‘There’s a good chance someone with my personality might make you even more miserable,’ he said, and a half-smile seemed to suggest she liked that comment. ‘The Dawnir wants to see me. Since I’m off soon, I’d better go and visit him now. Get some sleep if you can.’

He left her alone in the room with the sound of his boots leaving and the spitting fire.

Brynd set off along the winding stone passages until he finally reached the Dawnir’s chamber, a secluded vault built some way into the cliff face, far away from the rich adornments of Balmacara. This was an ancient remnant of an older structure, the stonework of its walls worn smooth over hundreds of years.

Brynd banged his fist on the iron door of the Dawnir’s vault. It looked rather like the entrance to a gaol.

Slow footsteps sounded on the other side. The door opened. A shaft of lantern light fell upon his face. ‘Sele of Jamur, it’s Commander Brynd of the House of Lathraea.’

A gruff voice said, ‘Please, enter.’

Immediately behind the door, the Dawnir stood, stooping slightly.

‘Sele of Jamur,’ Brynd replied, and shuffled forwards.

‘I am very glad you could come and visit me, Commander Brynd Lathraea,’ the Dawnir said. ‘The times are interesting.’

‘As always,’ Brynd agreed, watching the Dawnir close the door behind him. Standing one armspan taller than Brynd, and covered in a bush of brown hair, his host wore a simple loin cloth.

He always seemed to be hunching, probably because there was no one else of his height to talk to. His eyes were like large black balls set deep in a narrow, goat-shaped head, while his gums exposed a pair of tusks the length of a forearm.

‘And how are you, Jurro?’ Brynd asked. ‘I received word you wished to see me.’

The Dawnir waved an impossibly large hand towards a chair. Three walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, and more were piled up around the simple wooden furniture. There were beautiful bindings, and some had degraded significantly.

A sheep carcass was draped upon a table across the room, quietly stinking the place out.

‘Could do with some incense in here,’ Brynd muttered.

After a moment of intense frowning, Jurro spoke. ‘Ah, a joke. Very good, Brynd Lathraea, very good. Irony, you call it, yes?’

Brynd reclined further in the chair, and picked up a book, but found it was in a language he didn’t know. The fonts suggested it might be something from Boll or Tineag’l, or some other Empire outpost.

‘That one is a history of dance on Folke,’ Jurro explained.

‘Doesn’t look like Folken,’ Brynd replied.

‘Indeed not, Brynd Lathraea. It was written over a thousand years ago, and language changes.’

Brynd pursed his lips, placed the book to one side.

‘I was looking at it because of the Snow Ball that the highborn humans and the rumel have organized. I do hope I will be able to attend it.’

‘Don’t see why not,’ Brynd said. ‘You’re no prisoner.’

‘Indeed not, but I do feel like one at times. I don’t get many true visitors either, just those hoping I can help solve their petty problems. Yet I am not an oracle. I know no magic. And, besides, as if I would know…’ the Dawnir trailed off to replace the book on one of the shelves.

‘So how does the study go?’

‘Nothing new. No revelations. These histories of the Boreal Archipelago are fascinating, though. There are many inconsistencies in the texts, which leads me to believe the history is deeper than is publicly known, and known less than is publicly history. And I have some… some considerable time on my hands. I’m in no hurry, therefore. The books I’ve read on the previous ice ages are indeed interesting. They seem to have been the bringer of death to many a good civilization, so I can see why our Council are anxious.’ Jurro pushed forward a large chair constructed from iron, with heavy padding. The Dawnir sighed thunderously as he reclined. He held up one large text, a leather-bound tome the size of a small tabletop. ‘This is called The Book of the Wonders of Earth and Sky, and it details eras so far ago that they are assumed legend. I read today our forests were once lost entirely. We now call trees by the names in which their seeds had been stored below the Earth. I read once again that the sun was once much more yellow than our own. If this is true, then our sun is losing strength, and it is dying slowly. There is, perhaps predictably, nothing within the pages to suggest my own origins. I remain full of pathos.’

Brynd had heard many philosophical meanderings from Jurro. This creature had reportedly been within the city over a thousand years, nearly as long as this pile of stones had been called Villjamur. That’s what Jurro himself claimed anyway. He had been originally discovered wandering the icy coastline of north Jokull, with no memory. Having survived this long, he was now assumed to be immortal, though Brynd wondered morosely what it would be like to live for so long without even knowing your roots. He himself shared something with the Dawnir in this respect. Brynd had been adopted as a child by wealthy parents, and therefore had no real concept of his own origins. Who would ever want to know where an albino came from anyway?

‘So how about your health? Do you feel well?’ Brynd said.

‘No, I need more exercise. I envy you, endlessly on your little missions here and there.’

Somehow, Jurro had just managed to belittle Brynd’s entire career with a single sentence.

‘You must take me along with you some time, because I would like to see more of the Archipelago. It could jog my memory; I might recognize something of my own past. It might even be fun.’

‘Why not, if it helps at all? But, you obviously won’t have heard about our latest mission.’

Then Brynd gave the Dawnir the details of his last few days.

‘Indeed, a complex situation,’ Jurro said. ‘I will put my ear, as you say, to the ground for you.’

‘Thanks,’ Brynd said. ‘You heard about our Emperor?’

‘Yes. Again, curious. But his mind was never quite there, was it?’

‘I’ll be fetching his elder daughter to be our new Empress.’

‘Jamur Rika? Of course. Is she not a child still?’

‘No, she’s twenty now.’

‘How quickly you grow, you humans!’ The Dawnir seemed utterly delighted at this observation.

They talked a while longer about news from the city, the refugees camping outside the gates. And then Jurro began to ramble about the wild flowers of Dockull and Maour. Brynd could only listen to Jurro’s expositions for so long, and gently interrupted him.

‘Jurro, I don’t suppose you know anything of the killings reported on Tineag’l, do you?’

‘Killings?’ Jurro made a contemplative steeple of his massive hands.

‘I don’t think it’s tribal revenge. Perhaps a new creature, or something?’

‘I know nothing about this – although, yes, I would like to know more. According to what I have read, there has not been any creature capable of large-scale killings for several dozen millennia. Fossils of such beasts exist, of course, on Y’iren. I will begin some research.’

‘Thanks,’ Brynd said. ‘I’d better be going now. I’ll be back to see you when I return.’

‘Farewell, Brynd Lathraea,’ the Dawnir said, hardly paying attention.

‘You know what your problem is?’ Apium said to Brynd. They were leaning over the bar counter in the Cross and Sickle. Close to midnight and the place was nearly empty. A veteran of the Ninth Dragoons slumped asleep in the corner still clutching his tankard, wearing the uniform he’d never need again. Two elderly rumel sat nearby in companionable silence. A fire crackled cosily, and you could hear the clink clink clink of empty glasses that a serving girl was carrying into the kitchen. The tavern was one of those places that made an effort with its decor: engraved mirrors, imported dark woods, lanterns bright enough to make women feel comfortable drinking here.