"The god of the North Wind. What isn't elegant and regal about that," he retorts, unable to avoid the small grin that spreads on his face, "Valor is something a little girl names her plastic, pollypocket ponies."

It hurts, to talk about horses, knowing that his white steed might as well be food for sandworms. As silly as it sounds, Amory has always seen his horse as one sees a human companion.

He sends two glasses sliding across the counter and over to a customer.

"When?"