Rulan had expected more anger. He'd expected to be called names and spat upon, or at least a demand to undo what had been done. But what he saw instead was a glisten in the young prince's eye and a dejected waver in his voice. The Casseion could have thrived on a shouting match or a fistfight, but [i]this[/i] was something he could scarcely deal with.

His expression darkened; he drew the cloak closer around himself. "You're in a bid to be king, aren't you?" he asked articulately, almost hissing. "That's why you want the feather: someone's sent you for it, and hasn't told you what it's for. You're so easily manipulated I'm shocked you haven't been assassinated -- not that anyone would bother. If I had less of a heart you'd have been eaten an hour ago. You wouldn't make it home without me, and I'm embarrassed to be seen with you, but as long as I'm stuck with you I won't stand for any more sniveling or whining. Stand up straight," he barked, "and lead the way."

He decided then and there that he would make a king out of Cyrus, whatever it took. Rulan could not spend the rest of his life in such miserable, inept company. If Cyrus truly was a prince with a real claim on the throne, then he should be made to earn it. Rulan would much rather stand by the side of a competent king than a weak-hearted prince.