Every night, there was the threat of a renewed assault by White Owls. Each night it did not come, and slowly the fear of it dwindled. Ess’yr and Varryn still hung back, disappearing from sight for as much as half a day at times. They – or Ess’yr, at least, for Varryn had not spoken to him since the day they left the Veiled Woods – brought no word of pursuit when they returned from their wanderings. The relief Orisian felt at that was muted and sour. It was too late for Rothe. He asked himself again and again whether he would have followed Eshenna out from Highfast, had he known what would come of it, and never found an answer.

Stone lived up to its name. It was a broad sprawl of rock-built cottages above the gorge of the Kyre river. There was a quarry full of massive stone blocks and boulders beside it, as if some giant of the One Race had taken a huge bite out of the mountainside and spat out the shattered remnants. They came to the village from the north, crossing a saddle between two jagged peaks in the teeth of a bitter wind. The roaring river lay between them and Stone, and swaying over the foamy waters was a fragile-looking bridge of rope and planking.

Even reaching the bridge was an unnerving task, for the trail cut its way back and forth down an almost sheer cliff. It was littered with loose pebbles and riven with cracks. Every moment of their descent seemed laden with the possibility of disaster. His first few tentative paces onto the bridge convinced Orisian that it was at least as full of unfortunate potential. It swung and shifted beneath him like a living thing, responding to every surge of the wind. He grasped the rough rope tightly and kept his eyes fixed on the cluster of houses ahead.

People were gathering there: a small, curious crowd of onlookers. Orisian could guess how cautious and uncertain he and all the others must appear as they crept across the flimsy span. He did not care. Stone looked bleak, and rough, and impoverished, but it was a welcome sight. Only now, seeing those low, solid huts and the lights burning in the windows and the woodsmoke being whipped away by the gale, did the Veiled Woods and the White Owls and even the Anain feel as though they were at last falling away behind him. As he stepped off the last wet wooden plank and set his foot down on rock, it was like crossing a boundary, returning to a world more familiar.

He turned to watch Torcaill and Yvane and the rest struggling across the bridge. Eshenna had to coax and edge K’rina across, the two women almost embracing. Orisian was assailed by the image of the two of them toppling and plunging into the torrent, carrying with them the last vestige of sense to all that had happened. Only Ess’yr and Varryn, bringing up the rear, were casual, striding nonchalantly without so much as a glance down.

Torcaill stood at his side, clearly relieved at having survived the crossing.

“Here comes the welcoming party,” the warrior grunted.

Four men were tramping down towards them, led by one who looked like he had been hewn from the fabric of mountains himself: burly, grey-bearded, rough-skinned and carrying a long spear. He rested its butt on the ground and stood tall before Orisian.

“Don’t get many strangers coming that way,” he observed gruffly.

“I’m not surprised.” Orisian grimaced. “That bridge isn’t the most easy of approaches.”

“I am Captain of the Guard here,” the old warrior said. He was looking beyond Orisian, and his surprise at what he saw – fighting men, na’kyrim, Kyrinin – was obvious. He shifted his weight uneasily, tightened his grip upon his spear. “I’ll need to know who you are, and what your business is here.”

“We’ve no business here, save the hope of a night’s shelter, and of some supplies for our journey. My name’s Orisian.” That did not sound enough, and he hesitated for only an instant before adding: “I am the Thane of the Lannis-Haig Blood.”

The man smiled, and opened his mouth to make some scoffing retort. His certainty faltered as he saw Orisian’s expression, and as Torcaill leaned a little closer. He narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t have the look of a Thane.”

Orisian put a self-conscious hand to the great welt of a wound that disfigured his cheek. The stitches were gone, cut agonisingly out that morning. It was still swollen, though, and tender.

“What’s your name, Captain?” Orisian asked him softly.

“Kollen.”

“Very well, Kollen. I am Orisian oc Lannis-Haig. And I am tired and cold and hungry. I would be grateful if you could tell us where we can find some food and drink and a fire to warm ourselves at.”

They were ushered into a wide, circular hut and settled around the open fire burning in its centre. There were animal hides stretched across the stone walls, picks and hammers leaning against them. The wind gusted across the smoke-hole in the roof, but the air within was hot and close.

Kollen remained doubtful. He said nothing to challenge Orisian’s claim, but he and a few of his Guard stood there, wary, while villagers brought food. Children clustered in the doorway, staring curiously at these newcomers; wide-eyed and murmuring at the sight of two Kyrinin sitting cross-legged in the gloom.

“What news is there?” Orisian asked between mouthfuls of stew. “Have you heard whether the fighting’s done, in the north?”

“No, the fighting’s not done,” said Kollen. “Not last we heard. We don’t hear much up here, and what we do hear’s not much sense. Got a message to arm two dozen fighting men and send them to Kolkyre, then two days later a message saying not. Then rumour is that the army’s gathering after all…” He waved his hands helplessly. “Who can say?”

“If the fighting’s not done, your men should march,” Orisian said. “You have to wait to be told to march against the Black Road?” It took so little now to wake his anger. The slightest breath upon its glowing embers could summon up a small flame.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Torcaill stiffen.

“You shouldn’t let others do the dying on your behalf,” Orisian muttered. Then, faintly: “You shouldn’t stand aside. That’s all.”

“I do as my Thane commands me,” the Captain growled darkly.

“Yes. I’d not question Lheanor’s-”

“Roaric, now,” Kollen interrupted him. “Lheanor’s dead.”

Orisian set down his bowl. “How?”

“Black Road, they say. Inside the Tower of Thrones.”

“I’m sorry. We did not now. Was there… do you know if anyone else was killed? Hurt?”

Kollen shook his head. On the far side of the fire, K’rina groaned a little. She was hunched up, wrapped in a shawl that Eshenna had found in a corner. Kollen looked sharply at the na’kyrim.

“Is she sick? If she’s sick…”

“It’s nothing,” said Orisian. “Nothing she can pass to anyone else, at least. We only want a place to sleep. We’ll be gone in the morning.”

Kollen stared at him. He scratched his chin, fingers raking through his beard. The gesture reminded Orisian of Rothe.

“What’s the Thane of the Lannis Blood doing wandering around the Karkyre Peaks, then?” Kollen asked.

Orisian took up the steaming bowl of stew again, and frowned down into it. “Just trying to get home. That’s all.”

In the morning there was a dusting of snow across Stone. The wind had swept it from the exposed stretches of ground and packed it up against walls and into crevices. The village came alive before dawn. Orisian was already out, sitting on a huge square-cut slab of rock, when the eastern sky began to lighten behind the Peaks. He watched a pair of young boys drive a little flock of goats, vague shapes in the half-light, out across the mountainside, and wondered what pasture they could possibly find in this bare place. Some of the animals wore little bells at their necks. They rang and clattered their way through the village.

A little way further down towards the bridge, Torcaill and his men were gathered, talking quietly, preparing for the renewal of their march. Kollen had given them two men to act as guides, down through the foothills until they reached the road between Ive and Kolkyre. He had done it grudgingly, and Orisian blamed himself for that fact. He had spoken without thought, and without care.