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A lake, perhaps, or a stream… …or a creek… Doesn’t matter.

He pulled the reins to get the horse off the beaten path and spurred him toward the trees. The animal snarled unhappily, his head jerking, but he obeyed.

In a couple of minutes, they were at the edge of the forest.

The shadows, rare at first, gradually thickened, bringing a welcome relief from the heat, if only for a short time: the beechwoods were a rather narrow grove, skirting, as he supposed, a small lake, five hundred feet across.

He literally jumped off his horse and rushed to the water, throwing off his clothes as he went: in a moment the worn pants, the sweaty linen shirt, the embroidered vest, and the boots lay on the shore in a slovenly heap. The traveler immediately dove headlong into the cool waves, confidently cutting the water with sweeping strokes, swam almost a third of the lake and came back. Reluctantly getting out on the ground, Lendun made sure that the horse was still there. He was a fine beast, no doubt: Zhimbar had taught him not to drink without a master. The boy came closer, stroked the steep black side. Firs snorted again, squinting dark blue eyes.