They went south. An easy decision since they spoke the language, although Byron was going to need to chisel the aristocratic edges off his accent. Not that Reba mentioned it. She just emphasised her way of pronouncing words every now and again, he caught on quickly.
In the moments Bryon let himself be thirteen, he’d hammer her with questions about their destination. The books he never talked about reading, and the tutors he never mentioned having, had clearly built a highly romanticised picture of the place and he was now aware enough of the realities of the world to chase alternate information and temper his expectations.
He was still going to love it.
Of course they had to get there first, and Reba was taking the old roads. The ones where all strangers were the same and no one paid attention.
Even that proved a novelty for her apprentice. Not just the lack of interest in where he was from or where he was going, but the things that did catch and hold the interest of the locals. Things like the easy-release knot he’d been taught by an old sailor at a dockside tavern, and his complete lack of knowledge of the roadside plants and their properties.
His astonishment at life in the villages and farms they stopped at had the country-folk chuckling indulgently, then teaching him how to milk a cow, or churn butter, or harvest peas.
They weren’t expected anywhere at any time, and it was best to let any excitement over Prince Grayden’s rumour-mongering fade, so Reba was happy to take the right fork in the road, towards the foothills trading route.
The DNA of Stories 