Many heartfelt thanks to Confusedknight for your wonderful review! This is a shorter section, but hopefully still enjoyable :P.

All That Glitters

All that glitters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold. – The Merchant of Venice

"Is that the last of them?"

"Yes sir, it is," Kel replied, shading her eyes against the bright mid-morning sun. Down the short, winding road to the village below, the final wagonload of recovering invalids were being returned to their homes. The last of the sickness had passed; the quarantine was over, and Cavall manor was empty again. It felt strange, after so long, to have none but the servants to occupy the vast network of rooms and passages, but also strangely welcome. There would be no more midnight rounds to make, no more soiled bedding to wash, no more trays to bring up, no more medicines to force down unwilling throats. In the air was the crisp taste of late autumn, cleansing everything it touched. The trees were a brilliant riot of color, the hills rolling with it like a whispering, rustling wildfire, and they filled the air with the heady scent of preparation for a long winter's sleep.

Beside her, Wyldon stood braced on steady legs, thumbs hooked into his belt and brow furrowed as he surveyed the landscape. He was completely healed, back to being the Lord of the fief, and Kel found that something fundamental had changed between this, now, and the weeks before his illness. She had seen him at his most vulnerable, and the world had not ended. He did not resent her handling of his fief, or that she had witnessed his weakest moments, when he called her by his dead wife's name. Somehow, the last vestiges of master and pupil, commander and subordinate, had dissolved completely, leaving behind two people who liked and respected one another deeply.

She liked the feeling.

He turned to her, eyes crinkling at the corners. His crow's-feet were like fine spider webs, deeply carved from use and weather, and the pink pucker of the scar at his temple did nothing to interrupt the way he smiled. She'd learned early on that he smiled with his eyes more often than his mouth, and it always drew out a slight smile of her own.

"What's so funny, milord?" she inquired, lifting her eyebrows to hide the answering fold of her lashes.

He waved a dismissive hand. "I was only considering that one of the reasons you came to my fief was to learn how to train your horse, and you've done hardly any of it. What with bandits and illness and harvest, we've had little time to devote to poor Socrates."

"He's a bit young for formal training, isn't he?"

"Not at all. It'll be another ten months until he's ready to be weaned, but he'll be a rollicking stallion before you know it, with little memory of your visits. You must spend some time each day with him, impressing yourself on his mind as mistress and lifelong companion." He crooked imperious fingers. "Come, let us see how your philosopher fares."

She trotted after him obediently, keeping a surreptitious eye on his lengthy stride. However, he didn't falter once, and she allowed herself to catch up to him as they passed into the stables. Here they air was sweet and heavy with horse-scent and hay. Dust motes floated lazily from floor to rafters in their constant journeying; breathing deeply, Kel was rewarded with several violent sneezes, one after the other.

"Mithros bless," Wyldon said immediately, raising his eyebrows. "That was quite impressive. Don't tell me you're coming down with something, too."

"I'm fine," she retorted, scrubbing her nose with the back of her sleeve. "Just dust."

They had resumed their progress down the lane, dodging the occasional hostler at his duties, when a small white form leaped out from the tack room to greet them. Jump, barking furiously, tongue lolling and tail awag, placed his paws on Wyldon's knees and proceeded to lick his hands thoroughly.

"I think he missed you," Kel observed, hiding laughter at the other knight's bewilderment. "Deirdre refused to let him in your room while you were ill, and Jump hated it."

"Well," he began, and stopped, crouching down on his haunches to run his hands over the dog's scarred hide. He seemed so surprised and touched that Kel held her tongue as the two old warriors got reacquainted.

It was almost funny, she thought, how similar they were. Jump, with his tail broken, ear torn, and various battle scars rippling beneath his fur, was the picture of an old battered foot soldier. Wyldon, with the only visible scar the one at his temple, looked more like a slightly weathered commander with little battle experience. But she was certain that beneath his fine tunic and easy gait, he had his own collection of scars. How many old wounds besides the hurrok's mementos ached in cold weather? She had a vague memory of seeing an impressive slash across his back, possibly from a Scanran battle-axe, beneath his water-soaked shirt that unbearably hot day in the stables. It was only one of many, she was certain. And yet, also like her incorrigible dog, he too continued to serve the realm with all of his considerable skill as a knight and a commander.

He stood suddenly, breaking her from her musings as he brushed his hands off on his breeches. "Come on then, Mindelan," he said cheerfully. "No more interruptions. I'll see you train this colt if it's the last thing I do."

"Yes sir," she murmured, trying not to laugh at his boyish attitude. For all his age and dignity, he seemed much younger and more carefree in this setting. Appearances, she knew, weren't everything; but it seemed especially true when applied to Wyldon of Cavall.