Time and time again, Borenson’s head would nod, his lips quivering as if he were about to say something unspeakable. Yet each time he raised his head, his eyes would be a little clearer, a little brighter, his gaze a little steadier.

Gaborn suspected Borenson would forget his deeds, given a week or a month. He might claim that some other knight had slaughtered Sylvarresta, or that the good king had died in battle or fallen from a horse.

Gaborn hoped Borenson would forget. They rode in silence. Gaborn’s Days coughed from time to time, as if he were developing a cold.

After twenty long minutes of this, Borenson turned, and on the surface his manners seemed almost carefree, the pain had retreated so deeply. But it was there, lying far within. “Milord, I was up above the Duke’s lodge a bit ago, and I saw the tracks of a reaver. A big female. May I have your leave to hunt her tonight?”

It was an obvious jest. “Not without me,” Gaborn said, musing. “Last autumn, I came to the Dunnwood to hunt boars. This year we shall hunt reavers. Perhaps Groverman will ride with us. What think you?”

“Hah, not bloody likely,” Borenson spat. “Not after what I’ve done!”

Immediately, Borenson’s eyes looked troubled again, and Gaborn sought to turn his thoughts. “Tell you what, if we kill a reaver, you get to eat the ears,” Gaborn jested. To eat the ears of the first boar of the hunt was a great honor. But reavers had no ears, and no part of a reaver was edible. “Or at least I’ll cut off a patch of hide shaped like an ear.”

“Oh, you are too generous, milord,” Borenson chortled like some peasant woman in the marketplace, heaping unearned praise on a noble. “Oh, you’re so gracious. All you lords are so . . . er, well, lordly, if you catch my meaning.”

“Well, uh, thank you, dear lady,” Gaborn said, affecting a stodgy accent much like that of the Marquis of Ferecia, a noted poser. He raised his nose in the air, just as the Marquis would, then used the full powers of his Voice to imitate the Marquis’ accent. “A blessing on you and your hovel and all your snot-nosed prodigy, dear lady. And please don’t come any nearer, or I think I might sneeze.”

Borenson laughed deeply at the jest, for the Marquis often sneezed when dirty peasants got too near his person. His threats of illness kept peasants away, so that the Marquis would not have to tolerate the scent of their poverty.

It was a grim sort of humor, but it was the best Gaborn could manage at the moment, and it eased Borenson’s spirits somewhat. Gaborn almost hoped that someday things between them would be as they had been before.