Padric shot a glance at her then went back to the horse. “She is going home. Back to Middangeard. At least that’s the word I understood.”

“I see.”

“For the best,” he said. “I was never going to be anything but the man she was given to as a slave.”

He straightened and let out a deep breath.

He is relieved.

“So what about us?” she asked, giving the horse an appraising look. “Home, too?”

Padric thought about it, nodding more deeply as he did. “For a time.”

She smiled, wondering what that would be like and looking forward to finding out. Padric reached down and hefted the saddlebags up onto the horses back, securing them deftly.

Rosheen heard whistling and looked to see Muckle walking by, the ribbons of his huge club caught on the wind. The goblin saw them, and with an enthusiastic wave, came over to greet them.

“The road beckons?” he asked cheerfully.

If it leads away from you.

“Yes,” Rosheen said simply.

“Very good, very good,” Muckle said, grinning broadly. He turned to Padric, whose back was turned, extending his task as long as possible. “And you, sire?” Muckle asked. “Will the life of a lowly vagabond, of which I am very personally fond, not seem dim after the trappings of royalty?”

Padric turned slowly, giving the Jester his darkest glower.

Muckle shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He turned to go then snapped his fingers in a show of discovered remembrance and turned back. “Just remember, lad,” he said pointing. “It is not what you are, it is what you would have been if it had not been for what you were.”

Padric tried to puzzle that out for a moment, then turned to Rosheen for help.

She threw up her hands.

Muckle gave them a satisfied grunt and a final stab of his finger, daring them to forget his words before turning away.

“It is not foolishness,” they could hear him telling his fish as he crossed the fields. “Those are wise words. I should know. I am a member of the Wisemoot. I was not ousted! How dare you! Broke wind? Me? Never! I will have you know…”

Rosheen found Padric staring at the grass.

There’s the brood I was waiting on.

“Shall we go?” she asked.

His eyes found her. “Why do you stay with me, Rosheen?”

She wrinkled her face at him. “What kind of question is that?”

“I never thought to ask,” he said pensively. “Why are you with me? Who am I?”

“You,” she said slowly, “are the same as you were before we left. A stubborn, brooding, mildly handsome youth…with the worst luck in the known world.”

She beamed at him.

He grinned in spite of himself, shaking his head ruefully as he swung himself into the saddle. Rosheen took her place on his shoulder.

“That still does not answer,” he said, cocking his eyes at her, “why you are with me?”