He pulled up, panting and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Is that all of them?” he yelled to Roric.

Roric sat on the fence, relaxed and self-assured, counting horses. He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin that showed all his muscles-Valmar hoped he would have arms like that some day.

Even though the mares had been running free all spring and were nervous about letting anyone near their babies, they were used to King Hadros’s men and were already calming down. “I think we’re still short one mare,” Roric called to him. “Has anyone seen the spotted one?”

Just then the spotted mare, with a jet-black foal beside her, appeared at the top of the hill. Nole, Valmar’s youngest brother, was right behind her, but she wheeled and darted away again, Nole and a half dozen housecarls at her heels.

Roric swung back up on Goldmane. “Should we give him a hand?”

Valmar smiled and shook his head. “Let him catch at least one by himself.”

Roric stilled his stallion with a firm hand on the reins and looked at the pen full of circling mares. But Valmar, watching, thought he did not see them. Ever since he had quarreled with the king last week, and especially this last day and a half, since he had returned from his errand to the manor, Roric had not been himself. He could still joke with the king’s sons and ride a horse who would not allow anyone else on his back, but any time there was a pause his face took on an expression as though his thoughts were a hundred miles away.

And his own father was also acting strangely. Valmar was still not sure what Roric’s remarks had meant when he came home the morning before, or why his father had listened to them without saying anything at all.

“Tell me,” said Valmar suddenly, “why you and Father quarreled.”