Both Arlen and Lynde were outside Lady Lorana's household, ready to leave for their different destinations. Since Lynde had announced her plan Arlen hadn't talked to her, and for good reasons which were his own. Artsanna was laden with bags, as she was going to fly them to Aberon, and her mood didn't seem good either. No one was in a very good mood today, even those who were getting their way.

Arlen was ready to go. In his pack were cooked foods that wouldn't go bad any time soon, blankets, and a few other things. At his belt was Mor'ranr, which he hoped he wouldn't need but he knew he probably would. He was as ready as he was going to be by himself.

He was about to start his trek when Lynde came up to him. She seemed to be hesitant so he started. "What is it?"

"Well…" Lynde started nervously. After a moment, she continued. "I don't want us to part on bad terms, and we might not ever see each other again, so… Thank you for training me, for protecting me, for rescuing me; thank you for everything."

He smiled. "Well, thank you for an adventure I won't soon forget."

"You've got another one ahead of you," Lynde said as she pointed north. "It's a long way to Cathalorn."

"Plenty of opportunity for trouble," Arlen said.

"Don't you mean adventure?"

"Aren't they the same thing?"

She laughed. It was a somewhat annoying laugh, but he'd grown to tolerate it out of necessity. When she was done she said, "Goodbye, Arlen."

"Goodbye, Lynde," he replied. Looking over to the others, he said, "Goodbye, Rose. Goodbye, Herbst."

"Goodbye," Rose said, and Herbst repeated it.

"Goodbye, Artsanna," Arlen said.

Goodbye, Arlen. I hope we meet again someday, Artsanna said.

He then turned around and began his long journey home. It wasn't long before he heard Artsanna take off behind him, and he turned to look. She was magnificent in the air, the sun illuminating her silver scales, but not making them shine—which was her signature almost. As she flew away burdened by his former companions he realized that he would miss them. But it was too late to go back so he would just have to move forward.

It was lonely to travel alone. For most of his life he was surrounded by family, friends, and enemies. Even in his travels he never walked alone, as he was always with someone else. He wished that someone was with him, but he knew it wouldn't come true.

It rained now. It had been slowly building up during the week, and for the past two days it rained. It wasn't even a light rain, but heavy, soaking his clothes and chilling him to the bone. It rained day and night, and he was getting used to it somewhat, though he hoped that it would end soon.

The land he was going through was very hilly and muddy. The rain going down the hills was causing the roads to nearly flood in some places, which made it difficult to navigate. More than once he slipped and fell into the mud, but he was more upset about the delay than getting dirty. Clothes could be washed, but time could not be regained, and he wanted to be home.

He heard a struggle happening beyond the next hill, and went to find out what it was. He saw a familiar looking caravan surrounded by soldiers of the Empire. He may have been mistaken, but he believed that it was the caravan of Jerrell, the man his sister Embry was betrothed to. He approached, wondering what was going on.

He went to the man who looked like he was in charge of them and asked, "What are you soldiers doing?"

"Hey, we've got another traveler," the soldier in charge said. Looking to his belt he added, "And he's armed."

A couple of soldiers grabbed him and took his sword. He would have fought them, but he was more interested in knowledge than battle at that moment. "What have I done wrong?" he asked.

The lead soldier sighed. "I've got orders to stop all travelers going to or from Surda, and that includes you." That explained why both he and the caravan were stopped.

"Captain," the soldier with Mor'ranr said, "this looks Elven."

The head soldier went over and examined it. "It's not Elven. Elf swords are curved and this one is straight. It's probably some noble sword. In either case, he probably stole it."

"You could say I did," Arlen said slyly. The captain looked to him suspiciously. "But that's enough about me. What are you going to do with the caravan?"

"Well, we can't send them back, so we'll have to hold them, maybe even bring them to Belatona for questioning." He heard stories from his father about soldiers in this situation. They would take what they wanted from caravans, maybe even kill the traders to keep them from telling—this was true for both sides during the war. He wasn't about to let this happen again. "You're coming with us too so that you're properly punished."

"I won't be," Arlen declared. "That sword is Mor'ranr, wielded by the Elf Kitharvie, the Shade Tyra, two human swordsman, and myself; Arlen of Cathalorn, son of Dryden, and slayer of Shades."

The captain was taken aback by this. "You're Arlen?"

"Yes, I am."

"Then how did we capture you?"

"Because I let you. Now are you going to let me and the caravan go or will I be forced to fight you?"

The captain puffed up his chest and said, "We won't be intimidated by fugitives. Now where are your friends?"

Arlen laughed, trying to make his reputation work for him. "You don't have to fear them, for they are gone. I'm the one you have to fear." When that didn't inspire them to let him go, he made his move.

He used the same move he used on the slavers in Dras-Leona, kicking out the legs of the man next to him. The soldier fell over, and the one next to Arlen reacted slow enough that he could punch him in the jaw, knocking him down too. He then took one of their weapons, a mace—it wasn't a sword, but neither of them had one—and prepared for a fight.

The captain motioned for his soldiers to stay back and drew his own sword. "You're not going to go down easy, are you?" the captain said.

"If I did, then I wouldn't be known," Arlen said.

The captain lunged and Arlen dodged, as the mace was too heavy to properly parry with. He then swung the mace at the captain's leg, breaking it. As the captain fell, Arlen backed off.

He looked to the soldiers and said, "Does anyone else want to do battle?" They did what he hoped that soldiers would do in that situation; they prepared to fight. He sighed. "Does it really have to be this way?"

"No," the captain said, pained by his leg. "You can surrender."

"So can you," Arlen said. "But you're not, are you?" The captain nodded. "And I'm not going to surrender either. And while I may die, many of you may as well. It could be only one or two of you, or perhaps a dozen at most, but who wants to be that one?" He turned to the soldiers. "I can promise that the first man who charges me will die. So who wants to be the first one? Who wants to not go back to their family? Who has the courage to fight me?"

No man stepped forth. No man was brave enough to charge him. No man died.

Arlen stepped towards the soldier who had his sword, and the soldier—who couldn't have been much older than Arlen was—dropped it and ran. Picking up the sword, he looked to the soldiers again. He sighed. "Is one caravan really so important? I'll just send them back north." The soldiers backed off, some going to their horses, and others going to get their wounded leader and dazed comrades.

Arlen was at least moderately happy that they didn't try anything, but was somewhat disappointing. Part of becoming a soldier was agreeing to die for one's countrymen, and these men didn't seem willing to do that. They were traitors, but smart ones who might actually do something if it didn't result in their assured deaths. He hoped that he would have the courage they lacked to be the first to die, but also wished that it would never come up.

As he watched the soldiers leave, a woman's voice came from behind. It was familiar, and while he hadn't heard it in months, he'd know it anywhere. "Arlen?" the voice said.

Arlen turned around and said, "Hello, Embry."