“She did more than that,” the slightly built man said. “Weaver had to spend half the night on you. Snowdance is not a easy animal to control, even for Sella.”

“Snowdance?”

“The cat,” Nortah explained. “A war-cat left behind by the Ice Horde. It seems some of them made the mistake of wandering into Lonak lands after the Tower Lord sent them packing. Sella found her when she was a kitten. Apparently she’s not yet fully grown.”

“Grown large and ferocious enough to keep us safe,” the other man said, giving Vaelin a cold look. “Until now.”

“This is Harlick,” Nortah said. “He’s scared of you. Most of them are.”

“Them?”

“The people who live here, and a very strange bunch they are too.” He went to a corner where Vaelin’s clothes and weapons were neatly arranged and tossed him a shirt. “Get dressed and I’ll give you a tour of the fallen city.”

Outside the sun was bright and high, warming the air and banishing shadows from the ruins. They emerged from what appeared to have been an official building of some kind, its size and the cluster of symbols carved into the lintel above the entrance marked it out as a place of importance.

“Harlick thinks it was a library,” Nortah said. “He should know, used to be a man of importance in the Grand Library in Varinshold. What became of all the books, however.” He shrugged.

“Gone to dust ages past, most like,” Vaelin said. Looking around he was struck by an impression of beauty despoiled. The elegance of the buildings, evident in every line and carving, had been displaced and disfigured by the city’s fall. His eyes picked out marks in the stonework and the broken statues, not cracks of age but scars hewn into the stone. Elsewhere he noted the way all the taller buildings had fallen in different directions, as if pulled down at random. There was a violence to the destruction that spoke of more than the deprivations of passing years and harshness of the elements.

“This place was attacked,” he murmured. “Torn down centuries ago.”

“Sella said the same thing.” Nortah’s face clouded a little. “She has dreams sometimes. Bad dreams, about what happened here.”

Vaelin turned to face him, searching his face for signs of wrongness. Nortah was certainly different, the weariness that dulled his eyes since their time in the Martishe was gone, replaced by something Vaelin took a moment to recognise. He’s happy.

“Brother,” he said. “I must know. Has she touched you?”

Nortah’s expression was both amused and guarded. “My father once told me there are some things a true nobleman does not discuss.”

Vaelin was momentarily undecided whether to be jealous or angry that Nortah could throw off his vows so easily. He surprised himself by finding he was neither. “I meant…”

There was a rapid scrape of claws on stone and Vaelin fought to contain his alarm as the war-cat Snowdance bounded toward them, leaping a fallen column and nearly knocking Nortah from his feet as she pressed her great head against him, purring loudly.

“Hello you vicious beast,” Nortah greeted her, tickling her behind the ears, for all the world as if he was petting a kitten. Vaelin couldn’t stop himself edging away. The obvious power of the animal made even Scratch look weak in comparison.

“She won’t hurt you,” Nortah assured him, scratching the cat’s jaw as she angled her head. “Sella won’t let her.”

Nortah led him through the ruins to a cluster of buildings which seemed more intact than the others. There were people there, about thirty in all of varying ages, with a few children running about. Most of the adults regarded Vaelin with a mixture of fear and suspicion, a few were openly hostile. Oddly they showed no fear of Snowdance, a couple of children even running over to pet her.

“Why didn’t you take his sword?” a tall man with a black beard demanded of Nortah. He was clutching a heavy quarter staff and a little girl was peering out from behind his legs, eyes wide with fear and curiosity.

“It’s not mine to take,” Nortah replied in a placid tone. “And I’d advise you not to try, Rannil.”

Vaelin was struck by the way the people avoided his gaze as they moved through the camp, a couple even covered their faces although he knew none of them. There was also a murmur from the blood-song, a tone he hadn’t heard before, it felt almost like recognition.

Nortah paused next to a heavily built young man who, unlike the others, paid them no attention at all. He sat surrounded by piles of rushes, his hands moving deftly as he worked them together, interlacing the long stems with unconscious skill. A number of completed conical baskets lay nearby, each one seemingly identical.

“This is Weaver,” Nortah told Vaelin. “You have him to thank for your unbroken ribs.”

“You are a healer, sir?” Vaelin asked the young man.

Weaver stared up at Vaelin with blank eyes and a vague smile on his broad face. After a moment he blinked, as if recognising Vaelin for the first time. “All broken up inside,” he said in a rapid tumble of words Vaelin almost didn’t catch. “Bones and veins and muscles and organs. Needed fixing. Long time fixing.”

“You fixed me?” Vaelin asked.

“Fixed,” Weaver repeated. He blinked again and returned to his task, his fingers resuming their expert work without further pause. He didn’t look up as Nortah drew Vaelin away.

“He’s slow of mind?” Vaelin asked.

“No-one’s quite sure. He sits weaving his baskets all day, rarely speaks. The only time he’s not weaving is when he’s healing.”

“How can he have learned the healing arts?”

Nortah paused and rolled up the shirt sleeve on his left arm. There was a thin scar running along the forearm, faded and barely noticeable. “When I cut my way out of the Battle Lord’s tent one of his Crows caught me with a lance. I stitched it best I could but I’m no healer. By the time I made it into the mountains the gangrene had set in, the flesh around the cut was black and stinking. When I found myself among these people Weaver put down his rushes, came over and put his hands on my arm. It felt… warm, almost like burning. When he took his hands away the wound looked like this.”

Vaelin looked back at Weaver sitting surrounded by his rushes and baskets and felt the blood-song murmur again. “The Dark,” he said. Glancing around at the wary faces of the others the meaning of the song’s new tone became clear. “They all have it.”

Nortah leaned close, speaking softly. “So do you, brother. How else could you find me?” He grinned at the shock on Vaelin’s face. “You hid it so well, all these years. None of us had any idea. But you couldn’t hide it from her. She told me what you did for her, for which I thank you most humbly. After all, we’d never have met if you hadn’t. Come on, she’s waiting.”

They found Sella encamped in a large plaza in the centre of the city, smoke rising from a campfire above which a steaming pot of stew was suspended. She wasn’t alone, Spit snorting happily as she ran a hand over his flanks. His snorts turned to a familiar whinny of irritation as Vaelin approached, as if he resented the intrusion.

Sella’s embrace was warm and her smile wide, although he noted she wore gloves and avoided contact with his skin. Her hands moved with the clean fluency he remembered. You’re taller, she said.

“And you.” He nodded at Spit, now nuzzling a gorse bush with studied indifference to his master. “He likes you. Usually he hates everyone on sight.”

Not hate, her hands said. Anger. His memory is long for a horse. He remembers the plains where he grew up. Endless grass, boundless skies. Hungers to return.