Sparhawk swore as his chestnut mare crested the last hill from which he could see the Chapterhouse and turned to wave farewell, to the shadowy figure that was Vanion standing by his window, with head bowed. Almost, almost, he'd got used to the idea but that image brought tears stinging to his eyes.
Gruffly, he yelled at the roan colt gambolling ahead of him, kicking up clouds of dust that choked him and his mare. 'Oi, colt, behave yourself.' For a minute, his thoughts raced as he went through a selection of names that would suit the roan, but he suddenly remembered Vanion's teachings on profanity. If he heard what I really thought of his gift, I don't suppose that I would live to appreciate it. He thought a moment longer, then called gently, in a tone that sounded strange in his harsh accent. 'Faran.' The only Styric word that even Kalten had been able to remember, it's meaning 'Hope.'
Hope. Hope that me and Kalten will see each other again soon. Hope that Kurik and Aslade will be all right together now. Hope that Vanion stays well and keeps as Preceptor. Sparhawk winced at that thought - he'd seen the last Preceptor 'retired' when he himself was sixteen and Vanion, then aged twenty six, had overthrown him on the practice field and in the discussions, smiling all the while but with triumph glinting in his blue eyes. It wasn't an experience that he'd care to repeat, especially if it meant seeing Vanion injured.
'Oh, stop it, Faran' he snapped. The blue roan laid his heavy ears back, the white ring round his eyes showing plainly as he snapped at empty air. Sparhawk waved one hand at him, slapping the warm muzzle and looking startled, the colt stopped his prancing. Suddenly, the hooves of his mare slid; looking up the young knight saw the sun sailing down behind the hills and the stones on the rough track skidding and bouncing away into the falling night. He cursed bitterly.
He made camp as best as he was able; Kurik was the one who had always made the camp, or Vanion. Vanion. I hated you so often, loathed the sound of your voice and the touch of your hand on my shoulder. And yet eventually, how I came to look for them, always in battle or meetings to look first for you, my teacher, my friend. My guv'nor.
I don't understand this exile, Vanion. Is it simply because of danger? Have I displeased you and the Pandions or the Crown in some way? If so, how I wish that you had told me and I could have tried to make amends. Is it simply because I am not good enough, consistently second to Martel and did you ever really believe my account of that night? Oh, Vanion, with all my heart I hope that you've got a reason for all this, but God help me, if you haven't then I'll forgive you because I still trust you.
Screwing his eyes shut, Sparhawk whispered a thank-you to the other man. And miles away, Vanion felt the unspoken plea of the man that he was thinking about. Locked in mutual hopes and fears, Vanion and Sparhawk, the guv'nor of the Pandions and his heir thought of each other. Faran's clarion call rung out into the darkness, echoing of the hills until both men heard it - a rampant, wild challenge to adversity that was the whole of their lives.