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Degas smiled a little with his eyes, amused by the child. Saeryn was just like her at that age. They even looked a bit alike, except that Saeryn's hair was dark red instead of blond.
He saddled up Gleowyn and paused on his way past Leta's stall, unfastening his belt purse. This particular one contained nothing but treats; he had grabbed it from his things en route to the stable. He fastened it to Leta's stall door, out of reach of her questing nose, right where Ędre could find it. Nobody would bother it, most likely assuming Ędre herself had put it there.
As he led Gleowyn out the far door and off in the direction of the Scar, he shook his head, but not angrily. The girl was charming, in an awkward way. He hoped she would find the bag soon. She looked as though she could use some cheering up. Once away from the buildings and the people, Degas let Gleowyn break into a trot, and then a canter, enjoying the wind in his hair. Though they had ridden here, and though Gleowyn had not been neglected, little of Degas's time recently had been spent riding for the sheer pleasure of the sensation of flying. Too busy farming, he thought a little ruefully. But then he distracted himself by steering Gleowyn toward a large, broad boulder, and he stood a little in his stirrups, leaning back, and she took the boulder with a long leap, landing gracefully, whinnying, enjoying the exercise easily as much as her master did.
She slowed and frolicked, and he let her, taking the time to move without thinking, one with his horse, one with the wind that came today from the west, blowing along the cold mountains. His hands were cold, but the rest of him was warm, his movement countering the chill of approaching winter.
The sky was blue. The grass was thick and lush. Any problems at home or at Scarburg were, for now, of no matter.
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