River Age

“Better,” he said. “Listens-to-Wind is a good kid, was helping shield me from all that”—he lifted a hand and flicked it around the side of his head, as if having difficulty putting a concept into words —“noise. But he’s got duties of his own tonight.”
A good kid?
“How old are you, exactly?” I asked.
River Shoulders put on a serious expression, exaggerated his northern, Native American accent, and said, “Many moons.” He shrugged, returning to his usual tone. “Tough to keep track sometimes. Was born on the walk across the ice. Not much food at first. Probably why I grew up puny. Figure I’m about middle age.”
Which, presumably, made him approximately the same age as the tale of Beowulf. That made him better than a thousand years old. Minimum.
No wonder he could do things with magic I’d never seen before.


Peace Talks Chapter 21, Page 205