Excerpt: Summer Figs & Relative Philosophies

From Honor of Heroes:

"You look like you could use a drink. Or twelve." Larkin settled neatly on the ground beside him, a seemingly effortless feat despite holding a leather mug in each hand. Royston took one and drank, silently. It did taste good -- most of what they'd had in the last year was the watery rice-based stuff brought from Teraptus. He hated rice, fermented or not.

"It's all such horseshit, this," Larkin went on, and Royston looked at him, surprised. He was staring down into his own mug, swirling the contents with lazy flicks of his wrist. He looked up and met Royston's eye, abruptly. "Don't you think?"

Royston didn't know what to say. He wanted to agree with Larkin, because he always wanted to agree with Larkin, but was that the right answer? Once -- not very long ago -- he had believed, truly believed to the deepest parts of himself, that Larkin always had the right answer. He had hero worshipped his brother, three years older and so always stronger and wiser and ready first. Larkin teased and taunted, during their shared childhood, but still, in Royston's eyes, he could do not wrong.

When they were both in school, Larkin had shown through example that appearances could be deceiving - thin and small he might be, but he was fast and quick-witted, and could beat a broadsword with a rapier just by keeping his nimble body moving. So Royston never let his own small build handicap him, working and and working and working to try to be just as good as Larkin. And for the most part, he had succeeded -- Larkin was still faster, but Royston was pretty sure he was actually stronger.

Royston was almost 17 now, almost a year out of training. Larkin was three years a soldier, but somehow, in the last few months, it had stopped seeming so much -- in uniform, in battle, they stood as equals. And somehow, in Royston's mind, that had changed things. He still admired Larkin, no question about that, but at some point, worship had mellowed into respect.

Now, still watching and waiting for an answer, Larkin's lips slid up into a lazy half-smile. "I asked you a question, soldier. Is this all horseshit?"

"Only the cavalleris area, sir," Royston said quickly, and was pleased when Larkin laughed.

They could actually smell the horses from here, and hear them as well; Royston had left the center of the revelry for the relative quiet at the paddock, sitting on the hard Adapterian grass with his back against the spoked wheel of a wagon. It was warm at night here, this time of year, without the suffocating humidity of Bann -- there was no need to stay near the fires unless he wanted food, and he hadn't had much of an appetite at all that day. He preferred being near the living horses to accompanying the others in eating their brothers.

"So what happens tomorrow?" he asked Larkin.

Larkin shrugged and took another gulp of wine, swallowed slowly. "I can't tell you for sure. I guess some of us will deal with any pockets of rebellion inside the city -- there are always some fools with a death wish. We'll have to get that so-called king out, too, and deal with him. Probably public execution, in case anyone else has similar notions. After that, probably just some clean-up, and they'll decide who has to stay and who gets to go home."

"Some people will have to stay?"

"As long as there's a chance of another rebellion, someone has to stay to keep things under control. Occupation. But don't worry, it won't be us. They'll want us back in Bann, so people can pretend we're Or on earth."

Royston wondered if Larkin's knowing grin was because his relief was obvious on his face. The reminder that when the siege was over he could go home was all that had kept him going the last seven months. He had always dreamed of seeing the world, but, as always, dreams could not stand in the face of reality -- he was tired of Adapterus, of the dry, dusty heat, the strange foods, the tedium of day after day after day staring at the walls of the city and waiting for something to happen.

As if reading his thoughts, Larkin said, "Looking forward to getting home?"

"Of course. Aren't you?"

Another shrug. "It will be nice to see Mother, and to sleep in a real bed, and maybe get a little time off."

"And meet yet another brother?" Strange to think that he had been only a possibility when they left, and they would return to find little Cai, known so far only through letters, already approaching six months old. Royston had been the youngest since Carlton had died, over seven years before, but no longer; again, he was in the middle.

"I thought I had more than my fair share already."

Royston reached over and shoved him, but quickly grew serious again. "But there are... there are reason you don't want to go home?"

Larkin was a long time answering. He stared at the distant fires and drank down the rest of his wine, more slowly now. The dim light seemed to age him -- the sharp lines of his long face grew even sharper as shadows pooled around them, and his dirty blond hair looked white and thin. He ran his hand through it and sighed. "It's not really like that. It's just... there are always things you'll miss, things you know won't be the same even if you can come back some day. Home will feel different. And there are the days when..."

"When what?"

Another pause; another sigh. "When you realize that you long for here again just as much as you once longed for home."