scott street

11: TEDROS

Gavaldon's roads had more holes in them than the cheese gorges in Altazarra.

"Step carefully, boy..." Tedros stood a little in his stirrups, eyeing the uneven road. He supposed there was no need to maintain your village's bridleways if no one used them. If you could call this a bridleway. It was only just wide enough for one horse. He sat back down and shook the reins gently. "Come on, Sprout."

Sprout snorted dubiously. He was stupid, but he wasn't utterly senseless. Tedros had never driven him into anything unpleasant, but Sprout was paranoid, like most horses.

"Walcen," Tedros pleaded, patting his neck. He didn't want to get down and lead him. "Prithee..."

Sprout cocked his head and stared at him with a beady horse eye. Tedros sighed, and tried:

"Cerdded ymlaen."

Sprout shook his head (in a that's all it takes manner) and finally walked on, picking around the holes carefully. Tedros scowled. Sprout had been chosen from one of three colts, a ninth birthday gift from his maternal grandfather, King Leodegrance– so, he had been reared and taught commands in Carmelide, his mother's kingdom. Sprout preferred that language, no matter how hard Tedros had tried to teach him in anything else. It was old, and something about it seemed to get through to animals and plants like other languages didn't. His mother had talked to her deer and her rabbits and her patch of sweet peas with it.

Tedros tensed, wishing he hadn't thought of that–

Thankfully, the familiar sounds of an argument decided that was a good time to become audible.

"...barely edible... of course your mother cooks with them..."

"Don't be dumb, they're edible..."

"They're so tart..."

(Something inaudible. Tedros could guess what it was, though.)

"Excuse me?"

Indistinct shrieks and the sound of a scuffle. Tedros rolled his eyes and urged Sprout around the corner, where he found Sophie in a field, jumping furiously, swiping for Agatha's dangling feet. Agatha, halfway up a plum tree, was trying to kick her hands away, so Sophie changed tactic, grabbed the tail of Agatha's coat, and pulled her directly out of the tree.

They both screamed– Agatha because she hit her face on the branch on the way down, and Sophie because Agatha landed on her. They flailed around in the grass, until Agatha overbalanced and fell down a hidden incline, and Sophie popped back up, hair strewn with leaves.

"OW?!" Agatha shrieked from somewhere out of sight.

"Ow yourself! What are you going to tell Teddy when he turns up?" wailed Sophie, tottering to her feet and tenderly probing her hip. "That you called me a tart, so I pulled you out of a tree, and now you can't give him a kiss because you broke your teeth–?"

"My teeth are fine!" barked Agatha, clawing back up the incline into view. "It's my cheek, I split it on the branch–"

"Oh, if you're going to be a baby about it–"

There was a quick flash, the hum of magic feedback, and Agatha sat up, wiping her bloody hand on her coat, the gash now just a pink line.

"Thanks," she said grumpily.

"Well, I probably shouldn't have tried to maim you," admitted Sophie primly, hauling Agatha to her feet. She paused. "We're not doing a very good impression of rural maidens waiting in a comely and demure fashion to catch a glimpse of a passing prince, are we?"