So, I've been updating this one fairly quickly here. I'm hoping to get it done within the month, and it seems on pace to do that. I think perhaps I'll get the whole thing done, and then add in a few chapters in the middle later on. Or not, we'll see. This one's looking like it will be a bi shorter than most of the others. It has shorter chapters, that's for sure. In any case, enjoy.

Sir Rowland, a knight lately of Count Jonathan's service and now the proud guardian of a pup of a child, rubbed his brow wearily. He still wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. He had walked into Tree-bound Hold with no ties except the one he'd had to the Count, far in the south, and the responsibility to look out for his men. Now he had a child to look after. A child! What did a knight know of child rearing? He'd seen dead children, from fire or famine or disease, and children wounded by raiders in the villages, but a healthy, growing child? Oh, he'd passed them in the streets, but he'd never stopped to talk to one. He'd been one himself at one point, he admitted, but that was a long time ago. It had been more than thirty years since he was this child's age.

He'd passed a pleasant enough luncheon with the man with red eyes, who'd called himself Alain. No 'sir' or 'lord', though he was obviously master of the holding. Odd, that. Most men with a fortress half so grand as the Tree-bound hold would have styled themselves a king. Despite the oddness, and the ancient civility, the time had passed pleasantly enough, right until Rowland had mentioned the Book of Gold.

Alain had seemed, in his reserved way, in favor of the idea of his family being in the Book, but he would not serve the Count. It was not the way things should be done. Rowland mentally scolded himself for not remembering that. True, he'd been only a boy when he'd left the western lands across the ocean, but he ought still to remember their ways. A grown man would not enter into the service of another, especially not as a warrior. Such a place must be held from childhood. Thus his child would serve the Count, and when the hold passed to his heir, it would become a part of the kingdom. Then, and not an instant sooner. Still, the child was in the Book, which counted for something.

The child! What a horrid tangle! The child had, as instructed, arrived after luncheon, making his bow in the old way, fist over heart. Someone had given him a good scrubbing, so his previously dirty brown hair shone like bronze and Rowland could see, with some shock, that the tyke had purple eyes. Never in his all his days had he encountered the like of the people of the Tree-bound hold, first Alain with his red eyes now the child with violet. Worse, he saw when the child straightened and met his gaze, the child was no boy at all, but a scrap of a girl, scarce big enough for five, for all she claimed to be seven. This was the child to serve the Count? Oh, what a ghastly tangle! And she had been given over into his care, in the old way, to raise as his apprentice. Or rather, his page, he supposed, and later his squire if it came to that.

The object of his thoughts cantered her horse up to join his in the train. The tyke rode her horse well, he would give her that, and the little pony Alain had given her to ride kept up easily with the bigger horses. Of course it does, he thought bitterly. It isn't carrying any weight.

"Is something wrong, sir?" she wanted to know. Most children, if Rowland remembered aright what he'd heard, would have complained bitterly at riding from noon until near sunset, but this child was more concerned that he wasn't faring well. A strange people, those folks of the hold, and no mistake.

"I was just thinking," he replied. "Your father never told me your name."

"Haven't got one, sir." The girl flushed red, and just in time Rowland kept himself from exclaiming. Truly, he'd been in these eastern lands too long. Of course the girl had a name, but only her family would use it. She wouldn't get a proper name, one the rest of the world would use for her, until she reached adulthood. When that would be, he had no idea. His father had granted him a name before they came east, but his brother had been five years older when he'd received his. Still, he had to call her something, and he couldn't shame her by giving her a name when, clearly, she wasn't ready for one. It would have been simpler by far if they had left the old ways in the old countries, he thought bitterly.

"My apologies, miss, I forgot myself. Is there something I might call you until you earn a name?" That was how you asked a child their name in the old countries, wasn't it? It had been so long, it was hard to remember.

"Child, I suppose. Or Girl. One of the villagers used to call me Tyke."

Rowland found himself smiling. Most children in the old country had been called such things before they earned their names. He himself had been variations on the same, as had all his siblings. "I rather like 'Tyke'. I'll call you that, if you don't mind."

"Yes sir."

How serious the child was! He didn't recall other children being nearly so quiet or composed. They weren't all like this, surely. Why, the child had better composure than most adults. He looked the child over through the corner of his eye. Short bronze hair fell just short of her shoulders, contrasting brightly with the dark blue tunic she wore. Her tunic and brown britches were simple and heavy wearing, though in good condition. The black leather boots she wore, which he suspected might be the littlest bit too big, were old but well cared for. Her only other clothing was the thick grey cloak rolled behind her saddle, which he could tell even now was much too big. The little bow from last night was slung over one shoulder, and the enormous knife rested at her hip, though Rowland was sure it was uncomfortable. Certainly he never tried to ride with his sword on. She had a quiver of short little arrows to match her bow, and that was it. Leaving home with scarce the clothes on her back, and only seven years old. But in a way, Rowland was glad she had so little. Tyke was not the sort of child who would find a wandering knight's way of life undue hardship. He wondered, though, if she could actually use the weapons she carried.

"Your bow, Tyke. How are you with it?" he asked.

The little girl shrugged modestly. "Well enough to hunt a bit for the kitchens, sir."

"Rabbit?" he asked. "Fowl?"

She nodded. "Sometimes a squirrel or two, if there isn't else to be found." Rowland nodded in return. So, not much of a long shot, not with a little bow like that, but an accurate one, unless she only brought game down by chance. To look at her, that didn't seem too likely. This was a girl of the old countries, no mistake. Feeling considerably more cheerful, Rowland urged his horse ahead of the company. He hadn't been saddled with a useless little mite, oh no, just a tiny little warrior. Perhaps his luck was starting to look up after all.