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had made nothing but positive choices in his life, always striving for the common good. Always taking the proper path when two ways were open.”
    â€œJust by looking, you say?”
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œTheir imagination, surely.”
    â€œI would have thought as much. Still . . . it is comforting, is it not, to imagine that the choices we make enable others to see us in such a literally positive light?”
    â€œI can see how comfort would be derived from that, yes. So . . . shall I—?”
    â€œContinue?” I wave toward him with my now-fully-functioning hand, the momentary weakness having passed so completely that I am left wondering if I had imagined it. “Yes, by all means, do. Our young bravos headed toward points east, did they?”
    â€œIndeed they did.”
    â€œA long way to walk.”
    â€œTrue enough, but Thomas had sufficient funds that several days later, they arrived at a central hub, where they were able to buy passage onto a coach. It helped that they were not particularly fussy about which direction they were heading, as long as it was toward the place where the sun rose each morning. After all, what better place to find enlightenment than where the sun first kisses the sky?”

Chapter 3

    THOMAS WAS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO having people laughing in his face. Giving him dubious looks, or chastising him, or perhaps just shaking their heads and turning away while muttering disdainful comments, yes, all of that and more had he experienced.
    This man, though, was laughing outright. He was round and heavyset, sitting opposite Thomas and James and swaying side to side as the rocking coach barreled down the highway. The horses’ hooves stamped out a steady tattoo on the dirt path, and if they slowed, the coachman would shout “Yah!” every so often, which meant nothing to the horses, but then crack his whip, which did indeed mean something to them. The fellow passenger had already introduced himself as a merchant on business to Rookridge, the town for which the coach was bound, and just to pass the time, he had tried to prompt the lads to tell him what their own business was. Thomas had been evasive in that regard for much of the trip, but the merchant, whose name was Sutter, had managed to wear him down so that as their destination was merely a few hours on, he judiciously told him as much detail about the matter as he felt comfortable. No need to dredge up the entire tragic story of his brother, certainly, but he let down his guard sufficiently to describe precisely what it was that they were hoping to encounter.
    This prompted the laughter, which so overwhelmed Sutter that he had to start coughing mightily, as if his lungs might be expelled from his chest, before he could compose himself.
    â€œBalverines! Seriously?” he finally managed to ask.
    James gave Thomas a cautioning glance, and Thomas was able to discern the unspoken message: No. Not seriously. Tell him you were not serious. Tell him you were joking. We do not need this grief.
    He considered the silent advice and rejected it. Instead, he tilted his chin defiantly, almost as if challenging Sutter to take a swing at it, and said, “Yes. Seriously.”
    â€œBut they’re the stuff of myth and legend, boy!”
    â€œSo are Heroes, but we have one sitting on the throne of Albion.”
    â€œThe last of a dying breed, I’ll grant you that . . .”
    â€œAnd,” Thomas pressed, “the tales speak of the creatures that they fought against. If Heroes exist . . . even one Hero . . . then why not the monsters that challenged them?”
    â€œBecause,” said Sutter, his face still red from laughing so hard, “people need to spin tall tales in order to make the accomplishments of the Heroes seem the stuff of legend. That’s how people are, boy. There’s just a need to make things bigger than they are. To build them up so—”
    â€œSo they can tear them