KATHARINE KERR
THE GOLD FALCON
Book Four of The Dragon Mage

COPYRIGHT

Voyager

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Voyager 2006

Copyright © Katharine Kerr 2006

Katharine Kerr asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780007128723

Ebook Edition © JULY 2014 ISBN: 9780007371150

Version: 2014–08–08

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Note

The Poisoned Root Of It All

Arcodd Province Summer, 1159

Keep Reading

Glossary

Appendices

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

DEDICATION

For Peg Strub, M.D.,

whose sharp eyes saved my life.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I seem to have inadvertently caused some confusion among readers of this series by my system of subtitles for the various volumes in it. All of the Deverry books are part of one long story, divided into four ‘acts’, as it were. Here’s the correct order:

Act One: Daggerspell, Darkspell, Dawnspell, Dragonspell.

Act Two, or ‘The Westlands’: A Time of Exile, A Time of Omens, A Time of War, A Time of Justice.

Act Three, or ‘The Dragon Mage’: The Red Wyvern, The Black Raven, The Fire Dragon, The Gold Falcon.

There will be two more books to be published soon: The Spirit Stone, The Shadow Isle.

THE POISONED ROOT OF IT ALL

In the year 643, deep in the Dark Ages of the kingdom of Deverry, a loose coalition of clans allied with the few merchants and craft guilds that existed at that time put a new and unstable dynasty on the throne of the high king. In those wars the Falcon clan lost most of its men, noble-born and commoners both. In gratitude the king betrothed his third son, Galrion, to the last daughter of the Falcon, Brangwen. But her brother, Lord Gerraent, loved her far more than a brother should, and Prince Galrion loved the magical dweomer power more than he did his betrothed. When Galrion broke off the betrothal, his father the king banished him from the royal line forever. The prince took the name of Nevyn, which means ‘no one’ in the Deverrian tongue, and went off to study the dweomer with the master who had hoped to teach his craft to Galrion and Brangwen both.

As for Brangwen, left heartsick and shamed, she fell into her brother’s arms and bed. Soon enough, she was with child. Only then did Nevyn realize how greatly he loved her and how badly he’d failed her. Although he tried to get her away from her brother, he failed to stop the inevitable tragedy. When she drowned herself in shame, at her grave he swore a rash vow. Once she was reborn again on the wheel of life and death, he ‘would never rest’ until he put right the evil he’d done, by bringing her to the dweomer power which should have been hers. Little did he realize that fulfilling this vow would take him four hundred years of a single dweomer-touched lifetime, while the other actors in their tragedy were reborn and died again and again.

During his long life other souls would find themselves tangled in the chains of his and Brangwen’s wyrd (fate or karma). Some were people he helped; others became his enemies. Nevyn took apprentices, such as Aderyn and Lilli, and made contact with other masters of the dweomer, such as Dallandra, one of the Westfolk, elven nomads who wander the plains to the west of Deverry proper.

Eventually Brangwen was reborn as Jill, the daughter of a mercenary soldier named Cullyn of Cerrmor and of Seryan, a tavern lass. After more than a few adventures she finally saw her true destiny and went with Nevyn to study the dweomer as she should have done all those years before. Only then could Nevyn die.

Jill outlived him by many years. With the help of the elven dweomermaster, Dallandra, and her bizarre lover, Evandar, a powerful soul who had never been incarnated at all, Jill captained the first war against the savage Horsekin and their so-called goddess, Alshandra. In truth, Alshandra was a mortal spirit, though one of immense magical power, and in the end Jill managed to kill her, though she went to her death as well. One of those Jill left behind was the man she’d loved in her youth, the half-mad berserker Rhodry Maelwaedd, whose wyrd turned out to be something stranger than even a great master of the dweomer could have imagined.

For over fifty years, Dallandra and the Westfolk have stayed on guard against the Horsekin and the cult of their false goddess. Although Alshandra is dead, the religion she left behind lives on. Dallandra has also been doing her best to shepherd the other souls bound by wyrd to her, and ultimately to Jill and Nevyn, while she continues her own dweomerwork and serving her people. But now, on the border between Deverry and the Westfolk lands, the winds of change are blowing, and they are ill winds indeed …

Arcodd Province Summer, 1159

The ancient Greggyn sage, Heraclidd, tells us that no man steps in the same river twice. Time itself is a river. When a man dies, he leaves the river behind, only to cross it again at the moment of birth. But betwixt times, the river has flowed on.

The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

Neb strode across the kitchen and stood next to the window, no more than a hole cut in the wall, open to the smell of mud and cows. Still, he found the air cleaner than that inside. Smoke rose from damp wood at the hearth in the middle of the floor and swirled through the half-round of a room before it oozed out of the chinks and cracks in the walls. Aunt Mauva knelt at the hearth and slapped flat rounds of dough onto the griddle stone. The oatcakes puffed and steamed. Neb heard his stomach rumble, and Clae, his young brother, took a step towards their aunt-by-marriage.

‘Wait your turn!’ she snapped. Her blue eyes narrowed in her bony face, and strands of dirty red hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat. ‘Your uncle and me eats first.’

‘Give that batch to the lads.’ Uncle Brwn was sitting at the plank table, a tankard of ale in his hand. ‘They’ve been pulling stones out of the west field all day, and that watery porridge you dished out this morning was scant.’

‘Scant? Scant, was it?’ Mauva turned and rose in one smooth motion. ‘You’ve got your bloody gall! Dumping more mouths to feed into my lap –’

Brwn slammed the tankard down and lurched to his feet. ‘You miserly barren slut! You should thank the gods for sending you my nephews.’

Mauva squealed and charged, waving her fists in the air. Uncle Brwn grabbed her by the wrists and held on until she stopped squirming. He pushed her back, then set his thick and calloused hands on his hips, but before he could speak, she shoved her face up under his, and they were off again, screaming at each other, sometimes with curses, more often with meaningless grunts and squeals. Neb knelt down by the hearth, found a thin splint of wood, and flipped the oatcakes over before they burned.

‘Get somewhat to carry these,’ he hissed at Clae.

Clae glanced around the kitchen. On the sideboard stood an old flat basket; he grabbed it and held it up. Neb nodded, and Clae brought the basket over. Neb flipped the cooked cakes into the basket – three apiece. Little enough, but they would have to do. His screeching kin might quiet down before he could cook another batch. He stood up, grabbed the basket from Clae, and slipped out the back door. Clae followed, and together they slogged across the muddy farmyard and dodged around the dungheap. Skinny chickens came clucking, heads high and hopeful.

‘Forgive me,’ Neb said. ‘There’s barely enough for us.’

A packed earth wall surrounded house, barn, and farmyard. They hurried through the gate and trotted around the outside of the wall, where an apple tree stood to offer them some shade. They sat down, grabbed the still-warm cakes, and gobbled them before Mauva could come and take them back. Above them little apples bobbed among the leaves, still too green, no matter how hungry they were. Clae swallowed the last bit of cake and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

‘Neb?’ he said. ‘I wish Mam hadn’t died.’

‘So do I, but wishing won’t bring her back.’

‘I know. Why does Uncle Brwn put up with Mauva?’

‘Because she lets him drink all the ale he wants. Are you still hungry?’

‘I am.’ Clae sounded on the edge of tears.

‘Down by the river we can find berries.’

‘If she finds us gone she’ll make Uncle beat us.’

‘I’ll think of some way to get out of it. If we get back late enough, they’ll both be drunk.’

Brwn’s farm, the last steading on the Great West Road, lay a mile beyond the last village. No one saw the boys as they hurried across the west field and jumped over the half-finished stone wall into the wild meadow. It was a lovely warm afternoon, and the slanted light lay as thick as honey on the green rolling pasture land. Tinged with yellow clay, the river Melyn churned and bubbled over boulders. All along its grassy banks stood mounds of redberry canes, heavy with fruit, sweet from a long hot day. The boys gorged themselves, drank river water, and stuffed in a few more handfuls of berries. Clae would have eaten still more, but Neb stopped him.

‘You don’t want the runs, do you?’

‘I don’t, truly, but oh, it’s so good not be hungry.’

They sat down in the warm grass and watched the river gleam like gold in the afternoon light, gliding along south to join the great rivers of the kingdom of Deverry – or so they’d always been told. They’d spent their entire lives here in Arcodd province. Off to their east stretched half-settled farmland; to the west and north, wild country. Far away south from their rough frontier lay the rich fields of the centre of the kingdom and the fabled city of Dun Deverry, where the high king lived in a reputedly splendid palace.

When Neb turned to the north, he could see, about half a mile away, the smooth rise of pale tan cliff that separated this valley from the high plateau beyond. The river tumbled down in a spray of white laced with rainbows. Above, the primeval forest, all tangled pines and scruffy underbrush, stood poised at the cliff edge like a green flood, ready to pour over the valley.

‘Neb?’ Clae said. ‘Can we go look at the waterfall? Can we go up to the top?’

‘I don’t think so. We don’t want to be caught up there in the dark.’

‘I guess not. Well, maybe Aunt Mauva will be drunk soon.’

Materializing as silently and suddenly as always, the Wildfolk appeared. Knee-high grey gnomes, all warts and spindly limbs, clustered around the two boys. In the air blue sprites flew back and forth, wringing their tiny hands, opening tiny mouths to reveal their needle-sharp fangs. At the river’s edge undines rose up, as sleek as otters but with silver fur. The gnomes grabbed the sleeves of Neb’s torn shirt and pulled on them while the sprites darted back and forth. They would start north towards the waterfall, then swoop back to buzz around the lads like flies. A big yellow gnome, Neb’s favourite, grabbed his hand and tugged.

Clae saw none of this, because he was pawing through the grass. Finally he picked out a bit of stick and began chewing on it.

‘Get that out of your mouth,’ Neb said. ‘And come on, we’re going to have a look at the waterfall after all.’

Clae grinned and tossed the stick into the river. An undine caught it, bowed, and disappeared into foam.

In a crowd of Wildfolk the two boys headed upstream, following a grassy path beside the noisy river. Now and then Clae seemed to feel the presence of the gnomes. When one of them brushed against him, he would look down, then shrug as if dismissing the sensation. For as long as he could remember Neb had seen the Wildfolk, but no one else in his family had the gift of the Sight. He’d learned early to keep his gifts to himself. Any mention of Wildfolk had exasperated his literal-minded mother and made the other children in town mock and tease him.

The two boys followed the river to the white water churning around fallen boulders. They panted up the steep path that zigzagged along the cliff face, then turned to look back. Under a black plume the distant village was burning. Neb stared, unable to comprehend, unable to scream, merely stared as the bright flower of flame poured black smoke into the sky. Little people, the size of red ants from their vantage point, scurried around and waved their arms. Larger ants chased them and waved things that winked metallic in the sun. A cluster of horses, the size of flies, stood on the far side of the village bridge. The farm – it too burned, a blossom of deadly gold among the green meadows. Two horses and riders circled the earthen wall.

‘Raiders!’ Clae’s voice was a breathy sob. ‘Oh Neb! Horsekin!’

Overhead a raven shrieked, as if answering him. The two riders suddenly turned their horses away from the farmstead. They broke into a gallop and headed upstream for the waterfall.

‘Into the forest!’ Neb said. ‘We’ve got to hide!’

They raced across the grassy cliff top, plunged into the forest, and ran panting and crashing through the underbrush among the pines and brambles. Twigs and thorns caught and tore his shirt and brigga, but Neb drove his brother before him like a frightened sheep until at last they could run no more. They burrowed into a thick patch of shrubs and clung together. If the slavers caught them, they would geld Clae like a steer. And they’d kill me, Neb thought. I’m old enough to cause trouble.

Neb could see nothing in the tangled mass of forest. He could hear only the waterfall, plunging down over rock. Had they run far enough? Voices – Neb thought he heard voices, deep ones, muttering in what sounded like anger, then a crash and a jingle, very faint, as if someone had dropped something metallic on to a rock. He heard a shout that turned to a scream. Clae stiffened and opened his mouth. Neb clapped a hand over it before he could speak.

Whether voices or not, the sounds died away, leaving only the chatter of the waterfall to disturb the silence. Slowly the normal noises of a forest picked up, the distant rustles of small animals, the chirping of birds. The yellow gnome appeared to perch in a nearby bush and grin. It patted its stomach as if pleased with itself, then disappeared. Slowly, too, the grey twilight deepened into a velvety night. They were safe for now, but on the morrow in the sunlight the Horsekin might return to search the woods. Neb realized that he and Clae had best be gone as soon as it was light enough to see.

Eventually Clae squirmed into his brother’s lap like a child half his size and fell asleep. Neb drowsed, but every snap of a twig, cry of an owl, or rustle of wind woke him in startled terror. When at last the grey dawn came, he felt as stiff and cold as an old man. Clae woke in tears, crying out at his memories.

‘Hush, hush,’ Neb said, but he felt like weeping himself. ‘Now we have to think. We don’t have a cursed bite to eat, and we’d best find something.’

‘We can’t go down to the river. If the Horsekin are still there, they’ll smell us out.’

‘They’ll what?’

‘Smell us out. They can do that.’

‘How do you know?’

Clae started to answer, then looked away, visibly puzzled. ‘Someone must have told me,’ he said at last.

‘Well, we’ve heard plenty of tales about the Horsekin, sure enough. Speaking of noses, wipe yours on your sleeve, will you?’

Clae obliged. ‘I never thought I’d miss Uncle Brwn,’ he said, then began to weep in a silent trickle of tears. Our uncle’s dead, Neb thought. The last person who would take us in, even if he was a sot.

‘We’re going to walk east,’ Neb said. ‘We’ll follow the rising sun so we won’t get lost. On the other side of the forest, we’ll find a village. It’s a long way, so you’ll have to be brave.’

‘But Neb?’ Clae said. ‘What will we eat?’

‘Oh, berries and birds’ eggs and herbs.’ Neb made his voice as strong and cheery as he could. ‘There’s always lots to eat in summer.’

He was, of course, being ridiculously optimistic. The birds’ eggs had long since hatched; few berry bushes grew in forest shade. At every step the forest itself blocked their way with ferns and shrubs, tangled between the trees. They had to push their way through, creeping uphill and hurrying down as they searched for the few herbs that would feed, not poison them. Water at least they had; they came across a good many rivulets trickling down to join the Melyn. By sundown, Clae could not make himself stop weeping. They made a nest among low-growing shrubs, where Neb rocked him to sleep like a baby.

As he watched the shadows darken around them, Neb realized that they were going to die. He had no idea of how far the forest stretched. Were they going straight east? Trying to follow the sun among trees might have them wandering around in circles. You can’t give up, he told himself. He’d promised his dying mother that he’d keep Clae safe. The one concern he could allow himself now was keeping them both alive. He fell asleep to dream of sitting at his mother’s table and watching her pile bread and beef onto the trencher he shared with Clae.

In the morning, Neb woke with a start. A gaggle of gnomes stood around them as if they were standing guard, while sprites floated overhead. The yellow gnome materialized and stood pointing to its stomach.

‘Do you know where there’s food?’ Neb whispered.

The gnome nodded and pointed off into the forest.

‘Can you show me where it is?’

Again the gnome nodded. When Neb shook him, Clae woke with a howl and a scatter of tears. He slid off Neb’s lap and screwed his fists into his eyes.

‘Time to get on the road,’ Neb said with as much cheer as he could muster. ‘I’ve got the feeling we’re going to be lucky today.’

‘My feet hurt. I can’t walk any more.’ Clae lowered his hands. ‘I’ll just die here.’

‘You won’t do any such thing. Here, stick out your legs. One at a time! I’ll wrap the swaddling for you.’

With the rags bound tight against his feet, Clae managed to keep walking. As they beat their way through fern and thistle, the Wildfolk led the boys straight into the forest, dodging around the black-barked pines and trampling through green ferns. Neb was beginning to wonder if the gnomes knew where they were going when he realized that up ahead the light was growing brighter. The trees grew farther apart, and the underbrush thinned. A few more yards, and they stepped out into a clearing, where a mass of redberry canes grew in a mound. Clae rushed forward and was already stuffing his mouth when Neb caught up with him. Neb mumbled a prayer of thanks to the gods, then began plucking every berry he could reach.

Red juice like gore stained their hands and faces by the time they forced themselves to stop. Neb was considering finding a stream to wash in when the yellow gnome appeared again. It grabbed his shirt with one little hand and with the other pointed to the far side of the clearing. When Neb took a few steps that way, he realized that he could hear running water.

‘There’s a stream or suchlike over yonder,’ Neb said to Clae. ‘We’ll go that way.’

The gnome smiled and nodded its head. Other Wildfolk appeared and surrounded them as they crossed the clearing. They worked their way through forest cover for about a hundred yards before they found the stream, and, just beyond that, a marvel: a dirt road, curving through the trees. When Neb sighted along it, it seemed to run roughly east.

‘I never knew this road was here,’ Clae said.

‘No more did I,’ Neb said.

‘I wonder where it goes to? There’s naught out to the west of here.’

‘Doesn’t matter. We can walk faster now, and a road means people must have made it.’

‘But what about the raiders?’ Clae looked nervously around him. ‘They’ll follow the road and get us.’

‘They won’t,’ Neb said firmly. ‘They’ve got those huge horses, so they can’t ride through the wild woods. They’ll never get as far as this road.’

Neb insisted they wash their hands before they scooped up drinking water in them. When they finished, he pulled up a handful of grass, soaked it, and cleaned the snot and berry juice off Clae’s face.

All that day they tried to ignore their hunger and make speed, but now and again the road dipped into shallow ravines or swung wide around a mound or spur of naked rock – no easy travelling. As far as Neb could tell, however, it continued to run east towards safety. Around noon, the forest thinned out along a stream, where they found a few more berries and a patch of wood sorrel they could graze like deer. Then it was back on the road to stumble along, exhausted. Neb began to lose hope, but the sprites fluttered ahead of them, and the yellow gnome kept beckoning them onward.

Towards sunset, Neb saw thin tendrils of pale blue smoke drifting far ahead. He froze and grabbed Clae’s arm.

‘Back into the trees,’ he whispered.

Clae took a deep breath and fought back tears. ‘Do we have to go back to the forest? I’m all scratched up from the thistles and suchlike.’

The yellow gnome hopped up and down, shaking its head.

‘We can’t stay on the road,’ Neb said.

‘Oh, please?’

The gnome nodded a violent yes.

‘Very well.’ Neb gave in to both of them. ‘We’ll stick to the road for a bit.’

‘My thanks,’ Clae said. ‘I’m so tired.’

The gnome smiled, then turned and danced along the road, leading the way. In about a quarter of a mile, off to the left of the road, the forest gave way to another clearing. In the tall grass two horses grazed at tether, a slender grey like a lady’s palfrey and a stocky dun packhorse. Beyond them the plume of smoke rose up. Neb hesitated, trying to decide whether to run or go forward. The wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of soda bread, baking on a griddle. Clae whimpered.

‘All right, we’ll go on,’ Neb said. ‘But carefully now. If I tell you to run, you head for the forest.’

A few yards more brought them close enough to hear a man singing, a pleasant tenor voice that picked up snatches of songs, then idly dropped them again.

‘No Horsekin would sing like that,’ Neb said.

The yellow gnome grinned and nodded his agreement.

Another turn of the road brought them to a camp and its owner. He was hunkering down beside the fire and baking bread on an iron griddle. On the tall side, but slender as a lad, he had hair so pale that it looked like moonlight and a face so handsome that it was almost girlish. He wore a shirt that once had been splendid, but now the bands of red and purple embroidery were worn and threadbare, and the yellow stain of old linen spread across the shoulders and back. His trousers, blue brigga cut from once-fine wool, were faded, stained, and patched here and there – a rough-looking fellow, but the gnomes rushed into his camp without a trace of fear. He stood up and looked around, saw Neb and Clae, and mugged amazement.

‘What’s all this?’ he said. ‘Come over here, you two! You look half-starved and scared to death. What’s happened?’

‘Raiders,’ Neb stammered. ‘Horsekin burned my uncle’s farm and the village. Me and my brother got away.’

‘By the gods! You’re safe now – I swear it. You’ve got naught to fear from me.’

The yellow gnome grinned, leapt into the air, and vanished. As the two boys walked over, the stranger knelt again at the fire, where an iron griddle balanced on rocks. Clae sat down nearby with a grunt of exhaustion, his eyes fixed on the soda bread, but Neb stood for a moment, looking around him. Scattered by the fire were saddlebags and pack panniers stuffed with gear and provisions.

‘I’m Neb and this is Clae,’ Neb said. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘Well, you may call me Salamander,’ the stranger said. ‘My real name is so long that no one can ever say it properly. As to what I’m doing, I’m having dinner. Come join me.’

Shamelessly Neb and Clae wolfed down chunks of warm bread. Salamander rummaged through saddlebags of fine pale leather, found some cheese wrapped in clean cloth, and cut them slices with a dagger. While they ate the cheese, he bustled around, getting out a small sack of flour, a silver spoon, a little wooden box of the precious soda and a water-skin. He knelt down to mix up another batch of bread, kneading it in an iron pot, then slapped it into a thin cake right on the griddle with his oddly long and slender fingers.

‘Now, you two had best settle your stomachs before you eat anything more,’ he said. ‘You’ll only get sick if you eat too much after starving.’

‘True spoken,’ Neb said. ‘Oh ye gods, my thanks. May the gods give you every happiness in life for this.’

‘Nicely spoken, lad.’ Salamander looked up, glancing his way.

His eyes were grey, a common colour in this part of the country, and a perfectly ordinary shape, but all at once Neb couldn’t look away from them. I know him, he thought. I’ve met him – I couldn’t have met him. Salamander tilted his head to one side and returned the stare, then sat back on his heels, his smile gone. Neb could have sworn that Salamander recognized him as well. The silence held until Salamander looked away.

‘Tell me about the raid,’ he said abruptly. ‘Where are you from?’

‘The last farm on the Great West Road,’ Neb said, ‘but we’ve not lived there long. When our mam died, we had to go live with our uncle. Before that we lived in Trev Hael. My da was a scribe, but he died, too. Before Mam, I mean.’

‘Last year, was it? I heard that there was some sort of powerful illness in your town. An inflammation of the bowels, is what I heard, with fever.’

‘It was, and a terrible bad fever, too. I had a touch of it, but Da died of it, and our little sister did, too. Mam wore herself out, I think, nursing them, and then this spring, when it was so damp and chill –’ Neb felt tears welling in his voice.

‘You don’t need to say more,’ Salamander said. ‘That’s a sad thing all round. How old are you, lad? Do you know?’

‘I do. Da always kept count. I’m sixteen, and my brother is eight.’

‘Sixteen, is it? Huh.’ Salamander seemed to be counting something out in his mind. ‘I’m surprised your father didn’t marry you off years ago.’

‘It wasn’t for want of trying. He and the town matchmaker just never seemed to find the right lass.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Salamander pointed and smiled. ‘Look, your brother’s asleep.’

Clae had curled up right on the ground, and indeed he was asleep, open-mouthed and limp.

‘Just as well,’ Neb said. ‘He’ll not have to listen to the tale this way.’

Neb told the story of their last day on the farm and their escape as clearly as he could. When he rambled to a stop, Salamander said nothing for a long moment. He looked sad, and so deeply weary that Neb wondered how he could ever have thought him young.

‘What made you go look at the waterfall?’ Salamander asked.

‘Oh, just a whim.’

The yellow gnome materialized, gave Neb a sour look, then climbed into his lap like a cat. Salamander pointed to the gnome with his cooking spoon.

‘It’s more likely he warned you,’ Salamander said. ‘He led you here, after all.’

Neb found he couldn’t speak. Someone else with the Sight! He’d always hoped for such. The irony of the bitter circumstances in which he’d had his hope fulfilled struck him hard.

‘Did anyone see you up on the cliff?’ Salamander went on.

‘I think so. Two Horsekin rode our way, but they were too far away for me to see if they were pointing at us or suchlike. We ran into the forest and hid.’ Neb paused, remembering. ‘I thought I heard voices, but the waterfall was so loud, it was hard to tell. There was a scream, too. It almost sounded like someone fell off the cliff.’

The yellow gnome began to clap its hands and dance in a little circle.

‘Here!’ Salamander said to it. ‘You and your lads didn’t push that Horsekin down the cliff, did you?’

The gnome stopped dancing, grinned, and nodded. Salamander, however, looked grim.

‘Is he dead?’ Salamander said.

The gnome nodded yes, then disappeared.

‘Ye gods!’ Neb could hear how feeble his own voice sounded. ‘I always thought of them like little pet birds or puppies. Sweet little creatures, that is.’

‘Never ever make that mistake again! They’re not called the Wildfolk for naught.’

‘I won’t, I can promise you that!’ Neb paused, struck by his sudden thought. ‘They saved our lives. If that Horsekin had got up to the top of the cliff …’ His voice deserted him.

‘He would have found you, truly. They have noses as keen as dogs’.’

‘Well, that’s one up for Clae, then. He told me that. But sir, the Wildfolk – what are they?’

‘Sir, am I?’ Salamander grinned at him. ‘No need for courtesies, lad. You have the same odd gift that I do, after all. As to what they are, do you know what an elemental spirit is?’

‘I don’t. I mean, everyone knows what spirits are, but I’ve not heard the word elemental before.’

‘Well, it’s a long thing to explain, but –’ Salamander stopped abruptly.

With a whimper Clae woke and sat up, stretching his arms over his head. Conversation about the Wildfolk would have to wait. Salamander flipped the griddle cake over with the handle of the spoon before he spoke again.

‘May the Horsekins’ hairy balls freeze off when they sink to the lowest hell,’ Salamander said. ‘But I don’t want to wait that long for justice. Allow me to offer you lads my protection, such as it is. I’ll escort you east, where we shall find both safety and revenge.’

‘My thanks! I’m truly grateful.’

Salamander smiled, and at that moment he looked young again, barely a twenty’s worth of years.

‘But sir?’ Clae said with a yawn. ‘Who are you? What are you really?’

‘Really?’ Salamander raised one pale eyebrow. ‘Well, lad, when it comes to me, there’s no such thing as really, because I’m a mountebank, a travelling minstrel, a storyteller, who deals in nothing but lies, jests, and the most blatant illusions. I am, in short, a gerthddyn, who wanders around parting honest folk from their coin in return for a few brief hours in the land of never-was, never-will-be. I can also juggle, make scarves appear out of thin air, and once, in my greatest moment, I plucked a sparrow out of the hat of a fat merchant.’

Clae giggled and sat up a bit straighter.

‘Later,’ Salamander went on, ‘after I’ve eaten, I shall tell you a story that will drive all thoughts of those cursed raiders out of your head, so that you may go to sleep when your most esteemed brother tells you to. I’m very good at driving away evil thoughts.’

‘My thanks,’ Neb said. ‘Truly, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for all of this.’

‘No payment needed.’ Salamander made a little bob of a bow. ‘Why should I ask for payment, when I never do an honest day’s work?’

Just as twilight was darkening into night, Salamander built up the fire and settled in to tell the promised story, which fascinated Neb as much as it did young Clae. Salamander swept them away to a far-off land where great sorcerers fought with greedy dragons over treasure, then told them of a prince who was questing for a gem that had magic, or dweomer, as Salamander called it. He played all the parts, his voice lilting for the beautiful princess, snarling for the evil sorcerer, rumbling for the mighty king. Every now and then, he sang a song as part of the tale, his beautiful voice harmonizing with the wind in the trees. By the time the stone was found, and the prince and princess safely married, Clae was smiling.

‘Oh, I want there to be real dweomer gems,’ Clae said. ‘And real dweomermasters, too.’

‘Do you now?’ Salamander gave him a grin. ‘Well, you never know, lad. You think about it when you’re falling asleep.’

Neb found a soft spot in the grass for his brother’s bed. He wrapped Clae up in one of the gerthddyn’s blankets and stayed with him until he was safely asleep, then rejoined Salamander at the fire.

‘A thousand thanks for amusing my brother,’ Neb said. ‘I’d gladly shower you with gold if I had any.’

‘I only wish it were so easy to soothe your heart,’ Salamander said.

‘Well, good sir, that will take some doing, truly. First we lost our hearth kin, and now our uncle. It was all so horrible at first, it had me thinking we’d escaped the raiders only to live like beggars in the streets.’

‘Now here, the folk in this part of the world aren’t so hard-hearted that they’ll let you starve. One way or another, we’ll find some provision for you and the lad.’

‘If I can get back to Trev Hael, I can make my own provision. After all, I can read and write. If naught else I can become a town letter-writer and earn our keep that way.’

‘Well, there you go! It’s a valuable skill to have.’ Salamander hesitated on the edge of a smile. ‘Provided that’s the craft you want to follow.’

‘Well, I don’t know aught else but writing and suchlike. I’m not strong enough to join a warband, and I wouldn’t want to weave or suchlike, so I don’t know what other craft there’d be for me.’

‘You don’t, eh? Well, scribing is an honourable sort of work, and there’s not many who can do it out here in Arcodd.’

Neb considered Salamander for a moment. In the dancing firelight it was hard to be sure, but he could have sworn that the gerthddyn was struggling to keep from laughing.

‘Or what about herbcraft?’ Salamander went on. ‘Have you ever thought of trying your hand at that?’

‘I did, truly. Fancy you thinking of that! When my da was still alive, I used to help the herbwoman in Trev Hael. I wrote out labels for her and suchlike, and she taught me a fair bit about the four humours and illnesses and the like. Oh, and about the four elements. Is that what you meant by elemental spirits?’

‘It is. The different sorts of Wildfolk correspond to different elements. Hmm, the herbwoman must have been surprised at how fast you learned the lore.’

‘She was. She told me once that it was like I was remembering it, not learning. How did you –’

‘Just a guess. You’re obviously a bright lad.’

Salamander was hiding something – Neb was sure of it – but probing for it might insult their benefactor. ‘Govylla, her name was,’ Neb went on. ‘She lived through the plague. Huh – I wonder if she’d take us in, Clae and me, as prentices? Well, if I can get back there. Some priests of Bel were travelling out here, you see, and so they took us to our uncle.’

‘And some might well be travelling back one fine day. But for now, we need to get the news of raiders to the right ears. I happen to have the very ears in mind. I’ve been travelling along from the east, you see, and the last place I plied my humble trade was the dun of a certain tieryn, Cadryc, noble scion of the ancient and conjoined Red Wolf clan, who’s been grafted upon the root of a new demesne out here. When I left, everyone begged me to come back again soon, so we shall see if they were sincere or merely courteous. I have a great desire to inform the honourable tieryn about these raiders. Oh, that I do, a very great desire indeed.’

As he stared into the fire, Salamander let his smile fade, his eyes darkening, his slender mouth as harsh as a warrior’s. In that moment Neb saw a different man, cold, ruthless and frightening. With a laugh the gerthddyn shrugged the mood away and began singing about lasses and spring flowers.

Down the hill behind Tieryn Cadryc’s recently built dun lay a long meadow, where the tieryn’s warband of thirty men were amusing themselves with mock combats in the last glow of a warm afternoon. Two men at a time would pick out wooden swords and wicker shields, then face off in the much-trampled grass. The rest of the troop sat in untidy lines off to either side and yelled comments and insults as the combat progressed. Gerran, the captain of the Red Wolf warband, sat off to one side with Lord Mirryn, Tieryn Cadryc’s son. Brown-haired and blue-eyed, with a liberal dusting of freckles across his broad cheekbones, Mirryn was lounging full-length, propped up on one elbow, and chewing on a long grass stem like a farmer.

‘One of these days our miserly gwerbret’s bound to set up a proper tourney,’ Mirryn said. ‘Although everyone knows you’d win it, so I doubt me if I can get anyone to wager against you.’

‘Oh here,’ Gerran said. ‘It’s not that much of a sure thing.’

‘Of course it is.’ Mirryn grinned at him. ‘False humility doesn’t become you.’

Gerran allowed himself a brief smile. Out in the meadow a new fight was starting. The rest of the warband called out jests and jeers, teasing Daumyr for his bad luck in drawing his sparring partner. Daumyr, the tallest man in the troop at well over six feet, stood grinning while he swung his wooden sword in lazy circles to limber up his arm. His opponent, Warryc, was skinny and short – but fast.

‘Ye gods, Daumyr’s got a long reach!’ Mirryn said. ‘It’s truly amazing, the way Warryc beats him every time. Huh – there must be a way we can use this at the next tourney.’

‘Use it for what?’ Gerran said.

‘Acquiring some hard coin, that’s what, by setting up a wager, getting some poor dolt to bet high on Daumyr.’

‘The very soul of honour, that’s you.’

Gerran was about to say more when he heard hoofbeats and shouting. A young page on a bay pony came galloping across the meadow.

‘My lord Mirryn! Captain Gerran!’ the page called out. ‘The tieryn wants you straightaway. There’s been a raid on the Great West Road.’

Mirryn led the warband back at the run. Up at the top of a hill, new walls of pale stone, built at the high king’s expense, circled the fort to protect the tall stone broch tower and its outbuildings. The men dashed through the great iron-bound gates, stopped in the ward to catch their collective breath, then hurried into the great hall. Sunlight fell in dusty shafts from narrow windows, cut directly into stone, and striped the huge round room with shadows. Gerran paused, letting his eyes adjust, then picked his way through the clutter of tables and benches, dogs and servants. The warband followed him, but Mirryn hurried on ahead to his father’s side. When he saw Gerran lingering behind, Mirryn waved him up with an impatient arm.

By the hearth of honour, Cadryc was pacing back and forth, a tall man, tending towards stout, with a thin band of grey hair clinging to the back of his head and a pair of ratty grey moustaches. Perched on the end of a table was the gerthddyn, Salamander. Mirryn and Gerran exchanged a look of faint disgust at the sight of him, a babbling fool in their shared opinion, with his tricks and tales. When Gerran started to kneel before the tieryn, Cadryc impatiently waved him to his feet.

‘Raiders,’ Cadryc said. ‘Didn’t the page tell you? We’re riding tomorrow at dawn, so get the men ready.’

‘Well and good, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘How far are they?’

‘Who knows, by now?’ Cadryc shook his head in frustrated rage. ‘Let’s hope they’re still looting the village.’

‘Bastards,’ Mirryn said. ‘I hope to all the gods they are. We’ll make them pay high for this.’

‘You’re staying here, lad,’ Cadryc said. ‘I’m not risking myself and my heir both.’

Mirryn flushed red, took a step forward, then shoved his hands into his brigga pockets.

‘For all we know, the raiders have set up some sort of ruse or trap,’ Cadryc went on. ‘I’ll be leaving you ten men to command on fortguard. Your foster-brother here can handle the rest well enough.’

‘Far be it from me to argue with you,’ Mirryn said. ‘Your grace.’

‘Just that – don’t argue,’ Cadryc snapped. ‘And don’t sulk, either.’

Mirryn spun on his heel and stalked off, heading back outside. Cadryc muttered a few insults under his breath. Gerran decided a distraction was in order and turned to the gerthddyn.

‘Little did I dream our paths would cross so soon.’ Salamander gave him a fatuous smile. ‘An honour to see you, captain.’

‘Spare me the horseshit,’ Gerran said. ‘Did you see this raid or only find a burned village or suchlike?’

‘Ah, what a soul of courtesy you are.’ Salamander rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Actually, I found refugees, who escaped by blind luck.’

When Salamander pointed, Gerran noticed for the first time a tattered dirty lad and an equally ragged little boy, kneeling by the corner of the massive stone hearth. Dirt clotted in hair that was most likely mousy brown, and they shared a certain look about their deep-set blue eyes that marked them for close kin. Skinny as a stick, the older lad was, with fine, small hands, but the younger, though half-starved from the look of him, had broad hands and shoulders that promised strong bones and height one day.

‘They lost everything in the raid,’ Salamander said. ‘Kin, house, the lot.’ He pointed. ‘Their names are Neb and Clae.’

‘We’ll give them a place here.’ Tieryn Cadryc beckoned to a page. ‘Go find my wife and ask her to join us.’

When the page trotted off, Neb, the older lad, watched him go with dead eyes.

‘How many of them were there?’ Gerran asked him. ‘The raiders, I mean.’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Neb said. ‘We were a good distance away, up by the waterfall, so we could see down into the valley. We saw the village burning, and our farm, and then a lot of people just running around.’

‘Cursed lucky thing you were gone.’

The lad nodded, staring at him, too tired to speak, most likely.

‘The raiding party won’t be travelling fast, not with prisoners to drag along,’ Cadryc broke in. ‘I’ve sent a message to Lord Pedrys, telling him to meet us on the road with every man he can muster. I’d summon the other vassals as well, but they live too cursed far east, and we’ve got to make speed.’

‘Your grace?’ Gerran said. ‘Wasn’t there a lord near this village?’

‘There was. What I want to know is this: is there still?’

Neb watched the captain and the tieryn walk away, talking of their plans, both of them tall men, but red-haired Gerran was as lean as the balding tieryn was stout. Neither would be a good man to cross, Neb decided, nor Lord Mirryn, either. Salamander left his perch on the table and joined the two boys.

‘Well, there,’ the gerthddyn said. ‘Your uncle will be avenged, and perhaps they’ll even manage to rescue your aunt.’

‘If they do,’ Clae said, ‘we won’t have to go back to her, will we?’

‘You won’t. Judging from what you told me on our journey here she doesn’t seem to be a paragon of the female virtues, unlike the tieryn’s good wife.’ Salamander glanced over his shoulder. ‘Who, I might add, is arriving at this very moment.’

Salamander stepped aside and bowed just as the lady hurried up, a stout little woman, her dark hair streaked with grey. She wore a pair of dresses of fine-woven blue linen, caught in at the waist by a plaid kirtle in yellow, white and green. Two pages trailed after her, a skinny pale boy with a head of golden curls and a brown-haired lad a few years older.

‘My lady, this is Neb and Clae,’ Salamander said. ‘Lads, this is the honourable Lady Galla, wife to Tieryn Cadryc.’

Since he was already kneeling, Neb ducked his head in respect and elbowed Clae to make him do the same.

‘You may rise, lads,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard your terrible story from young Coryn, here.’ She gestured at the older, brown-haired page. ‘Now don’t you worry, we’ll find a place for you in the dun. The cook and the grooms can always use an extra pair of hands.’

‘My thanks, my lady,’ Neb said. ‘We’ll be glad to work for our keep, but we might not be staying –’

‘My lady?’ Salamander broke in. ‘Luck has brought you someone more valuable than a mere kitchen lad. Our Neb can read and write.’

‘Luck indeed!’ Lady Galla smiled brilliantly. ‘My husband’s had need of a scribe for ever so long, him and half the noble-born in Arcodd, of course, but what scribe would be wanting to travel all the way out here, anyway, if he could find a better place down in Deverry? Well and good, young Neb, we’ll see how well you form your letters, but first you need to eat from the look of you, and a bath wouldn’t hurt either.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Clae looked up with wide eyes. ‘We’ve been so hungry for so long.’

‘Food first, then. Coryn, take them to the cook house and tell Cook I said to feed them well. Then do what you can about getting them clean. Clothes – well, I’ll see what I can find.’

The food turned out to be generous scraps of roast pork, bread with butter, and some dried apples to chew on for a sweet. The cook let them sit in the straw by the door while she went back to work at her high table, cracking dried oats with a stone roller in a big stone quern. Coryn helped himself to a handful of apples and sat down with them. He seemed a pleasant sort, chatting to the brothers as they wolfed down the meal.

‘I do like our lady,’ Coryn said. ‘She’s ever so kind and cheerful. And our lord’s noble and honourable, too. But watch your step around Gerran. He’s a touchy sort of man, the Falcon, and he’ll slap you daft if you cross him.’

‘The Falcon?’ Neb said with his mouth full. ‘What –’

‘Oh, everyone calls him that. He’s got a falcon device stamped on his gear and suchlike.’

‘Is it his clan mark?’

‘It’s not, because he’s not noble-born.’ Coryn frowned in thought. ‘I don’t know why he carries it, and he probably shouldn’t, ’cause he’s a commoner.’

The cook turned their way and shoved her sweaty dark hair back from her face with a crooked little finger. ‘The mark’s just a fancy of Gerran’s,’ she said. ‘After all, he was an orphan, and it’s a comfort, like, to pretend he’s got a family.’

‘Still,’ Coryn said, ‘it’s giving himself airs.’

‘Oh, get along with you!’ The cook rolled her eyes. ‘It comes to him natural, like. He was raised in the dun like Lord Mirryn’s brother, wasn’t he now?’

‘Why?’ Clae said with his mouth half-full.

The cook glared narrow-eyed.

‘Say please,’ Neb muttered.

‘Please, good dame,’ Clae said. ‘Why?’

‘That’s better.’ The cook smiled at him. ‘When Gerran was but a little lad, his father was killed in battle saving the tieryn’s life, and the shock drove his poor mother mad. She drowned herself not long after. So our Cadryc took the lad and raised him with his own son, because he’s as generous as a lord should be and as honourable, too.’

‘That’s truly splendid of him,’ Neb said. ‘But I can see why Gerran’s a bit touchy.’ He wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve. ‘I’ll do my best to stay out of his way.’

‘Now you’ve got dirt smeared in the grease.’ Coryn grinned at him. ‘We’d better get you that bath.’

Rather than haul water inside to heat at the hearth, they filled one of the horse troughs and let it warm in the hot sun while Coryn pointed out the various buildings in the fort. Eventually Neb and Clae stripped off their clothes and climbed into the water. Neb knelt on the bottom and kept ducking his head under while he tried to comb the worst of the dirt and leaves out of his hair. They were still splashing around when Salamander came strolling out of the broch with clothing draped over his arm.

‘Well, you look a fair sight more courtly,’ the gerthddyn said, grinning. ‘Lady Galla’s servant lass has turned up these.’ He held up a pair of plain linen shirts, both worn but not too badly stained, and two pairs of faded grey brigga. ‘She says you’re to give her the old ones to boil for rags.’

‘My thanks,’ Neb said. ‘Our lady’s being as generous as the noble-born should be, but truly, I’d rather go back to Trev Hael.’

‘Ah, but here is where your wyrd led you. Who can argue with their wyrd?’

‘But –’

‘Or truly, wyrd led you to me, and I led you here, but it’s all the same thing.’ Salamander gave him a sunny smile. ‘Please, lad, stay here for a while, no more than a year and a day, say. And then if you want to move on, move on.’

‘Well and good, then. You saved our lives, and I’ll always be grateful for that.’

‘No need for eternal gratitude. Just stay here for a little while. You’ll know when it’s time to leave.’

‘Will I?’ Neb hesitated, wondering if his benefactor were a bit daft. ‘You know, I just thought of somewhat. The lady wants to see my writing, but I’ve got no ink and no pens, either. I saw some geese over by the stables, but the quills will take a while to cure.’

‘So they will, but I’ve got some reed pens and a bit of ink cake, too.’

‘Splendid! You can write, too?’

‘Oh, a bit, but don’t tell anyone. I don’t fancy having some lord demand I stay and serve him as a scribe. Me for the open road.’

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, truly. Why have you come all the way to Arcodd? There’s not a lot of folk out here and most of them are too poor to pay you to tell them tales.’

‘Sharp lad, aren’t you?’ Salamander grinned at him. ‘Well, in truth, I’m looking for my brother, who seems to have got himself lost.’

‘Lost?’

‘Just that. He was a silver dagger, you see.’

‘A what?’ Clae broke in. ‘What’s that?’

‘A mercenary soldier of a sort,’ Salamander said. ‘They ride the countryside, looking for a lord who needs extra fighting men badly enough to pay them by the battle.’

Clae wrinkled his nose in disgust, but Neb leaned forward and grabbed his arm before he could say something rude. ‘Your hair’s still filthy,’ Neb snapped. ‘Wash it out.’ He turned to Salamander. ‘I’ll pray your brother still rides on the earth and not in the Otherlands.’

‘My thanks, but I truly do believe he’s still alive. I had a report of him, you see, that he’d been seen up this way.’

Neb found himself wondering if Salamander were lying. The gerthddyn was studying the distant view with a little too much attention and a fixed smile. He refused to challenge the man who’d saved his life. Besides, having a silver dagger for a brother was such a shameful thing that he couldn’t begrudge Salamander his embarrassment.

‘I’ll just be getting out,’ Neb said. ‘Come on, Clae. We’ll have to help the stableman empty this trough. Horses can’t drink dirty water.’

Neb hoisted himself over the edge and dropped to the ground. He shook himself to get the worst of the water off, then, still damp, put on the clothes Salamander handed him. The baggy wool brigga fitted well enough, but when he pulled the shirt over his head, it billowed around him. The long sleeves draped over his hands. He began rolling them up.

‘We can find you a bit of rope or suchlike for a belt,’ Salamander said. ‘And eventually, a better shirt.’

Later that afternoon, with pen and ink in hand, Neb went into the great hall and found Lady Galla waiting, sitting alone at the table of honour. She’d gathered a heap of parchment scraps, splitting into translucent layers from hard use. A good many messages had been written upon them, then scraped off to allow for new ones.

‘Will these do?’ Galla was peering at them. ‘I looked all over, because I did remember that I had the accounts from our old demesne in a sack or suchlike, but I couldn’t find it. These turned up lining a wooden chest.’

‘I’m sure they’ll do, my lady.’ Neb searched through them and found at last a scrap with a reasonably smooth surface. ‘Now, what would you like me to write?’

‘Oh, some simple thing. Our names, say.’

Neb picked the script his father had always used for important documents, called Half-inch Royal because the scribes of the high king’s court had invented it. Although she couldn’t read in any true sense of the word, Galla did know her letters, and she could spell out her name and Tieryn Cadryc’s when he wrote them.

‘Quite lovely,’ she announced. ‘Very well, young Neb. As provision for you and your brother, you shall have a chamber of your own, meals in the great hall, and a set of new clothing each year. Will that be adequate?’

Neb had to steel himself to bargain with the noble-born, but he reminded himself that without tools, he couldn’t practise his craft. ‘I’ll need coin as well, for the preparing of the inks and suchlike. I could just mix up soot and oak gall, but an important lord like your husband should have better. A silver penny a year should be enough. I hope I can find proper ink cakes and a mixing stone out here.’

‘The coin we have, thanks to the high king’s bounty’ Galla thought for a moment. ‘Now, I think you might find what you need in Cengarn. His grace my husband has been talking about riding to the gwerbret there, and so if he does, you can go with him.’

‘Splendid, my lady, and my thanks. But then there’s the matter of what I’m going to write upon. Fine parchments cost ever so much if you buy them, and I don’t know how to make my own. Even if I did, could you spare the hides? You can only get two good sheets from a calf skin, and then scraps like these.’

‘Oh.’ Galla paused, chewing on her lower lip. ‘Well, I’d not thought of that, but if you can find parchment for sale, I’m sure we can squeeze out the coin to buy some, at least for legal judgments and the like.’

‘We can use wax-covered tablets for ordinary messages, if you have candle wax to spare. I can write with a stylus as well as a pen.’

‘Now that I can give you, and a good knife, too, for cutting your pens.’ Much relieved, Galla smiled at him. ‘I’ve got a very important letter to write, you see. My brother has a daughter by his first wife, who died years and years ago. So he remarried, and now he and his second wife have sons and daughters of their own. The wife – well. Let’s just say that she’s never cared for her stepdaughter. There’s only so much coin at my brother’s disposal, and she wants to spend it on her own lasses. The wife wants to, I mean, not little Branna. That’s my brother’s daughter, you see, Lady Branna, my niece. So I’m offering to take the lass in, and if we can’t find her a husband, then she can live here as my serving woman.’ Lady Galla paused for a small frown. ‘She’s rather an odd lass, you see, so suitors might be a bit hard to find. But she does splendid needlework, so I’ll be glad to have her. It’s truly a marvel, the way she can take a bit of charcoal and sketch out patterns. You’d swear she was seeing them on the cloth and just following along the lines, they’re so smooth and even. And – oh here, listen to me! A lad like you won’t be caring about needlework. You run along now and make those tablets. I’ll have Coryn bring you wax and knives and suchlike.’

‘Very well, my lady, and my thanks. I’ll go hunt up some wood.’

Neb took Clae with him when he went out to the ward, which, with the dun so newly built, lacked much of the clutter and confusion of most strongholds. Behind the main broch tower stood the round, thatched kitchen hut, the well and some storage sheds. Across an open space stood the smithy, some pigsties and chicken coops, and beyond them the dungheap. A third of the high outer wall supported the stables, built right into the stones, with the ground level for horses and an upper barracks for the warband and the servants.

‘Neb?’ Clae said. ‘We’ve found a good place, haven’t we?’

‘We have.’ Neb looked at him and found him smiling. ‘I think we’ll do well here.’

‘Good. I want to train for a rider.’

‘You what?’

‘I want to learn swordcraft and join the tieryn’s warband.’

Neb stopped walking and put his hands on his hips. Clae looked up defiantly.

‘Whatever for?’ Neb said at last.

‘Because.’

‘Because what?’

‘You know.’ Clae shrugged and began scuffing at one of the cobbles with his bare toes. ‘Because they killed everyone.’

‘Ah. Because the raiders destroyed our village?’

Clae nodded, staring at the ground. Ye gods! Neb thought. What would Mam say to this?

‘Well, I can understand that,’ Neb said. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘I’m going to do it.’

‘Listen, I’m the head of our clan now, and you won’t do one wretched thing unless I say you may.’

Clae’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh ye gods!’ Neb snapped. ‘Don’t cry! Here, it’s all up to the captain, anyway. The Falcon. What’s-his-name.’

‘Gerran.’ Clae wiped his eyes on his sleeve. ‘He’s too busy now. I’ll ask him when they get back.’

‘Very well, but if he says you nay, there’s naught I can do about it.’

‘I know. But he lost his mam and da, didn’t he? I bet he’ll understand.’

‘We’ll see about that. Now help me find the woodpile and an axe.’

They found the woodshed behind the cook house and an axe as well, hanging inside the door. Neb took the axe down and gave it an experimental swing. In one corner lay some pieces of rough-hewn planks, all of them too wide and most too thick, but Neb couldn’t find a saw. He did find a short chunk of log, some ten inches in diameter, that had the beginnings of a split along the grain.

‘Here!’ A man’s voice called out. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Neb turned around and saw a skinny fellow, egg-bald, hurrying towards them. Above his bushy grey beard his pale blue eyes were narrowed and grim.

‘My apologies, sir,’ Neb said. ‘But I’m about Lady’s Galla’s business.’

‘If she wanted a fire,’ the fellow said, ‘she could have sent a servant to ask me. My name is Horza, by the by, woodcutter to this dun.’

‘And a good morrow to you, sir. I’m Neb, and this is my brother, Clae. I’m the new scribe, and I need wood for tablets. Writing tablets, I mean. They need to be about so long and –’

‘I know what writing tablets look like, my fine lad. Hand me my axe, and don’t you go touching it again, hear me?’

‘I do. My apologies.’

Horza snorted and grabbed the axe from Neb’s lax grasp. For a moment he looked over the wood stacked in the shed, then picked up a short thin wedge of stout oak in one hand. He set the thin wedge against the crack in the log and began tapping it in with the blunt back of the axe head. His last tap split the dry pine lengthwise. He let one half fall, then flipped the axe over to the sharpened edge and went to work on the other half. A few cuts turned it into oblongs of the proper length and thickness.

‘I’ll make you two sets, lad.’ Horza picked up the remainder of the log. He treated it the same while Neb watched in honest awe at his skill.

‘These’ll have to be smoothed off and then scoured down with sand,’ Horza said. ‘That’s your doing.’

‘It is, and a thousand thanks!’ Neb took the panels with a little bow. ‘You’re a grand man with an axe.’

‘Imph.’ Horza tipped his head to one side and looked the boys over. ‘Scribe, are you? What sort of name is Neb, anyway? Never heard it before.’

‘Well, it’s short for somewhat. My father was a man of grand ideas. He named me Nerrobrantos, for some Dawntime hero or other. And my brother’s name is truly Caliomagos.’

‘Or Neb and Clae, and the shorters are the betters, true enough. Now run along, lads. I’ve got work to do.’

‘My thanks. I’ll take these back to the great hall and work on them there.’

As soon as Horza was out of earshot, Clae turned to Neb. ‘He’s got his gall talking about our names,’ he said. ‘What kind of a name is Horza, anyway?’

‘A very old one,’ Neb said, smiling. ‘His ancestors must have been some of the Old Ones, the people who already lived here when our ancestors arrived.’

‘Well, it sounds like a lass’s name.’

‘Their language must have been a fair bit different from ours, that’s all.’

‘Oh.’ Clae considered this information for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Can I go play white crow with the pages? Coryn asked me.’

‘By all means. I’ll not need any help with this, anyway.’

Neb took his tablets to a table by the servants’ hearth, where a bucket of sand stood ready to smother any sparks that found their way onto the straw-covered floor. He fetched some water in a pottery stoup, helped himself to a handful of sand, grabbed some straw from the floor and set to work. He sprinkled the sand on the wood, then wet down the straw and used it to scour the splinters away.

As he worked, he found himself wondering about this lass, Branna, whose life was going to be decided by the letter he would write on these tablets. Would anyone ask her opinion about being packed off to the rough border country? No doubt she’d have no more choice about it than he and Clae had had about Uncle Brwn’s farm. He felt a sudden sympathy for her, this lass he didn’t know, and found himself wondering if she were pretty.

That night Neb and Clae shared a comfortable bed in a wedge-shaped room high up in the broch tower. They also had a wobbly table and two stools, a carved wooden chest to store whatever possessions they might someday have, and a brass charcoal brazier for the winter to come. The curved arc of the stone outer wall sported a narrow window, covered by a wooden shutter. In Arcodd at that time, these furnishings all added up to a nicely appointed chamber, suitable for an honoured servitor to the noble-born.

Although Clae fell asleep immediately, Neb lay awake for a little while and considered this sudden truth: he was indeed a tieryn’s servitor now, the head of what was left of their family and a man who could provide for that family, as well. He only wished that Uncle Brwn’s death hadn’t been the price. If they rescue Mauva, he thought, I’ll see if I can get her a place in the kitchen. Brwn would like that, knowing I’d taken care of her.

When he fell asleep, he dreamt of Lady Branna, or rather, of a beautiful lass that his dream labelled Lady Branna. He could see her clearly, it seemed, in the great hall of some rough, poor dun. She sat in a carved chair near a smoky hearth, her feet up on a little stool to keep them from the damp straw covering the floor. A little grey gnome crouched by her chair. In the dream some man he couldn’t see announced, ‘The most beautiful lass in all Deverry.’ Neb moved closer, smiling at her. She looked up, saw him, and smiled in return.

‘My prince, is it you?’

Her voice sounded so real that he woke, half-sitting up in bed. In the darkness Clae muttered to himself and turned over, sighing. Neb lay down again, and this time when he slept, he dreamt of nothing at all.

Gerran woke well before dawn. Since he’d laid out his clothing the night before, he could dress by the faint starlight coming through the window. Even though he would have preferred sleeping out in the barracks with the other common-born riders, Tieryn Cadryc had insisted on giving him a chamber in the broch tower. Gerran was just buckling on his sword belt when he saw a crack of light beneath his door. Someone knocked.

‘Gerro?’ Mirryn said.

‘I’m awake, truly.’ Gerran swung the door open. ‘I wondered if you’d be up and about.’

Mirryn gave him a sour smile. He carried a pierced tin candle lantern inside, then put it down on top of the wooden chest that held the few things Gerran owned. Neither of them spoke until Gerran had shut the door again.

‘I know it aches your heart,’ Gerran said. ‘But I can understand why your father’s making you stay behind.’

‘Oh, so can I, but it doesn’t lessen the ache any.’ Mirryn leaned against the curve of the wall. ‘The men are going to start thinking I’m a coward.’

‘Oh here, of course they won’t! They heard your father give the order.’

Mirryn cocked his head and considered him for a moment. ‘It’s an odd thing, the way you say that. Your father. He’s yours, too, a foster-father truly, but –’

‘I’m not noble-born, and that makes all the difference in the world. It was an honourable fancy of the tieryn to treat me like one of his own when I was a lad, but I’m grown now.’

‘You’re still my brother in my eyes.’

‘And you in mine.’ Gerran hesitated, then merely shrugged. ‘I’m grateful for that, but –’

‘But in the eyes of everyone else,’ Mirryn said, ‘you’re not?’

‘Just that. Which is why your father will risk my life but not yours.’

‘I know that, and I suppose everyone else does, too, but ye gods, Gerro! What’s going to happen when I inherit the rhan? If I’ve never ridden to war, who’s going to honour me?’

‘It’s too cursed bad the gods saw fit to give you naught but sisters.’

Mirryn laughed with a shake of his head. ‘I’ve never known anyone who could parry questions like you can.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Sky’s getting grey.’

‘I’d best get down to the stables. It’s not truly my place, but if I’m given the chance, maybe I can have a few words with his grace.’

‘Talk some sense into him.’ Mirryn looked away with a sigh. ‘I might as well be another useless daughter if he’s going to keep me shut up in the dun.’

By the time that Gerran saddled his horse, twenty men from the warband had begun to assemble in a ward flaring with torchlight. Gerran rode through the mass of men and horses, sorted out the riding order, and decided which men would lead the packhorses with the supplies. Behind them would come ox-carts with full provisions, but the carts travelled so slowly that they would doubtless only catch up to the troop in time to provision their ride home. Gerran was just telling the head carter about the route ahead when he saw the gerthddyn, mounted up and walking his horse into line. Gerran assigned him a place at the end of the riding order, and Salamander took it cheerfully with a small bow from the saddle. Gerran jogged back up the line and fell in next to Cadryc.

‘Your grace?’ Gerran said. ‘What’s that magpie of a minstrel doing along?’

‘Cursed if I know,’ Cadryc said. ‘He begged me to let him ride with us for vengeance. Must be a good heart in the lad, for all he dresses like a stinking Deverry courtier.’

‘Vengeance? For what?’

‘Now, that’s a good question.’ Cadryc paused, chewing on his moustaches. ‘He must have lost kin or suchlike to the raiders.’ He shrugged the problem away. ‘I don’t see your foster-brother anywhere. I thought he’d have the decency to come see us off at least.’

‘Well, your grace,’ Gerran said, ‘suppose he’d been happy to stay behind? Wouldn’t that have ached your heart?’

Cadryc turned in the saddle, stared at him for a moment, then laughed, a rueful sort of mutter under his breath. ‘Right you are, Gerro,’ the tieryn said. ‘Let’s get up to the head of the line. Sun’s rising.’

Panting, swearing, the ten men left behind on fortguard hauled on the chains that opened the heavy gates. With one last heave and a curse, they swung them ajar, then dropped the chains and ran out of the way. Cadryc yelled out a command and waved his men forward at the trot.

The warband travelled south through the tieryn’s rhan, that is, the vast tract of half-wild country under his jurisdiction, within which he could bestow parcels of land in return for fealty and taxes. Near the dun, the freeholds of the local farmers stood pale green with wheat, but ahead lay the pine forests, covering the broken tablelands of Arcodd province and beyond. The plateau itself stretched for nearly two hundred miles. To the west, it sloped down into lands marked on no Deverry map. To the north it steadily rose until it became the foothills of the Roof of the World.

To the south, where the warband was heading, lay the rich farmland of the Melyn Valley, but once the men reached the edge of the forest cover, they turned west onto the dirt road that had so surprised Neb. Cadryc had levied a labour tax on his farmers to hack it out of the forest. No one had grumbled. They could see that its purpose was their safety.

A few hours before sunset, the warband rode up to an open meadow. Cadryc called a halt, then leaned over his saddle peak to stare at the trampled grass.

‘Someone’s been here recently,’ the tieryn said. ‘Ye gods! If the raiders have found this road –’

‘Your grace?’ Salamander trotted his horse up to join them. ‘Allow me to put your mind at rest. I’m the culprit. It was on this very spot, it was, that Neb and Clae found me.’

‘Ah. Well, that’s a relief!’ Cadryn turned in the saddle. ‘Gerran, have the men make camp.’

They’d just got settled when Lord Pedrys, one of Cadryc’s vassals, rode in to join them. He brought ten men and supplies with him, and as usual, the young lord was game for any fight going. When Cadryc, Pedrys, and Gerran gathered around the tieryn’s fire to discuss plans, Pedrys had an inappropriate grin on his blandly blond face.

‘I wonder if we’ll catch them?’ Pedrys said. ‘If the bastards are this bold, we’ve got a chance.’

‘Just so,’ Cadryc said. ‘If nothing else, we can see if Lord Samyc’s still alive. He’s only got five riders in his warband, but I can’t see him sitting snug in his dun while scum raid his lands.’

‘True spoken,’ Pedrys said. ‘Five riders! And you’ve got thirty all told, and me fifteen, and we can’t even spare all of them for rides like this. How by the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell does our gwerbret expect us to defend the valley?’

Cadryc shrugged and began chewing on the edge of his moustache. ‘We’re going to have to ask him just that. We need help, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘It’s all well and good to say that, your grace, but what can he do without an army?’

‘He’s going to cursed well have to send messengers down to Dun Deverry and beg the high king for more men.’ Cadryc slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘I don’t give a pig’s fart if it aches his heart or not.’

‘I don’t understand why it does.’ Pedrys sounded more than a little angry. ‘Ye gods, his own father was killed by Horsekin!’

‘True spoken. But the gwerbrets of Cengarn used to rule Arcodd like kings, didn’t they? Oh, they sent taxes to the high king’s chamberlain, and they made a ritual visit to court once a year, but still –’ Cadryc shrugged. ‘The king never cared what they did out here. Now – well, by the hells! Everything’s changed.’

Both Pedrys and Gerran nodded their agreement.

Some thirty years before, the high king had begun encouraging his subjects to settle the rich meadowlands of southwestern Arcodd. Doing so meant creating many a new lordship and marking out many a new rhan. Technically, of course, all these new lords owed direct fealty to the gwerbrets of Cengarn, but it was the high king, not the gwerbret, who produced the coin and the men to turn these holdings into something more than lines on a map. Royal heralds had travelled throughout Deverry, offering freehold land to farmers and craftsmen if they would emigrate to Arcodd. A good many extra sons, who stood no chance of inheriting their father’s land or guild shop, were glad to take up the challenge, and a good many extra daughters, whose dowries were doomed to be scant, were glad to marry them and emigrate as well.

Men who could ride in a warband were harder to come by, but the lords put together the biggest troops they could. Everyone remembered the Horsekin, who years before had ridden out of nowhere to besiege Cengarn itself. Yet at first, the settlement of the Melyn Valley proceeded so easily that it seemed the Horsekin had forgotten about Deverry. Farms spread out, villages grew among them. The virgin land produced splendid crops and the farmers plenty of children. It seemed that the gods had particularly blessed the valley and its new inhabitants.

Then, some fifteen years before Neb and his brother came staggering out of the forest, the raiders struck at a village near Cengarn in the first of a series of raids. Each time they slaughtered the men, took the women and children as slaves, looted, and burned what they couldn’t carry off. Finally the gwerbret in Cengarn and his loyal lords had caught them and crushed them. Gerran’s father had come home from that battle wrapped in a blanket and slung over his saddle like a sack of grain. Gerran could remember rushing out into the ward and seeing two men lifting the corpse down. His mother’s scream when she saw it still seemed to ring out, loud in his memory.

‘What’s wrong with you, captain?’ Pedrys said abruptly. ‘You look as grim as the Lord of Hell himself!’

‘My apologies, my lord,’ Gerran said. ‘I was just thinking about the raiders.’

‘That’s enough to make any man grim, truly,’ Cadryc said, then yawned. ‘We’d best get some sleep. I want to be up at dawn and riding as soon as we can.’

‘Very well, your grace.’ Gerran stood up. ‘I’ll just take a last look around the camp.’

Scattered across the meadow, most of the men were asleep in their blankets by dying campfires. The warm night was so achingly clear that the stars hung close like a ceiling of silver. Nearby, guarded by a pair of sentries, the horses stood heads down and drowsy in their hobbles. Gerran was starting out to have a word with the sentries when he saw someone coming towards him. He laid his hand on his sword hilt, but it was only the gerthddyn, his pale hair strikingly visible in the dark.

‘Lovely night, isn’t it?’ Salamander said.

Although Gerran had been thinking just that, hearing this unmanly sentiment voiced annoyed him.

‘Warm enough, I suppose,’ Gerran said. ‘Tell me somewhat. What made you ride with us?’

‘I’m not truly sure,’ Salamander said.

‘You told our lord that you wanted vengeance.’

‘Well, that’s true enough. The Horsekin killed a good friend of mine some years ago. And I’m looking for my brother, of course. You may remember that when I last passed your way, I told you –’

‘– about your brother the silver dagger. What is this? Do you think you’re going to find him just wandering around the countryside?’

‘Imph, well, you never quite know where he’ll turn up.’

Gerran waited, then realized that Salamander was going to tell him no more unless he pried.

‘Well, now that you’re here, you’re riding under my orders,’ Gerran said instead. ‘I want you to stay well back out of the way if it comes to battle.’

‘Fair enough.’ Salamander bowed, took a few steps away, then suddenly stooped down and picked something up from the grass. ‘One of the lads is getting careless. I wonder whose bridle this belongs on?’

When he held up a brass buckle, Gerran could barely see it. Salamander pressed it into his hand, then walked on with a cheery goodnight. Gerran rubbed the buckle between his fingers as he watched him go. So, he told himself, that’s why he’s so cursed odd! There’s Westfolk blood in his veins.

Around noon on the morrow, the combined warbands reached a stone marker beside the road. The tieryn called a halt to rest the horses and let the men eat a scant meal from their saddlebags. Although the cairn, a mere heap of grey stones, carried no inscriptions, those who had been let in on its secret knew that a shallow canyon nearby led due south. The road itself ended at the marker, because extending it south would have given their enemies an easy path to the tieryn’s lands.

At the head of the canyon, a small waterfall trickled down over ragged shelves of dark rock, fringed at the edges with long streamers of ferns. The men dismounted and led their horses down a narrow path to the reasonably flat floor of the canyon, where a faint trail led along the edge of a stream through pine forest. After a mile or so of this difficult travelling, the canyon walls grew lower and began to splay out. The trail widened just enough to allow the men to mount up and ride single file. They could see bright sunlight and open space ahead through the trees where the trail widened once again. Gerran yelled at his men to fall into their regular riding order, two abreast and ready for trouble, as he remarked to Lord Pedrys.

‘Do you think the Horsekin would lay an ambuscade?’ Pedrys said.

‘I don’t know, my lord, but I wouldn’t put it past them.’

In dappled sunlight the men rode through the last of the pines. No one spoke; everyone kept one hand on his sword hilt and the reins of his horse in the other. Cut stumps appeared among the grasses and weeds of second growth. One last bend in the trail brought them to a long broad valley, green with ripening wheat and meadowland. A couple of miles off to the west the Melyn ran, a thin sparkling line at this distance. Gerran could just make out a patch of black beside it – Neb’s farm, he assumed.

‘I don’t see any Horsekin,’ Cadryc remarked. ‘Don’t see much of anything but grass.’

‘True spoken, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘Most likely the bastards are long gone.’

‘We’ve got to get more fighting men down here. All there is to it!’

‘Or else stop these cursed raids once and for all, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘If the king would lend us an army –’

‘That’s in the laps of the gods,’ Cadryc said. ‘We’ll worry about the grand schemes later. We’ve got a hard job to do right now.’

With a wave of his arm the tieryn led them forward. They rode on down to the smoking tangle of wood and ashes that had once been Brwn’s farm. The fire had leapt to the apple tree outside the earthen wall and left it as black and gaunt as a dead sentry, but the damp grass still grew green beyond. Nearby lay the corpse of a tall, burly man, its head torn half off its shoulders. In the hot sun he lay swollen and stinking. Birds and foxes had eaten a good bit of him. Salamander rode up to join Gerran and the noble-born.

‘Neb’s uncle,’ Salamander said. ‘What’s left fits the description anyway.’

‘Let’s get him buried,’ Cadryc said. ‘There’s naught else to do for him.’

‘We might as well wait and dig one long ditch,’ Pedrys said. ‘I’ll wager there’s more dead men ahead of us.’

Unfortunately, Pedrys had spoken the truth. When they rode up to the ruins of the village, they found the first corpses about three hundred yards from the bridge. Four men lay in a straggling line, cut down as they tried to flee. Another twelve lay in the village square, either rotting and spongy or half-burnt. The latter had most likely been killed in their houses, then caught under burning beams and walls.

‘But who pulled them free?’ Pedrys said. ‘What is this? Did the raiders want to count their kills?’

‘Most likely they just wanted to make sure they’d slaughtered the lot,’ Gerran said.

‘If so, they did a bad job of it,’ Salamander said. ‘Neb told me how many men and lads were in the village, you see. The women and children are long gone by now, of course, prize booty, all of them. So there should be twenty dead, not counting Neb’s uncle.’

‘Then that leaves four men missing,’ Pedrys said. ‘Maybe they got away in time.’

But three of the men turned up lying dead, clustered together by the village well where, apparently, they’d tried to make a stand. One corpse still clutched a hay rake.

‘Why didn’t the raiders put these men with the others?’ Salamander said. ‘I wonder if someone interrupted them?’ He looked up as if he were studying the sky.

‘I doubt me if the gods came down to help,’ Gerran said. ‘Come along. There’s one villager still missing.’

Although the men searched the village thoroughly, they never found that last corpse. By the time they’d finished, the younger men in the warband had turned white-faced and shaky; a few had rushed off to vomit. It was the pity of it more than the stench and rot that troubled Gerran: peaceful farmers, slaughtered like their own hogs as they tried to defend themselves and their women with sticks and axes against swords and spears.

Yet even though they’d lost the fight in the end, the farmers had gained one small victory. Pinned under a half-burnt roof beam lay the charred corpse of a Horsekin warrior. Gerran found him as he searched the ruins of the village smithy. At his shout Daumyr strode over with Warryc trotting after. The three of them fell silent, staring at the corpse.

Like most of his kind, he was well over six feet tall, broad in the shoulders, long in the arms. What was left of his skin was milk white, but heavily decorated with blue and black tattoos. Some designs portrayed animals; others seemed to be letters of some sort. He sported a huge mane of dark hair, braided into many strands, tied off with amulets and studded with charms, but the magicks had failed to protect him. Daumyr picked up a nearby plank and used it as a lever to turn him over. He’d been killed by the thrust of three sharp prongs – a pitchfork, Gerran assumed – into the middle of his back.

‘Haul him out,’ Gerran said. ‘We’ll leave him for the ravens.’

‘Good idea!’ Daumyr tossed the plank back down. ‘May he freeze to the marrow in the deepest hell.’

Warryc stooped, brushed away cinders with one hand, grabbed something from the rubble, then stood back up, clutching his prize. ‘This must have fallen off the bastard’s jerkin.’ Warryc opened his hand to show a golden arrow, about four inches long and backed with a heavy pin. ‘I’ve seen somewhat like it before, somewhere.’

‘A clan marker?’ Gerran said. ‘Maybe a troop badge?’

Warryc shook his head and studied the arrow; his narrow dark eyes narrowed further, nearly to slits. ‘Somewhat to do with their religion,’ he said at last. ‘The cursed Horsekin, I mean.’

‘Well, hand it over,’ Gerran said. ‘The tieryn might know.’

Gerran set the warband to digging a long mass grave outside the earthwork, then rejoined the tieryn, who was standing by the line of corpses and talking with Salamander. Gerran was honestly surprised to see the gerthddyn so calm in the midst of so much death. His opinion of Salamander rose.

‘We never found that last man,’ Cadryc said. ‘Well, we’ll be riding downriver to Lord Samyc’s dun. If he’s hiding somewhere, perhaps he’ll hear or see us and come running.’

‘We can hope, your grace,’ Salamander said. ‘I’m more afraid of what else might appear along the way.’

‘Naught good or so I’d wager.’ Gerran fished the gold arrow out of his pocket and held it out. ‘One of the men found this. He was thinking it had somewhat to do with their wretched gods.’

Cadryc held out empty hands to show his ignorance, but the gerthddyn took the arrow and weighed it in his palm.

‘It most assuredly does,’ Salamander said. ‘It’s the token of a goddess, actually, Alshandra, huntress of souls, the archer who dwells beyond the stars, the hidden one.’

‘I’ve heard of her before,’ Cadryc said. ‘It’s a pity she’s not a fair bit more hidden than she is.’

‘Oh, absolutely. Her worshippers, alas, are both conspicuous and near to hand.’ Salamander glanced at Gerran. ‘Does the fellow who found this want it?’

‘Probably. For the gold, most likely.’

‘I think I’ll ask him to sell it to me. Somewhat tells me that I should keep it. Might be useful, like.’

‘Useful for what?’ Cadryc snorted.

‘I know not, but I have a feeling, a deep hunch, hint, or portent, that I should own this little bauble. Which man was it, captain, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Not at all.’ Gerran pointed to the men digging the trench. ‘It’s Warryc, the skinny short fellow with the brown hair down at the very end. Next to the tall blond fellow, Daumyr his name is.’

Salamander trotted off, and Gerran and the tieryn followed more slowly. The warband swung the remains of the villagers into the trench, then covered it over with earth, a brown scar in the green meadow. They finished just at sunset, and off to the cloudy west the light blazed red like a funeral fire. For lack of a priest, the tieryn tried to say a few reverent words. For a long moment he stood at the head of the trench and struggled with this unfamiliar activity while the men watched in silence.

‘Ah, horseshit,’ Cadryc said at last. ‘There’s only one thing to say: vengeance!’

The warband shouted back the word. ‘Vengeance!’ rolled across the farmlands to echo back from the distant cliffs.

As they walked back to their horses, they passed the corpse of the Horsekin warrior, left sprawled in the open air for the ravens as a final insult. Salamander paused for a moment to contemplate him, and Gerran stopped to see what the gerthddyn was up to.

‘Doesn’t this strike you as odd, captain?’ Salamander said. ‘The Horsekin never leave their dead behind.’

‘So I’ve heard, truly,’ Gerran said. ‘He was killed by a farmer, though. Maybe they see that as a dishonour.’

‘Maybe, but I have my doubts. And then they didn’t finish searching the village. I wonder, I truly do.’

‘Searching?’

‘Why else line up the dead? Were they trying to make sure they’d killed everyone or was it mayhap a certain person they were looking for? I don’t know, mind. I’m merely considering possibilities.’

The warband camped that evening a spare mile downriver from the ruins, just far enough to leave the smell of the dead village behind. The missing villager never appeared, even though they built campfires in the hopes of drawing his attention should he be hiding nearby. On the chance that the raiders were lingering out to the west, Gerran doubled the usual number of sentries. He also had his men hobble their horses as well as tethering them, a precaution that proved wise on the morrow.

Towards dawn Gerran woke abruptly. He could have sworn that he’d heard someone calling his name. He sat up in his blankets and looked around, but in the cold grey light of first dawn he saw nothing but the sleeping camp. He pulled on his boots and got up, buckling on his sword belt. He was planning on relieving the sentries out by the tethered horses, but when he glanced at the river, he saw Salamander standing on the bank. He picked his way through the sleeping men and walked down to join the gerthddyn.

‘You’re up early,’ Gerran said.

‘I am, and so are you.’ Salamander glanced at him and smiled, then returned to staring out across the river.

‘Someone out there?’

‘Not a Horsekin in sight, but look, there’s some odd thing in the sky. A flock of ravens perhaps, most deeply grieved with us for burying their gruesome feast.’

Gerran looked up to see, far off to the west, a flock of birds flying towards them in the brightening dawn. Or was it a flock? He heard a distant sound, a thwack and slap like a hand hitting a slack leather drum. The supposed flock looked remarkably like one bird, one enormous bird, flying steadily on huge silver wings. The sound swelled into a boom as the enormous wings carried the creature straight for them. He could see its long neck, its massive head with flaring nostrils and deep-set eyes, the silver scales touched about the head and spiked tail with iridescent blue, glimmering in the rising sun.

‘It can’t be,’ Gerran muttered. ‘Ye gods, it is! It’s a dragon!’

Behind him the camp exploded with noise – men yelling and cursing, horses whinnying in terror. Gerran knew he should turn and rush back, should impose some kind of order or at the least guard the horses, but he stayed, staring at the huge silver wyrm. It was so strong, so powerful, and beautiful, as well, in his warrior’s eyes, with the sun glistening on its smooth skin, stretched and supple over immense muscles. It reached the river, dipped one wing, then sheered off, heading north. On its side, just below the wing’s set, Gerran saw a smear of reddish black – old blood from a wound.

‘Rhodry!’ Salamander started yelling at the top of his lungs. ‘I mean, blast it, Rori! It’s me, Ebañy! Rori, come back! Rhod – I mean Rori! Wait!’

Screaming like a madman, waving his arms, Salamander raced down the riverbank, but the dragon flapped his wings in a deafening drumbeat and rose high, banking again to head back west. Gerran set his hands on his hips and glared as the gerthddyn came jogging back to him.

‘And just how did you know its name?’ Gerran said.

Salamander winced, tried to smile, and looked away. ‘Actually, you see, well, um, er – that’s my brother. He was a silver dagger named Rhodry, but now that he’s a dragon, he’s known as Rori. I keep forgetting to use the right name.’

Gerran started to speak, but his words twisted themselves into a sound more like a growl.

‘I’m not a dragon,’ Salamander said hastily. ‘Neither was he originally.’

‘What? Of all the daft things I’ve ever heard –’

‘Scoff all you want. He was turned into a dragon by dweomer.’

‘Dafter and dafter! What are you, a drooling idiot? There’s no such thing as dweomer, and a witch could never have done aught as that.’

‘I should have known you’d take it this way.’ Salamander looked briefly mournful. ‘I’m telling you the exact truth, whether you believe it or no. So I thought I’d best find him and see how he was faring and all that. It seemed the brotherly thing to do.’

‘Daft.’ Gerran was finding it difficult to come up with any other word. With a last angry shrug he turned on his heel and ran back to camp.

It took till noon for Gerran and the two lords to transform the warbands from a frightened mob of men and horses into an orderly procession. Even then, as they rode south along the riverbank, the men kept looking up at the sky, and the horses would suddenly, for no visible reason, snort, toss their heads, and threaten to rear or buck until their riders calmed them. To set a good example Gerran kept himself from studying the sky, but he did listen, waiting for the sound of wings beating the air like a drum.

In mid-afternoon they stopped to water their horses at the river. As soon as his horse had finished drinking, Salamander handed its reins to one of the men and went jogging eastward into the meadowlands.

‘What in all the hells does he think he’s doing?’ Gerran said. He tossed his reins to Warryc and ran after the gerthddyn.

Not far off a small flock of ravens suddenly sprang into the air, squawking indignantly. With his Westfolk eyes, Salamander must have seen them from the riverbank, Gerran realized, and sure enough, he found the gerthddyn standing by the scattered remains of the ravens’ dinner, a dead horse, or to be precise, the mangled bones, tail, and a few scraps of meat of what had once been a dead horse. Lying around it in the tall grass were torn and broken pieces of horse gear. Salamander nudged a heavily painted leather strap, once part of a martingale, perhaps, with his toe.

‘Horsekin work,’ Salamander said. ‘They decorate all their horse gear. I think we now know what disturbed the raiders at their foul, loathsome, and heinous work.’

‘The dragon?’ Gerran said.

‘Exactly. Their horses doubtless panicked as ours did at the thought of ending up in a great wyrm’s stomach. I wonder if dragons follow the Horsekin around? Where else are you going to find heavy horses like theirs?’

‘The best meal going, eh? It could well be, but come along, we’ve got to keep moving today.’

When the sun was getting low, the warband came to another burned village, a tangled heap of ruins spread out over a charred meadow. Once again the horses began snorting and trembling. Swearing under their breaths, Cadryc, Pedrys, and Gerran dismounted some distance away and walked over to the ruin, expecting the worst, but they found no corpses, not even a dead dog, among the drifting pale ash.

‘Well and good,’ Cadryc said. ‘I’ll wager they got to Lord Samyc’s dun in time.’

‘And I’ll wager they’re still there, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘One way or another.’

‘Just so. Let’s get on the road.’

Lord Samyc’s dun stood on a low artificial hill, guarded by a maze of earthworks on the flat and a stone wall at the top. Not far away lay a patch of woodland. As the warbands rode up to the earthworks, Gerran saw a straggle of farmers leaving the trees with a cart full of firewood and an escort of two mounted men. When Tieryn Cadryc rose in his stirrups to hail them, the riders whooped with joy and galloped straight for the warbands waiting on the flat. One man dismounted and ran to grab Cadryc’s stirrup as a sign of fealty. A dark-haired young lad, he grinned from ear to ear.

‘Ah thank every god, your grace,’ the rider said. ‘How did you get the news?’

‘Someone from the farther village escaped,’ Cadryc said. ‘How fares your lord?’

‘That’s a tale and a half, my lord. Here, the farmers from our village got to the dun in time. One of the lads was out looking for a lost cow, so he saw the Horsekin coming and raised the alarm.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘Truly, your grace. So, the first thing we knew about it was when the whole cursed village comes charging up to the gates and yelling about raiders. So we let them in, and Lord Samyc wanted to ride out, but his lady begged him not to. There’s a woman for you, but anyway, cursed if the whole stinking village didn’t take her side.’ The lad looked retrospectively furious. ‘They stood in front of the gates, and our lord was yelling and swearing, but they wouldn’t move, and all for her ladyship’s sake. So in the end Lord Samyc gave in.’

‘It gladdens my heart to hear that,’ Cadryc said. ‘This raiding party must have been a large one.’

‘It was, your grace. Cursed if thirty Horsekin didn’t ride up to the maze here.’ The lad gestured at the earthworks. ‘We could see them from the top of the wall, and they were yelling back and forth in that cursed ugly language of theirs, as bold as brass they were.’

Cadryc glanced Gerran’s way with troubled eyes.

‘We’ve not seen that many in a long time, your grace,’ Gerran said.

‘Indeed.’ Cadryc raised one hand to get everyone’s attention. ‘All right, men, let’s get this wood up to the dun.’

The villagers had turned Lord Samyc’s small ward into a camp, crammed with their cows, children, poultry, dogs, and heaps of household goods. When the warbands rode in, the men and horses filled the last available space. As he dismounted, Gerran saw a pair of hysterical servants rushing around and yelling back and forth about trying to feed so many guests. Red-haired, freckled, and a fair bit younger than Gerran, Lord Samyc ran out of the broch and knelt before the tieryn.

‘It gladdens my heart to see your grace,’ Samyc said. ‘Even though you have every right to despise me for my dishonour.’

‘Suicide brings little honour, my lord,’ Cadryc said. ‘Now get up and stop brooding about it.’

Startled, Samyc scrambled to his feet and glanced over his shoulder. In the doorway of the broch, a young woman, so great with child that she’d slung her kirtle over one shoulder rather than wrapping it round her middle, stood watching the confusion in the ward. Gerran was surprised that Lord Samyc’s lady hadn’t delivered under the stress of the raid. She needed the help of a servant girl to curtsey to the tieryn.

‘Have I done a wrong thing, your grace?’ she said. ‘Have I truly ruined my husband’s whole life by refusing to let him die?’

‘Oh, horse – oh nonsense,’ Cadryc said. ‘He’ll get over his sulk in time.’

Since Lord Samyc had no room to shelter everyone, Lord Pedrys and Tieryn Cadryc stayed in the broch while Gerran led the warbands down to the riverbank to camp. On the off-chance that the raiders would try a night strike, Gerran posted guards. When the gerthddyn offered to stand a watch, Gerran’s first impulse was to turn him down, but then he remembered Salamander’s formidable eyesight. Gerran gave him the last watch and decided to stand it with him.

Some while before dawn, they walked down to the river together. Flecked with starlight, the water flowed broad and silent. Off to the west the rolling meadowlands lay dark. Somewhere out there the Horsekin were camping with their miserable booty.

‘On the morrow, captain,’ Salamander said, ‘do we ride after the raiders?’

‘I hope so,’ Gerran said. ‘We doubtless don’t have a candle’s chance of warming hell, but it would gladden my heart to get those women and children back. Better a free widow than an enslaved one.’

‘True spoken. You know, there’s somewhat odd about this raid, isn’t there? At least thirty fighting men and their heavy horses – that’s not an easy lot to feed on a long journey. And they’ve travelled all this way to glean a handful of slaves from a couple of poor villages?’

‘Huh. I’d not thought of it that way before. I suppose they brought a good number of men because they knew we’d stop them if we could.’

‘Mayhap. But why run the risk at all? Now, far to the south, down on the seacoast, there are unscrupulous merchants who’ll buy slaves at a good price, transport them in secret, and sell them in Bardek. But that’s a wretchedly long way away, and how could the Horsekin move a small herd of slaves unnoticed? They’d have to ride through Pyrdon and Eldidd, where every lord would turn out to stop them, or else travel through the Westfolk lands. The Westfolk archers would kill the lot of them on sight. They hate slavery almost as much as they hate the Horsekin.’

‘So they would. I’ve got a lot of respect for their bowmen. Your father’s folk, are they? Or your mother’s?’

Salamander tipped his head back and laughed. ‘My father’s,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve got good eyes, captain.’

‘So do you, and that’s what gave you away. But here –’ Gerran thought for a moment. ‘The Horsekin have plenty of human slaves already, from what I’ve heard, and they let them breed, to keep the supply fresh, like. They don’t need to raid. You’re right. Why are they risking so much for so little?’

‘It’s a question that strikes me as most recondite, but at the same time pivotal, portentous, momentous, and just plain important. Tell me somewhat. These raids, they started when farmers began to settle the Melyn river valley, right?’

‘A bit later than that. When the farms reached the river.’

‘Oho! I’m beginning to get an idea, captain, but let me brood on it awhile more, because I might be wrong.’

At dawn, Gerran joined the noble-born for a council of war over breakfast in Samyc’s great hall. The three lords wanted to track the raiders down, but they ran up against a hard reality: they lacked provisions for men and horses alike. The crop of winter wheat was still two weeks from harvest. After a bit of impatient squabbling, someone at last remembered that the farther village’s crops would be milk-ripe and of no use to the poor souls who’d planted them.

‘Here, what about this?’ Lord Samyc said. ‘I’ll give you what supplies I’ve got left from the winter. Then my farmfolk can go harvest the milk-ripe crops to feed my dun when I get back to it.’

Cadryc glanced at Gerran. Over the years, whether as father and stepson or tieryn and captain, they’d come to know each other so well that they could exchange messages with a look and a gesture. Gerran, being common-born, had no honour to lose by suggesting caution, and since he was the best swordsman in the province, no one would have dared call him a coward. The other two lords were also waiting for him to speak, he realized, though no doubt they would have denied it had anyone pointed it out.

‘Well, my lord,’ Gerran said, ‘didn’t Lord Samyc’s man tell us that thirty Horsekin rode to the dun?’

‘He did,’ Cadryc said.

‘So I’ll wager their warband numbers more than that. Someone must have been guarding the prisoners from the first village while the raiders rode to the second one. We’ve got thirty men ourselves, and Lord Samyc can give us only a few more.’

‘Ah!’ Samyc held up one hand to interrupt. ‘But some of my villagers have been training with the longbow.’

‘Splendid, my lord!’ Gerran said. ‘How many?’

‘Well, um, two.’

‘Oh.’

‘We’re badly outnumbered.’ Pedrys leaned forward. ‘Is that it, captain?’

‘It is, my lord, though it gripes my soul to admit it. We’ve all faced the Horsekin before. They know how to swing a sword when they need to. If we had more than two archers to call upon, the situation would be different.’

The three lords nodded agreement.

‘So, I don’t think it would be wise to follow them, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘What if they have reinforcements waiting further west?’

Cadryc stabbed a chunk of bread with his table dagger and leaned back in his chair to eat it.

‘It gripes my soul,’ Pedrys snarled, ‘to let them just ride away with our people.’

‘It gripes mine, too,’ Cadryc said, swallowing. ‘But what good will it do them if we ride into a trap? We’ve got to think of the rest of the rhan, lads. If we’re wiped out, who will stand between it and the Horsekin?’

‘That’s true,’ Samyc said. ‘Alas.’

Cadryc pointed the chunk of bread at the two lords in turn. ‘We need more men, that’s the hard truth of it. I know I’ve said it before, but it’s the blasted truth.’

‘Just so, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘It’s too bad we don’t have wings like that dragon.’

‘Indeed.’ Cadryc glanced at Samyc. ‘Do you know you’ve got a dragon in your demesne?’

‘It’s not mine, exactly,’ Samyc said with a twisted grin. ‘It comes and goes as it pleases.’

‘When did you first see it, my lord?’ Gerran said. ‘If I may ask.’

‘Well, it was a bit over a year ago, just when the snow was starting to melt. It came flying over the dun here, bold as brass. I’d heard of dragons before, of course, but seeing a real one – ye gods!’

‘Truly,’ Cadryc said. ‘I don’t mind admitting that the sight was a bit much excitement at the start of a day.’

‘Let’s hope it likes the taste of Horsekin,’ Gerran said.

Cadryc laughed with a toss of his head. ‘I’ve got a scribe now,’ he said with a nod at the two lords. ‘So I’ll send a letter to the gwerbret and see what kind of answer he has for us. Get the warbands ready to ride, Gerro, will you? We’re going home.’

‘I will, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘One thing, though. That last man from Neb’s old village,’ he looked Samyc’s way, ‘did he take shelter with you, my lord?’

‘Not that I know of. Did someone escape, you mean?’

‘Just that. I’d like to hear what he has to say. Any information we can get about the raid is all to the good.’ Gerran stood up. ‘I’ll ask around out in the ward.’

Unfortunately, no one, not farmer nor member of the warband, had seen any escapee arrive at the dun, nor had the wood-cutting expedition turned him up that morning in the coppice. It was possible, one farmer pointed out, that the man or lad was hiding in the wild woods across the river to the west.

‘They’re not far, about three miles,’ Gerran told Cadryc. ‘Do you think it’s worth a look?’

‘I do,’ Cadryc said. ‘I want to hear what he can tell us.’

When they rode out, the warbands clattered across Lord Samyc’s bridge, then headed out into the meadowland on the western side of the river. They found the last man from the village long before they reached the wild wood, along with the site of what must have been one of the raiders’ camps, judging from the trampled grass, firepits, scattered garbage, and the like.

The villager, however, could tell them nothing. About a hundred yards west of the camp, they found a lumpish low mound covered with blankets that had been pinned down at each corner with a wooden stake. They all assumed that it was a dead Horsekin, covered to protect him from scavengers. With a dragon hunting their mounts, the Horsekin would have had no time for a proper burial.

‘Let’s take those blankets off,’ Cadryc said. ‘Let the ravens pull him to pieces.’

Gerran dismounted, and Salamander joined him. Together they pulled up the wood stakes and threw back the blankets. Flies rose in a black cloud of outraged buzzing. For a moment Gerran almost vomited, and Salamander took a few quick steps back.

The corpse was human, naked, lying on his back, and he’d been staked out with thick iron nails hammered through the palm of each hand and each foot. Judging from the amount of dried blood around each stake, he’d been alive for the process and perhaps a little while after. He was bearded in blood, too, because he’d gnawed his own lips half away in his agony. Where his eyes had been black ants swarmed. At some point in this ghastly process the Horsekin had slit him from breech to breastbone and pulled out his internal organs. In a pulsing mass of ants they lay in tidy lines to either side of him, bladder, guts, kidneys, liver and lungs, but the heart was missing.

‘What – who in the name of the Lord of Hell would do such a thing?’ Gerran could only whisper. ‘Ye gods, savages! That’s all they are!’

‘In the name of Alshandra, more likely.’ Salamander sounded half-sick. ‘I’ve heard about this, but I’ve never seen it before, and I thank all the true gods for that, too.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘That they do this to selected prisoners, always men, and usually someone who’s been stupid enough to surrender. They send them with messages to Alshandra’s country. That’s somewhere in the Otherlands, I suppose.’ Salamander paused to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. He swallowed heavily, then turned away from the sight. ‘As the prisoner’s dying, they tell him he’s lucky, because their goddess will give him a favoured place in her land of the dead.’

‘I hope to every god that he lied when he got there.’

‘That’s why they keep the heart. If he lies, they say, they’ll torture it, and he’ll feel the pains in the Otherlands.’

Gerran tried to curse, but he could think of nothing foul enough. He turned away and saw that even Cadryc had gone white about the mouth.

‘Let’s bury him,’ the tieryn said. ‘And then we’re heading home. There’s naught else we can do for him or any of the other poor souls they took.’

‘Good idea, your grace.’ Gerran pointed to a pair of riders. ‘You – take the latrine shovels and dig him a proper grave.’

As they dismounted, Gerran heard a raven calling out from overhead. He glanced up and saw a single large bird circling – abnormally large, as he thought about it. With a flap of its wings it flew away fast, heading east. Gerran turned to mention it to Salamander, but the gerthddyn had walked some yards away and fallen to his knees. He appeared to be ridding himself of his breakfast in a noisy though understandable fashion. And after all, Gerran told himself, there’s naught strange about a corpse-bird come to carrion. He put the matter out of his mind.

Everyone was very kind. Perhaps that was the most painful thing of all, this unspoken kindness, or so Neb thought. None of the other servants resented his sudden arrival into a position of importance. They gave him things to put in his chamber – a pottery vase from the chamberlain, a wood bench from the cook, a wicker charcoal-basket from the head groom’s wife. One of the grooms gave Neb a nearly-new shirt embroidered with the tieryn’s blazon of a wolf rampant; his wife gave Clae a leather ball that had been her son’s before he went off to his prenticeship. Neb saw every gift as an aching reminder that he’d been stripped of kin the way he stripped a quill of feathers when he made a pen.

But it’s better than starving, Neb would forcibly remind himself. It was also better than being enslaved by Horsekin, but Neb did his best to keep from thinking about that. In the farming village he’d had two friends, boys his own age who were most likely dead now, and their mothers and sisters enslaved. At times, memories crept into his mind like weevils into grain, but he picked them out again. Now and then he indulged himself with the hope that at least one friend had managed to escape, but he never allowed the hope to blossom into a full-fledged wish.

To distract him he also had work to do. With the winter wheat almost ripe for harvest, the tieryn’s farmer vassals would soon owe him taxes in kind – foodstuffs, mostly, but also some oddments such as rendered tallow for candles and soap. The elderly chamberlain, Lord Veddyn, took Neb out to the storehouses, built of stone right into the dun’s walls.

‘I must admit that it gladdens my heart you’re here,’ Veddyn said. ‘I used to be able to remember all the dues and taxes, store them up in my mind, like, but it gets harder and harder every year. I’ve been wishing I knew a bit of writing myself, these past few months.’

‘I see,’ Neb said. ‘Well, we can set up a tally system easily enough, if you’ve got somewhat for me to write upon. Wax on wood won’t do.’

‘I’ve got a bit of parchment laid by. It’s not the best in the kingdom, though.’

In a cool stone room that smelled of onions Veddyn showed him a wooden chest. Neb kicked it a couple of times to scare any mice or spiders away, then opened it to find a long roll of old vellum, once of a good quality, now a much-scraped palimpsest.

‘It’s cracking a bit, isn’t it?’ Veddyn said. ‘My apologies. I thought it would store better than this.’

‘We can split it into sheets along the cracks. It’ll do.’

Out in the sun Neb unrolled about a foot of the scroll and released a cloud of dust and ancient mould. He sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, then held the roll up to the light.

‘This must have been a set of tax tallies,’ Neb said. ‘I can just make out a few words. Fine linen cloth, six ells. Someone someone ninety-five bushels of somesort barley.’

‘It’s from our old demesne – what’s that noise?’

Neb cocked his head to listen. ‘Riders coming in the gates,’ he said. ‘I wonder if his grace has ridden home.’

‘Not already, surely!’

They hurried around the broch to find a small procession entering the ward. Four armed men with oak-leaf blazons on their shirts escorted a heavily laden horse cart, driven by a stout middle-aged woman, while behind them came a person riding a grey palfrey. Taxes, Neb thought at first, here early.

As the pages and a groom ran out to take the horses, the rider dismounted with a toss of her long blonde hair, caught back in a silver clasp. A pretty lass, though not the great beauty he’d seen in his earlier dream, she was wearing a faded blue dress, caught up at her kirtled waist, over a pair of old torn brigga. The Wildfolk of Air, sylphs and sprites both, flocked around her, and perched behind her saddle was a little grey gnome, who looked straight at Neb, grinned, and waved a skinny clawed paw. The gnome looked exactly like the little creature in Neb’s dream.

‘It’s Lady Branna!’ Veddyn said. ‘Here, greet her and her escort, will you? Where’s Lord Mirryn, I wonder? He’s always off somewhere when you need him! And the pages have their hands full. I’d better go tell Lady Galla her niece has arrived.’

When Neb walked up, the lady turned around and smiled at him, a distant but friendly sort of smile such as she doubtless would give to any stranger, but Neb felt his heart start pounding. Instantly he knew two things so crucial that he felt as if he had waited his entire life for this lass to appear. One, he loved her, and two, she shared all his secrets, perhaps even secrets he hadn’t realized he was keeping. He tried to speak but felt that he was gasping like a caught fish on a riverbank.

Fortunately Branna appeared just as startled. Her smile vanished, her eyes grew wide, and she stared at him unspeaking. He studied her face with a feeling much like hunger: narrow mouth, snub nose, a dusting of freckles over her high cheekbones, dark blue eyes. He had never wanted anything more than to reach out and take her hand, but someone behind them called her name and sharply. Branna flinched and looked away.

‘Here, who are you?’ The stout woman who’d been driving the cart came striding over. A widow’s black scarf half-covered her grey hair, and she wore grey dresses, much stained. She pointed a calloused finger at Neb.

‘My name is Nerrobrantos, scribe to Tieryn Cadryc,’ Neb said. ‘And you are?’

‘Her ladyship’s servant.’

‘More like my guardian dragon,’ Branna said, then laughed. Her voice was pleasantly soft. ‘Don’t be so fierce, Midda. A scribe may speak to a poverty-stricken lady like me.’ She turned back to Neb. ‘Do people really call you Nerrobrantos all the time?’

‘They don’t.’ Neb at last remembered how to smile. ‘Do call me Neb, my lady.’

‘Gladly, Goodman Neb. Here comes Aunt Galla, but maybe we’ll meet again?’

‘I don’t see how we can avoid meeting in a dun this size.’

She laughed, and he’d never heard a laugh as beautiful as hers, far more beautiful than golden bells or a bard’s harp. For a long time after Lady Galla had led her inside, Neb stood in the ward and stared out at nothing. He was trying to understand just what had convinced him that his entire view of the world was about to change.

Mirryn brought him out of this strange reverie when the lord hurried over to the men of the lady’s escort, who were waiting patiently beside their horses.

‘What’s this?’ Mirryn said. ‘I see our scribe’s just left you all standing here.’

‘My apologies, my lord,’ Neb said. ‘I don’t have the slightest idea of where to take them. I’ve never lived in a dun before.’

Mirryn’s jaw dropped. Neb had never seen anyone look quite so innocently surprised. The lord covered it over with a quick laugh.

‘Of course not,’ Mirryn said. ‘You’re a townsman, after all, or you were.’

Neb smiled, bowed, and made his escape. He carried the roll of parchment up to his chamber, where he could cut it into sheets with his new penknife, but even as he worked, he was thinking about Lady Branna.

‘Now, here, my ladyship,’ Midda said. ‘I’m sure we can make you a better match than a scribe, and besides, you just met the lad.’

‘What makes you think I want to marry him?’ Branna said.

‘The way the pair of you were looking at each other. All cow-eyed, like.’

Branna shrugged and went to perch on the wide windowsill of her new chamber. Lady Galla had given her a decent situation, especially for a destitute extra daughter, unwelcome in her own father’s dun. The sunny chamber had its own hearth, a comfortable-looking bed, and a window that sported proper wooden shutters against possible rain. Branna had brought along her dower chest, made of plain wood and chipped around the lid – the best that her stepmother would part with. Midda was at the moment inspecting its contents to make sure they’d not suffered any damage during the journey. Branna had spent hundreds of hours working on them: two woad-blue blankets in an overshot weave and an embroidered coverlet for the marriage bed, the unassembled pieces of a heavily embroidered wedding shirt for her eventual husband, and various dresses and underclothes for herself. The little grey gnome sat on the bed and concentrated on picking at his long toenails.

‘Well, I certainly don’t want to marry Neb,’ Branna said. ‘He just reminds me of someone I saw once. I was surprised, is all.’

‘And where would you have seen the lad before?’

‘If I knew, I wouldn’t have been surprised, would I now?’

Midda sighed with a shake of her head, then resumed the unpacking. From a sack she took out two old, threadbare blankets, another grudged gift. When she spread them over the bed, the gnome vanished only to reappear in Branna’s lap. Neb sees the Wildfolk too, Branna thought. I could see his eyes move, following them.

‘I’m off to get some firewood and the like,’ Midda announced. ‘It might be chilly tonight.’

‘Well and good, then. Has that chamberlain given you a decent place to sleep?’

‘He has. A nice little space set off by partitions, private, like, and only one other woman to share it with, and us with a mattress apiece. Much better than I had –’ She paused to gesture at the room. ‘Than we had at your father’s dun.’

With one last snort of remembered disgust, Midda bustled out of the room. The gnome reached up a timid little paw and touched Branna’s cheek.

‘It is nicer,’ Branna said. ‘And I certainly can’t be any more miserable than I was before. Now, if only I really had dweomer, I’d turn my stepmother into a frog, and I’d not turn her back unless she begged me.’

The gnome grinned and nodded his head in agreement.

‘If only I really had dweomer,’ Branna went on. ‘I say that too much, don’t I? But they were such lovely tales I used to tell us. I suppose I should stop. I’m grown now and marriageable and all the rest of it.’

The thought of abandoning her fantasies saddened her, because she’d told herself those tales for as long as she could remember. They had started as dreams, beautifully vivid dreams, so coherent and detailed that at times she wondered if they were actually memories.From those wonderings she had developed a detailed fantasy about another Then and another When, as she called it – another life somewhere that she and her gnome had lived together, when she’d been a mighty sorcerer who had travelled all over Deverry and far away, too, off to Bardek and beyond. Her favourite tale concerned a magical island far across the Southern Sea, where elven sorcerers lived and studied books filled with mighty spells. The gnome had always listened, nodding his head when he agreed with some detail, or frowning when he felt she’d got something wrong.

‘Neb,’ she said aloud. ‘There was a man with a name like that in the tales, do you remember? But he was old. He can’t be the same person.’

The gnome scowled and wagged a long warty finger at her.

‘What? You can’t mean he is the same person.’

The gnome nodded.

‘Oh here, that’s silly. And impossible.’

The gnome flung both hands into the air and disappeared. Branna was about to try calling him back when someone knocked on the door. Lady Galla opened it and hurried in, with a page carrying a folded coverlet right behind her. Branna scrambled down from the windowsill and curtsied.

‘There you are, dear,’ Galla said. ‘Do you like the chamber? I found somewhat to brighten it up a bit. Now that you’re here, we’ll have to start on some bed curtains for you. We should be able to get them done before the winter.’

‘Thank you so much,’ Branna said. ‘I really really appreciate all this, Aunt Galla.’

‘You’re most welcome, dear.’ Galla took the coverlet from the page. ‘You may go, Coryn.’

The page skipped off down the hall. Together the two women spread out the coverlet, linen embroidered with red and blue spiral roundels and thick bands of yellow interlace.

‘It’s awfully pretty,’ Branna said.

‘And cheerful. Having somewhat cheerful’s important just now, I should think.’ Galla reached out and patted her hand. ‘And don’t you worry, we’ll see about finding you a proper husband.’

‘Tell me somewhat. Would it be horribly wrong of a lass like me to marry some common-born man, one who has some standing, I mean, like somebody who’s serving a powerful lord?’

‘Not at all, truly, just so long as he could provide for you properly.’

‘Oh, I’m used to doing without.’

Galla winced and glanced away. ‘Your dear stepmother,’ she said at last. ‘Well, I’m sure she has her virtues.’

‘She popped out two sons in four years. That’s all the virtue Da cares about.’ Branna heard the venom in her voice and tried to speak more calmly. ‘He never much liked me, anyway.’

‘Now, dear, it’s hard for a true-born warrior like him to show tender feelings.’

‘Oh, don’t try to sweeten it! You know that he blames me for my mother’s death. Well, doesn’t he?’

‘It’s a hard situation all round.’ Galla hesitated. ‘He did at the time, dear, but I tried to make him see reason.’ Again the hesitation. ‘Not that he did. Oh, it griped my very soul! You nearly died with her, you know, and your poor mother was never very strong anyway.’ She collected herself with a little sigh. ‘Well, you’re here now, and I’m glad you’ve come to me.’

‘So am I. I truly am.’ Branna crossed to the window and looked out. She could see past the ward and over the dun wall to the green fields and the stream beyond. ‘It’s even a lovely view. At home I could look out over the cook house, and the smoke really was awful.’

‘That woman!’ Galla rolled her eyes heavenward.

Branna sat down on the broad stone windowsill and leaned out, just slightly, to look up at the sky. A solitary raven was hovering over the dun on outstretched wings. As she watched, she realized that while it looked the size of an ordinary bird, it had to be flying extremely high, because she couldn’t see its eyes or the fine points of its wings. The only explanation could be that it was abnormally large. It flapped and circled, then hovered again, as if it were studying the dun below. She waited and watched, as it repeated the manoeuvre, but no other ravens flew up to join it, and it never made a sound. Finally, with one last flurry of black wings, it flew away, heading north.

‘What is it, dear?’ Galla said.

Branna drew her head back inside. ‘Probably naught. A solitary raven, and I thought it was watching us.’

‘It was probably just eyeing the stables in the hopes of stall sweepings. They eat the most disgusting things, ravens.’

‘True spoken, but this one – I don’t know why, but it chilled my heart. It seemed so large, for one thing.’

‘Perhaps it was a rook, not a raven at all.’

‘Well, that could be it. Silly of me, I know.’ Branna arranged a bright smile. In her chilled heart she doubted very much indeed that the bird she’d seen was a rook or any other natural animal. Yet what else would it be? she asked herself.

‘I think we’ve finished here,’ Galla said. ‘Shall we go down to the great hall?’

As they were walking over to the table of honour, Branna noticed Neb, sitting on the servants’ side of the room near a window. In the patch of sunlight that fell onto his table lay sheets of parchment, upon which he was scoring lines with the back of his little penknife against a strip of wood. A fat yellow gnome crouched on the table beside the parchments. It turned its head, leapt to its clawed feet, and began dancing on the parchments. Neb laid down his penknife and swatted at the gnome, who turned and pointed at Branna. Neb raised his head and looked her way. He certainly does see the Folk! she thought. Young, skinny, so completely different from the old man she’d often dreamt about – and yet his ice-blue eyes seemed so familiar that she nearly ran to him, nearly called him by the name she’d given him for her tales: Nevyn.

Neb raised his hand in greeting and smiled at her, as if he were hoping she’d join him, but Aunt Galla beckoned to her, and her cousin Mirryn was already sitting at the honour table. Branna risked a smile Neb’s way, then hurried after her aunt.

Branna passed the afternoon pleasantly, playing carnoic with Mirryn, chatting with Galla. Lord Veddyn joined Neb at his table and began reciting the list of taxes owed, stumbling every now and then over his faulty memory, so that the scribe could write them down. At each lapse, Galla would stand up and shout corrections Veddyn’s way. Once in a while, as casually as she could manage, Branna would steal a look at Neb. Often enough she found him looking back. They would both blush and look away again.

Since she was tired from her journey, Branna went to bed early. Unlike her old bed in her father’s dun, her new mattress was soft and comfortable, and the down pillows smelled fresh, not sour. She lay down, then turned on her side to look at the sliver of starry sky visible through her window. Earlier she’d resolved to give up her strange dreams of dweomer, but as soon as she fell asleep, a dream took her over.

She was standing at another window, looking at the sky. A full moon drifted in the field of stars. As she watched, the moon began to shrink until it turned into a gem, an opal, she thought, but it gleamed just as brightly as before. Suddenly she stood inside a chamber, and an old man, dressed in the brown tattered clothes of a poor farmer, was holding the opal out to her.

Branna woke and sat up. Judging from the wheel of stars outside her window, dawn lay a long way off. Her gnome appeared and flopped down on the bed beside her.

‘Another odd dream,’ she told it. ‘Twice odd, really, because it wasn’t the sort of dream I used to weave into a story, but it truly did seem more important than the usual sort of dream.’

The gnome yawned, then left its mouth half-open and began to pick its teeth with one skinny fingernail.

‘And of no interest to you, obviously. Humph!’

Branna lay back down again, and fell back asleep almost immediately. She had no more dreams that night, or at least, none that she remembered when she woke with the dawn.

On the day after Branna’s arrival, the tieryn and his warband rode back to the dun. From the window of his tower room Neb watched them file through the gates – the horses weary, the men covered with dust from the roads. A provision cart and a couple of mules with empty packsaddles followed them, but no villagers walked behind, not a single man, woman, or child. Neb’s eyes filled with tears as his last shred of hope blew away like the dust in the wind. He and Clae alone had escaped the Horsekin.

In his grief Neb decided against going down to the bustle and confusion of the great hall. He could wait to hear the grim report of what the warbands had found. When the sun had sunk low in the sky, however, Salamander came to his chamber. The gerthddyn had bathed and put on fresh clothes, including a shirt so heavily embroidered that it draped as stiffly as leather.

‘I’ll wager you can guess my news,’ Salamander said. ‘No one was left alive. We buried your uncle. I fear me your aunt’s been taken by the Horsekin.’

‘And the other women, too?’

‘Just that. I’m sorry.’

Neb stared into empty air and fought the memories down.

‘We’d best get ourselves to the great hall,’ Salamander went on. ‘They’re serving the evening meal, and the tieryn wants you to write an important letter.’

A spiral staircase wound down to the great hall, dim with the shadows of twilight. Near the door the men of the warband were drinking at their tables while they waited for their dinner. Across from them, near the nobles’ hearth, Tieryn Cadryc sat at the head of the table of honour with his wife at his right hand. Branna was sitting next to Lady Galla. She wore a pair of clean dresses, the outer a pale blue, cut short in front and slashed at the sleeves to reveal a grey underdress. An embroidered band of interlace ran around the neck, and like a pendant hanging from a chain an embroidered dragon lay just over her collarbone. Neb felt himself blush for no particular reason, then noticed the gerthddyn staring at her, his lips half-parted as if in surprise. Or was it sexual interest? Neb wanted to slap him across the face, but the emotion shocked him so much that he managed to suppress it.

‘Have you met Lady Branna before?’ Neb said.

‘The ice in your voice, lad, would freeze most men’s blood.’

Neb raised one eyebrow and considered him.

‘Ye gods,’ Salamander said, ‘the look in your eyes just might do the same.’

‘Have you met her before?’

‘I’ve not.’

‘Then you’d best mind your manners around her.’

Salamander opened his mouth, then shut it again. Neb turned on his heel and strode off to the honour table, where Tieryn Cadryc waited for him.

After the meal, Salamander went up to the little room in the broch that Lady Galla had given him, a wedge of the circular floor plan defined by woven wicker partitions, but private nonetheless, because the compartments to either side held stacks of curing firewood. He spread his blankets out on the mattress on the floor, then strolled over to the unshuttered window. He could see over the dun walls to the meadows off to the east, where a quarter moon was just rising out of mist. When he boosted himself up to sit on the wide stone windowsill, the Wildfolk came to join him, a flock of sprites in the air, a gaggle of gnomes on the floor and the sill.

‘Well, this is a pretty predicament, isn’t it?’ Salamander said to them. ‘I’ve seen my brother now, and I can’t say I cared for the sight.’

The Wildfolk all nodded in sad sympathy. Beyond the window the mist in front of the rising moon glowed and seemed to swirl in the distant light. Salamander focused upon it and let his mind fill with the memory of the silver wyrm, flying overhead on huge wings. In but an instant the memory turned into a vision. The silver dragon lay curled on a flat outcrop of rock among high mountains, his scales gleaming in the moonlight. He was perhaps eating something he held nestled against his side; Salamander could see the enormous head moving in a regular rhythm, licking something – licking a wound. The dragon moved restlessly, tossing his head, and Salamander could finally distinguish a dark streak on his side, oozing what appeared to be blood. In a moment the dragon went back to cleaning the wound with the only tool he had, his own tongue, a gesture so like that of a dog that Salamander felt profoundly nauseated.

His brother was living like an animal. No, his brother was an animal now, albeit a sapient creature who could speak, and in several languages at that. But he had no hands, no tools to ease his life, nothing but what his dragon form gave him. Salamander broke the vision. As if they felt his distress, the Wildfolk crowded closer.

‘Ye gods, I feel sick and twice so,’ Salamander said. ‘I think me I’d best talk to my master in the dweomer.’

This time, when he gazed into the moon-mist he thought of Dallandra, his teacher and saviour. At first he remembered her face; then he thought he might be seeing her face; all of a sudden he did see it. Her steel-grey eyes were narrow with concentration, and wisps of her ash-blonde hair hung untidily across her forehead and stuck to her cheeks. Yet, although the vision enlarged, the mist only thickened, swirling around her and threatening to hide her entirely.

‘Dalla,’ he thought-spoke to her in Elvish. ‘Dalla, it’s Ebañy. Is something wrong?’

He saw her flinch in surprise, then smile. She sat back on her heels and appeared to be looking straight at him. Through the mist he could see flickering light. Smoke and a fire?

‘What do you mean, is something wrong?’ she thought her answer back to him.

‘I can barely see you for the smoke.’

‘It’s not smoke. We’re still on the coast. It’s high tide, and the ocean’s etheric veil is running high with it. Let me sharpen the image.’

With that he could see her clearly. She was kneeling in front of the flickering light, which proved to be a small campfire.

‘That’s much better,’ he said. ‘You haven’t left? I thought you’d have all started north by now.’

‘We had to wait for Carra to get back from Wmmglaedd. She and Meranaldar went there to talk history with the priests. We’ll ride out on the morrow, most likely. Where are you?’

‘In Tieryn Cadryc’s dun once more. I’ve got strange news. I’ve seen our Rhodry, but I don’t think he recognized me. It was down in the Melyn river valley.’

‘Does he look well?’

‘No. I mean, by the Dark Sun herself! How could he look well in that body? He’s a dragon, all scaly.’

‘Calmly now! Your thoughts are beginning to dance around.’

‘Sorry.’ Salamander took a deep breath. ‘But he seems to have hurt himself somehow. There’s something that looks like a dagger’s cut over one rib.’

‘How very odd! It couldn’t still be the old wound, the one I couldn’t get to staunch. On a creature the size of a dragon, it should have healed right up.’

‘Why would it? If it was a magical curse or suchlike –’

‘But it wasn’t any such thing. When it happened, I wasn’t thinking clearly, so I didn’t see the obvious. About a month later, when I was watching the men in my alar butcher a sheep, I realized the dagger had punctured a lung. There’s a tremendous lot of blood vessels there, and most of the blood was draining into his chest cavity. He was drowning, actually, in his own blood.’

For a moment Salamander nearly lost the vision in a wave of compassionate disgust. He steadied his mind and went on. ‘Then if it wasn’t a dweomer wound, what I saw must be a fresh injury. Perhaps something he was trying to eat fought back.’

‘Very likely, yes. Well, there’s naught I can do about it, unfortunately, unless he seeks me out, and so far, he hasn’t. Do you have any other news?’

‘Oh, a few small titbits.’ Salamander paused for drama’s sake. ‘I also ran across Nevyn, Jill, and Cullyn as well – or at least, I think it’s Cullyn. I only saw him once or twice, and that was years ago.’

‘You what? Ye gods! They’ve all been reborn?’

‘Yes, all reborn and here together, and Neb’s growling like a dog with a stolen joint of mutton at anyone who casts an unseemly glance at little Branna. I wonder if Gerran’s noticed the lass yet? Things could turn most unpleasant, you know, should he take a fancy to her. They’re all still quite young. I’d say that Gerran’s the oldest of the lot, and he seems to be about twenty. I really wish that Deverry men kept better track of things like someone’s age.’

‘They don’t have much reason to, I suppose. So Gerran is the man you think is Cullyn reborn?’

‘Yes. Sorry, I wasn’t being clear. The other names –’

‘I could guess them, yes. Tell me about them. How did you find them?’

‘It was more like they found me.’

Dallandra listened intently to his tale, breaking her concentration only to feed a few sticks of wood into her little fire.

‘Do Neb and Branna remember who they are?’ Dalla said when he’d finished. ‘Or were, I should say.’

‘No. They do both see the Wildfolk.’

‘Odd. I would have thought that Neb at least would have memories of working dweomer.’

‘So would I. Of course, he may have them but be keeping them to himself.’

‘That’s quite true.’ Dallandra paused briefly. ‘What about Neb’s little brother?’

‘I don’t recognize him at all.’

‘That’s interesting in itself. If you need me, I can gather an escort and ride your way.’

‘My thanks. I just might take you up on that. There’s another thing, oh mighty mistress of magicks. The Horsekin. They’ve been raiding in the Melyn river valley.’

‘Again?’

‘Again. It’s most peculiar, too. They sent a sizeable warband of heavy cavalry to burn two villages. For their trouble they got maybe thirty slave women and girls and two small boys. They didn’t even bother harvesting the wheat in the fields. Does that make sense to you?’

‘No, it certainly doesn’t.’

‘I’ve been talking with the tieryn and his captain – Gerran, that is – about the raids. Their history is peculiar as well. Imagine in your mind the western flank of Deverry. Now imagine a line running from Cengarn down straight south to the sea. The Horsekin only attack settlements to the west of that line.’

‘I suppose the settlements farther east are too well guarded.’

‘Not on your life, oh princess of powers perilous. I suspect – and as of now it’s a mere suspicion only – that the Horsekin are trying to stop human settlement from spreading.’

‘To protect their borders?’

‘Their borders are too far north for that. No, I wonder if there’s something they want to hide out to the west of here.’

‘Hide? Such as what?’

‘Such as a permanent camp set up to outflank the men of the Rhiddaer. It’s the only thing I can think of, anyway.’

Salamander could feel her shock as if it rode on a wave of mist, breaking over him. When her thoughts reached him, he could feel their venom as well.

‘That would be just like them, wouldn’t it?’ Dallandra thought-spoke. ‘They’ve had forty years to lick their wounds from the last war, and now they’re ready for more trouble.’ She paused, and her image flickered and grew thin as she withdrew her attention from scrying. In a few moments it clarified and grew bright again. ‘They can’t attack the Rhiddaer directly – yet. I’d guess they’re trying to cut it off from any possible help from Deverry.’

‘Perhaps that. Perhaps to cut it off from our folk, as well, or to cut us off from Deverry, or Deverry off from us. I know not, but I surmise much, none of it pleasant. I was wondering if any of our people have stumbled across this whatever it is, if indeed it exists, or if they’ve heard rumours, hints, clues, or even suspicions.’

‘I’ll find out. We’re on our way to the alardan for the summer festival. I’m riding with the prince’s alar, and of course Calonderiel and his archers are, too.’

‘Excellent! Cal’s just the man we need. I’d hoped to come west for the festival, but I think I’d better keep an eye on things here.’

‘Yes, do. How have you been faring? Your mind feels steady to me, but after what you’ve been through –’

‘No sign of a recurrence, I assure you, oh princess of powers perilous.’

‘Good. Let me know at the first sign of any trouble.’ With a smile for a farewell, Dallandra broke the link between them.

Salamander stayed in the window and considered the view without truly registering it. I used to call Jill the princess of powers perilous, he thought. Back before I went mad, back before I lost everything I loved, there in Bardek.

No matter how carefully he thought about his return to Deverry from the southern islands, some forty years ago, he could never remember it. There had been a ship, of course – how else could he have crossed the ocean between Bardek and Deverry? How he had boarded that ship, and why he’d left his wife and children behind, had fallen out of his memory like apples falling through a rotted sack. The madness, he thought. With my mind all to pieces like that, it’s a wonder I can remember anything. He could bring up a few memory-images of landing in Eldidd, where Dallandra had been waiting to take him into her care.

Curing his madness had given Dallandra a hard ten years’ work. Once his mind began healing, Salamander had devoted several years to his youngest son, who suffered from mysterious troubles, before he’d returned to Bardek. Once there, he had searched all over the islands for a good long while before he finally found the troupe of travelling acrobats led by his eldest son, a grown man by then with children of his own. Kwinto had given his truant father a cold enough welcome, too.

‘Too late,’ Salamander said aloud. ‘Too late to see Marka again, too late to prove to her that I kept my promise. I did come back, my love, truly I did.’

He could see her in his mind so clearly, and as always, he remembered her as a slender young woman, laughing, smiling, tossing her head of curls as she ran to greet him – so clearly that it seemed he could reach out and take her hand, but only empty air returned his grasp. She’s dead, he reminded himself. She died before you found them. He leaned his head back against the cold stone and wept.

Dallandra smothered her little fire, then left her tent, which stood on the edge of the encampment. When she turned towards the sea, she could see the tidy whitewashed buildings of the new town, Linalavenmandra, a name that meant ‘sorrow but new hope’, though most often its inhabitants merely called it Mandra, ‘hope’. From her vantage point, its whitewashed square buildings seemed as pale as ghosts against the night-time sea. Even though returning refugees from the Southern Isles had built the town over twenty years ago, it still amazed her every time she saw it: a proper town, sheltering not Deverry men but her own folk, with a town square and straight streets, trees and gardens, a town fountain and a holy spring. Beyond it, out of her immediate sight, lay farms. All her long life she’d known only wild sea grass in this spot, sea grass and rock and the winter waves that crashed and boomed on the long pale beach. The waves still crashed, but onto a rocky sea wall now, jutting out into a new harbour, where a wooden pier offered docking for elven longships.

With a shake of her head, Dalla turned away and strode through the camp. Despite the new town, most of the People, as the elven folk called themselves, still spent every spring and summer travelling in small groups, or alarli, following their herds of horses and flocks of sheep. In this alar two dozen round tents sprawled across a meadow near a stream. Out in the grasslands behind them, a herd of over four hundred horses, guarded by armed riders, grazed at tether.

In among the tents, the adults stood talking together in twos and threes or sat around small fires, finishing the evening meal. Children ran around, playing with leather balls, chasing each other or their dogs. Occasionally Wildfolk materialized to join the games. Warty little gnomes wandered between the tents; translucent sylphs and pale sprites flitted after the children or teased the dogs, who couldn’t see them but who could feel their pinching fingers. The dogs would bark and snap, and the Wildfolk would disappear, only to pop up smirking somewhere nearby.

On the surface the camp seemed no different from the elven camps Dallandra had always known. The tents were just as brightly painted, the fires just as warm. The People lived their lives as noisily as ever, in a society of ever-shifting relationships that made Deverry folk shake their heads in bewilderment. But here and there Dalla saw the signs that everything had changed.

In front of every tent, like guests at the meal, stood longbows and quivers. Mail shirts and other pieces of armour lay close at hand as well. Most of the men and some of the women wore swords, even when they were merely chatting with old friends. At the cry of birds passing overhead the camp would fall silent; hands on sword hilts, a few men would look up, judging whether or not the birds were ordinary creatures or magical spies, mazrakir, as the Horsekin called shape-changers. Sooner or later, everyone knew, the same raids that were bleeding the human farmlands were bound to ride their way.

In the middle of the camp Dallandra finally spotted the Banadar, or warleader, of the Eastern Border, to give Calonderiel his official title. He was sitting by himself on a dead log in front of his tent, the second largest in camp. In the flickering firelight the deer painted upon the tent walls seemed at moments to fling up their heads, ready to run. Calonderiel’s hair gleamed, so pale it was almost white, but shadows hid his violet eyes.

‘I’ve spoken to Ebañy,’ Dallandra said. ‘And I see trouble coming.’

Calonderiel looked up, startled. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘It’s not what he’s done, it’s what he’s found.’

Calonderiel moved over to give her room to sit beside him on the log, but after a moment’s hesitation, she knelt on the ground nearby. At the gesture he winced; he’d fallen in love with her all over again, and as it had before, his devotion annoyed her. Before he could speak of his feelings, she brandished Salamander’s news like a shield.

‘The Horsekin are raiding in Arcodd again.’

‘Bastards!’ Calonderiel paused to spit into the fire. ‘I wonder if Cengarn’s going to call in our alliance?’

‘I don’t know, but maybe Ebañy can find out. He thinks the Horsekin might be trying to hide something, a fort or armed camp, he said, near the border.’

‘And they’re using the raids as a distraction?’

‘Well, that’s what he suspects. He doesn’t know. I take it that seems logical to you.’

‘It’s the first thing I thought of. If his suspicions are right, we’ll have to mount some kind of attack. A Horsekin fort nearby? Ye gods, it’s like a dagger at our throats!’

‘That’s rather what I thought, too.’

‘We might be the ones to call in our alliance with Cengarn, not the other way round. At least we have Mandra now. If things get desperate, we can get the prince and his family to safety there and fortify the place. If it looks like the town’s going to fall, well, they have boats.’

‘Do you think things will get that desperate?’

‘Who knows?’ Calonderiel shrugged. ‘But we might as well plan for the worst. Which reminds me. We need to send messengers to Braemel. We’re going to need every ally we have. Huh!’ Cal paused to shake his head and smile. ‘I remember how angry I was, when that Horsekin woman – Zatcheka wasn’t it? – arrived to visit you.’

‘You were even angrier when I went to Braemel to visit her daughter.’

‘Yes, I was. Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?’

‘You?’ Dallandra laid her hand on her forehead and feigned shock. ‘Wrong?’

‘I deserve that, I suppose,’ Cal said, glowering. ‘But I’m glad now that you know the Gel da’Thae and their ugly language, too. Think Braemel will send us aid?’

‘Yes, I do. They’re as afraid of the wild Horsekin as we are. Never forget that. They may all look alike to us, but the Gel da’Thae see themselves as very different from the tribal Horsekin.’

‘Good.’ Calonderiel stared into the fire, his mouth working as he thought things through. Eventually he looked up. ‘Did Ebañy have any other news?’

‘Yes, but only of a personal sort.’

Calonderiel waited expectantly. When she said nothing more, he picked a stick up from the ground and began shredding the bark with a fingernail. Dalla longed to tell him her news, that two powerful dweomermasters had been reborn close at hand, that perhaps they might recover the lore and the power it gave them quickly, in time to aid the People in their battle with the Horsekin. But he knew nothing of the great secret, that souls lived many lives, and she was forbidden by her vows to tell anyone unless they asked her outright.

Eventually Cal tossed the stick onto the fire and looked up.

‘Do you remember Cullyn of Cerrmor?’ he said.

‘Jill’s father? I never met him, but I certainly know who he was. Why?’

‘I was just remembering a time long long ago, when Cullyn was the captain of another lord’s warband, and we were drinking together. I saw an omen, or felt it, or something like that.’

‘And it was?’

‘That someday we’d ride together in a war, an important war, the most significant one we’d ever fight.’ He tossed the stick into the fire and looked at her. ‘When he died, I realized that the omen must have been some silly imagining on my part.’ He paused to glare at the fire as if it had offended him. ‘It’s a pity, too, because I’d love to have his sword on our side now. Ye gods! We’d better go tell the prince.’ Calonderiel stood up. ‘Trust Ebañy to be a bird of ill omen!’

But I’ll wager you were right about Cullyn, Dallandra thought. The pity is that I can’t tell you so. Suddenly she felt so cold, so frail, that she could barely speak. She started to get to her feet, but she staggered and nearly fell. Calonderiel caught her by the shoulders and steadied her.

‘Are you ill?’ he said.

‘No, it’s just the omens. I feel omens around us, thick as winter snow. I’ll be all right in a bit.’

‘Dalla, Dalla, you pour out your life for us, don’t you?’

She could see genuine concern in his dark violet eyes, a compassion far different from his usual romantic longing. When he laid the back of a gentle hand against her cheek, she let it rest there for a moment before she turned away.

‘I’ll be all right,’ she repeated. ‘We have to go tell the prince.’

Ever since his father’s death some three years previously, Daralanteriel was technically a king, the overlord of the legendary Seven Cities of the far west, but since their ruins had lain abandoned for over a thousand years, everyone referred to him as a prince. It seemed more fitting to save the title of king for a man who had something to rule. Even so, Daralanteriel tran Aledeldar, Prince of the Seven Cities and Ranadar’s Heir, travelled with a retinue these days. Along with a hand-picked group of sword warriors, Dallandra with her dweomer and Calonderiel with his band of archers kept the royal family constant company. If the Horsekin should raid, they’d find the prince well guarded.

Daralanteriel’s tent, the largest in the Westlands, dominated the centre of the camp. The deer hides that covered the wood frame had been cut into straight panels, laced together, then painted. On the tent flap and around the opening hung painted garlands of red roses, so realistically portrayed that it seemed one might smell them. The rest of the tent sported views of Rinbaladelan in its days of glory. One panel portrayed the high tower near the harbour, another the observatory with its great stone arcs, a third the temple of the sun, so detailed that it seemed one might walk among them – not, of course, that anyone alive had ever seen the actual city to judge the accuracy of the paintings. The artist had followed the descriptions in a book belonging to Daralanteriel’s scribe, Meranaldar. While the book was a copy of a work saved from the destruction of Rinbaladelan, some twelve hundred years previously, it lacked any actual drawings.

Even though they were royal, Dallandra found Dar’s wife and daughter sitting on the ground in front of their tent like any other Westfolk family would do, sharing a meal of roast rabbit and flatbread. Dressed in a loose tunic over doeskin breeches, Princess Carramaena of the Westlands knelt by the fire and poked at the coals with a green twig. Some few feet away, her eldest daughter, Elessario, sat with her knees drawn up and her arms clasped around them to allow her to rest her head upon them. Superficially the two women looked much alike, both of them blonde, with pretty heart-shaped faces. Their eyes, however, differed greatly. Elessario’s eyes were a dark yellow, and cat-slit like all elven eyes. Her mother, a human, had blue eyes and the round pupils of her kind. At the sight of the banadar, Elessario grinned.

‘Cal!’ Elessario said. ‘Where’s your son?’

‘Maelaber?’ Calonderiel said. ‘Taking his turn on horse guard. Where’s your papa?’

‘Doing the same thing.’ Elessi giggled, then hid her mouth with one hand. She was a changeling, or so the People called the wild children who’d been born to them over the years. Although she was the most normal of them, her mind had stopped developing when she’d been about twelve years old.

‘Then I’d best go fetch him.’ Calonderiel glanced at Carra. ‘We’ve had some bad news.’

‘I’ll come, too!’ Elessario scrambled to her feet.

‘Say please,’ Carra said.

‘Please, Cal? Can I come with you?’

‘You may.’ Calonderiel gave her a smile. ‘But you’ll have to be careful around the horses.’

They hurried off, Elessario talking all the while. Carra shook her head and sighed.

‘My poor little changeling! To think we thought she’d be the queen of the Westlands one fine day.’ Over the years Carra had become fluent in Elvish, though one could still hear Deverry’s rolled R’s and Rh’s in her accent. ‘I’m so glad we’ve had other children.’

‘So am I. You must be looking forward to seeing the girls. I’m assuming they’ll come to the festival.’

‘They’d better, or I’ll have some harsh words for them. Perra must have had her baby by now, too. I can hardly wait to see them both.’

Dallandra smiled and sat down near her. ‘Some news – I’ve heard from Salamander.’

‘Has he found Rhodry?’

‘Not to say found him, but he did see him, flying over the Melyn River. He’s not sure whether or not Rhodry saw him, or heard him, either. Dragons make a lot of noise when they fly.’

‘I remember Arzosah, yes, flapping those huge wings of hers.’ Carra paused, suddenly sad. ‘Dalla, is there anything anyone can do for him? Rhodry, I mean, to change him back again. I can’t bear it, thinking of his being like that forever. He would have died for us, after all.’

‘In a way, he did. Unfortunately I don’t have the dweomer to bring him back. I honestly don’t know if anyone does.’

Carra bit her lip hard.

‘Well, he may be perfectly happy,’ Dalla went on. ‘In a way, he’d stopped being human long before Evandar gave him dragon form. You saw him after battles. That berserker laugh!’

‘I can hear it still, yes, whenever I think of him. If only Evandar were still alive! Do you think he could turn Rori back?’

‘Oh, undoubtedly, but he’s gone. I don’t know if any other dweomermaster will ever match his power.’

‘Probably not.’ Carra reached up and touched her cheek, still as smooth and unlined as a young lass’s. ‘It’s because of Evandar that I’ve not aged, isn’t it? He told me once he’d give me a gift, and it’s this, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, indeed, you’ve guessed his riddle.’ Dallandra felt her voice waver. ‘He did love riddles, and his elaborate jokes.’

‘You still miss him, don’t you?’

Dallandra nodded, fighting back tears. Over the years the true mourning had left her. Whole months would pass with never a thought of Evandar, but now and again, she would remember some detail of their time together, and the grief would stab her to the heart.

Fortunately a distraction arrived in the person of Carra’s youngest child. Followed by a pair of big grey dogs and a stream of Wildfolk, Rodiveriel came running. Laughing, he threw himself into Carra’s lap. The dogs flopped down, panting, displaying wolfish fangs. They had white faces and a black stripe of coarser hair down their grey backs like wolves as well, but they were, or so Carra assured everyone, merely dogs, descendants of the loyal pet that had guarded her when Elessi was an infant.

‘What’s all this, Rori?’ Carra said, smiling.

‘Nothing.’ He slid off to sit on the ground near the dogs. ‘I’m tired, but I don’t want to go to bed yet. It’s not even truly dark.’

‘All right, then, but when it’s truly dark, in you go.’

He made a face at her but said nothing. He’d inherited his father’s raven-dark hair, but his eyes, though a pale grey like Dar’s, were human in shape. His name was a hybrid – Carra had wanted to honour Rhodry, the man who’d saved her life all those years past. And yet he was also the Marked Prince of the Seven Cities, assuming of course, that the kingdom ever came back to life. If the cities did become a prize worth fighting over, would the People accept a man with human blood as their ruler? Dallandra doubted it. There’s trouble enough to worry about without that, she told herself. If the Horsekin murder us all, no one’s going to care about a dead kingdom anyway.

Late into the night the men talked of war. Dalla left them when the stars had completed half their wheel of the sky and went to her tent to sleep. Yet an omen-dream woke her in the grey light of dawn. She sat up and stared at the tent bags hanging on the wall, but in her mind she was seeing the omens.

‘A silver dagger and a bone whistle.’ She spoke aloud to ensure that she’d remember what she’d seen. ‘Someone’s silver dagger and a long bone whistle. Ye gods, what an odd pair of things!’ Yet she’d seen them both before, she realized, and eventually she retrieved the memory. One of Alshandra’s followers had tried to work evil with a dragonbone whistle during the siege of Cengarn, and Yraen’s silver dagger had ended up in the hands of the Horsekin after his death. ‘It was never truly finished, that war,’ Dalla whispered. ‘May the Star Goddesses help us all!’

Neb was quite proud of the letter he wrote for Tieryn Cadryc. Since it was addressed to a gwerbret, he trimmed up the best piece of parchment and chose the Half-inch Royal hand for the script. For good measure he put a line of interlace at the top and a little sketch of a red wolf, the tieryn’s blazon, below the place where Cadryc would make his mark.

Neb had an odd knack when it came to drawing things: he would picture his intended images in his mind, get them clear, and then push the image out through his eyes – or so he thought of the process – onto the parchment or whatever surface he was using. All he had to do then was trace around the image, which he could see as clearly as if it were already drawn. The trick came so naturally to him that he’d never given it much thought, but as he worked, he remembered Lady Galla telling him about Branna’s needlework skills. She can do this too, he thought. We’re alike in this. The words pleased him deeply: we’re alike.

When the ink had dried, Neb took it up to the table of honour, where the noble-born were finishing their breakfast. Cadryc took it from him and glanced at it, then took Neb’s pen and put an X over the Red Wolf.

‘Looks splendid.’ Cadryc handed the sheet back. ‘If it’s dry enough, roll it up.’ He handed Neb a silver message tube, somewhat scratched and dented, but usable. ‘I don’t have a proper seal, so a drop of wax will have to do. If we have any sealing wax, that is.’

‘We don’t, your grace,’ Neb said.

‘Ah. I was afraid of that. Well, the next time I go to Cengarn, you’ll come with me, and I’ll give you some coin to buy what we need. We’ve received the king’s yearly bounty. The messengers rode in not long before you turned up.’ Cadryc stood up and yelled across the hall to Gerran, who was eating with the warband. ‘Gerro, I need a couple of men to take a letter to Cengarn.’

Over the next few days, life in the dun centred around two things: waiting for the gwerbret’s answer and storing the taxes. Grain had to be milled into flour or parched for winter porridge and the brewing of ale; hogs, rabbits, and chickens needed to be sorted out and housed until their eventual slaughtering. Cheeses and butter to be kept cool, fruit dried, beef smoked or pickled – the early taxes provided the dun’s food supply for more than half a year. Lady Galla and Lady Branna put on old shabby dresses and worked alongside the cook and servants. Raised in a town, and a large one at that, Neb had never quite realized that outside of the rich provinces in the heart of Deverry, the noble-born were in their own way farm folk, much closer to the life of the land than craftsmen were.

During the day Neb saw Branna often as she went about her work and he his. At times they had the chance to say a few words together, but at meals and in the evening, they sat at opposite sides of the hall, she with the noble-born, he with the servants. He would nurse a scant tankard of ale and watch her, sitting demurely beside her aunt at the honour table while Salamander earned his keep. So that the entire great hall could see and hear him, the gerthddyn stood on a table, telling tales punctuated with songs and juggling, performing little tricks such as pulling scarves out of thin air or plucking eggs from the hair of a passing servant. At times, when her aunt was engrossed in Salamander’s performance, Neb would catch Branna looking across the great hall to watch him, not the gerthddyn. Yet when the tales ended, the two ladies and their maidservants would retire to the women’s hall upstairs, closed to all men but the tieryn and the aged chamberlain.

One evening, as Neb was going upstairs, he met Branna face to face at a turning of the spiral staircase. She was carrying a candle lantern, and at the sight of him she stopped, smiling. Neb suddenly found that he couldn’t remember her name – worse yet, he wanted to call her by some other name, but he couldn’t remember that one, either. Fortunately he could address her by her title alone.

‘Good evening, my lady,’ he said.

‘Good evening, Goodman Neb.’ She paused, as if waiting for him to speak, then continued. ‘I’m going out to the cook house. We’re dyeing some thread, and we need a bit of salt for a mordant.’

‘Where’s your maidservant?’

‘Off somewhere. By the time I find her, I can fetch it myself.’ She hesitated, then smiled and stepped down past him. ‘I’d best be on my way.’

Neb smiled and bowed, then stood and watched her go, until it dawned on him that he might have asked her if he could escort her. Running after her now would only make him look a fool. He hurried up to his chamber and threw open the shutter at the window. By leaning out at a dangerous angle he could just see the cook house and Branna, walking across the ward with her lantern held high. The candle’s dim glow wrapped her round like a cloak of gold, or so he saw it. In a few moments she came back out with the lantern in one hand and a bowl in the other. Neb waited till she’d gone inside and he could see her no longer before he left the window.

That night he had another dream about the young woman called the most beautiful lass in all Deverry. Once again she was sitting in the rough, smoky great hall, and once again he heard a male voice speaking though he could see no one but the lass. This time the voice said, ‘You should have recognized her. You should have seen her for what she was.’

Neb woke to find himself cold-sick and shaking. He lay in bed and listened to his heart pounding while he wondered if he had caught some fever, maybe the same one that had killed his mother. He felt cold, but the palms of his hands were sweaty, and he was gasping for breath. It took him some time to realize that rather than being ill, he was terrified. The dream and the voice lingered in his mind like an evil omen.

Beside him, Clae slept in motionless peace. Neb slipped out of bed and walked to the window. Beyond it the Snowy Road of stars hung close and bright in the cloudless sky. The most beautiful lass in all Deverry. Who was she? Why do I think I know her? At last the strangest thought of all came to him: why am I so sure she’s dead? He could answer none of these questions, and soon he was tired enough to go back to bed and fall straight asleep.

In the morning, as he was going down the staircase for breakfast, he saw Branna walking across the great hall. The words sounded in his mind again: you should have recognized her. The fear returned, one quick stab of it, like an icicle to the heart, then passed, leaving him bewildered.

Gerran finished his breakfast porridge quickly, his mind full of his duties for the day. As he was heading out the door of the great hall, he met Lady Branna coming in. Technically, thanks to his fostering, she was his cousin. She’d been a frequent visitor to Cadryc’s old dun and demesne back to the east of this new rhan, but then she’d only been a shabby little child in the care of a servant. He’d hardly noticed her. The sight of her now, a young woman, bright and attractive, surprised him every time he saw her. When he started to bow, she laughed at him.

‘What?’ she said, grinning. ‘Am I such a fine lady now? Honestly, Gerro, after all these years!’

‘A very fine lady indeed,’ he said. ‘And a lovely one.’

Branna blushed profoundly and hurried past him, heading for the staircase. Gerran glanced back to see Lady Galla standing halfway up the stairs and watching with a small smile. Rather than blush himself, he went outside to the safety of his men’s company. But as he jogged out to the stables, he was thinking of the truth of his remark. Little Branna had grown into a lovely lass indeed.

‘Well, you know, dear,’ Lady Galla said, ‘for a lass in your position, Gerran wouldn’t be a bad match. He’s our foster-son, after all, and your Uncle Cadryc favours him highly.’

‘So I’ve noticed, my lady.’

‘What do you think of him?’

Branna ran her needle into the cloth and looked at Galla. They were sitting and sewing up in the women’s hall, a half-round room with a polished wood floor, partially covered with a pair of threadbare Bardek carpets, and walls of dressed stone, hung here and there with faded tapestries. The morning light streamed in through the window and fell across the pale linen, stretched in a wooden frame, that eventually would become the first panel of her bed hangings.

‘Gerran’s very handsome,’ Branna said at last. ‘And his heart’s closed up as tight as a miser’s moneybox.’

‘That’s true. He’s had a hard life, losing his mother and father that way.’

‘You know, there’s one thing I’ve never understood. His mother – why did she drown herself? Did she love her man as much as all that?’

‘She did, but truly, I think she would have survived her grief if it weren’t for one thing. The night before the warband left, she told me, she and her man fought about somewhat – I forget what, some little thing – and when the warband rode out, she was still ever so angry. She never got the chance to tell him that she forgave him and end the quarrel. And that’s what tipped the balance.’

‘I see. That’s awfully sad.’

‘It was, and so I felt that the least I could do was care for her little son, but you know, it was odd about Gerran. He was so aware of being different, no matter how welcome I tried to make him feel.’

‘Different? You mean because he’s not noble-born?’

‘Exactly. You know your uncle well enough to know that a man’s skill with a sword means more than rank to him, and certainly Mirryn’s always treated Gerro like a brother.’ Galla paused for a small sigh. ‘It’s a pity that you and Mirryn are bloodkin. Though I suppose no one would frown at a cousin marriage out here on the border.’

‘I’d frown on it. I mean, I hope I’m not being rude, but I know him so well that I’d feel like I was marrying my brother. We even look a fair bit alike.’

‘Not rude at all, dear. I’ll admit that I’d have qualms myself about marrying my cousin.’

‘Besides, I wouldn’t make a good wife for a man of his rank.’

Galla hesitated – weighing words, Branna assumed.

‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ Branna went on. ‘I’d hate to have to entertain emissaries from the gwerbret and suchlike.’ She paused for a smile. ‘My dearest aunt, everyone knows I’m a bit strange. I’m moody and I have a nasty tongue. Isn’t that what they all say?’

‘Well, plain speaking isn’t a good thing in the wife of a high-ranking lord, that’s true.’

Branna smiled and picked up her needle again. ‘What about in the wife of a captain?’

‘You’d need to be courteous in the ordinary sort of way to get along with the other servitors’ wives, but other than that, it wouldn’t matter so much.’

‘I see. Well, I’ll think about it.’

And what if I were the wife of a scribe? Branna kept that thought to herself. Like most Deverry girls, she’d always hoped that someday she’d find a good husband, but given the situation in her father’s dun, she’d never dared hope that she’d have two solid prospects. Neb has a good position here, she thought – and I’ll wager he’ll live a fair bit longer than Gerro, too.

Beyond that practical advantage of being the wife of a scribe, not a warrior, Branna had other reasons for favouring Neb. For as long as she’d known him, Gerran had kept his thoughts to himself so resolutely that he rarely spoke unless spoken to. The way he’d volunteered his opinion of her looks, earlier that day, had taken her utterly by surprise. She didn’t fancy long evenings of silence when she would wonder if her husband were brooding over some deep secret or merely half-asleep. On the other hand, she’d noticed that Neb always had a cheerful word for everyone he met and could be positively chatty when he had a moment to spare. The way he cared for his young brother impressed her as well. He would doubtless take a real interest in any children he might father, whereas for Gerran, children would always be women’s work.

Her gnome certainly favoured Neb. Whenever she met the young scribe, the gnome would materialize, grin at Neb, and clap its bony little hands. Neb would glance around to make sure that no one else could see, then smile back at the little creature. Yet oddly enough, Branna could never quite bring herself to speak to Neb about the Wildfolk. They were always in danger of being overheard, but even more, she was afraid of where such a conversation might lead them – not that she could understand her fear.

Alone, up in her chamber, she could talk openly to the gnome, who did his best to answer her with gestures. Any mention of Gerran brought a sour face and a surly shake of the head. One evening, tired from her day’s work, she took a candle and went up to bed early. As she sat in the window, combing her hair, the gnome appeared to perch on her dower chest.

‘Do you think I should finish the shirt in there to fit Neb?’ Branna said.

It nodded a yes.

‘It’s so odd about his name. I mean, that it’s so, well, familiar. He really is like that ancient sorcerer, isn’t he? He’s got the same blue eyes and everything.’

The gnome clutched its head with both hands and mugged disgust.

‘It’s absolutely impossible that he’s the same person. My folk don’t grow younger with time, you know. Besides, how can there be real dweomer? It’s just somewhat from old tales, like the ones Salamander tells.’

The gnome pointed at itself, then at her face.

‘Well, truly, I do see you, and so does Neb, and other people say the Wildfolk aren’t real, but –’ She let her voice trail away. But what? she asked herself. The gnome crossed its arms over its chest and smirked.

In the morning, as she was coming down for breakfast, she noticed Salamander, standing near the foot of the staircase and idly looking over the great hall. He glanced up, saw her, and bowed.

‘Good morrow, gerthddyn,’ Branna said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘I did, truly. And you?’

‘I did, my thanks. I’ve been enjoying the tales you tell. So many of them seem to have dweomer in them.’

‘There’s naught like a good marvel to catch your audience’s attention.’

‘True spoken. You’ve travelled all over the kingdom, haven’t you?’

‘I have.’

‘I don’t suppose that you’ve ever come across – oh well, never mind. I don’t mean to be stupid.’

Branna started to turn away, but Salamander caught her by the elbow.

‘Real dweomer, you mean?’ He was grinning at her.

She pulled her arm free of his lax grasp and hurried away. You dolt! she told herself. You’ve really made a fool of yourself this time! At the honour hearth she risked a glance back, but Salamander had found a place at a table and was devoting himself to his breakfast. At the honour table Mirryn sat alone, slumped in his chair.

‘Good morning!’ Branna sat down opposite him and smiled.

Mirryn never looked up from his profound study of the table’s edge. His hair, usually a thick smooth brown, looked matted and spiky, as if he’d been running his hands through it out of sheer nerves, and his puffy eyes made Branna wonder if he’d stayed awake all night. A serving lass brought a basket of warm bread and a crock of butter, then trotted off again.

‘What is it, Mirro?’ Branna said. ‘You look troubled about somewhat.’

‘Do I?’ He ducked his head to avoid looking at her and reached for the basket.

‘You do. What –’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, to hear that you don’t want to marry a coward like me.’

‘What?’ Branna laid both hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘My lady mother mentioned that you didn’t want to marry me, and why else, but everyone knows I’m a wretched coward who never rides to war.’

‘Oh, don’t be stupid! That’s not it at all.’

‘You don’t need to be kind –’

‘Do hold your tongue and listen! I told her that it would be like marrying my brother. You can’t possibly want to marry me, anyway.’

‘Well, I don’t, truly.’ At last he looked at her. ‘It would be like marrying my sister.’

She burst out laughing, and in a moment he joined her.

‘And you’re not a coward,’ Branna said at last. ‘Everyone knows that Uncle won’t let you go to war. It’s not your choice.’

‘How do you know that they think such?’

‘Because I heard a lot of people talking about it when I was still back with Da. Da and his friends think Uncle Cadryc’s daft when it comes to you.’

Mirryn thought this over while he cut a chunk of bread in half with his table dagger. He handed her one of the pieces.

‘Truly?’ he said. ‘You’re not just trying to soothe my feelings?’

‘Not in the least! It’s quite true. Butter, please?’

Mirryn slid the crock across to her and thought some more. ‘My thanks,’ he said finally. ‘That gladdens my heart to hear.’

Branna was about to tell him more, but Cadryc himself was striding over to the table, with Aunt Galla trotting after. Branna rose, curtsied to them both, then sat down again when Galla took her place. For the rest of the meal they chatted about trivial things.

Later that day Salamander sought Branna out. To get a moment’s peace from the busy, dusty ward she had climbed up the catwalk ladders to the top of the dun wall. By leaning between two crenels she could look out on a long green view, striped here and there with the west-flowing streams that would eventually join the Melyn. She was thinking of very little when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, something gleaming. She turned to look, and farther down the catwalk stood the figure of the old man in his ragged clothes, holding out a glowing opal. Branna caught her breath with a gasp, and he disappeared.

Am I seeing things? she wondered. Or is he one of the Wildfolk? Although the figure reminded her of the man named Nevyn that she’d seen in her dreams, he looked somewhat different. She had never had a dream such as that one, when the opal had glowed like a candle flame, nor about any such gem. The old man seemed to be promising to give her something mysterious but beautiful, a rare gift indeed, if only she would come closer and speak to him. But what if it were a trap, and the gem the bait? Standing in the summer sun, she shivered and clasped her hands together to keep them warm. Don’t be a dolt! she told herself. Why would anyone want to trap you?

A pleasant voice hailed her from below. Salamander came climbing up the rickety wood ladder to join her on the wall. She started to make some mundane greeting, then stopped, shocked into silence. Wildfolk swarmed around him – crystalline sylphs, winged sprites, pale warty gnomes.

‘Good morrow,’ Salamander said. ‘Is somewhat the matter?’

‘Not at all, not at all. My apologies. You took me by surprise, is all.’

‘Then I should apologize to you. I just thought I’d keep you company, if that’s acceptable.’

‘It is, but I’d best get back to my duties. My aunt will be looking for me.’

‘Perhaps later, then?’

‘Perhaps.’ She hesitated, but the gerthddyn was certainly amusing, and good-looking as well. ‘I might have a moment later.’

She swung herself onto the catwalk, then climbed down the ladder a little faster than was strictly safe. She could only wonder why she’d found it so frightening, that the Wildfolk followed Salamander around. It seemed to her that the world had turned suddenly strange. From the moment I met Neb, she thought. That’s when it all started. She felt that she should know what Neb’s arrival in her life meant, that she was looking at the back of a tapestry and seeing a tangle of colour and thread hiding the true pattern. If she could only turn the cloth over and see the front, she would know the answer. If.

As Branna walked across the ward, she saw two dusty horsemen riding in. When they dismounted, she saw that their shields carried the sun blazon of Cengarn. Messengers, she thought. With a cold feeling around her heart, she hurried into the great hall. Behind her came a small mob of servants and riders, as anxious to hear the news as she was.

Nearly a fortnight after the tieryn had sent his letter, messengers from the gwerbret had finally arrived with the answer. Neb followed them in, hurried across the great hall, and knelt on one knee beside the tieryn’s chair at the head of the honour table. A messenger knelt on the other side and proffered the silver tube. Cadryc took it, glanced at the seal, and handed it to Neb.

‘Read it as loudly as you can,’ Cadryc said. ‘We might as well all hear the news at once.’

Neb got up and turned towards the crowd in the great hall. ‘To his grace, Tieryn Cadryc of the Red Wolf, I send greetings. I have no intention of appealing to the high king for aid in the matter you put before me. You were appointed to guard the border. The high king was not.’ Neb glanced the tieryn’s way. ‘It’s signed –’

‘We know who sent the cursed thing!’ Cadryc had gone red in the face. He took a deep breath and paused to look over the great hall, crammed with every rider and servant in the dun, or so it seemed. Lord Mirryn worked his way through the mob and reached his father’s side. At the sight of him the tieryn smiled and turned calm.

‘Well, the gwerbret may not want to appeal to the king,’ Cadryc said, ‘but I see naught wrong with my appealing to the gwerbret. I’ll take fifteen men for an honour escort. As soon as the taxes and suchlike are all taken care of, I’ll ride to Cengarn.’

‘Father?’ Lord Mirryn laid a hand on his father’s arm. ‘I want to go with you.’

‘What? And leave the dun unguarded?’ Cadryc said. ‘There’s Horsekin prowling around, lad, and –’

‘They’ve never raided this far east.’

‘We’ll not argue about it in front of the whole great hall.’ Cadryc’s voice turned into a growl.

Mirryn tossed his head, started to snarl, then smoothed his expression into a bland indifference. ‘As you wish, Father,’ he said. ‘But I’d like a word alone with you later, if I may.’

‘Fair enough. Neb, you’ll be coming with us. I’ll tell Gerran to pick you out a horse.’

‘My thanks, your grace.’ Neb bowed to him. ‘May I have your leave to go? The chamberlain’s waiting for me out in the ward. More taxes have arrived.’

‘You may. In fact, I’ll come out with you.’

Gerran had seen the messengers ride in, but by the time he reached the great hall, it was too full for him to squeeze his way inside. The news reached him anyway, in the form of outraged chatter as the hall emptied. Servant and rider alike blustered and swore, that the gwerbret would treat their lord so rudely. Cadryc himself emerged only a few moments later.

‘Did you hear what that blasted letter said?’ Cadryc asked him.

‘I did, your grace.’

The tieryn took a deep breath and calmed himself. ‘Once I see all the taxes safely in, we’ll ride to Cengarn. In the meantime, pick out a palfrey for the scribe and see if he knows how to ride it.’

‘Well and good, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘The sooner we lay our case before the gwerbret, the happier I’ll be.’

They strolled together through the ward, which at the moment looked more like a market fair. Farmers stood beside wagon-loads of winter wheat or chased after small droves of hogs and flocks of chickens while the frantic chamberlain ran back and forth. Two men dressed in the ragged clothes of shepherds were just coming through the gates, pushing a handcart piled high with shorn fleeces that looked a fair bit cleaner than they did. Off to one side Neb stood on a little island of calm and jotted down tallies on scraps of fraying parchment.

‘The scribe seems to know what he’s doing,’ Gerran said.

‘He does, doesn’t he? He’s a confident lad for his age. I’d been a bit worried about old Veddyn, to tell you the truth. He forgets things.’ Cadryc suddenly stepped away and waved to someone across the ward. ‘Ah. There’s Goodman Gwervyl. I’d best go speak to him personally. He’s a decent man with a bow, and he’s offered to train more archers.’

Gerran found a place to wait out of the way. Serving lasses hurried by, their arms full of empty baskets, heading for a wagon down by the gates. When he saw Lady Branna following them, Gerran stepped forward and bowed to her. She waved, gave him a brittle little smile, and trotted on past. Not a very encouraging sign, he thought. She probably saw him as nothing but a common-born lout, or worse yet, as bloodkin of a sort, thanks to his fostering. Either opinion would keep him at a distance. He wished he had a better idea of how to court a lass. Fortunately, the tieryn returned and broke into his gloom-laden thoughts.

‘I’m not sure what to say to the wretched gwerbret,’ Cadryc said. ‘Any ideas?’

‘None, my lord.’

‘We’ll have to think about it on the ride to Cengarn. I’ll have to be careful about how I put things. For now, work with the pages, will you? You’ll have to be firm with young Ynedd. His mother spoiled the lad, and he snivels all the time.’

‘Well and good. I’ll see what I can do.’

Like all great lords, Cadryc had noble pages in his household, sons of his vassals sent to him for their training in warfare and courtesy. At ten summers Coryn was a decent enough lad, but Ynedd, a skinny little boy, all big blue eyes and blond curls, had never been away from his mother before. Gerran refused to let pity soften the lad’s training; someday Ynedd’s life would depend on how well he could fight.

They went round the back of the broch to practise away from the wagons and the livestock. Gerran let Coryn rest in the shade of the wall while he showed Ynedd the proper grip for the hilt.

‘We’ll have to work on your wrists,’ Gerran said. ‘All right, lay it down on the ground, then pick it up again.’

Glancing sideways at him, Ynedd did as he was told. Gerran had him pick it up and lay it down five times in a row, each time correcting his grip. Finally Ynedd flung the sword down.

‘I don’t want to do this any more,’ he announced.

‘Too bad.’ Gerran caught the lad’s gaze with his own. ‘Do it anyway.’

Ynedd crossed his arms over his chest and glared. Gerran slapped him across the face.

‘You can’t do that to me!’ Ynedd’s voice rose to a squeal. ‘You’re just a commoner.’

‘But he can.’ Coryn got up and trotted over. ‘He’s the captain, and you’ve got to obey him. You truly truly do.’

Ynedd’s eyes filled with tears, but he picked up the sword. After a dozen times or so, Gerran saw that his little hand shook on the heavy hilt and told him that he could stop.

‘There,’ Gerran said. ‘You’ve done somewhat you didn’t think you could do.’

Ynedd shrugged and glared at the cobblestones. Gerran sent the lads off to the stables to get their ponies for a riding lesson. As he started after them, he noticed Clae, standing and watching some paces away.

‘Am I doing somewhat wrong?’ Clae said.

‘Not unless you’re supposed to be working,’ Gerran said.

‘I’m not. I just wanted to see. I wish I could learn to fight.’

‘Oh, do you now? Why?’

‘So I could grow up to be a rider and kill Horsekin.’

Something flat and cold in the lad’s voice caught Gerran’s attention, making him remember what had brought the lad to the dun. He knelt on one knee so he could look him in the face.

‘That’s an honourable enough thing,’ Gerran said. ‘How old are you? Do you know?’

‘Eight, sir. My da always kept count. Could I ever be a rider? I’m only a scribe’s son.’

‘So? Riders aren’t noble-born. But here, training is hard work. I wager you’d tire of it soon enough.’

‘I wouldn’t. When I got tired, I’d just think of my uncle, and I’d hate them all over again, and I wouldn’t be tired any more.’

Gerran had never seen such cold rage in a child’s eyes.

‘I keep dreaming about our village,’ Clae went on. ‘The Horsekin come, and I try to stop them, and they laugh at me. I hate that dream.’

‘I’ll wager you do. Have you told Neb about it?’

‘I haven’t. He’d only tell me I shouldn’t be dwelling on what we can’t change. You know what hurts the worst? When we were up by the waterfall watching them, I knew I couldn’t do anything to stop them. Naught!’ His soft voice cracked. ‘I never want to feel that way again.’

Gerran considered him, a healthy child and big for his age, but it was the hatred that impressed Gerran the most. A desire for glory made most Deverry men want to be warriors, but it took harshness, that bitter streak in mind and soul, for a man to become a successful one.

‘Tell you what,’ Gerran said. ‘If your brother agrees, I’ll take you on. But I’ll warn you: it’s hard work, and even a wooden sword will hurt if you get hit with it. Fair?’

‘Fair.’ Clae grinned at him. ‘Will the tieryn let me?’

‘No doubt, if I ask him, but the question is whether your brother will let you. He’s the head of your clan now. You ask him and tell him to come talk to me this afternoon.’

While he gave his noble charges their riding lesson, Gerran occasionally found himself thinking about Clae, who reminded him of himself as a child. He could remember his own burning rage that the Horsekin had killed his father. The hatred still existed, though transmuted to something cold after all these years, as clean as a new sword blade. The gods of war had given Clae just such a splendid gift.

When they returned to the dun, Gerran found Neb waiting for him. The scribe came with him to the stables and held the horse’s bridle while Gerran unsaddled him.

‘I take it Clae spoke with you,’ Gerran said.

‘He did,’ Neb said. ‘You know, he’s the only bloodkin I have left in the world, and it aches my heart to see him wanting to join a warband.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘But I can’t stand in his way, either. From what everyone in the dun tells me, he’ll have the best swordsman in all Deverry to learn from.’

‘Indeed?’ Gerran felt himself blush at the compliment. ‘They exaggerate by a fair bit.’

‘We’ll see.’ Neb smiled, more than a little ruefully. ‘But if you’ll take Clae on, I’ll agree. His wyrd isn’t mine, and there’s naught I can do about that.’

‘True spoken. But he’ll have to serve a sort of apprenticeship. If he doesn’t have the raw gifts he needs to make a swordsman, I’ll turn him back over to you.’

‘Fair enough. I –’ Neb stopped in mid-sentence and stared at something over Gerran’s shoulder.

When Gerran turned, he saw Branna, walking across the ward at some distance. From the look in Neb’s eyes Gerran suddenly realized that the scribe was besotted with the lass. With the realization came a baffling thought: deep in his soul Gerran knew that Neb had the better claim on her. Yet the thought of stepping back and letting the scribe – this skinny weakling – why he even knew how to read! I’ll not give up as easily as that, Gerran told himself. We’ll just see who wins her.

Without a word aloud, Gerran turned to follow her. Neb did the same, but they both stopped when they saw Salamander coming to meet her. The gerthddyn bowed to her with such courtly grace that she smiled and allowed him to take her arm as they strolled away.

‘Curse his very soul!’ Gerran whispered.

‘It’s not his soul that troubles me,’ Neb said.

In sullen brotherhood they turned and strode back to the ward, out of sight of Branna and the good-looking gerthddyn both.

Behind the broch, at a pleasant distance from the pig sty and the dungheap, the cook had planted a kitchen garden. Narrow beds of herbs separated each plot of cabbages, turnips, and the like. In their aromatic midst stood a little bench, where Salamander led Branna for their talk.

‘Tell me somewhat,’ Salamander said. ‘What do you think of young Neb? And of Gerran for that matter.’

‘Everyone seems to be asking me that these days,’ Branna said. ‘Are you trying to marry me off, too?’

‘Do I look like a village matchmaker?’

‘Truly, you don’t. So why did you ask me about Neb and Gerran?’

‘They both seem besotted with you. That’s all.’

‘They are, aren’t they?’ Branna sounded deeply surprised. ‘How very odd.’

‘Now here! Not so odd for a pretty lass like you.’

‘But very odd for a lass who has no dowry to speak of.’

‘You don’t value yourself highly, do you, my lady?’

‘How could I? My stepmother never let a chance go by to remind me how lowly I was. She used to suggest that I become a priestess, since obviously I’d never make a good marriage.’

‘A nasty sort, was she? A veritable shrew, virago, termagant, and so on and so forth.’

‘All of that, good sir, and more. Do you know what it’s like to have your kin begrudge the food you eat?’

‘I do, oddly enough,’ Salamander said. ‘But I didn’t have to suffer it as long. How did you manage to keep from going mad?’

‘What? And let her claim a victory?’

They shared a laugh.

‘But your question’s worthy of an answer,’ Branna went on. ‘At first, I wasn’t truly alone. When I was small, there were the servants’ children in my father’s dun to play with – not my precious stepbrothers, of course, who weren’t allowed to talk to someone so far beneath them.’

‘It’s a pity your stepmother didn’t get carried off by Horsekin. They would have understood each other very well.’

Branna grinned at him, then went on. ‘I did have Aunt Galla to look out for my interests, too.’ The grin disappeared. ‘Until her husband was offered this demesne, and they moved out here.’

‘So our good tieryn’s not held this dun for very long?’

‘He hasn’t. He and Galla used to live about twenty miles east of here, not far from my father’s dun, which is farther east still. But when the king established this demesne, the gwerbret assigned it to Cadryc. I saw Aunt Galla but rarely after that, and the servants’ children had all been set to working by then.’

‘But you survived.’

‘I did. I learned how to be alone, you see. I made up little tales to ease my heart, about some other time and some other place in Deverry.’ She looked away with a sigh. A long strand of hair had pulled free of the clasp and hung beside her cheek. With an irritated wave of her hand she flipped it back, but when it fell forward again, she ignored it.

‘What sort of tales?’ Salamander said. ‘I find myself most curious, if you’d care to tell me.’

‘Oh, well, they were stupid things, I suppose.’ Branna suddenly blushed. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned them.’

‘Don’t be. Please, they can’t be very stupid if you told them. You strike me as a level-headed lass.’

‘I do? Most people call me strange.’

‘Most people are half-blind no matter how good their eyes. But I am a gerthddyn, you know. Hearing about someone else’s tales always interests me.’

Another sigh, another glance away – for a moment she perched so uneasily on the edge of the bench that he feared she’d get up and bolt; then she settled back.

‘I made up this other Then, this other Where, you see, another world, really, though it was much like Deverry. And in this world –’ She paused for a moment.

Salamander gave her an encouraging smile.

‘Well, I used to pretend that I was a mighty sorcerer. I travelled all over the kingdom, and to Bardek, and to marvellous islands far far away. I could call down a strange blue fire to light my way, and once, when I was trapped in a burning building, I commanded the wind to save me.’

‘Sounds splendid, indeed.’

‘In one tale, I could even turn myself into a bird and fly.’

‘And this bird, it was a falcon, was it?’

Branna slewed around on the bench and stared at him while the colour drained from her face. ‘How do you know that?’ she was whispering. ‘Or are sorcerous powers a common delusion among lonely females?’

‘Not at all. Most lonely lasses dream about meeting a prince who loves them madly.’

She laughed with a toss of her head, and in that gesture he could see the hard common sense that once had been hers, in that other when, that other where. ‘True enough,’ she said. ‘But how did you know about my falcon?’

‘My mysterious bardic powers, of course. Ah, I see you don’t believe me.’

‘You’re not a bard. If you were, maybe I’d believe you, but you’re a gerthddyn. How did you know?’

‘Ah, therein lies an enigma, most recondite, obscure, and elusive.’ Salamander paused. He could hear voices coming towards them. ‘And it’s one you absolutely must solve for yourself.’ He stood up with a wave in the direction of the voices. ‘Here comes our good tieryn and his son, so alas, I must leave you.’

Branna jumped up and grabbed him by the shirt with both hands. ‘Tell me, you chattering elf!’ She let him go and stepped back, blushing furiously. ‘A thousand apologies! I don’t know what made me do that. I mean, you’re not even an elf. It was wretchedly rude of me. Please forgive me!’

‘You’re forgiven, and here’s one last bit of advice. Be careful around Gerran. He might carry the falcon mark, but I doubt me if he’ll ever turn into a bird and fly.’

‘I figured that out on my own, good sir.’

‘Good sir, is it?’ Salamander grinned at her, and in a moment she smiled in return.

Arguing in quiet voices, Cadryc and Mirryn rounded the corner and bore down upon them. When Salamander jumped back out of the way, the two lords finally realized that they had an audience.

‘Apologies,’ Cadryc snapped. ‘Branna my dear, I didn’t see you.’

‘No harm done, Uncle.’ Branna rose and curtsied. ‘I’ll just be going inside.’

The three men paused and watched her trot off, holding her skirts up to keep them free of the dirty ground.

‘I’d best be going, too,’ Salamander said. ‘My lords?’

They nodded their permission. Salamander hurried away, but he ducked behind the cook’s little gardening shed to eavesdrop.

‘I’ll not argue one word more,’ Cadryc was saying. ‘We’re leaving on the morrow, and you’re not, and that’s that.’

‘But –’

‘I said not one word more!’

In a few moments Mirryn stormed past Salamander without seeing him. Cadryc followed more slowly, shaking his head. Salamander stepped out and bowed to him.

‘Your grace?’ Salamander said. ‘Forgive me if I presume, but one day your son is going to have to try his wings.’

Cadryc tossed his head like a startled horse and glowered at him. Salamander bowed again, then smiled in what he hoped was an ingratiating manner.

‘Ah well,’ Cadryc said at last. ‘You’re right enough, gerthddyn. It’s just –’ He paused, chewing on the corners of his moustache. ‘It’s just – well, you’re a gerthddyn. You must hear plenty of strange tales, eh?’

‘More than a few, truly, my lord.’

‘Imph.’ Cadryc hesitated for a few moments more, then shrugged. ‘Well, there was a prophecy, you see. I’ve never told Mirryn or my wife about it, because to tell you the honest truth, I’m cursed ashamed of believing it.’

‘A prophecy? From a priest?’

‘A priest of a sort, I suppose you’d call him. It was what? about ten summers ago now. The Horsekin were raiding up north, and the old gwerbret summoned his allies. This was the raid where he was killed, come to think of it. Anyway. We managed to find their stinking ugly camp, and we fell on them by surprise and slaughtered the guards and their reserves. We freed the human captives, some of the gwerbret’s farm folk, and then some others who’d been Horsekin slaves.’ Cadryc paused, looking away as if getting his memories in order. ‘Now, among the human men was this one scabby fellow, dressed all in rags, and his feet were all swollen and crusted with calluses, just like he’d never worn shoes in his life. Turned out he hadn’t, actually. But all the folk who’d been born slaves treated him like he was a king. The gwerbret’s farm folk told us that he was a priest of their cursed foreign goddess.’

‘Alshandra again?’ Salamander said. ‘Huntress of Souls?’

‘The same one, truly. Like that gold arrow we found in the burned village.’

‘Indeed. Do go on. This is most fascinating, engrossing, mesmerizing, and the like.’

‘All of that, eh? Well, now, this priest fellow refused to eat. Said he’d starve himself to death rather than put up with being our prisoner. A lot of gall, if you ask me, since his cursed Horsekin had been taking our folk prisoner! We thought about killing him, of course, but it’s risky, killing priests. What if their god decides to take a little vengeance, eh?’

‘Quite right. You can’t be too careful.’

‘So anyway, we lords got together and talked about forcing him to eat. But I spoke up and said let him do what he wanted, if he was so blasted keen on dying. I could see the indignity of it, being tied up and having gruel poured down your throat or suchlike, and so the other lords agreed. And the scabby fellow thanked me, if you can imagine it! Thanked me for letting him starve to death! In return, says he, I’ll give you a prophecy. Keep your son safe till his nineteenth summer begins. Do that and he’ll live a fair long time. Let him fight before that, and he’ll die young.’ Cadryc looked down at the ground and shrugged again. ‘No doubt you think me a fool for believing the filthy bastard.’

‘I don’t,’ Salamander said. ‘I can see where a prophecy like that would chill a father’s heart. What happened to the priest?’

‘He starved, just like he wanted. Took him a long time, but he went happily enough at the end.’

‘Do you remember his name, by any chance?’

‘I don’t, though I can still see his face, clear as clear in my mind.’

‘And how old is Mirryn?’

‘Eighteen summers now.’ Cadryc looked up. ‘I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve been keeping track. Every Beltane I put a mark on my saddle peak, just a little nick in the leather.’

‘You know, I can’t say why, but I have this feeling that you’re right to keep him out of the fighting.’

‘Do you now? Then my thanks. I just can’t bring myself to ignore it, and ye gods, his nineteenth summer will start next year anyway. He’s the only son I have.’

The thing that Salamander couldn’t admit to the tieryn was that he’d received an omen of his own. When he was listening to Cadryc describe the prophecy, he felt an icy cold ripple down his back, a warning from the dweomer that, indeed, it had been a true speaking. Too bad that wretched priest died, he thought. He must have had dweomer, and I would have loved to have asked him a few questions.

‘What about those rescued farm women?’ Salamander said. ‘Are any of them still with us?’

‘As far as I know. They were all young women then. Why?’

‘Because I love a good tale. Indeed, my very living depends upon my having a store of good tales. “Lasses captured by Horsekin but saved in the nick of time!” That should extract a few coins from those who lead safe but dull lives.’

‘You could be right about that, indeed. Well, my thanks for listening, gerthddyn, but I’ll ask you not to spread my part of the tale around.’

‘Don’t worry, your grace, I’d never presume. I have a son of my own, you see, and I can sympathize.’

That son was very much on Salamander’s mind when he contacted Dallandra again, late that evening when he could be alone to scry her out. First he told her what he’d gleaned about the situation in the dun, including Branna’s tales.

‘Well,’ Dallandra thought to him. ‘I’d say that she’s ready to remember, and doubtless Neb is too, with her there in the same dun, but you can’t force such things upon people. If they’re not ready to ask on their own, their minds will shy away like frightened horses, and then they might never come to the point of asking.’

‘Yes, that’s very true. May I drop portentous hints?’

‘Knowing you, you probably won’t be able to stop yourself. Just make them hard to understand, will you?’

‘Fear not. I shall do just that. Mystery, maze-like and mind-fooling, shall be my mode.’

Dallandra set her lips together and glared at him.

‘One thing I wanted to ask you,’ Salamander said hurriedly. ‘Have you seen my Zan recently?’

‘No. When the winter camps broke up, he went with your father’s alar. They’ll be at the summer festival, though, and I’ll have news for you then.’

‘Good, and thank you. Soon, I hope, I’m going to Cengarn with the tieryn and his men. I’ll take my leave of them there and start travelling around, plying the inhabitants with questions as I go. I have hopes of catching up with Rhodry as well as gleaning information about the Horsekin.’

‘Good. Just be very careful, will you? And stay in contact with me. I’ll talk to Dar, but I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t lead the alar north. At some point we can meet up.’

‘A most excellent plan, oh princess of powers perilous! And fear not, I shan’t be silent. Being silent goes against my nature.’

The summer festival took place during the days surrounding the longest day of the year. Prince Dar’s scribe, Meranaldar, told Dallandra that in ancient times, when the great observatory at Rinbaladelan still stood, the festival had begun at noon on the longest day, but out in the grass no one bothered to measure time so precisely. Some alarli rode in early, others late, and no one stayed long before they were forced to ride out to find better pasture for their stock. By custom, however, the prince’s alar always arrived first. By counting days, Meranaldar did his best to keep track of the sun’s position in the sky in order to determine what he called the ‘real’ start of the festival. At times he would thrust a wooden pole into the ground and study its shadow at noon – why, Dallandra didn’t know.

They held the festival at the Lake of the Leaping Trout, the northernmost of the chain that Deverry folk call Peddroloc, the four lakes, all of which lay in steep valleys. To the north of Leaping Trout the land flattened, but rather than grass, trees grew there, an orchard of pines, pruned and planted in straight rows for fuel.

The People cremated their dead. Whenever a person died, his kin took the seasoned wood waiting in one of the stone sheds near the lake shore. After the cremation ritual, a tree was cut to replace the firewood, and a new tree planted in its stead. Thus the summer festival, held in the shadow of the death ground, tended to be a solemn affair, a time to remember those who had died in recent years, an appropriate sentiment since the longest day marked the turning of the year, when summer itself would begin to fade and die.

‘There’s something I’ve been wondering about,’ Dallandra said to Meranaldar. ‘The way the trees are cut and planted. Is that an old custom?’

‘Ancient,’ the scribe said. ‘It goes back to the Seven Cities, most certainly. It sprang from a very odd belief, that every person lives multiple lives. Nothing but superstition of course, but a persistent one.’

‘Indeed?’ Dallandra managed to suppress her sudden urge to laugh. ‘I suppose then that the planting of the new tree was symbolic.’

‘Yes, of the person’s supposed new life. That’s what the priests of the Star Goddesses taught, at any rate. A number of texts survive. A bad lot, those priests, or so history tells us. Some survived the Great Burning, but they were thrown overboard somewhere on the journey across the Southern Ocean.’

‘They were? By the Dark Sun herself! I never knew that.’

‘You didn’t?’ Meranaldar frowned in thought. ‘Oh, yes, of course. It was Princess Carra whom I told, and I don’t remember you being there at the time. The refugees ran dangerously short of water, you see, and the priests claimed a greater share. They based their reasoning, if one can call it that, on doctrine. Since they’d been born into the religious elite, they claimed, then in a previous life they’d done something to accrue great merit, and thus they deserved more of everything in this life.’

‘What a pernicious idea! I’ll wager there was a corollary, too, that the common people deserved whatever ill luck came their way.’

‘Exactly. The reasoning had ceased to be compelling, with Rinbaladelan in ruins behind them and so many people dead. The soldiers on the ship tossed the priests overboard, where they could have all the water they wanted.’ Meranaldar paused for a smile. ‘That very evening it rained, and the barrels they’d brought along for drinking water were filled to overflowing. The soldiers took this as a sign of the gods’ approval. Thus are new doctrines born.’

They shared a laugh as they walked on. Dallandra had often wondered why the dweomermasters insisted that their belief in multiple lives be kept secret. She was beginning to understand.

They were walking together in the forest, following one of the cool, shaded lanes between the trees. When he’d first come to the Westlands, Meranaldar had been a thin man, hollow-chested and stoop-shouldered, but forty years of riding with the royal alar had strengthened him. Now, no one would ever have confused him with a warrior, not with his slender arms and soft hands, but he stood straight and moved with the graceful ease of someone who knows his own strength.

‘Tomorrow the first alarli should arrive,’ Dallandra said. ‘I’ll be interested to see how many new babies we have, if any.’

‘There will be some,’ Meranaldar said. ‘At the Day of Remembrance, I noticed that a good many women were pregnant. What we need to do is tally up the number of our changelings.’

‘That’s true. We were up to forty-seven of them this spring. I’m particularly wondering about Carra’s new granddaughter.’

‘Indeed. So far the changelings seem to have very kindly spread themselves around, one to a family. It’s a good thing, since they can be such a burden.’

‘Yes. The gods must be taking a hand.’

Meranaldar smiled, a bit too indulgently in her opinion. He could be condescending, the scribe, but she was too grateful for the knowledge he’d brought with him to hold it against him. Besides, she knew better than he did that it wasn’t the gods who were lending their aid, but a once-human man: Aderyn.

Whenever she attended the birth of a wild child or held a new-born in her arms, she could feel Aderyn’s presence – naught so perceptible as a ghost, but rather a touch of mind on mind, a sense that he was reaching out to her across the planes. To fulfil his wyrd, Aderyn in his last life should have helped her heal the Guardians and the flock of half-formed souls that followed them. He’d shirked that duty. Now, while he still existed in the state that ordinary mortals call death, he was carrying it out as best he could, guiding their souls to birth and physical life.

The first alar to appear at the festival brought with it the oldest wild child, Zandro, Salamander’s grown son, who lived with Salamander’s father, Devaberiel Silverhand, the most famous bard in the Westlands. The other men in their alar set up the bard’s tent next to the prince’s, a sign of rank as well as a convenience. Dallandra strolled over to greet them. Devaberiel seemed thinner than the last time she’d seen him, and his moonbeam-pale hair had turned completely white. His eyes, the dark blue of the night sky in moonlight, still snapped with life and good humour, and his face, though finely drawn, showed none of the folds and gouges of old age that signalled, among the People, approaching death.

His grandson couldn’t have looked more different. Short and stocky, Zandro had pale brown skin and brown hair that he wore in a mop of curls. His eyes had changed colour since childhood; they were now a deep sunset orange, not quite as red as blood. When he saw Dalla, he turned his head to look at her sideways and grinned, revealing his mouthful of sharply pointed teeth.

‘Dalla,’ he said.

It was the first time Dalla had ever heard Zandro say anyone’s name, and Devaberiel smiled as proudly as if his grandson had just rattled off ‘The Burning of the Vale of Roses’ or some other equally long and complex poem.

‘Yes,’ Dallandra said, ‘I’m Dalla. You’re Zandro.’

Zandro flicked his eyes his grandfather’s way, then giggled and trotted off, heading for the pack of children and dogs playing on the lake shore.

‘He’s got a long way to go yet,’ Devaberiel said, ‘but we make progress.’

‘You certainly do. I’ll admit to being surprised.’

‘Valandario’s been helping me, actually.’ Dev glanced around. ‘I don’t see her. She’s probably setting up her tent.’

‘I’d best go greet her.’

Dallandra picked her way through the growing encampment. She had so many people to greet that she made slow progress, but at last she reached the edge of the camp. For the festival, she’d had some of the men position her tent away from the crowd, where she could find some quiet for her workings. As she’d expected, Valandario had done the same, picking a spot near but not too near to Dallandra’s own.

Val’s tent, so plain and grey on the outside, inside gleamed with colour – elaborately woven panels and embroidered tent bags, mostly blue and green, touched here and there with gold, hung on the walls, while red, silver and purple Bardek carpets and cushions lay strewn over the floor cloth. Sunlight from outside glowed through the walls. Entering the tent made Dalla think of walking into a giant jewellery box. Valandario herself sat on a red and gold carpet with jewels and gemstones spread out in front of her. She’d strewn them onto a scrying cloth, patched from Bardek silks. Some squares and triangles were plain, others embroidered with symbols, and here and there larger embroideries overlapped two squares. What they all meant only Valandario knew. She had devised this scrying system herself over a hundred years of hard work.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ Dallandra said.

‘Not at all,’ Val said. ‘In fact, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve done this reading twice today, and I can’t seem to interpret it.’

Dallandra sat down on the opposite side of the scrying cloth. Light came in through the smokehole in the roof, caught Val’s golden hair and made it gleam like the silks. She held up delicate hands, clasped over a fresh handful of semi-precious stones. She whispered an invocation of the Lords of Aethyr, then scattered the gems over the cloth. Amethysts, citrines, lapis beads, dark jades, and fire opals – they lay glittering on the patches of silk among the rarer jewels. Here and there, as ominous as wolves lurking around a flock of sheep, sat tear-shaped drops of obsidian.

‘I don’t see any pattern at all,’ Dallandra said.

‘Neither do I.’ Valandario looked up with a brief smile. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘Which makes me assume that there’s trouble coming our way.’

‘I’m afraid I have to agree. How many gems have fallen on their own colours? Only four out of twenty, and the black have dropped on the gold squares. I don’t like this.’ Val shook her head. ‘I don’t like it at all.’ She began gathering up the stones and shoving them into leather pouches. ‘I’ve spent too much time poring over it, and it still baffles me. The first spread was even more chaotic. Two stones rolled right off the cloth.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘Something is happening – no, something is trying to happen, some large event is struggling to be born, and it doesn’t bode well.’ She frowned as she pulled pouch strings tight. ‘That’s all I can say.’

‘It matches the omen-dreams I’ve been having.’

‘Then there’s nothing we can do but wait.’

‘Wait and be cautious. I was wondering, do you think you could join your alar to the prince’s? I’d feel better knowing that another dweomermaster rode on guard.’

‘I don’t see why not. Dev always enjoys exchanging lore with the prince’s scribe, and I’d be glad of the chance to do some more reading in your books.’

‘Good. If we keep travelling fast, there won’t be a problem finding enough food and water for both herds.’

‘And it seems to me that fast is the way we should be travelling, for a lot of reasons.’ Val patted the pouch of stones with one hand. ‘I’ll tell you what. We’ll leave a day before you and then camp where there’s plenty of grass. Once you catch up, we’ll head straight north. I’d best tell Dev now, so he doesn’t plan an extra performance.’

They went to look for Devaberiel and found him a little way from camp, where he was standing and practising his latest declamation with only the grass for an audience.

‘Clinging like lice on the backs of hoofed death –’ Dev broke off in mid-sentence, then grinned at the two women. ‘Not of course that I was speaking of you.’

‘I assumed that,’ Valandario said. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’ve changed our plans. We’ll be leaving the festival a little early, then joining the prince’s alar.’

‘All right.’ Dev shrugged, smiling. ‘Whatever you two think best.’

Dallandra left them discussing details and walked back to camp.

Over the next several days, some of the earlier arrivals rode out, taking their stock to better pasture. New alarli rode in to take their places, and one of them brought a changeling infant with them. The bewildered father, Londrojezry, escorted Dallandra out to the horse herd to see the child before he’d even unpacked his travois. On top of a pile of tied-down blankets, the baby lay in a cradle of leather stretched over a wooden frame, and his purple eyes showed nothing but suspicion.

‘He hates to be touched,’ Lon said. ‘He screams if you try to pick him up.’

‘How has your wife been feeding him?’ Dalla said. ‘He doesn’t look malnourished.’

‘She has to express her milk into a bowl. First she dipped it up with a bit of cloth and gave him that to suck. Now, and my thanks to the Star Goddesses, he’ll take it from a spoon. But it’s still exhausting her, it takes so long.’

‘He was born when?’

‘Six moons ago.’

‘Try feeding him something other than milk. Deverry oats cooked to a fine paste, and broths.’

‘My thanks, Wise One.’ For a moment Lon stood looking down at the cradle with tear-filled eyes. ‘I wanted a son so badly.’ Then he stooped, picking up the cradle. ‘I’ll tell my wife about the food.’

Dallandra watched him hurry away. She’d seen this type of changeling before, and she knew that nothing but more grief lay ahead for him and his father both. They became utterly withdrawn as they aged, this kind of child. Some wandered away from their alarli and were never seen again; others drifted along at the edge of their parents’ camps, accepting food or the occasional piece of clothing but nothing more, never speaking, never reaching out.

And yet, as she walked back to camp, she found herself wrestling with a strange feeling: envy. Not envy of having a changeling, certainly, but – of what? Lon’s wife loved that child so much she was draining her own life to keep him alive, and he’d never repay her with anything but grief. But would the grief truly matter to her? To love someone that much. Is that what I envy? Dallandra wondered at herself. It seemed a sick sort of thing, that kind of love.

Later that evening, Dalla stood just beyond a circle of firelight and watched Lon feeding his son a broth of oats boiled with milk. The wife, Allanaseradario, hunkered nearby and watched as the child slurped up the food. Now and then she would wipe its sticky chin with a bit of rag. Dalla felt all her familiar disgust with the mess and raw crudity of caring for infants. I made my choice, she thought. I took the dweomer willingly. Yet the envy came back, squeezing her heart, it seemed, as she stood in the shadows, looking into the circle of firelight. Finally she turned away with a toss of her head only to realize that Calonderiel was standing nearby, watching her in turn. She waited for him to speak, but he merely walked away, shoving his hands into his pockets and striding off.

The time was wrong to think of grievous things. The festival proceeded with songs and declamations, feasts and dancing, powerful enough to draw most of the changelings into a web of laughter and good music. For an afternoon here, an evening there, Dallandra could even forget the danger gathering in the west. But the threat never quite left her, and others feared as well. Carra in particular began to worry about her younger daughter, Perra, riding with her husband’s alar.

‘They really should have been here by now,’ Carra remarked one morning. ‘Dalla, don’t you think so?’

‘Perhaps, but the festival only began three days ago.’

‘I suppose,’ Carra said, ‘but you never know these days. Things happen. If the Horsekin start raiding …’ She let her voice trail away.

‘That’s true enough,’ Dallandra said. ‘I’ll scry.’

Dalla walked down to the lake shore and stared at the rippled water while she thought about Perra. The image built up fast: Perra was kneeling in the grass and lashing a blanket-wrapped bundle to a travois while her husband led over the horse chosen to pull it. Thanks be to the Star Goddesses! Dallandra thought. I wonder how I would have told Carra if they’d come to harm? Carra loved her children extravagantly, just like Londrojezry and his wife. And I? The question nagged at Dalla all day.

One worry solved itself when Perra and her alar rode in before nightfall. Dallandra was relieved to see that the new grandchild, some four months old, showed every sign of being an ordinary infant. In fact, she looked completely elvish, with furled ears and cat-slit purple eyes, just as if her grandmother’s human nature had never tainted her blood.

‘I’m glad, too,’ Carra told Dallandra. ‘She won’t get teased about her ears the way poor Perra was. Children can be so awfully cruel.’

‘Well,’ Dalla said, ‘they do cruel things, but they do them out of ignorance. They don’t know how much pain they’re causing.’

‘I suppose. At least Rori’s learned to fight back. The last time someone teased him, he knocked him down with one good punch.’

‘He seems to have something in common with the man you named him for.’

They shared a laugh at Rhodry Maelwaedd’s expense.

‘It’s so odd, Dalla,’ Carra went on. ‘Here you never wanted children of your own, but you’ve ended up the honorary aunt of so many. Every mother who has a changeling in her care turns to you for advice.’

‘You’re right, aren’t you? It goes to show, that you never know what your wyrd is going to bring you. But I did have a child once, a son – I must have told you that story.’

‘You did, yes. I’m sorry, I’d just forgotten him.’

I tend to do that myself, Dallandra thought. Poor little Loddlaen! Aloud, she said, ‘Well, it was all a very long time ago now.’

Carra let the subject drop.

And of course, there were more worries than those about children for the alarli to discuss. When she told the men in Perra’s alar about Salamander’s fears of a Horsekin incursion, they had information for her, a few scraps only, but better than nothing. She contacted Salamander that very evening. In the vision she could dimly see a stone wall behind him and a faint silver light.

‘Where are you?’ Dallandra thought to him. ‘I’m at the festival, and I’ve heard something about the Horsekin.’

‘Up on the catwalks of our good tieryn’s wall. I came up to watch the moon rise, actually, though I had thoughts of contacting you once it had. Tell me what you’ve learned, oh mistress of magicks mysterious. I hang upon your every thought.’

‘Well, it’s rather short on hard fact. One of the alarli here told me about an escaped Horsekin slave. They helped her get back to her people in Deverry, late last autumn, that was. As far as they can remember, she’d escaped from somewhere not all that far from the Westlands, up north and west somewhere. Either she didn’t know, or they didn’t remember just how far she’d travelled after she got away.’

‘Of course. But alas, alack, and welladay anyway.’

‘Now, they did ask her what Horsekin were doing, travelling so far south of their own country. She said she’d been brought along to cook for a group of important officials, whatever that may mean, travelling with a large armed escort. They were looking for something, she said, a good place to build something. She didn’t know what. They wouldn’t have told the likes of her any details.’

‘My worst fear begins to materialize before me, but you have my thanks.’

‘Your worst fear? It ranks high among mine, and Cal’s, too.’

‘No doubt.’ His image turned thoughtful. ‘Have you seen Zandro yet?’

‘Yes, indeed I have, and here’s some good news. He can call some people by name now. He knows his own, and mine, and of course your father’s and a few of your father’s friends.’

‘Splendid!’

‘And he’s become quite protective of the younger changelings. He and Elessi lead the little ones like a pack of wolves. They run through the camp together and laugh at everything. Zan’s not hit anyone or pulled hair or any such nasty trick, not since we’ve been here.’

‘Wonderful! That gives me some hope he’ll find happiness of a sort.’

‘Me too.’ Dalla felt suddenly weary. ‘When I worked so hard at getting those souls born, I didn’t stop to think of what they’d be like in their very first incarnation. Poor little spirits! They should have taken flesh when the world was new.’

‘Indeed. In time they’ll grow full minds.’

‘So we can hope. I honestly don’t know how many lives it will take them. But Zan at least has become very nicely behaved. Dev has the most amazing patience.’

‘Now. He certainly never showed any with me.’

‘Well, he was much younger then. He didn’t know how to treat a small child.’

‘I suppose he did the best he could, given that my mother didn’t want me.’

Dalla could feel the bitterness in his thoughts – still, after nearly two hundred years. ‘She didn’t have much choice,’ she said. ‘The fault lies in the way Deverry men treat their women, or so your father told me.’

‘Perhaps. I don’t truly remember her, anyway, except that she was pink and soft and warm, and her name was Morri.’

‘That wasn’t your mother. That was your nursemaid. Dev did tell me that much, but you know, it’s odd. He truly didn’t want to tell me more.’

In the image of his face she could see confusion, and his thoughts swirled round like autumn leaves, picked up and blown in circles by the wind, until, like leaves the wind has dropped, his mind steadied again. ‘Well, it hardly matters now,’ Salamander thought to her. ‘But sometime when we have a moment to spare for talking about things long past, I’d like to hear the story.’

‘Your father would most likely tell you more than he’d tell me.’

Salamander’s image looked profoundly sad.

‘But we could always ask him for the tale together,’ Dallandra said hurriedly. ‘I’m surprised you’ve not heard it already.’

‘So am I. Continually, perennially and eternally surprised, every time the subject comes up between me and the esteemed progenitor.’ His face-image displayed a forced smile. ‘You would doubtless be even more surprised at the speed with which he can leap away from the subject, like a cat when someone empties a bucket of water nearby.’ His image smiled in unconvincing dismissal. ‘But it matters naught. Tomorrow we leave for Cengarn. I’ll keep you informed of what happens there.’

Abruptly Salamander broke the link. She’d touched on an old, deep wound, Dallandra realized, and one that, in time, she would have to help him heal.

I’m surprised you’ve not heard it already. After he broke the scrying-link, Salamander realized that his right hand had clenched into a fist and that he was tempted to throw a hard punch into the stones of the tieryn’s wall. A gaggle of gnomes materialized at his feet and raised little paws, as if signalling caution.

‘Yes, smashing flesh into stone means one thing only,’ Salamander said in Elvish. ‘The stone wins.’

With the Wildfolk trailing after, he climbed down from the wall and headed for the broch. Thinking about his childhood always filled him with melancholy, and he was considering drowning the feeling with some good dark ale. He reached the door of the great hall just as Branna was coming out of it, a candle lantern in her hand. The light coming through the pierced tin dappled her face in a pattern like stars.

‘Good evening to you, my lady,’ Salamander said. ‘Have you come out to enjoy the night air?’

‘I have, truly,’ Branna said. ‘It gets stuffy up in my chamber.’

‘Hum, I find myself wondering if perhaps Neb’s chamber grows just as stuffy. Could it be that he’s out here as well, just by coincidence of course, out in the herb garden, say?’

‘And would it be any of your affair if he was?’

‘None, of course. But if I were you, I’d make sure Gerran didn’t know what you were up to.’

‘Gerran is drinking with his men. They won’t stop till they’re all staggering.’

‘Love can make a man as drunk as ale does.’

‘True spoken, but when he’s drunk on ale he can’t lift his sword.’

‘Nor can he lift much else. I trust Neb is the sober sort?’

‘Oh!’ Branna caught her breath and blushed. ‘Do hold your tongue, you chattering elf!’

‘Now I wonder,’ Salamander said, grinning, ‘where you got that turn of phrase. That I chatter is a point beyond disputing, but someone else used to call me that, and I think me we both knew her well.’

Branna stared at him for a long moment, then turned in a swirl of dresses and rushed across the ward, heading for the herb garden. Salamander stepped inside the hall and saw Gerran and his men clustered around a table, wagering furiously on some game or other. Salamander considered joining them, then climbed the staircase instead. Behind him more Wildfolk materialized to follow in a silvery, translucent parade.

In his little chamber Salamander sat on the wide windowsill and looked out over the night-time dun. Here and there points of light gleamed in a window or bobbed along, a lantern held in someone’s hand. He could distantly hear, like the murmur of a river, the sounds from the great hall. A dog barked out by the stables, then fell silent.

‘This could turn nasty,’ he remarked to the Wildfolk. ‘Neb, Branna, and Gerran, I mean.’

The Wildfolk all nodded their agreement.

‘But yet I have hope. From everything Dalla’s told me, Cullyn well and truly broke that particular chain of wyrd in the last life he shared with Branna. If Gerran remembers – not that he’ll know he’s remembering of course – but if he does remember, deep in his mind somewhere, then mayhap the outcome will be a fair one. And if the outcome is foul, then we’ll know that he doesn’t remember Cullyn of Cerrmor’s wisdom.’

The Wildfolk stared at him and solemnly scratched their heads, miming confusion.

‘I could have put that more clearly, truly,’ Salamander said. ‘Mayhap it’s time for me to get some sleep.’

The Wildfolk all nodded vigorously, then one at a time, disappeared. Yawning, he took off all his clothes but his loin-wrap and lay down on the mattress. He considered a blanket, but the summer night was still hot. Wrapped in its warmth, he fell asleep.

Salamander woke to the sound of furious words outside his chamber and the pink light of a cloudy dawn beyond his window. He sat up and listened till he could place the voices: Gerran and Mirryn, arguing over Cadryc’s predictable orders to his son and heir.

‘You’ve got to rein that temper in,’ Gerran was saying. ‘You cannot challenge your own father to an honour duel, and you know it.’

‘It’s all very well for you to talk, Gerro.’ Mirryn’s voice shook with rage. ‘No one’s going to think you’re a coward. Now get your hands off me! I want to go back and tell Father –’

‘You’re not going to tell him one word more.’

A pause, a long pause that brought Salamander to his feet, ready to intervene if things turned nasty. He took a few barefoot steps towards the door.

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