The Weight of Honor. Morgan Rice

think the better question,” he called back, “is who are you?” They looked down in fear at White as he snarled. “And what on earth are you doing with a Wood Dog? Don’t you know they’ll kill you?” they asked, fear in their voices.

      “Not this one,” Aidan replied. “Are you all…entertainers?” he asked, still curious, wondering what they were all doing out here.

      “A kind word for it!” someone called from a cart, to raucous laughter.

      “We are actors and players and jugglers and gamblers and musicians and clowns!” another man yelled.

      “And liars and scoundrels and whores!” called out a woman, and they all laughed again.

      Someone strummed on a harp, as the laughter increased, and Aidan blushed. A memory came rushing back of when he had once met such people, when he was younger and living in Andros. He recalled watching all the entertainers stream into the capital, entertaining the King; he remembered their brightly colored faces; their juggling knives; a man eating fur; a woman singing songs; and a bard reciting poems from memory that seemed to last for hours. He remembered being puzzled as to why anyone would choose such a life path, and not that of a warrior.

      His eyes lit up as he suddenly realized.

      “Andros!” Aidan called out. “You’re going to Andros!”

      A man jumped off one of the carts and came toward him. He was a large man, perhaps in his forties, with a big belly, an unkempt brown beard, shaggy hair to match, and a warm and friendly smile. He walked over to Aidan and put a fatherly arm around his shoulder.

      “You’re too young to be out here,” the man said. “I’d say you’re lost – but from the wounds on you and that dog of yours, I’m guessing it’s something more. Looks like you got yourself into some trouble and found yourself in too deep – and I’d guess,” he concluded, examining White warily, “that it had something to do with your helping this beast.”

      Aidan remained quiet, not knowing how much to say, while White came over and licked the man’s hand, to Aidan’s surprise.

      “Motley’s what I call myself,” the man added, reaching out a hand.

      Aidan looked back warily, not shaking his hand but nodding back.

      “Aidan is my name,” he replied.

      “You two can stay out here and starve to death,” Motley continued, “but that’s not a very fun way to die. Me personally, I’d want to at least have a good meal first, then die some other way.”

      The group broke into laughter, while Motley continued holding out his hand, looking at Aidan with kindness and compassion.

      “I expect you two, wounded as you are, need a hand,” he added.

      Aidan stood there proudly, not wanting to show weakness, as his father had taught him.

      “We were doing just fine as we were,” Aidan said.

      Motley led the group in a fresh round of laughter.

      “Of course you were,” he replied.

      Aidan looked suspiciously at the man’s hand.

      “I am going to Andros,” Aidan said.

      Motley smiled.

      “As are we,” he replied. “And as luck would have it, the city is big enough to hold more than just us.”

      Aidan hesitated.

      “You’d be doing us a favor,” Motley added. “We can use the extra weight.”

      “And the extra mouth to feed!” called out a fool from another crowd, to laughter.

      Aidan looked back warily, too proud to accept, but finding a way to save face.

      “Well….” Aidan said. “If I’d be doing you a favor…”

      Aidan took Motley’s hand, and found himself pulled into his cart. He was stronger than Aidan expected, given that, from the way he dressed, he seemed to be a court fool; his hand, beefy and warm, was twice the size of Aidan’s.

      Motley then reached over, hoisted White, and placed him gently in the back of the cart, beside Aidan. White curled up beside Aidan in the hay, head in his lap, eyes half-closed in exhaustion and pain. Aidan understood the feeling too well.

      Motley jumped in and the driver cracked the whip, and the caravan took off, all of them cheering as music played again. It was a jolly song, men and women plucking harps, playing flutes and cymbals, and several of the people, to Aidan’s surprise, danced in the moving carts.

      Aidan had never seen such a happy group of people in his life. His whole life had been spent in the gloom and silence of a fort filled with warriors, and he wasn’t sure what to make of all this. How could anyone be so happy? His father had always taught him that life was a serious thing. Was this all not trivial?

      As they proceeded down the bumpy road, White whined out in pain, while Aidan stroked his head. Motley came over and, to Aidan’s surprise, knelt by the dog’s side and applied a compress to his wounds, covered in a green salve. Slowly, White quieted, and Aidan felt grateful for his help.

      “Who are you?” Aidan asked.

      “Well, I’ve worn many names,” Motley replied. “The best was ‘actor.’ Then there was ‘rogue’, ‘fool,’ ‘jester’…the list goes on. Call me as you will.”

      “You are no warrior, then,” Aidan realized, disappointed.

      Motley leaned back and roared with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks; Aidan could not understand what was so funny.

      “Warrior,” Motley repeated, shaking his head in wonder. “Now that is one thing I’ve never been called. Nor is it something I have ever wished to be called.”

      Aidan furrowed his brow, not comprehending.

      “I come from a line of warriors,” Aidan said proudly, sticking his chest out as he sat, despite his pain. “My father is a great warrior.”

      “I’m very sorry for you then,” Motley said, still laughing.

      Aidan was confused.

      “Sorry? Why?”

      “That is a sentence,” Motley replied.

      “A sentence?” Aidan echoed. “There is nothing greater in life than to be a warrior. It is all I have ever dreamed of.”

      “Is it?” Motley asked, amused. “Then I feel doubly sorry for you. I think feasting and laughing and sleeping with beautiful women is about as great a thing as there is – far better than parading around the countryside and hoping to stick a sword in another man’s belly.”

      Aidan reddened, frustrated; he had never heard a man speak of battle in such a sense, and he took offense. He had never met anyone remotely like this man.

      “Where is the honor in your life?” Aidan asked, puzzled.

      “Honor?” Motley asked, seemingly genuinely surprised. “That is not a word I have heard for years – and it’s too a big word for such a young boy.” Motley sighed. “I do not think honor exists – at least, I have never seen it. I thought of being honorable once – it got me nowhere. Besides, I’ve seen too many honorable men fall prey to devious women,” he concluded, and others in their cart laughed.

      Aidan looked around, saw all these people dancing and singing and drinking the day away, and he had mixed feelings about riding with this crowd. They were men who were kind but who did not strive to lead the warrior’s life, who were not devoted to valor. He knew he should be grateful for the ride, and he was, but he did not know how to feel about riding with them. They were certainly not the sort of men his father would associate with.

      “I shall ride with you,” Aidan finally concluded. “We shall be traveling companions. But I cannot consider myself your brother-in-arms.”

      Motley’s eyes opened wide, shocked, silent for a good ten seconds, as if he didn’t know how