Disclaimer: some of the dialogue in this chapter, as well as several of the chapters to come, is taken directly from the Ruins of Gorlan; it is not mine and I lay no claim to it. All other dialogue, narration, etc. is mine.


Part I: Dawn

Will sat up with a jolt.

He gazed around him uncomprehendingly. Where was he? What had happened? Everything around him was different. Where was the ground, the battlefield, the blood sinking into the earth? Where were the cheers, the pained screams, the last, whispered words of the dying?

Halt's low, even voice came to him. If you wake up in an unfamiliar place, don't try anything stupid. Assess your surroundings first before you make a move.

Will looked down and gasped in shock. His chest - it was uninjured! A loose nightshirt of cotton hung off of his shoulders. There was no blood to be found. He prodded the flesh cautiously. Nothing hurt. He looked around at his immediate surroundings, heartbeat beginning to race. He was inside a building, in bed, on a mattress made of straw with a quilted blanket over top. Everything was clean. There was no blood, no weapons, no bodies.

What was going on?

He held a hand to his head, scrunching his brows up in distress. His last memories were clear. There was no way he was making them up. He remembered with unforgettable clarity the battle against the Temujai. They had retreated because of Halt's masterful strategies as their tactician, granting the Skandians victory. Yet it had not taken long for them to turn on Halt. Or rather - on the Princess under Halt's protection.

Ragnak had found Evanlyn after the battle and declared his intent to fulfill his Vallasvow now. The rest of the Skandians had rallied with him. Horace, Will, and Halt had raised their weapons grimly, knowing in that moment that it would be all for naught. They fought anyway. Horace had died quickly, beheaded by a Skandian whose own life was ended seconds afterwards by one of Halt's arrows. The distraction had cost Halt, though, and he had been beaten down next, dealt a deep wound in the side from an axe. Will had been stabbed through the chest.

In Will's last moments, he had witnessed their final defeat as Ragnak fulfilled his Vallasvow and killed Evanlyn. She had been one of Will's closest friends. They had fought together, been captured together, and escaped the Skandians' brutal slavery together. Yet all of that had been for nothing.

Her dull, lifeless eyes would not leave his head.

Will closed his eyes, shaking his head desperately in an attempt to force the image out of his mind. He looked at his surroundings instead.

He was in a large room made of stone, built to be functional rather than beautiful. Will's bed was next to a wall and a chill breeze blew onto his face from the window cut into it. He looked out the window to see the world still in darkness, but a faint suggestion of gold lingered over the horizon. It was almost sunrise, then.

Turning his head in the other direction, Will realized his bed was but one in a long row of like beds. Sleeping figures lay bundled up in quilts, some snoring. Their faces were young, some teenagers, some mere children. All were boys. Will ran his eyes along the row. He stopped, eyes widening at one face in particular. It was a face he had never thought he would see again.

Horace!

Will leaped out of his bed - or tried to. His body didn't respond properly. He landed wrong, tripping and nearly falling on his face. His ankle rolled harshly on his way down and Will bit his lip to keep from crying out. He grabbed onto his bedpost to steady himself.

Horace was here. Horace was here. Why was he here? How was he here? Will had seen him die. He had seen the axe cleave Horace's head from his shoulders - seen it thud sickeningly onto the ground, spurting blood as the body had followed suit. How was he here?

Will straightened and tried to walk to him. Everything felt wrong. His limbs felt too small, too short, too thin for his memory. Every movement was clunky and awkward and his footfalls sounded loud on the stone floor. Will had never felt less like a Ranger.

As his wobbly, wavering steps drew closer and closer to Horace, he was able to make out more of his friend's face. The sun was beginning to rise now, spilling early morning light into the room. Will ran his eyes over Horace. His brows furrowed.

"What the fuck?" he said lowly.

He reared back - both at Horace and at his own voice. Horace's face was so soft, his body inches shorter, his muscles nonexistent - Will's voice was high-pitched and squeaky, far higher than he was used to-

They were both...

...so young.

The sun had fully illuminated the room now and Will slowly, with dread filling his lungs, turned around to inspect it. Now that he could see more than just shadows, he realized that the room was familiar. Very familiar. Will had spent the first fifteen years of his life in this room, in fact.

This was Will's room in the Ward.

Will swallowed thickly. His heartbeat was racing faster and faster. He stumbled back over to his bed - his bed - and ran a trembling hand through his hair. He undershot it, fingers barely tracing the strands of his hair.

Almost like Will was expecting his arm to be longer.

No, no. Think. It couldn't possibly be - that would be impossible. Will forced himself to take a deep breath. He withdrew his hand from his hair and placed both his hands in his lap. Come on, Will. Think. What could this be?

All he could remember was that final thought before he had lost consciousness. Give me another chance. It had been a whisper, a plea, a prayer.

Had it been answered?

He stared down at his hands. They were less veined than they should have been. Will swallowed again. His body had been through a lot in Skandia, though. It wasn't like he'd made a practice of looking at the amount of veins in his hands. He turned his hands over to look at the calluses on his palms and fingertips. He had spent months - years - building up those calluses. He knew where they should be.

They were gone.

As a last, feeble resort, Will turned his left hand back over to look at his thumb. In the first year of his apprenticeship, before he'd left for Celtica, he had once dropped his throwing knife during training. In his fumble to catch it, he'd sliced his hand up badly and earned a long, zig-zag scar down the entirety of his left thumb. Halt had sighed when Will had meekly gone up to him, explaining what had happened. What did I tell you about trying to catch falling knives? Halt had asked. Come on. Let's go get you patched up.

There, right where the long, ugly, raised scar had been, lay only pure, untouched flesh.

That did it. Will gave a short, hysterical bark of laughter. His prayer had actually been answered. He had actually been sent back in time - to his days in the Ward, no less! Could he not have ended up a little further along - a little closer to the actual events he was trying to prevent? Could he not have ended up before he left for Celtica, or before Erak and the Skandians captured him, or - hell - even before the last battle with the Temujai? At least then Will could've grabbed Evanlyn and run for the hills.

Nope. Will had ended up all the way back in the Ward. What year even was this? How old was he?

The sun was fully up now. Its rays spilled over Will, racing across the room and falling across the faces of the other boys. A couple of them mumbled protests; others stayed sound asleep. Will looked again at Horace's face and at the face of George, a few beds over. They certainly didn't look that young, no younger than fourteen, he would guess. Horace had a wisp of a mustache above his lip and George's face was pocked with acne.

The door to the room opened.

"Time to get up!" came the voice of Mistress Rebecca, the Ward's headmistress. She was in charge of making sure they all behaved, were well fed, and were properly educated and brought up. She was, however, no replacement for a mother. Will had learned that quickly.

"Will, George, Horace, get up! You know what day today is!"

Well, actually, Will thought. I don't.

Horace groaned sleepily, while George sat up and mumbled something incomprehensible. Will's lips quirked up in spite of himself. It had been so long since he'd last seen George. With Celtica and then Skandia, it had to have been over a year. He hadn't realized how much he had missed his former wardmate.

Mistress Rebecca lost her patience. She stormed over to Horace's bed, yanking the covers off of him.

"Get up! There's no time for you to be lazing about!" She spun around, divesting George's bed of covers as well. She was about to do the same to Will, before she realized he was already up. "Now go, wash yourselves up! I don't want to see dirt behind your ears, you hear?"

"Yes, Mistress," Horace and George said obediently. Will swiftly piped in, years of instinct kicking in. He stood, wincing as the ankle he had just rolled gave an angry twinge, and followed his two wardmates down to the privy.

Horace and George were surprisingly quiet as they washed up. Will eyed them quizzically. He had a few ideas as to what day this could be but he didn't yet know for certain. He knew that if he asked, they would probably think he had gone crazy.

"Well," Will said experimentally as they walked back up to their room in order to get dressed, "today will be interesting."

Horace sneered. The expression took Will aback, before suddenly he remembered. Right. While they had been in the Ward, Horace and Will had not gotten along. They had been rivals, not best friends. The realization sent a pang through Will's chest. He wasn't sure what hurt more: looking this Horace in the face and seeing his older, stronger body lying lifeless on the ground, or looking this Horace in the face and seeing an enemy instead of a friend.

"For you, sure," Horace told him. "You're the only one that no one wants, after all."

Will fought back a flinch. "That's not true! Halt-"

He stopped. Halt doesn't even know me, here.

Horace and George both gave him weird looks. "Halt? You mean the Ranger? What's he got to do with this?"

"...Nothing. Never mind."

"Well, whatever," Horace said dismissively. He stepped into their shared room. "That doesn't change the fact that today's Choosing Day, and absolutely none of the Craftmasters are going to choose you."

A lungful of air wrenched itself from Will's mouth. He staggered, clutching at the doorframe. His wide eyes stared disbelievingly at Horace. "Today's what?"

Horace turned to look at him. "What, did No-Name finally become No-Brains too? Today's Choosing Day, idiot." He smirked. "With a memory like that, I doubt you'll even be useful for farming!"

The insult went unheeded. Will had stopped hearing anything. Today was Choosing Day. That meant Will was fifteen. He had been 17 during the battle against the Temujai. He had gone backwards in time two years. He had lost two years of his life.

Will clenched his jaw. If it saves the lives of Halt, Horace, and Evanlyn, he thought, it's worth it.

He pulled himself back to reality. Horace had moved off after his insult had failed to obtain the reaction he wanted. George was still standing beside Will, looking worriedly at him. "Are you alright?"

"Uh...not really." He swallowed and gave a fragile smile to George. "I'm...well, I'm a bit nervous, I guess."

George gave him a sympathetic look. "I am, too. Still, don't be too upset! Like I was saying last night, some amount of nerves is good and can actually help improve our reactions and perceptions. Just take deep breaths. They help keep you calm on your feet and stop you from panicking."

"Right. Thanks, George."

"Anytime." George hesitated, giving Will one last concerned look before heading off to get dressed.

Will did the same. He had never had much in the way of clothes, not even as an apprentice. He had had even less as a Ward. There were about fifteen Wards in all, eight boys and seven girls. It was quite a lot of backs to clothe. Wards were given the bare necessities and not much else. Given their status as orphans, Will was exceedingly grateful to be given even that. In most places, orphans received far less.

It was the work of a few moments to put on his "nice" set of clothes: a brown shirt and jerkin, leggings, and soft, leather shoes. Will frowned once he had finished, feeling oddly bereft. Right. Of course. His Ranger's cloak. A painful pang went through his chest at the loss. It didn't matter that he would be getting it back soon - a few days at most, depending on when Halt decided to give him his equipment - he had still lost it. This new cloak would not be the same.

Mistress Rebecca flew into the room once more. The rest of the boys had woken up by now and gotten dressed, although they were not wearing their nice clothes like Will, Horace, and George. "Breakfast time!" she cried. "George, Horace, Will, come down quickly! You three need to eat, the Baron will be seeing you soon!"

Horace and George scrambled down the steep, stone steps of the Ward tower. Will followed at a more sedate pace.

Breakfast passed quickly. None of them ate much, not even Horace. It seemed even he was not immune to nerves. Will opened his mouth to tease him before swiftly shutting it. Right. Not my Horace. If he tried a friendly jab, this Horace would take it as an insult. Will didn't want to get in a fight with him.

Alyss and Jenny walked in partway through the meal. Will shot out of his seat, rushing to Alyss and hugging her. How he had missed her! He felt tears springing to his eyes. He had thought he would never see her again - he had thought he would die without ever telling her that he...

"Uh, Will?"

It was Jenny's voice that brought him back to his senses. Will pulled back abruptly, eyes wide and cheeks flushing. Alyss was staring at him in that polite-yet-confused way of hers that said she had no idea what had just happened.

"S-Sorry, Alyss," he said quickly, cursing himself. Why had he done that? Of course she would think that was weird! As far as she knew, she had seen him just last night. She had no idea it had been over a year for him.

"I'm...glad to see you too, Will," Alyss said, smiling at him in an attempt to dispel the awkwardness. It didn't really work, but he was grateful for the effort. "I was looking for you last night."

Last night? So, the night before Choosing Day. What had he done? Will honestly couldn't remember, although going off of context, he had apparently hidden away from her. He must've gone and climbed up his tree or something. That sounded like something he would do.

"Here, you should eat," Will said, stepping away from her and motioning to the table. He quickly went and sat back down at his place. The curious glances from all his wardmates followed him as he went. He tried to ignore them but wasn't able to prevent the heat in his cheeks. Good job, he thought sarcastically to himself. It's been less than three hours and you've already messed something up. You'd better not do this with Halt.

Shit, that was right. He was going to "meet" Halt today. Will grimaced down at his half-empty plate. Horace had been asleep when Will had first seen him, giving Will some breathing room to process. Halt would be fully awake, watching Will, and the rest of the room would be watching Will as well. He had no room for error. He needed to be careful.

This Halt is different from your Halt, he reminded himself firmly as he set his fork down and leaned back in his chair. He is not your Halt. He does not know you. He does not like you. In fact...

The thought pained him to finish, but he knew that he must.

This Halt might never like you. If you fuck it up - if you change something you shouldn't - you might destroy your relationship forever. You need to be careful.

Will nodded to himself determinedly. When he saw Halt, he must keep his expression as impassive as possible. There was no room for grief or joy, no room for recognition or acknowledgement, and most definitely no room for tears or embraces. No matter how much Will wanted to tackle his once-mentor with a hug and never let him go, the fact was simple. He could not.

"Alright!" came Mistress Rebecca's voice, breaking into his thoughts. "Candidates for Choosing Day, get up! The Baron's almost ready for you."

Will and the rest of his year-mates stood. Exchanging glances, they followed Mistress Rebecca out of the dining hall, out of the Ward, and all the way to the main tower where the Baron's office and quarters resided. The clear, cool morning was beautiful and Will looked around, taking it in. He was certain he hadn't taken the time to appreciate it the first time around.

They entered the Baron's tower and began the long, arduous journey up the myriad flights of steps. The Baron's office was far up the tower, supposedly for further security. Personally, Will would not have wanted to climb so many stairs just to get to his own workspace and living quarters, but he supposed being the head of an entire fief must require some sacrifices. Will was content with his home: absolutely no steps required, other than the single step to get on the porch.

Wait.

A pang went through his heart.

Halt's home wasn't Will's home. Not anymore. Like with a growing number of things today, Will had to blink back tears. He stared down at the floor as they walked, more and more miserable with every passing second.

Thankfully, Martin appeared.

Will laughed at that thought. He had never thought he would be thankful for Martin's appearance.

They had reached the anteroom of the Baron's office. Mistress Rebecca led them into the room and then took her leave, turning them over to Martin's care. Martin seated them on the wooden benches in there and marched inside to see if the Baron was ready to receive them. Will fidgeted as he waited. His unscarred thumb stood out as he did so, mocking him.

Minutes passed. The five wardmates sat in nervous, expectant silence. The room was still and quiet. At last the door opened and Martin strutted out.

"All right, candidates! This way! And look lively!"

Will cast a swift, sidelong glance to his wardmates. They stood uncertainly and, rather slowly, followed Martin into the Baron's office.

Despite having been inside it before, Will craned his neck to look around. He remembered some parts of it, like the rather judgmental-looking portrait of Baron Arald's distant ancestor. A less judgmental portrait, perhaps of the Baron's less distant ancestor, hung next to it. The sturdy oak desk and accompanying chair also featured prominently in Will's memories, as well as the large, open window behind them. Will's lips quirked upwards. He was rather proud of his break-in, he had to say. Even Halt had later admitted to him that it was tolerably well done for a boy without a lick of training. Coming from Halt, that was high praise.

"Come on now! Stand in line, stand in line!"

Will rolled his eyes at Martin's loud, abrasive tone. He nonetheless moved towards the end, remembering Martin's follow-up command of in size place!

Indeed, Will was not even at the end of the line when Martin yelled just that. "In size place! Tallest this end!"

The other wards fell into line beside Will. Jenny did attempt to give Will her place, but Will shook his head. He had come to terms with his size by now. He did have to admit that his fifteen-year-old body was definitely shorter than the one he was used to, but it wasn't a big deal - at least, socially. For Will himself, it was horrible. Every movement felt off, like one part of him was constantly expecting his limbs to be just a little longer, a little larger, a little more muscular. It was extremely disorienting.

"Come on!" Martin rattled on. "Smarten up, smarten up! Let's see you at attention!"

"I don't believe that's totally necessary, Martin," came Baron Arald's voice. He had come through the door behind his desk.

Martin now came to attention, a posture that gave Will great amusement. He looks just as much like a rooster as I remember!

This was it, he decided: this entire thing was worth it just to see Martin do his best rooster impression.

"Sir!" Martin cried, keeping in the same position. "The candidates are assembled!"

"I can see that. Perhaps you might be good enough to ask the Craftmasters to step in as well?"

"Sir!" Martin said, saluting - or trying to. Will once more fought back a laugh at Martin's failed attempt to click his shoes together. He finally gave up and strutted, still rooster-like, to the door. Arald stopped him, enjoining him not to shout at the Craftmasters. Martin deflated and agreed.

In a considerably quieter tone, Martin opened the door and said, "Craftmasters. The Baron is ready now."

The Craftmasters filed in. They looked little different from how Will had seen them last. Lady Pauline was as elegant as ever, Master Chubb just as terrifying. There were perhaps a few less grey hairs on Rodney's head and the wrinkles on Scribemaster Nigel's forehead were perhaps a tad less pronounced. Other than that, they were identical.

The wardmates straightened at their approach. Will didn't bother. Halt had already made his decision, after all. Will knew from years of experience that there was quite little he could do to impress his master. He very much doubted that standing up straight was one of those things. Halt didn't even bother to do that half the time.

"The Craftmasters are assembled, sir!"

"So I can see," Arald said. "Good morning, Lady Pauline. Good morning, gentlemen."

The Craftmasters responded in like form. The Baron turned to Martin. "Perhaps we might proceed?"

Martin nodded several times and did his rooster strut to the nervous line of wardmates. "Right, the Baron's waiting! The Baron's waiting! Who's first?"

The wardmates all exchanged glances among themselves, no one eager to go first. Will kept to himself, remembering what had happened the first time around and not too keen on having it happen again. Despite the knowledge that Halt had already made his decision, Will knew he would have to go through the ordeal of being rejected by every other Craftmaster. The idea made him nauseous. It had been horrible enough to go through that the first time.

The hairs on Will's neck prickled. Will looked up.

Halt.

It took everything within Will not to react - not to burst into tears, not to run to him, not to hug him as hard as he could and never let go. Again, there was that horrible juxtaposition: here was Halt, two years younger, a total stranger to Will. Yet all Will could see was his Halt, dying next to him on the ground.

Will swallowed, hard. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Remember, Will! You can't react. He took all of his emotions, all of his feelings and memories of Halt, and locked them deep, deep inside. He released the breath and forced himself into impassivity.

Meanwhile, Horace was in the middle of being chosen. Sir Rodney had finished looking him over and was asking him a few questions. After, he nodded approvingly. "Very well, my lord. I'll take him for Battleschool, subject to the usual three-month probationary period."

The Baron made a note and smiled at Horace, who looked ecstatic. A sudden recollection of what Horace was about to go through made Will wince and he opened his mouth, before quickly shutting it. What was he thinking? Nothing he said would make a difference. No one would believe him. Will would have to figure out a way to help Horace later.

"Congratulations, Horace. Report to Battleschool tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock sharp."

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

"Don't thank me yet," Sir Rodney said. "You don't know what you're in for."

Alyss and George were similarly accepted just how Will remembered. George's impromptu stage fright, this time around, was far more amusing. Will had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Jenny stepped irrepressibly forward and began her bid for Master Chubb. Will stayed still, letting only his eyes move as he looked between everyone in the room. It was a strange feeling. His conscious mind was more than used to such a thing, having had it drilled into him by Halt for months on end. Yet his unconscious brain, all of his body's muscle memory and neurons, were wholly unused to such stillness. Will had to continually fight the urge to fidget.

Master Chubb finally accepted Jenny as his apprentice. Jenny stepped back into the line. The Baron's gaze fixed on Will.

"And that leaves us with one more candidate." He gestured encouragingly at Will.

Despite knowing what he had to do, all of a sudden, his insides twisted with nerves. He stepped forward as confidently as he could. "I am Will, my lord."

"Will? Will who?" Martin, predictably, asked. The question was just as painful it had been the first time. "What's your family name, boy?"

The Baron went to reply, but Will beat him to it. He might not be happy that he was an orphan, and a nameless one at that, but he had at least come to terms with it.

"I have no family name, sir," he told Martin clearly. "My parents are unknown."

Martin balked. Embarrassment, then disgust washed over his face. Typical. People often responded that way, looking down on Will as being lesser just because he didn't know who his parents were. Will had been ashamed of it for the longest time. He'd mentioned it to Halt one day and Halt had declared decidedly to him, If people want to judge you for something you can't change, that's on them. A man should be judged on his actions, not the circumstances of his birth.

Will remembered that now as he looked at Martin's disgusted expression. The words strengthened him.

The Baron cleared his throat, drawing attention back to him. He looked embarrassed as well, though the gaze he directed to Will was clearly apologetic. "What school do you wish to apply for, Will?"

Will froze. His mouth opened and nothing came out.

What should he say? He had absolutely no desire to be at the Battleschool - especially knowing the embarrassment he was headed for should he actually request it. But no one who knew him would believe him if he tried to apply for any other school. The Will they knew was obsessed with it.

"Another case of stage fright?" the Baron asked sympathetically. "It's alright, Will. You don't need to be nervous."

Will opened and closed his mouth a few more times, before finally settling on, "Horseschool, sir."

Will ignored the shocked looks from Alyss and the rest of his wardmates. Ulf, the Horsemaster, looked him over carefully and shook his head. "I need apprentices, my lord, but this one's too small. He'd never control one of my battlehorses. They'd stomp him into the ground as soon as look at him."

Too small! Will thought indignantly. He had once ridden Horace's battlehorse without a problem and Tug, he would like everyone to know, could be just as difficult to control! Will had the strength to draw back a full longbow-

Oh. Wait. He actually didn't. Not right now, anyway. Will had been training to use it, but he'd still used his recurve in the last battle. And his fifteen-year-old body? It didn't stand a chance. Will subsided, succumbing to his fifteen-year-old body's instincts once more and shuffling awkwardly.

"What skills do you have, Will?" the Baron asked, breaking the silence.

Will's lips quirked at that. He remembered the response he had given at the time - and the responses, which in retrospect he found far funnier than he had then. The question was, should he say the same thing again?

He internally shrugged. Why not?

"I'm a good climber, sir," he said, and waited for the show to begin.

It did not disappoint.

"He can climb, all right," Chubb said peevishly. "I remember when he climbed up a drainpipe into my kitchen and stole a tray of sweet cakes that were cooling on the windowsill."

Yes, Will remembered that too. That was also, if Will remembered correctly, the time he had first caught Halt's attention. The reminder made him smile, though he quickly wiped it off. It wouldn't do to be caught grinning as all the Craftmasters detailed his worst pranks. He pulled himself back to the present.

"A male and a female rabbit, my lord, if you take my meaning," Nigel was saying, adding to the list of Will's crimes. "Most disruptive indeed!"

Will looked around the room at everyone's reactions. It was then that he saw Lady Pauline do something he would never have thought she would do. She lifted a hand up to her mouth as though concealing a yawn, yet she could not conceal the amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. His own widened incredulously. Lady Pauline! Does she find this funny, too?

"Well yes," the Baron was saying. "We all know how rabbits are."

"And, as I said, my lord, it was spring."

Lady Pauline coughed.

She does! Will thought, fighting back his own laugh. He automatically glanced at Halt, grinning.

He locked gazes with a Halt whose expression was entirely cold and impassive.

The look floored him. Will nearly stumbled. As he had been apprenticed to Halt and grown closer to him, he had thought that Halt's growing lack of impassivity had just been because he was learning to read Halt better. Maybe that was some of it, but that look that this Halt had just given him...

That look was clear. I don't know you.

Will tore his eyes away and turned his head, not wanting Halt to see the expression on his face.

It was, of course, at this moment that Baron Arald asked the dreaded question. "Is there any one of you who could use this boy?"

That had to be one of the most painful things that Will had ever been through. Will closed his eyes and refused to look as, one by one, every single Craftmaster declared him useless to them with a single shake of the head.

In the awful silence, Halt finally spoke. "There is something you should know about this boy, my lord." He stepped forward and handed the Baron the fateful sheet of paper.

Arald unfolded it, glanced over it, and looked up. "You're sure of this, Halt?"

"Indeed, my lord."

The Baron refolded the paper, expression thoughtful. He idly tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk. "I'll have to think on this overnight."

Halt nodded and stepped back, giving the appearance of having vanished into thin air. Will, who was accustomed to such tricks by now, followed him easily with his eyes. He didn't move far, stepping nimbly around the Craftmasters and stopping right next to Arald.

"Congratulations to those who were selected here today. It's a big day for all of you, so you're free to have the rest of the day off and enjoy yourselves. The kitchens will provide a banquet for you in your quarters and for the rest of the day you have free run of the castle and the village. Tomorrow, you'll report to your new Craftmasters first thing in the morning. And if you'll take a tip from me, you'll make sure you're on time." He smiled at George, Jenny, Horace, and Alyss, then turned to Will. His smile faded. "Will, I'll let you know tomorrow what I've decided about you."

As though you're actually involved in the process, Will thought, amused. Will had asked Halt, a few months in, about the approval process for training new Ranger's apprentices. The Baron of each fief had nothing to do with it. It was actually Crowley, the Ranger Commandant, who had to approve each new apprentice. Halt had really gone all-out to make Will as curious as possible.

Outwardly, he just dipped his head in admission. He turned to follow everyone out. Right before he exited, though, he stopped. He couldn't resist one last look. Just like last time, he turned around. Yet instead of last time, where he had looked at the piece of paper, sitting so innocently and obviously unprotected on Arald's desk...he looked at Halt.

A moment later, he turned back around and left.