Patrick W. Carr

Some men are more easily broken by kindness than censure.

A figure stood at the far end, cloaked in black and beckoning him.

A picture of the world, nothing more than a casting stone set in the heavens, intruded on Errol's dismay. World without end. Was Illustra, their entire world, nothing more than a lot for the ultimate reader, too small and insignificant a thing to care about?

Once Errol righted himself into some semblance of horsemanship, they set off at an easy canter. That is, the other horses set off at a canter, while Errol's horse settled into a teeth-shattering trot. After a hundred paces he could feel Horace's backbone through the saddle. The other riders pulled ahead without a backward glance, leaving him to his four-footed torture.

Short questions with long answers, my boy.

Somebody's been feeding the boy fables. Probably the king's niece. Humph. Nice girl. Too many romantic notions, though.

Her mouth set. "I've already lost one man I loved tonight. I will not lose the other." She glared at him. "And curse you, you stone head, for making me say it first.

He pulled his hand back, aware now that sweat beaded on his forehead and that Rale watched him, his eyes dark, intense. Errol licked his lips. Did he want a drink? He hadn't gone more than two days in a row without a drink since he was...since...Warrel...the quarry...stone.