These words seemed to have an effect. Arathan stood unmoving, as if drained of strength, emptied of will.

‘Had I known,’ Raskan said to Rint, looking up from his bowl, ‘I would have sent you back and found another among the Borderswords. You should have been with her, Rint.’

‘Had an uncle whose wife knifed him when she was in the heat of labour. Too many platitudes and assurances.’

‘She killed him?’

‘No, she took his caressing hand and pinned it to the ground.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘The story goes, he pulled the knife from his hand and went back to stroking her hair. But not for long, as the midwives dragged him from the room. So, it ended well.’

Raskan snorted.

Footsteps announced the return of Feren. Draconus was nowhere in sight.

The sergeant straightened. ‘Where is the Lord?’

‘He makes propitiations,’ Feren replied. ‘Rint, you burned it, damn you.’

‘I did.’

‘Propitiations?’ Raskan asked.

‘The barrow,’ she said distractedly, selecting a bowl.

Arathan stood, his eyes upon her, but she paid him no heed as she filled the bowl, and Rint knew that his sister was done with the boy.

‘No,’ said Feren in the dark, ‘it’s finished.’

Arathan moved away, feeling lost. Tears blurred his vision. His father ruled everyone, and to rule meant to use. Everywhere he turned he saw his father’s heavy hand. Pushing away, dragging along, holding down — where it struck there were bruises, aching wounds. This was the meaning of power.

He wanted to flee. Come the morning he could be gone. But Rint would track him down. Besides, some things he could not escape.

He edged past his bedroll, came to the weights stacked in their perfect measures. One by one, he threw them out into the night.

A day’s travel west of Abara Delack, Grizzin Farl sat by the small fire he had made to roast the hare he had killed earlier that day. True hunters used slingstones, or arrows. Perhaps even a spear such as he carried in abundance. But Grizzin Farl was no hunter. He had run the creature down. Dogged it into panting submission. Even then, as he held the trembling thing in his arms, he had spent an inordinate amount of time stroking its soft fur, to calm its fear, and he had winced when he snapped its neck.

Death was terrible power. The delivering of suffering never quite washed off. He had seen, among hunters and herders, an undeniable coldness of spirit that made of necessity a virtue. Grief did not touch them in the slaying of creatures, whether those creatures walked upon two legs or ran upon four; whether they possessed wings or slid smooth through water. Need was its own answer. One needs to eat, be it flesh or plant, and death was the currency.

He did not like that truth and this night, as he gnawed on small bones, his title of Protector felt mocking and hollow.

Earlier in the day he had seen two riders off to the north: the Borderswords who had taken the tutor to Abara Delack, presumably, now hastening to catch up with their companions. If they had in turn spied the Azathanai, they’d chewed and spat out their curiosity. The minds of some were shuttered things, singular of focus and thus narrow in their interests. They thrived as impediments to wonder. One day, he imagined, every place in every land might be filled with such men and women, each one busy draining colour from the world. He had no intention of living to see it. Rue the realm where bold laughter was met with disapproving frowns and sullen agitation! Serious people never stopped waging their war on joy and pleasure, and they were both relentless and tireless. In the making of his life he stood against them, and saw in his steadfastness a most worthy virtue. Protector indeed!

The thought brought a low rumble of laughter to him.

Alas, the hare had no reason to join in the amusement.

Before dusk descended into night, he had seen a lone figure walking up from the east. While it was true that chance could not be measured, this meeting to come was by no means accidental, and so in his mind he measured it out most carefully. Well to the west, a Thel Akai queen had been stirred from her eternal slumber, and her mood was still foul, no matter the efforts at placation.

The old so disliked the young, and at the extremes of both, why, the dislike stretched into genuine distaste. Regard as foul the fresh-born; see as creped the laggard ancients, with disgust the mutual regard and well earned, too.

And now here, from the east, heavy footsteps drawing ever closer, came an old friend who would kneel to a child. These details did not so much balance out as wink at one another.

‘So much to muse on,’ he now said, loud enough to be heard by the one who approached. ‘Yet all the ale is gone. I was never one to ration my gifts, poor me.’