Torcaill, the man Taim Narran had assigned to lead Orisian’s escort, brought them to a halt a little way short of the inn.

“I’ll send a few men in first, sire,” he said to Orisian. “It will not take long.”

Orisian almost told him to forego such precautions. What possible danger could there be here, in this forgotten and abandoned place? But Torcaill took his responsibilities seriously, and Orisian had no wish to belittle that. He nodded in assent. Torcaill led half a dozen men on to the inn.

“What’s he up to?” Yvane asked. The na’kyrim had come up to stand beside Orisian’s horse, her hand resting on its neck. The animal looked round at her, but found her uninteresting and hung its head in a vain search for grass.

“Just having a look before we go in,” Orisian said.

Yvane grunted. “Does he fear some mountain goat waits within to stick you with its horns? No… wait, perhaps it’s lurking under one of the beds, ready to nip at your ankles?”

“You’re in a lively mood,” Orisian observed, looking down at her.

“No, I’m not. I’m exhausted. It makes me light-headed, all this walking.”

“Ride, then. You’ve been offered a share of a horse’s back more than once.”

“She’s worried she’ll fall off and crack her head,” Rothe suggested, easing his horse past them.

Yvane glared after the shieldman as he drew up in front of the inn and dismounted a little stiffly. He stretched, digging his fingers into the small of his back. The light falling from the windows was bright now, the surrounding mountains almost wholly lost in darkness. There were clouds enough to hide the moon. Orisian shivered and puffed out his cheeks. The muffled sound of boots thumping on stairs and floorboards came from the inn. Rothe stood in the doorway and peered inside. After a moment or two, he stepped back to allow Torcaill to emerge. The warrior waved.

“Looks like you’ll get a good night’s rest, anyway,” Orisian said to Yvane. “Plenty more walking tomorrow, I expect, so no doubt you’ll need it.”

“Not so much,” Yvane muttered dolefully. “Highfast’s not far now.”

“You’re not looking forward to it.”

The na’kyrim glanced up at him, and then away. It was a self-effacing, hesitant sort of movement; not what Orisian associated with Yvane at all. He almost felt sorry for her, but suspected that she would not welcome such a sentiment.

“Not greatly,” she acknowledged. “Too late for changing minds, though.”

The innkeeper who greeted them within was tall and thin, narrow eyes peering out from beneath bushy eyebrows. He gave no sign of pleasure at this unexpected glut of customers.

“There’s beds for an even dozen of you,” he said in the thick, lethargic accent of the Peaks. “The rest’ll be bedding down in the ruins. And I’ve not enough food for so many. Most’ll be feeding yourselves, too.”

“That’s fine,” Orisian said, paying little attention. He went back outside, peered around in the darkness. He searched amongst the indistinct crowd of men and horses. He wanted to ask Ess’yr if she and Varryn would sleep inside. But the Kyrinin had already separated themselves from the others. They were slipping away, sinking into the night, moving into the thicket of broken walls and fallen roofs behind the inn. He stared after them even when the darkness had taken them from him.

“Is there broth?”

Orisian turned around. Old Hammarn was there, his hands clasped together.

“Always good after a long journey,” the na’kyrim said. “And before, too.”

“Come,” Orisian smiled. “Let’s go and see what we can find.”

They reached Highfast the next day, amidst sleet and gusting winds. The great fortress loomed out of the belligerent sky, stark and grey and hard. It stood on a pinnacle of rock, capping the peak with a carapace of battlements and turrets. The road swept up to it around the exposed haunches of another, loftier mountain, and then threw a side-branch across a narrow stone bridge to the gates.

The wind roared at them and lashed them with waves of wet snow as they crossed that bridge. Orisian looked only briefly to the side. The dizzying drop and the dark rock slopes far below resolved him to lock his eyes upon the gates ahead. They were tall and narrow. Their wood was scarred and pitted and cracked; the skin of their iron banding was split and rusted. Above them, Highfast’s fortifications soared. Walls and towers were crowded thickly onto their precarious perch, so that it seemed half a dozen castles had been crammed and folded into one.

Bannain, riding at the head of the column with Torcaill, shouted something up at the turrets flanking the gate. The words were snatched away by the wind and Orisian did not hear them. There was no obvious response. Orisian pressed his chin into his chest and hunched his shoulders. He was wondering whether to dismount and put his horse between him and the wind when the gates opened. Torcaill led them in.

They rode through a tunnel. A few men with lanterns baffled against the wind lined the way, watching the band of riders with clear suspicion and puzzlement. Hoofs rang on the smooth stone floor and the echoes raced back and forth along the passage like a peal of harsh, tuneless bells. There was another gate, creaking back on ancient hinges, and then they emerged into a small courtyard.

It felt as if they were at the bottom of a great pit. On every side walls thrust up, climbing higher than anything made by men that Orisian had ever seen, save perhaps the Tower of Thrones itself. In places cliffs and boulders had been incorporated into the body of the castle, so that stonework flowed around outcroppings of the jagged pinnacle. There was a keep that seemed to have been built onto the face of a crag. No lights showed at its windows, despite the day’s gloom. The rushing clouds above looked very distant.

Orisian gazed around in wonder. He had not expected Highfast to be such a strange and massive beast. He had never seen, or heard of, its like. Except, perhaps, for Criagar Vyne. That ruined city in the Car Criagar must once have had something of the same bleak magnificence, the same deep-rooted defiance of mountain and elements. But Criagar Vyne was empty; defeated. People still lived here in Highfast, still sheltered in its towering protection.

A short man, rotund but wearing a warrior’s jerkin and sword, came out from a doorway and conferred with Torcaill. They both turned and looked in Orisian’s direction. He swung himself out of the saddle and walked forwards, Rothe following close behind.

“I am Herraic Crenn dar Kilkry-Haig, sire,” the short warrior said, dipping his head respectfully. “Captain of Highfast. It is an honour to have such visitors. I fear we’re not well enough provisioned to offer you the hospitality you deserve.”

The man sounded nervous to Orisian. “We don’t need much other than a fire and some food. We’ll be moving on in a day or two.”

He ducked and winced as cold water, shed in fat droplets from some protrusion on the walls far above, spattered down onto the back of his neck.

“Come, come,” Herraic said quickly. “Let’s get a roof over your head. My men will stable your horses and get your escort into the barracks. We’ve room enough for them, I think. Half my men are out chasing rumours of wights in the forest east of here. They’ll likely not be back for days.”

Torcaill went to see to the settling of his men; Rothe, Ess’yr, Varryn and the two na’kyrim followed Orisian. The passageways through which Herraic and Bannain led them were narrow and rough-cut. They curved and twisted, rose and fell, in a way that left Orisian disorientated. And no matter how deep they went into the rock, there was still a breeze on his face; cold, wet air still stirred, tugging at the flames of the torches that Herraic and his men carried. The sound of the wind was distant but always present, a low tone at the edge of his hearing.