Death-Bringer pleased the boy, and the height of the horse gave him the illusion of safety.

As I was coaching Tychis in the proper manner to sit (preferably on top of the horse), steer (mostly let him follow everyone else), and stop (pull back), my uncle, who’d been in an animated conversation with Kellen and Garranon, gestured to me. I handed Death-Bringer’s reins to Oreg and joined the discussion.