He looked at Bran, hoping to find the same fire in his eyes, but he saw only calm consideration.
Aelyn stared at him like he were a stinkbug in his bed. "Finest, indeed. How many other towns have you been to, boy?"
Garin could count them on one hand, and he had a feeling that wouldn't impress this strange traveler. "Enough."
Aelyn raised one thin eyebrow, then looked back at Bran. "So, this is the sort of company you keep these days?"
"Indeed, it is." Bran hadn't shifted from his easy recline. "After all, it's the finest company east of Halenhol."
Garin had to grin at that.
"Enough!" Aelyn snapped. "Enough of this charade! I cannot say your real name, but you know it as well as I do. Is this really where your name ends? Forgotten, a failed chicken farmer in a provincial village, meaning nothing to those he'd fought and cared for?"
The smile had slipped from Bran's mouth, and his hands came to rest on the table. "Why not?" he asked quietly. "It's where I began."
Garin blinked, seeing Bran anew. "You were born here?"
The man stood, not meeting his eyes. "You could say that." He glanced at the visitor. "There's a fine bit of hay in the barn. Day's winding down, and if the patter on the roof is any indication, the rain won't let up soon."
Aelyn stood, stiff as a board. "Much as I revile it, I won't leave until you come with me."
Bran smiled at that, but the joy behind it had dulled. "Then I hope you're not as bad at chicken farming as I am."
The traveler had run, muttering under his breath, for the barn through the streaking rain, while Bran watched from within his hovel. Garin stood behind him, scuffing his shoes unconsciously until he stopped himself. He was a man, not a boy. High time he started acting like one. He cleared his throat.
"All that man said," he started. "Aout your 'true name'… what did he mean?"
Bran remained facing the open door and the rain. "You're a man now, Garin, but still young. You can't know how the past, no matter how much you wish it gone, clings to you no matter where you go. Like a phantom fist clenched around your heart, squeezing and choking when you least expect it. But even still, when you've gone astray, there comes a time when you have to try and separate yourself from it. You have to change who you are."
Garin couldn't help a little snort escaping him.
Bran met his gaze now, his lips twisted. "Something amusing?"
"I may be a young man, but I've seen enough of people to know they don't change, not really. Oh, they put on new faces — sometimes literally, like Aunt Helan with her elven paints. But underneath, they're still the same."
Bran shook his head and looked back out at the rain. "I hope you're wrong. But I suspect you're not."
Garin stepped closer. He wasn't sure if it was the whiskey or something else, but his stomach had set to a nervous tumbling, like he was on the verge of something, but didn't yet know what.
"You said to me earlier that life is short and dull, and you have to find the sparks to light the way. Back there, when you tricked that Aelyn fellow — you were more alive than in the five years I've known you. More… you." He scratched his head. "If that makes any sense."
"Unfortunately, it does."
"I don't know you as anyone but Bran. But whoever you were before, I'm guessing those same things are still in you. And I'm guessing you haven't succeeded in cutting away the past."
Bran studied him in silence for so long Garin started to wonder if he'd gone too far. He'd only known Bran five years, after all, and he had the scars of a soldier and tattoos of wild folk, or hedge mages, or something foreign and strange. He had no idea what he was capable of.
But the man's lips curled into a familiar, lopsided smile. "You know, you're a lot wiser than I was at your age. But I'm going to guess you're not as wise as you should be."
Garin frowned. "How's that?"
"Because when I ask you to leave Hunt's Hollow, I suspect you'll say yes."
Garin's pulse quickened. He remembered Aelyn's contempt as he boasted about Hunt's Hollow. He could count the number of villages he'd seen on one hand.
And there was the whole World out there.
Garin shrugged. "What else could I say?"
The chicken farmer threw back his head in a laugh. "We'll let our companion stew for a bit first. But I suspect in a few days' time, the easterly winds will blow in more autumn rain and carry three travelers away."
Garin smiled uncertainly.
As the mirth left him, Bran eyed Garin. "Go. Think it over carefully. Be sure this is your time. And if it is, be ready to leave at a penny's drop."
"When?" he asked, hardly believing this was happening, hardly believing he was going along with it.
"Soon. I'll come for you."
Bran wiped the rain from his face as he stepped into the barn.
Orange eyes, like the eyes of a stalking cat, gleamed from the shadows. As if he'd been waiting for his approach, Aelyn stepped forward holding a long object wrapped in a sack. In the fading blue light, Bran could see clumps of dirt still clinging to the cloth.
"You found it quickly," he observed.
"It was shallowly buried. Though I can't see what use a chicken farmer would have for a sword."
The traveler held out the swaddled item, and Bran stepped forward, took it, then stepped quickly back. Aelyn had been ensorcelled not to harm him, but, as his mother had often lectured him, Only a clod-wit trusts a sure thing.
Aelyn's lips curled in a mocking smile. Even inside the barn, he hadn't taken off his hat.
"You can remove that now," Bran observed. "Others won't see you in here, though I doubt they'd take offense even if they did. We aren't far from Gladelyl, after all."
Aelyn flashed a thin smile and ignored him. "I had hoped we would leave sooner rather than later."
"We'll leave when it's time."
He scowled, then gestured at the package. "You'll be needing that."
Bran ignored him, his concentration shifting to the object in his hands. Slowly, he unwound the leather bindings of the package, slipped it free of the sack, then of the oilskin wrappings under. An ornately decorated scabbard rested in his hands, silver-blue script spiraling up the dark leather, slightly blurring before his eyes as he followed their lines. The hilt that protruded from it was plain black steel with a worn leather grip. It was a bastard sword, fitting in one hand, but just long enough for two. The crossguard was straight and short but would catch a blade from sliding down on his hands.
Velori, he thought, and the blade hummed in response, knowing its name even in his thoughts.
He placed a hand on its grip, then pulled it free. The sword vibrated as it whispered free of the scabbard; but in Bran's ears, it carried a reverberating ring that sang of glory and honor and fame. The silver steel gleamed even in the dim light as if it couldn't help but gather light to its polished edge.
But though he heard the glory-song, other murmurs had crept into the sword's hum over the years. Desperate screams. Grunts of hard contests. The song of splattering blood and splintering bone and dying men.