Maybe.
The truth was, he didn't know how much of it was a crock of crap made up by bored old men to entertain young children, and how much was real.
He glanced nervously at Bran, wanting to ask his endless questions, but the look of the man's face stopped him. A solemn expression had claimed his features, and with the morning sun behind them and his hood pulled low, his face was cast in shadow. More and more, he wondered how he'd ever thought Bran a hapless chicken rancher.
"You have a question."
Garin startled at Bran addressing him, but said with forced calm, "What makes you say that?"
"Because curious young men always have questions." Bran glanced sidelong at him, and the solemnity had been replaced by fey humor. "And feathers that float alike know their flock."
Garin glanced at Aelyn on Bran's other side. Even if he was inclined to ask his questions of Bran, Silence knew he wasn't going to ask them in front of that mage.
So he plastered on a crooked smile. "I do have a question. How do you old men expect to keep up with my young legs?"
Bran laughed. "Oh, you need not concern yourself with that. Young or old, a traveler's legs will go further than a farmer's."
Garin started to retort, then paused. "I suppose I'll be a traveler soon myself."
"Yes. I suppose you will."
The day grew brighter as the sun rose, but Garin's thoughts fell into deeper shadows. What had he done? He was no traveler. And now that he thought about it, it had been a damned foolish notion, running off with two strange men he barely knew. A boy's idea of adventure, he saw now all too clearly.
He scrunched up his brow. What would a man do? Would he stay to his word? Or would he think better of it and go home?
As they walked mile after mile, he mulled over his dilemma. The longer he took to decide, the further from home he went. A man should be decisive — his father had always told him that before he'd been conscripted for one of Avendor's endless wars. His older brothers had certainly listened to him.
But Garin had always let others make his choices. His daily chores, his meals, his clothes — his mother and brothers had overshadowed what he thought and said. The decision to leave off his duties early to spend time with Bran had been his one rebellion. And this, going on the journey, had been his first, real resolution. Going back on that now would show them all he wasn't a man after all, but just a boy.
Evening began to fall, and still they walked on, only briefly breaking for food and other necessities. The day had grown late enough that other travelers had thinned out on the road. Ahead, the Winegulch Bridge came into view, the river flowing sluggishly below, never smelling of the fruity sweetness that Garin had been told was wine's aroma, but stinking instead.
Garin's heart began to pound harder like they were approaching a bear's den rather than a bridge. He'd never crossed the Winegulch before, never been so far west of Hunt's Hollow. Even if it made him a boy, he had to speak — to turn back or to seek assurance, he didn't know.
"Bran—" Garin started to say, but he cut off as a sudden whoop filled the air.
"Hold there!"
His companions stopped midstep onto the bridge, and Garin stumbled to a halt after them. Whipping his head around, he saw three men step out from the brush. A glance forward showed another two stomping across the bridge, hard frowns worked into their faces. His heart began to pound harder, like Smith's hammer working out a particularly tough piece of iron.
Dusk, Garin's mother had well instructed him, was the time of day that brigands liked best.
And these were brigands, without a doubt. Their hair hung in greasy locks. Pimples dotted their skin, and wiry, untamed beards grew from their chins. Most of them looked half-starved, faces gaunt and eyes hollow, but for one big fellow, who was bloated enough for the rest of them, if no less healthy looking. In all of their hands, some manner of weapon was clutched: knives, axes, and in the big man's hands, a warhammer.
It was the large fellow who spoke. "You!" he said, his voice not as deep as Garin had expected, but plenty loud enough to send his legs wobbling like a newborn calf. "You'll give us your coin. Now. And everything that man is wearing." The big man pointed one sausage-like finger at Aelyn.
The mage narrowed his eyes, and Garin noticed he had delved his hands deep into his mysterious pockets. He wasn't sure if he was more nervous about the highwaymen or whatever his companion had in store for them.
"Now, now, wait a moment." Bran wore an amiable smile and raised his empty hands. "I can tell from your accent that you're not from around here, and from your clothes, that you were conscripted not long ago."
Their assailants exchanged glances that Garin would have thought apprehensive if they hadn't had them surrounded with sharp steel.
The big man stared at Bran, unmoved. "Then you know we mean business."
"I know you're running away," Bran corrected. "And I know exactly why. I, too, ran from war once. I'm a deserter, as surely as you are."
Garin stared in astonishment. He'd guessed Bran had been a warrior — but a deserter? The King's wars might be many, but men didn't run from their duty. It put his companion in a new, uneasy light.
"What of it?" the brigand barked. "So people think you're a coward like us. Don't mean we won't rob you!"
"Of course not," Bran said, speaking as if he were trying to soothe a horse. "We'll give over our gear in just a moment. But I just want you to be fully aware of what you're doing."
The highwayman took a step forward, and his companions followed his lead. Garin was sure he'd start sweating through his tunic, and jerkin besides. He gripped his belt knife tightly as if the small blade meant for cutting meat would be much help against former soldiers with proper weapons.
"We know what we're doing," the big man sneered. "Now, I'll give you to the count of five. One—"
"You really don't know what you're doing, I assure you." Bran, far from seeming uneasy, jabbed a thumb at Aelyn. "For example, did you know he's an elven mage?"
The brigands, ready for blood a moment before, all stumbled back, though their weapons raised higher. Garin was ready to run himself. He'd accepted Aelyn was a mage — but an elf besides?
The big man, however, narrowed his eyes. "Show me your ears!" he commanded Aelyn.
The mage didn't move, his molten eyes leveled at the big man. Under that stare, Garin would have turned tail, but the deserter seemed unmoved. In a swift motion, however, Bran swept the hat from Aelyn's head, and pointed ears sprang up from beneath the ink-black hair.
The mage hissed at him, but Bran hardly seemed to notice. "See?" he said pleasantly. "An elf. And everyone knows elves possess magic."
The deserters backed away another step, and even the big man seemed to be having second thoughts. Garin recognized him now for a bully. Small as Hunt's Hollow was, it had its fair share of bullies. But as Garin knew from experience, until a bully broke, he didn't back down.
"Then I'll break him first!" the large man growled. "Forget the counting! Hand over the bags now, or I'll smash your head in!"
"But you don't even know who I am yet," Bran said pleasantly. "See, in addition to a deserter, I'm a bit of a sorcerer myself. I'll warn you once — drop that hammer."