Chapter 17: Chapter 17: Answering

Before I ever was married, before you were even born, I owned a horse,” Harold began, his voice gruff and level. “Your grandfather gave him to me when I was your age. I called him Storm. He was strong, intelligent, and faster than any wind. I rode him every morning and brushed his coat until it shone like polished chestnut.”.

Luther listened wide-eyed as Harold’s gaze drifted toward the dark window, as if the memory itself waited outside.

“But life changed,”

Harold went on.

“Your grandfather fell ill—so ill he could barely walk. All the labor, all the worry, fell to my shoulders. I was young, but I couldn’t wriggle out of the obligation. And when the coins started getting low, I had to make a choice between feeding the family and keeping my beloved horse.”

His jaw tightened. “I sold Storm to purchase medicine. I loved the creature more than I can say, but family had to come first. Still. your grandfather passed away. Storm was gone, and Father followed.”

There was no sound in the room but the gentle hiss of the hearth. Luther ached in his throat. “That must have been hard, Dad.”.

“Indeed, it was.” Harold’s eyes relaxed. “Years later, still you were small when I went to work in another village. There I saw a horse roped by a cheap fence—a duplicate of Storm. My heart nearly ceased. I ran to the owner, but he shook his head. ’Not Storm,’ he said. ’Storm was killed in an accident. This is his son. As fast as his father, and as proud.’”

A fleeting smile grazed Harold’s mouth. “I bought him outright. I didn’t have the entire amount, but when I told the man my story—how Storm had brought me through my childhood, how I sold him for love of family—he fell silent. He said he’d allow me to pay after one final ride he planned to take with the horse. When he returned, the colt was mine.”.

“Really, with an excitement,

Dad?

That’s amazing!”

Luther’s eyes gleamed.

“He was a good man,” Harold said warmly. Then his voice hardened. “But listen, Luther. Promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t keep roaming with John. Something about him… it’s dangerous.”

Luther shifted uneasily. “All right, Dad. I’ll be careful.”

—

The next morning the hillside was aglow with a pale sun. Luther went up the familiar slope, expecting John to be there. The rocks were still cool from the night before, and the wind carried the dry scent of grass. No sign of his friend.

Minutes passed. Finally John appeared, walking readily from the trees. “Hey, Luther,” he bellowed, smiling. “How are you today?”

“Pretty well. And you?”

“Alright. I was hoping to drill. You in?”

Luther hesitated. “Not in the mood today.”

John slowed down, catching the tension in Luther’s slumped shoulders. “You look. off. Something bothering you?”

“Nothing,” Luther said, his tone flat. “Just not feeling it.”

John leaned forward, his eyes locking with Luther’s. “Come on. I can tell. What’s wrong with you?”

A large breath left Luther’s chest. “I. I have some questions for you, John. And I want honest answers.”

John’s grin disapppeared. “All right. Ask away.”

Luther’s mouth opened, then a low ripple of sound passed through the brush below. Both boys turned toward it. A dark shape shifted behind a clump of ferns.

John’s gaze narrowed. With a swift action he drew the long knife from his belt and flung it spinning with a hard thud into the underbrush. A startled gasp, and a man stepped into view.

He was clad in plain traveler’s attire, but the rigidity of the set of his shoulders spelled guard. His eyes did not leave John’s face, but they were without expression.

“Who are you?” Luther growled, his voice trembling but firm. “Why are you watching us? Speak, or this goes terribly wrong for you.”

The man did not say anything.

John’s face folded into a frown. He stared at the stranger with a puzzled familiarity burning in the back of his eyes—something intimate, something familiar.

The man bolted, dashing down the hillside to the dense jungle trail.

“Hey!” John grabbed his knife from the ground. “Stop! You can’t get away from me!” He dashed forward, shouting back over his shoulder, “Luther, go home. I’ll catch him and see what he’s after. We’ll talk tomorrow—I’ll tell you everything. Just go!”

Before Luther could speak, John was out of sight, a blur of movement disappearing into the shadows of the canopy in pursuit of the fleeing guard.

Luther froze, the hillside too quiet all at once, his heart pounding in his ears. He just had time to glimpse a flash of steel before John vanished into the trees.

Then.

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