fear—they are all distractions that will kill you if you hold on to them, more deadly by far than any enemy. You must let them drain out of you like water through a sieve, until there is nothing left: nothing except you and your antagonist.”
Sigismund nodded, for they had been through this before and he understood its importance. He was considerably less enthusiastic, however, when Balisan insisted that he learn how to clean and repair his own armor and weapons, and mend his horse’s harness as well.
“But I will have squires to do that,” Sigismund protested, “and grooms.”
Balisan’s left brow flared higher, his sardonic expression pronounced. “And if your squires are killed? Or you become separated from your followers and have to depend on yourself to survive? What will you do then?”
Sigismund shook his head, having no answer for that, but he wished there were a few less things that Balisan considered essential for a king’s son to do well. He learned to be glad of the times when his lessons covered the training and care of hawks, or hunting with hounds, so that he could escape into the sunshine and fresh air, galloping his new horse with the castle hunt. Balisan never hunted with them, but Sigismund would see him sometimes, standing on top of the high tower and looking out over the park and surrounding countryside.
“Never misses owt,” said the Master of the Hunt the day he tracked Sigismund’s abstracted gaze to the small distant figure on the castle pinnacle.
“Doesn’t sleep either, from what I’ve heard,” said Wat, one of the younger huntsmen, tossing back his shock of yellow hair. Like his cousin Wenceslas, Wat had been a friend of Sigismund’s since the King first brought him to the West Castle—so Sigismund knew that Wat was immensely proud of his hair and had practiced the toss until it became second nature, especially around Annie and the other maids.
“And that red mare of his,” Wenceslas put in. “If she was any more knowing she’d talk!”
No one paid much attention to that, though, because Wenceslas loved stories of animals that could talk. He had them from his Gran, he said, and Sigismund thought he must have caught the storytelling gift as well, for the groom could hold the entire castle spellbound. He had a bench outside the stable where he sat and whittled on the long summer evenings, while the horses gazed over the half-doors of their boxes and the castle folk drifted out to listen.
Sigismund joined them whenever he could, and sometimes Balisan listened as well, although he came and went like a cat and stood so far back in the shadows that most of those present didn’t realize he was there. Sigismund always knew, although he was never quite sure why. Perhaps it was another of those little shifts in the air, or perhaps it was simply the amount of time they spent together, but his awareness of the master-at-arms’s presence had become like a sixth sense. And Sigismund noticed that the horses would always stir when Balisan arrived, but otherwise there was only the shift and gleam of his eyes to betray his presence—for those who knew where to look.
Wenceslas’s favorite stories involved both horses and hounds, like the fabled Bran and Mifawn, as well as pigs that talked and birds that granted wishes—if you could catch them—and the shy, sloe-eyed witches who spun their magic in the deep woods. He knew numerous tales of people stolen away into Faerie mounds, only to reappear years or lifetimes later, and all the sagas of past kings and heroes. His voice would sink as he spoke of magic swords and high deeds, faithless friends and noble enemies, and loves that were greater and more passionate than those found in the everyday world. Beasts crept into these tales too: unicorns with enchanted horns and dragons that could change their shapes and walk in the human world to aid or oppose heroes. Needless to say, it was these high tales that Sigismund loved best.
He
Sigismund nodded, for they had been through this before and he understood its importance. He was considerably less enthusiastic, however, when Balisan insisted that he learn how to clean and repair his own armor and weapons, and mend his horse’s harness as well.
“But I will have squires to do that,” Sigismund protested, “and grooms.”
Balisan’s left brow flared higher, his sardonic expression pronounced. “And if your squires are killed? Or you become separated from your followers and have to depend on yourself to survive? What will you do then?”
Sigismund shook his head, having no answer for that, but he wished there were a few less things that Balisan considered essential for a king’s son to do well. He learned to be glad of the times when his lessons covered the training and care of hawks, or hunting with hounds, so that he could escape into the sunshine and fresh air, galloping his new horse with the castle hunt. Balisan never hunted with them, but Sigismund would see him sometimes, standing on top of the high tower and looking out over the park and surrounding countryside.
“Never misses owt,” said the Master of the Hunt the day he tracked Sigismund’s abstracted gaze to the small distant figure on the castle pinnacle.
“Doesn’t sleep either, from what I’ve heard,” said Wat, one of the younger huntsmen, tossing back his shock of yellow hair. Like his cousin Wenceslas, Wat had been a friend of Sigismund’s since the King first brought him to the West Castle—so Sigismund knew that Wat was immensely proud of his hair and had practiced the toss until it became second nature, especially around Annie and the other maids.
“And that red mare of his,” Wenceslas put in. “If she was any more knowing she’d talk!”
No one paid much attention to that, though, because Wenceslas loved stories of animals that could talk. He had them from his Gran, he said, and Sigismund thought he must have caught the storytelling gift as well, for the groom could hold the entire castle spellbound. He had a bench outside the stable where he sat and whittled on the long summer evenings, while the horses gazed over the half-doors of their boxes and the castle folk drifted out to listen.
Sigismund joined them whenever he could, and sometimes Balisan listened as well, although he came and went like a cat and stood so far back in the shadows that most of those present didn’t realize he was there. Sigismund always knew, although he was never quite sure why. Perhaps it was another of those little shifts in the air, or perhaps it was simply the amount of time they spent together, but his awareness of the master-at-arms’s presence had become like a sixth sense. And Sigismund noticed that the horses would always stir when Balisan arrived, but otherwise there was only the shift and gleam of his eyes to betray his presence—for those who knew where to look.
Wenceslas’s favorite stories involved both horses and hounds, like the fabled Bran and Mifawn, as well as pigs that talked and birds that granted wishes—if you could catch them—and the shy, sloe-eyed witches who spun their magic in the deep woods. He knew numerous tales of people stolen away into Faerie mounds, only to reappear years or lifetimes later, and all the sagas of past kings and heroes. His voice would sink as he spoke of magic swords and high deeds, faithless friends and noble enemies, and loves that were greater and more passionate than those found in the everyday world. Beasts crept into these tales too: unicorns with enchanted horns and dragons that could change their shapes and walk in the human world to aid or oppose heroes. Needless to say, it was these high tales that Sigismund loved best.
He
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