Old bones.

[Glenn]

What cost? The Governor had brought it up in the first place of course. No answer was immediately forthcoming. Instead, there was a shake of a head and they rode on. Did that only help to flame the frustration that would agitate Cherny a few moments later?

Regardless, they rode on and Glenn listened to what he had to say. It all needs to stop. I just want to protect my friends. I don't want to see anyone hurt. He'd already made one decision about the boy. Now, he seemed to make another.

Unfortunately, this began with the utterance of two of the words the boy almost surely hated the most. "You're young." Thankfully (or perhaps not) it didn't end there. "Young even for this. Twelve." A rare bit of wistfulness in his voice there. "Twelve is usually the age of it. Both the Marshall and myself. Others. Twelve. It would be terribly hypocritical of me to suggest you stay at the mill, at the school, that you stop wandering to the Dagger. I've taken you out like this. Not even ten, are you? No, it's too late for all that." And truly, thanks to a passing suggestion by Burnie, one that improved Cherny's life a thousand-fold, it was far later than he knew.

"I ran away at twelve." So matter-of-fact. "I ran away from an imprisonment I was born into, the literal sort. That wasn't a metaphor." He paused. "Ask Miss Olwak what a metaphor is. She'll be impressed. Where was I?" Sometimes it was nice to be bound to a teacher. You could delegate. Glenn was quite skilled at delegation. "And I think you are old enough to realize there's not a huge difference between your age and twelve. So I was out in the world, whisked from one terrible situation to the next, but always able to run. I saw good people die, but I could always run. Until I came here."

His voice faded and he'd turn his head to look at Cherny again. Where was he going with this? It was increasingly unfocused. The smile that he'd wear upon that realization was a bit dire. "I mean to stop it, Cherny. You can't prevent every bad thing this world throws at you, but we get thrown more than most, more than our share, and I mean to build a Myrken that can weather all storms and that can turn back most. I attack the causes of the problems, not just the problems themselves. That's what I do. That's who I am." Finally, a hint of that direness would leak into his voice. "You're too young by far Cherny, but you're also not young enough. It'll take a generation for these changes, if I'm not otherwise overwhelmed first. I give all I have to make a better Myrken, but you'll have to grow up in this one, and for that, I'm more sorry than you know."

[Cherny]

Young. He'd said so before, but returns to the thought again as if it made a difference. Twelve years old, ten, eight. It was all the same.

"Old enough t-to, to bleed, ser. Old enough to b-butcher." An old Myrkener saying, and one he'd not really understood until recently. The things that stalk Myrken Wood have no respect for age or compassion for youth, no care for sin or virtue.

He listens as the Governor speaks of his own youth, trying hard to imagine it - not necessarily Glenn Burnie as a boy, but a boy of that age. Himself, even. Imagining terrible situations, an endless sequence of them, and that he could envisage.

The stilling of the Governor's voice draws him back, and for a moment thin features are haunted by an intense loss; it passes quickly as he notices Glenn's attention, head turned away for a breath or two, long enough for composure to be enforced once more. By the time he looks back he's again the attentive if solemn student, determined to demonstrate himself worthy of the attention the Governor lays upon him.

"I'm old enough, s-ser. I'll, I'll h-help. It's b-better than, than n-not growing up, s-ser." Better than being cut down before even having the chance to live. Better than falling beneath the blade or jaws of something that doesn't even care who you are. "I kn-know what it's like t-to, to come c-close to that. Is that w-what you mean b-by, by cost?"

[Glenn]

"There are lines." Old enough to bleed. Old enough to butcher. Old enough to have beliefs to compromise.

They rode on still, and Burnie, now, did not look at his companion. "Death. Death isn't much of a cost, Cherny. It's the end. An end to worries. An end to problems. An end to pain. You make a decision. It kills you. Others live with the consequence of that, not you. Death is going to get you eventually. It might get you no matter your choices. It's not impacted by those choices, not in the end. Living though. Living what what you've done, with what you do, with others and with yourself. That's constant. No, the cost is to you in the living."

His voice was kind, steady. "Someone once told me that there are lines that we must not cross, beliefs that we cannot put anything else in front of. Me? I think there are results that are worth more than ourselves. Worth more than fearing what we become. You want to protect your friends. That's admirable. It's the most important thing in the world. To have something to fight for, to have something to live for. What happens though when you have a choice in front of you, when the only way to protect them is to do something that would make them hate you, that would make you hate yourself.

"The cost of power, of having the ability to make a difference, of having a say, of fighting back against the monsters for those that you love is that you may well become one of those monsters yourself. Sometimes, in order to protect those you care about, there simply isn't another choice. That's the cost." There was no passion in his voice. IT was matter-of-fact. "And you say that you'll be better, that you'll find another way, but you know what it's like out there, Cherny. Even at your age, you know. But I mean to make it better, if not for you than for those who follow. I can't stop all the fires from starting, but I can give us more ways to fight them."

[Cherny]

Cherny's scowl makes it clear that death seems quite a high enough cost to him. "It's an end t-to, to d-doing anything. Not j-just the, the bad things." Even with all he's seen, with all he's experienced, the boy enjoys living. Washing flour-dust from his skin and throat after a day's work at the mill; eating stew in front of the fire at the Broken Dagger; exploring the woods and harassing squirrels with Many-Fights; learning threadwork with Sera Gloria; helping Ser Catch look smart and tidy like a Good Citizen. Reasons to love to live, and the thought of doing no more of those things forever is a cold weight in his stomach. The miller took his workers to chapel on Sundays so he knew there was promise of something afterwards, some vague reward for virtue and diligence obedience to the One True God, but the boy couldn't imagine how it could be better than the things which brought him joy here.

But this is the answer to his question, the explanation of lines, and crossing them. Of terrible, impossible decisions. The cost to one's soul, as nebulous a concept as that was to a miller's boy. What would he do, when faced with such a choice?

What wouldn't he do?

"S-seems to, to me, s-ser, if you're d-doing g-good and, and y-you mean it, you c-can't b-be a monster. M-monsters d-don't do that." If you're making things better, if you're helping people, if you're protecting your friends and stopping decent people getting hurt. If you're using whatever power you have to help. A simple, clean way of looking at things, straightforward and sensible.

It's clear that he has no idea.

[Glenn]

Burnie had already made one decision, regardless of how this day's excursion went. One letter would be sent upon his return with one element of the boy's development in mind. Cherny's words forced now him into another. Even this was a bare minimum of sorts. It would not be hard to find the boy a place in Razasan or Ricathair. The Governor had some connections in both places. In truth, he might even deign to go through Kostroma. The boy would probably appeal to the king's man, what with his notions of loyalty and moral surity. It would get Cherny out of the range of all of this. It would give him a far fairer shot. Oh, he'd miss his friends, but he'd have a good life as a page or trained to be a scribe or in some other task he'd enjoy. He'd meet new friends; he had the personality for it. He'd have endless opportunities, and he'd never, ever have to make those terrible decisions. A chance meeting leading to this trip out to the countryside leading to a thousand open doors for young Cherny. A changed life.

Except for, of course, Glenn simply could not do that. To send anyone away, even one small, brave, caring boy, would be to admit failure in what he was trying to do. It would be running when he had to stand and fight, every moment of everyday. Old enough to bleed and old enough to butcher and old enough to lose your soul for the Myrken Glenn Burnie was to create. Sentimentality only went so far in war.

It went this far, however. "I've already decided that I am going to ensure that you do get some training with that sword, Cherny. A couple of days a week with a skilled, though harsh teacher. Someone who understands the desire to protect friends and the concept of a last resort. However, there is someone who can explain what I have just said far better than I can, an.. adjunct to the school actually. I want you to speak with her and tell her what you just told me." A steady voice as they rode. These were small mercies, dubious ones, really, considering the people involved. "Exactly. You have to promise me something, though."

[Cherny]

Quiet, as the Governor details his plans, his decisions and the arrangements that would follow. Considering how he'd fit in sword training around his work at the mill, his studies at the school, learning threadwork with Gloria... his future is looking increasingly busy. But all good things to learn, useful things that provided him with a place to live, food to eat, new skills to keep himself alive, or time with friends who gave him a reason for it all.

There's uncertainty to his gaze as he watches the Governor, though, an element of doubt. "W-was that th-the wrong answer, s-ser?" He'd not agreed with the man's opinion, not entirely, and perhaps this was a matter on which disagreement was unwelcome. Not a fawning desire to say the right thing but questioning his own reasoning, considering the idea that the Governor likely knew more about the subject than he did. Some small spark of a challenge there as well, an indication that if he is to be corrected he will press to know why he was mistaken.

Except that Glenn deflects any such demands by promising to refer the boy to someone better at explaining. The proposal of a harsh teacher didn't especially faze him - he was used to such from his master at the mill, a man of exacting standards and exceedingly limited patience. The second part, though, of being passed to the adjunct was less reassuring, and it makes him wary.

"D-depends what th-the promise is, s-ser."

[Glenn]

Was that the wrong answer?

In short, yes. It was, but it was not an unwelcome answer. Burnie was not used to dealing with children. That was Rhaena's lot these days, amongst her other responsibilities. Even when he did deal with a child, it was usually an older one. More than that Cherny had been through so much already. At his age, Glenn had been locked within a monastery, forced down very exacting lines. There was none of the chaos the millboy had experienced. For the Governor, that came later.

"You told me the truth instead of agreeing with me. That is a preferable answer in this case," though not the right answer, no.

Was it his lot now to push situations on to Ariane as much as he would others? Perhaps, but then she was the one who had taught him this, she and Myrken itself. "When you go to her, you must leave your sword at home." He had never looked for it when seeing the world through Rhaena's eyes. He honestly wasn't sure if the boy wore it to class. He would not, however, wear it if he was going to speak with Ariane.

[Cherny]

The words are encouraging enough, but the way they're spoken indicates that his suspicion was correct, and that honest or not it wasn't the answer for which the Governor had really hoped.

"When's it n-not p-p-preferable?" Sharp enough to pick up on the implication that sometimes it was better to lie - to the Governor! Did he think Cherny was born yesterday? He knew better than to make the attempt, knew that sharpness of gaze that cut through any attempt at deceit. How else could he have answered?

The promise, though, is a simple enough matter; he'd yet to bare the blade in anger, had little idea of what to do with it if he did, so leaving it behind on the Governor's request was no great difficulty.

"I c-can d-do that, s-ser." Nodding in acceptance of that condition. "Does she n-not like w-weapons?" Gloria had reacted poorly to learning of the blade's existence, had viewed it as a thing of horror. Maybe this adjunct was similar.

[Glenn]

"Oh, I don't know." It's not that Burnie's impatient. It's more that Cherny had the nerve to ask the question at all. Eventually, he'd learn to not ask questions like that, to hold them in and figure the answers for himself. "If there is a small contingent of drow hunting us and our lives depends upon following my direction, even if you don't necessarily agree with it. Or if you happen to be in the Dagger with me and Chewdry's man, Kostroma walks in and I suddenly have to negotiate some key arrangement for Myrken." Then, softening a little, but just a little. "We can come up with some sort hand signal for such situations if it'd help."

The boy's second question, however, the one tied to his promise. That's something else entirely. "No, Cherny, no. She likes them far too much."

[Cherny]

Not quite the question he'd asked - or at least, not the one he'd meant - but it's a fair answer in any case. Emphasising the value of virtues like obedience and discretion, in their proper place. "I kn-know how t-to, to do as I'm t-told, ser. And to k-keep quiet." No rancour there, just confirming that these were skills he had, skills so many others seemed to lack.

He frowns, however, at the business of liking weapons too much, trying to work out what the Governor means by that. The closest he can manage is an overheard conversation about a man with many failings, foremost being that he's a sight too fond of his drink, but that hardly seems likely when it comes to weapons, to swords. Eventually, after a long and perplexed pause, he must admit defeat.

"I d-don't understand, s-ser." By now sufficiently confident in his assessment of the Governor's temper that he feels able to make such an admission, to invite further explanation without risking rebuke. There are lessons being dispensed here, and the boy is a capable student if nothing else.

[Glenn]

"No, you don't." Glenn smiled on, but it had become a distant thing, a wane thing. All things considered they were making fine enough time, even at a slow trot instead of a gallop. "And that's precisely why I asked for your promise on this matter, because I found that more effective than fully explaining this to you.

"Still, I know you're curious. I know that from three conversations with you, Cherny, and from what Rhaena has shown me and told me." And what he had chosen to see for himself, of course. It's best to know the promise of those at the school at least broadly. The Governor played a very long game. "I'll say this, just to prevent you from stirring waters that ought remain still. The adjunct has spent two lifetimes with weapons and just one, a far shorter one, with words. I would have your conversations be of mutual gain, in learning and teaching both, and the one thing that could disrupt that in anything meaningful way would be the topic of swordsplay coming between the two of you. You'll have another for that. So I have your word then?"

[Cherny]

Two lifetimes. Two and a bit. "H-how old is sh-she, ser?" The question escapes before he really thinks about it, and there's a brief grimace to follow as he realises it to be not exactly polite. Maybe she's extremely old, older than the cheerful crone who brought stories to the Broken Dagger every now again, white of hair and short of teeth. So she'd probably know a great deal, know whole books' worth of wisdom which she might share. For a boy who holds as an article of faith the value of books as sources of all knowledge, who enrolled at Sera Olwak's school to better unlock such treasures, this strikes him as quite the opportunity.

Too good an opportunity to waste, certainly. He nods firmly, meeting the Governor's gaze to show he means it. "N-no sword, s-ser. I p-promise."

[Glenn]

"She's experienced more in.." in what? Glenn rarely thought about Ariane's age. She was older. It felt like a generation though it wasn't. A generation above Agnie and he, but then, when people died as often as they did, maybe it was a generation. He didn't think about Ari much at all, though, tried not to. "We'll say three times your span and most people do in three times hers." Then a pause. "Probably best not to ask her about how she died the first time, though." The smile was not entirely cold, no. "not at first at least, Cherny. Unlike others, it's mostly symbolic," though he couldn't help but add, enigmatically, "mostly."

"No sword is good, though. Thank you." This talk had taken up time, certainly, and they were far closer to their destination than when they had begun.

[Kylerryth]

The enigma had not specified the precise location of Cameron Holbrook's resting place, but as they rode on, they would discover it hard to miss.

Some miles ahead of them stood the oak, off to the side of where the main path led. Its skeletal boughs and branches reached to the heavens, perhaps in supplication, perhaps in defiance; the surrounding trees were for the most part dwarfed by it. The mind of Glenn Burnie, all but designed for measurement and details, would indubitably calculate the distance in a matter of moments.

They were close.

And they would begin to feel with every step closer the subtle pressure of a hidden gaze, observing their progress.

[Cherny]

He's been learning figures as well as letters, simple sums, addition, subtraction, rote chanting of times-tables for multiplication, so what the Governor provides is a not entirely unfamiliar problem. If the Adjunct is thrice Cherny's age, and has experienced more than most would in thrice her own, how old would a normal person have to be to have experienced as much as the Adjunct?

It keeps the boy quiet for a few moments, discreetly counting on his knuckles as he works it through a few times; three times three dozen, which is... no, wait, easier to say thrice three is nine, so nine dozen which is...

...surely an exaggeration. It doesn't help when the Governor mentions her dying - the first time, which means there's been other times she's died, and that has him favouring Glenn with a deeply suspicious look. Weighing up firstly whether or not the Governor is telling tall tales to see how readily Cherny'll swallow them; and secondly, whether or not to accuse him of such.

He draws breath to protest that he wasn't born yesterday, ser, but recalls the Marshall - the previous one, throat laid open right before his eyes - and her return a matter of weeks later. His mouth closes again, and he frowns in annoyance at the road ahead for a time, still not entirely sure he isn't being toyed with.

"D-did y-you start p-people burning the d-dead t-too, ser?" Presumably after the Adjunct's death and return.