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“Halt, can I ask you a question?”
“I believe you just proved yourself capable.”
Will sighed. Halt smirked faintly.
“Ok. Well, I’m going to try for another then, if that’s alright with you.” He turned in the saddle to face his mentor. “Do you have a hero, Halt?” he asked curiously. “I mean, who do you look up to?
Halt’s eyes narrowed a bit. His sharp gaze flicked over to Will before focusing on the road ahead once more. “I decline to comment.”
Will knew this pattern. The lack of eye contact was a dead give-away. This wasn’t Halt just being surly; this was an evasion. Halt did not want to answer.
Naturally, this meant Will had to get an answer from him.
Sensing weakness, Will honed in and started on the man’s defenses with his best Ingenuous-Voice and Guileless-Eyes.
“What? Why not? This isn’t being recorded for posterity…. Please, Halt? You can tell me,” he paused to let the atmosphere of trust build as he leaned forward. “Who do you look up to?”
It was Halt’s turn to sigh. Too bad. He was not getting off the hook that easily.
“As an individual of lofty stature, there is no 'looking up' taking place on my part. I see eye-to-eye with others. My fellow men and women are my respected but equal peers.” Halt paused, then amended his statement. “My enemies I look down upon. With pity or scorn.”
He looked at Will with an eyebrow raised in a warning that said take care to avoid becoming the latter.
“Does that answer your question?”
Will nodded swiftly. Message received. Questions concluded.
Well. Perhaps not entirely…. He was curious now.
He decided to ask Horace.
“My hero? Kicker. He’s incredibly brave. And loyal,” he nodded firmly at his horse’s good character. “I can always count on him. I’d be proud to be half the horse he is.”
“Which half?” Will couldn’t help himself.
“What?”
“Which segment of Kicker inspires you? The front half? Or the left side—"
“Don’t- don’t mentally partition my horse!” the knight spluttered. He fixed Will with the strongest look of censure he could muster. “He is ten times the man you’ll ever be, Will Treaty.”
Horace patted Kicker on the hock to assure him of his superior dignity.
“…I feel like you’re a tad confused as to which species we are, respectively.”
“Respectively, I’m not the one who thinks horses speak to them,” Horace sniffed. “That’s a brand of crazy that’s all yours, Ranger.”
“I think you mean ‘respectfully’.”
Horace considered this.
“No, I think I meant that part disrespectfully.”
Crowley didn’t hesitate.
“Lady Pauline.”
“Any particular reason?” Will inquired. “Or a combination—"
“For putting up with the crankiest man alive all these years,” the Ranger Commandant began with a pointed look at Halt, who was brewing coffee with all the spite he could muster in an attempt to further postpone the paperwork he was supposed to be doing. “And for managing to dominate the political sphere with grace and poise while she does it. The woman is an inspiration to us lesser beings and a credit to our nation.”
“She has a talent for paperwork, too,” Halt tried. “Perhaps I should go seek her expertise…”
“Sit down, O’Carrick.” Crowley’s glare was scorching. “If I have to wade through the swamp of bureaucracy and meaningless busywork, so do you.”
“Perhaps I should offer this opportunity to learn of the functions of proper documentation to my protégé…”
Will startled. “Oh my! Is that the hour? I’d best be on my way. Lovely to see you, Crowley, Halt.”
The look Halt fixed Will with as he made hastily for the door told him he’d be paying for that later.
Gilan was happy to oblige. He began his response with great and solemn relish.
“My hero is the man who taught me so much. He was a mentor to me; a guide; a role-model, if you will. Really, a life-changing figure.” Gilan put down the sword he was sharpening and looked over to Halt as he continued speaking in reverent tones. “He made me the man I am today.”
Halt looked up in surprise at the emotion in Gilan’s voice.
Gilan looked back to Will, and his face splin into a grin.
“Eight-fingered Eddard, the knifegrinder from Marslow! That man taught me to curse in seven languages (he was an old sailor), how to play the pennywhistle (with eight fingers, mind you) and how to talk to women. He was like a second father to me. Or rather, the drunk uncle who the adults like to pretend doesn’t exist. Regardless, he played a truly seminal role–”
Halt pushed Gilan off the log he’d been sitting on.
Jenny brightened to see Will visit her. She was such a ray of sunshine, and despite the afternoon bustle of the kitchens, she was happy to sit and talk a moment with an old friend.
“My mother,” she answered warmly, wiping her hands on her apron. “She made best pies in the world and ran the kitchen like a fiend. Always knew how to keep everyone in order and exactly when things were ready to come out of the oven—she had a sixth sense about it, truly. And she wouldn’t let anyone sneak any sweets without her spoon coming down like lighting on their hand. She had a sixth sense about that, too,” Jenny recalled fondly.
Will knew this intimately. And recalled it slightly less fondly… He had some experience in sweet thievery as a child.
Okay, that was an understatement.
It had been an open secret among the staff that Will was the most wanted and most elusive culprit in Castle Redmond for sneak-thievery of the innocent sort. The only person who ever really managed to catch him was, in fact, Jenny’s mother … and Halt at the start of his apprenticeship. Which put the woman in impressive company, now that he thought about it.
“I wish I wasn’t so young when she died,” Jenny sighed, as she rolled out the dough. “I’d have loved to learn baking from her.”
“You’re a brilliant cook, Jen,” Will said in earnest. “She’d be so proud of you and everything you’ve done with this place.”
The young woman smiled gratefully at Will’s kind words. After a moment, though, her soft smile turned sly.
“I bet she’d be proud of you too… for turning your sneaky ways to good purposes.”
Ah. So, she knew about that. Will smiled sheepishly.
She sent him home with lawfully obtained sweets.
He really ought to visit Jenny more often.
Upon hearing the question, Evanlyn snorted and launched into a story.
“So, yesterday I saw a cat run right across the training yard while the knights were sparring in full armor. And Sir Branston—he’s a prat— notices and gets all distracted by the cat. Then Horace, who’s in, like, battle mode, slams him with his sword. Lays him right out and puts an honest-to-god enormous dent in the armor! So, Branston’s groaning on the ground and stammering out excuses, talking about the cat.
“And Horace thinks he’s making it up—because that is the sort of thing this tosser would do—but you know Horace—he’s such a good sport—and he’s trying to be the bigger person about it. So, he tries to help Branston up, but then he catches sight of the cat who’s now sitting right at his feet! And he’s so startled he trips and falls over right on top of Bran, and those two buffoons take an age and a half to sort themselves out and get back to their feet with all the armor they’ve got on. It was a pure comedy to watch.
“Finally, they’re up, and the cat’s still there, and Bran’s pissed off now, so he hisses at the cat. And it hisses right back (but in a way that’s far more intimidating than Bran will ever be) and Bran jumps and almost drops his sword! Then, the cat just saunters off cool as can be.”
She laughed to herself and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. Will sat expectantly for a moment before realizing the story is over. Its relevance was still unclear.
“That’s a great story, Evanlyn, but did you hear the question…? Your hero…?”
“It’s the cat, William,” she responded in a tone that implied this was obvious. “Keep up. That cat is the possibly the most chaotic and contrary thing in this kingdom, and it is my hero.”
Alyss’ eyes widened at the question. “You, of course, Will.”
Will felt surprised and more than a bit flattered.
“Really? I thought you’d say Lady Pauline or someone.”
“Oh, well, her, too, naturally.”
Will nodded. He knew how much Alyss admired the woman who had become her mentor.
“… And Horace,” Alyss continued thoughtfully. “Oh! And the Lady Demetria of Hervor—I’ve read so much about her. She was an incredible scholar of Araluen history … And Baron de Thurbay; he wrote a marvelous treatise on the rights and liberties of the people. Oh, and speaking of barons: Arald! He was so good to us, raising us all…”
Will stopped taking notes around this point and listened amiably as she continued. He might be here a while. Alyss apparently harbored enormous respect for a great many people in her heart.
“It’s alright, buddy,” Will said gently, reaching out a steady hand. “I can get you down no problem.”
“You s-sure?” the boy stuttered where he clung to the tree a few inches above Will. “Only, I climbed up fine, but getting down—I, I can’t. It looks far.”
“I’m positive,” Will said firmly. He smiled conspiratorially. “I’m like a squirrel when it comes to trees. Unstoppable.”
The boy was startled into a laugh, and after another moment’s consideration, he reached out and let himself be pulled into Will’s arms and wrapped himself around the Ranger tightly.
As Will began to climb down, the rescued child safe in hand, he looked down a moment and caught a glimpse of his mentor that he perhaps wasn’t supposed to see.
At the base of the tree, Halt stood with a faint smile on his face, watching Will, looking up.