The brush rustled again, and there was more grunting, louder this time. Then suddenly— “By the gods!” Marcus looked back and met Lael’s astonished glance. “Drat these brambles!” said the voice. Clovis crept up to them. “A talking deer?” he asked. One final, violent shudder of the brush was followed by the sound of fabric tearing. A man emerged, examining the ragged hole at the hem of his robe. “Of all the trials the gods could send, they send me bushes with thorns! Can’t a man relieve himself without getting ensnared? How am I to mend this?” Marcus lowered his knife. “Grandfather?” Zyll glanced up and, at the sight of Marcus and his companions, immediately forgot about his robe. “Marcus, my boy!” he said, approaching with arms extended. Marcus ran to his grandfather and threw his arms around him. “Well, well,” said Zyll, peering at him over the rim of his spectacles. “Seems you’ve recovered nicely. But I must scold you for following me. I told you not to—”
