Blood filled his mouth — he'd bitten his tongue. His hands clenched in fists at his side, and he wasn't sure if it was to stop himself from acting on the inclination or to throw himself at them.
"Garin," Bran said, voice calm as if he were speaking to a spooked horse, "did you see what was here?"
"No." The word burst from him, sore tongue eager to spout the lie.
"Boy," Aelyn said sharply, "don't lie to us. Fell magic has preserved this place for a purpose. What did you take?"
Garin found himself backing away so that he bumped into the wall. "Nothing! I told you that! What has gotten into you two? You're acting like I'm a thief!"
The men exchanged a look, then both began slowly advancing.
Flee, Listener!
Garin bolted.
The mage shouted something, and Garin cried out as the pendant burned against his chest. But despite the mage's spell, he continued forward unimpeded.
Then something rammed into him and carried him to the floor. Garin wheezed, then coughed as dust choked him.
"Got him," he heard Bran say over him, his voice hoarse as well.
"The necklace!" the elf hissed.
Hands grappled with the collar of Garin's tunic, and he squirmed and struck back with an elbow. Bran grunted but pressed him harder into the dust. Garin was coughing, writhing, cursing, then the heat of the necklace slipped from his skin, and all of the fight suddenly drained from him.
He felt the weight lift from his back. "Got it," Bran said above him.
Slowly, wracked with sneezes, Garin turned onto his back and sat up. He thought he'd be angry for the rough treatment, but all he felt was tired. "I found that. It's mine," he protested feebly.
Bran held up the necklace in the werelight, the chain clutched in his bunched up sleeve. Aelyn stooped before it, squinting at the black gems.
"One of theirs," the mage said, then smiled. "Hold it a moment longer. A silver-spun sack ought to contain it."
The elf fished in his cloak for a moment, then drew out a small, shining sack. Garin stared at it dully. Before he'd laid eyes on the pendant, he might have thought it a marvelous thing, shimmering like a silver fish darting in a stream. Now, it seemed as dun as sackcloth.
Aelyn held it under the necklace, and Bran dropped it in. The mage quickly tied it off and secured it back within his cloak.
Then both of them turned toward him, mouths parting to speak.
"I know," Garin said before they could chastise him. "I wasn't supposed to wander off. And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, honest. One moment, I was behind you, and the next—"
Bran knelt before him. "It's alright, lad. You were ensorcelled."
"A touch of Night fell upon your mind," the mage said with a good deal less sympathy. "You hadn't the strength to resist it. I knew it was foolishness to allow him here."
"He hasn't been trained against it," Bran shot over his shoulder. "Give him time."
"Nevertheless," the mage continued, ignoring him, "we have what we came for, and the boy is free of the artifact's influence. We should leave and be down the hill before nightfall."
"Give him a moment." Bran extended a hand. "You alright, Garin?"
His arm felt leaden, but he managed to lift it and grip his hand, letting the man pull him to his feet. "Sorry," he muttered as he swayed.
Bran gripped his shoulder. "It's alright. Don't mind the mage. He has thorns, but he's all rose beneath. Even if he doesn't smell like it."
"Careful," Aelyn said as he passed. "You might prick your tongue on one of those thorns."
A grin split the man's face. "Look at that! Coming around already, isn't he? Evil artifacts always did put him in high spirits." Bran gave his shoulder a squeeze. "But he's right — best be on our way. And if you don't mind, I'll take up the rear this time."
Garin gave him a weak smile. "Can't say I blame you."
Though his legs felt wobbly beneath him, they held as he took one step forward, then another.
Never tell.
He stumbled, his dragging foot catching on a piece of rubble.
Bran was there in a moment, a hand on his arm steadying him. "You alright? That necklace took a lot out of you."
"Fine," Garin muttered. His heart hammered in his chest. His stomach swirled like he'd be sick. But he managed to straighten and walk quickly after the retreating sorcerous light, eager to leave the bewitched chamber far, far behind.
The Wolf in Sheepskin
In the days that followed, Bran strove to ensure Garin would get no rest from dawn to dusk. While they walked, he spoke of all he had learned in nearly three decades of travel. He told stories of the World, tales of ancient times where every man, woman, and child had magic on their fingertips, and demons ran rampant like mice in a barn. He told of the founding of the Reach Realms, of the kings and queens responsible for the rise and fall of the states. He spoke of the recent politics, or as recent as he was privy to; but, after one too many smirks from their elven companion, he moved quickly on to other subjects.
But Bran didn't stop there. He spoke of essential facts on the beasts that came down from the East that one must known to hunt them. He pointed to plants they passed by, indicating which could be eaten and which should be avoided. He talked of how to care for a horse for travel rather than farm work, and, for good measure, how best to saddle one for war.
It was astounding, Bran mused, how much ground could be covered while walking — metaphorically and otherwise.
In the face of his indefatigable instruction, Garin proved to be a far more diligent student than Bran ever had in his youth. Though he occasionally caught him staring glassy-eyed down the road, as if his mind had traveled far away, he would always bring his attention back as soon as Bran prompted him with a teasing remark. And when Bran broke off in the middle of a lecture on the different weights and balances of swords to ask what the Second King of Avendor said to the Queen of the Gladelysh elves when they broke ties, Garin answered before he'd finished asking the question, with the proper intonation and all — "Then fare thee well, you pig-nosed bitch!"
The boy was as sharp as a scythe before harvest, that much was certain. But, even so, there were gaping deficiencies in the boy's education, especially for where they were headed.
"Lad," Bran said as they stopped the tenth evening, "there's no way around it. You'll have to learn your letters sooner or later."
He'd seen less fear in Garin's eyes when they'd been surrounded by bandits. "Do I? Gotten by this long, haven't I?"
"But you're not in Hunt's Hollow anymore — you're going to the Coral Castle. Even the servants know their letters."
The youth's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What for? Servants don't need to read."
"In a king's service, anyone might need to read. And more importantly, in your pursuits, you most certainly will have need."
Instead of weakening Garin's reluctance, his arguments seemed to strengthen it. "What do I need books for when tending a horse? Or hunting a chimera?" He got a sly look. "Didn't seem to help you much when herding your chickens."