author and triathlete"Shall I tell you of my first judgment?" he asked after a moment. . . .
"My father had it all planned. It was deisgned to test me, the players all given their parts, even the words that they would say to me. When I got it wrong, he told me before all gathered there, what I had missed. I did not judge for many years after that, not even in the first year of my kingship." The king's voice wavered. "In my place I sent another, whom I thought the people must trust better than they did me."
"I am saying that you are untreained, and you look for others to blame that state upon. You are so used to relying on others, so unsure of yourself. And yet--you are also a prince without friends, without any interest or passions of his own. A shadow of a man, one who does not know himself and does not wish to himself. A man who is still a boy, truly."
"The way you were playing with Marit. I have never seen a man do that before, with a hound. They expect hounds to answer to their language."
"That may be part of the reason I am different," George said, the words pressed out of his tightening throat.
"And the other reason?"
"Perhaps I was born different. Or made different by the parents who raised me," said George honestly. Did anyone ever know why he was the person that he was, animal magic or no?
"Yes," said Beatrice. "I can see how that would be. A different pack has different rules."
She had seen packs in the forest, then, had watched them to know their customs. It was not a bad way to think of the world.
"Perhaps I also made myself different, because I wished to be," George added after a moment. Beatrice looked at him then, and for a moment George thought he could see through her eyes to her soul, and she the same with him. It was a moment of pure understanding."
Beatrice gave him an odd look. "Have you not guessed it yet?" she asked.
"Guessed what?" George's mind whirled. Was it possible that Beatrice had told the hound so many stories of her childhood that Marit dreamed them real in her own mind?
But that was not what Beatrice explained. "It must be part of your gift," she said. "Not only do you speak the language of animals, but you can become one with them. In their dreams."
"Her name is Marit," said Beatrice.
"Marit." George nodded. "And how long have you had her?"
"Had her?" echoed Beatrice distastefully. "We met five years ago in the woods. We have been together ever since."
"Are you afraid?" asked Peter.
"No," said George truthfully, though he swallowed hard at the thought of his friend's daring. Was he a true friend to Peter if he let him do this? He thought of what his father would say about duty. Then George shook his head angrily.
"What's wrong?" asked Peter.
"Nothing," said George.
"A prince must think of the kingdom first, its citizens second, and himself last of all."
"We need to get back to the hunt," George said . . .
Henry nodded. "They will hardly notice you have gone, I suspect. Too excited about the sight of the bear."
George's ears rang. "Bear?" he echoed, his body suddenly taut.
"Wait!"
[ . . .]
"It is only--I thought I was to come here to get to know you. But we have had only a moment or two to speak to each other. I feel that we are nearly strangers still." Surely there was a better way to say that he wanted to spend more time with her.
"You came to see me, to make sure I was neither too ugly nor too mad for you to marry. Well, now you have done that. I do not see why we must spend yet more time together." Beatrice spoke rather coldly.
"Wait," he said sleepily.
She put her hand to his cheek. "Yes?"
"Why do the hounds stop speaking?" he asked.
"Because they are with us so much, I suppose," said his mother. "They lose themselves."
"But not the horses," said George, struggling to make sense of it. After all, the horses were with humans just as much as hounds, weren't they?
But his mother shook her head and sighed. "I don't know." Then her eyes twinkled. "Perhaps it is because horses are simply more obstinate than any other creature."
"And this is Prince George?" said Lady Fittle in a tart tone.
"Yes. This is my son," said his mother. In her voice was a trace of herself, but only that much.
"He is very . . . active, is he not?"
"He is a very dear boy," said George's mother.
"So much like you there is hardly a breath of his father in him. Do you not agree?" asked Lady Fittle
[ . . .]
"Come, let me touch his fine hair," said Lady Fittle, reaching.
"No!" the queen stepped in her way.
Lady Fittle answered in a pinched voice. "So protective of him. If he is to be king one day, you must let him go a bit more, my queen."
[ . . .]
"I only meant that you would get yourself dirty, Lady Fittle."