The king insisted on riding, though the carriage would have been easier on his old bones and his old ego. It embarrassed him to be hoisted by three of his guards up onto the back of this strange horse. "He's a good horse, majesty," the stable master had said. 'He's not a good horse,' the cranky king had thought, 'he's an old horse and a calm horse. He's a horse that won't hurt the old king.' The king felt a pang of sorrow, not for the first time, that he'd never again experience the familiar rapport and the nuance of control he'd had with Tremen, his old mare. 'THAT was a good horse,' the king had thought.
Now, riding out from the side gate of the city toward the apple orchard, the cool air of the autumn evening helped to calm the king's nerves, and he tried to think clearly about how he felt. Why should the arrival of an old friend bring this clinging dread to his chest and stick like dry fear in the back of his throat? Old words echoed in his head as his fragile joints ached at the jostling of even an old, gentle horse like this. He could remember the voice, one of his favorites, a voice he missed often, saying, "Eustin is special. Eustin can see the hearts of men."
Every memory the king had of Eustin was a fond memory. He could remember when they had stumbled upon him one night, on the border of the northern plains and the great wood, cooking a stew in a small metal pot over an open fire. Eustin had stood silently and watched them approach from far off. When they'd stopped, and before they could greet him, he'd said, "Give me a moment to hunt, and you can all eat with me. All of you except that man," he'd said, nodding at the old Marshal, Turek. "He is a scoundrel among good men, and he is untrue." The king chuckled as he remembered the red-faced outrage of the Marshal, and his angry charge at the wild, bare-chested stranger that had nearly cost him his life. "Say the word," Eustin had said, the Marshal's neck in his powerful arm, "and I'll rid you of this trouble right here." How many times later, as the treachery of the Marshal unfolded, had the king wished he could have gone back to that little camp fire and given that word.
"Your majesty, you honor us," came the voice of an old shepherd, snapping the king back to this pleasant evening. The king looked over to see the man kneeling as he passed.
"Your flock looks well fed and well led," said the king, and they did. "You're doing good work, my friend. Please, rise." The old shepherd rose, smiling, but would not look the king in the eye. They rode on, and the man continued home to pen his flock and tell everyone he knew of the kindness of our king.
Evening was deepening and shadows were lengthening when the king first spotted the orchard in the distance. It had been too long since he had come down to this, one of his favorite places. His heart jumped, however, when he saw the flicker of a small camp fire in the orchard and knew to whom it belonged. "Eustin can see the hearts of men," the memory said, and it sounded to the king like an accusation. 'Why do I fear my friend?' he wondered, almost aloud.
His mind went back to another familiar place, to a scene he had replayed so many, many times. After the battle, after months of hardship and struggle, when victory was secure and the king had taken his throne, Eustin had come to him to tell him goodbye.
"I cannot ask you to stay, my friend," the king had said to him. "Already we can never repay the debt we owe to you, Eustin. Mightily you fought in this battle that wasn't even yours to fight. We would not be here today if not for your help, Eustin. Everyone knows this."
"The battles of my friends are my battles, Artess," he had said. "I could not stand here true had I not stood with you in your time of need. Besides," he'd smiled that wild grin of his, "it was fun."
The king had laughed at his friend's spirit. Then he'd said, "I could use you, Eustin. You could lead my army."
"I could no more lead those men than I could be led by you, Artess. Good men need not be ruled. Good men rule themselves, as you do."
"You think it is shameful for me, then, to be called king?"
"Shameful? No. Never shameful, not you," Eustin had said. And then he'd said the words that had kept the king sane through the darkest of hours since. "Men want to be led, Artess. They think they need it. If men would follow another, I tell you truly, I'd rather it be you than any other I've known. You are the most good and the most noble man I've met, and I never expect to meet your equal." Many times the memory of those words had brought the king courage and comfort. Why? Because Eustin cannot lie, and Eustin can see the hearts of men.
Suddenly the king understood why he was afraid.
