The horse he had reins on was not Dante, and it was slower. The grey palfrey was old, and it would take almost a week for him to reach the Locke house.
He didn't take rooms in any inns. He didn't change his clothes as Connor had instructed. He slept on the road, by the woods, and over his horse. The nights were cold and miserable, but he used that misery.
This misery was all their fault.
Riley had now camped near a river, and a charred fire sat beside him. "I am sorry, ma," he whispered to the night, and a tear rolled down from his eyes in his sleep.
Seven years ago, he had run from his house, in pursuit of being an adventurer. A memory stirred inside him, calling him into his dreams, and when he tried to remember it in his wake, he was unable to. It seemed important, but it was as if his mind was locking it inside him.
Sometimes in this journey, he did wonder; was this misery really their fault?
