The reins of his old stallion were slick with sweat as Vilon handed them to a stable boy in the sprawling Yarzat-Kakunian camp. He didn't let the lad lead the beast away until old Chestnut had received his due, a handful of bruised apples, a scoop of dry oats, and a few whispered promises accompanied by a heavy pat on the neck.
The old man was as stubborn as a mountain mule and twice as willful as a boy in a growth spurt, but he was the only family Vilon had left in a world that seemed to have no place for him yet. With a small ribbon bearing a scrap of parchment tied to the horse's mane to mark him, Vilon finally turned to walk the camp, his boots sinking into the mud.
This was the farthest he had ever traveled from the rolling hills of his youth. His father had been a man of Ezvania who migrated to Kakunia dreaming of tourney gold and silk favors.
