TheGoat'sTale

by

P.J.Hetherhouse

AmazonKindleedition

2015.TextCopyright2014PaulHetherington.

TherightofPaulHetheringtontobeidentifiedasauthorofthisworkhasbeenassertedbyhim.

Allrightsreserved.Thisbookissoldsubjecttotheconditionthatitshallnot,bywayoftradeorotherwise,belent,hiredoutorotherwisecirculatedinanyformof

bindingorcoverthanthatinwhichitispublished.Nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsystem,or

transmittedinanyformbyanymeanswithoutthe

writtenpriorpermissionoftheauthor.

IntroductionThe following is the first

of twelve tales. Each taledocuments the travails of adifferent protagonist. Thesepeople are drawn from allwalks of life but they arelinked together by bothdestinyandastrology.

I talk of destiny becausenot only are they thepersonification of their sun

sign, theyalso stand togetherat the end of the world. Intheir own way, their actionswill influence the course ofhuman history. Eachcharacter represents their sunsign with the strengths andfrailties characteristic ofthem. The truth, however, isthat it will require theircombined might to standagainst the threat that facesthem.

I begin with Ser Gruff,

the Capricorn, the 'old man'of the Zodiac. It is a tale ofgutsanddetermination,ofanalmost pathological inabilitytogivein.WithoutSerGruff,the twelvewould never havemet...

ToWendy,thankyoufor

understanding.ToHeidi,ourownlittlegoat,thankyoufor

theinspiration.

OneMy history master is a

frail old man, lost amongstsackcloth robes,with skin ofan almost greenish hue. Helooks and smells likesomethingthatonemightfindgrowing on a stale piece ofbread, composed of littlemorethandust.Twentyyearsago, when he was alreadyunthinkably old, he was one

of the most respectedacademics in the kingdom.This,sadly,isnolongertrue.

“Can somebody giveme…” His voice, a hoarsewhisper, dies as he loses histrainofthought.Igazeoutofthe window, a narrow slit inthe stone, to the grey drizzleoutside.

“Can somebody give youwhat?!” sneers Tomos fromthebackoftheclass.Thereisasmatteringoflaughterfrom

the easily amused boysaround him. Quite why theyare laughing is a mystery tome;itdidn’tsoundlikemuchofajoke.

“Can somebody giveme…” The old man startsagain but the result is thesame: his strained voicedying in the coldness of theroom.Afterabriefsilence,hebegins to cough a cough solong and so harrowing that,for a moment, I worry he

might be dying. I needn’tworrythough;itisnottheoldman’s style to be thatinteresting.

“Sir, why don’t you sitdown?” blusters the plumplittleblondboyatthefrontofthe class. This particular boyis none other than PrinceLibran,theheirtothethrone.Though lacking in style,wit,intelligence and indeed allotherprincelyattributes,heisnothing if not as gracious as

one would hope the futurekingtobe.

“I’llgoandgetyouacupof water,” the princecontinues, his voice at leastan octave higher than itshould be. He rises from hisseat in the front of the classand whirls towards the doorin a flourish of red andprincely purple.His uniform,which singles him out asroyalty, stands in markedcontrasttothedrabnessofthe

room with its bare stonewalls, high ceilings andpoverty-stricken historymaster.

“Can somebody giveme…” The history masterbegins again, neither sittingas suggested noracknowledging the kindintervention of the prince. Aslight ripple of laughterrumbles around the back ofthe class as he falters oncemore.Idonotjoinin.

“Can somebody giveme… an example ofknowledge that we havelost?”

Having finally overcomehis struggle, he wipes hisbrow, drops his head andshuffles over to a smallwoodenstoolattheleftoftheslateboard.Theword‘poo’iswritten on his back in largechalk letters, no doubt putthere by one of my moreambitious colleagues. And it

getsworse forhim.For eventhe act of sitting does notappeartobeastraightforwardone and he goes about it asawkwardly and stiffly as anormal man might go aboutpetting a rabid dog. A silentfascination hangs over theclass as he does this, thequestionapparentlyforgotten.

“How to sit downproperly?!” comes yetanother disappointing insultfromthebackoftheroom.It

was perhaps Tomos again,but there are several of thesame types back there andtheir mean-spirited bullyingdoesnotwarrantaturnofthehead to check. There are afew sniggers, again from thebackoftheclass.

“I have forgotten morethan you will ever know…Tomos. However, I was notreferring to… myself. I wasreferringto…thehumanraceas a whole. Knowledge that

the human race has lost.Somebodytell…me.”

The master is nowperched uncomfortably uponhisstooland,asfarasamanwith greyish green skin can,seems tohaveregainedsomeof his vitality. Nevertheless,an insolent silence hoversovertheclass.

“Plastic,” I sigh,excruciated.

“Plastic… Yes… Thankyou,Gruffydd.Andwhatwas

plastic used for?” he croaks.For him to remember myname is surprising. Butwhatis not surprising is that,beforeIcanreply,thebackofthe class interrupts oncemore. I cannot speakwithouttheirtorment.

“The goat gets it again.Baaa…Baaa…”

For peasants such asme,mockery is inevitable in thisclass–aclass filledwith thesons of the wealthy and the

highborn. I ignore itwith thestubborn indifference that isas natural to me as kindnessis toPrinceLibran.Theonlything I even register is afactual point: goats do not‘baa’.

“Plastic was used foralmost everything,” I reply,unable to muster even theslightest enthusiasm for thetopic.

“Almost everything.Yes… Almost everything…

It would seem thateverything. Almosteverything,wenowmakeoutofwood, stoneormetal…orwood… used to be madefrom stone. Pardon me…plastic… Why was that, doyouthink?”

The question is deliveredinsuchstumblingandbreathyterms that it is hard to tellwhether he is asking for thepurposes of education orbecausehegenuinelydoesn’t

know. Yet another awkwardsilencehoversovertheroom.

Meanwhile,PrinceLibranre-enters with a goblet ofwater, stealing our attention.By the standards of theadolescent boys around him,hecouldn’tbeanymoreofatarget; he creeps to theteacher,wearsacustom-madeuniform, and seems to be asfarremovedfrompubescenceas he was sixteen years ago.Yet, despite all this, he is

untouchable. There iscertainly a lot to be said forbeingheirtothethrone.

“Thank you, YourHighness. You’re a credit toyour… father,” says themaster. He takes the gobletand the concentration ofdoing so seems to be all-consuming.Hisgraspappearsawkwardandthesiphetakesis both as unnatural and aseager as that of a man whohasnotdrunkwaterforavery

long time. My gaze returnsmomentarily to the narrowwindow in the stone and thegreydrizzleoutside.

“Now… Where werewe?” the master croaks.Beads of water cling to hiswhitebeard.

“I believe you weretalking about plastic, sir?”comestheprince’schirrupofa reply as he returns to hisseat in between his twocousins at the front of the

class. The boy prince, allplump and blond and chirpy,playstheroleofteacher’spetto perfection. The effort heapplies to his learning placeshimacademicallynearthetopoftheclass.

“Ah yes… Plastic. Now,Dafydd, can you please tellme what plastic was usedfor?” He turns his head tolook not at Dafydd butinstead at a boy namedHowell, the prince’s cousin,

who is sitting, as one wouldexpect, dutifully next toPrinceLibran.Thisgestureisso definite that neitherHowell,whoseeyecontactheisseeking,norDafydd,sittingatthebackrighthandsideofthe class, know if they’resupposed to answer. Theresult, of course, is yetanother uncomfortablesilence.

“Well, Dafydd…” Hecontinues,risingfromhisseat

andstaringfixedlyatHowell.“Itwouldseemthatyouhavebeen neglecting yourstudies… I would like twothousandwordsontheusesofplastic on my desk bytomorrowmorning.”

“Pardon me, sir, but areyou talking to me? OrDafydd?” squeaks Howell.He’s a small, timid boywithmousey brown hair and toomanyfreckles.

The history master’s

mouth opens and his eyeswiden, bewildered by thequestion. Ever gracious,PrinceLibranstepsin.

“Pardon me, sir, but Ithink my cousin is simplyconfused.Yousee,youcalledhim Dafydd, but Dafydd issittingatthebackoftheclass.It wasn’t that he couldn’tanswer but that he didn’tknow he was supposed to.”Theprince’stoneismildanddiplomatic.

“And the goat alreadyanswered your question onceanyway,” snipes Tomos, orsomeone, from the back oftheclass.

The historymaster wipeshis brow once more. Theexertion of rising from hisseatcombinedwithtoomanycontributions from too manypeople is takingavisible tollon him.Awave of grumblesand sniggers surges aroundtheroom.

“Ah, yes, thank you…Err… Goat,” he stumbles,forgettingmyname.Laughtererupts around me.Unfortunately, it isnotat themaster this time but at me.Through his own confusionrather thananymaliceonhispart, he appears to haveredeemedhimself.Seeminglyquite oblivious to themockeryand laughter aroundhim, he simply carries ontalking as though the class

weresilent.Perhapstohimitis.

“Gruffydd. For thepurposes of His Highness,could you please repeat formetheusesofplastic?”

“Isaidthatitwasusedforalmost everything you canthinkof,”Ireply.

“Ah…Yes….”hecroaks,pretending to recall myprevious answer. “Now,whydoyouthinkthatis,Libran?”He turns his eyes to the

plumpyoungprince.“Because it was more

abundant and more durablethan wood and metal?” Theprince squeaks his answer ina tone that sounds as muchlikeaquestionasthequestionitself. Before the answer hasbounced off the stone walland before the master canopen his mouth again, theprince continues with hisenquiry.

“No,no…We’dstillhave

itifitwas,wouldn’twe?Wasit cheaper?” There is a briefpause. The prince’s voicegrows higher and moreconfused. If I could see hischeeks, I imagine that they’dberedderthanever.

“But things are normallycheap because they’reabundant, aren’t they? So itcan’t be that.Was it becauseitwaswaterproof?No.Metal,stone and wood arewaterproof too. I d… don’t

know...Wasitbecauseitwaslighter?!” His last noise, theword ‘lighter’, is little morethanaconfusedsqueak.

However, his answercould be mistaken for cold,clear thinking whencompared to the blankexpression on the historymaster’s face. It has becomeclear recently that thebefuddled patchwork of theoldman’sbrain iscapableofholding no more than one

idea at any given time; therest of his conscious facultyis, instead, tied up in theincreasingly difficult act ofstayingalive.

“Well…Youngprince…”His words struggle outamongst deep, strainingbreaths. “I worry that youthink too much. For you arecorrect.Plastic,Imeanstone.No,plastic…appearstohavebeen once cheaper and moreabundant than most other…

materials. Itwas also… lightandwaterproof…”

He coughs another of histerrible coughs whilst theclass look on in silence.Some,liketheprince,lookonin sympathy. Some, likeTomos, look on in sadisticamusement. Others, likemyself, perhaps onlymyself,look on in impatience. Thisman, undoubtedly once agreat scholar, deservesretirement and reverence.

Instead he stands here,without dignity, sabotagingmy education oneexasperatingly labouredbreathatatime.

“Young Dafydd, couldyou please tell me… whatsubstance it was… thatplasticwasmade from?”Hisoldface,seriousasthegrave,looks, once more, straightintotheeyesofHowell.Thistime, Howell answers, notdaring to embarrass the

masteranothertime.“Oil, sir,” squeaks the

freckled boy. He is perhapstheonlyboy in theclass lessadvanced towards pubertythanhisroyalcousin.

“Ahh… An excellentanswer, Dafydd.” His eyesbrightenatthementionofthesubstance.“Oil…”Heletstheword roll off his tongue, anditdoessoeasily.Thewordisuttered with such reverencethat it is clear he feels it is

something we should all beequallyentrancedby.Forus,though, it is nothing but aphantom;anextinctsubstancefrom an ancient age. Asforeigntousnowastheskiesbeyondandtheseasbelow.

“Oil… Tomorrow, weshalldiscussoil…”

We studied oil only amonth ago and it is to myintense frustration that thisdecisionisnotadeliberateorlogical choice of lesson, but

rather a product of the chaosof the old man’s brokenmind. To my furtherfrustration is the certaintythat, when tomorrow comes,he will remember nothing oftoday’s lesson and that itscontent could be literallyanything.

Whilst my mind broods,the class around me jumpfrom their seats and hurryfrom the cold, stone roomasfast as they can. Today, the

energy of the exit is evenmore exuberant than normaland, for a change, is notentirely related to the end oftheclass.Thereasonisthatitis time for the final leg of‘The Prince Libran Cup’.Even I am mildly excited.Nevertheless, I walk outalone. There is no one toshare my mild excitementwith.

TwoThe first ‘Prince Libran

Cup’ was held sixteen yearsago when the king,deliriously happy at the birthof his first son, went on arenaming spree of almostbizarre proportions. Herenamed so many roads inhonourofhisson’sbirth thatthe poor citizens of thesurrounding villages quite

literallydidnotknow if theywere coming or going. Herenamed temples, bathinghouses,statues,inns,brothels,squares, greens and even anentiretown(DrefLibran-thetowninwhichtheprincewasconceived) in honour of hisinfant son. Showing somedegree of misguidedforesight, he also named theschool that his son wouldattend after him and, whilstdoing so, introduced the idea

ofThePrinceLibranCup.ThewinnerofThePrince

Libran Cup should, in anormal year, be the greatestathleteoftheyeargroup.Itisa series of physicalchallenges staged over thefinal year of a boy’s time inschool. The individual legseach involve one disciplinethat is essential to the life ofthe knight: sword-fighting,archery, falconry, swimming,hand to hand combat, horse

riding and physicalendurance. The final leg,today, is the long-distancefoot race andwill decide thewinner.

Undoubtedly, when thedeliriously happy kingconceived the idea, he couldimagine only one thing: hisbrave, all-action son, with achinofgraniteandabdominalmuscles carved from steel,strolling over the finish linesixteen years later. What he

did not account for was thathis sixteen-year-old son, softin both form and nature,wouldnotlookalotdifferentfromhowhedidattheageofeleven. The boy has turnedout generous and thoughtful,apriestratherthanaleader,ascholar rather than a fighter,more likely to win a pie-eating contest than a footrace.

However, as it standsbefore the final leg, the

affable prince finds himselftopofthetournamentleader’slist. Quite how he has cometo do so is more or less anopensecretamongsttheboys.

The first lesson of theschool year consisted of abriefingonThePrinceLibranCup and what was to beexpectedofus.Ofcourse,wewere given the logisticalinformation: the dates, thetimes,thescoringsystem,therequirements of each event.

Inessence,weweregivenallthe normal information thathas probably been given toevery sixteen-year-old tohaveeversatintheclassandcompetedinthetournament.

However,what I imaginewas different about thisparticular session is that itmarked the beginning of acampaign of attrition againstall the boys in thetournament. We were told,tacitlyat first, that theprince

would win this tournament.The first session of the yearwasmerely the first ofmanysuch sessions to come. I canstillrememberthegnarledoldface of the headmaster as hepaced back and forth like amilitary sergeant, hissingorders out of the side of hismouth in his typical, curiousfashion.

“It’ssh not a secret,boyssh, that the king wantshis sshon to win the

tournament.WhilsshtIwouldnotopenlyencourageyounotto try your bessht, I wouldadvisshe you that there aretimessh in life when a boymussht know his place.Thissh issh perhapssh one ofthem.”

The effect of this littletalk was negligible onsomeone such as myself. Asthe son of a goatherd invitedto study in the classroomsofthe most esteemed school in

the kingdom, I have learnedlittle of the concept of‘knowingmyplace’.Infact,Ihavebecomeobstinate in theact of not ‘knowing myplace’.Mypeasantheritageisa daily subject of mockeryfromtheboysaroundme,andif I were ever to allow theconceptof‘myplace’tocarryanyweightthenIwouldhavegiven up my education longagoandjoinedmyfatherwiththe goats. This stubbornness,

in combination with the factthat I had not consideredquite the determination thatthe king felt, meant that Iwould effectively forget theheadmaster’s words beforehe’devenfinishedthem.

ThenthereisLlewellyn,aroyal aide with more than apassing resemblance to atoad, whom I have metseveral times.Myencounterswith this man have beenperhaps a little more

disturbing, and not onlybecause of the way that helooks. There is, as there iswithmostmenwholookliketoads, something ratherunseemly about him. Thisinstinct, formed simply uponseeing him, is quite clearlycorrect. It is obvious that hehas a brief to intimidate orbribe every single one of usintosubmission.

My first encounter withhim was shortly before the

first leg, the sea swim. Heblindsided me on the trackjustoutside school, emergingfrom behind a bush with thekindofgracethatmarkedhimasanaturallurker.

“Gruff, do you mind if Ihaveaquickword?”

“Yes.”“Haha!Iheardyouwere

a prickly character! Well,maybeIcanwalkwithyou?”

“No.”“Allow me to introduce

myself. I’m Llewellyn. Iwork for the king. I justthought I’d come to see theboys before the racetomorrow.”

“And?”“I can see you’re not in

the mood for conversation,Gruff, but I just wanted youto know that all the boys inyour class stand to beinvolvedinaveryspecialpartof history. If Prince Libranwins that cup, then he will

undoubtedly bestow greathonours on all hiscompetitors. God knows, thekingdom needs something togetexcitedabout.”

“And when he doesn’twin?”

“Ha ha ha… ‘when’.Well, Gruff, I’m very surethat you, like me, wouldn’twant to have to worry aboutsomethinglikethat.”

Idonotoftenfeelunsurebut, that evening, I had felt

sufficiently unsettled to feelasthoughIneededtoconsultmyfather.Thereissomethingabout willingly surrenderingtoanyonethatseemstostrikeattheverycoreofmybeing.

“A goat is worth tensheep, Gruff. And do youknow why? Sheep cannotsurvive alone; they wanderthrough life scared of theirownshadow,atthecommandof thedog, simplywaiting tobe butchered. Goats are

fierce, independent, at thebeck of no man. Everyone,even the king, respects thegoat.”

My father’s tendency toreduce all conversation tolaboured goat metaphors hasprovedover theyears tobeasource of frustration to me.Onthisoccasion,however,hewastellingmesomethingthatI wanted to hear and I wasable to overlook his limitedhorizons. In fact, I was

hardened further. Nothingwould make me yield thecompetition.

And so itwas that Iwonthe first three legs of thePrince Libran Cup: the seaswim, thesword-fightingandthe archery. I do not flattermyself that I did so in a faircontest. This is because theprince,whoswims,fightsandshoots like a dairy cow,managedtofinishacreditablesecond in all of these legs.

Seemingly, the attempts ofLlewellynandtheheadmasterhadnotbeenquite so lostontheotherboys.

The night before thefourth leg, the falconrytournament, Llewellynapproached me again. Thistime, he offered my fatherand me a landed estate, theislandofNolton,inexchangefor my acquiescence. Myresponsewassimply togruntand wonder how my father

would cope with sleepingindoors on a feather bed.Llewellyn,however,neednothave worried, for myperformance in the falconrytournament was poor. Thiswas not entirely my fault -my competitiveness wasseverely hampered when myfalconwasshotoutoftheskybyanunknownmarksman.

Mybadluckwithanimalscontinued into the horse-riding roundwhenmyhorse,

which I already suspected tobe blind in one eye, startedandthrewmeoffclosetotheend of the course. I had tocomplete the race on footand,asa result, finished last.The smell of sabotage wasbeginning to linger stronglyovermeand, following thesedubious events, the princemovedcomfortablytothetopoftheleaderboard.

However, fate was tohand the advantage back to

me thanks to the rawness ofthehand-to-hand competition- my own particularspeciality. The prince, a softboy with flesh theconsistencyofdough,hadnostomach for this particulartournament. Even with thedrawstackedinhisfavour,hedid not get past the firstround. Both he and his firstopponent, his cousinHowell,were in floodsof tears at thethought of having to hurt

someone. As they circled,making small thrusts towardsone another that even themost timid of ladies wouldfind embarrassing, the otherboys drowned them withcatcalls of derision andlaughter.

Thefightlitup,however,when the prince took a steptowards his cousin. Howell,as instinctively as a prizeknuckle fighter, flashedoutafist that connected sweetly

with the prince’s left temple,knocking him out cold.Perhaps the meekest boy inthe entire kingdom, Howellcould not have intended thisaction as it happened – itseemed more like a nervoustwitch than a punch – but itstillhad the sameeffect.Theprince, his mousy cousindraped across him andsobbing his heart out, couldnot be revived until severalhourslater.

I, meanwhile, had tonavigate through the half ofthe tournament that wasundoubtedly designedspecifically for me, full ofgrinningbullieswhocouldn’twaittogettheirhandsonthepeasant who was usurpingtheir education from them.However,sixteenyearsonthehillside has made me fitter,leanerandsharperthananyofthem. Undoubtedly there arescores of peasant boys who

couldget,andindeedhadgot,the better of me over theyears but not these boys. Fatfrom their fancy food,softened by their servants,slowed by theirdomestication, lacking anyinstinct whatsoever forsurvival,theyallfell.

And so it is that I leavetheoldhistorymaster’sclassready for a foot race at theendofwhichIcouldwin thePrince Libran Cup. I simply

have to finish ahead of theprince. Despite all thedubious events, the boyhimselfhasbeenwonderfullygracious about the wholecompetition and, in contrastto almost everybody else,seems to genuinely want thebest man to win. In fact, hehas been at great painsthroughout the year to stressthathewouldnotbesatisfiedwinningatournamentthathehas not won fairly. It is this

knowledge that makes myresolveharden;Imusttrymybest. Therewill come a timewhen theprince sees that thetruest servant is the onewhodidnotbend.

ThreeThe school changing

roomsarecavernous,madeofthe same dark grey stone astherestoftheschool,butarehigher and emptier thananywhere else. I am the lastto arrive and all the otherboys are eagerly changingfrom their long trousers totheir short ones. Theireagerness confuses me.Why

they should be so excitedabout a race that they intendto meekly surrender isbeyondme.Itseemsthat,forsome people, merely beinginvolved on a day sixteenyears in the making isenough. This is not the caseforaboylikeme.

I set myself alone on adamp wooden seat near theentrance and open my goat-hidesatchel.It is lighter thanit should be. It takes me an

instant to realise that mysatchel isempty.Myrunningkit is gone. Someone hasstolen it from me. Theunderstanding hits me like apunchtothegut.

Atonce,Iseehowitis.Ialready know that the sportsmaster will be of no morehelptomethanhewaswhenmy falconwas shot from thesky or when I was given ahalf-blind horse to ride. Ismile; my first of the day.

Pure stubbornness flowsthroughme.IwillstriptomyfleshifImust,Iwillrunwithmyfeetbareandbloody,andIshallonlystopwhenIhavefinished. Some people justdon’tunderstand.

I sit in my underclotheswhilst the room buzzesaround me. I consider thecourse, my pacing, how Imust adjust for the lack ofprotection on my feet.Everything except for the

roominwhichInowsit.Outofthecornerofmyeye,Iseethe prince approaching: pinkcheeks and blond hair, hisrunningcostume immaculate,his running shoes fittedleather.

“Oh, Gruff, what’shappened? Did you forgetyourkit?!”

“Lookslikeit,”Isnarl.“Have you asked the sir

forsome?”herepliesgently.“You know as well as I

dotherewon’tbeany.”“Oh,Gruff, I’m so sorry.

You do know that none ofthis has anything to do withme,don’tyou?”

“I know,” I grunt.Generously, I evenmanageahalf smile to reassure himofthis.

“Will you have some ofmy kit? I have a spare,” hesqueakshopefully.

“No.Iwillbefine.Thankyou.”

Pride forcesmy refusal. Ishall run this race in themanner that these antagonistforceswantmetoandIshallstillwin.

“But you’ll freeze todeath. Have you seen theweatheroutside?”

Hehasapoint.Therehasbeennothingbutgreydrizzlein the air for several weeksnow.

“I’llbeallright.”“And your feet will be

rippedtoshreds!!”“I have hooves,

apparently.”“Well,you’recertainlyas

stubbornasagoat.Icanonlyhopeyoudon’trunlikeone!”

The prince, affable andeasyinhisnature,isaboutaslikeableasmyfellowhumanscome.Inadifferentworld,heand I might be friends. Hiswarmth towards me, rare inour present company, makesmegladthat it ishimandno

oneelsewhowillonedaybeking.

“Goats aren’t fast. Theyjustgetwherethey’regoing.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s notbefore me!” he squeaks. Iknow that his banter is goodnatured and well intended, Iknowthatbeneathitliesnoneof the veiled threats that onemight imagine his father’scronies to make but,nevertheless, I cannot smile.To me, winning is too

important to joke about. Theobstacles that have been putinmywayforhissakecannotbeignored.Igrunt.

“I’m joking, Gruff! Youknow that all I want is forrighteousness to prevail!”Heoffershissoft,femininehandtomineas though to seal thetruth of this statement. Hedoesn’tneedto.Ilookhiminthe eye but cannot summontheenergythataboysuchasIrequirestosmile.Notagain.

The tear growing in thecornerofhiseyebetrays thatthisisnotaboywholikestosee people unhappy. It isunfortunateforhimthat,foraleader, there could probablybenogreaterhandicap.

“Then let us hope itshall.”

Wesharealingeringlook,of which I cannot determinethe meaning. He can’t holdmyeyeforlongthoughandissoon trotting, disconsolate,

back to his cousins in thecorner. My eyes linger onhim as Cai, the larger andhaughtier of his two cousins,straps a reassuring armaroundhim.

Thechangingroomshavethe air of a dungeon. It isprobablydeliberate.Theyarecold, dim and damp, lit onlyby a few torches and withwalls taller than most of therest of the school. They reekofsweatandmudandteenage

boys. In the dimness, I amtemporarily safe from themockery that myunderclothes will surelyexposemeto.

In a flash of wood onstone, the door to the fieldbursts open. The light fromoutside, though dull, seemsbright in contrast to thedimness. The sports masterenters as a demonic shadowinthedoorway.

“Rahight, you gwnts.Get

outside,” he spits, droolingwithcontempt.

Thesportsmasterisalawuntohimself.Aferventbeliefin corporal punishment, acompulsive need to swear,and a pathological hatred ofanyone under the age ofeighteen have all combinedwithin thisman tomakehima nemesis for every singlechildintheentireschool.Ifaboy is good at sport then, inthis man’s eyes, he is too

cocksure and deserves abeating. If a boy is not goodat sport thenhe isweak, anddeserves a beating. He seesconfidence as arrogance andshyness as weakness. Everyvirtue a boy could have is asintobebeatenout.

Today will be differentthoughandwewillbesparedfrom theworst of his temperby the great race that hascome upon us. The boysflurry out past the sports

master into the field beyond.He stands at the door givingeach boy a death stare andlooking for an excuse, anyexcuse,togiveusawhackofhis fist. As I approach thedoor,hestaresthroughmeasthoughnotrealisingthatIamwearing only myunderclothes. The stare lastsonly an instant before herealises.

“What’s this, Goat?” hespits.Thesportsmastertakes

great pride in calling almostevery boy in the school bysomederogatorynicknameorother. In fact, he is evenresponsible for inventingsome of them. However, thefact that he is so horribly,relentlessly fair in hisbrutality makes him ratherless offensive than he wouldbewereheamorediscerningbully. Indeed, as I’ve grownolder, Ino longer seehimasthedemonheoncewas,more

as a vaguely unpleasantfeature of the schoolenvironment. Like the coldstone walls or dampwoodendoors.

“Forgottenmy kit, sir,” Imumble,headdown,wishingI could shout it at him. Heknows as well, if not better,than I do where my kit hasgone, and knowing thismakes my own sheepishnessstick inmy throat. However,tosayanythingelseortosay

it any differently would befutile.Any claim thatmy kithadbeenstolenwouldfallonears as deaf as mine werewhen I was told to let theprince win. This is nothingmore than theprice Ipay forrefusing to listen. I wouldcontestthatitisworthit.Thehonourable path is never theeasyone.

“Forgot your kit?! Well,that was frutting stupid ofyou,”heseethes.

Themanisapeasant likemy father. And me. Not anounce of him is given to fat,just lean brown muscle andflinthardeyes.Thiscommonidentity, even whensurrounded by sons andscholars from the paleclasses, has never meantanything to theman. I’ve nodoubtthatheresentstheking,thenobility,academia,justasmuchashe appears to resentthe children he teaches. I’ve

alsonodoubtthattheidentityof the winner of The PrinceLibranCupmeansas little tohim as it does to the wildanimalsthatstalkthehillside.Yet I still expect no help orsympathyfromhim.Themanis a monster. Watching asixteen-year-old boy runbarefoot through a rainstormis probably his idea of anevening’sentertainment.

“Sorry,sir,”Igrunt.“Aren’t you going to ask

me for some kit?”He is oneof those authority figureswhose ideaofagood time issaying‘no’topeople.

“Idon’tfeelIdeservekit,sir,” I lie, denying him theopportunity.

“Don’t come the fruttingsob story with me, boy. Askme for some kit.” His hard,black eyes hit me. I am nomore afraid of thisman thanof any other but I will notargue today. Iunderstand the

fragile thread by which myfutureattheschoolhangsandwill not sacrifice it to thewhimsofasadist.

“Iwillbefine,sir.”“Then you won’t be

frutting running, boy. I don’thavemyboysrunningaroundlikethat.They’llhangmeforafruttingperv.”

NowIseeitevenclearer:layersuponlayers,trapsupontraps, the systemwill not letme win. In anger, my eyes

flash to his and, for aninstant,IfeelI’llfighthim.

“So be it,” I grunt,controlling the urge. Theymay stripmebare, use everytrick under the stars toprevent me running, and Ishall accept it with stoicism.However,whatIshallnotdois show them how I feel.Even on the rare occasionsthat my emotions movebeyondindifference,Istillamable to feign it masterfully.

He will not know the pain Ifeelathavingmycompetitiveedgeblunted. I turnmybackonhim.

It is in this moment, ascloseinmylifeasIshalleverget to blind fury, that I amsavedbyasqueak.

“If he is not allowed torun then I shall not berunningeither,”

The prince, all of asudden,soundsaman.Amanwithundescended testicles, it

is granted, but with thecommand of amonarch. Thesports master does not replyimmediately; his primitivepeasantbrainseemsunabletorespond to such anunexpectedproblem.

“I’m serious. I’m sick ofit.It’snotfair.Thisallstops.Idon’tcareajigforwhatmyfather has to say or whatVesta has to say orwhat thehead has to say or what youhavetosay.Wewillbothrun

today.”If what he were saying

weren’t so important, soselfless, then this flurry ofpetulant squeaking andeffeminate hand gesturesmight look slightly comical.As it is, however, I look thelittle prince in the eye andalmost cry. There is nothingasemotionalascompetition.

As the other boys arealready out on the field, theaudience consists only of

myself,thesportsmaster,andthe prince’s two cousins,Howell and Cai. In a sense,thisisfortunate.Itisdifficultto imagine how the sportsmaster would have taken tobeing so spectacularlyundermined in front of awhole class. Even now, hebears the snarl of a starvingwolf caught between hungerand self-preservation. Afterall,howeverangrythemanis,the prince must always have

what hewants.Thatmuch isunderstoodevenbywildmensuchasthis.

“So be it,” he growls,prowlingoutontotherunningfield, no doubt imagining amore brutal end to theexchangethathasjustpassed.The prince, his cheeks asflushed as ever, offers me agracious smile. He no doubtexpects my thanks. Theindignity of it all means thatmy smile arrives stillborn.

Why should I have to thankhim for simply negotiatingsomething for me that everyother boy in the class hasbeengivenasaright?

“Thanks,” I grumble, myeyecontactfleeting.

“Is that all you have tosay, Goat?” snaps Cai, theprince’s much larger, muchhaughtier cousin. “You dorealise whom you’re talkingto,don’tyou?Theprincehasjustdoneyoua favour that a

peasant doesn’t deserve.Have the grace to thank himproperly.”

Cai steps forward asthough to confront me. I amunintimidated.

“Leave the boy alone,Cai.None of this is his faultany more than it’s yours. Ican quite understand whyhe’snottoofondofmeatthemoment.Let’sgooutside.”

The prince half chucklesas he says this; the situation

certainlyappearsa lot lightertohimthanitdoestome.Caistaresatmea fraction longerthan he should beforefollowing his cousins out ofthedoor. I standalone in thecavernous changing room. Asmallsighescapes.

Theweatheroutside is aswet and wild as I have everseen it.Greydrizzleblanketseverything.Theschoolloomsbehind,andgreengrassisallthat can be seen anywhere

else.On a good day, the seawouldbevisibleontheothersideofthefield,aswouldtheragged, undulating coastlinearound which we are due torun. The sports master, too,appearstobelostamongsttherain, perhaps licking hiswounds, perhaps engaging insomefreshconspiracyagainstme. Small groups of boysstand around – their sportskits alreadywet and clingingto them – stretching, getting

ready for a race that theyhavenointentionofwinning.Asever,Ipreparealone.

“Right, you set of gwnts,gather in,” barks the sportsmaster, seeming to mergefromoutof theshadows.Wedoasrequested.

“Right, you know thedrill. It’s once around theisland.It’safilthy,shittydaysoI’vebeentoldtoaskyoutobe careful. I, however,couldn’t give a solitary frutt

what happens to any of you.Gooverthere.TheracestartswhenIwhistle.”

It all seems awfullyunderstated.On a better day,the mothers and possiblyeven fathers would haveturnedouttowatch.Iwonderif, somewhere beneath themurk, theking iswatching. Iwonder if, somewherenear aslippery cliff top, a king’sagent is waiting for me topass by. These are all risks

thatanhonestboymusttake.Thethirtyboysjostleover

to the start line as if to givethe impression that twenty-eight of them aren’t justprepared to roll over for theprincetowin.Imakeapointof staying back, away fromthe herd, keeping my eyessharp for the sneaky anklekicks that areundoubtedly tocome.Foramoment,thereissilence.

The whistle cuts through

the drizzle and everyonestarts to trot. The prince isallowed tomove to the frontandeveryoneseemsafraid torun any faster than him. Isprint through the crowd.Bymy estimation, getting aheadandstayingaheadismyonlyhope.TheanklekicksstartasIattempttomovethroughthecrowdbut,withthenickname‘Goat’ ringing loud in myears, I keep my footing andsurgetothefront.However,I

amnotsprintingalone.IturnmyheadaroundtorealisethatIambeingfollowed,ormoreaptlychased,byTomos.

Tomos is more a manthan any other boy in theclass,standingalreadyaclearhalf metre taller than anyexcept for Cai. With thebarrel chest of a brawler, thedefined chin of the upperclasses and endless suppliesof thick black hair, he is aclassic highborn boy. As is

typical of his kind, he ishappilyignorantoftheworldaroundhim,listenstonooneand hates everything outsidehis fourwell-furnishedwalls.Especially me. He screamswhat sounds like a war cry.Atthispoint,Irealisethatheisheretoremovemefromtherace.

He is built for powerwhere I am built forendurance and I know that Icannot outsprint him. This

doesnotstopmefromtrying.His reasons for disliking mearemanybutnotparticularlyvaried. He dislikes the factthatIamofpeasantbirth,andthatIamabetterscholarthanhim and a better athlete.Particularly difficult for himwillhavebeen the fact that Ieven outfought him in thecombat rounds of the PrinceLibran Cup. It would appearthat here, in a race for goatsrather than horses, he has

decidedtosacrificehimselftopreventmefromwinning.

We travel probably onehundred metres before he isupon me. His rock hardmuscle slapsmedown to themud. Pain does not appearinstantly–thecold,relentlessrainandmyhotblood see tothat–but I ampinned to thefloor by the sheer weight oftheboy,sustainingblowafterblowtomyfaceandgut.Iamvaguely aware of the race

passingmebyoncemorebutthisfeelsmorelikeadream.

After what seems aneternity on the floor, I slipfromhisarmlockandspringto my feet. The only pain Icanfeelisfromthegrazesonmynakedknees.Therainhassoakedus to theskinandhisblack matted hair covers hiseyes. This does not stop himjabbing his fists out,attempting to keep me awayfromhim.

We circle each otherwhilst the race runs furtherinto the distance. Knowingthis burns away at me. Mytactics in our tournamentfighthadbeensomewhatofawar of attrition: keeping himatarmslength,pickingathimwith fists and kicks,wearinghimdownwhilsthiseyes,fullofimpotentfury,watchedon.

Today though, the rainobscuresthoseeyesandheisashard tohit as a shadow in

the fog. We circle in thegreyness, I, impatient to re-jointheraceand,he,fixedonnot letting me. This fightcannotbeawarofattrition:ifI am slow and tactical withhim then he has won. Therace, and the Prince LibranCup,isrunningfrommeevennow. The realisation of thissendsmefiringforthtowardshim.Thefilthoftheweather,I sense,givesmemoreofanadvantage than I’d have

normally.His hefty, sluggishframe and witless eyes mustbemorelostthanmine.

I avoid his fist and divefoot first into his leg, asthoughtofocusallthepowerof my body in a kick to hisplanted knee. The effect isimmediate, the scream sopained that it would horrifyanyone strange enough to beoutwalking through this fog.He falls backwards andinstinct tells me to jump on

him and beat him as hewas,onlymomentsbefore,beatingme. But I don’t. In fact, Idon’tevenstoptothinkaboutit, to see his ugly facetwisting in pain or even toensure that he is adequatelyinjured. I just start runningagain.

FourThe royal island of Ynys

Gwyn must be at least fortykilometres in circumference.But it isnot thedistance thatis the challenge. The coastalundulations,especiallyonthenorthern side where the racestarts, would add at leastanothereightkilometrestoanequivalent flat race. Theschool lies on the fringes of

Dref Libran, a coastal townsituatedabouthalfwayalongthenorthcoast.Here, theseais not only to the north butalsototheeast,courtesyofahuge inlet that venturesacrossalmosthalftheisland.

We are to race eastward,and this means that the firstquarter of the race takes usthroughthewildestpartoftheisland,thepartknownas‘thegreen’. These are thetrampling grounds of my

father’s flock, awkward hillsand hillocks covered bynothing but gorse, bare earthfed by nothing but salt sprayand relentless wind. Wherethere is track, it is wideenough for one person only,and it is some consolation tome that I will not catchanyoneup toovertakeuntil Iam through this portion.Thorns and nettles litter thepath, destined to rip myexposed feet to shreds. Even

in the summer, with spindlywhite clouds floating inwonderful blue, this place isexposed and hostile. In thewinter, itwillkillyou.Thereis also another, smaller inletto contend with here. Adetourof at least akilometreto circumvent a gap thatcould be jumped by aparticularly athletic sixteen-year-oldboy.Theprincewillnotdare.

Then there is the

possibility of cutting out theentire north-eastern corner ofthe island altogether. Theclaw of Lawrenny is anexposed, scrub-coveredheadland connected to theisland only by its scraggyneck. The temptation to runstraight across this neck willbe reined in only by thepresenceofaschoolmaster.

Afterthis,itwillbearunthrough the fishing villagesthat dot the southern

coastline. These stinking,rickety villages will be linedwith stinking, ricketyfisherfolk all ready to hurlinsults at the boys that runpast. The people of thesevillages are renowned fortheirmean spirits. I, for one,don’t blame them; to spendone’s life rising at dawn,smellingoffish,frozenbythesea, catching fish, returninghome to eat fish, sleepingbeside a woman who looks

andsmellslikeafish,isalifethat would justifiably makeanymanmiserable.

The fishing villagesincrease in density as theyapproachArberth, one of thetwomajor settlements on theisland. Arberth, for theinhabitantsofthiswildisle,isthe gateway to themainland:astonebehemothrisingfromthe mud and grass. We willnot run inside the town butarounditsstonewallsandthe

headland it encloses.A townfor guards, fishermen anddrunks, where peopleperpetually behave as thoughitisnighttime,Arberthisnotaplacethattheyoungboysofthe Prince Libran Schoolshouldsee.

LeavingArberth,weshallbe about halfway around thesouthern coast, probably lessthan two kilometres south ofwhere we started on thisisland, which, on a map,

wouldlooklongandflat.Thenext sixteen kilometres willbe more of the sameundulating track, taking usdown through gorse bushes,shale-covered beaches andbackuptoexposedclifftops.There will be some fishinghuts, but not so many, and,for long portions, there willbe nothing but the wind andits monstrous seagulls toworryus.

Thefinishingstraightwill

take us into the royal city ofTallakarn. The cobbledstreets of the capital will bewheretheparentsoftheboys,the teachers and most of therest of the school will bewaiting.Myfather,ofcourse,willnotbethere.Thosegoatswillnottendthemselves.

I float through the racewith scarce a consciousthought. My naked feet passthrough pain into numbnessand, one by one, I overtake

almosteveryotherboyintherace. Although I am thesubject of much scornamongstmycolleagues,thereis not another one of themwho would dare try to stopme winning. As with mostbullies, theyarephysical andemotional cowards and mustsate themselves with onlyhurting the weak.Unfortunately for them, alifetimeof livingwildon thehillsides has made me

anything but weak and, assuch, they are restricted tosimple name-calling andostracism.

I count each boy I passand, as I move past Dafyddinto third place, the identityofthetoptwoarenotexactlyasurprisetome.Idon’tneedto see them to know. Iwouldn’t even need to knowevery other boy that I’dpassed towork it out; itwasalwaysinevitable.Theraceis

being led by the prince andhiscousin,Cai,alsoknownas‘The Golden Arrow”. Thefact thathe isalreadyknownacross the entire kingdombythisepithettellsitsownstory;he is perhaps the greatestnaturalathleteintheclassandalready renowned as aprecocious swordsman andarcher. In both the fencingtournament and the archery,he came up against PrinceLibran in the semi-finals and

conceded both in twoshameless acts ofsycophancy. For this I wasthankful, as he could havediced me, or anyone else inthecompetition,intopiecesifhe had wished. It must haveonly been after theseoversights that the schoolmasters began to stack thedrawagainstme.

Asitisthough,insteadofchallenging me for the cuphimself, as he surely could,

he finds himself a merestalking horse for his podgylittlecousin.Evennow,atanunidentified distance behindthem,Ihavenodoubtthatthetwowillberunningintwain,with Cai managing both thepace and the morale of theprince, all the while gettingready to gallantly step asideat the lastmoment. In realitythen,itishimImustcatch.

FiveA further twelve

kilometres pass and I stillhavenosightofthem.Itrytoconsole myself that the fogwill have, at the very least,quarteredmy vision. But thefog is rising and the cloudshave begun to tentativelypart, releasingmild shafts ofbright winter light onto thetrackahead.Thissight,which

some would considerbeautiful,remindsmeofonlyone fact – that I cannot seetheprince.Anigglingfeelinggrows deep in the pit of mystomach. It is a niggle thathurts more than the cold onmyearsortheblistersonmyfeet. It is the realisation thattheprincehascheated.

Gradually, the piecesform to make perfect sense.The weather, the long,winding route that cannot

possibly be monitored (or,even if it were monitored,would be monitored bypeople who could be bribed)seem to make this an idealtime to cheat. The princecould be being chauffeuredaround the island on horseand cart. He might have cuthalf the island out of hisrunning route. Themore thatthethoughtcrossesmymind,themore I amplagued by it.The idea has turned from a

niggle into a certainty.Indeed, I struggle to think ofa single reason why hewouldn’t do it. All I have isthehope that theprince is asdecentaboyasIbelievehimtobe.

It is only now, ascendinga small hillock, with thispoisoned thought inside myhead,thatIrealisehowtiredIam. The clouds may besplitting but the greynessaroundstillseemstopervade.

Anoverwhelmingpessimism,even more acute than usual,washes overme.What is thepoint?Ihavebeencheatedateveryturn,mylegsareheavyas iron, my feet bloodiedstumps, and this hill growssteeperwitheverystepItake.Why should I torture myselfifitisonlytolose?

Inthisinstant, itbecomesquite clear the way that theworldis.Lifeisnothingbutameaningless procession

towards death. Everybodytramples down on thosebelow them. The king getswhat the king wants. HecoulderasemyfatherandmefromhistoryaseasilyasIcanerase amidge. Fighting him,them,theinstitution, is likearabbit trying to fight its wayout of a trap. There is nopoint.

Then, just like that, Icatch sight of my ownweakness and spit it out on

the ground. Iwill not submitliketherestofthem.Itisonethingtofailbutquiteanotherto fail through lack of effort.Untiltheseheavylegscanliftthesebloodiedfeetnomore,Ishall continue to put one infront of the other. The hill,which just moments beforehad seemed to be a wall,becomesjustanotherobstacletocrush.

I reach the crest of thehill,teethgritted,furiouswith

the world. But the rain hasbrokenand life seemsa littlelessgrey.ThefirstthingIseeis the city of Tallakarn and,majestic in the distance, thewhite towers of the palace.ThesecondthingIseeistwotiny grey dots approximatelyhalfway betweenme and thegreatcity.Theraceison.

The competitive spiritrages so strong in a boy likeme that, allof a sudden, it isas thoughmybodyhasreset.

Everything becomes easiernow,mystridelengthensandmy pace quickens. I willcatchthem.

The prince and hisathletic cousin have notcheated.Oriftheyhave,thenthey have returned to thetrack for the final fewkilometres. Even from wayoff in the distance, I canpicture the scene: Cai, at aneffortless canter, looking onastheprince,puffingandred-

faced, stumbles forward. Ican imagine the protestationsof theprince,his lackof selfbelief, theatrically moaningthathecannotpossiblygoon.

The beauty of thisscenarioisthat,asapair,theyare only as strong as theirweakest link. I know withcertainty that Cai will notallow himself to beat theprince.Forhim,chivalryandhonour are impulses that arefartoostrong.And,evenifhe

diddecidetowintheraceforhimself,I’dstillonlyhavetobeat the prince and finishsecond in order to win thetrophy.

Another considerationthatflashesthroughmymindis that Cai will attempt tophysically thwart me in themannerthatTomosdidatthestart of the race. Thiseventuality does not concernme greatly; I am reasonablyconvinced that Cai is not of

that nature. He is a strong,athleticboybutneverabully.In fact he is the kind of boywho fights bullies - a true,chivalric knight if ever therewas one. Furthermore, I amnotscaredofhimwithouthisswordandbow.

With every moment thatpasses, they become larger.Neitherhas turned theirheadasofyetandIwonderif thisis through exhaustion orcomplacency. Do they know

whatTomoswassupposedtodo to me? Do they knowwhat, in fact, I have done toTomos?AflushofhotbloodpumpsthroughmeasIrecallthe boy incapacitated on theground, leg presumablyshattered. God only knowswhat has happened to himnow. He has learned adifficultlesson.

Imust bemoving two orthreetimesfasterthanthematthis point and, whilst this

speed is partly aided by mydescent of the hill, it is stillfast enough that I shall bewell ahead of them by thetimetheyreachTallakarnandthe sweet embrace of thefinishline.

It is hard to accuratelydescribe my feelings as Ihurtletowardsthem,mybodypossessed by an almostsupernatural numbness.Almost every pain in mybody–mybattlebruises,my

heaving chest, my shreddedfeet – register to me asnothingbutpointsofinterest.IknowtheyaretherebutIdonotfeel them.Myreaction tothem is that of a neutralobserver.

Cai looks round twicebefore he seems to realise.The distance and the dismalsky mean that I cannot yetmakeouthisexpression,butIshould imagine that it is oneof panic, the sensation of

realising only too late thatyouarestanding in thefiringline of a charging billy goat.HeknowsaswellasIdothatthe prince will not have theenergy to increase his paceand, what is worse, he willnothavethestomachtoeventry.IhearCaishouttohim.

The prince looks roundand, whilst I cannot see hisface,Icanseehisheaddrop.He stumbles. The boy is toonice, too concerned, to be a

competitor. I would imaginethat, upon seeing me, hisresponse would be only todoubthimselfandslowdownfurther. It seems clear to mein this instant that this is thedifferencebetweenthetwoofus. If I had seen someonerapidlycatchingme,myonlyresponsewould have been togrit my teeth and run faster.When someone like me ischasing someone like him,there will only ever be one

winner.

SixI have only stood on the

redrugofthisroyalreceptionroom twice. And both timeshave been as a winner. Theatmospherethistime,though,is markedly different to thefirst.Ican’timaginewhy.

The first time I wasinvited for an audience withtheking,itwasasawinnerofThe Prince Libran

Scholarship. This scholarshipis, as the name suggests, theright to study at the PrinceLibran School. Thisestablishment is where thesonsofallthemostimportantpeople in the land areeducated, indoctrinated andprepared,attheveryleast,forthe life of a landholder. Thescholarship, meanwhile,provides this sameopportunity to twelvechildrenwhoarenotthesons

of themost important peopleinthekingdom.Thedesiretoeducate children from allwalks of life is alsodemonstrated in the school’smotto: “Serving the best sothatthebestshallserve.”

Initially, the scholarshipsandthesocialconsciencethatthey imply won the kingmuch support from thepeasants.However, thissamesupport is not to be foundinside the iron gates of the

school. There, elitismpervades and the luckyscholarssoonfindthemselvessurrounded by people -masters and students - whohave been raised to fear thepoor, who treat them with amixture of disgust anddisdain,atbest tobeavoidedand at worst to beexterminated.Fewwithin theschool actually live by theschool’s motto, bullying isrife and, as a result, the

scholarshipwinners’numbersslowly dwindle. Only themost stubborn remain,alienatedfromoldfriendsandostracisedbythenew.

Five years ago when wetwelve lucky peasants wereinvited to see the king, thissame room seemed smallerthan it is now, bustling withproud parents, busyattendantsandschoolmasters.The long,darkoak table thatnow stands barren was, that

day, so full of beige food asto be almost grotesque. Itseemed a sickening waste.Some amongst us, especiallythe ones who’d been raisedsolely on goat produce, hadnot even contemplated foodof this ilkbefore: breads andcakesandpiesstackedhigherand decorated moreelaboratelythancouldeverbenecessary.

Accompanying the foodwas more music and mirth

than a boy such as I couldever be completelycomfortable with. Jugglers,jesters, troubadours all linedup one after another todisplayrareskillsthatseemedtobeofevenrarerusefulness.Singers and poetswere theretosingpraisetotheking,andI was even introduced to thestrange custom of throatsinging. Throat singinghadn’t been the only odd,highborn custom that I’d

come across that day; the airwas stained with the smokyperfume of burning flowerswhilst the legendary knight,Ser Torryan, The Bull,demonstratedquiteaskillforweightlifting. It was, all inall, an afternoon of colourand noise and excitement.Verydifferenttotoday.

On that day, even the fatking did not appear entirelyuninterested,managingtosaysomething that was vaguely

encouragingandtoproduceafew smiles that were notobviously fake. Meanwhile,our new headmaster squirtedsome congratulatory wordsoutofthesideofhisfaceandthe high priest, somewhatpredictably, suggested thatwe should thank God forsomething. However,amongst this generalinsipidness, there was onemuch more telling speech –thecold,hardonebarkedout

by the king’s advisor, Vesta.It would be the one thatwould turn out to mostaccurately describe theexperience that awaited usnaïveyoungpeasants.

“You are here becauseyouhave thepotential toonedaybeofusetoourkingdom.You would not be hereotherwise.The roadaheadofyouwill be hard. Very hard.But there is nothing easyaboutpublicservice.Manyof

your predecessors have leftthe school before theirgraduation. Be in no doubtthat thesepeopleare failures.Ifyoufeelthatthelearningistoo hard, or that theprejudices of others are tooupsetting, then I ask you toconsideronlyonething–thealternative. For the majorityof you, that alternative is alifetime of drudgery. If youtakebutonethingfromtodaythenletitbethis–thatschool

isnottheresothatyoucanbehappy, it is there so that youcanbeready.”

It is doubtful that any ofus actually believed theseemingly hostile words ofthis most severe, mostunusualwoman.I,personally,had felt that she was simplytrying to intimidate us, tomake us uncomfortable. Ittook me several years tounderstand that everythingshe had said was actually

true. It was, nevertheless,only in the awe-shockedaftermath of that speech thattheroomfeltanythinglikeasempty and cavernous as itdoestoday.

The white walls, madefrom the distinctive whitestone of Tallakarn, only addtothisimpressionofsizeandemptiness. Dark, ironweaponshangonthewallstothe back and sides of me.They appear tiny and

pointless against the vastnessoftheroom.Infact,thereareonly a few items that arelargeenoughnot toseemoutof place here: the plush redrugonwhichIstand,thelongtable in front ofme, and theking’s coat of arms on thewall behind him – a goldenpairofimbalancedscalesonaturquoisebackground.

This time the atmospherein the room is not quite sojovial. My headmaster,

gnarled and gaunt, sits nearthe door looking somewhatbroken.Hisunkempthairandgeneral lanky ineleganceseem magnified in thiscontext. Here, despite hisblack cap and gown, he’s noone’smaster. In fact, he cutsrather a pathetic figure, asorrowful sergeant hauled into explain the behaviour ofhis soldier. The fleetingmoment of eye contact Ireceive from him contains

morepitythananger.The king oozes on a

throne behind the long tabledirectlyaheadofme.Heissofat and shapeless that onecouldbeexcusedforthinkinghe was in the process ofmelting.Theroyalattireisanill-fitting, ill-conceivedconcoction of purple andsilverthatwouldhavebeenalittle too tight ten years agoandcertainlyisnow.Forthisreasonalone,Iwillendeavour

to keep my eyes averted.There is something abouthim,perhapshishairlessness,perhaps his piggy little eyes,thatmakesmethinkofhimasan overgrown baby. Anexceptionally ugly one. Hewears an expression thatwouldbecalledasmilewereitgenuine.

To his right sits hisadvisor, orator of that mostmemorable speech, Vesta.Vesta is a slender, neatly

presented woman ofindeterminate age dressed inslender, neatly presentedclothes of negligible value.She is so still andexpressionless that she couldbemade of stone.Where theking stinks of excess, thiswoman looks like she hasnever known, or sought,pleasure.

“Well, well! Here he is!The man himself! The boywho beat the prince!” The

king’s voice booms off thewalls inamanner thatwouldbe expected for amanof hisframe.Iremainsilent.

“Youarequitetheathlete,boy.” He inflects hisstatement as though it is aquestion.

“It’s what a life onhillsides teaches you, YourMajesty,”Imumble,avoidinghis eyes in the way that theyouth of the kingdom aretaughttodo.

“Ah yes, you’re a sheepboy,aren’tyou?”

“Goats, Your Majesty.Myfatherisagoatherd.”

“Ialwaysusedtowant tobe a sheep when I wasyounger. I used to crawlaround with my father’swoollen carpet upon myback! I used to eat grass!Wouldyoubelieveit?”

His laugh is unnaturallyloud and enthusiastic. Hisbelly, vibrating with good

humour, threatens to eruptfrom his shirt. Curiously,neither the headmaster norVestajointhelaughter.I justabout force a smile but it nodoubt looks awkward. Hecontinueslaughing.

“Oh, it’s a sign of thetimes when a prince getsbeaten by a sheep boy, isn’tit,Vesta?!”

“Your Majesty.” Vesta’sclipped reply is scarcely anacknowledgement.

“I’d have never beenbeaten by a sheep boy. Youknow, Gruff… It is Gruff,isn’tit?IfIhadmyway,thenwe’d never have had sheepboys in the class with realboysatall,youknow.”

Silence.“No, no, not at all. It

wouldn’tberight,Isaid.Fishpeopleare there to fish, farmpeople are there to farm,sheeppeoplearethereto…”

“Tend goats,” intercepts

Vestahelpfully.“But this woman,” – he

gestures to Vesta – “toldmedifferent. ‘Give the people achance,’ she said. ‘You’llfind remarkable people in allwalks of life,’ she said. Anddoyouknowwhat?”

Silence.“I said, do you know

what?”heprompts.“What,YourMajesty?”“She was right. She’s

alwaysfarkingright,thisgirl.

She’s so right about thingsthatIthinkthere’ssomethingwrongwithher.I’vegivenupthinking or having opinions.Don’t need them any more.Useless.”

The king ruffles Vesta’sshort grey hair ratheraggressively. Vesta’s palefaceremainsinscrutable.

“Thank you, YourMajesty,” she replies,showing only a formalinterest in the king’s

compliment.“Did you ever hear how

she got the job as myadvisor?”

“No,YourMajesty.”“She kidnapped my son

when he was a baby. Youremembermyson,don’tyou?That fat useless bastard thatyoujustbeattothetrophy.”

“Yes, I know your son,YourMajesty.”

“Well, this bloody virginkidnappedhimwhenhewasa

baby!”Thekingrollsoutanother

oneofhisdeepbellylaughs.Idon’t know how to respond.Despite his obviousamusement, I am reluctant tolaughatchildabduction.

“Should have held on tothe useless bastard, I say.Swappedhimforasheepboyor something! Ha ha ha!”Oncemore,noone laughsorresponds.

“So, aren’t you going to

ask?”“Ask what, Your

Majesty?”Iattempttoremainas indifferent as possible. Ifindhistonetobeexcessivelyjovial,almostasthoughheistoyingwithme.

“What?! They told meyou were sharp, boy. Howshegotthejobasmyadvisor,of course, instead of gettinghungatdawn!Ijusttoldyoushe kidnapped my son whenhewasababy!”

He produces anexpression that is somewherebetweenasmileanda threat.Myupbringinghasbeenverymuch one of not questioningone’s elders and, despite mynatural curiosity, silencelingers. I refuse to play thegame.

“Ifyouwishtotell itme,YourMajesty.”

“He’s not very talkative,thissheepboy,ishe,Vesta?”For the first time in the

conversation, the kingappears angry. He smacks acup of beer to his face andknocksitbackingreatthirst.

“No,YourMajesty.”“I’dhopedformorefrom

you,Gruff. I heardyouwerea tyrant. I heard you’dcrippled a boy!” As he saysthis, he begins laughingagain, deriving humour froma vicious attack in the waythat only a powerful mancould. My eyes move

uneasilytohisstomach,partsof which are beginning tosurface from beneath hisoutfit.

“Ididn’t intendtocripplehim,”Isnap,lookingthekingin the eye. It’s true and it isimportant to me that peopleknow it. Importantly though,I omit the apology. It is truethat Tomos has paid perhapstoo high a price for hismeddling on the mistyhillside that day but,

nevertheless, I shan’t beapologisingforit.

“He was the son of mytreasurer, that boy youcrippled. What’s mytreasurer’sname,Vesta?”

“Rhys Ap-Rhys, YourMajesty.”

“Yes. The son of mytreasurer,RhysAp-Rhys,thatboy you crippled. Theywantyou hanged!” Another laughrumbles out across the room.Idon’tanswer.

“But that won’t happen.Notleastbecausetheman’sagwnt.Theprince informsmethat his son’s a gwnt too.Maybe losing a legwill helphim know his place a littlebetter.”

Although I have troubleimagining the ever-diplomatic Prince LibrandescribingTomostothekingin quite that way, I amnonethelessthankful.

“Thank you, your

Majesty.That’sveryjust.”“Justwhat?!”Hegrowls.“He means ‘just’. As in

you have been fair, YourMajesty,”Vestaexplains.Sheseems very attuned to theking’svariousfailings.

“I amnothere tobe fair,boy. Look at my sign. Doesthat look fair?” I glanceupwardat the large turquoiseflag behind him.Upon it arethegolden,imbalancedscalesofhisline.

“They represent yourfamily’s bloodline, YourMajesty. They are there toshow that your family weretraders. So, no, they do notrepresent fairness. Theyrepresentprofitandindustry.”Thewordsrolloffmytongueas though they have beenlearnt by rote. This is, ofcourse,becausetheyhave.

“Bloodyright.I’mheretodo what’s right. Not what’sfair.” He pauses for effect,

giving my knowledge nopraise. “And what is right,boy?”

“Whatever you say isright,YourMajesty.”

“My, my. Maybe he issharp after all. They toldmeyouweresharp,boy.”

“Thank you, YourMajesty.” Although myconfidence is growing, I stilltry to keepmyeyesdown inthewaythatI’vebeentaught.

“That’s why we’ve got a

quest for you,” he adds. Hiseyes harden. Finally he’s gottothepointofthematter.Hemeans to punishme in somemorecunningwaythanpain.

“It’s a dangerous quest,boy.ButI’msuresomeoneofyour calibre can handle it.”Delivered by someone whowas less of a buffoon, thismay have soundeddisingenuous. Theheadmaster,whoIhadalmostforgotten was in the room,

squirmsuncomfortably inhissmall chair near the door.Vesta sits impassive besidethethrone.

“Anyway, the crown hasmany crucial matters toattend tosoImust insistyouall leave. You,” gesturing tothe headmaster, “I shall talkwith you again tomorrow.Meanwhile, Vesta, if youwould be so good as tocontinue the briefing in yourown chambers. You know

howIhavenoearfordetail.”I cast one last unrequited

glance to the headmaster ashe scurries out of the door.Vestarisesfromherseat likeapuffofsteam.

“Your Majesty.” Shebowsheracquiescenceasshespeaks but the gesture is soperfunctory as to be almostdamning. She beckonsme toa large door across the roomto my right, opposite thesmaller door through which

the headmaster has left. Ireachit firstbutstepasideinorder toallowher toopen it.She returns the favour byallowingme towalk throughbeforeher.

My mind immediatelymoves to Vesta and herintent. She could have beentasked to kill me. Shecertainlyhasthecoldeyesforit.And thedistantmanner. Ifthatwere the case, I imagineI’d have little chance to

escape.ButthereismoretoVesta

than the simple scent of akiller. Something that Icannotputmyfingeron.Itisa certain arrogance, almostbordering on contempt.Evenin that large room, with theweight of royal favour uponher, sitting alongside theking, Ididnot sense that shewaswithhim.Shewasalmostindifferenttohim.

SevenIfollowVestathroughthe

white stone labyrinth. Thecorridors are so bare andminimal that they aredisorientating and it is notdifficulttoimaginebecomingcompletely lost. The lack ofdecadence and ornamenthelps me to deduce that wemust be in the servant’squarters.

The walk, meanwhile, isaccompanied by a strangelycomfortable silence. I sensethat neither of us places toomuch value uponconversation. This, inaddition to the repetitivenessofthescenery,seemstoonlyaddtothedistancewecover.

Indeed, I feel as thoughwe have walked twice thecircumference of the palacebefore we arrive at herchambers. She steps inside

andopensthedoor,holdingitso that I can follow through.The austere whiteness is thefirst thing to strike me, andinstinct temporarily stopsmefrom going further. I sensesomesortof trap.Itcouldbea gaol cell, albeit without abed,hiddenawayinthebellyofthepalace.

It is at once immaculateand severe. The white walls,made of the same Tallakarnstone,seemcleanerherethan

anywhere else in the palace.Meanwhile, there is not anawful lot else to take in.There is a dark oak desk inthe middle of the floor withtwo very basic matchingchairs on either side. That isall. Idoubt that there isevenaspeckofdust.Theonlymanin the kingdom that wouldconsider this room to bedecadentwouldbemyfather.“Four walls? Only a sheepneedsapen.”

“Take a seat,” shecommands.Vesta’stoneisnofriendlier outside of theking’s presence. As iscustom, I select the chairfacingawayfromthedoor.Itscreeches over the whitestone as I pull it away fromthe table. It is desperatelyuncomfortable; a chairdesigned to look like a chairrather than to serve as one.Vestaglidespastandintoherownseat.Thereisanefficient

grace to her movement. Hereyesmeetmine, possibly forthe first time since ourintroduction. It is only nowthat I notice an almostandrogynous quality to herface.

“Welcome to mychambers. This is myreception room. I have beentold it is somewhat barren,but for this I do notapologise.” The tone of hervoice, flat and emotionless,

makes this lack of apologyquiteclear.

I shrug. I cannot say thatmy or my father’s roomwouldbemuchdifferentwerewe to inhabit a palace and,even if itwould, it isnotmyplace to judge. I am simplyrelieved that it is not a gaolcell.Tomyfurtherrelief,sheskips any furtherconversationalcourtesies.

“Have you ever heard ofBrightstone?” she asks. Her

voice is unusually precise,possessing no trace of anylocal accent. Meanwhile, thequestion itself concerns medeeply.

“Yes,”Ireply.“What do you know of

it?” she asks. There is not ahintofcuriosityinhervoice.

Ifaperson isgoing tobesent to a place, the bareminimum that they mighthope for is that it actuallyexists. Unfortunately, this is

not the case for Brightstone.It is somewhere beyond thesnow, the stuff of folklore,the kind of place that onemight hear about from thefriend of an uncle whosewife’s grandfather’s cousinhad been there and survived.It is somewhere that peoplemerely hope might exist,some other vestige ofhumanity clinging on to thisotherwisedead,frozenmass.

“I know nothing of it.

OnlywhatIhaveheard.”“And what have you

heard?”“Well… To begin with,

most people say that itdoesn’texist.”

“Andwhatdoyouthink?”“Ithinkthatyouprobably

knowonewayoranother.”“Very good. What if I

were to tell you that it doesexist?”

“I’d probably be morelikely to believe you than

anyone else I know.” It isonlyasIsaythesewordsthatI realise they are true. Eventhough I have only just mether, I realise that this grey,slender woman with all thecharisma of cold stone hasmade quite an impression onme. She is clearly a superiorbeing.

“Then you are a goodjudge of character. It doesindeedexist.”

“Howdoyouknow?”

“I havebeen there.Sometimeago.”

“I see.” A boy given toenthusiasm would haveperhapsreacteddifferently.

“It is the only othercivilisation on The MotherIsland. That is not to sayweshare much in common.Brightstone is moreadvanced; they havetechnologies and wealthbeyondwhatpeopleherecanimagine.Itisalsomucholder

– perhaps a thousand yearsold. As it is more northerlyand less exposed to theEastern Sea, it is alsopossesses a more pleasantclimate.”

“Itsoundslikeyoushouldhavestayedthere,”Ireply.

“Thingsarenotalwayssosimple,Gruffydd.” She takesa map from a drawer in thetable and lays it out beforeme.

Although I have seen

mapslessbrownandfaded,Ihave never seen one soaccurate before. The onlyaccurate maps that I haveever seen depict the knownworld.Thismap,meanwhile,makestheworldappearmuchbigger than I had previouslyunderstood. Maps of theMother Island simply don’texist anymore and, althoughIwasawareofitsexistence,Ihad never had an inkling ofits shape, size or extent.

Therewasprobablyone timewhen a drawing of an oldman’s faint memory of howthe Mother Island used tolookwouldnothavebeentoofarfromreality.Butwhenthedrawingofthatfaintmemoryhas been copied and copiedforhundredsofyearswithoutverification, it becomesuseless.Souselessinfactthatthe practice of copying themhaslongsinceceased.

She points to me our

position in relation toBrightstone. For a briefmoment, I feel that rarest ofemotions: excitement. For aneven briefer moment, thisexcitement even surpassesthat nagging doubt that I amonlybeingprovidedwiththisknowledge for one terriblereason.

“As the crow flies, it isfourhundredandthirtysevenkilometresawayfromhereonanorth-westerlybearing.You

shouldalsonote that it isnotprovided with the samenatural barriers as our royalkingdom of Tallakarn. Thismakesitexposedtothesnowsavages in away thatwearenot.Theconsequencesofthisare that the people ofBrightstone have not beenable to colonise any of themainland in the way that wehave and that, out ofnecessity, they are much,much greater fighters,” she

says. She talks with suchfocus and precision that Icannothelpbutbeimpressed.

“Why are you telling methis?”Iask.

“You’reasharpboy.Whydon’t you tell me?” Vestasmiles the first smile that Ihave seen from her. It is athin one, not altogetherfriendly.

“You want me to gothere.”

“Prince Libran told us

that you were sharp. Sharpand prickly, he said. Like agorsebush.”Hereyecontact,beginning from nothing, hasbecome disconcertinglyconstant.

“Peoplemay think ofmeas they like. Why do youwantmetogothere?Istherenot a less imaginative waythat you could have mekilled?”

“Why would we want tohave you killed?” she

questions flatly. Even thisemotive comment doesn’tbring so much as a flush ofbloodtoherpaleface.

“BecauseIbeattheprinceto a trophy that the kingwanted him to win so muchthathenameditafterhim?”

“The prince’s own petpig, Snuffles, could havebeatenhiminthattrophy.”

“Yes,butitdidn’t.Idid,”Isnap,ignoringthefactthatIdon’tdisagree.

“There is something youmustunderstandabouttheartof governance,” she says,suddenly changing thesubject. Her tone softens tobecome slightly moreconciliatory.

“Why?Whenwill I needto rule? I’ll be deadwithin amonth,” I scoff, catching thepetulanceonlyasitleavesmymouth.

“In order to ruleeffectively, a ruler must be

able to manipulate themasses.This is done througha balance of fear andexcitement.Aneffectiverulercreates an external fear andan internal excitement. Thisglues him to the masses.What do you think theexternalfearisinourcase?”

“Thesnowsavages.”“Correct. And what are

theinternalexcitements?”“Festivals, tournaments,

royal weddings, great

heroes.”“So would the realm

prefer itsprince tobeagreathero?Orasoft,pudgyboy?”

“Agreathero.”“Andwhatdoesithave?”“Asoft,pudgyboy.”“Ergo, by winning that

tournament, you have deniedthe realm its excitement. Noone is excited about the sonofagoatherd.”

“I am sure people willfind something else soon,” I

sneer.“That is the hope. You

must have noticed that therealm is unhappy. TheKernowaresinkingourboats.The mainlanders feel unsafe.Somehavestartedraidingthehomesoftheothers,somearefleeing back to the island.Even on the island, feudsbetween families grow. Thepeasantsresenttheirlords,thelordsresenttheking,thekingresents his son. Plots are

thickening.”“Thatishowithasalways

been.”“Notalways.Forawhile,

yes,butnotalways.”Idonotreply.“Without something to

distract the masses, thekingdom will fall apart.Things happen in the king’sshadow that even I do notknow.”

“It doesn’t matter to mewho rules. As the king said,

fish men fish, farm menfarm…”

“There are some whomight say that the king is anidiot. What if no one rules?What about the snowsavages? Who pays thesoldiers that defend us fromthem?”

“ButwheredoIcomein?Are you saying theseproblems would stop if theprince had won?” I almostspit these words out in

derision.“Not in so many words.

The prince is as he is. If hehad won the tournament, itwouldonlyservetodelaytheinevitable disappointment.And even so, the prince hasmany virtues. Men like himbecomeheroesalittlelaterinlife. His only concern iswhether he’ll ever get thechance.”

“SowhyamIhere?”“Youhaveaquest.”

Once again, I do notreply.

“I visited Brightstonefourteen years ago and Iconfess that I do not knowwhetheritstillstands.Itwas,muchthewaythatweare,anempireingreatdifficulty.”

“Anempire?”“That’s correct. It’s full

title is ‘TheSunlitEmpireofBrightstone’. It would bepossible to translate theirwordfor‘empire’asmeaning

‘kingdom’butthiswouldbeasimplification.Thedifferencebetween our kingdom andtheirs is thatBrightstone is acollection of several islandkingdoms all ruled by oneleader.” She talks with thesame knowledge andauthority that one mightexpectofatalkingbook.

“Sowhyareyouunsureifit still stands?” I reply,finding myself more andmore drawn in by this

conversation. I feel a certainsatisfaction in knowing thatnot many other people willeverhearsuchthings.

“AsI’vesaid, it isaveryoldcivilisation.”

“But surely thoseadvancements will help it?”As I ask this question, I amgreeted by Lady Vesta’ssecond smile. It is acontemptuousone.

“Advancements willbenefit humans for centuries.

Not for milennia. Allcivilisations end. Thousandsof years ago, humans hadtechnologythatisunthinkableto us now. It didn’t helpthem. Across millennia, theonlythingthatkeepshumansalive is their resilience, theirability to start again fromnothing.”

“How do you know allthis?”

“Ihavestudied.”“You must have had

betterteachersthanIhave.”“Youmight say that.But

we digress. When I leftBrightstone, itwasshrinking.The snow savages werepreparing for invasion. Tosave themselves, the entireempireseemedtohaveturnedtoGod.”

“Which god?” I reply,inserting a deliberateinsolenceintomytone.

“Another interestingquestion.Thereligionsofour

two kingdoms are similarand, in fact, probably derivefrom the same source. It is afascinating topic. Similar toour own Christianity, theybelieve in one God. Themorality of the two religionsis similar also. They evenrevere the Cross in the waythatwedo.”

“SotheyareChristiansaswell?”

“No,notassuch.WhenItravelled there, I gifted them

withaBible.Ieventranslateditforthem.Theyrejecteditasheresy. The emperor wouldnotheartheirreligionreferredto as Christianity or acceptmyclaimsofsimilarity.”

“Why?”“I don’t know. Stranger

still… when I was there…”She pauses and looks deepinto my eyes, “they werepreparingfor theSonofGodtoarrive.”

Before I have even

breathed one incredulousbreath, she continues,seeming to have read myface.

“You do not believe me.DoyounotbelieveinGod?”

“I don’t know. I don’tbelieve that though. It seemsacoincidencethattheybeganto prepare for His arrivalshortlyafteryouarrivedwithaBible.”

“Precisely. Now tell me,Gruff, doyou think I believe

inGod?”“Iwouldhavesaidnot.”“But what you or I

believe is not important. It iswhat the masses believe thatis important. A son of godwho is worshipped by themassesneedn’tbetheSonofGodatall.”

She pauses, as thoughunderstanding that the wordsneed time to sink in. A dimunderstanding flutterssomewhere deep inside my

brain.“The primitive mind is

superstitious. It doesn’t justbelieve in God; it needs tobelieve in God. And if itneeds tobelieveaman is theSon of God, then it will,whether He is real or not.Whether He is an exoticconjurorortherealthing,theeffect will be the same:delirium amongst themasses.”

“Amongst the ignorant

masses,” I correct, proud ofmycynicism.

“What other masses arethere?” she replies, straight-faced. “Whether or not thisboy is genuine, they can sellhim as a saviour. Theircivilisation needed asaviour.”

“But who are they todecide?”

“There are twoinalienable truths when itcomestothemasses.Thefirst

is that they consider theirneighbours to be monsters.The second is that theymustsanctifytheirownculture.Asa leader, the king’s job is toaid them in that delusion. Iwouldn’tbesharingthiswithyou if I didn’t think you’dunderstand.”

To a boy like me, thepragmatismof thiswoman isas refreshing as the morningair.Ascoldasitallsounds,itmakes sense. She seems to

have insight beyond the guffthat we are taught in school,and, indeed, the guff we aretaught anywhere. The frozenmask that forms her facemakesitalmostimpossibletodetect any hint of age; shelooks no older than twentybut her wisdom makes herseematleasttriplethat.

“How does this affectme?”

“Ithinkyoualreadyknowtheanswertothat.”

“I think I do. You areasking me, a boy with noexperience, to travel to aplace that may no longerexist? To fetch a falsesaviour? In order to help akingwhoislosinghisgrasp?”

“Thatiscorrect.Theonlything better than a falsesaviourisafalsesaviourfromanotherland.”

“WhatifIrefuse?”“Then I must find a less

imaginativeway to have you

killed,” she replies sharply.There is not even a whisperoflevityinhervoice.

Ihavenotknownfearfora long time. When a boysleeps on a hillside for fivenights of seven, he learns toaccept thedarknessandwhatit hides.Yes, it hides dangerbut not as much as the boyfirst thinks. In fact,what thatboy thinks hides in thedarknesswillcausehimmoretrouble than anything that

actuallydoes.Tobeginwith,he will cry and shiver andjump at every sound but,giventime,hewillacceptthatawareness is not the same asfear. He will relax. He willsleep. The hardness of thislife, the uselessness of beingafraid, has driven fear fromme. This is just one of themany favours that my fatherhasdoneme.

In this moment though,evenwith allmyknowledge,

Iamstillterrifiedofwhatliesbeyond the snow. A fear ofthat place, with its coldness,its animals, its savages, isonly logical. I shall not gothere.

Thereisnowheretomovebut forward. I leap over thedesk to attackherwithout somuch as a thought. It is thedesperate move of a boycaught between long deathand slowdeath, aboywhoseonly hope is to escape. I can

takeher;sheisnothingbutanadvisor.

Before I am even out ofmyseat,sherestrainsmewitha strength of which I haveneverfeltthelike.ItishowIimagine it would feel to bebound in tight chains. She istoo strong to even considerstruggling against. I submitlimply, almost ashamed athowquicklyithasended.

“I will release you now.Return to your seat. We are

not quite finished,” she saysmildly, not even slightlyperturbed by the incident. Islide sheepishly from herarms, humbled by herstrength.

“I will forgive you thatindiscretion. If you had eventhe slightest chance ofovercoming or escaping me,itwouldhavebeenthewisestthing that you could havedone. And I value youringenuity.” I at once

understand that my only realchoice is between a fast,certain death here or a slow,lingeringoneoutinthesnow.

“For what it is worth,yourdeathwouldbealosstothe kingdom. I havedevelopedenoughrespect foryou to be straight with you.As I am sure you know, theking wants you dead. Yourinclusion on this quest ismysuggestion to him. It is acompromiseand,foryou,itis

the only path you may nowtake on which you are notguaranteedtodie.”

Silence.“Iwouldmakethebestof

it, if I were you. You willleave this island as a hero.The people will cheer youoff.Youareoneofthetwelvechosen, you are in esteemedcompany.”

“Twelve?”“Yes. We are sending

eleven of the best, twelve if

weincludeyou.”“Doesthekingwantthem

alldead?”“We are dispatching six

pairs in different directions.Your primary quest is tomake contact withBrightstone. Your secondaryquestistobringbacktheSonofGod,”shereplies,evadingtheoriginalquestion.

“HowwillIknowhim?”“HisnameisLeo.”

Eight“Wake up, sleepyhead.

The day’s half done,” myfatherwhisperswithno traceofirony.Itisdawn.

I stir softly in the earlymorning air. The sky, foronce, is without rain,renderingthegoat’shidetentunder which I’ve slept awasteful luxury. The oceanbelow sounds gentle, the

seabirds haven’t started yet,and even the goats, foragingin the nearby gorse, do somutedly. These mellowsounds, the sounds of home,relaxme.

I stand up and shake thesleep off, sliding trance-likefrommynightclothesintomyjerkin.Theairoutsidethetentis moist and close. It mightnot be raining yet but it willbesoon.Myfathersitsonourlong, flat rock overlooking

thecliff top.This rock is theclosest thing we have to achair.The seaoverwhichhelooks is still hiding half of aredsun.

“It’s another shit ‘un.Nogoodfortheseheregoats,”hemuses, sucking on a toughstrip of cured goat. He doesnot turn to face me as Iapproach but simplycontinues to gaze out to sea.There is a cup of yoghurtwaitingformeontherock.

“Oh the poor goats,” Isnap.Themanisobsessed.

“Don’t you be feelingsorry for them goats, boy.Theydun’tfeelsorryforyou.Orthemselvesfor‘atmatter.”His leather brown facewrinkles up in fondamusementatthis.

“Their life isn’t overthough is it, father? Theyaren’t being sent off to die.”Thecrueltyofitallisassourasmyyoghurt.

“A course they get sentoff t’die.WhatamIeating?”he chuckles, waving aroundhis puckered piece of goatmeat.

“That isn’t the point,Father, andyouknow it. I’ma human being, not a stupid,stinkinggoat.”

“Oh,don’tyoubegettingat the goats just cus you gotyour horns in a knot.You’rebeing sent on a great quest.The greatest quest. You’ll

ne’erknowhowproudIam.Imean ‘The Son of God’…”He trails off, unable tocompletethesentence.

When I’d first heard thephrase‘SonofGod’uttered,Iwas speechless too but,whereas for me it wasincredulity, for him it isexcitement. My father fearsGodlikemostmen.

“Father…” I sigh “ThereisnoGod.ThereisnoSonofGod. And even if there is, I

will not live to reach him.They have given me animpossiblequestinorderthatI might be punished withoutbeingseentobe.”

My father turns towardme, his sun-beaten facecoveredinpartbyhisgreyishwhite stubble, and smilesfondly.

“I always thought thatreadingwer’ impossible. Butthen you come along andtaught yeself. Half the stuff

youdo, tome, is impossible.It’syou that taughtme ‘boutimpossible.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”“Well, impossible isn’t

something that’s true to athing. It’s something that’strue to the person doing it.ClimbinghalfdowntheClawa Lawrenny is impossible tome but a goat will do it aseasy as he’ll take a shit.Someone likeyouwill findaway. You’re as stubborn as

the stubbornest goat I evermet!”

“Father, you’re a fool.You don’t understandbecauseyoudon’tunderstandanythingbeyondthisisle.Ourlife is hard enough here.Beyond the mountains isnothingbutsnowandsavagesand death. I will die outthere.”

“Do you rememberwhenyouwereanip?Youused tosay you could push the sky

away. Not even that wer’impossible for you backthen!”

“With respect, you’rebeing irrelevant again,Father.”

“Butyouweree’encleverin that, weren’t you? Howyou meant it, it made sense.You meant that if yerworking hard, moving fast,ne’er stopping, alwaystrying… that the sun movesfaster across the sky. You

meantthatthattheskymoveslike you. Ha ha!” he grinstoothlessly.

“I’ve heard that story somany times, Father. It’s noteven clever. You workharder,timepassesquicker.”

That story, formy father,is the story that he borespeople with every time hewantstotalkofmyprecocity.I scrape up the last of myyoghurt with my finger andsigh. For a moment, there is

silenceaswestareout toseaandtheemergentredsun.

“You’ll be reet. Ipromise.” His hard, blackeyes seem, for a moment,soft. I don’t answer; I can’tspend my last morning withthemaninconflict.

My father, always myhero,hisruggedimpenetrableexterior, his fierce pride anddetermination, is becomingfrailer and more human bythe day. And despite our

differences, I understand thatit is what he has taught methat hasmademewho I am.The discipline, thedetermination, that he hasinfused into my life has ledme to the school and maybeeven to the cusp ofknighthood. It has also nowbrought me to the brink ofdeath.

“You’re making itdifficult. You can’t makethose promises. You don’t

knowwhatwillhappen.”“I’ve seen it,” he replies

knowingly. When my fatheris not relying on labouredgoat metaphors, he isattemptingtopasshimselfoffas Ynys Gwyn’s residentmystic. He is aided in thisdelusionbythefactthatthereis a general consensusamongst the islanders that ifanyone is going to be amystic, itwill be the slightlysenile, semi-feral, nearnaked

goatherd who inhabits thewild east of the island. I,however, am not so easilydrawnin.

“And that is supposed tomakemefeelbetter?”

“Nope. I think you’vealready decided nothing’sgunnamakeyoufeelbetter.”

He chuckles and risesfromhis resting place on thestone.Hemovestooffermearare hug. His tanned, sinewybody is covered in hair and

hissour,saltysmellisnotthemost pleasant but,nevertheless, this hug is themost useful thing he’s doneallmorning.

“Ineedtogo.”“So you do.”He releases

mefromthehug,slappingmeonthebackashedoesso.

“Goodbye,Father.”“Goodbye, Son. And

remember – push the skyaway.” We do not say anymore; there are no tears, no

declarationsoflove.Menlikeus do not need to say suchthings.

NineI setoff towardsArberth,

the location of the bridge tothemainland,lost inthought.Upon receiving the ordersfromVesta, my reaction hadbeenapragmaticone.Icouldnot change the course ofevents that I had been facedwith and so resolved myselfto prepare in the best way Icould. There is nothing quite

sowretchedastofailthroughlackofpreparation.

Insomeways,Iamlucky.Theharshnessofagoatherd’slife has prepared me for thewilderness in a way thatnothing else could have: thebutchery of animals, thepreparation of forage, thebuilding of shelters andtolerance to thecoldwereallthings that I didn’t need tolearn. And, whilst Iunderstand that the coldness

of the island could nevercompare to the snow andmountainsbeyond,Ihavestillbeen taught to respect thecold. As boys go, I feelequipped to fight theelementsbetterthanmost.

Furthermore, long dayswith my father have taughtmeeverythingIneedtoknowabout the sun. It is perhapstheonlyothersubjectbesidesgoat husbandry in which hetrulyexcelsand,despitewhat

hemightclaim,thesunishisfirstgod. Inexchange forhisworship,ithasturnedhisskininto wrinkled leather.Nevertheless, just a casualglanceatthesunwilltellhimthe time, the season and hisbearing.Aswithallmenwholimit their horizons, he is anexpertineverythingheneedstobe.

InaccordancewithwhatIalready knew, I memorisedthe map provided by Vesta

andstudiedthesuninthesky.It would be imperative toknow which way to walkwhatever the time andwhatevertheweather.Icouldonly hope that my travellingcompanion, whoever theymight be, would be shrewdenough to listen. Evenwalking south-west towardsArberth, my mind remainsfixed on my ultimatedestination: Brightstone andthenorthwest.

But I could never beprepared for the snowsavages living beyond theborder. Sheltered from theworst of them by the greatmountains of the MotherIsland, the people ofTallakarnknowthemonlyasa vague terror. There arethose, my father included,who consider them to beshadow demons borne of thedarkness beyond themountains. Others say that

they are part-human, part-animal; that they sport clawsand fangs and eat raw flesh.Fewerstillclaimthattheyareno different to us; that theyare just from the wrong sideofthemountains.

Regardless of who orwhat they are, several thingsare known. On the rareoccasions that they haveattacked the kingdom, it hasalways been at night and assudden as a thunderstorm.

Whentheyhavedoneso,theyhave shown nomercy; everyperson that crosses theirpathis killed, eaten or burned.Some may even suffer allthree fates in no particularorder.Theyarethoughttobeformidable in combat, andvery few warriors who havefoughtthemremaintotellthetale.

Despiteall theseominoussigns, they have never beenmore than a nuisance to the

borders of the kingdom. Aswiththeirorigins,thereasonsfor this are amatter of greatcontention across the land.Those that say they aredemonssaythattheydarenotface the sun and warmth ofthe kingdom. Suchsuperstitious folk are quitehappy to ignore the fact thatthe kingdom can go formonths under perpetual darkclouds.Meanwhile,thosethatsay they are animals contest

that their numbers are toosmall and their natures toofractious to ever pose a realthreat. The king, and thosewho are especially loyal tohim, declare thatwe are safebecauseoftheroyalarmyandtheprotectionitoffers.

About a hundred yearsago, members of a tribe thatwere considered snowsavages did navigate theirway to the southern reachesofthekingdombut,insteadof

fighting, they simply settledand made peace with theirnew neighbours. Thesepeople became known as theBwlch, the ‘people of themountain pass’. Since thattime,theyhavestoodrightonthe bulwark of the battleagainst the snow and itssavages. Some of the greatknights of history aredescended from the Bwlch;“The Spear”, “The WhiteFalcon”, “The man of Iron”,

“The Bull” are all names ofknights revered throughoutthe land. Fighting is in theirblood; theyhaveneeded it tosurvive.

Needless tosay then, thatit iswith the school’smasterof arms, a proud member ofthe Bwlch, that I have spentmost of my time since thatfated conversation withVesta.Practicehasseemedtobemyonlyhope.

TenArberth, looming large

over the tidal region thatconnects the island to themainland, seems to be anation apart from the rest ofthe island. The people therearen’t quite islanders ormainlanders. It is a meltingpot in the middle, a beaconforallthelowestsortsoflife,designed by cunning

architecture to be easilyisolated should the island beattacked. This threat ofisolation, in addition to theimportance of its role asgateway to the island, givesthe townsfolk a somewhatuniqueidentity.Theyseemaninsolent, arrogant sort,forever on the verge ofrebellion.

What makes itsarchitecturesocunningis thecitywalls.Itisobviousthata

town must be walled off ontheside that faces theenemyandsoitis:anyonehopingtoraid the island by land mustfirst breach themighty stonewalls that face themainland.This difficult task is mademore difficult by the greedytidethatcoverstheareatwiceeach day, sweeping in toswallow anyone imprudentenoughtohavegothisorhertimingwrong.

However, Arberth is also

walledofffromtherestoftheisland.Why this is so, giventhat it has no independenceand has always remainedloyal to the island, is not soobvious. The key is in thedesign of gate andwall. It isdesignedtobesealedoff;thegate must be operated fromboth sides and the island-facing walls can only bemanned by soldiers arrivingfrom outside the city gates.This ensures that, should

Arberth ever fall, anypotential raiders would findthemselves stuck on thewrong side of yet anotherwall.

Of course, in these timesof peace, there seems littlechanceofraidersevermakingit as far as Arberth. Thewalled city is, in fact, a relicfrom a bygone era when theisland was at war with thetribes from the mainland.Now it stands as nothing

more than an impressivereminder of that time; dark,dankwallsrisingslowlyfromthe murk. These walls, atestament to the ingenuity ofhumankind,canbeseenfrommiles away. I have alwaysfelt it is a shame that it isthese walls, so ugly andfunctional, that dominate thelandscape rather than thebeautiful ornate towers ofTallakarn,tuckedawayinthedistance.

The black gate itself is alivingthrong,withfishermen,farmers, traders, guardsmenandbeggarsheadingbothintoandoutofthecity.Thereareguards but no officialcheckpoint,andpeopleareinandoutas theyplease.Thereis nothing to fear. I am justanother peasant boy in amiserable crowd on amiserable day. Vesta hasasked me to report to thebridgetower,ahugestructure

on the other side of the citythat looks out across to themainland.Evenwhen theseafog is as low as it is thismorning,itisunmissable.

Inthisunfamiliarcity,thesea fog feels welcome. Thestench of fish and faeces,never a favourite of mine,onlyhangs faintlyon the air,suppressed by the fog’s coldmask. Meanwhile, fog alsospares me from the realugliness of the city that I

imagine is around me. Theemaciateddogs, the rubicunddrunkards, the ramshacklehovels,thebeggarchildrenofmy mind are hidden awayfrom me by the murk. Andwhilst the narrow twistingstreetsarebusy,theyarebusyonly with the serious-facedpeople of the morning.Nobody who has woken atthis timehaswoken to causetrouble.

Themiseryetchedon the

faces of these people doesn’tevademyattention.Thesearedour, hard-bitten folk withlittle on their mind exceptearningenoughmoney toeatand keep warm. What littleextra theyhavewill be spenton alcohol. It could be thattheirfate isworsethanmine.Icouldendupamongstthesepeople, amongst theirdrudgery,notonlyamongstitbut a part of it, adding to it.Thereissurelyamercytobe

foundineveryfate.Iwind up and down, left

and right, through theclaustrophobic streets of theport. The streets are busy,certainly busier than in theroyal city and moreunpredictable. In places I amcaught in bottlenecks, stuckbehind ambling tramps andoldladieswhoaremovingsoslow that they seem scarcelyto be alive, whilst, in otherareas, the crowd is so fast

movingthat thereisadangerof being crushed; traders,sailorsandguardsareinsucharushtogetwhereverthey’regoingthat,tothem,tramplingan old lady to death mustseem little more than anoccupationalhazard.Everysooften the filthy stench isbrokenbythesmellofbakingbread or roasting meat, butthese aromas are localisedand are gone almost as soonasInotice them.Atall times

Ikeepmyeyesonthebridgetower ahead,mymind intenton my next meeting withVesta.

No one speaks aword tome. This, in itself, feelsdamning. If I had looked toorough, I might have beenpicked out by the guards. Ifhadlookedtoowelldressed,Imight have become a targetforsomeoneorotherbut,asitis, nooneevennoticesme. IpassthroughthecrowdasifI

amsomeonewhoismeant tobe here. Having seen thisparticular crowd, I cannothelpbutfeelinsulted

ItisonlyasIstarttonearthe bridge tower that thecrowds begin to thin. ItbecomesclearthatthetowerIam looking for is built intothe same wall that providedme an initial welcome. Thewall – dark, foreboding,impenetrable – encircles thewhole city and the bridge

tower is built into it.Unimaginatively named forthe bridge that extendsoutwardfromit,thistoweristheonlyroutebywhichaboydestinedforthemainlandcanpasswithoutgettingwet.Itissomething I have not donebeforetoday.

The towerstandsaboveagateway in the wall. Thisgateway is the bridge to themainlandandthereisasteadystream of traffic coming in

both directions. A variety ofanimals, none of which lookparticularly happy, pull avariety of carts in eitherdirection. A few men, thepoorest, have dogs pullingtheircarts,whilstothershavegoats, cattle or horses.Everything about this placeseems to overwhelm: thestench, the shouting, therattling, the constant flux ofmovement.It isallrather toomuchforaboylikeme.

Asingleknightmakeshisway through the crowd onhorseback,hisgleamingsteelarmour standing out in starkcontrast to the drabness ofthosearoundhim.Irecognisehim by his heraldry, a greenflag with a white feather, as‘TheWhiteFalcon’.Hisverypresence causes upheavalamongst the crowd. Hisfootmen have a full time jobtrying to redirect the variousbeggars and street vendors

making their way towardshim whilst urchins alsofollow behind, part starstruck, part hoping for somesmallpieceoffortune.

But no one is heading tothe actual entrance of thetower, tuckedoff to the righthand side of the gateway. Itwouldseemthattheapproachto the tower is kept clear forofficialvisitorsonly.Itstandsguarded by two men in thedark iron armour of the

Arberthguard.AsIapproach,I can tell by their poorposture alone that theseguards are little more thanlow-level thugs, certainlynothingtoaspireto.

Itonlytakesmeonelookat the guard on the left torealise that, even before Ihave approached, he alreadyhates me. Etched onto hisfaceisthescornfullookwornbyallguardswhentheyseeapeasantapproaching.

“What do you want, youpieceofshit?”

“I’m here to meet withLadyVesta.”

“What would the virginwantwithapieceofshit likeyou?”

“I’ve heard the virginlikes ‘em young,” hiscolleague interjects. Theyboth snort seedily. I remainsilent.

“I said ‘What would thevirgin want with a piece of

shitlikeyou?’”“Idon’tseethatthat’sany

ofyourbusiness.”“Oi oi… He’s a bit of a

feisty one,” the first onechuckles.“Didn’tyourfatherteach you how to speak toyourbetters?”

“Yes he did. Not that Ithink that’s pertinent to thisconversation.”

“Ooh! Pert-ti-nent..” hereplies, stretching theunfamiliar word out across

his primitive vocal chords.“Looks like this peasantthinks he’s better than whathe is. You ain’t coming in,”he snaps. His control overthis one solitary doorframehas obviously sent him madwithpower.

This refusal putsme in astrange situation. I amattending the bridge tower atthebehestofLadyVesta,theking’s advisor. I am mostcertainly not attending

becauseIwanttoand,infact,the last thing I actuallywantis to be admitted entry. Butnonetheless,itisnottheplaceof this gormless simpleton,withhisreddrinker’sface,todecidemyfate.

“I’llnotaskyouagain,”Isay, remaining in thedoorway. “I’ve attended asrequired but I shan’t bebegging some drunken thugtoallowmeanyfurther.”

At this insult, the guard

on the left unfurls his clubandmovestowardmeasiftobeat me. I nonchalantlysidestep two or three clumsyswingsbeforehisfriendfromthe other side of the doorcomes to join in. I do notattempt to fight them butsimply duck and weavethroughtheirwallops,eachofwhich is so slow andcumbersome that I wouldsincerely worry for them ifanyone with any actual

maliciousintentwastryingtogainentry.

Themorethat theyswingandmiss,theangriertheygetand the louder theyshout forassistance. As ‘assistance’arrives, it mostly takes theform of other gormless, red-faced guards who are quitehappy to stand and laughraucouslyat their colleagues’ineffectiveness. But then Inoticeafourthcombatanthasenteredthefight.AssoonasI

do, one of the guards, theinitial aggressor, is cleanlydecapitated by him. At thisstage,boththefracasandthelaughter stops. Lady Vesta,themystery combatant, turnsto the guard who still has ahead.

“Thecrownnolongerhasa use for your services. Isuggest you leave Arberthimmediately.Everybodyelse,back to your positions.Howell, please ensure the

body is disposed of in anappropriate manner and thathiswidowissentaham.Forthe record,hedieda traitor’sdeath and his pension,therefore,iswithheld.”

She passes her bloodiedswordtohersquireandturnson her heel; the crowddissipates almost as quicklyas it assembled. Howell, theprince’s cousin and,seemingly, Vesta’s squire,dutifully scurries off to

collect the head, which hasrolled away from the towerbacktowardsthetown.

“Hi, Gruff,” he whispersashescuttlespast.Iforgettoanswer, my heart racing,astounded by theunbelievable swiftness andbrutality of what I have justseen.

“If you could come withme,” Vesta shouts over hershoulder as she walks away.Her voice is clipped and

without emotion. I follow,awestruck.

Unlike upon our firstmeetingatthepalace,Idonothavetowalkfar;weareonlyjust inside the tower beforewe are in the armamentsroom. The walk is, onceagain, punctuated by thecomfortable silence of twopeople who don’t feel theneedtotalk.Thewallsofthisroom are covered in a vastarray of weaponry that

dwarves the meagre, poorlymaintained armoury of thePrince Libran School. I hadgenuinely never realised thatthere were so many ways tokillaman.Mypreoccupationwith theweaponsmeans thatit takes me a fraction of asecond to notice a manslouchedonachairinthefarcorneroftheroom,legsapart,swigging from a tankard ofbreakfast ale. I know frommystudiesthatthemanisSer

Morrigan,‘TheCrow’.“Farkinghell,Vesty.This

isn’t him, is it?” he snorts,sittingup,chokingalittle.

“Ser Morrigan, I wouldlike you to meet SerGruffydd.” Vesta, to hercredit, does not acknowledgeMorrigan’sinitialdisdain.

Morrigan rises, smirking,to his feet, and the sizedifference between us isimmediately apparent. Hemust be twometres tall. His

heightissuchthatitseemstobelie his breadth and so,whilst he is undeniably awell-builtman,heappears tolookmore likeanormalmanscaled up than a giant.Swarthy with scruffy blackhair and an insouciant smirk,he is not the type of knightthat one learns about inchivalric scripture. He offersmealimp,casualhandshake.

“Farkinghell,”herepeatsincredulously.“SerGruff?”

“Gruffydd is to beknightedforhisachievementsin the Prince Libran Trophyand for offering his servicesto the kingdom in this mosttryingoftimes.”

“Yes. On my return,” Iaddpointedly.

“Well, here’s to that!”laughs Morrigan with morethan a hint of sarcasm,drinking deeply from histankard. “But, seriously,Vesty.WhatamIsupposedto

do with him? Use him for atoothpick?!”

He snorts slightly,amused at his ownobservation.Asunfunnyasitmight be, the physicalcontrast he draws is a fairone; there is nothing on mebutskinandbone.

“As you both know, itwould be unsafe andunsustainable to send alltwelve of you out together.The land, in any one place,

will not feed twelve peopleand itwill be harder for youtoevadedetection.Andmakenomistake,evadingdetectionisyouronlyhopeof survivaloutthere.”

“Even so, give me afarking chance,” Morriganpleads. “Look at this chap.My five-year-old daughterhasmoremeatonher.”

“Your five–year-olddaughter hasn’t been raisedon the hillside,” I interject

aggressively. I will not bespokendownto. In response,Morrigan smilesmischievously. Somethingabout his attitude suggeststhathe’snottakingthewholethingentirelyseriously.

“The six pairs have beenpicked to give you all theoptimum chance ofsucceedinginyourquest.”

“Well, the king onlyknows what I’ve done todeserve this,” Morrigan

smirks ruefully. He hashardly stopped smirkingthroughout.

“I’msurehedoes.”Myreplyisstraightfaced.

The Crow enjoys a less thansavoury reputation across thewhole of the kingdom, and IamundernoillusionthatIamnottheonlyonebeingsentonthe quest for the purpose ofpunishment.

“Well, I’m sure that youtwo will have more than

enough time to ironoutyourdifferences over the comingmonths.For now,however, Iwould suggest you getyourself armed and off. Youhavealongrideahead.”

“Dowenotgetsomesortof a briefing? You could atleast pretend you’re not justsendingusofftoourdeaths?”I snap, the fearlessness of adeadmanuponme.Morriganlaughs again, a scoff,suggesting he finds my

feistiness amusing. Vesta, ofcourse,doesnotlaugh.

“You already know allthere is to know. You bothhave a map and a writtenintroduction to hand to theirking. You are to head toBrightstone, buildwhat linksyou can and, ideally, escort‘TheSonofGod’backtous.The only advice I can giveyouiseatwheneveryoucan,fightonlywhenyouhave to,and keep moving. If you

returnemptyhanded…Well,I think you both understandyourcurrentpredicament.”

“Thanks. For. That.”Morrigan sighs. “I expectedmorefromyou,Vesty.We’vebeenthroughalot together.Ithoughtwewere…”

“We are most certainlynot friends,”Vesta interjects,without even a hint ofchivalric banter. “You are toride today to the Gors. Youwill spend the night at the

castle there. From then on,you will be on foot; thehorses will not make itthrough the marsh or thesnow.SerGruff,yourarmourand the best short-sword areonthewalloverthere.”

She gestures over to thefar wall. Across the room,and in comparison to theformidable black plate-maildonned by SerMorrigan, thebrown leather armour seemsskimpy. The dull copper

shieldmustbenobiggerthana large dinner plate and, Ifear, about as much usedefensively. On both theshieldandthebreastplateisagreen goat motif. I sigh. Iimagine the great knightsbefore me: The Bull, TheWhiteFalcon,TheCrow,TheSilverWolf,TheHammerofGod, The Crocodile. Therehas never been one called‘TheGoat’.

“Farking hell. What’s

that? If I’d known it wasfancydress, I’d havedresseddifferently,” chucklesMorrigan, still findingamusement amongst theincreasing humourlessness ofthesituation.

“It will serve. A warriorsuch as Ser Gruff valuesmobility more thanprotection,” replies Vesta, asinscrutableasever.

“And a good job too,”Morrigan winks. “Come on

then, sprat. We’d better begettingoff.Wouldn’twanttokeepthereaperwaiting.”

ElevenI’ve never felt

comfortableonhorseback. Itis not just that I find itunnatural, but also that itdoesn’t feel like somewhereI’m supposed to be. Horses,and the people who ridethem, belong to the upperechelons of society.Meanwhile, men such asmyfather are associated with

nothing so glamorous. Pigs,dogs and goats are ouranimals.And,whenwewanttogetsomewhere,wewalk.

In my school, thisdifference is immediatelyapparent. Most of thehighbornboysweretaughttoride not long after theylearned to walk. My firstlesson, meanwhile, was onlyafterIstartedthereandwasademeaning and horribleexperience: the other boys

gliding around on theirprivatelyownedponieswhilstIstruggledtoevenmounttheuglyschoolmule.

Ievensuspectthathorsesthemselves have anawareness of their owner’sbreeding. I say this becausethey all treat me with thesame contempt as myclassmates do. Both groupsmakeitquiteclear,withtheirsnorts and jolts, that theydon’twantmeanywherenear

them.Assuch,ridingahorseis,forme,moreakintobeingbullied than it is any sort ofpleasure.

This is clearly not thecase formy new companion,Morrigan. If I needed anymore evidence of hishighborn heritage, it isevident in the smooth andcontrolledmannerwithwhichhe rides. Every person wepassaswemove through thecountryside seems to know

him and he stops severaltimes to bid people farewellandsoakuptheiradulation.I,meanwhile, trot awkwardlybehind him, unknown, andneverquiteabletocatchup.

His horse is a massiveblack stallion and suits himperfectly. There is nothingespeciallyimpatientaboutthewayheridesahead,insteaditjust seems that his naturalpace is quicker than mine.I’vegotnoproblemwiththis,

it certainly reduces the needfor conversation. Instead, Imove forward in forlornsilence. With every reluctantstep my horse makes, I amfurtheraway frommy father.Ittakesusalmostafullday’sriding to reach our overnightrestingplace,Gorscastle.

Twelve“Soyou’veneverbeen to

the Gors before?” asksMorrigan, slouched in hischair. Around him, there isonly dull firelight anddampness, all that youmightexpect from the castle at theedgeofthekingdom.

“I’veneverleft theislandbefore.Doesn’tlooklikeI’vebeen missing much,” I spit.

The Gors, a low-lying saltmarsh, stretching from thenorthern coast to themountains, has proved to beabout as interesting as itsounds – a vastwasteland ofbrowngrassandpuddles.

“Youmightthinkthatthiswouldbethemostvulnerablepoint of the kingdom,” hebegins,as thoughhe isaboutto tell me something I don’tknow.

“But it’s not. The

treachery of the swamp andclear line of sight fordefensive archers make itimpossible fora forceofanysize to cross.” I completehislecture myself. It is yetanother fact I have beenforcedtolearnbyrote.

“I’m beginning to seewhy you got sent out here,”Morrigan chuckles. Heappears toacceptmy temper,alongwitheverythingelse,infrustratinglygoodhumour.

“Why?”“Because you always

havetoberight.Itmakesyouseem a bit of a cock,” hegrins, slapping me on thebackashedoesso.Thedrinkisclearlygettingtohim.

“Thanks?”“Ah, it’s fine. I’m

probably out here for thesame reason,” he snorts,sinking the last of his beer.As he does so, he thuds itdownthreetimesonthetable

asasignaltotheservinggirl.Assomeoneofstatus,thisisagesture so natural that itdoesn’tevenseemtoregisterto him that he’s done it.MeanwhileI,unusedtobeingserved by anyone,instinctively look round towatch her emerge obedientlyfromtheshadows.

“It’snotthemostexcitingof places but the lord, SerGeraint, is a good friend ofmine. It’s a shame he’s not

here actually. I do like goodcompany,” he smirks,seemingly proud at thesubtletyofhisinsult.

The dull flames from thehearth behind and the walltorches fill the room withshadows. Three long oaktablesdominatetheroomandI wonder how long it hasbeen since they were full. Astuffed crocodile’s head ismounted above the fireplace,adding the only bit of

character to an otherwiseuninspiring room. Morriganonly turns to look at theserving girl as she walksaway, a cheeky glint in hiseye.

“So,what did youdo?” Icontinue.

“I think a more accuratequestionwouldbe‘WhodidIdo?’… And, of course, I’mnot going to answer thatquestion.” His smirk dropsoff his face, becoming

somethingmorerueful.SerMorrigan, TheCrow,

is probably subject to morerumour than any otherindividualinthekingdom–arenowned drinker, brawlerand womaniser known tocauseasmanyproblemsashesolves and a constant sourceof embarrassment for thechivalric order to which hebelongs.Therearesomewhomight use this opportunity toprobe him, to sort out the

truths, thehalf truths and thelies. But this is not in mynature; to pursue suchquestioningmightleadhimtofeelthatIconsidersuchfeatsanaccomplishment.Idon’t.

“What does it matter,anyway?”Isigh.“We’redeadmen.”

“Tous,wewhoareaboutto die,” he slurs, drunkenlyraising his cup, smirkinganew. I clink my tankard tohis.

“You know… We couldjust quite simply not go, youknow…” he murmurs,droppinghisvoiceoutof theservinggirl’srange.

“What’s the alternative?There’s nowhere else to go.Lady Vesta made it quiteclear we’ll be hanged astraitors should we returnempty handed.” I whispertoo, joining him in thecollusion.

“Then we rough it for…

let’ssay…twoyears.It’llbeeasier to find a spot ofterritorytodefendthanitwillbetowanderthewilderness,”he whispers. There is morethan an air of drunkennessabout the idea, something atleastalittlehalf-baked.

“Surely if there wasanywhere worth defending,therewillalreadybesomeonedefendingit?”

“Then we can take itover…Idon’tknowifyou’ve

seen me fight… And you…And you…” His voice trailsoff as he remembers that hethinkshe’sbeensaddledwitha lame goat. His eyes lookopen and honest as he talks,betraying an almost boyishnaivety.

“Lady Vesta told us… ifyou stand still in thewilderness,youaredead.”

“Well then… we coulddefect to the Kernow,” hesuggests.

“LadyVesta toldme thatthe Kernow now kill allstrangersonsight.”

“Hahaha…What is thisthingyou’vegotwithfarkingVesta?‘LadyVestasaysthis,Lady Vesta says that.’ Fark.Thewoman’samaniac!”

“She knows what she’stalkingabout.”

“Everyone’sgotthisthingaboutVesta.Likeshe’ssomesort of farking paragon, butlet me tell you something,

she’s a monster… Have youeverfoughther?”

He drunkenly brings hisface so close to mine that Ican smell the beer on hisbreath. The question bringsbackmemoriesofhowIwasrestrained in the palace atTallakarn.Iwinceslightly.

“Briefly.”“Thenyou’llknowwhatI

mean… You know… Onlyone man has ever put herdown.”

“Who?”“TheBull.”This answer does not

altogether surprise me. TheBull is probably the onlylivingknightwholookssettojoin his mythic forebears inlegend. One doesn’t becomeleaderoftheBwlcheasily.

“So she’s a great fighter.How does that make her amonster?”

“If you ever becometrained in knightly combat,

you’ll see what I mean. Atrue knight wouldn’tdecapitate an underpoweredopponent. Your mate fromtheotherday,forinstance.”

“But he wasn’t doing hisjob properly. He wasobstructingroyalbusiness.”

“So he deserved to bedecapitated? Fark… There’smore to life than the rules,SerGoat.”Ashesaysthis,heburpsandwipeshismouth. Iuse the opportunity to

withdraw to a safer, lessodiferousdistance.

“Well, for me, rules arerules,”Isniff.

“Thiscoming fromaboywho ignored royal orders tolettheprincewinthatfarkinglittle trophy or whatever itwas.”

“Those were orders thatexpected me to break therulesofthecompetition.Theywereimmoral.”

“So rules are rules when

they suit you? When theydon’t, they’re immoral?” hesmiles smugly, thinking he’sgotapoint.

“No,it’snotlikethat.”“Andhowaboutthatlittle

gwnt you crippled? Whereweretherulesthen?”

“Tomos was twice mysize.Heattackedme…”

“Haha,youdon’thavetojustify yourself to me, boy.You’re the onewith the rulebook.”

He reclines further backin his chair, flashing me yetanother of his increasinglyself-satisfied smiles. Gettingthe sense that he is merelyprovoking me for hisentertainment, I remainsilentand draw a long sip of myale.

“So, seeing as how youknowitall,I’mguessingyouknow how Vesta got hergig?”

“Hergig?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I forgot Iwas talking to Ser GruffyddoftheGreen,thenoblestmanto ever herd a goat. Pleaseexcuse my language. I’mtalking about her job. Haveyou ever heard how she gotherjob?”

“The king told me thatsheabductedtheprincewhenhewasababy.”

“Yeah,and…”“Andthat’sallIknow.”“Well, well, well.

Something you don’t know,hey?Well,youknowVestaisfromthesnow,don’tyou?Adiethrin?”

“No. I didn’t know thateither.”

Thenumberofdiethrininthe kingdom is absolutelytiny.WhilstthepeopleoftheBwlch are the only recentexample of an entire tribejoining civilisation, theincidence of individualsturningupandbeingaccepted

isevenmoreunusual.“She and the women she

turned upwith gave usmoregrief than anyone in mylifetime. There were onlyaboutfiveof them.Godonlyknows how they got on theisland. Theywere in and outofthepalacelikeghosts.”

“How did you stopthem?”

“Wedidn’t.Theyrodeusoverthelandlikeitwastheirown. At some point, Vesta

sold her own people out.Don’taskmehoworwhyoreven how she came to bewhere she is now.Don’t askme to trust her either. She’sturnedtailatleastonceinherlife…Andthat’sallIneedtoknow.”

Hearing Vesta describedto me thus disappoints memore than I thought itmight.Almostwithoutnoticing,I’vecome to seeheras somesortofhero–somethingtoaspire

to, a personof honour, a no-nonsense administrator.Hearing her described as asnow savage and, worse, atraitor leaves me feelingslightly chilled. I alsoshouldn’t forget that,howevershesoldittome,shewas ultimately the personwhosentmeonthisquest.

“Timeforbed.Earlystarttomorrow,” I grumble,suddenlymoremiserablethanever.

“Boring, boring goat,”grins Morrigan, tapping histankardonthetable.

ThirteenWe trudge through the

snowfortwelveterribledays.The savages are not asnumerousasIhadfearedbut,even without combat, timespent in this tundra is aconstant struggle. Every daythatpassesisabattletofulfilprimal needs – warmth,hunger, thirst – against aravenous nature that, I am

quickly learning, doesn’twantustolive.

Everything that weislanderstakeforgrantedhasbecome something we haveto actively fight for; foodmust be hunted from whatsparse fauna is available,sheltersmust be carved fromthe frozen ground, andeverything looks so similarthat is possible towalk for aday without feeling likewe’ve moved. The weather,

spring-like in itscapriciousness, variesbetweendelicatesunlightandheavy snowfall. It is,however, never even slightlywarm; the sun, our compassand calendar, stays out forlongereachdaywithouteverdaring toproducea strokeofheat.

Despite the fresh andfrigid weather, therelationship betweenMorrigan and myself is, to

mygreatsurprise,agoodone.For some reason, I havefound myself beginning towarm to him. Perhaps it isbecausethatrebelliousstreak,thatmischief forwhich he isrenowned, has very littleopportunitytoshowitselfouthere in the wilderness.Instead, his casual and easy-goingnaturehascome to thefore, making him an escapefrom, rather than an additionto,theburdenofthejourney.

Vesta was also right inidentifying us as a solidpotentialteam.Bothmysmallframeandhillsideupbringinghaveaidedmeinbecomingapassable survivalist andscout. Meanwhile, hisstrength and skill with thebowhaveprovidedsourcesoffood and shelter that I couldnot have achieved alone. Agrim determination has setoverus and, as theweekhaspassed, perhaps even a sense

that we have a chance toachieve our task. It seemscruelthenthatitisonlyhoursafter this thoughthascrossedmy mind that we areambushed.

It is towards the end ofthe day, our eyes hungrilysurveying the land forsuitable shelter. As the firstarrow hits, the wound itcreates feels hotter than Ihavefeltfordays,likeashardof molten iron in my left

knee.Giventhesheerforceofits arrival, it is almost all Ican do to simply remain onmyfeet.

Morrigan whirls onehundred and eighty degrees,shield out, faster than I haveever seen him move. Thearrow destined for himbounces off his movingshield.

“Overthere!”hescreams.Despite the searing pain,somethinginmetellsmethat

falling will not be a goodidea; we are too exposed. Iwould be a sitting duck.Weneed shelter. I ignore theinstinct to fall and, instead,drawmy shield.My strickenlegimmediatelyfeelsuseless,a piece of burdensomeequipment that must bedragged. Nevertheless, I trymy best to limp alongsideMorrigan. We move slowly,backtoback,peeringthroughthefailinglight.

“Four! From mydirection! Head for thosetrees to your left!” hescreams. Everything abouthim suddenly appearssharper, more focused; hiscasual demeanour hasdisappearedintheblinkofaneye.Icanonlyobey,thepainin my knee is too much forany more activeconsideration. We treadslowlyback toback.What isleft of my energy is used to

survey the land in front ofme.Itremains,Ithink,clear.

Morrigan, meanwhile,masterfully covers me frombehind, keeping the threeonrushing attackers in hisfield of vision, all the whiledeflecting the arrows of thefourth.Wetreadpurposefullytowards themeagre copse oftrees that must be at leastseveralhundredmetresaway.In my pain, each footstepfeelslikeaneternity.

And, of course, theattackers are upon us beforewe can reach anywhere nearit.Now,more thanever, it isapparent that The Crowdeserves his formidablereputation. When ‘off duty’,hecarrieshissolidframewitha casual languor, almost asthough it is too heavy forhim. Now though, it is clearthat he is carrying out thepurpose for which he wasdesigned. All that size and

bulk finally appear to makesense.

The first attacker,sprintingatfullstretch,ismetbyarightboottothefacethatsends him skittling to hisknees. In one movement,Morrigan drops his shield,switches sword arms, anduses the momentum of hishigh kick to bring in asweeping wide sword-cutacrossthetorsoofthesecondattacker. The snow flashes

crimson fora secondand thesky fills with the savage’sdeathsong.

The sweeping cutnaturally brings Morrigan’sbodyweighttotherightbuthedoes not seek to adjust it.Instead,heusesthepoweroftheswingtoperformalmostaone hundred and eightydegree pirouette. It is notaccidental that this pirouettebrings the back of his rightelbow into contact with the

gut of the onrushing thirdman. The first savage,meanwhile,climbstohisfeet.

“Take him!” screamsMorrigan, focusing on thethirdattacker,whoisbackingaway,almostdoubledover,inadefensivestance.

Hot blood coursesthrough me, numbing thewound only just sufficientlyfor me to maintain mybalance. The savageapproaches, keeping his

stance low, switching hiscrude blade between hishands, poking at my swordarm, testing my defences. Ibat his prods away,hesitating. Every time Iattempt to move my feet orshift my weight, a fresh joltof pain flashes through me.Worse still, the realisationthat this ismy first real fightjumps intomymindandfearalmost takesover.But thenadeeper instinct arrives and

washeseverythingaway:itiskillordie.

ImeethiseyesinthewayI have done in one hundredsparring battles. To mysurprise, something in themtells me I’ve already won.They look frenzied anddesperate. His face, too wellacquainted with Morrigan’sboot, is a bloodiedmess andblood tricklesdown from theinside of his helmet. In thisinstant, it seemsonly tobea

battle of wills; we are bothbadly injured and, at somepoint, one or both of us willdie.

He isslashingatmewithspeed but no precision, withthe impatience of a dyingman.More tellingly, the dullblade hewields doesn’t evenappear toposea threat tomyarmour. It only takes a fewmore wild lashes for him tomake a mistake. His handstaysouta little toolongand

I smash it with my shieldbefore thrusting my swordthroughhisstomach.Hefallstohisknees,shortlyfollowedbyme.Iwatchhiseyesfreezeas life fades from him. I’vekilledsomeoneanditsaddensme.

Myeyesflashup,seekingoutMorrigan.He is nowheretobeseen.Thecorpsesofthethreeassailantsliearoundme,theirbloodavividcontrasttothe virgin snow. The

sickening feeling ofMorrigan’s absencereactivates the agonycoursing through my knee. Icough. My lungs are filledwithcoldandpain.RealisingI cannot give in so easily, Iraisemyheadoncemoreandscour the darkening skylinefor some sort of indication.My only hope is that he hasgoneafter,andhunteddown,the archer. There is no sign.Instinctively, I limp towards

thecopse.It seems to take an

agonisingly long time toreach the small gathering oftrees. My wound isscreaming. The pain is sogreat that, perversely, I findmyself sweating despite thecold around me. This is myfirst experience of the casualease of death. Myvulnerabilityiswhatfrightensme, that all it would take tokill me is one well-placed

arrow.Equally devastating isthe knowledge that, to haveanychanceofsurvival,Iwillhave to dig a shelter, build afire and treat the woundbefore I can even begin tothink about getting any rest.This thought, not tomentionthe pain, nauseates me. Therealisation that there is noalternativeforcesmyhand.

The fire is my mainpriority. Every fire I havebuilt so far on this journey,

andIhavebuilt themajority,has been small and designedfor subtlety. This one isneither small nor subtle. Itdoesn’tneed tobe. Icover itwith whatever plant matter Ican find to build smoke andheat.The rationale for this issimple:theagonyinmykneetellsmeIwilldieifMorrigandoesnot return.Whether thisis at the hands of savagesattracted by the flames, or aslow death from starvation

andinjury,isirrelevanttome.A visual fire increases thechances of him finding meand that outweighseverything.Itwillalsosoftenup the snow to help me digmyshelter.

By the timemyshelter isdug, it is beginning to feelmore like a grave. I canbarely walk. There is stilllight in the sky but it isapproaching its final flicker.The weight of exhaustion

causesmetofeelasthoughithas been hours since thebattle, although I know fromthe sun that hardly any timehaspassed.

Grimly, I reach for thebase of the arrow lodged inthe back of my knee. I havebeentaughtincombatlessonsthat all the most effectiveweapons hurt more on thewayoutthanonthewayin.Inow begin to realise thatwordsalonehaveneverdone

this fact justice; I feel everyjagged edge of this evilweaponasitrips throughmybody in reverse, carving anentirely fresh wound. As Igrit my teeth and pull,nothing exists except foragony, the pain of onethousand screaming sunsmoving through a smallorificejustbelowthebackofmy knee. The wound throbs,sweat pours down my face,consciousnessfadesfromme.

“Looks painful,” quipsMorrigan, crunchingtactlesslythroughthemeltingsnow.I’munabletoreply,tooexhaustedevenforrelief.

“Could have at least dugmeashelter.Selfishbastard,”he smirks, trying, as ever, tosoftenmewithgoodhumour.I manage to murmur a curseinresponsebutevenIamnotsure what it is supposed tomean.

“Never mind. Looks like

I’mup for thenight anyway,seeing that you’ve givenaway our position and all.Come here, let’s check thatscratch.”

FourteenAlmostamonth later, the

few savages we haveencountered have beensurprisingly underpowered.Our superior weapons andtraining have counted formore than we expected. Forthis, I can only take a smallcredit. Morrigan, still fit andhealthy, is a truly formidableopponentwhilst, I,with only

onegood leg, am scarcelyofany use. Morrigan’ssuperiority,however,isabouttheonlypositivetobedrawnfromourordeal.

Mykneedoesnotseemtobe healing and hurts just asmuch with every agonisingfootstep. Morrigan does hisbest,daily,tokeepthewoundtreated but, to all intents andpurposes, my leg is nothingmorethanadeadweight.Theweather conditions are also

worsening. Although we’vebeen following the coast, thesea itself has now becomeice.

Ontheonehand,thisisapositive,anindicationthatthemap we are following isaccurate. It suggests we areapproachingthefrozenseaatthe heart of the MotherIsland. However, it is also anegative; the colder weatherfinds us using more energybut with less to eat.

Meanwhile, the coastlinecurves southward, taking usinto ever colder climes and,crucially, further still fromBrightstonetothenorth.

People living throughsuch an ordeal can scarcelyconsider themselves to bealive.Instead,IfeelthatIamdoing nothing but hobblingontowardsdeath.Thewoundin my knee, deprived of restor nourishment, never ceasestoache.Ifindmyselfneeding

to stop more and morefrequently, trying not to besick, not to leakwarmth andfuel.

It is to Morrigan’s creditthat he stops each time,seeminglywithoutcomplaint.It doesn’t take long beforedarkquestionsbegin tocrossmy mind. Is he consideringabandoning me? Would Iabandon him in the reversesituation? Could either of ussurvive without the other?

What could I do about itanyway?

One night, he declaresthatwe need to risk crossingtheseaice.Thedetouraroundthe coastline will kill us, hefeels.I,tooweaktodisagree,concur.Somethingabout thissituation provides a taste ofhow life must feel for myhistorymaster,withverylittlesparecapacitytodoanythingbutnotdie.

Thewalkdowntothesea

ice is probably, in itself, themost treacherous task wehaveundertakenyet,ajaggedand slippery obstacle coursedown an almost vertical cliffface.Itwouldbejustmyluckto spend a life being deridedas‘thegoat’beforefallingtomydeath froma steep slope.But I am lucky; almost myentirelifehasbeenspentnearcliffsandhills.Ihavealmostlost count of the number oftimes thatmy fatherhas sent

me, scowling, to rescue sillykid goats stuck amongst therocks. As such, the climbfeels much more instinctiveand familiar than anythingelse I’ve done for weeks. Infact,myleghurts lessduringthisdescentthanithasatanypointoverthemonththathaspassed. So it is that, evenwith my burdensome injury,it is the clumsy and casualMorrigan who seems tostruggle more. It does not

takehimlongtofall.Theinclineoftheslopeis

not so steep that a person isthrown immediately to thebottom of the cliff. Instead,he tumblesdownwithall thegraceofanugly ragdoll.Ashe bundles past me, acumbersome black mass ofcurses and thuds, I grimlyrealise that it is the mostentertainingthingI’veseeninmonths. A small smileescapes.Heismakingfartoo

much noise to be badlyinjured. By the time I reachthe bottom, he is up anddustinghimselfoff.

“Well,atleastIbeatyou.Iknowhowyouhatetolose,”he laughs warmly. Thehumility of the man strikesme suddenly. I’m almostjealousofhisabilityto laughat himself. It is a powerfullyendearingtrait.

“And so elegant with it.Areyouinjured?”

“I’m too cold to feelpain.”

“I know the feeling,” Isigh, fully aware of how theweatherhasnumbedmyowninjuries.

“Right then.Onward,”hesmirks.

“Let’s just hope thesavages aren’t stupid enoughto enter the sea ice. There’scertainly nowhere to hide,” Igroan, fully aware of theirony.

Morrigan pulls his faceinto a rare grimace as wesurvey the immaculatewhiteness in frontofus. It isaswhite as eternity, scarcelydifferent from the sky.Thereisnothing in theentire scopeofourvisiontodetermineoneplace from another. Walkingthrough such blanknesshardlyseemspossible.

Wehavebarelytakentwosteps on the ice before myfearsareconfirmed.Thereis,

allofasudden,agreatdealofcommotion from the rocksabove us. My heart sinks aswe turn our heads. Fourpeople stand atop the cliffbut,tomyrelief,theyseemtobe shouting at us rather thanpreparingtoattack.Fromthisdistance, and it is hard to besure,itwouldappearthattwoof the people are children.We draw our weaponsnonetheless.

FifteenThereissomethingfrantic

about what the savages areshouting. Only a few wordsreach us through the chillwind but I am certain thatthey are not words of anylanguage thatwe understand.Nevertheless, the intensityand manner of theirgesticulations seem to besuggesting that we shouldn’t

be down on the sea ice. Infact, they look like they areshowing us a route back uptowardsthem.

“You’re going to thinkI’mcrazybut…I think thesechapsmightjustbefriendly,”shouts Morrigan through thewind.

“Why would anyone befriendly out here?” I snapback, hoping against hopethatI’mwrong.

“Haha.Talkabouthaving

faith in thehumancondition!Whatdoyouwant todo,SerGoat?Ignorethem?”

As he shouts this, hegestures quite deliberatelytowards the Big White thatawaits us. Having been withhim for almost two monthsnow, I can only assume hislaughterislostonthewind.

My eyes follow his armout in to the wildernessbefore moving back to thecliff top above. One of the

smaller figures is scuttlingdown the slope with an easethatagoatwouldbeproudof.He ismovingatquite apacebut with the confidentassurance of someone whoknowseachrockinsideout.Itwas the way that, beforemyknee injury, I would moveover the eastern reaches ofYnysGwyn.

Meanwhile,thepeopleonthetopofthecliffcontinuetogestureusbackup.Iamnow

convincedthat theyintendustointerpret theirhandsignalsas a friendly warning. This,crucially, is not the same asthem actually being friendly.Nevertheless, desperationforcesmyhandoncemore; Iamtooweaktoeitherfightorrun.IhavetohopeIcantrustthem. Morrigan, meanwhile,hasalreadydecided, trudgingover to meet the smalldescending savage at thebottomofthecliffface.

Asthesavagereachesthebottom, he beckons metowardshimbeforeextendinghis hand to Morrigan in ahurried manner. With hishelp, we ascend the ice cliffback to the top. With theguidance of this boy, nowclearly a child of ten or so,the climb almost feels easierthantheoriginaldescent.

Ourgreetingat thetopofthe slope seems to be afriendly one. They are quite

clearly a mother, father, sonanddaughter.Alllooksimilarwith a squat, healthyappearance and skin that issun-kissed by so muchexposure to the ice. There isquite clearly very little incommon between ourlanguages and, because ofthis, communication is donealmost completely throughbodylanguage.Therearelotsofsmilesandtheirtraditionalgreeting is some sort of

unusually invasivehug.Veryquickly,we are offeredwhatappears tobean invitation totheirhome.Something in theback of my mind doesn’t sitcompletely right with me. Ican’t stop myself fromwondering what such afamily would have to gainfrom kindness to strangers.Nevertheless,desperate timescall fordesperatemeasures. Itry my best to swallow mypessimismandfollowon.

Their home turns out tobe a small undergroundcomplex. The opening is acave near enough to the topof a nearby hill. As weapproach, there is noparticular sign of any otherfamiliesoranycommunitytowhichtheybelong.Morrigan,seemingly oblivious to thefactthattheydonotspeakthesame language, continues toask questions, usingoverblownhand gestures and

an increase in volume tomake himself understood.Eachtime,theirresponsesarethe same: slightly sheepishand tinged by embarrassedlaughter.

Moving deeper into thecavern,thefirstthingInoticeisthewarmth.Thissensation,lost to me for two months,immediately brings backmemories of home.Perversely, it is only fromstepping into thewarm that I

realise howvery, very cold Iactually am. Being able toremove my gloves for thefirst time in weeks is,surprisingly, almost anemotionalexperience.

The smell also remindsmeofhome.Itisthathealthy,earthy, salty smell that is,perhaps, of nothing inparticular other than aperson’s home. It is not anespecially nice odour but,nevertheless, my sense of

smell, somewhat of a luxurysense when compared to theothers,hasbeenneglectedfora very long time during thisfrozenjourney.

AsIbegintoadapttothewarmthandsmell,Inoticetomy amazement that theburrowwalls actually appearto be constructed rather thandug.Thewallsaremadefrombrick in the same way thatthey would be in Tallakarn.The only difference is that

instead of the rough stoneswe use, these stones areperfectly rectangular redstones. I have never seenanythinglikeit.

It also quickly becomesclear just how these savages,surviving in the middle of afrozenwaste,appear tobesohealthy. Many of the smallcaves we walk past containdriedorsaltedmeat that theyare quite clearly storing forhardtimes.Althoughitisnot

a large complex, everychamber is taken up withevidenceofalmostboundlessindustry and resourcefulness;fur coats, skin tents andweapons made from boneseem to almost litter theplace.

Weareinvitedtositwhenwe reach the biggest room,deep underground, lit by fatcandles. We are quite takenabacktorealisethattherearemore people tucked away in

this cosy and safe room.There isanotherwomanwholooks, perhaps, a littleyounger than the mother ofthe family that escorted usdown.She isnursingababy.Meanwhile another baby, oftoddling age, scurries aboutonthefloor.Thesethreebearaverystrikingresemblancetothe rest of their family. Mymind races, trying to workout what the relationshipsmustbe.

There is one lastindividual in the room who,tuckedaway in the corner, isquite clearly not related. Heis,perhaps,a teenager,anditis byhim that I amprobablymost intrigued. He does notresemble anyone that I’veeverseenpreviously;hiseyesandhairbothseemtoglowinan unsettlingly brightchestnut tone. On hisshoulder is a branded markthat I can scarcely make out

through the firelight; it is thefaceofaram.

“Hi,” says Morrigan,raising a friendly hand, oncemore forgettinghowunlikelyit is that anyone willunderstand.

“Hi?” replies the unusualteenager, seeming surprisedto understand us. At thisrealisation, he suddenlyspringsup, filledwithalmostas much excitement as weare.

“You speak ourlanguage?” I ask,suspiciously. Now that he isstanding,moving towardsus,I can see that instead oflooking plump like ‘hisfamily’,heisinsteadcompactand muscular. His copperfeatures are striking,frighteningeven.Despiteourcommon language, he doesnot look like someone fromourkingdom.

“Yes…” The answer

seems to surprise even him.“But I don’t know how…Where are you from?” Thelanguagefallsfromhismouthin an unnatural and stiltedway, in the manner ofsomeone who is speaking alanguage that they do notfully understand – in themannerthatoneofourpeoplemay speak Bwlch orKernowek,forinstance.

The host, seeminglyinsulted at the strange little

sideshow, gestures brusquelyfor the boy to sit. He thenshouts somethingathiswife,gesticulating enthusiastically.The boy sits once more, butnot where he had been.Instead, he seats himselfacross from us in the loosecircle that the roomnaturallyforms.

“Do you understand thischap?” asks Morrigan, morequietly,gesturingtoourhost.

“Yes…”Theboy’s reply,

once again, sounds confusedandunsure.

“Then tell him we’resorry.Andthankhim.”

“I will.” The boy nodssagelyasheagrees.

“Andaskhimifwecouldpleasehavesomefood.”

“Iwill.”“Andtellhimmyfriendis

injured.”“Iwill.”“Andthankhim.”“It is fine,” the boy

repeats. “There is plenty oftime. They are generoushosts.” After assuring us ofthis, he turns to speak to thehost in his own language.Even in this language, hedoesnotappeartobeentirelycomfortable or fluent. Thereis a brief conversationbetween the two before hereturnstotalktous.

“TheBurt,”hegesturestoour host, “would like towelcomeyoutohishomeand

invites you to share in hisfood.But first,hewould liketoknowwhoyouare.”

“My name is Crow. Thisman isGoat.We are pleasedtomeetyou,Burt,” interjectsMorrigan before I cananswer.His tone of voice is,again, loud and deliberate.Respectfully,headdressesthehostratherthantheboy.Burtonceagaintalkstotheboyinhisownlanguage.

“Wedonothavenamesin

thewaythatyoudo.A‘Burt’istheleaderofthehousehold.Unless the others speak toyou, you speak only to him.You can speak with me, tointerpret. He is unhappy thatweunderstandeachotherandwarns it is an insult toexclude him fromconversation.”

ItisnowIrealisethattheboy’s intonation reminds meofalesssophisticatedversionofVesta;anaccent that is,at

once,neutralyet foreign.Myeyesare,onceagain,drawntothe black ram branded on tohisleftshoulder.

“ThenIsuggestthatifwehave questions for you, orvice versa,we add them intoconversations we are havingwith him. This way, he willnot realise he’s beingexcluded.”

“That makes sense. I’lltellhimyouacceptandthankhim.”

And so begins anintriguing doubleconversation with both ourhost andhisotherguest.Theevening is fuelled by anincrediblygenerousvarietyofsmoked and dried meats aswell as an almost hostiledistilled liquor called‘spebru’,which,we are told,translatesas‘fireandwater’.

Welearnthat thesavagesare loosely allied with abouttenorsootherfamiliesinthe

area.Their livelihood largelyconsists of hunting seal orfish from the frozen sea,although theyhavealsobeenknown to capture other landanimals. The tribe that theyare allied to is, by and large,one of the more peaceablepeoples, although theirattitudes towards strangersvary.Weareassured thatwehavebeenveryluckytohavebeen met by our particularfamily.

We are warned that ‘thereal savages’ live furtherwest. Beyond the frozen sea,we are told, most of thepeople we are likely tomeetwill be cannibals: those thateatthefleshoftheslain.Theman talks gravely, terrified,as he describes the so-called‘pale tribe’, led by a ‘paleman’, who visit periodically,demandingheftytribute.

WhilstIhavenodoubtofthe authenticity of his

feelings – his concerns, hisgrief, his fears – everythinghe says seems to furtheremphasise what Lady Vestahas already told me. A tribewill always refer to theirneighbours as savages; theywill always mythologise andfearthegreatunknowninjustthe same way they will seekto sanctify their own culture.I can imagine an islander,myself even, less than amonth ago, talking in the

exact same way about theworldbeyondthemountains.

Ourowntaleis,ofcourse,alsoasourceofgreatinterest.Despite my reservations,Morrigan spills the truth ofourkingdomandourpurposewithout somuchas a secondthought. To these people,clingingonto their livesonablockof ice, suchakingdommust sound unfathomable,fantastical even. The Burtdemandstoknowwheresuch

a kingdom could be locatedand, Morrigan, perhapshaving been warmed toothoroughly by the liquorprovided, happily obliges.TheBurt laughsashesees itlocatedonourmap.

“The end of the world!”hesmiles.

Meanwhile, they havenever heard of BrightstoneandknowevenlessaboutanySonofGod.Forthesepeople,religion as we know it must

havebeenforgottencenturiesago. In fact, they seemparticularly unexcited by itall.

“The wrong god!” Burtassuresusgleefully.

The other guest, it turnsout, has a life story thattrumps every other person intheroom:itisablankpage.Itslowlybecomesapparentthathehasliterallynoknowledgeof anything. Before weentered,hewasn’tevenaware

of the language we greetedhim inand,yet, somehowhefinds himself to be fluent init. Neither our language northe languageofourhosts, hepoints out, is the languagethat he uses to think. Thelanguageinwhichhethinksisanotherlanguage,onethathehas never heard spoken. Asfarasheisconcerned,hislifebegan when he was hauled,halfdead,fromtheseabytheBurt and his family. He has

since developed a basicknowledge of their tongue,which he describes as asimple and functional one,outofnecessity.

He describes his hosts asgenerous people who havefed him up to at least twicethe size hewas upon arrival.Furthermore, they’ve insistedthat he do no work until hishealth and memory returnfully. The latter, he isbeginning to fear, will never

return.Hehasnoconceptsbywhichtodescribethepassingof time since his arrival,simply saying that he hasbeenhereforallhislife.

Ofcourse,Morrigan,withhiseasyhabitofhandingoutnicknames, begins to addressthe boy as ‘Ram’ and,naturally, it is him, ratherthanourhost,thatwebecomemore andmore interested in.Similarly, it is clear that theboy is fascinated by us. To

him, the world outside thiscave scarcely existed beforetoday. Now, it is clear he isbeginning to realise thatMorriganandIarethekeytoproviding answers. He andMorrigan grow increasinglyconvinced that we must allshare a heritage. I, as ever,amdoubtful.

As the night moves on,the childrendrift off to sleepat their mothers’ sides. Thewomen remain but are

prohibitedfromjoiningintheconversation by theBurt. Asalcohol begins to flow moredeeply, the idea of the boycoming with us is clearlybeginningtogerminateintheminds of all three of us. Tome, it seems aninconvenience and adistraction. Even discountingthe fact that he is acompletely unknownquantity,hebecomesanothermouth to feed, another

obstacle taking me furtherawayfrommyobjectives.AsheandMorrigangrowcloser,IsensethatImaybeheadingforconflict.

Conversation flows. I,drinking as little as I canwithout seeming rude, beginto drift from it. Ramcontinues to interpretconversation betweenMorrigan and the Burt. BotharefascinatedbytheboastfulstoriesthatMorriganweaves,

of himself and the kingdomhecomesfrom.Thekingdomhe describes does not soundlike the kingdom I grew upin.For the first time, I begintorealisethatmy‘friendship’with Morrigan is closelylinked to the extremehardship that we are bothenduring. I cannot imagine,somehow,thatheandIwouldbe friends back in the safetyof the inn at Tallakarn. Hisstories reveal the gulf in our

lives.Howmuch sweeter theworld must seem when youareabletodipinandoutofitlikeacrow.

Before too long, wifenumber one approaches me,gesturingtoherknee.

“Vunt?” She repeats theword several times, tappingon my back. Morrigan turnsaround,glintinhiseye.

“I think your luck’s in,ser. Sounds like she hassomethingshewantstoshow

you.” His face is ugly withdrunkenness and hiscrudenessbringsangrybloodflushingtomyface.

“Vunt?” She continues,tapping her knee once again.Forme, it seemsmore likelysheisaskingtoseemyinjury.I point to my own left kneeand smile in politerecognition.

Upon this signal, sheapproaches me, rolls up mytrouser leg and, after having

placed a warm hand on thebackofmycalf,removesthebandage. Pain races throughthewoundas though shehasputanotherarrowinme.Herreaction, a disgruntledassortment of tsks and sighs,suggest tome that she is nottoo impressed withMorrigan’s first aid skills.She talks loudly to herhusband, drowning outMorrigan’sshaggydogtales.

Her husband barks back

equally as loudly, thencommands something ofRam.Finally,Rampassesthemessageon.

“She wants to fix yourknee.Followher.”

Something about thewayRam delivers this messagemakes it sound more like acommand than a request. Idon’t like the way the ‘fireand water’ has affected theboy’s demeanour.Nevertheless, I follow the

smallladyoutoftheroom.Moments later, I am on

face down on the floor of asmaller room. There issomethingcoldonthewound,freshly cleaned, numbing it.Compared to the heat of theburrow, this cold sensationactually feels quitewelcome.It is incredible how short amemory thehumanbodycanhave.

Meanwhile, wife numberone stands away from me,

concocting some sort ofpoultice. Smells of variousherbs,unknowntome,filltheair and, suddenly, I begin torelax. It is not a sensation Iam used to. In fact, I almostfeel slightly panicky at theloss of control. This panicbringsmebacktomysenses.Only for me to drift again,edging closer to relaxation.This cycle continues severaltimesuntilIcantrustthelackofcontrolenoughtoletgo.

Myeyesmovearoundtheroom. Normally, mymind isa hive of activity, examiningeverything,worryingaboutit,interrogating my ownthoughts, developingopinions, designing plans. Inthis moment though, I findmyself simply being,allowing my eyes to moveover objectswith no concernaboutthemorhowtheyrelatetome.

Meat hangs from the

ceiling, curing. Fat candlesblaze in each corner of theroom.Claypotsrestuponthetable, almost hiding themanacles. The fur of thewolf-skin rug beneath mefeelssofttothetouch.Ontheoppositewallhangssomesortof painting daubed upon thedried skin of an animal. Thesmell of the herbs moves upmynostrils further. It soundsasthoughsheisready.

She places a lotion upon

myknee that tingles slightly.Itisnotaltogetherunpleasant,like the tingle on one’s skinafter a long day in the sun.Whatever she has placedthereshethenproceedstofixintoplaceusingsomesortofskin bandage. It feels secureandclean.

“Sick,” she smiles, ‘sick’presumably meaningsomething entirely differentinherlanguage.Shehelpsmeto my feet and beckons me

back towards the mainchamber. Even from adistance, I can hear that theroom is now filled withlaughter. Morrigan is quiteclearly rotten withdrunkenness.

Upon re-entry, I see thatthe three have bonded evenmore in my absence. TheBurt has his arm strappedaround Ram, virtuallygroping his stomach.Morrigan is singing

tunelessly,much to themirthof the other two. All threehave faces painted with thekind of happiness, that lustfor life, that has alwayseludedme.

The image in frontofmealmost seems to freeze. Atonce, I am filled with somedeepregret;anunderstandingthat I will never be able toenjoymyself like these otherpeople. There is somethingwithin me – a restraint, a

sadness, an inability – thatkeeps me apart from them.Thesaddest thing is that it isnot only me that realises it.They realise it too. That issurely why they don’t evenacknowledgemyreturn.It is,Ifeel,timeforbed.

SixteenI am now so accustomed

to shivering myself to sleep,huddled in some snow-sodden pit, starving to deathlike a godforsaken animal,that the relative comfort ofthis burrow seems almost aluxury. It is warm and filledwith furs. I wasn’t even thiscomfortable back on theisland

Upon touching my face,the mound of furs sends meto sleep with the sameintensity as might ablacksmith’s hammer. Myexhaustedbodyhashungeredforthissortofrestforsolongthat Iseemtopassout ratherthan fall asleep. It happensinstantly. I do not have timeto consider or care aboutanything. I cannot remembersuch a warm sensation. Thedanger, of course, with this

depthofsleepisthatyoucanawakemuch later, feelingnobetter, with no sense of timehaving actually passed. So itisinthiscase.

Iwakeupwhatseemslikeonly seconds later, with theenergyofacorpse.Thesoundof steel and shouting isgradually fading into myconsciousness.Mylanguor issuch that I only begin torealise what is happening bystages,asrealityfiltersin.

Firstly, as with everymorning for the past threemonths, my heart sinks as Iremember who I am.Secondly,itoccurstomethatthenoisethathasawokenmesounds much like that of aswordfight.Third,itoccurstome that it actually is.Fourth,IrememberMorrigan.Fifth,Irealise that it’s probably himfighting. As all these piecesgradually come togetherinsidemyawakeningmind, I

can think of nothing otherthan curses for the so-calledCrow, this travesty of aknight seemingly bent onhaving me killed. I jump tomy feet and dress as hastilyas possible. Drawing mysword, I hobble out into thecave complex with sometrepidation. My knee feelsmuch better but, with thesickness of panic washingoverme, this feels like scantconsolation. Slowly, I follow

thenoise.It takesme some time to

find them.Theyarecloser tothe exit than I am, havingclearlymoved from themaincavern some time ago. As Istagger towards them, I hopeagainst hope that they’re justengaged in a drunkenswordfight as some kind ofjape. Morrigan does have areputation of becomingembroiled in this kind ofidiocy.

However,asIdrawnearertotheever-increasingnoise,IquicklyrealisethatIcouldn’tbe more wrong. Ram andMorrigan are at each other,toetofurioustoe.Thestrikesofironuponsteelreverberatethroughoutthetunnels.

Ifitwasn’tsograve,therewould be something slightlycomical about the fight,takingplaceasitiswithinthenarrow confines of atunnelled cave system. Both

Ram and Morrigan are big,broad men and theirrespective fighting styles arealmost entirely inhibited bytheir inability to move theirarms properly. Instead,Morrigan is retreatingcarefully towards theentrance, parrying the blowsofRam,whoispursuingwithanequalamountofcare.TheBurt, meanwhile, is nowhereto be seen. Several of thesmaller children, and one of

thewives,arebuzzingaroundtheir feet with greatexcitement.

“What’s happening?!” Ishout, bewildered. I don’twant to enter the fight andmake anything worse than italreadyis.

“We have to leave!”shouts Morrigan, stillsomehowmanaging to effecthis usual jocular style overthesoundofhissteel.

“You have to die!”

screams Ram, with nothingjocular about him. Eachthwack of his axe uponMorrigan’s sword seemsthunderous.IknowenoughtoknowthatIwouldnotbeableto keep a hold ofmy swordundersuchabarrage.

“Where’stheBurt?”“He’sasleep.Thesechaps

can’thandletheirdrink!”Ram roars,

disconcertingly loudly, infury at this further

provocation. I sheathe mysword; this seems to benothingmore than a drunkenruck. I shall let themclash itoutonthesnow.Perhapsoneor maybe both of them willlearn their lesson about thedangers of excess. I canalwaysinterveneifitlookstogetanymoreserious.

Ram, with this furiousaspect upon him, and theobvious might behind eachswing of his axe, all of a

sudden seems much moreintimidatingthanhedidinthenight previously. But havingseen Morrigan swat asidesavage after savage on ourjourneysofar,Iamconfidentin his ability to diffuse thesituation. He doesn’t seemparticularlyangryhimself.

And so it is, in arestrained and cautiousmanner, so unusual for afight,thatthischainofpeoplemeander towards the surface,

Morriganwalkingbackwards,Ramstrikingforwards,twoofthe children buzzing inbetween, one of the wivestugging onRam to stop and,finally, me following, tryingmy best to adopt an air ofneutrality and reserve.Gradually, as the tunnelbecomeslighterandlighter,itis clear that morning isalready upon us. With theincreaseinlight,theintensityofthefightincreasesalso.

Astheyreachthesurface,the fight erupts from thecavern like hot water from ageyser. Abandoning thecautionoftheclimb,theyareall of a sudden alive with aquite breath-taking intensity.Eachclashofweaponsisloudenough to shatter the sky.Ram is most certainly theaggressor and, quiteunexpectedly, a muchstronger fighter. Morrigan,withafarsuperiorswordand

the advantage of his armour,seemscomfortable enough inrepelling the blows but theyarecoming insoquicklyandpowerfully that he doesn’tappear to have a chance ofcountering. He probablyabsorbsabouttwentyorsoofthese strikes before he asksformyhelp.

“Some help, please,” hecurses,hispreviouslyendlesssupply of good natureseemingly approaching

empty. There is the faintestair about his request thatreveals an emotion hithertounseen–panic.

Without hesitation, Iunsheathe my sword and,quicker than Ram can react,slash him across the back ofhis exposed hamstring,intendingtostophimwithoutfatal injury. I know at oncefrom the resistance of theflesh that the wound is deepand accurate. However, as I

withdraw,Rammerelyreactsasthoughhe’sbeenbittenbya fly. He turns to me andpunishes me with a severeblow that Iamonly justableto block. To my greatsurprise, he is still fastenough to parry Morrigan’sreturning swing and,somehow, keep the initiativeinthefight.Bloodleaksfromthe back of his leg, paintingthesnowred.Heroars.

Somehow, the fight

continues for quite a bitlonger than would beexpectedfortwoagainstone.Especiallywhentheonehasaserious slash wound to theback of his hamstring.Ultimately, it requires theintervention of the Burt,furious at everyone, to bringthefight toanend.If itwerea tournament bout then Ramwould have won it. Thiswouldnotonlybedue tohisbeing outnumbered but also

in terms of his front-footedness, his number ofblows and,most importantly,the fact that he wouldprobably have killed uswereit not for our host’s timelyintervention.

The squat little manrampages out of his burrowlikeaparticularlyangryvole.Seeinghimbrandishhispole,it is quite clear thatwe havegreatly underestimated himalso. He wields it so

proficientlyandfluidlythatitalmostseemstobepartofhisarm. With imperiousdexterity, he disarms Ramwithtwosimplepokes.Ashedoes, we both instinctivelydrop our weapons, Morriganwith his chivalric code and Iwith a simple desire to notmakethingsanyworse.

Then the lecture begins,incomprehensible andfurious, aimed mainly atRam, who is forced back

down into the belly of thecavern.Itisstrangetoseethesubmissiveness that washesovertheboyasthelittlemanshoutsandprodsathim.We,meanwhile, are given theimpression, particularly bywifenumbertwoscuttlingupwith Morrigan’s possessions,that we are no longerwelcome. As he screams atorrent of angry gibberish inour direction, he brings hisfinger ominously and slowly

acrosshisthroat.“He bids us a pleasant

journey,” smirks Morrigan,tongue firmly back in hischeek. “They’re going to eatthat boy. He should havelistenedtome.”

As he says this, Iremember the manacles onthe table. A chill movesthroughme as I consider theimplications. The coldmorningwinddoesn’thelp.

“What makes you say

that?”“Everything. They’re

grooming him down therelike a domesticated pig,” hereplies, his voice tingedwithregret. A red flush, surely acombination of drunkennessand exhaustion, covers hischeeks.

“Then we should rescuehim?” I suggest,myknightlyinstinctsrisingtothesurface.

“WhatdoyouthinkIwastryingtodo,”hesnorts,ahint

ofexasperationinthereply.“It looked like you were

tryingtolethimkillyou.”“Hewouldn’thearaword

of it. They’ve completelybrokenhim.That…Thatwasa reaction to me suggestinghe needed to comewith us,”he sighs. His eyes are wetwithcold.

“Then maybe we shouldtry again… Maybe I shouldtalktohim?”

“With all due respect,

charm is not exactly yourstrongpoint,”hesmirks.“No,Idon’t thinkthere’sanythingwe can do. Not after seeingBurt inaction.This isoneofthesesituationswherewejusthave to let it go. Shithappens.It’snoteasybutwehavenochoice.”

Sadly, and against everyinstinct inmybody, I realisethatheisright.Eventheboyhimselfhadoutfoughtusbothand thatwasbefore Burt got

involved. The only mysteryreallyiswhyhechosetostopit rather than help the boy.Given his effortlesssuperiority over him, itwouldn’thavetakenmuchforhimtosimplydispatchusandscrapeusintohisnextdinnerpot. Confusion, relief andpanic bury the knightlyinstinct to rescue. I looktowardstheseaiceaheadandcan’t decide whether beingleft alive is much of a

blessingafterall.

SeventeenMy concerns turn out to

be valid. Our decision tocross the sea ice has provedto be idiocy of the highestorder.NotadaypasseswhereI don’t wake up surprised tobe alive. It is an incredibleplace. Nothing exists hereexceptforcoldness.Andevencoldness is nothing but theabsence of warmth. It is the

forsaken world of someunhappy god, a creator whohas stricken everything – allcolour, all energy, all life –fromthecanvasandforgottentostartagain.

The sea ice takes all thehostility of the tundra anddistils it into an even purerform of brutality. Where thetundra had changeableweather, the sea ice hasunflinchingicywinds.Wherethe tundra was difficult to

navigate, the sea ice isimpossible.Where the tundrahad scarce resources, the seaicehasnone.

There is no food. Thisdeficit is not down to anylackofskillonourpart;thereis not even a hint of food.There are no elusive birdsoverhead, no well-concealedrabbits, no sprightly deer.There isnothing. Instead,weare forced to make do withthe dwindling meat supplies

that Morrigan knew to stealfrom theBurt’s larders.As Ieat the stolen food, Ibecomecomplicit in his dishonesty.Becoming complicit in thisdishonesty, a state forced onme by the ordeals of myjourney, shows me just howfarIhavesunk.

Yet it is only thatdishonesty that has kept mealive.Forthefirsttimeinmylife, I am confrontedwith anuncomfortablefact:theworld

does not conform to mymoral code.Amanwho hadthought stealing beneath himwould, in my situation,already be dead. Thisperversion, this reversekarma, this all-or-nothingsituation, would wipe out allmoralmen in theblinkof aneye.Thekeyatthebottomofit all, the code bywhich lifeshould be lived, feels furtherawayfrommethanever.

Even this doesn’t trouble

me like it once would havedone. It ishard tocareaboutsuchabstractthingswhiletheairpummelsawayatyoulikewhite water. Our geographymaster once told us how thewind can, over time, carverocks but this claim hasscarcelyseemedcredibleuntilnow.Now,Icanactuallyfeelit happening. Not acrossyears, but across moments.Not across rocks, but acrossmy nose. I no longer know

how a normal nose shouldfeel. It is,with the exceptionofmyknee, themostpainfulpartofmyanatomy.

My feelings forMorriganswing from bitter resentmentto disgruntled tolerance. Heis, on the one hand, thereason we are walkingthrough this whitest of hellsandyet,ontheother,theonlyreason I am not yet dead.With each hobbling step Itake, I am not sure how

thankful I am for this latterblessing.Ihavebeguntofindevery aspect of his characterinfuriating: his unceasingsmirk, his desire to look onthe bright side, the awkwardway in which he heaves hisclumsyframeacrosstheice.

But the superficiality ofmy resentment of him isexposed every time that I’moffered a glimpse of hismortality. For instance, theseveral timesthathehassent

his heavy foot plungingthroughtheice,Ihavegaspedand spun to help him asthoughitismyownfootthatis gone. Indeed, the effect oflosing him to the ice wouldbesodevastatingthatitmightaswellbemyown foot.Thesameissurelytrueinreverse;our fates are linked.Wewilllive and die together. Thereality is that our twobodiesmightjustaswellbeone.Aninjurytooneofusisaninjury

toboth.Thisdoesnotpreventme

from brooding upon him. Inthis most desolate of places,he stands as the only otherobject that exists and, as isnatural when nothing elseexists, he bears the fullweight of my analysis. I donotknowifhefeelsthesame.Webarelyhavetheenergytocommunicate.

Today,aswitheveryday,helumbersoninfront.Every

so often, he stops to check Iam still there and to ensurethat the gap hasn’t widenedtoo much. I can do nothingbut hobble on behind him,staring at his stupid blackarmour, wondering if hecould do anything to makehimself any moreconspicuous. The absence ofsnowsavages from the ice istheonly thingwehave to bethankfulfor.

He then reaches a new

low. Without warning, he issuddenly set upon by acreature that I would like todescribe as a bear.However,it is about twice the size ofanybearIhaveeverseenand,instead of brown, is a dirtycreamcolour.Thebeastissolarge, so loud, so completelylacking in subtlety, that itquitesimplydefiesbeliefthatit could have ambushed him.Ifhewerenotabout todie, Iwould berate him for it. I

hobbletowardshimasfastasI can. A curse, the word‘fark’, just about reachesmethroughthechillwind.

The footspeed of thecreature across the ice isalmost as incredible as thesizeofitanditonlytakesaninstantbefore it is uponhim.The form it takes as itpounces is akin to a whiteboulder that has just beenhurledfromasiegeweapon.

Icannotbelievethespeed

with which the man moves.He feints past the beast withsuchskillthatitseemsalmostmagical. He turns morequickly,too.Allofasudden,the beast, a juggernaut thatmust surely have no conceptof defeat, finds itselfmovingfar too fast in the wrongdirection, with its opponentbehindit.

ItsmomentumissuchthatMorrigan has an opportunityto draw his bow and score

withtwoarrowsbeforeithasscrambled itself around. I,sprinting, forcing mydamaged knee throughunbelievablepain,amstilltoofar away to help. The wind,roaringtowardsmefromtheirdirection, means that I willneedtobemuchcloserbeforeIcanfireanarrow.

The scream of the beastwould curdle my blood if itwere not already frozen. Ittakesanothertwoarrows,one

to the face, before it is backuponMorrigan.By this time,it has already conceded anyadvantage it may have hadand their second meleeproves to be its last.Morrigan,twometrestallandwielding a tremendousgreatsword, actually has therangeadvantageandseemstotake half its snout off beforeit isevencloseenough to tryandhithimagain.

AlthoughMorrigan’s first

slice isnotenoughtokill thebear,itiscertainlyenoughtotake thewindoutof itssails.As it strikes out a lazy, halfdead claw, Morrigan stepsaside and executes it withsuch ruthlessness that, inanyother context, I might feelsorry for it. It slumps downontheicelikealargesackofmeat which, I immediatelyrealise, is exactly what it is.My heart is in my mouth. Iwill never again doubt the

man.

EighteenAmonthhaspassedsince

welefttheseaice,althoughitcould just as easily be alifetime. With each day thathobblesby, there isnodoubtthat we are dying. My mindcontainsverylittleotherthanthe all-consuming battle forsurvival.What little fat Ihadhas faded away to nothing. Iam fortunate that whatever

the savagewomandid tomyleg appears to have helpedand, although it is no longeras flexible, the pain onlycomeswhen it is undergreatpressure. Morrigan,meanwhile, seems to havechanged even more than I.His wasting has become soobvious that I fear that Iwillwake up one day to findnothingleftbuthissmirk.

Back on land, skirmishesarebeginningtotaketheirtoll

too. Our advantages –weapons, training, health –are slowly diminishing,crushed by the relentlessnessof the snow.Each battle thatpasses(therehavebeensixtodate) seems to becomemoreand more equal. Thisrealisation makes us evenmore cautious, slowingprogress further still. Smallinjuries mount up, theconditions providing no realchance for recovery, and the

only positive is that thesavages appear only to existin small families. However,even this limited fortune isnothing more than areflection of the meagrenessoftheland.

Andthelandismeagre.Atypicalmealmightvaryfromnothing at all to a quarter ofrabbit. The desperation issuch that we have taken toeatingvirtuallyanything,beitthe bark of a tree or the

frozen corpse of anunidentified animal.Cannibalism,althoughnotonthe menu yet, does not feelquite as abhorrent as it oncedid.Thepureexcitementthatsurrounds us if we somehowmanage to kill three animalsin one day shows just howmuch our concept of joy hasaltered.

Our concept oftemperaturehasalsochanged.There are now only two

temperatures: thatwhichwillkill us and thatwhichwon’t.Ideas of comfort, ofwarmth,of dryness, now just seem tobeabstractions, sensations sofar from our memories thatwe are no longer able toremember them. Sometimes,when the snow rises and thewind howls, we can donothing other than buryourselves and hope. Readingthe weather has becomeabsolutely critical to our

survival; it has becomenecessary toknowbeforewesetoutfortheday,whetheritis even worth it. We arepicking up this art quicklythrough sheer necessity.Thiscautionservesonlytoslowusdown more and more. Theonly shred of consolation isthe lengthening of the days,increasingasweadvanceintoboth the summer and thenorth.

NineteenSeveral times over the

past millennia, the humanrace has been faced withcomplete extinction. Eachtime it has come back fromthe brink, bouncing backmoreresilient thanever.Thisresilience is,according to thegreatestscholars,ourdefiningattributeasaspecies.Inararemoment of lucidity, my

history master once croaked,“There is no naturalphenomenon greater than thehuman spirit in times ofadversity.”

Whilst I was obviouslyable to appreciate thesentiment of this, it is onlynowwhenfacedwithmyowndeath that I truly begin tounderstand. As the comfortsof civilisation ebb from mymind, a new tide washes inand my mindset begins to

alter, becoming narrower,sharper. There was once, forinstance, a time when mymind was full – full ofambitions, dislikes, hopes,mundane grumblings, thingsto learn, structures, systems,moral considerations. Now,no less full, it only considersone thing: how to remainalive.

Without conscious effort,the full faculties ofmymindhave nowmoved to this one

basicfunction.Thesharpnessthattheybringisremarkable;my eyes notice three-day-oldtracks in the snow, my earscan pick out birdsong byspecies, my nose discernsinadvisable berries or meat,the wind on my face sendsnewsoftheweatheritbrings.It is how I imagine it mustfeel to be an animal: wary,savage and desperate, honedby necessity to seize anyopportunity that nature

throwsme.This isexactlyhowIfeel

the first time that we takeinitiativeagainst the savages.Before now, we have nevercaught them resting; it hasalwaysbeenusrespondingtothem, fighting our waydesperatelyoutfromambush.Lastnightwasdifferent.Thistime, the goat saw the foxcoming.

Wehavetakentowalkingas much during dusk as

possible, aiming to giveourselves an hour to set upcamp before darkness fallsentirely. We do this becausewehavelearnedthatnotonlydo we make more progressbut that theduskseemssafertowalkin.Italsoreducestheneed for a fire and theexhaustingfuelgatheringthatcomeswithit.

Last night, the strategypaid off even further. Wespotted, tucked away in the

napeoftwohills,theeveningfire and smoke of a savagesettlement.The natural coverand shelter of this napelooked to make it a perfectand discrete choice to set upcamp. So much so that wealmoststumbledintoitbeforewe noticed it was alreadyoccupied. The shock ofencountering any such luckimmediately put us on ourguard; the idea of huntingthem down whilst remaining

undetected was entirelyforeigntous.

Starving, freezing anddesperate, we knew that wehadnochoice;itwouldbeusor them.We could not repelanother ambush and,furthermore, we wouldprobably die withoutwhatever food they had intheir camp. The only choicewehadwasinourmethod.

Andsoitwas,againstmybetter instincts, that we

gambled.We spent the nightawake, huddled on the hillabove their camp, waitinguntil just before dawn, tostrike at them. As the hourapproaches,Iamsofullwithhot-blooded anticipation thatthecold feels less than ithasfor weeks. Finally, we creepdown the slope under coveroftotalblackness.

As we arrive, we realisethat the camp is probablybiggerthanweexpected.The

lastfootstepfromthehillintothe valley brings us outdirectly behind a large skintent.Ihavenoideahowmanyofthesethereare,orevenitsfull size. Morrigan, notknown for his stealth, andwithout even signalling,begins to creep around theperimeter. I, as planned,begin to quietly lay a fire asclose to the tent as I can.Whilst I don’t anticipate itwill stay lit for long, it is

probably the best we canhope for in terms of adistraction.

I have laid somany firesover the last month that Icould probably now get onegoinginthemiddleofalake.As such, this act of arsoncomes quite naturally to me.ItcatchesquickerthanevenIcould have anticipated. Fromnothing, the skin tent leapsaflame with almost greedyenthusiasm, crackling away,

blowingourcover.There is clearly a sentry

on duty who makes a soundthat is best described as ayelp. I would imagine itwould have been a morecomprehensivealarmcallifithad not been cut short byMorrigan’s sword cleavingthrough his face. I hobblearound the tent, in theopposite direction toMorrigan,asquicklyasIcan.Withthesmallaidof thefire

and my night eyes, I canestablish that there are threetentsfacingintoacentralfirepit.Morriganstandsinthepitambushing the bewilderedsavages as they rush out. Ijoin him, enjoying the rareadvantageofsurprise.

The savages that are inthe tent currently ablaze arethose that find themselves inmost of a rush to exit. Theydo so panicked andunprepared.Morrigankillsall

of themwhilst I strike downtheconfusedpeopleemergingfrom the other tents.Approximately ten of them,includingalltheoccupantsofthe torched tent, are deadbefore they begin to gathersomesemblanceofanideaastowhatishappening.

Bythistime,atreenexttothe tent has also, somehow,caught fire. As the last manout of the burning tent isslain,Morrigan turns to face

the other two tents. Now, itbecomesmoredifficult.Whatmen and women are leftemerge together, armed andready, understanding thatthey have been ambushed.Some of these do not seemespecially proficient fighters,rushinginandfallingquickly.Their folly is probably ouronly saving grace, whittlingthe numbers down to asurvivablesixagainsttwo.

Morrigan,asever,springs

intohisalmostdemonicbattlemode. The real darknessabouthimisthatheonlyeverappears to be truly aliveduring a battle. Despite hisaffectation to chivalry, thereis somethingabout theactofkilling that he seems toactively enjoy.Asmuch as Ican carry contempt for thisattitude,Iamalsofullyawarethat it is probably one of theonly reasons that I remainalive. His size and presence

during a swordfight, head totoeinblack,issomethingthatmust truly terrify hisopponents.

And he is not our onlyadvantage here today. Wehave the advantage ofplanning, of knowledge, ofour weaponry, of not beingthrownfromourbedsbyfireand sword fighting. This,alongsideourdesperationandcertainty of death, keeps usdriving forward and on the

front foot. Morrigan, inparticular, seems possessed.Aswefighton,incapacitatingtwo ormaybe three of them,the tree continues to burnaggressively, perhapswelcoming the change fromthecold.

The fight, as othersbefore,beginstodevelopintoa pattern: Morrigan engagedwith more able and morenumerous combatants thanmyself whilst I fight around

theedges,oftenoutnumberedbutfightingtheyoungerboys,theskirmishersorthewomen.Usually, whilst doing this, Iam able to keep a tacticaloverview of the fight,understanding if there is aneed to retreat or to assistMorrigan. Necessity,meanwhile, has taughtme toincorporate my weaker kneeintomyfightingstyle.

On this occasion,however, I find myself

isolated and unsure whatMorriganisdoing.Somehow,I have ended up facing amuch fierceropponent than Icanhandleand,as isnatural,myattentiontunnelsonlyintothe act of surviving combatagainst her. Death burnsbrightly in this girl’s eyes.Evenwith twogoodknees, Iwouldn’tstandachance.

In an instant,we seem tobeapartfromthemainmeleeand facing off one against

one.Morrigan’s screams andgrunts sound distant. She is,withoutdoubt,themostadeptfighter I have faced sinceRam, not anywhere near aspowerful as that brute butmuch quicker, much moreprecise, screaming with furyas she wields her curvedblade towards me. Even theweapon isunusual,clearlyofa better quality than most ofthesesavages’.

Ifindmyselfforcedback,

parrying for my life, unableto even remove my eyes tosee where Morrigan is. Theinferno continues behindme,the flickering light reflectedin the girl’s eyes. She isdrivingmetowardsit.Astheblowspourdownuponme, Irealise that the only capacityfor choice I have is myfootwork. I must avoid theflames.Hopefully,then,Icanhold out long enough forMorrigan to save me. With

eachparry,andattheextremeedgeofmy fightingability, Itry to circle her round to theoppositedirection.

Bydoingthis,Iplaceherbetween the tree andmyself.This is about the best I canhope for. I continue to keepmystancelowanddefensive,tryingmy best to absorb herblows whilst remaining onthesamespot.Icanhearfaintsigns of a struggle comingfrom behind me. My heart

sinkswiththeknowledgethatI must only have secondsremaining; an underpoweredcombatant can only defendforsolong.Withoutwarning,aloudcrashsearsthroughthesky.Webothhesitate.

My position facing thetree gives me the tiniest ofadvantages; I know it is afalling branch before shedoes. Therefore, myhesitation is almostimperceptibly shorter than

hers. Thankfully, with thesharpness of death on myback, this is all theopportunity I need. Iinstinctively unleash a rightbootintoherundefendedand,crucially, unset midriff. Thissends her flying backwards,justa little tooearly toavoidthe burning log. The weightof it smashes her against thesnow, expelling a powderpuff into the air andextinguishing the flame. She

criesoutinanguish,trapped.IlookaroundtoMorrigan

only in time to see the lastman fall. Almostimmediately, he drops to hisknees inexhaustion. I surveywhat is left of the scene.Dawn is rising. Nothingmoves except the girl,struggling beneath thebranch. Conflicted, I movetowardsher.

It is clear now, in theemerging light of the

morning, that she is anadolescent girl, perhaps myown age. Her skin isexceptionally pale, even castagainstthesnowbeneathher.Her hair and eyes,meanwhile, arebothasblackasbloodinthemoonlight.AsI approach, defiance runswild in her eyes. She evenstops struggling, notwantingmetosensethatthebranchisanobstacletoher.Shehissesand spits something atme in

her own language. It soundsnothing like a request formercy. As a pragmatist, IknowthatIshouldkillher.

But it is not so easy.Some semblance ofcivilisation calls to me fromafar.This isnotwhatwedo.It is not what knights do.And, if I somehow survivethisordeal,Iwillbeaknight.Therefore,Iwillhavetolookmyself in theeyeasone.Forme, rules and oaths are not

something I can adjust as itsuits. The fact remains that Idonothavetokillthisgirlinordertosurvive.

It is not a matter ofemotion. Icoulddo it easily,if I wanted. I have no moreattachmenttoher thanIhavean aversion to murder. I amnotevenconcernedaboutthefact she isawoman. Instead,it is her defencelessness thatstills my hand. I have nodoubtthatIwouldtryandkill

her in battle should the needarise – not that I would beable to – and also that shewould not be having thissame debate if it were hercurved blade at my throat.Butisn’tithonourthatmakesaknightdifferent?Theabilitytodowhatisrightratherthanwhatiseasy?Lostinthought,I hear Morrigan crunchingtowardsme.

“Are they all dead?” hegrimaces. The morning light

reveals that he is nursing asignificant-looking wound tohis shoulder. The girl,maintaining her puffed-uppride, spits out yet anothervenomous-sounding curse toanswerhim.

“Why haven’t youfinishedher?”hegrowls.Hisusual nonchalance appears tohave drained from him.Instead, he seems shorttemperedandbitter.

“She’s trapped and

injured. I’m not going toexecuteher.”

“Why not?” He snapsback,clearlyinpain.

“Chivalry?” I say, notpolitely.Itdoesn’t takemuchtoangermethesedays.

“Fark chivalry, Goat.We’reonthehighwaytohellhere. We’re already dead.Whogivesashit?”

“I do,” I snap, matchinghim for temper. It is hewhois the good-natured one after

all.“These gwnts would kill

us in our sleep if we letthem.” He sighs, arm fixedfirmly across his shoulder,tryingtoholdthebloodin.

“These people aresavages.Mercy is one of themanyvirtuesthatsetsusapartfromthem.”

“Us?!Who is the fark is‘us’?!Thereisno‘us’.Thereis me and you and that’s it.We aren’t farking knights

anymore. I don’t know ifyou’ve noticed but we’refarking dying here. No onegives a gnat’s bollock whatwedo.”

At this declaration, hedraws his dagger and surgesforward towards the girl andher wooden prison.Instinctively, I step in hisway.

“Icare.Ifwesurvive,wehave to be able to lookourselvesintheeye.”

“Look… Goat…” Amenacing smile creeps backacross his face as he pushesme aside “She can countherselflucky…”

His sentence isinterrupted as I push himback. He seems to haveforgotten that I will not cowto anyone; his resistance hasnowinflamedtheargumentinmy eyes. I will ensure thatthisdevelopsintoaproblem.

“All this cold’smademe

forget what a stubborn prickyouwere.Alwaysgottowin,haven’t you?!” he smirks.Seemingly, something aboutmyfeistinesshassparkedhimback into amusement.However, he continuesmoving towards the girl,breezing me aside, fullyawarethatheis toopowerfulformetosubduealone.

“Just let me do it. Youknowit’sfor thebestaswellas I do. Her blood’s on my

hands, not yours,” he says,with an air of reconciliationin his voice. I, looming overhis shoulder, reach my handinto his gaping shoulderwoundandpullhardupon it.He whimpers like a smallchild.

“Ahaa! Fark! Youfarking… ahaa!” He rollsaround, clearly in a lot ofpain. Ikickhisdaggeraway.Inaflash,Irollthebranchoffthegirl.Iamnotsurewhatit

is that makes me do this.Perhaps I’ve lost my head.Theneedtoproveapoint,fora moment, becomes moreimportantthanmylife.

The girl jumps up andbacks away hesitantly. If sheis injured, she hides it well.Impressively, she has fullawareness of where hercurved blade landed andretrieves it almostimmediately. She stands in aready position, nervously

assessing the situation. I joinher in this assessment. I amquite prepared to fight heragain if she attacks but, bythe same coin, I am quitehappy to let her run if shefeelstheneed.Wehave,afterall, eliminated her tribealreadyand the spoilsof thatvictory will keep us alive.Morrigan backs himself upagainst a tree, clutching hiswound. He looks faint andpale in the weak morning

light.Realising that I am not

going to attack and thatMorriganisincapacitated,shedrops her blade and looks atmequestioningly.

“Go,”Ishout,makingthegesture.“Run!”

Hereyes followmyhandas I gesticulate, as though Imight be pointing tosomething.Insteadofrunningaway, she instead does theopposite, edging towards me

slowly with her hands out,palmsfacingthefloor.

Asshewalks towardsmein this slow and cautiousmanner, she keeps her blackeyesfixedfirmlyuponme.Itisclearthatsheiskeepingherhands in a position where itwill make me think shedoesn’t intend to draw aweapon.

“Farking kill her! Don’tget us killed to prove afarking point!” Morrigan

wails, his voice imbuedwithpain.

I stand stock still, withbaited breath, tryingmy bestnot to draw my sword. Oureyes are locked, bothbrimmingwithdistrust.Foramoment, the world seems tostop.Nothingstirsexcept theslowlyarrivingsun.

As she approaches, shedrops to her knees, bendsforward and offers me herwhite neck – the chance to

decapitate her. There is,though, no temptation. Iwould probably rather killMorrigan than bend to hiswill.

“She’s askingyou to killher!” he begs, consciousnessfadingfromhisvoice.

“Stand up,” I say to her,once again performing thegesture. She lifts her head,returning her eyes to mineand stands up, performing asort of bow.Her eye contact

is intense. Without warning,she thrusts a bloody fingerinto a wound on my face. Ibashitawayhurriedly.

“Oos,” she says, almostserenely.“Tooahvee.”

“What?” I reply, shakingmy head, trying my best tomake it clear that I don’tunderstand.

“Tooahvee,” she repliesslowly,as thoughI’mstupid.She gestures from her ownbody to mine as though this

mightmakesense.I shrug. She sighs and

looks around, back to herweapon, before holding ahanduptomyface.

“Stay-ee,”shecommands.“What?Doyouspeakmy

language?”Ireply.Her face blanks with

incomprehension. Is itpossible that the word justhappens to mean the samething? Evidence of a sharedheritageperhaps?

“Stay?”Imouthquietly.“Stay-ee,” She replies, a

slight enthusiasm in hervoice,gesturingtothespotonwhichIstand.

“Fine.Stay-ee,”Inod.Atthis,shepausesbefore

heading over to her weapon.She picks it up and places itatopheropenhands.Thoughstill nervous, I have the verystrongimpressionthatwearenolongerinbattle.Returning,she holds her weapon out

towardme.Her face isgraveand solemn. I take a looktowards Morrigan, slumpedunconscious against the tree,beforeItaketheblade.

It is a wonderful, ornateweapon that is nothing likethenormaldullironthatthesesavagesusuallyhold. In fact,Iwouldventure tosay that itis even better made thananything I have seen in myown kingdom. Both thestrength of the steel and the

sharpness of the blade areremarkable. However, themost eye-catching aspectmust be the small creaturesengravedalloverit,coveringthe open blade and the bonehandle. They are smallcreatures that, given the frailexamples I knowof, seem tobe an unusual choice. Theyarescorpions.

Twenty“I don’t trust her,” I

whisper, swaddled in fur,from my admittedlycomfortable sick bed. Thegirl,Shara,shockedathowillwe were, has taken it uponherself to nurse us back tohealth.AsIspeak,shehandsme a big, hearty bowl ofbroth. Much to my mind’sdisdain, my mouth fills with

saliva.“Why?” Morrigan

answers, greedily wolfingdown his own broth. He iswrapped up in his own fursnexttome.

“Well, what’s all thisabout?”Igrunt,gesturingoutinto the icy prison where Iseemtobetrapped.Alogfirecracklesgentlyinthemiddle,filling the room with thesmellofroastrabbit.

“If shewanted to kill us,

shecouldhavekilledusboththat day, thanks to you,”comesthereply,slurpedfromthebottomofabowl.

“Speak for yourself.Maybe she wants to kill usslowly,”Ireply.

“You’ve spent the lastweek,warm and secure, in asnow den that she’s dug forus from the frozen ground.She’s nursed us both backfrom the brink of death.You’veeatensomanyrabbits

that you should probablychangeyoursignintoone…”

“Ijustdon’ttrusther.Shedoesn’t like me,” I repeat,using my spoon to pecktentativelyatthesteaminghotbroth.

“Enjoying her cookingthough?”

“It could be poisoned forallIknow.”

“Well, it’s some poisonthatamancaneatfiveorsixbowls of it a day and still

survive.”“Pah.”“Poor old Ser Goat.

Always has to be right,”Morrigan sneers. His oldwarmthseemsgraduallytobereturning.

“We’d be dead withouther,”hecontinues.

“So you keep saying…butitdoesn’tmakeanysense.We killed her tribe.Something’s not right here.You know that boy, that

Ram?”“Ohyeah.Thatlunatic.”“Well, he was their

prisoner,wasn’the?Yousaidtheyweregoingtoeathim.”

“Well, that was theimpression I got. Yeah, butlook what happened when Isuggestedittohim.Icouldbecompletely wrong, Isuppose.”

“No. You were right. Hedidn’t know it but theywerefattening him up. Theywere

going to eat him,” I reply.Thoughts of that boy, sostrange with his burningchestnut features, havecrossedmymindonoccasionsince.Theclueswerethereinthe burrow that day: theirinvasivehugs,theirlecherouseyes, the almost luxurioussurplusoffood,themanacles.With hindsight, our beingallowed to leave seemsstranger and stranger.Part ofme regrets not having been

abletosavehim.“Where are you going

with this? You think she’sfatteningusup?! If that’s thecase, she’s got await on herhandswith you,” he answerscheerfully, snuggling backdownintohisfur.

“Well maybe that’s whatthese people do…Maybe fatisadelicacy,”Iwhisper.

“You’re crazy. Have youheardyourself?!Mostpeoplewhogetgivenabowlofbroth

are grateful for it. You,meanwhile, are so suspiciousthatyoufarkingthinkthey’reusing it to fatten you up.You’ve slid a long way,sprat.”

“What’s your explanationthen?”Ispit.

“Well…Forsomereason,and despite your being anawkward, miserablemisanthrope, you saved herlife,didn’tyou?I’mguessingshe feels bound to you now.

Notlikeyouleftherahellofalotofchoicethere,wasit?”

“Oh. So you still think Ishould have killed her, doyou?”Isnap.

“Well, she’d probably bea lot happier. Haven’t seenhersmileyet.”

“We’dbedeadthough,”Icomment.

“Yes,Goat,wewould bedead. Congratulations. Youwin.”

At this concession, I sigh

androllover to face thewallof the snow hut. There is adeep conflict within me. Iwant, perhaps need, this girl,thisShara, tobeonour side.Her skills in the wildernesshave already been provedbeyond immeasurable doubt;weareeatingbetterthaneverand, most importantly, shehas saved our lives with thisingenious den made frombricksofsnow.Thereisevensome semblance of truth in

the explanation provided byMorrigan. Perhaps she hasbecomeboundtousbysomesense of honour. Maybe thisishowthetribesoperate.

But the counter argumentstillsticksinmygut.Wemayhavekilledher family.Whenshe fought me, she foughtwith such emotion and furythat Ihad, for an instant, feltmy death was certain. Evennow, her treatment of us isalmost entirely cold.

Everything she has given us;every meal, every healingtouch, even this shelter; isdelivered with nothing otherthan sullen resentment. Thelanguage barrier only servestomakethingsmoredifficult.The disparity between herkind actions and frostydemeanour have made her acomplete enigma to me, andif there is one thing I don’tlike,itisunpredictability.

“Shara,” Morrigan calls

out, as casually as he mightcalloveraservingmaidathislocal tavern. Hearing this, Iroll back over to see whatnew game he is going toattempt to play. She,meanwhile,looksupfromherown resting spot, located asfarawayaspossiblefromus.

“Shara, our beautifulscorpion, come over here,would you?” he croons.Morrigan’s attempts toseduce Shara are proving to

be as obvious as they arefruitless. The most glaringerror thathe ismaking ishisblind insistence on talking toherasthoughsheunderstandswhathe is saying.Thishidesthe second error he wouldotherwise bemaking: talkingto her in amanner that is, atonce, patronising, flippant,sarcastic and seeminglygeared to be asmuch for hisown amusement as anycredibleattemptatseduction.

Whenshefailstorespond,hebeckons her over with hishands. At this, she rises andmoves towards us. Morriganrises from his furs and sitscrosslegged.

“Thanks for the broth,Shara. Fantastic. The bestbroth I’ve had sincelunchtime.”

She looksathimblankly,not even bothering to feignunderstanding. Instead, thereis an impatient air about her,

as though she is justwaitingfor him to finish mumblingwhatevermeaninglesssoundsheismakinginorderthatshecan return toherownhalfoftheden.

“Comeon,sitdown!Ibetyou’ve got some stories forus!” he continues, gesturingtothefloor.

She looks at me for aninstant before sitting. Shedoes sowith the same silent,defiant obedience that has

characterised everything elseshehasdoneuptonow.

“I think it might havebeenyourfatherthatgavemethis wound, you know. Hellof a fighter, he was. Almosthad me, you know. Bet he’skilled some people in histime,hey?”

Her response is probablynotalotdifferentfromhowitwould have been even if shehadunderstood:silence.

“What on earth makes

you think that that’s areasonable thing to talkabout?”Isnap.

“I’m just trying to testyour theory, Gruffydd. Calmdown.”

“She doesn’t understandanyway,”Igrowl,mytemperrapidly approaching boilingpoint.Irollawayoncemore.

“Let’s talk aboutsomething different. Shara,have you ever heard ofBrightstone?”hecontinues.

“Bry-ee-ston?” shereplies. For a moment, thetiniest sliver of emotionenters her voice. This isenough to bring me backround to face theconversation. I interruptbefore Morrigan can fumblethistinychinkofhope.

“Yes, Brightstone,” Ireply, more slowly anddeliberately than I fearMorrigan would have done.Accompanyingthesewords,I

spreadmyhandsasthoughtosuggestalargeplace.

“Bry-ee-ston?” shereplies, matching my handgestures. She does socautiously. Her pale face, sotaken to scowling, begins tosoften somewhat, and hereyesandmouthwiden.

Thus ensues the firstmeaningful interaction thateither of us have had withShara since we met. Itdevelops slowly, through

hand gestures and carefulutterances, but it is soonbecoming clear that this so-called ‘savage’ is perhapsquickerwittedthanbothofuscombined. She is certainlybeginning to understand usmuch more quickly than weare able to understand her.Unfortunately, the word‘Brightstone’ is, to her, aword laden with fear andmisgiving. I can tell that itperturbs her. As

understanding dawns, a grimsolemnity seems to growacrossherface.

Finally,andmorequicklythan we could haveanticipated, she is able toutter her first-ever words inourlanguage.

“We.”Shepointstous.“Go.” She points out the

door.“Bry-ee-ston?”“Yes! Yes! We go

Brightstone!!”MorriganandI

are both so shocked, soexcited, at this developmentthatweboth seem to splutterthese words out at the sametime. Happiness and hope,those two most foreign offeelings,surgethroughme.

“No,” she continues, herface black with fear, “no nonononononowegoBry-ee-ston.”

Twenty-oneAs we journey onward,

Shara’s attitude towardsBrightstone is proving aspeculiarasitisdisconcerting.She is determined toaccompany us there yet isequally determined todissuadeus fromgoing.Thissituation is especially vexingtomebecause she is entirelyunwelcome.Thereappears to

benothingthatcanbesaidordone to rid myself of herassistance. Whenever Iattempt to banish her, shereturns with morsels of ourlanguage - ‘blood’, ‘sword’,‘life’–garbledoutas thoughI am supposed to understandwhat she is trying to say.Thesewords,alongwith‘no’,‘go’ and ‘Bry-ee-ston’, havequickly become favourites ofhers.

And,asifitwerenotbad

enough that she is harder toshake than the cold frommybones, she appears at alltimes to be thoroughlydepressed. Her expression,day to day, is so sullen andmorose than I must actuallyappear quite carefree incomparison. This fact has,ironically enough, proven tobe a source of no smallamusementtoMorrigan.

Despite my misgivings,hercompanyhaschangedthe

entirecomplexionofourtrek.This is because there was,beforewemether,asenseofboth desperation and prideabout our situation.Weweredesperate because we weredying. Every decision wemade was, quite literally,vital. Yet, at the same time,wewere proud. Proud of thefact that we hadn’t yet died.Proud of the fact that weseemed to have what it tookto survive. Proud of the fact

that we seemed to actuallyknow what we were doing.ThepresenceofSharahasputan end to both of thesedelusions.

A lifetime in thewilderness has made her soadept at the basics that sheseems almost nonchalant incarrying them out. We soonlearn that almost everythingwe’ve been doing is wrong;we’d been making ourshelters bigger than we

needed, in thewrongkindofsnow; our fires burned tooquickly;andeven theway inwhich we’d been preparingourfoodhadprovedwasteful.With each inadequacy thatshenotices,sheshowsnojoy.Instead, her expressions andmanner scarcely conceal thecontempt that she holds forus. Not an hour goes bywhereIdon’twishshewouldleave.

Her fighting prowess, an

asset that I know personallyto be extremely dangerous,has not come to the foreeither;itisclearlyaskillthatshedoesnotunleashuntilitisabsolutelynecessary. Instead,we find ourselves travellingwithanalmostsavagestealth,tracking through theincreasingly forested terrainlikeshadows.

As the tree coverincreases and the dayslengthen, so the snowfall

begins to lighten. Slowly,piece by piece, it feels thatlife is returning to us. Tosomeone like Morrigan,returning to both his naturalbulk andgoodhumour, thereappearstobenocaveattothisreversal in fortune. I,however, cannot relax. Inordertotrustsomeone,Ineedtounderstand them.This girlprovides nothing but anenigmatome.Theonlythingthat I do know for certain is

that she is taking us in theright direction. She is alsoabsorbing our language at areasonable enough rate tomakeherselfunderstood.Weareaboutthreeweeksintoheracquaintance when she stopssharplyinthedeepestforest.

“Many man here,” shegrunts, pointing to a varietyof tracks in the surroundingmud. “Snowman here. TheyhuntBrightstone.”

Silently, I survey the

scene. She is, as always,right.Thereismoreevidenceofhumanactivity in thispartof theforest thanIhaveseensince I left Ynys Gwyn –tracks in the mud, brokenbranches, trampledvegetation.

“An army?” asksMorrigan, echoing my worstthoughts.

“What is anarmy?” shereplies.

“Many men that hunt,”

Morrigan answers. It is theseinterchanges, and his trust inher to understand, that seemtobedevelopingherlanguagequicker than could beimagined.

“Then, yes, anarmy.Snow man anarmy.Brightstone dangerous. Wediethere.”

“Shara, if I’ve told youonce, I’ve told you athousandtimes.Yougo.YounocomeBrightstone.Youare

free,”Isnap.“No no, we go

Brightstone.Goatmanwantsdie,”shesnapsback.Hertonecontinues the passiveaggression that she seems tobe developing almost asquickly as her control of thelanguage.

“Howfarthen?”“Two days. But

dangerous. Many man here.Anarmy.”

“Then we must be

careful.”“Goat man wise,” she

replies mockingly.Morrigan’s chucklescompletetheinsult.

Twenty-twoIt is only several days

later that we awake to themost unusual sensation: awarmsun.Thegentlewarmthcoaxes me from my sleepwithatinglethatimmediatelyreminds me of home. For afraction of a second, I halfexpect to hear my father, tosmell the scentof curedgoatagainst the fragrant summer

air.Instead,Iopenmyeyesto

see our camp dotted withgoldenshaftsoflightpiercingthrough the trees above. Ihave seen some beautifulsights passing through thefrozenwastes but no amountof winter beauty, so frigidandaloof,cancomparetothisalmost forgotten sight. Thesun, so seemingly impotentfor the vast majority of thisjourney, has finally found its

voice.“Beautiful or what?”

croaks Morrigan, sleep stillnot entirely gone from hisvoice.

“Well, there’s hardly anysnow around at all is there?What did you expect?” Ireply, climbing to my feet.Morrigan, still on his back,doesn’trespond.

I take a second to enjoythe fact that the cold hasn’tcompelledmetoimmediately

‘fur up’ and, instead, use theopportunity to stretch andlook around. Birds chatter inthe trees above. Shara isnowhere to be seen. It mustbe one of the best starts to aday that I’ve had since lastsummer.

I can’t get too excitedabout Shara’s absencethough. She always rises atdawn in order to hunt andI’ve no doubt that she willsoon be returning, face like

thunder, laden with freshgame, ready to preparebreakfast.Ibegintolayafire.

It is some time laterbefore she returns. She hasnothing in her hands and herface is fierce and alert. Thisface,combinedwithherbriskyet careful movement,immediately suggests there’ssomethingwrong.

“End fire,” she whisperssharply. Despite it being awhisper, it carries quite

comfortably across theclearing. To accompany thiscommand,shestrikesherlefthandsharplyacrossherbody.

“Crow man get up. Mancome.Brightstonemancome.Wehide.”

I hastily extinguish thefireusing the earthdug fromthe pit where I laid it. Weboth follow her, almostwithout question. Before weeven understand what ishappening, we are concealed

withindenseundergrowth.“Crow man stay. Crow

man loud. Goat man follow.You see Brightstone man,”shewhispers. I look into herwild eyes and note thedilationofherpupils.This isherinthemidstofbattle–socareful, so aware. Almostfrightened of my ownfootsteps,Ifollowherbacktothefrontofthefoliage.

“Down!” she snaps.“Look.”

Throughthebushes,Icanjust make out three menentering the clearing where,onlymomentsbefore,wehadbeen asleep. The first thingthat stands out is theirarmour.Theyarewearingfullplate. If Ididn’tknowbetter,I would say that it was goldplate. There is somethingalmost divine about the waythe morning light bouncesfromthem.

Two of them are big,

powerful men at least thesamesizeasMorrigan, ifnotbigger. The third is muchslighter in comparison and isthe only one not wearing ahelmet. His eyes flickeraround the bushes, scanningfor signs of life. One of thebigger ones inspects the fire,which is still hot, while theother one investigates thehastilyvacatedsleepingpits.Iam in no doubt that theyknowtheyverynearlycaught

someone.ForthefirsttimeIrealise

that, to them,wewill appearas nothing but savages. Theonly difference between usand the savages is Vesta’scipher that we both havehidden in our underclothes.Butwouldweevenhavetimeto reveal this to them beforethey tried to kill us?Something within me doubtsthis very much. I suddenlyrealisewhySharahasbeenso

concerned: even if wesucceed in reaching thegatesof Brightstone, we will bekilledonthespot.

The men grumblebetween themselves inhushedvoices.Theyarequiteclearlyonedge. I reason thatthey must surely be awarethat there is a good chancethey’rebeingwatchedand,assuch, are at risk of ambush.The eyes of the smallermando not leave the bushes but

theonlyconsolationisthatheis not watching our area anycloser than the rest of theclearing.Hecannothaveseenus.

“We kill?” whispersShara.

“Wefollow,”Ireply.Herresponse, an exasperatedbreath,tellsmeallthatIneedtoknow.

Twenty-threeWetrackthementhrough

theforestformostoftheday.The sun in the skywarns usthat they do not seem to beheading towards the locationof Brightstone as written onourmap.Instead,theyappearto be carrying out some sortof circular tour, perhaps apatrol.

More than ever, I am

beginning to realise thatthings would be verydifferent without Shara. Herexpertiseinstalkingisalmostfrightening. She seems toinstinctively considereverything:thebearingofthesun, the shadows that itcreates and the direction ofthe prevailing wind. She iseven synchronised with thefluctuatingalertness levelsofeach individual man: “Smallmannever stops.”Wewould

nothavebeenable todo thiswithouther.

She has even learned tocompensate forourunhelpfulpresence. Whilst I am fairlylight and quick on my toes,Morriganhasallthestealthofhis own big black battlesteed.Even thisdisadvantageseems to be manageable forSharawho,likeawolfmothermoving her cubs, shows himaplacetohideeachtimeandonlymoveshimonwhenitis

safetodoso.Even more impressive is

thewaythatshehasmanagedto maintain the hunt whilststill finding time to criticisethe decision to follow them.Every opportunity she gets,she manages to find time togrumble about how ‘the goatmanwantstodie’.

Morriganand I, however,both agree that we need tofollowthesemen.Weneedtofind an opportunity to

introduce ourselves to themwhen they are off guard.Weare hoping that thisopportunity will occur whenthey set up camp for ameal.Wearenottoknow,however,that the opportunity is abouttooccurmuchsooner.

Eventually, they areambushed. As it occurs, Isuddenly realise that it wasinevitable; golden armour isnot exactly conducive tostealth. A large group of

savages, perhaps twenty orso, rise from the woods asseamlessly as if the treesthemselves had come to life.Morrigan,amanincapableofstandingby, trundles into thebattle without so much as asecond thought. Shara castsme a glance as though torequest permission and Isimply nod. It all happensincrediblyquickly.HadIhadmore choice, I might havewaited to see how the fight

developed before entering.Now, however, within aninstant of the ambush, I findmyself lost in the confusionofbattle.

It turns out that weneedn’t have joined sohastily. For the men ofBrightstone are clearly not asofttarget.Theirgoldenplatearmour seems almostimpenetrable to theunsophisticated savageweaponry and yet, at the

same time, scarcely hinderstheir movement. The chosenspot of ambush, designed tobe tight and restrictive forthese golden juggernauts,doesn’t seem to have giventhesavagesonecentimetreofadvantage. Instead, theyalmost appear to be brokenfrom the time that they seeMorrigan lurching towardsthem from the fringes of thebattle. Several of theirnumber are dead before I

even arrive. I, meanwhile,having never fought in abattleofsuchsizebefore,amnot entirely sure what Ishouldbedoing.

As I approach, I quicklyscan the action unfoldingaroundme.Sharaisgone,nodoubt hunting down thearchers and skirmishers thatare hiding on the fringes.Morrigan is carving his waythrough theright flankof theambush. The small

Brightstone soldier is on theground with an arrowprotruding from his neck.One of the bigger ones is onthe far side of the battle,moving through it with thesame professional ease asMorrigan. The other one iscloser tome and holding hisown against four savages,including two who arecomfortably larger thanMorrigan. It is hewho lookslikeheisinthemosttrouble.

My arrival immediatelymakes an impact, if only forthe confusion it causes. Imanageadamagingswipe tothe legofoneof the savagesthat sends him to his knees.This brings me the attentionof one of the hammer men,virtuallyagiant,who firesatme a clumsy and easilyavoidable swipe of hishammer. This distractionaffords the gold man theopportunity he needs to

dispatchhim.Unfortunately though, it

is here that the gold manmakesthewrongdecision.Hetakes me into his sights,clearlyhavingfailedtorealisethatIhavealreadyfelledoneof his ambushers. I amscarcely able to parry acouple of his blows awaybefore he is sent, quiteliterally, flying by a fiercehammer blow to the chestfrom the other hammerman.

With this simple devastatingact,Ifindmyselffightingtwomen, one of whom is twicemy size and carrying atremendous warhammer. Ittakesvirtuallyallmyefforttokeep out of its range. Theman’s face, coloured brownwith some sort of paint, is amask of rage and I at onceunderstandIhavenochance.

Fortunately though, therest of the battle has beenswift and brutal and, as a

result,heisprobablytheonlysavage worth his salt left onthe battlefield. I am able todefendmyselfjustaboutlongenough to be rescued byMorrigan who plunges hissword deep into the giant’sback.Afterhavingdone this,he takes down the othersavage quite easily in analmost nonchalant exchangeoftwoorthreeswordblows.

About fifty metres away,the last gold man standing

fells the last savage standingand turns his weapontentativelyinourdirection.Itis only now I realise that hissword is sheathed. Theweapon he holds in his handlooks like an iron tubeattached to a piece of wood;not especially threatening.Morrigan raises his sword inadefensivestance,holdsupasingle hand, and stepstowards the man. Withoutwarning, something explodes

from the weapon. Morriganand I both jump from ourskins, terrified. Birds scatteroutofthetreesaboveus.Myfirst instinct is that it issomekind of magic. Shara isnowheretobeseen.

“Ho!” shouts Morrigan,just about managing to hidethepanicinhisvoice,“Ho!”

I, meanwhile, rushhurriedly to remove thecipherhanded tousbyVestafrom my undergarments. As

soonasIfindit,Ithrowitonthefloorandgesturetoit.AsIdothis, theothergoldman,the one sent flying by thehammerblow,managestogetbacktohisfeet.Heraiseshisweapon to us in a similarmannertohiscompanion.Bitby bit, they edge their waytowards the note on theground.Oneofthem,theonewithout thedent inhis chest,drops down to the floor verybriefly to collect it. His

friend, meanwhile, keeps hisexplodingweapon trained onMorrigan. The only thing Ican hear is the racing ofmypulse as he slowly inspectsthenote.

Whatever wording it isthat the note contains seemsto be enough for them tolower their weapons. Theytalk to each other in alanguage that sounds entirelydifferent from any of theother tongues we have heard

on our journey so far. Thislanguage is amuch bounciersoundingone,onethatsoundslike they actually enjoytalking,andquitedifferent tothe guttural grunts of thevarious savageswehavemetso far. It is only now that Inotice that theirplatearmourhas a large sun shapeembossedonthefront.Inourkingdom, it would cost afortune. In fact, it might notevenbepossibletomake.

“So then, chaps, can youtake us to Brightstone ornot?” asks Morrigan, asoblivious as ever to thebarriers of language. Visorsup, they turn towards him atmention of the word‘Brightstone’ and their eyesalight with a flicker ofrecognition.

“Brightstone,” thedentlessonereplies,nodding.Themannerinwhichhesaysitsoundstomequiteafactual

one, as though Brightstonewas the answer to thequestionthatMorriganasked.

There is a very definitestillnessintheair.Nobodyisquitesurewhatthenextmoveis or how it is going toproceed. The birds above uscontinue to chatterpeacefully, the sun continuesto cast its gentle light and,somewhere around us, Sharamustbewatching.

The men continue their

discussion.Theydosoloudlyand with quite a degree ofgesticulation. So much so infact that it is hard to tellwhether they are arguing orwhether it is just the generalenthusiasmof their language.Fromtheirgestures,Iamableto surmise that they arediscussing not only us butalsotheirfallencolleagueandthe number of dead savagesthat surround us. Anuncomfortable amount of

timepassesbeforeanythingisdecided.

They gesture for us todrop our weapons, which Ido,butonlyintheknowledgethat Morrigan always has ashort sword concealed andthat Shara is sure to bewatching over us. They thengestureforustosit.Fromthewaytheyshoutwheneveroneofussomuchasturnstolookat the other, it is quite clearthat they don’t want us to

move.Whilst we remain still,

they take the time to stripallthe corpses, including that oftheirfallenfriend,ofanythingof value. They then placethese items, a few weaponsand some armour, in a pilenext tous.After this isdone,they go about burying theirfriend. They do so solemnly,and, as soon as his body iscovered, make a few wordsand gestures that I interpret

as a form of prayer. Duringthis whole process, one ofthem always has half an eyeon Morrigan and me. WithShara’s likely presenceforminga comfort tobothofus, we meekly comply withtheirorders.

When this is done, theyoffer me the armour of theirfallen friend. The idea ofwearingsomethingthatamanhas just died in seems rathergrim to me and I politely

refuse. However, theirresponse to my refusal, araised sword, makes it quiteclear that the initial ‘offer’wasn’t,infact,anofferatall.Ichangemymindanddecidethat this isnotanissuethatIwillletthemkillmeover.AsI strap up, I quickly becomeaware of why it is they areaskingmetowearit; it isfarto cumbersome to carry andyet, at the same time, surelytoo valuable to leave. I can

barelywalk and, at the sametime, find myselfuncomfortably hot. I don’thave thepatience to find thisrapid swing in temperatureevenvaguelyamusing.

AssoonasIamready,weleave in convoy. I had beenhalf expecting them to tie usup but they seem happyenough at our docility andwith the fact that they arecarryingourweapons.Oneofthemleadsuswhilsttheother

one follows behind. Theymake it quite clear that theydo not expect us to say aword.

As what is quite clearlyour captivity continues, Ibegin to find myselfwonderingwhenandifSharais going to attempt to rescueus. In doing so, I am facedwith my feelings about thegirl. Perhaps they are notsuch hard feelings as I firstthought. Even the fact that I

expect her to rescue us istelling me something. WhyonearthshouldIbeexpectinghertorescueme?

In fact, I don’t evenunderstand the nature of herallegiance to us. I’ve beenwanting to rid myself of herfor weeks – surely she hasusedthisasheropportunitytoleave? But if she wanted toleavethenshecouldhaveleftweeks ago, of her ownvolition. This contradiction

seems to cast light on thecomplicated nature of myfeelings towardsher.A largepart of me is disappointedthat she appears to haveabandonedus,butyetanevenlarger part of me is almostsure that she wouldn’t.Perhaps the greatest surpriseof all tome is the realisationthat I would be disappointednot to see her again. Not asinglepartofmewantsthat.

Twenty-fourThesunisonthevergeof

setting when we catch ourfirst glimpse of Brightstone.Cast in the glorious gold ofthe sun setting behind it, itappears tousassomesortofutopia as we rise over thecrest of this huge fortifiedhill. From our vantage point,we can see a peninsulaattached by a bridge to a

seriesofislandsspreadoutinfront of us, all stacked withevidence of civilisation, eachreaching further and furtherout into the boat-speckledsea. The smallest of theseislands contains only onebuilding – a building withglittering golden domes thatis so large and resplendentthatitcanonlybeapalace.IfitisapalacethenitmakestheoneatTallakarnseemlikemyfather’stoolshed.

The hill we are standingupon clearly now lies at thebulwark of some ongoingbattle between thiscivilisation andwhoever it isthatliesoutthereinthesnow.The distinction between thehuge forested islands behind,pockmarked with scorchedvillages, and the small,heavily populated islandsahead could not be anyclearer. The huge wroughtiron gate, encased in stone,

that we have passed throughtoreachthispanorama,couldprovide no greater testamenttothatfact.

It is only the peninsulaand the largest of the islandsthatappeartohaveanyspaceatallonthem.Theotherthreeall appear at this distance tobenothingmorethanclustersof houses. They are nothinglike the houses of homeeither. There is no dark slateor Kernowek granite here.

Although the sun flooding infrom behind them makesthemappeargold,theyareinfactmoreofamixtureof tanandwhite.

Silently, I attempt tomemorise this image in thevain hope that it will lastforever.Asthelightdies,myeyes do their best to scanevery piece of it. What liesbeforeme ismore incrediblethan anything I could everhave dreamed of. Nothing

fromhome, not the palace atTallakarn, not the great gateat Arberth, can compare towhat I am seeing here. Thescale of achievement, ofadvancement, hidden awayon the other side of thisfrozen waste, is incredible.The island palace, with itsgargantuan golden domes,looks like something thatcouldonlyexistinthefuture.But it is not the architecturealone that creates this

awestruck emotion, it is thedisbelief.

It is thedisbelief that thiscould be an entirely separatecivilisation.Beforemestandsakingdomthat,monthsago,Iwould have said didn’t exist.Even weeks ago, it onlyexisted as a forlorn hope inmydesperatemind.The ideathat two civilisations couldhave not only survived butevolvedonthisfrozenisland,so isolated, so far apart,

seems fantastical to me. Ihave no idea what awaits –the similarities, thedifferences – nopreconceptionsaboutwhat toexpect. All I possess is theknowledge that, somehow, Ihavemadeit.That,somehow,Ihavereachedthisplace,thisutopia, hidden away on theothersideoftheworld.Icasta glance at Morrigan who iswearing as big a smirk as Ihave ever seen. For once, I

amabletoreturnhissmile.Not long after passing

through the gate, we are ledinto the hilltop keep that sitsbehind it. The entrance hall,made from red stone, is acavernous room with notmany differences to the fewsqualid guards’ quarters Ihave seen back home. Thereis not much here other thandoors into other rooms. Pilesof armour languish in the farcorners whilst the two rows

of long wooden tables areprobably where the soldierssit to eat when the castle isfully occupied. We arequickly moved on though,and escorted into a muchsmallerroom.

This room could quiteeasily be a cell. It alsocontains nothing but a tableand four chairs.Once inside,weare invitedtositandthenprovided with some much-needed food and drink. The

drink isadark,bitteralcoholwitharichredcolourandthemeal is strange and ratherunpleasant: a stodgy, grainystewwithanalmostperfumedtaste to it. We wolf it downnevertheless.Our twoescortsleaveusatthispoint.

“Who’d have thought it,hey sprat?” slurps Morrigan,face down in his meal. “Weactuallymadeit.”

“We’re not there yet,” Igrimace, not forgetting the

fact that we are effectivelybeingheldcaptive.

“Ha ha. That’s the bestthing about you.You alwaysknow how to look on thebright side,” he smirks. “Idon’tknowhowI’dhavegotthrough without your cheeryoptimismtokeepmewarm.”

Idon’treply.“Looks like some place,

though, this. I could picturemyself staying here. Asexotic as it may seem, sprat,

it’s actually us who are theexoticoneshere.Beingexoticopens up a lot of doors, I’dimagine.LookatthewaytheBwlch are treated backhome…”

“We’re here to do a job,remember. That’s ifwe evengetthere.”

“Job? You know as wellas I do we were sent on afool’s errand. No oneexpected us to get here andno one will expect us to go

back. It’s an opportunity.We’ll be famous here. Thinkabout the money, theladies...”

“When someone asks metodoajob,Igetitdone.”

“It’s amazing really.You’reoneofthefewpeoplealive who has seen bothTallakarn and Brightstone –notonlythatbutyou’veseeneverything in between –andyet, somehow, you are stilloneofthemostboringpeople

alive. It’s actually ratherimpressive when you thinkabout it.” Morrigan chucklesto himself as he says this. Iturn and look him in the eyewithout even a touch ofhumour.

“You do what you wantand what you think is right,but let me tell you, I amgoing to find this so-called‘Son of God’ and take himhome. Ever since the day Ileft, I’ve been dreaming of

the look on the face of theking when I walk back in.Sometimes that feeling is theonly thing that’s kept megoing at night.You’re a foolifyouthinkabitoffameandfortune is going tocompensate for thatsatisfaction.”

“Oh,nextyou’llbetellingmethathumbleoldSerGruffis going to return to thegoatfieldwhenhegetsback.”

“You couldn’t be more

wrong.When I get back, I’llhave every single bit of thefame and fortune that’scoming to me. That wouldactually be deserved… Wedeserve better than to befawned over as exoticnovelties.”

“That,myfriend,iswherewediffer. I think that soundsfan-farking-tasticmyself.”

“Well then, I supposewe’ll be parting ways whenwegetthere.”

“Ha ha. You farkingwould as well, wouldn’tyou?”

“Iwouldwhat?”“Just leavemehere, after

allwe’ve been through!Youwouldn’t even say goodbye,would you? I’d justwake upone morning and you’d begone.”

“Ididn’trealisethatIwasimportant to you,” I sigh,surprised.

“Do you not think we’re

friends now?After all we’vebeen through? Who in theworldknowsmoreaboutyouthan I do? We’re partners.We’ve come through ittogether,haven’twe?”

“I suppose. I’d not reallythought about it like thatbefore. But you’re right… Iwould most definitely leavewithoutyou.Itwouldbeyourchoice to disobey orders, notmine.”

“Ha ha! You wouldn’t

even think twice, wouldyou?”

“No. But I wouldprobably say farewell if thatmakesyoufeelanybetter?”Ireply, “it wouldn’t bepersonal. I’ve got a job todo.”

Our conversationcontinuesinthismannerforalittle while. I find myselfmore than a little touchedbyMorrigan’s feeling that anactual genuine bond has

grown between us. I realisethat this is not somethingparticularlyunusualforamanlike him – such ordealsprobably do bind peopletogether–but it is, however,unusualforme.Iamnotusedto such camaraderie. Indeed,the idea of growing so closeto another person that I amfacedwithactuallyhaving toconsider their feelings stillseems an awfully long wayoff. Nevertheless, I could

havehadworsecompanions.We have some time to

ourselves before we areinterrupted. The gold-platedmen who enter the room aredifferentmentotheoneswhoescorted us here. There areseven of them this time andtheyenterthroughbothdoors,ensuring that we have noavenue for escape. One ofthem,clearlypossessingrank,seemsparticularlyangrywithus andwhatever it is that he

says to us is said with suchcontempt that it’s quite clearto me that we’re going tohaveaproblem.

There is no point inresisting; there are too manyofthemandtheyaretoowellarmed. I let them do as theywish,submittingmyhandstotheirbindingsandclosingmyeyes as the blindfold isattached.ThelastthingIhearas I am carted roughly awayisMorrigan.

“Some farking welcomepartythisis!”

Twenty-fiveI have been in this gaol

for twenty-seven days. Iknow this because I’ve keptcount. I have not seen orspoken to anyone in duringthis time. Despite this, myconfinement,initself,hasnotbeen that bad. My bed isreasonablycomfortable, I amprovided with new blanketsonaweeklybasis,thetoiletis

connected to a sewer systemand, most importantly, thefood is regular and plentiful.Furthermore, the dark redalcohol that accompaniesevery meal has a curiousnumbingqualitytoitandthishelps to pass the time wellenough.

For some reason, I havealso been provided withseveral Brightstone books.The remarkable thing aboutthese books is that they do

not look handwritten butinstead have a quality whereit looks as thougha templatehas been dipped in ink andpressed on to the page.Despite the fact that I don’tunderstandaword, theyhaveprovidedmewith an endlessfascination. Indeed, I havelearnedthatifonehasalotoftime to kill, it is probablyeven more enlightening tohave a book written in alanguage that one does not

know than it is to have onewritten in one’s nativetongue.

This is because thestimulation that comes fromtrying to unravel the hiddenrules of the language, thesyntaxandthestructureofit,is much more enduring thansimply reading a book.Indeed, as time has passed, Ihave becomemore andmorecertain of the meaning of ahandfulofthewords.Despite

not recognising the symbols,less still understanding thesounds that they represent, Istillmanage to find a degreeof enjoyment in working outwhich symbol combinationsoccursomuchthattheymustbethecommonwords.

Until today, the guardshave come and gonewithoutsaying a single word. I amunable to see their approachand they simply depositwhatever they are delivering

through themetal flap at thedoor and walk away. Theyhave not spoken a singlewordtomeandhaveignoredmyeveryshout.

Using only the pattern oftheirfootsteps,Ihavelearnedto identify that thereare fourdifferentguardswhovisitme,working twelve hour duties.Thefact thatapersoncanbeidentified by their footstepsalone is another revelation tome, another testament to the

way in which a bored mindwillseekoutstimulationevenin the most bleak ofsituations.

Today, I am expecting tohear the footsteps of a manwith a slight limp and this iswhy, upon hearing whatwould best be described as ashuffling approach, my earsimmediately prick up. Apotential change in duties isperhaps the most excitingthingthathashappenedtome

for weeks. I have barelybegan to think of a possiblereason before the clank ofmetal in the lock increasesmy excitement. Slowly, thedoor opens and a hoodedman,dressedfromheadtotoein white, enters. Ominously,hepullsdownhishood.

The first thing I noticeabouthimisthatheiswhatIassume must be called analbino. I have never seen analbino person before,

although I’m aware that theyexist. My father has severalalbino goats in his flock andthat’swhythepinknessofhisquick and lively eyes do notshock me particularly. Hisface is a sharp and angularone, dominated by a strongjawlineandbeamingsmile.

“WelcometoBrightstone.Iamsorryyouarebeingkeptwaiting for so long,” hebeams enthusiastically,speaking in a manner that

suggestshedoesnothavefullcontrolofmylanguage.

“Err…Do you think thisis agoodwelcome?” I reply,gesturing to the cell thatsurrounds me, slightly takenabackbyhisfriendliness.

“Ha ha. I think it isprobablynot thebest foryouinhere.Butweare ina timeof difficulty and there aremuch problems upon us.Wehavemuchneed tobehighlycareful,” is his rather

awkward yet neverthelesscheerful response.He speaksto me as though, rather thanhisprisoner, I ama long lostfriend. His eyes have anintense quality to them,peeringdeepintomyown.

“Whoareyou?How is itthat you understand mylanguage?” I ask throughnarrowed eyes. Around hisneckisawhitecrucifix.Thissymbol sends a shudder ofexcitementthroughme.Itisa

Christian symbol, exactly thesame as it is at home inTallakarn..

“Ha ha ha… muchapologies, my friend. MynameisBrotherGeminandIam the right hand of OurSaviour. I speak yourlanguagegladlybecauseIhadlearned it from another ofyourcountrymen.”

“Morrigan?”“I do not understand

‘Morrigan’. What does this

mean?” he asks, squinting atmethroughpinkeyes.

“My countryman. Theman I arrived here with. Hisname is Morrigan. Did heteachyouthelanguage?”

“Much apologies. No, itwasanother.”

“Vesta?”“Vesta? This is another

name, I think? No, the manwasnotcalledVesta.”

“Then who was it?” Isnap,confused.

“Another. He was calledOwain. He had arrived byboat, much days beforeyourself.”

“Recently?” I ask. Iimmediately consider howthis could be. Have anotherpair been successful inreachingtheempire?

“Withinthreeturnsofthemooncertainly?”hereplies.

“Threemonths?”“Ha ha ha. Yes. Three

months,itisclear.”

“Well, you speak it quitewell.”

“Much thanks. I am OurSaviour’s savant. I think thisishowyousayit.Itisthewillof Our Saviour that I hadbeen able to learn yourtonguesoquick.”

“Where are mycountrymennow?”

“Hahaha.Youaremuchkeen to see your countrymenagain. I very muchunderstand that they are

certain to be good friends ofyours. They have chosen toremainamongstthepeopleatBrightstone.Imuchhopethatyouareabletojointhem?”

“Iplantoreturnhome,”Ireplybluntly.

“I understand that youplan to return home? If so,this can be arranged also.Gladly. Our Saviour wouldlike to meet with you firstthough.”

“Who?”

“OurSaviour.”“Whatishisname?”“Hahaha.I’mafraidthat

youmust know that it is notcertainthatitwouldbemuchright for you to hear the fullnameofOurSaviour.”

“Why?”“Onlytheworthywilllive

to hear the full name ofOurSaviour,”

“Is it Leo?” I askpointedly. This name, told tome byVesta, is the name of

thepersonIamlookingfor.“Ha ha ha. Leo is no

longer his name. It is clearthat it is all right for you tohear that name. This is hishuman name,” he answers,smiling.

“His human name? Canyoupleaseexplain?”

“Our Saviour is a godamongstmen. It is clear thathe is the Son of our Godabove. He has returned torescuemankindinits timeof

need,”hereplies.My eyes are once more

drawn to the white crucifixhanging above his whiterobes. It is made of a dullopaque substance that looksalmostweightless.

“Is he the ChristianGod?”Iaskcalmly,tryingtohidemycuriosity.

“Ha ha ha! I notice thatyou have seen my cross. Iwas much surprised to learnthat your countrymen also

understood this.Your land ismuchcertaintobeaholyoneiftheCrossisthere.Christianisnotawordthatweusebutit is certain I have heard itsaid much by yourcountrymen,” he beams. Hetouchesthecrucifixsolemnly.

“What is thatmade of? Ihaveneverseenanythinglikeit,”Iask.Theairinessofitinhishandmesmerisesme.

“It is a substance notmuch found. We call it

‘canteva’. It is from the oldworld. It is clear you havemuch interest. You have thedevil’s curiosity! Ha ha ha,”he laughs. His eyes flashdown to the goat insignia onmybreast.

“There is so much tolearn. I look forward toexploringyourland,”Ireply,trying my best to adopt theblandcourtesyofadiplomat.

“I am glad to hear this.But tell me… Why do you

wearthedeviluponyou?”“I’m sorry. I don’t

understand,” I answer,lookingdownatmyselfinthesame manner I might ifsomeone told me I had spiltwaterdownmyfront.

“Thebeastonyourshieldand your armour. It is thedevilisitnot?”hecontinues,ahintofseriousnessenteringhiskindface.

“Oh…Thisbeastiscalleda goat. In my kingdom, it is

highly respected,” I lie, “weuse it formilk, formeat, forskin…”

“Before you will meetOur Saviour, you will havemuch need to remove it. InBrightstone, ‘the goat’ is thesign of the devil,” he snaps.Allofasudden,heappearsalittle shaken, a bit moreformal.BeforeIcanrespond,hecontinuesinthisvein.

“There are also otheritems that youwill findneed

to understand before you areready. The first item is thatyoumustcertainlyknowhimonlyasGod.TheseconditemisthatyoumustnotlookOurSaviour in the eye.The thirditemisthatyoumustnottalkunless he commands you to.It is very seriously importantthat you are able tounderstand what I had toldyouaboutthis.OurSaviourisnotamanwhoishappytobekindtothosewhodonotpay

himultimaterespects.”“So he is not a loving

God?”Iaskmischievously.“Hahaha.OurSaviouris

Love,itisclear.”“All right. I understand,”

Ilie.

Twenty-sixIt is only as Brother

Gemin escorts me up fromthe gaol that I realise I haveactually been imprisoned onthe small, palatial island thewhole time. This perhapsexplains the relativelyluxuriousenvirons that Iwasexposed to whilst inside.Once I am outside theimmediate vicinity of the

dungeon,everythingsuddenlybecomes incredibly ornate.Even the golden, jewel-encrusted bannister of thespiralstaircaseleadingoutofthe gaol would be the mostdecorative feature in thewhole of my own kingdom.The floors are made frommarblethatisbothwhiterandpurer than I had everconceived imaginable. Therough white surfaces of thestone palace at Tallakarn,

seemingly impressive inthemselves, suffer badly incomparison.

“This is the Sun Palace,home of our beloved ruler,”says Brother Gemin as wemove across the vastness ofthereceptionhall.Itisaroomfilled with paintings andsculptures, all of the sameman – tall, pale, lithe,bearded - in various grandposes. It is the man I amassuming is this so-called

‘SonofGod’.Other than these

sculptures and paintings,there are also a number oflargepottedplants.Almostallof them are a dark andlusciousgreen,suggestingthekind of fertility that couldnever be supported inTallakarn.Theroomisfullofthe most wonderful light,pouring in from stainedwindows in the roof andwalls. Once again, all these

windows are variations on atheme: that man again, theSonofGod.Thereissomuchto take in that I don'timmediatelynoticethealmostinordinate number ofservants. They buzz aroundthe brightness of the hall,cleaning and polishingeverything in sight with azealousfervour.

“It’s very impressive. Ihaveneverseenanythinglikeit,” I say, in the absence of

any more interestingcompliment.

“Oh, it is highly certainthat you’ve never seenanything like it. This is fordefinite,” he replies. Outsidethe darkness ofmy cell, it isnowclearthatBrotherGeminhasaslightsquint.Itdoesn’t,though, appear to hinder hisvision.Aswewalkpast,eachservant stops whatever taskthey are doing in order tobow before Brother Gemin.

He takes very little notice ofthis,other thana slight smiletoeach.

“Inoticethat theservantsbow before you. Should Ihavedonethesame?”

“Ha ha ha. These peopleare not servants. They workgladly for Our Saviour forfree.ItisthewillofGodthatthey should do so,” hereplies.

“Sotheyareslaves?”“Slaves?Ihavenotheard

this word. But, yes, theybowed tome also.Because Iam the right hand of OurSaviour.Foryou,itiscertainthatitisallrightthatyoudidnot bow. It is not needed.Now, if you will relax. OurSaviourwaits foryoubehindthese doors,” he smilesreassuringly. His doubtsabout my devilish alliancesseem to have disappearedalmost as quick as theyarrived.

It’s hard to imagine thesize of the trees from whichthedoorsinfrontofmemusthavebeenproduced.Eachofthem stands fifteen metreshigh by sixmetres long.Thehandles and hinges are all,rather predictably, forgedfrom gold. A giant suncomposed of gold leaf sits isgildedontothemiddleofthedoor. The parts that aren’tcovered with gold are inlaidwith red and orange jewels

that glitter in the incrediblelightoftheentrancehall.

Two men, naked exceptfor their full helmets andpouches,guard thedoorwiththeir golden halberds.Asweapproach,theystepasideandpush the doors inward.Suddenly, my nostrils fillwiththescentofsweet,spicyperfume.

IknowimmediatelythatImustbeinsidethegreatdomeof the palace. Once again, it

is the light within the roomthat steals my attention.Entering through stainedwindows beneath the goldendome itself, it arrivesat sucha multitude of angles andcolours as to be almostmagical. Shafts of lightintersect the room so vividlythat they almost seem to bephysical objects. The largestshaft of light, a brilliantyellow beam, enters from awindow at the very top and

centre of the dome. Beneaththe shaft, completelyimmersed in the light, sits aman whom I immediatelyassumetobethepersonIamhere to see. The intensity oflight obscures him fromvisionsocompletelythatIamunable to see what he lookslike. It can’t be comfortablefor him, and I can onlyassumehe is sitting there forvisualeffect.

Hisvoiceboomsoutfrom

the throne. It is so loud andpowerful that it reverberatesaround the dome. It doesn’tsoundlikeahumanvoiceandI tremble involuntarily at itspower. I notice now that thewallofthedomeislinedwithslaves, all standing toattention, equally placedaround the walls. A grey-haired woman, dressed inblueandwhite,sitstothesideof the throne. From myposition,sheisalsobehindit.

Onherchestisanemblem,aseaturtle.

“Step forward,” saysBrother Gemin. I take acouple of paces towards thethrone. The floor is whitemarble, covered in swirlingpatterns that interplaybrilliantly with the lightreflecting from it. As Iapproach, the voice boomsoutagainandIstop.

“Ibidyoumuchwelcomeintomy home, stranger. Had

you taken me into yourheart?” says Brother Gemin,clearly interpreting his god’slanguage directly. He isstanding somewhere off tomyright,maskedbyshadow.

“I’ve only just met youbutIhopethatsoonIshall…Er… God. I must say thatyour home is beautiful,” Ireply, as tactfully as I can,glad that my language willmask my stutteringinsincerity. Brother Gemin

translates and there is abriefsecond of silence before theresponse.

“Thankyou,stranger.Itisclear that I projected mydesires through the genius ofBrother Gemin.What tributehave you bought for me?”BrotherGemininterprets.

I do not understand whythis should be such animportant question for anapparently all-powerfulbeing, an entity who already

has everything. It also putsme on the spot somewhat.GemingavemenoindicationthatHewouldbeexpectingagift.

“I have brought youmyself, God. I have walkedhalfway across the world tosee you. I also bring you anoffer,”Ireply,quietlypleasedwith my quick thinking.Geminpassesthemessageononce again before the voicereplies.

“Whatisthisoffer?”“Toreturnwithmetomy

homeland. To allow mypeople to bask in your gloryalso. Itwould be an absolutehonour,God.”

This time, the gapbetween the translation andthe response is much longer.There appears to be a quietinteraction between the man,immersed in light, and thewoman seated behind him.Although they are at a

distance and speaking aforeignlanguage,Isensethatthereisdisagreementbetweenthem. I note somegesticulations through theblinding golden light thatconsumes him. After somedeliberation, his reply is anangry one. The anger of the‘God’ seems to almost shakethewalls of the dome as hisreply booms back towardsme.

“It is clear that you had

askedforafavourratherthantribute given. Why do youdaretodoso?”statesBrotherGemin who, through themildnessofhistone,losestheangertotranslation.

“I apologise if I causedyou any offence, God. I hadwished to pay you tribute byintroducingyoutotheloveofmypeople,”Ireply.

Again though, this seemstoprovokenothingbutanger.I sense his wrath from the

sudden movements that hemakes;heiswavinghisarmsandcursingrapidly.

All of a sudden, one ofthe slaves behind me burstsinto flames. He falls to thefloor,screamingandbawling.The sound fills me withmortal dread. I daren’t look.Not a single person in theroommovesamuscletohelphim.Instead,thedomefloodswith the smell of burningfleshandscreamsofagony.It

isonlyasthescreamssubsideinto whimpers that BrotherGeminspeaksagain.

“It is clear that you havecertainly just witnessed mypower.Godhas not travelledto his people. His peoplewould travel to him. If yourpeople had been righteous,theywouldalreadyknowme.Have you accepted me intoyourheart?”

Iamunsurehowtoreact.The smell of death hovers

heavilyintheair.Thechoiceof burning, such a visceral,lingering way to die, hascertainly had its desiredeffect. God or not, this iscertainly someone to beafraidof.

“I am in awe of yourmighty power, great God,” Ireply, dropping tomy knees.“Iapologiseformystupidity.Iamclearlynotworthytobein your presence. If I havecaused you any offence then

please understand that it wasnotmyintention.”

Facetothefloor,Igritmyteeth. The slave’s death hasindicated to me the fragilethread on which my lifehangs. I am not at all safehere.Inthisinstant,allIwantis to be able to return home.Having heard BrotherGemin’s response, his voicebooms out once again. Theanger,Ithink,hasdissipated.

“You have made

progress, stranger. But I donotthinkitiscertainthatitisyet clear enough. I ask thatyou stay with us for sometime longer. I must inspectyouanothertime.”

“Thank you, mercifulGod.”

“What is merciful?”Brother Gemin whispers tome, perhaps unable totranslateit.

“Someone who is kindwhentheyneednotbe.”

“Ha ha ha. ‘Merciful’. Itis clear that this is a goodword,” he replies, beforetranslatingittohisgod.

Followingthistranslation,the man waves his handtowards me in a dismissivegesture. I wince a little,noting that the gesture wasnot entirely dissimilar fromthe one he used to set theslave on fire. Thankfully,nothing happens on thisoccasion. Brother Gemin

takes me kindly by the armand escorts me out. For thebriefestofseconds,Iconsiderrunning away, butpragmatismstopsme;IdreadtothinkhowfarIwouldhavetohobbletofindsafety.

As we exit back into themain hall, Brother Geminlooksatmewithasmile.

“It is clear that OurSaviour loves you,” hebeams.

“Really? He didn’t seem

especiallykeen,”Ireply.“Oh, He loves you. It is

certain,” he answers, hissmile unbroken. As withMorrigan, the man has atendency to smile an awfullot. The difference betweenthem, however, is thatBrotherGemin’ssmileseemsentirely sincere, the kind ofsmile that is derived fromnothing but good-naturedkindness. Morrigan,meanwhile, derives his smile

from almost perpetualamusement. That differencenotwithstanding, thesimilarityisenoughtoremindmeofmymissingpartner.

“What has happened tomypartner,Morrigan?”Iask,as we walk back across themarbledentrancehall.

“Our Saviour loved yourMorriganverymuchandyourMorrigan loved Him. TheCrow has been freed to flygladlyamongst thepeopleof

Brightstone.Itisclearthathewillfightforhim,gladly.”

“Pah. Typical,” I reply,my face twisting ininvoluntary bitterness. I canclearly imagine Morrigan inthe situation I was just in. Irememberhischarm,hiseasymanner, his casualsycophancy, his adaptablemorality. It’s situations likethat that slime like him wasmadefor.

“Ha ha ha. It would not

seemordinaryforyoutofindthis factnothappy?”BrotherGemin probes, his pink eyesnarrowing once more in thelightoftheentrancehall

“No,no, it’sgoodthatheisfine,”Ireply.

“So, for yourself, it isclear that now you mustreturn to your cell. Is thereanything furtheryou require?IfitisclearthatthereisthenIcanmakeitforyougladly.”

“There is one thing. I

would like to learn yourlanguage.AndIwouldliketoteach you mine so that youcan speak it properly.At themoment, it is still not quiteright.”

“Ha ha ha. Gladly. I didthinksimilarthingsmyself.Itis clear that this would be agoodidea.”

Twenty-sevenI try my best to use the

three months of confinementin a productivemanner.As Ihad always suspected wouldbe thecase, Idonot find theexperience as unpleasant asotherpeoplemight.Thereareseveralreasonsforthis.

Firstly,Istillhaveaclearobjective: to returnhome.Aslong as I have an objective,

mymind will stay fresh andhungry.Inthesamewaythata dog will stare fixedly,licking its lips, at anunreachable bone, I do nottire of thinking about myreturn. Not a day goes bywhereIdon’t imaginehowitwill feel to see the fatking’sfaceoncemore.

Secondly, I have a plan.This involves nothing morethanswallowingalittlepride.Ithasgraduallybecomeclear

that all Imust do ismassagethe ego of the madmancurrently holding meprisoner. I will tell himanything:thatIlovehim,thatI am his eternal servant,anything, in order to bringaboutmy release.Once I amreleased,itwillbenothingtofind Morrigan and to beginthe journey home. Granted,the journey home will bedifficult,butwehavealreadyproved that it is not

impossible.Muchlikehavinganobjective,thedevelopmentof a plan keeps my mindactive and means that I amnever short of something toconsider.

A third thread allowingmetoholdontomysanityisthe daily routine that I havedeveloped.Ihavenevershiedawayfromstructureand,herein the confines of my cell, Ihave the facility to improvemyselfinalmosteveryway.I

amlearningtheBright-tongue– the native language ofBrightstone – I amwriting ajournal and, furthermore, Iamable tokeepmyselfas fitandagileasIlike.Everyday,I spend hours and hoursworking on the rehabilitationof my knee. Sometimes, Iforceit tobendintothemostpainful position and hold itthere. Other times, I flex itback and forth repeatedly,desperate to bring back the

flexibility.Alsopartofmyroutineis

the time that I spend withBrother Gemin. Although heisnotnecessarilydoingitformy benefit, the man’sinsatiable lust for knowledgebrings him to my cell on adaily basis. Themore time Ispend with him, the more Irealisethatheismuchlessofan idiot than he originallyappeared. His friendlinessandawkwarduseoflanguage

had me fooled almostcompletely.

It takes him only a fewdaystocompletelyremoveallforeign idiosyncrasies fromhis speech. When I comparehis rapid mastery of mylanguage to my slow andstumbling development ofhis, I cannot help but beslightly embarrassed.Nevertheless, he encouragesme forward in my learningwith a great deal of charm

andencouragement.His linguistic ability is

justoneofthethingsthatI’venoticed about the man’squicksilver mind. Hismemory is nothing short ofmiraculous; the amount ofdetail he has picked up fromconversations about my life,about Tallakarn, about myjourney here, makes it seemalmostas thoughhehasseenand experienced my entirelifealongsideme.

Ialsodiscoverthat,asanalbino,hiseyesareextremelysensitive to light.Where, formost people, thiswould be adisadvantage, I have asuspicionthat,forhim,itisastrength. I suspect thisbecauseheseemstonotonlyhave extraordinarilyheightened senses but alsoappears, visually, to missvery little. This, he states, isbecause, although he cannotsee colour, he has learned to

compensatebycloseattentiontoshapesandshadows.Heisboth open and humble whenit comes to his affliction -‘God giveth and God takethaway. Babies like me areusually cast into thewilderness. I am lucky to behere.’

It is rapidly becomingclear that this man plays avery similar role to ‘OurSaviour’ as LadyVesta doesto my own king. They are

both savants. The maindifference between them,however, is that BrotherGemin is a much morecharming individual than hisstone-faced counterpart atTallakarn.

As the months pass, wesharemuchinthewayofourkingdom’shistories. I learnagreat deal about thedevelopment of Brightstoneduring this time. It issurprisingformetolearnthat

thekingdomusedtobemuchlarger than itnow is, rangingmuchfurthersouthacrosstheforested islands – CrowIsland, Oak Island, GreenIslandandStoneIsland–thatnowstandvirtuallydeserted.

The increasingorganisation of the snowsavageshasdriventhemrightback, almostback to the seatof theirpoweron thesmallernorthern islands. Attacks onthe fort at Crow Island, the

gatethroughwhichIentered,have becomemore andmorefrequentinrecentmonths.

As for the riches – theprecious metals and thegemstones - that are so rareback in Tallakarn, BrotherGemin explains to me thatmany of these are relicsdiscovered at the height oftheir civilisation. Thesubstance that he calls‘canteva’ is the rarest of allthese relics and the more I

learn of it, the moreconvinced I am that it is thesubstance that the people ofTallakarncall‘plastic’.Muchmore of the substance hasbeen discovered here thanback home and variousimperial artefacts have beencraftedfromit.Mostofthesediscoveries and designsweremade hundreds of years agowhen the empire ofBrightstonewasexpanding.

This time period, known

locally as the ‘Age ofHeroes’, was brought to anabruptendwhentheyenteredinto conflict with the snowfolk.BrotherGemin is quicktopointoutthatthepeopleofBrightstonefeelverymuchasthough they brought the waron themselves, through theiravarice. The snow folk, heclaims, are their punishmentfrom God for their sinfulways, forattempting to reachbeyond their rightfulborders.

This mentality, commonthroughouttheislands,isthatofapeoplewhohavelearneda difficult lesson. This God-fearingnatureisalsoreflectedin everything Brother Gemintellsmeabouttheirattemptedexplorations.

“It is God’s will that wedo not leave our homeland.There is nothing but frozendeathonourborders.Andtheocean? The ocean is a wildand hungry place. A man

does not need to sail far todiscover this. Inmy lifetime,onlyoneboathassailednorthand returned. The crew’sdiscovery?Sand!Theysailedforweeks…mostofthecrewdied. And for what?! Sand!No.Godcreatedthisparadiseforus.Everywhereelseisiceandsand.”

It was, I understand, inresponse to these setbacksthatthepeopletrulybegantoimmerse themselves in

Scripture. Like a scoldedhound, they began to begforgiveness from their deity,TheSun(theybelievethatthesun is the eye of Godhimself). The emperor,believing that God hadrenderedhimbarren,begantotruly embrace religion andkindly encouraged all hissubjects to follow in hisfootsteps.

And they did. Morepeoplethaneverturnedtothe

priesthood. Some groups ofpeople went even further,isolating themselves inconvents to ensure that theyremained untainted by thesins of their empire. It wasalso around this time, as theempire began to recede, thatthe first whispers of the Sonof God’s arrival on earthbegan to emerge.Thepeoplewere so certain of his arrivalthat they began to build theSun Palace years before he

wasborn.LordLeo,SonoftheSun,

isthehumanmanifestationofGod.Of that,BrotherGeminassures me, there can be nodoubt. It is at this stage intheir Holy Story that thesimilarities with Christianitytruly begin. Indeed, thesimilarities are so great as toseem almost cynical. I quitesimply can’t believe that, asBrother Gemin suggests, thepeopleofBrightstonehaveno

knowledgeofTheBible.Forinstance, Leo was conceivedby a miracle: theimpregnation of a virginwomanbytheSunitself.Thefortunatevirginwhoreceivedthis blessing was a ladyknown as Mother Maryamwho,evenbeforethemiracle,was one of the mostinfluential convent leaders inthe empire. Brother Gemintellsme thatGod chosewellandthatsheissurelythemost

pious woman in the entireworld.

At the announcement ofLeo’s birth, the childlessemperorabdicatedand,inhiswisdom, allowed a day-oldbaby to ascend the throne.Mother Maryam, the lady inbluewhomIhadseenbehindthe throne, ruled in his steaduntil his human form wasready.Thisdidnottakelong.He was five years old whenshestoodaside.

Asintriguingasthewholetopic is, I do not find that Ican talk to Brother Geminabout it for too longbefore Ibegin to get angrywith him.It all sounds like lunacy.Myconversation with LadyVesta, andher revelationsonthe cynical games played bythose in power, hangs heavyon me as the affable albinorecounts theaffair.I thinkhetakes me for a fool. Wouldhe, as a bona fide genius,

accept this story if it were Itellingittohim?

Why would God choose,of all people, an alreadypowerful woman to have hischild? Why would theemperor simply stand aside?How could a five-year-oldchild have the sense togovern?Does it not occur tohimthat,ifapeopledecidetobuild a palace for anincomingGod,itisinevitablethatsomeonewillcomealong

with a claim to fill it? I aminsulted that he thinks I willnot notice theseinconsistencies and, as theweeks move on, I becomemore andmore doubtful thateven he really believes thestoryheistelling.

Thesadtruth,however,isthat I have no choice but toaccept this versionof reality.The man is not, I mustremember, a friend or aconfidante. Instead, he is

merely a tool that I mustmanipulate in order to bringaboutmyrelease–thekeytomy cell door. It is for thisreasonthatIdonotpushhimon the inconsistencies andconvenient contrivances ofthismosthole-riddenofholystories. Instead, when I feelmy exasperation building, Isimply bite my tongue andchangethesubject.

It is by changing thesubject that I have also

learned that there are four ofuswhomwere sent out fromTallakarn that havemanagedto find our way toBrightstone. This wassomething that BrotherGeminhadpreviouslyalludedtowhenwediscussedhow itwashehadcometospeakmylanguage. Two brothers,Owain Ap Tomos and IoanAp Tomos, somehownavigated the journey aroundthe ice-packedsoutherncoast

inaboat.Thisstrategymeantthat they avoided the violentnorthern sea and, along withit, the certain death thatawaits anyone daring totraverse it. Brother Gemintells me often that they arebothfascinatingmenwhomIshould look forward tomeeting. I am led tounderstandthattheycurrentlylive near Morrigan on theislandofBrightstoneitself.

I am so immersed in

learning the culture, thehistory, the language of thisnew world that myincarceration scarcely seemstoaffectme.Infact,Iactuallyprefer my human interactionto be rationed in this quitemanageableway.It’struethatI have the odd pang oflonging to seemy father, theodd bout of desperation toreturnhome,butIcalmtheseworries with assurances. IpromisemyselfthatonedayI

will find my way back.Occasionally, I think ofShara. Less frequently, Ithink of Morrigan. I amsurprisedtorealisethatImissthemboth.

Twenty-eightIt is a different sensation

this time, heading into thethroneroomof‘OurSaviour’.The room, with its magicalarray of lights and colours,seems even more dreamlikethan it was before. I noticethat the angles and coloursmust change as the daypasses, as the sun movesthrough the sky. This feat of

architecture, one that I sincehave realised must be thework of Brother Gemin,seems even more impressivenow that I realise it is thework of a near-blind humanratherthanagod.

As for Our SaviourHimself, I feel moreconfident knowing whatgimmicks I can expect.Understanding the languagemuch better also helps. It isonly now, seeing him again,

obscured by his light shaft,that I realise something. Irealise that perhaps the onlyaspect of this entire scenariothat I have not given muchthoughttoisthemanhimself.

I have not considered hisauthenticity for a second; ifthere isaGod, I reason, thenit is certainly not thisgentleman.Ihavebeentaughtthat the Son of the ChristianGod was a kind and lovingbeing, nothing like what I

haveseenofthismansofar.As if to confirm this

point,hisvoice,distortedandinhuman, booms out acrossthe golden dome once more.Tomygreat relief, Iamabletounderstandhim.

“Welcome to my home,stranger.Have you takenmeintoyourheart?”

“I love nothing but you,myGod,”iswhatIhopethatI say in reply. I have beenpreparingthisspeech,thislie,

forliterallymonthsnow.“This is good. You have

seenhowmylovecanchangeyourlife?”

“Yes. I am a new personnow,myGod.”

“What gift have youbroughtforme?”

“I haveonlybrought youmy filled heart and mychangedtongue,myGod.”

“Thisisthebestgift.Andwhatdoyouaskofme?”

“IaskthatIcanleavemy

cell and live amongst thepeople of Brightstone, myGod.”

“Whatofyourhome?”“Your love is my home,

myGod.”I stumble through thisbit

of translation. It is not ananswer I expected to have togive, but nevertheless I amquite proud of theimprovisation, if not thedishonesty.

“Youareachangedman.

Nolongerastranger.Howdoyouwishtobeknown?”

“Ser Gruffydd of theGreen,myGod,”Ianswer.IfI cannot be a knight in myownland, thenIshallbeonehere.

“Verywell,SerGruffyddof the Green, you may haveyourfreedom.”

“Thank you, my God,” Isigh.

This kind of behavioursits ill withme. Just beneath

the surface is a raging desireto tell him exactly what Ithink of him and hisbehaviour, to rip the façadefrom him, to make himconsider what he really is.Instead though, I choose mylife. It just feels a littletarnishednow.

Twenty-nineIn the same way that

Tallakarn, the name of thecity, is used to describe theentire kingdom under itscontrol,thenameBrightstonealsoreferstoboththeempireitself and one of the islandswithin it. Confusingly, theSun Palace, which isessentially the seat ofBrightstone’skingdom,isnot

actually on the island ofBrightstone. Instead, it is onthe small island next to it,called the Palatial Island.Brother Gemin arranges meanescorttohelpmeleavethepalace and find my way toBrightstone Isle. From there,my escort has been taskedwithhelpingmefindthevillabelonging to Morrigan and,by doing so, help me settleintolifeonBrightstone.

It is a fine autumn day

and the sun glows gently aswe head along the ornatemarble bridge leading awayfrom the palace. A day liketoday is probably equivalenttoanexceptionallyhotdayinthe middle of a Tallakarnsummer. The sea downbelow, in the channelbetween the islands and themainland, is a striking azureblueandasstillasglass.Myescort, a broad man in fullgoldplate,isfriendlyenough,

answeringthequestionsthatIamable to ask inmybrokenBright-tongue.

“Can you tell me aboutyourweapon?Wedon’thavethem in Tallakarn,” I try toask. The ominous tubehanging from his belt bringsback memories of my firstencounterwiththesepeople.

“Itisamusket.Thereisablack powder inside thatmakes fire. The explosionsends a small piece of metal

towardstheenemy.It isverydangerous for both people.We only use it whenwe arein great danger… but it alsoneeds time to use… I thinkarrowsarebetter…faster…”

“Theblackpowder?Whatisitcalled?”

“We call it ‘The Sun’sgift’. It has helped us manytimesagainstthesavages.”

“Isee.Howdoyoumakeit?”

“I don’t know. This you

should have asked BrotherGemin. It is something to dowith bat poo!” he laughs. I,meanwhile,wonder if I havelosttheanswerintranslation.

At this possiblemisunderstanding, Islipbackinto my own thoughts. I amoverwhelmed. Brightstoneseems to possess so muchknowledge that Tallakarndoesn’t: they have explosiveweapons,theyhavemachinesthat can write books,

machines that can track thesun, ornaments fashionedfrom plastic. There is somuchformetolearnbeforeIreturn.

Thebridgeandthestreetsleading from it aresurprisingly quiet. Havingseen the island from adistance duringmy approachfrom the mainland, I amsurprised by this stillness.From that vantage point, thetownhadlookedlikeatightly

packed hive of activity, withscarcelyadotofgreenvisibleamongst the white and redhouses. My guide explainsthat it is quiet because mostactivity occurs either later orearlier in the day. Themarkets and harbours, heassures me, are ‘busier thanhell’ if onemakes it there attherighttime.

It quickly becomes clearthat this place will never bemy home. It is neither the

weather nor the stillness thatbothers me. Instead, it is thedirty, cramped atmospherethat pervades as we movethroughthetightlittlestreets.Foralltheadvancementsthatexist,thevastmajorityofthehomes we walk past arenothing but improvisations,vague approximations ofhouses,muddled togetheroutofredstoneandwood.Someof them, the ones that don’thave four walls, havemoon-

faced children staring out atus, or hard-faced womenworking on something orother. It is not lost upon methat this is probably aconsequence of the rapidshrinking that the kingdomhas experienced in the pastten years. These people havecome to Brightstone to keepthemselves safe from thesavages. I try not to thinkaboutwhattheymusthavetodo for money or for food.

Having seen the kingdomfrom a high vantage point, Icannot help but wonderwhere they even have spacetogrowanything.

The inhabitants of oneparticulardistrictthatwepassthroughappear tohavegivenup on the idea of housingaltogether.Instead,adultsandchildren alike just seem tolanguish under patches ofshadeliketired,scrawnycats.Where one would expect to

seehouses, there is just pilesof rubble. More worrying isthat they don’t even seem tocare.Even as Iwalk throughthis place, a place that Iwould assume could becomequitedangerous,noonedaresto step anywhere near. Thepeople who lurk here lookbeaten, whipped, and in fullunderstandingthatoneshouldnot trouble anyone wearinggoldarmour.

Things begin to pick up

again as we move towardsMorrigan’s villa. There is apointwherethequalityofthehouses quite markedlyimproves.Theysuddenlyfinda handsome uniformity, allfully built in attractive whitestone.The streets themselvesbegintotidyupataroundthesame point, transformingfrom dirt tracks into red tilesurfaces, and whereaspreviously it felt like therewerealwayseyesuponme,it

nowbeginstofeelveryquietindeed. I wouldn’t expect afortunate highborn such asMorrigantoturnupanywhereelse.

AsIgetcloser,Ibegintorealise that The Crow haslandedonhisfeetonceagain.We are nearing a stonemarket square when myescort points his villa out. Itwould appear that he has thesecond floor of a largebuilding overlooking the

market square. The square iseasilythebusiestplaceIhaveseensofar,perhapsonlyhalffull but thronging with thenoiseofpeopleandthesmellof beasts. One smell risesabovethemall–asmellthatIwould know anywhere, thesmell of home, that mostpiquant of smells, the smellof goat. At the opposite endof the square is a tall towerwith a circular face upon it.Thisface,Iassume,mustbea

clock face. Brother Gemintaught me about clocksduringmycaptivity; theyaremachines capable ofdemonstrating the passage oftime. Their primary functionis to call people to prayer atthenecessaryhour.Ironically,my excitement at seeingMorriganmeansthatIdonothave the time to try tounderstandthedevicenow.

Thanking my escort, Ihead up the stone steps to

Morrigan’s front door. Iknock loudly. Strangely, Ifeel almost elated at thethought of seeing the managain.Iamwaitingforashortpassageof timebefore Ihearhis heavy feet lurchingclumsilytowardsmefromtheothersideofthewood.Whenhe arrives, he arrives toplessandgrinning.

“Holy hell, there’s a faceI didn’t think I’d see again!”laughs Morrigan as I enter.

The lazy contortions of hisface immediately tellme thatheisdrunk.

“Whynot?”Ireply.“Well... I can’t imagine

thatworshippingOurSaviourcameparticularlyeasytoyou.I did have a little chuckle tomyself when I imagined youin there,” he laughs, pouringmeagobletoftheubiquitousred alcohol that I have cometoknowas‘wine’.

“I’mnotstubborn.Iknow

when to let go,” I reply,taking the goblet from hishands.

“Yes, you certainly do.And it only took you threemonths to work it out.” Hedrunkenlyholdshiscupuptomine and I, taking the cue,clinkmycupagainsthis.

“Anyway. Welcome toparadise! Everything here isbetterthanhome.AndImeaneverything,” he winks. Hissheepish grin and state of

semi-undressleadmetothinkhe’sprobablynotalone.

“Have I interruptedsomething?”

“Oh… well… yes…actually,” he replies, asthough suddenlyremembering. “It’s not aproblemthough.I’llaskherifshe wouldn’t mind… err…coming back another time.”Andwiththathesauntersoffto what I presume is hisbedroom door, across the

othersideoftheroom.It’s a clean, well-

maintainedspacewiththeredbrickflooringandwhitestonewalls that seem quite typicalof Brightstone’s architecture.Light, obviously veryimportant to these people,pours in through numerousopen windows. Instead ofbeing divided into sections,theentirespacehousesallthefunctions required to live;there isanarea forpreparing

food in the far right handcorner, a dining table to myright and informal seating tomy left. The state of theinformalseatingtellsmeallIneed to know about what Imay have just interrupted; itis litteredwithwineskinsandvarious items of femaleclothing. I take a seat at thediningtable.

It is not long beforeMorrigan, accompanied by asomewhat flustered-looking

young lady, returns to theroom.Hedismissesher,half-dressed, from the front doorwithoutsomuchasarrangingtheirnextmeeting.

“Didn’t she forget someclothes?” I ask, as the doorslamsshut.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’msure she has some more,” ishis callous reply.He quicklytops hiswine up and takes aseat next tome at the diningtable.

We spend the next whileinconversationabouthowwegot here. There is a certainsatisfaction in recounting thenumber of times that weprobably should have diedbutdidn’t.Theincidentintheburrowhasalsobecomemoretroubling in hindsight. Whaton earth was happeningthere? Whatever became ofthose people?How bizarre itis to imagine all the littlestories taking place across

thatfrozenland.And, of course, we talk

aboutShara,thescorpiongirl.Whatever happened to her?She just faded away at thestart of battle, never to beseenagain.Whydidsherun?Ifshewantedtorun,whydidshehelpusinthefirstplace?Thegirlcertainlyleftuswithsomeunansweredquestions.

After some time,Morriganbeginstotalkabouthis new life on Brightstone.

Hecouldn’tbemoreathome.He already knew the twoother exiles (all threeconsider themselves thus)from their time at YnysGwyn.Owain and Ioanwerekey figures in the kingdom’sblack economy, poachers ofhigh renown, and, as such,werenaturalcandidates tobesentonasimilarquest toourown. He tells me that theylive nearby and are goodcompany, especially in terms

ofthepeoplethattheyknow.As for money, he

nonchalantly tells me thathe’s been accepted into theGolden Brigade. This unit,thesoldiersthatwearthegoldplate, are the elite set ofsoldiers that guard thekingdom.Being amember iseffectivelyakeywithwhichaman can attain any privilegehedesires.Itsickensmehoweasily Morrigan’s casualsuperiority has carried across

into another culture. Isupposeitisafactoflifethatmen like himwill always berecognised by others of hisown ilk, as though they aremarked by some sort ofinvisiblebrand.

“I’msshureIcangetyouin as well. You’ve sshownthat you can… hic… handleyoursshelf… sshort of…”Ashis drunkenness progresses,themuscles on his face haverelaxed even further and he

seems to have lost commandoftheletter‘S’.

“Oh well… thank you…sort of…” I reply. “But it’sfine.I’mnotgoingtobehereforlong.I’mheadingback.”

“OhGruff,Gruff,Gruff…You can’t… hic… headback… You know that aswellasIdo.”Althoughheis,as always, smirking, I detectan element of paternalism inhis voice, a dash of actualconcern hidden somewhere

beneaththedrunkenness.“I can and I will. I got

here,didn’tI?”“You got here… because

yougotlucky.Youhadme…hic…and.. youhadShara...”he stutters, swaying in hisseat.

“That was our first time.I’ve learned from ourmistakes… and from Shara’steachings.”

“Well…maybe youwill,maybeyouwon’t…butthat’s

not even your biggestproblem,”hereplies,draininghis cup.Throughout the timewe have been talking, and ithas been some time, he hasbeen drinking his wine at aprodigious rate. Every time Ithinkhemusthaveexhaustedhis supply, he always seemsto have another wineskinready. Ihavenotdrunk threecups in the time it has takenhimtoemptythreeskins.

“Whydoyouthinkthat?”

“You’renot…hic…evenallowedtoleave…Youknowthat,don’tyou?”

“That was nevermentioned?”

“Well… hic… that’sshthething…you’llbekilled.Itwill be the will of God. Hedoesn’t… hic… want peopleto leave. There’ssh no lawagainst it… hic… but at thesametime,youwilldie.”

Outside of battle, I havenever really seen Morrigan

without his smirk. In thismoment,however, it isgone.Without it, his face lookstired and sad. His eyes andmouth hang awkwardly, themuscles controlling themseemingly given up todrunkennesssometimeago.

“Howdoyouknowthis?”“All… hic… the Golden

Brigade know. It’s one ofour…hic…functions.”

“So you’re supposed tokillmeifItrytoleave?”

“No… becausshe you’renot…hic…goingto.Look…Gruff… Goat… Sprat…There’sno…hic…reasontoleave. It’ssh great here.You’ll learn to love it,” hesays, almost begging,slappinghisbighandagainstmyshoulder,hiseyesprobingmyfaceforacceptance.

“IthinkyouknowaswellasIdothatnothing’sgoingtopersuade me. What are yousupposedtodo?Slaughterme

here?”“We don’t even… hic…

need to.You try living for aday without thissh wine,” hesays solemnly, raising thewineskin in theairas thoughtoinspectit.

“What?”“Thissh wine… hic…

is…hahaha… thebloodofOur Saviour. Through it hegivesusthegiftoflife.”

“What?” I reply. Bloodrushes to my face. Has he

been brainwashed? “Youdon’tbelievethat,doyou?”

“Mark my words. Mendie from not drinking thewine… I’ve sh..sheen it.Somepeople…hic…chooseto die by not drinking. Thepoorest people die becausshetheycan’taffordit.”

“Well, I have a stronghunch that’s not going to beyourfate,”Ireplydrily.

“I’ll…drink…to…that,”he says, just about, before

passingoutinhischair.This conversation has

nearlybrokenme. It changesthings, brings new problemsto the surface. Morrigan islosttome,thatmuchisclear.OneofthemainrumoursthatdoggedhimaroundTallakarnwas the talk of his thirst foralcohol. The sobrietyimposed on him by ourjourneyhadmaskedtheissuefrom me but now, presentedwith his lop-sided face and

tall stories, I understand thatitisaloveaffairmuchtoofargoneformetostop.

And that is not theworstof it. Howmuch of what hehastoldmeistrue?Ihadlongsuspected that there was anunwritten rule forbiddingmeto leave. I had suspected itfromthefirstmomentIstoodinfrontof‘OurSaviour’.Hiswrath at my suggestion thathe should accompany mehome told me as much. As

did Gemin’s talk about thefailed explorations of hispeople. This is why I hadlied so deeply onmy secondmeetingwithOurSaviour.

But the wine? Is it justsome drunken nonsense? Orcould it actually be true?Perhaps he was just talkingmetaphorically? I couldquiteimagine, for instance, that amanlikeMorriganmightdie,in some sense, if deprivedofalcohol.

Nevertheless, the veryidea chills me to the bone.How can it be? This, muchthe sameas setting fire to aninnocent slave, is not the actofabenevolentgod.Itseemstomeadarkandevilthing.Isit real? Is this really whatGodwouldwant?Or is ‘OurSaviour’ just somemalevolent shaman inflictingpain upon the world?Whatevertheanswertothesequestions, it would be

foolhardy of me to try toleave before finding out theanswers. I resolve to remainhereuntilIknowthesethingsfor certain. Slowly, I feelmyselfdroppingofftosleep.

ThirtyIawakethenextmorning

to a loud rap on Morrigan’sdoor.BothMorriganandIarestill in the same chairs thatwefellasleepin.Heremainsunconscious, head slumpedforward, snoringmonstrously. My head ispoundingandIdon’tthinktorespond to the knock on thedoor until there is another

one.“Ser Gruffydd of the

Green!” is the accompanyingshout.Itdoesnotsoundlikeaparticularly friendly requestandmy immediate instinct isthat of alarm. This could betrouble. Why else wouldsomeone be looking for mehere?

My next instinct is tohide. I could let Morrigananswerthedoor.But,no,thatmightplacehiminadifficult

situation. If it turns out thatthereistrouble,hecouldfindhimself with a difficultdecision to make. I don’twantthat–notformeorhim.Besides, it could be nothing.He’s not stirring anyway.Tentatively, I rise and movetowards the door. My headspins as I do so; I am stilldizzyfromthewine.

I am just about therewhen Morrigan, suddenlyalert, stops me with a sharp

whisper. He silently signalsthat I should leave throughthe other door, the door thatleads to the rest of thebuilding. I don’t protest. MybodyfillswithhotbloodasIrealisethatifMorriganthinksthere is something wrong,thenthereprobablyis.

Behind me, I senseMorrigan stirring to his feet,yawning and stretching. Ienter the hallway leadingfrom the main chamber and

hide alongside the doorframe. There are severaldoors oppositeme and downalong the corridor. There isanother knock on the doorjustbeforeMorrigananswersit.

“Morning,chaps,”hesayscasually,speakingtheBright-tongue as though it were hisown“What’sgoingon?”

“WeareheretoarrestSerGruffydd of the Green, LordMorrigan.”

“Oh, I see…” he replies.“He was certainly here lastnight. I was drinking withhim. I haven’t seen him thismorning though. I’ve onlyjust woken up. Gruff?!Gruff?!Whereareyou?!”

“Yes, we know he washerelastnight.Wearetoldheisstillhere.”

“Heshouldbe,Isuppose.He has nowhere else to stayyet,” he replies coolly beforeshouting my name again

“Gruff?! Gruff?! There’ssomeone here to speak toyou!Whathashedone,outofinterest?”

“He is a heretic. As forwhy? Only Our Saviour andthe man himself know theanswertothatquestion.”

“Then it must be so,” ishis considered reply. “I hopethat he burns in the lowestlevelofhell.Gruff?!”

“He will be tried forheresy.Ifguiltisprovedthen

heshallbeburned.”“And rightly so. It is the

will of God,” he replies. Ialone am privy to theflippancyofhistone.Maskedbeneathtranslation,hiswordscan only be interpreted assincere by these gold men.Butthisisscantconsolation;Iknowthatallhecandoisbuymesometime.

I pad as quickly aspossible across the corridorand through the door

opposite. From the mustysmell and disorderedbedclothes,Icanonlyassumethat I have entered hisbedroom.Thewindow,acrossthe room from the door,seems to bemy only option.It looks a tight squeezebut Itrustmyself tomovequickly.The hot blood, coursingthrough me as if I were inbattle, takes over. Thissensation makes me realisethat I have forgotten my

sword, my shield and myarmour.Iknownowthattheyarelosttome.

One cautious glance outofthewindowisallIneedtoknow it is safe to leave. Itoverlooks a small back alleyleading to the market squarearound the front. The alleyhas a few people passingthrough but not, as I hadfeared, any guards. From thesecond floor of the building,thejumpcouldquiteeasilybe

fatal. Instead, I lookupwardsanddecideto taketheriskofclimbing to the roof above.Instinctively,Ifeelthatthisisa better option than theground; itshouldbeeasier tohide up there. I clamber upquickly, almost possessed bytheinstincttosurvive.

The next decision is tohideor tomove. If Imove, Imightneverbeable to returntothispartoftown.IfIhide,there is a good chance that

they will eventually considerthe roof. Ultimately, the factthatitisapoorhidingplaceiswhat swings it for me; thereare several higher buildingsaroundwhichIcantell thatIwillbeclearlyvisiblefrom.Ihave no choice but to keepmoving.Ijumpontotheroofacross from me, movingfurtherawayfromthemarketsquare.

It only takes several ofthesejumpsbeforeIbeginto

findmyselfheadingbackintothe more rundown part oftown.Here,therearepreciousfew roofs to climb on andeventheonesthatdoexistarenot the kind that one wouldtrustone’slifeto.Somewhereinthedistancebellsring,andIbegin towonder if theyareanything to do with me.Clambering down to theground, I take a few deepbreaths and try to calm mybeating heart. I know that

now there is little I can doother than tryand look like Ibelong.

By my estimations, I amnot too far from the districtthat I passed throughyesterday-thederelictpartoftownfullofthedesperateandthe dying. My luck couldprobably be worse. Thisgodforsaken place should besomewhereIcansimplymeltinto. The faces ofBrightstone, with the

exception of a slightly bettersuntan,areequallyasvariedastheyareinTallakarn.

I walk casually throughthe broken streets, changingdirection the instant thatsomething feels wrong. I dothis for the entire day,ultimately losing myself inBrightstone’s underbelly.Throughout this ordeal, ittakesallmyreserveandself-disciplinetocontrolthepanicand fear churning insideme.

Indeed, the only method ofcontrol that seems towork isthe repetition of one simpledictum: no one will noticesomeone who looks likethey’resupposedtobethere.

Asduskbeginstofall,myfocuschangesfromescapetotheconsiderationofmymoreanimal needs. But these arenot easily met in thisdesperate urban scrapyard.Not yet prepared to steal orbeg,Iamreadytosleeplong

before I findmyself a singlescrap of food or drop ofwater. Nestling downamongsttherubbleofafallenhouse,Itellmyselfthatitwillonly take me a few days.After a few days, I’m sure Iwill be able to return toMorrigan.

Thirty-oneThe next day is spent

scavengingforfoodanddrinkwhilst trying my best toremain anonymous in theroughest parts of town. Thisexperience humbles me. Irealisethatmylife,onethatIhad always considered hard,is nothing compared to theplight of the people aroundme.Thefewadultsthatdon’t

leave early in the morningseem to be merely shells,lingering in the shadows,waiting to die. The children,many of whom must beorphans, spend their entirewaking lives trying to findfood. The vast majority ofthemhead to thebusierpartsof town – the markets, theharbours, the thoroughfares–desperatetocomeuponsomescrap, begged or stolen, thatwill make the trip

worthwhile.The only progress that I

quickly make for myself isfinding a few puddles thatlook clear enough to drinkfrom.Thatdone,Ifollowtheorphans for a bit, trying tofind an honest way to earnsomething.As ludicrousas itsounds,Istillconsidermyselfto have personal standardsthatIwon’tdrop.Myactionson the journey here –dishonesty, theft, murder –

wereactionsforcedonmebyabsolute necessity and, evenstill,Ifeelshamedbythem.Iwon’t repeat themuntil I amcertain that there is noalternativeotherthandeath.

Perhaps the most honestmethodofmakingmoneythatI discover is salvaging. Aminorityoftheorphansspendtheir time sifting through therubble of fallen houses orthrough the waste that hasbeendisposedofinthestreet.

Theymight discover the oddthing, a piece of metal forinstance, that they can thenattempt to sell. I spend theafternoon doing this, stillbeing careful to slink out ofsight whenever I feel itnecessary,andeventuallysellenough scraps of fabric tobuy myself a small piece ofbread.

Almost as soonas I haveboughtit,Iamsetuponbyanemaciated youth wielding a

knife.Thepoorcreaturemusthavebeenwaitingoutsideforme likea starvinghound.Hecannotbemucholderthanmebuthisfeaturesaredrawnandhehassolittlefleshuponhimthathisbonespokethroughatdisturbing angles. Havingseen the things that I’veseenanddone the things that I’vedone,Iamableputhimdownwithout much fuss at all. Itakehisknifeandthecoinagefromhispocket.Notasingle

witness passes comment.Desperateornot, he still hadachoice.Hemadethewrongone.That loafofbreadis thesinglethingIeatallday.

Thirty-twoIawakethenextmorning

so weak that it is, in fact,rather fanciful to suggest Ihave woken up at all. Thedeathly fatigue that ridesthroughmybodyremindsmeof somemornings out in thefrozenwaste, thosemorningswhereitfeltthatthecoldhaddrawnmy very essence fromme. My mouth is as dry as

stone. Nevertheless, in thesame manner that I wouldhave done on any othermorning, I dragmyself fromthe rubble and stagger downintothestreet.

My thirst is beyonddescription. The need forwater consumes me and yet,for some reason, instead ofheadingtothenearestpuddle,Ichooseinsteadtocollapseinthe street.My legs givewayonly an instant before my

mind fades, sending mesmashing into the dirt track.ThelastthingtopassthroughmymindasIdropisnothingmore than the recollection ofataste-thetasteofwine.

Multi-coloured memoriesflashthroughmymind.Thereisnoordertothem.Instead,Iseem to experience them allat once: the cold whip of afrozen wind, the salty smellof my father’s skin, thegreenness of the grass of

home, the euphoria of thefinishinglineatTallakarn,thesearing pain of the arrow inmyknee,thebleaknessofthefrozensea,Morrigan’ssmirk,Shara’s scowl, the pain thatcomes from killing anotherperson, the magical lights ofthe sun palace, the distortedvoice of God himself, thesour taste of wine, a voice Ihaveneverheardbefore.

“Drink, child. Drink sothatyoudonotdie.Theblood

of Our Saviour compels youtolive.”

The lady’s voice soothesme. It has a singing,magicalquality to it. Alongside hervoice is the taste of winetricklingdownmythroat.Thefamiliar burn thataccompaniesitisawarmandwelcomeone.

“Thank you, O kindestandwisestofGods.Thismandoes not have to die today,”whispers the woman softly.

My eyes open before closingagain, scared of the sunblazing overhead. In thisbriefest of glances, I learnthat I am surrounded by acrowd.

“It’s a miracle!” shoutsonevoice.

“A miracle!” shoutsanother.

“TheMotherbringslifetoall!”

“Heshareshisbloodwithussothatweallshalllive!”

“Amiracle!”“O,Mother!”My eyes open.The noise

of the crowd begins to whipup into a frenzy ofexcitement.Myearsarefilledwith shouts of ‘miracle’ and‘Mother’ and ‘life’ and‘blood’. Before I know it, Iam being hauled to my feetby the crowd that hasamassed.Thewomaninfrontofme isobscured fromviewas hands reach out to touch

her from all angles. Throughthe groping hands, I realisethat I recognise her uniform.Although she is definitelymuchyounger, shewears thesameas the ladyattending to‘Our Saviour’ in the Sunpalace, a blue tunic with awhitedress .Embroideredonthe centre of the tunic is aturtle.

I manage to mouth theword meaning ‘thank you’before she is swept away by

themobthatengulfsher.Foramoment,Iamovercomebythismost euphoric sensation.It is a sense of deepreverence, of gratefulness, ofexcitement – the realisationthat I am still alive. It allseems to have happened soquick-fromlife to thevergeof death and back again. Ismile.

The smile only lasts foran instant as the seriousnessoflifedropsbackdownupon

me. I remember once againhow vulnerable I am, howdesperate my situation is.There is no time for uselesssmiling. The crowd that nowsurrounds me must surelycontain one person whoknows who I am. Even thegirl herself,my rescuer,mayhave seenmy face under theglareof theSunPalace.Thisisadangerousplacetobe.

The crowd is dense andgrowing.A‘miracle’mustbe

one of the very few thingsthat these wretched peoplehave to live for. Fortunately,once I have slipped past thefirstfewlayersofpeople,thenew arrivals blocking mywayaren’t evenentirely surewhat they are joining thecrowd for; they do not knowthatthesubjectofthemiracleisafugitive,duckinghiswaythrough them. Then a shoutgoes out from the other sideofthecrowd.

“Stop the heretic! Stopthe stranger!He is the devil!He wears the sign of theGoat!”

This word seems tobubble through the crowd,changingthemood,changingthe cries. In an instant, thecrowd are baying for blood.Extreme reverence andextreme hate, the twoemotionsthatcrowdsdobest,are not that far apart heretoday.

“Thedevilwalksamongstus!”

“HewasahereticandstillHegavehimlife!”

“Stop the stranger! He isnotoftheBrightstone!”

“In His name, stop theheretic!”

Instinctively,Istopinmytracks.

“Kill the stranger!” Ishout angrily, turning backtowards the centre of thecrowd, joining in the cries.

The noise, the growingbloodlust, seems to justmergeintooneangry,hatefulroar - truly the voice of theGodthathasinspiredit.

The whole crowd seemsto be eyeing each other.People standon their tiptoes,peeringover theshouldersoftheir neighbours, desperatefor a glimpse of the hereticmoving amongst them. I tryto only shout when otherpeople are shouting, hoping

thatthiswillmaskmyforeignaccent. As I peer into thecrowd, I catch a glimpse ofgold. Then another. Thenanother. Gold men. Behindme is the same, they areencirclingthearea.

My options are limited.Move and I attract attention,stand still and they will findme.The rubble-littered streetisatightwindingone,asfullof people as it is possible tobe. Escape does not appear

likely.Andwhatifthecrowdweretocatchme,rather thanthegoldmen?Itonlytakesalook into the frenzied facesaroundme to hazard a likelyguess.

As the gold men movenearer,Icantell thatit isnotonly they who are surgingtowards me. Others havejoined them, presumably thepeople who witnessed myhealing. The only thing thatcomes tomymind is to turn

and move in the samedirection, shouting the samethingsasthem,tryingmybestto look like the hunter ratherthanthehunted.

ThisplanworkswelluntilI reach the margins of thecrowd. Here, it is clear thatsome of the gold men aresimplyholdingtheirposition,surrounding the crowd andwatching it. As I reach thenearestone,Idroptohisfeet.

“Itismeyouwant.Show

meOur Saviour’smercy.Hehas savedme once. LetHimandonlyHimbemyjudge.”

AsIsaythis,hegrabsmeroughly by the scruff of theneck.

“I have him!” he cries.“Stand back, only Godhimselfcanjudgethedevil!”

The other gold men allrush towards him to add tohisformation.Thecrowdjeerandheckle, shoutingall sortsof abomination towards me,

wishing me the cruellestdeaths imaginable, cursingme to the lowest levels ofhell. Not a single man,however, makes a steptowardsTheGoldenBrigade.Not for the first time, Iwitnesstheabsolutepowerofthesemen.

Thirty-threeI amnot in thegaol long

before I am attended byBrother Gemin.My cell is adifferentone this time.Therearenoluxurieshere;thetoiletis a clay pot, there is no bedandblanketsand there is justa tiny window at the top ofthe room for light. It is coldand damp. The albino entersthe room dressed, as always,

inhiswhiteceremonialrobes.“Gruff. I am sorry that it

has to be thus,” he sayssympathetically. In all thetime that I have spent withhim,hehasneverbeencruel.Instead, he has a charmingand easy manner, alwaysprobing,alwaysinterested.

“Then is there nothingyoucando?”Igrunt.

“Iamastudentofpeople,Gruff, and I understand thatyou are nomore evil than I.

Butyouhaveaproblem.”“Whichis?”“That part of you that

cannot change. You willneversettlehere.Asyouhavetoldme,youhaveajobtodo,apointtoprove.Iunderstandnow that until you haveachieved this goal, you willnever rest, you will neverchange.”

“And neither will you.Youwillneverletme.”

“IcarryoutGod’swill.”

“If that is so, then IsupposeIshalldie.”

He smiles gently andremains silent for amoment,as though he is too kind tosayyes.

“Tellme,Gruff. I do notunderstand. You have seenOurSaviourintheflesh.Youhave seen hismiracles.WhywillyounotbendtoHiswill?Whatissodifficultforyoutobelieve?”

“Iseenomiracles.Inever

have and I never will. I seenothing here but the cunningof man. I see a charlatandevisingdevilry.Thatisall.”

“What makes you socertain?”

“If that man was thesaviourof thepeople thenhewould be helping them. Hewould be out amongst them.Instead, he sits in his palacesetting them on fire,poisoning them with wine.Meanwhile, orphans outside

his palace fight for scraps ofbread.Pah!”

“Poisoning them withwine? But how? You haveseen first-hand the healingpowerofthewine.OneoftheMother’s Maidens fed it toyouasyoudied.Didyounotfeelitspower?”

“What is a Mother’sMaiden?”

“They are the sacredorderthatserveTheMother,”he replies, presumably

referringtoMotherMaryam.“Well, I don’t deny it

healedme.Idon’tdenythatIfelt something. But thatdoesn’tmeanthehealingwasdivine.Ihaven’tunderstoodityet.Butyoumarkmywords,Iwill.”

“I will pray for you.There must be nothinglonelier than to only feeldoubt. You still have time.Wheneveryouareready,OurSaviour will accept you. He

lovesusall.”“SoIamnottodie?”“By His grace, he has

granted you a month toreflect. Then you will betried. I will pray for youduringthistime.”

Thirty-fourEven as time passes, the

wordsdonotsink in. Ibeginto think that there is abarrennessinmewhereotherpeople’s souls must be. Icannot believe. I cannotaccept. Even if it means mylife. I could pretend, but apretenceisallthatitwilleverbe; I will never be able toleave, to talk freely, to be

myself again. And if thatsorryexistenceisthebestthatI can hope for, then death isscarcelylesspreferable.

Evenwiththisdarkcloudhanging over me, I forcemyself to prepare. Even forthe tiniest chance, I must beready. Golden opportunities,after all, comemore often tothose who expect them.Fitness is crucial.Within theconfinesofthiscrampedcell,I must keep myself as sharp

and ready as I was in thewilds.

Asautumnheadstowardswinter, thedaysgrowshorterand shorter. Without anyform of bedclothes, keepingwarm is virtually impossible.Asuncomfortableasthisis,Iamgladforit;ifIamevertoget home, it will be throughthesnowoncemore.

As if thingscouldbeanymore miserable, the room,with its tiny window, is cast

intoanalmostperpetualdusk.To combat boredom, I spendhours a day teaching myselfhow to move without noise,honing my reactions until Iam quick enough to pluckroachesfromthefloor.Igrowtorealise that there isalwayssomethingtolearn.

These habits are,however, only peripheral.There is only one task thatobsesses me; I must learn tounderstandthemysteryofthe

wine.Eveninthisprisoncell,Istill receivebreadandwinedaily. This gives me theopportunity to experiment.For two days, I abstain fromboth the bread and thewine.Onceagain,asinthestreetonthe fateful day of myrecapture, I am almost deadby the second morning. Igreedily swig down theaccumulated wine from theside of my bed and thefeelingpasses.

I then abstain from onlythebreadfortwodays,justtoensure that it is thewineandnothing else. The wine I amservedisweak,muchweakerthanthekindMorriganwoulddrink for pleasure, butwithoutthebread,IfindthatIvery quickly become quiteunwell. However, thesymptoms are more akin todrunkennessthandeath.

I then decide to abstainfromthewineandjusteatthe

bread. As predicted, I findmyself almost dead by thesecond morning. The thirstthataccompaniesthesenseofdeath is most definitely thething that intrigues me. Ibegin to think that itmustbesomewhere within that thirstthat the secret to the poisonlies.

The human relationshipwithwaterissomethingaboutwhich I know only a little.EveninTallakarn,itisarare

thing for a human to drinkwater. This is because of allthe ill fortune that can comefrom doing so. It is knownthatmanydisgustingailmentslinger in water. Every dropthat is taken of it can beviewed as a gamble. That iswhyonly thepoorest people,thosewhocannotaffordbeer,drink water and, therefore,why the poorest peoplealwaysdiequickest.

Yet it is also known that

the water within beer is theelement that makes beer sovital to life. A person whodoesn’tdrinkforfourdaysorsowillalwaysdie,whetherinBrightstone or Tallakarn. Iswhat is happening heresimplyanaccelerationofthatprocess? What if I were tofind water to drink fromsomewhere?

Withthisinmind,Ispendthe next two days notdrinking the wine. Instead, I

hang my cloth jerkin out ofthe window to collectmoisture or rainfall. I thensuck the moisture from myclothes.Itdoesn’ttastenearlyso good as wine and I stillsuffer the same fate aspreviously.Theplanisanall-roundfailure.

My next experiment isthat of slowly limiting myexposure to the substance,each time only drinking somuch as I need to not die.

This self-imposed ordeal isone of theworst I have everhad the misfortune toexperience, and I do havequiteafewtochoosefrom.Ilose track of hours and days,doingnothingbutlyinginthediscomfort of my bed,bleeding with sweat, drumsinsidemyhead,forcingbreadinside myself, trying to ridethefinelinebetweenlifeanddeath. I begin to hallucinate;dreaming of my execution,

the feeling of having one’shead removed from one’sbody. I imagine marrying aMother’smaidenand settlingdowntoworkasagoatherd.Iimagine how it must feel tobelieve you are the Son ofGod. At one point, I hear avoice.

“It’s the bread! It’s thebread!”

No one will ever knowhowmuch time I lose to thisactivity but the only thing I

discover is that it doesn’twork. Gradually, I findmyselfneedingtodrinkmoreand more to stay conscious;weaning myself off it hasproved impossible. I listenedtothevoicethough.Whatifitisthebread?Whatifthewineismerelyanantidote?

This forms the basis ofmynextexperiment.Iabstainfromthebreadanddrinkonlythewine. For food, I eat theroachesthatIhavestockpiled

from the floor. Thisexperiment,initself,doesnotteachmemuchmorethanthateating nothing but roachesandwine is a disgusting anddepressing way to spendone’s time. Despite feelingvaguelyunpleasantanddirty,I suffer no particular illeffectsfromthisendeavour.Imustkeepupthishabitforatleasttendays.

The test of success,though, will surely be what

happenswhenIstopdrinkingthe wine. I am loathe to dothis as being drunk was theonly factor that made eatingthe roaches in any waybearable. I do it nonetheless,weaning myself off in thesamemannerasbefore.Onceagain,Ilosetrackoftimeandbecomeratherill.

Thedifferencethistimeisthat I do get better. As thedayspass,mystrengthgrows.I have outsmarted them; the

bread is a poison to whichwine is the cure. Even withmy death surely soon toarrive, this knowledgesatisfiesme.AtleastIcandieknowing that I was right allalong. So long as I don’t eatany of the food provided tome, I am free of theirshackles.

More time passes, weekseven,andIcarryonwithmydeveloped routines. Perhapsgoinghalfmad,Iaddanextra

line on to my knightly title:‘Ser Gruffydd of the green,scourgeofthecockroach’.

The unusual thing is thatno one ever comes to collectme.Theonlypeoplethateverapproach are the guardsdeliveringmydailybreadandwine. Every day I shout tothem, “Where is BrotherGemin?!”

By my estimation, fivemonths pass before the foodstops coming. This doesn’t

immediately affect mebecause I have becomevirtuallyself-sufficient,livingoffcockroachesandthedailymoisture accumulated onmyrags. However, after a fewdays I begin towonderwhathas happened.Have I simplybeen abandoned? Left to diehere?

Even this abandonmentdoesn’t stop me. Everymorning, Iassuremyself thatthe lock will wither to rust

before I am dead. Tomaintain sanity, or at leastsome sense of it, I do theexact same thing each day. Irise at dawn and mark theposition of the sun on mywall with a scratch. This isdonetomeasurethelengthofthe days. I then remove myrag from the window andsuck the top of it beforeplacingitbackoutside.Itheneat two cockroaches. Next, Ipractice moving silently.

ThenIworkonmydamagedkneebeforehavingtwomoreroaches and another suck onthe rag. I then try toremember everything thathappened on a particular dayof my life before exercisingagain. After this, I eat anddrinkoncemore.Theeveningis spent catching roaches inthe failing light. At sunset, Imark the wall and, aftervisualising my return toTallakarn, I go to sleep. I

neveroncetouchallthewineI’vestockpiled.

Thirty-fiveI am thrown into

consciousnessbythestartlingsound of great bells ringingoverhead. They resonate sodeeply that the wholebuilding seems to tremblearoundme.Thesourceofthesound is so close that I canonly imagine they are thebells of the palace itself. Ihave never heard a sound so

powerful. A glance towardsthewindowtellsmethat it isnot yet dawn. My heart fillswith a puzzled excitement,wondering what the bellscouldsignify.

At first, I try not to let itinterferewithmyroutine,buttheseattemptsdonot last forlong.Theringingisceaseless,persisting for hours andhours, booming andtrembling away at me untilthesounditselffeelslikeitis

part of my being. Everymuscle in my body feelstense, rigid against thediscordantnoise. I attempt tomeditate – stretching,breathing, trying to shut outthe agony. It must beapproaching noon before themaddeningnoise is broken. Ihearsomething.ItisavoiceIhaven’theardformonths.

“Goat man likesBrightstone,” says thestrangely familiar voice,

rising over the sound of thebells. I don’t immediatelyknow where the voice hascomefromandIalmostjumpoutofmyskinwhenIlookuptofindthat,ofallpeople,itisShara who has entered mycell.

I cannot reply straightaway. All sorts of emotionsflow throughme, threateningto overcomeme, to sendmeto tears. Firstly, there is theshock;Ihaven’tspokentoor

seen anyone in months.Moreover, the idea of beingrescued has long since fadedinto fantasy. Secondly, andunexpectedly, I am touched,profoundly touched, that I’vemeant enough for her for tocome and find me. Afterlonger than I would haveliked, I manage to find myvoice.

“What are you doinghere?Howdidyou…Why?”Istutter, justaboutmanaging

tokeepmycomposure.Sheisdressedentirelyinblack,onlyher white face shines outthrough the dullness of theroom.

“Brightstone dies. Snowman come. Snow man killeverything,” she replies,unconcerned.

“But why?! Why haveyoucomeforme?!”

“Goatmanwant to cometo Brightstone. Goat manwant to findSonofGodand

take to his home,” is heranswer.Asshe says this, sheshrugs dismissively, asthoughherarrivalisthemostnaturalthingintheworld.

“Yes but why are youhere?”

“I have said this. Goatmantalkstoolong.Troubleiseverywhere. Take yourweapons.ItakeyoutoSonofGod,” she snaps. She passesme a sackcloth bundlecontaining the items I

abandonedatMorrigan’s.“But... where... how…

Shara, I do not understand.How did you get here?” Istutter. I cannot help butstutter. I don’t even knowwhatquestiontoaskfirst.OfallthepeopleIhaveevermet,this maniac must surely bethe most difficult tounderstand. It all seems soimprobable. How did sheenter the city? How did sheknowwhereIwas?Howdoes

she know where ‘OurSaviour’ is?Why would sheevenbother?

“Theanswer is long.Toolong. I tell you one day.Whenyouarehome.”

“But, Shara…” Thequestion dies on my tongue.Now isnot the time tobegintryingtounravelherenigma.

“Goat man still wants todie.Answersdon’tkeepGoatmanalive.Onlymoving.Wego.Wegoquick.”

“We need to take thiswine.Morriganwillneeditifwe can find him,” I say,utteringalinethatIhavesaidmany times when rehearsingthis moment. Hurriedly, Istrap on my armour and fillthesackwithwine.

“CrowmanguardsSonofGod. Crow man pretends tobeloyaltoHim,”shereplies.“Wemustmove.”

Gathering the wine, Ifollow obediently and

somewhat in awe. As weascend the ornate gold andmarble staircase, I scarcelynoticeit.InsteadIfeeldazed,almost as though I amwandering through a dream.Thismoment, justadayago,hadseemedasabstract tomeas the idea of flying throughtheclouds.Evenaswe reachthe top of stairs and movealong themarbled hallway, Istill feel half mad from thetimespentalone.

Thegreathallisdeserted,empty except for statues ofthis so-called Saviour. Everystatue I look at builds myrage. Every single one is areminder of the things that Ihave been through at thewhims of this man – monthupon month living offroaches and rainwater, daysspent digging through thesalvage of a dying town, thepoisoned bread. I willwelcome the chance to see

himagain,tolookhimintheeye and find out how Godlooksbeforehedies.

Shara, meanwhile, ghostsahead of me like a shadowdartingthroughthewonderfullight of the Sun Palace. Sheweaves and winds throughthe complexity of itscorridors as though it werehersecondhome.Neverforasecond does she appear todoubt herself or her purpose.I can only be thankful that

sheisnotmyenemy.Eventually, we reach a

part of the palace where thewalls are entirely gold. Wekeep moving past doors anddoors until we reach a deadend. It seems tome that thischamber is somewhere lowdown, deep in the bosom ofthepalace.Noonewouldendupherebyaccident.JustasIbegin to think that Shara hasmade amistake, shewhistlessharply.

“Shara…What…”“Shh! They hide here.

They think they are safe.They wait for Snow Man togo,”shehisses.

There is a slight delaybefore the wall panel movesasidetorevealasmallhiddenroom. Six of The GoldenBrigade sit before us. Fromthe way they jump to theirfeet, it is clear they wereexpecting help rather thanhindrance. All but one of

them have removed theirhelmets and several haveeven removed other parts oftheir body armour. At theback of the room sit twoMother’s maidens and ahandsome young boy, agedabout twelve. All three ofthem have clearly beencrying.My eyes instinctivelysweep around the room,searchingfortheSonofGod.

“Are thesepeoplehere tosave me?” the boy asks

innocently, giving Himselfaway. His voice, needless tosay, is nothing like thetrembling bass that I heardduring my spells in the SunPalace.

“No, God. These are apair of snakes who havetrickedtheirwayinhere.Itisyour will that they did so. Itwas good of you to allow it.Now, we can kill them inyourhonour,”saysoneofthegold men. His tone is

paternalistic rather thandeferential.

Allsixofthemdrawtheirmuskets. The one wearing ahelmet, Morrigan I presume,immediatelyblastshismusketinto the unprotected face ofhis nearest neighbour. Thishappens so fast that he hastime to pounce, animal-like,onto another Gold Manbefore anyone else can react.They begin to brawl on thefloor. In the confusion, the

other three swing theirmusketstowardshim.

This distractionimmediatelyturnsthefightinour favour. Shara moves sofast that she has claimed herfirst victim before any ofthem even have a chance todraw their swords. The twojust out of her reach blasttheirmuskets in thedirectionof Morrigan before I canreach them. One of themscreams.

“Yousnake!Youheretic!Youtraitor!”

The battle is now at tooclose quarters for them toeven consider reloading theirmuskets. Two of them liedeadwhilstMorriganandoneother grapple on the floor.Shara and I engage thesurvivors in the back of theroom. I quickly find myselfbeingoverpowered.

My opponent is nothingbut brute strength and plate

metal. He smashes me backand backwith overwhelmingpower. I, wielding only myflimsy sword and shield, cando nothing except for parry.Myeyesscourhisarmourfora weakness but I can seenone.

The air is full of theclamourofswords.IcanhearShara screaming war criesover the top, men gruntingand shouting down beneath.As I parry strike after strike,

it seems wondrous that myshield hasn’t broken. Theonly thing I have to bethankful for ismy condition.My routine in the cell,dedicated to fitness andflexibility,seemstohavepaidoff and, even with a weakknee, I do not struggle todancebetweenhisstrikes.

I am so lost in the panicof battle that I lose alljudgement of how long it isbefore Shara comes to my

aid. The gold man is tooslow, too focused on mydeath,toseehercoming.Herfirst strike, delivered to hisheadwiththeconvexedgeofherscythe,knockshimtohisknees. Her second strike,delivered in the returningmotion by the concave edge,decapitateshim.

Immediately,anothergoldmanisuponus.Evenwiththeblurred focus of battle uponmymind, I know that this is

not right. As Shara engagesthe assailant, I turnmy headtowards the spot inside theconcealed room whereMorrigan should be.He’s onthefloor,bloodpouringfromhim.Ragefloods throughmeand, in an instant, I feel sostrong and so brave that Iscarcely seem to be myself.Shara and I finish the lastmaneasily.

Ashefalls,IgocareeringtowardsMorrigan faster than

I’ve ever moved towardsanything. He’s on his back,blood leaking from the left-handsideofhisbody.Behindme, I hear Shara shouting atthe women and child in herown language. I liftMorrigan’s golden visor andlook into his eyes. He isstaring off into the middledistance, a hauntedexpression painted across hisface. He doesn’t notice meimmediately but when he

does, he manages to retrievehissmirk.

“It’s a shame. I waslooking forward to the walkback,”hecroaks.

“You’ll be all right,” Ireply, moving to try andremovetheplate.

“Nope. I’m afraid not.Thiswound is farkingkillingme. Literally.” He manageshalfalaughthatquitequicklybecomes a cough. “Don’t…taketheplateoff.It’stheonly

thingholdingme togetherbythefeelofit.”

“You’ll be all right,” Irepeat, instantly ashamed ofhow stupid this sounds. Theashen colour of his faceprovides me with a glaringcontradiction.

“Alwaysgottoberight…Not this time,Sprat.Not thistime.Justgetmesomewine,willyou?”hesplutters.

The sack was dropped inthe doorway. I rush to

retrieve a wineskin from it.WhenIambacknexttohim,Iopenitandputittohislips.Heslurpsitdowngreedily.

“The blood of life, hey?!Ha!”Hislastlaughturnsintoacoughthathecan’tseemtostop.Whenhedoesstop,itisforever, a pale smirk etchedacrosshislips.

There is no time forgrieving now though. Myeyes flash up to the back ofthe room. Here, the young

boysitshuddledamongsthistwo Mother’s maidens. Notoneofthemcanbeolderthansixteen.Allthreeofthemaresobbing tragically. Sharastandsonlyafewstepsaway,scythe poised, ready to dowhatever she is required todo.Irisetomyfeetandwalktowardsthem.

“Please don’t kill me,”‘God’ whimpers. “I’m yourSaviour.” He looks likenothingother thanahorrible,

brattish child. With his jetblack hair and strong jaw,here is a whiff of Tallakarnhighbornabouthim

“You’re not my saviour.Youareayoungboy,”Ireplyangrily.Terror flashes acrosshis eyes; Iwonder how longit has been since anyone hasdaredtocontradicthim.

“Ifyouwerenotachild,Iwould kill you.Doyou haveany idea of the evil that hasbeen done in your name?” I

continue, a bit unsure aboutmytranslation.

“I…I…I…neversetoutto hurt anyone. I am theSaviour.Iwa…wa…wantedto help my people,” hereplies, on the verge ofhysteria. He has big softbrowneyes.

“Then who did all thesethings?Whosettheslavesonfire? Who poisoned thebread? Was it BrotherGemin?” I ask, surprising

evenmyself.“N… N… No… Brother

Gemin is the godliest ofgodlymen.He…He…neverwantedanyofthat.”

“Sowhowasit?”“It wa… It was… my

mother. She… she…” Hebreaks into tears before hecanfinishthesentence.

At this moment, withtears in front of me and thecorpse of my dead friendbehind, I realise the most

improbable thing; I actuallybelieve him. Very rarely inlife have I ever thought thebest of someone. Usually, infact, it is quite the opposite.People never fail to find away to disappoint me and Inever fail to find a way todistrust them. Thisruthlessness of my usualjudgement is all the proof Ineed; the boy is an innocent,a pawn in somebody else’sgame.Ibelievehim.Icannot

executehim.“I…I…I…havemoney.

Ihavetreasure.Anythingyouwant. Just… please…” sobsoneoftheMother’smaidens.Hermoonfaceisflushedpinkwith emotion andher eyes, apaleblue,mustbethesaddesteyesIhaveeverseen.

“I’m not going to killyou,” I reply, trying toremove the harshness frommyvoice.

“You…arethestranger…

aren’t you?” weeps the boy,recognition slowly driftingacross his face. “I rememberyou.Iremember…youaskedme to visit your home… Iwantedto…butshetoldmeIcouldn’t…Thenwesentyoutogaol.”

“Yes. You burned amantodeath,”Iremindhim.

“That wasn’t… It wasn’tme… It was a trick… It…it… was… her.” The boyloses his composure again as

his mind drifts back to hismother.

“Can you take us withyou now?” asks the othermaiden, earnestly. She hasred hair and a freckledcomplexion. The questionseems to lighten the faces ofher two companions. Thetears stand still on the boy’sfaceashespotsaglimmerofhope.

It is not a difficultdecision forme tomake.My

mind flashes immediately tomyfatoldking,squirminginhis throne like an ugly baby,lickinghis lipsashesentmeofftodie.ItisasceneIhaveplayedoverinmyhead,nightafter night, desperate toresolve. Compared to thisvision, nothing else matters,not the dubious moralcharacter of the young boy,notthefearoftheseaice,notthechallengeof feedingfive.Iwillprevail.

“Youhavenochoice.”“We…we…haveaboat.

We were told to escape toStone Island should anythinggo wrong,” says the red-haired maiden. “It’s downthroughthistrapdoor.This…this… sanctuarywas our lasthope. We were told theywouldneverfindus.”

Thirty-sixWhile their final bolthole

still had some semblance ofluxury, the passage on theothersidemostcertainlydoesnot. Instead, it is a wet andslimy passage only largeenough for one person,stooping, to pass through atany one time. None of thismatters though; as thearchitects who must have

designeditcorrectlydeduced,anyone desperate enough tofind themselves here wouldhave no interest in anythingapart from the boat at theother end. The only sourcesof light are the torches thateachofuscarry.

Neither the boy nor thetwo girls accompanying himstop crying for the entirecourse of this desperatescramble.Shara,whoIdoubthasevercried,followsbehind

them silently. It is here, inthisgrimmestofplacesthatIrealisethemagnitudeofwhatIamabouttodo;thisboyhasprobably never even had towipehisownbottombutnowhe is going to have toundertakeajourneythatonlyahandfulofpeoplehaveeversurvived. All three of themare going to need to hardenupexceptionallyquickly.

As we descend deeperinto the island’s caverns, the

air fills with a liquidcoolness. The smell of dampearth gradually becomesimbuedwiththescentofsalt.There is very little noiseexcept for the splutteringpanicofournewcompanions.Iwonderwhethertheboyhaseverfoundhimself inaplacelikethisbefore,aplacewherenature has almost completecontrol, where it is entirelypossible that no person hassetfootforhundredsofyears.

Everysooften,Itellthemto be quiet. These requests,however, don’t do any good.With each slight slip andstumble, each scatteringspider, each errant drip ofcavewater, the boymanagesto find another level ofhysteria.

“Godsdon’tfearspiders,”I spit at him. “Much worseliesahead.”

Eventually, after somefairdegreeofscrambling,we

are greeted by the gentlesloshingofthesea.Aturnofthe final corner reveals anatural cave harbour hidingshyly away from the openocean.Intheharbour,asmallboatismoored.Thechoiceofthis islandasa location forapalacewas obviously awell-consideredone.

“Willthisboattakemetomy new kingdom?” the boyasks, a brightness piercingthroughhistears.

“No. This boat will giveusasmallchanceofbeingina position to begin walking.Anditmaytakeusmonthstowalk there. And even whenwearrive, itwillnotbeyourkingdom. You will be astranger like I am here. Youneed togetused to this idea.It’s that or death.” As thesewords spit forth from me, Irealise that I must sound asharshasLadyVestaherself.Idon’t rebuke myself for this

though;theyarefactsthattheboyneedstolearnquickly.

Shara, meanwhile, strollstothefrontoftheboat.

“Idon’tknowthese,”shegrumbles.

“Well, thatmakes two ofus,”Ireply.AllIknowisthatwe are likely to be at themercy of the wind.Tentatively, I walk to theedgeofthecaveandstareoutacrossthegentleazuresea.Itcannotbemorethanacouple

of miles to the large islandthat I have come to know asCrow Island. I know fromstudyingmapsoftheareathatStone Island, the destinationthat the boy and hismaidenshad been advised to sail to,would require a degree ofsailingaroundthecoasttothewest. Unless sailing is mucheasier than I’m expecting, Iwill be grateful simply tomakeittoland.

Thirty-sevenWe make minimal

progress in the first daysfollowing our flight from thepalace. There are severalreasons for this. Firstly, theboy is completely illequipped and unprepared forthe task. He demandsattention and comfort atalmost every turn. Themaidens,ArtumeandSelene,

begin with the misguidedintention to carry him, butthis intention quicklysubsides as the first morningpresses on. Even whenwalking,heis infuriating;hisextravagantrequestsforfood,his tendency to sing, tobecome distracted byinterestingly shaped trees, tosulk, to wander off on awhim, all conspire to makemeyearnforthesimplicityofmygaolcell.

A second reason for ourslow progress is the greatnumber of people movingaround the island. Refugeessuch as ourselves and, morefrequently, their corpsesmaketheislandamuchmorecrowded place than the lasttime thatwe passed through.Furthermore, the snowsavages themselves arespread over the island inabundance. Some appear tobesettledontheislandwhilst

othersarefollowingbehindintherear-guardoftheinvasionforce. Whatever reason eachperson has for being here,every single one makes ourprogress more difficult.Shara’s beast-like ability tokeep us concealed is provingtobevital.

From the offset, I havemade it clear to Selene,ArtumeandLeothatthewineisdefinitelyneitherthebloodof Leo nor some magical

force of life. I’ve told themthatitismerelyanantidotetoa poison that everyone onBrightstone was receiving.Furthermore, I’ve instructedthem to drink a little of thewine every day and to trustthat, in time, they will nolongerneedit.IamsurethatIhavegiventhemeverysinglepiece of information theycouldneed. Ihaveeven triedmy best to take control howmuch they are drinking.

However,Idon’tthink,atanypoint, that a single one ofthem has truly believed thetruthofmywords.

By the morning of thesixth day,with the exceptionof some I have hidden, thereis no wine left. By theevening of the seventh day,the health of Artume andSelene is fading so rapidlythatwehaveno choiceotherthan to stop. At this point, Igive them each a sip of the

hiddenwine.Leo,who ishisinfuriatingly buoyant self,doesn’t appear to need any.He must not have ever beenpoisoned.

We have, by this time,reached a sheltered inlet ontheMotherIsland,justacrossthewaterfromCrow’sisland.Thecrossing,whichisatidalone, seems to represent anevenclearercrossingintermsof the weather and the firststep onto the mainland feels

more frosty, moreunwelcome, than I have feltsinceIarrived inBrightstonealmost ninemonths ago.Thecold sting on the air bringsback a thousand horriblereminders. But it is whatwe’ve left behind that reallyconcernsme.

On the eighth morning,both Selene and Artumeremainincrediblyweak.Onceagain, I give them bothnothingmorethanasipofthe

winethattheyneed.Itisclearfrom their weakness that wecan not leave camp. SharatakesLeoouttohuntwhilstIspend the day keeping guardover the poisoned women. Icandonothingbutsteadfastlydeny their demands for wineuntil I’m sure they will diewithout it.With every sip ofwine that leaves the finalwineskin, I cannot help butremembermyownagony,theweeks of flirting with death,

trapped in the tormentofmycell.Burdenedbythepainofthese thoughts, I findmyselfwillingthedaytoend.

Thirty-eightIamsittingbesideSelene.

She is asleep and her kindmoon face looksdevastatinglysad.Sheispalewithweakness.Consumedbya protective urge, I begin tostrokeherbrow.

Suddenly, I hear thesound of rustling in thenearby bushes. My heartleapsasIassumetheworst.I

jump to my feet, ready todefendmyself.ItisamistakeI make every time Sharareturnsfromahunt.

EventhoughIamquicklylearningnevertobesurprisedby her, the bounty that shebrings with her through thedyinglightisnothingshortofstaggering. Between her andLeo, they have brought backthe corpses of over thirtyanimals, mostly birds andrabbits,includingthebodyof

a giant stag slung across thewoman’s shoulders. If Ididn’t know better, I wouldbesurethatshewassmiling.

Theboy,meanwhile,issojubilant that he talksrelentlessly tome throughoutthecookingandconsumptionof the meal. Despite myfrequent requests for him tostop, he does not seem tohear. He begins with somegeneral bragging, declaringhimself a great hunter and

emphasising how proud theanimalsmusthavebeentodieat his hand. After this heproceeds to talk throughevery single hunt inpainstaking detail. If hisversion of events is to bebelieved then Shara actuallycontributed very little to thecornucopia of food that nowsits before us. It is fortunatefor him that she doesn’tpossesstheBright-tongue.

He does not remain

around to help with the lastaction of the day, thesmoking of the meat,choosing instead to wanderoffandfallasleepassoonashe finds himself growingbored. Shara and I acquitourselves well to this task,eager to make sure that theday’seffortsarenotwastedtorancidityandrot.

“Today was good day.Boynotallstupid,”shesighs,skinningthefurfromarabbit

withmasterfulease.“Good.Heneedstolearn.

Allofuswillneed tohelp ifwearetogethome.”

“Yes, it was hard formeto keep you and CrowMan.Is more hard for five,” shereplies. The mention ofMorrigan brings anunfamiliar sensation to mythroat;itistheneedtocry.Ittakesagreatdealofphysicaleffort to disguise this need.Desperate to change the

subject, I move back to theboy.

“Sohehuntedwell?”“No.Hetried.Buthewas

good at finding fallenanimals.”

“In Tallakarn, we usedogsforthat.”

“Whatisdog?”“Itisa…well…asortof

wolf that works withhumans.”

“Ah, I understand. Thishappenformypeople.But is

wolf.”“Oh.”“So boy helps like

friendly wolf,” she smiles. Itis a full smile and one that Idon’t think I have ever seen.Forthefirsttime,Inoticethatsome people might considerher attractive. Especially inthisfailinglight.

“Well maybe not thatuseful,” I reply. We bothlaugh. I can’t rememberhowlong it has been since I

genuinelysharedalaughwithsomeone. Morrigan and Icertainly did used to makejokes, but they were moreofteninsultsattheexpenseofthe other and, for somereason,Ineverwantedhimtosee me laugh. For a longtime, laughter felt like a signof weakness, like a loss ofcontrol,anaspect thatcannotbeshown.Asmyminddrifts,our eyes meet for a momentthat is slightly longer than

comfortable and I am forcedtoaskaquestiontobreakthesilence.

“Do your kind eathumans?”AsIaskthis,Ifeelrather silly, as though I havesimplyblurteditout.

“Only in times of greatneed. It does not taste good.Why do you ask?” A wrysmile crosses her face. Shedoes not smile often and itdoesn’tsuitheraswellasherscowl.

“Morrigan and I metpeople on the ice that wethoughtwerecannibals.”

“Well, ice men arecannibals. Not like mypeople,” she replies, in hermatter-of-fact tone. “Forthem, happy man is numberonefood.”

“Adelicacy?”“What is delicacy?” she

asks.“Afavouritefood.”“Then, yes, delicacy. In

your tongue, many wordsmean same thing. It isstrange. Happy man isdelicacy.”

“Happyman?”“They like to eat man

whohasdiedhappy.Itisverydifficultbutscaredmantastesdifferent. Not good. Mostmendiescared.”

“Sothatiswhytheyletusgo?”

“The taste of scaredmanis bad. The taste of battle is

worse.Theyonlywanthappyman.Goatman never happy.Maybe is that,” she replies.Another smile, her third ofthe night, tells me she isjokingagain.

“So they might host amantomakehimhappy?Andkill him at his happiest?” Iask, the reality of Ram’ssituation beginning to makesense.

“Yes. This is their way.No one is kind just because.

Thereisalwaysreason.”“But you were kind to

me…Whydidyouhelpme?”I ask, changing the subjectonce more. Her warmthtowardsmemakesmefeelasthough it is a question I canfinallyask.

“This question again…”She rolls her eyes in disgust.“It is the way ofmy people.Wekillpeopleorwe…we…take…people.”

“ButIdidn’ttakeyou.”

“You take me. You killmy people and you takeme.You didn’t kill me. Kill ortake is the only thing. I amyours.”

“But I said you couldleave,” I reply. At thisresponse, she scowls infrustration.

“Thereisnoleave.Thisisnot the way of my people.You have person. You killthem or you take them. If Ileave, I am wrong to my

people. Kill or take.” Shestops for a moment,frustrated, before continuingagain. “You talk about dog,about friendly wolf… It issame. If our people want totakewolf then theykillotherwolf and take one.Wolf hashonour. Wolf stay with newfamily.Wolf respect strengthofpeoplewhotakehim.”

“But you don’t respectme?”

“I do respect you. You

and Crow Man kill all mypeople.Manypeople.This isnot easy.Youwere strong towait through cold night tohunt us. You were clever touse fire to stop me. Youspend long year in smallroom by eating beetles. Nomanstopsyou.”

“I understand. But youcouldleave.”

“I cannot leave,” shespits.“Youtakesomeoneandtheyareyours.Thisisit.”

“Butifyoudon’twant…”“There is nowant! I am

yours. My blood and myweapon are yours. This is it.Itissimple.”Asshesaysthis,her face is tight and intense,onthevergeoffury.Idecideto relent; her explanationmakes sense in her owncontext and all I can do isacceptit.

“I understand.Nevertheless, thank you. Iwould not be here without

yourhelp.”“Thisistrue.Itislife.We

smoke meat now so that wecan eat when the snow isstrong. For you, it is same.You take me so that I amthere for you in the time ofneed.”

“Isuppose…Idon’tthinkthat is quite what I had inmind.”

“This is how it is. Whatyou think is nothing,” shescowls. She skins her next

rabbitwith such ferocity thatI can’t help thinking shewishesitwasme.

“So how did you findme?”

“When you fightBrightstone man, I hide. Ishoot the other men. Whenthey take you, I follow. Ifollow longway.By night, Ienter Brightstone. It is veryhard. I watch for long time,for one turn of the moon,before Crow man leave the

SunPalace.Crowmanspeaksbetter thanGoatman.This isobvious.

IfollowCrowmanandhehelpsme.Hejoinsgoldman.I hide with him for manymoons. One day, Goat Mancomes to us but he isfollowed. One man listensoutside all night. I do notenterbecauseofthisman.”

“Who? Who waslistening?” I ask, facing thecold realisation that I was

never alone on my singlenightoffreedom.

“Idon’tknow.Theywearonlyblack.Likeashadow.”

“But Morrigan nevermentioned you that night,” Iaskinastonishment,scouringmymemoryforclueshemayhavegiven.

“This is because CrowManisnotstupid.Hesoundsstupid.Helooksstupid.Butisnot.”

“ThenGoatMan is taken

oncemore. I hidewithCrowMan. Again, it is manymoons. Time passes andBrightstonegrowsweak.Thesnowmanattacks.CrowManis out fighting for days andnights. Many gold men die.One day, Crow Man returnsbut only to tellmewhere hegoes. He tells me thatBrightstone is nearly deadandwhere the boywill hide.Now, it iseasy.All realmenarefighting.Itiseasytoenter

palace.”“But… but… you must

have waited months. Whydidn’tyouleave?”

“I will not answer thisquestionagain.Untilyoudie,Iamyours.”

“And the poison? Whatabout the bread? You musthaveeatenthebread?”

“I don’t eat poison. I amnotstupid.”

Wedriftintosilenceforamoment as I struggle to

comprehend the intensity ofherdevotion.Itiscomplex.Infact, it is not even devotion;she is only here out of somedeep, misguided faith in theway that things should be.There are clearly rules thatgovern her, rules that don’tmake sense tome, rules thathave evidently sent her toplaces where most humanswouldn’t even dream ofgoing. Yet why should I bedoubting them? If she had

anywisdom in the sense thatI understand it, then there isno doubt that I wouldn’t behere today. I should only bethankful.

Itakeanotherlookather;that wild, savage face seemsto bemerely a façade hidingcountless mysteries that Ishall never understand. Withthis thought, I suddenlyremember the two maidensand their own troubles. Ifinish trimming the last strip

of meat before movingtowards them. They arehuddledtogetherbeneathfursin one of several semi-permanent dens constructedforusbyShara.Bothofthemappeartobeasleep.

I approach Selene first.Her round and pale faceglows in the emergingmoonlight. I shake herroughly.

“Do you want some ofthis?”Iask,offeringherwhat

is now a three-quarter emptyskin of wine. Her eyes opensuddenly; she is riddledwithpain, grimacing at the veryeffortofbeingawake.

“Yes,” she groans. I canalmost hear how dry hermouth is from the effort ittakesforhertospeak.Ihandherthebottleandsheclutchesat it eagerly likeakid takingto teat. She must have onlytakenasipbeforeIwrenchitaway from her, always

cautious to ensure that thereisenoughleftforthefuture.

“If you’d have listened,you wouldn’t be in thismess,” I grumble. I do so inmyownlanguageso thatshedoesn’t understand. At thesame time, I move aroundtowards Artume and shakeher. This time there is noimmediate response. I shakeheragain.

“Artume? Do you wantsomeofthis?”Ishout,trying

toignoremygutinstinct.Stillthere is no response. I shakeher once more. There is noreply. I lower my ear to hermouth to listen for breathingbut I hear nothing. Despitethe futility, I find myselfshakingheranothertime.Fora moment, I considerlowering thewine toher lipsinthehopethatshe’lldrinkit.ThenIrealisethatallthatwillachieve is to waste the vitallast drops that Selene will

needifsheistosurvive.Furysweepsacrossme.

I find myself stormingtowards thesleepingboyandgrabbing him sharply fromhisnest.Withthenextaction,I am dragging him towardshisdeadmaid.

“Do you see?!” I shout.“Do you see the evil that’sbeen done in your name?! Ifit wasn’t for you, this poorgirlwouldstillbealive.”

I thrust his scrawny face,

barely awake, so close to thedeadArtume thathemustbetouching her. He begins towhimper.

“Let go of me. You’rehurting me. You’re scaringme.”

“No.Iwantyoutolook.Iwantyoutostaredeathintheface. You must see whatyou’vedone.”

By this time, the boy ishysterical, crying andscreaming, almost senseless

as to the point I’m trying tomake. It is enough noise tobring Shara gliding towardsus to hush us. Her scornful‘shhh’ scuttles through thedarkening skies like a roach.Thesoundisenoughtobringme tomysensesand I throwthe boy to the ground like arag. I storm away, spittingwithdisgust.

Thirty-nineThe grand library at

Tallakarn is full of workdedicated to the heroism ofchivalric life. Almostcountless songs and poemshavebeenwrittentocelebratethebrillianceofknightsfrombygone eras. Personally, Ihave always suspected thatevery single one of theseworks is lie. It is, after all,

humannature toexaggerate -no one can possibly be asperfect as the songs that aresungaboutthem.

I also believe that theseworks deliberately overplaythe emotional capacity ofwomen, that femaleportrayals are oftenexaggerations, written tomake them seem ridiculousand,bydoingso,aid in theiroppression. For instance,women like Lady Vesta and

Shara are nothing like thedamsels in distress that onemightreadaboutinsong.

In reality though, nothaving known my ownmother has given me littleopportunitytoknowthetruthof the matter. For all Iunderstand of women, itcould all be true; they couldbe, as the stories tell us,entirely different to men.What I do know is thatSelene’s emotions following

her friend’s death, and herown survival, couldnever beoverstated.

Ittookherseveraldaystocompletely recover and,withthe realisation that I wasright, she ripped the turtlebadge from her chest andburst into wild tears. Shescreamedallthecursesunderthesunatherselfforbeingsostupid. I have never seenanyone cry quite so muchand,eventhen,withsomuch

anger.The source of her anger?

That she had set out to dogood but had, ultimately,been manipulated intoparticipating in anunforgivable evil. Therealisationofthetruepurposeofthewinehadbeenthefinalstraw in her realisation; shehadbeenlivingalie.

Theseemotional tempestscontinue even now.Perversely, the only person

with whom she ever seemstruly angry is herself. Otherpeople are mentioned in hertear-stricken ragesbut Ihavebegun to notice that she hasan uncanny ability to bringthe blame rolling back toherself. Why did she notnotice?Whycouldshenotbestronger?This trait, thisdeepsense of personalresponsibility, was the firstthingthatInoticedabouther,as her personality emerged

following her recovery.Almost straight away, it wassomething I hugely admired.This was clearly a personwhosharedmysenseofrightand wrong, someone whowouldlooktotheirownfaultsbeforeblaming somethingonanother.

The one person that sherefuses to admonish is theboy himself. The twelveMother’s Maidens chosen toprovide care and

companionship to him hadspent almost all their timearoundhim.Sheknowsbetterthan anyone that the boyhimself had been lied to,flattered, spoilt and groomedinto nothing more than anidiotpuppet. Ifanything, thisrealisation only makes herdoteonhimmoreasthedaysofourjourneypass.

Furthermore, as herstrength returns, I began torealise what a remarkable

strength it is that we havebeen missing. Beneath thebarriers of language, of hermeekness, of the boy’s all-eclipsing ability to steal thestage, I had, to begin with,failedtonoticethequietprideanddeterminationwithwhichshe set herself to our cause.Only a few days into ourpostponed journey, I amsurprised to realise that sheseems to have usurped mypositionas the ‘home-maker’

to Shara’s ‘hunter’. As thedays move along, I findmyselfmore andmore beingforced into a jack-of-all-tradesrole,doingwhateverisrequired of me by thechangingneedsofthegroup.

Of all things though,Selene’s most remarkablecharacteristic is her patience.For however much sheherself is beginning toimpressme, the boy remainsas insufferable as the sum

total of all the nightmarish,attention-seeking fools that Ihaveeverhad themisfortunetomeet.

It is true that, as timepasses, he is beginning todevelop a slightly thickerskin. He has even shown anabove-average propensity tolearn the skills required ofhim.But none of this is ableto mitigate against theabomination that is hispersonality. Not a day goes

bywherehedoesn’tprovetobe selfish, fickle, petulant,unabletounderstandanythingexcept through its immediaterelationshiptohimself.

For instance, he mightdecidethatheprefersthelookof Selene’s food to his own;Selene will gladly swap itwithhim.Orhemightdecidethatheisnotgoingtohelpsetup camp for the evening;Selene will compensate forhim by working twice as

hard. There was even oneoccasion where he simplypoint blank refused to walk.If I had not grabbed him byhis hood and dragged him,Selene would have quitesimply waited until hismindchanged. It is only onreflection, and as the dayspass, that I realise neverbefore have two peopleenteredmyaffectionsonsuchopposite ends of thespectrum.

AsIcontinue towalk fordaysanddays,surroundedbythese two women, bothequally impressive forces ofnature, my mind naturallybegins to turn to love. Ihavenever really had cause tothink of love as somethingthat could happen to a boylike me. My life before thequest was not exactlyconducive to the idea. Athome, my father waseffectively a pariah, clinging

alongside his goats to thebottomrungofsociety,whilstmy school was not only anexclusively maleenvironment, it was also anexclusively exclusive one.Theideaofmeetingawomanwho would meet the highstandards I expected whilstsimultaneously accepting meformy low birth had alwaysseemed, as an idea, moreabstractthanreal.

Now, however, I find

myselfinthepresenceoftwowomen of whom, as timemoves on, I am becomingvery fond. Selene, with herkindmoon face, gentle prideand the fierce maternalismsheshowstowardstheboy,isthe kind of woman that anymanwouldsurelybeproudtohaveashiswife.

Shara, meanwhile, ismore akin to an untameablestorm, wild and ravaging,formidable and beyond

comprehension.Iamnotsurethat someone like me couldeverfindcomfortinsomeonelike her. As for her ownfeelings, I couldn’t evenbegin to guess.Nevertheless,her intense fixation onworking towards our finalgoal, the white towers ofTallakarn, seems to exceedevenmyown and, for this, Ifind myself growing evermorethankful.

It is most certainly

because of her that we havebeen able to move so farthrough the snow withouttrouble;shehuntsquicklyandaccurately, knowing more oftheterrainthanitwouldseempossible for one person tohavelearned,evenifshehaddevoted her life to the task.At the first signof anyothersavages,weerronthesideofcaution, even taking detoursto avoid conflict. Thisstrategy,Sharatellsme,isthe

first ruleof the snow.Asweapproachthefrozensea,Iamfitter,fatterandwarmerthanIwas at any point on theopposite journey. In the lastfew days, I have even begunto feel fairly confident aboutmyprospectsofseeinghomeoncemore.

It is because of thesuccess of Shara’s cannyguidance that I accept heradviceofnottravellingacrossthe sea. It is, she warns, no

accident that Morrigan andmyselfwerealmostmauledtodeathbyabearlasttime;onlythe‘icepeople’daremakethejourney regularly. Even tosave a month of extrawalking, the gamble is toomuch.

FortyAsweheadfurthersouth,

thesnowbecomesdeeperandmoretreacherous.Itisalmostuptoourkneesandthereisalayered quality to it, powdersoft snow segregated byharder, jagged seams of ice.Its density also masks theterrainsonwhichitlies.Thiscreates hazardous hiddenpitfalls that only Shara’s eye

is trained to spot. But evenshe is beginning to strugglenow; we left her people’srangeseveraldaysago.

Anditisquitecleartoseewhy her people do notventure out here.As the treecover thins, so doeseverything else. Everythingexcept the snow. Where ithad previously beenguaranteed that she wouldhunt enough food tocomfortably feed the four of

us, the last couple of dayshave beenmeagre to say theleast.We are no longer evenaccompanied by thesmatterings of birdsong thatwehadallbecomesousedto.

This lack of stimulationcould be the reason why weare all stopped in our tracksby the sound of a high-pitched mewling sweepingacrossthesnow.Myinstinctsimmediately tellme that it isababyanimal.Shara,leading

atthefront,holdsherhandupasan instruction forus all tostop. This instruction ispromptly ignored by Leo,who begins stridingimmediately to the source ofthe sound. Shara looks backtowards Selene and I, bothstationary, and raises herhandoncemore.

“Be very careful. Manyholeshere,”shehissesacrossthe snow in her trademark‘quiet but loud’ fashion. I

translate this to Selene, whois still struggling tounderstand my language.SeleneshoutsforLeotostopbut, in his typical pig-ignorant fashion, theboy justcarries on ploughing ahead.The depth of the snow heremeans that, although thedistance between Shara andLeoisnotthatgreat,shewillstruggletoreachhimquickly.This factgrowsmuchclearerwhen itbecomesevident that

Shara is watching where sheputs her feet. Leo,meanwhile, holding true tohis hard-held principles ofreckless idiocy, is onlybothered about finding theanimal. The result isagonising frustration, thesensation of watching afootrace between a tortoiseandasnail.Iwatch,helpless,asLeoeventuallyreacheshisdestination.

“Aww!Whatisthis?!”he

cries,holdingaloftananimalthatlookslikearatherstockywhite cat. At this distance, Ican’tbesurewhatitisbutmyimmediate thought is that itcan only be a baby bear. Aflush of hot blood passesthrough me as I realise theimplications.

“Putdown!”hissesShara.“Put down, stupid boy.” Asshe makes this plea, lostbetween their languages, sheis probably at least ten large

steps away. Selene and I areprobablyanothertwentyorsoawayfromher.

Withoutwarning, the skyis ruptured by a blood-curdling roar. From over thebrow of a hill emerges themost terrifying creature Ihave ever seen. It is not abear but instead a giant cat,perhaps bigger than the bearthatMorriganandImetwithon the snow. It iscompletelywhite incolourexcept foran

imperious bluemane and theblood red of its openmouth.Thesoundthatitemitsseemsto shake the ground beneathme. Selene screams. Sharadrawsherbow.

Instinctdrivesmetowardstheboyandthecryingkitten.The cat itself is closer toShara than Leo but isn’tinterestedinher.Itonlytakesone glance in its monstrouseyes to understand that it isheadingstraightforitskitten.

I, however, have made amistake.Ionlytakefourstepsbefore my right foot, mygood leg, plunges deep intotheice.

“Help!” I scream, turningtolookatSelene,whostands,for a moment, frozen inshock.Leo,meanwhile,hurlsthe kitten to the ground andbeginsscramblingawayfromthe approaching cat. AsearingpaincreepsupmylegasIrealiseitisfirmlytrapped

inplace.Thecat, rather inevitably,

is moving towards Leo at amuchquickerpacethanheisable toescape.Leo, realisingthis, and in his infinitewisdom, changes his coursetowards me and my plantedleg. The only consolation,and it ishardlymuchofone,is that there are, by now, atleast three of Shara’s arrowsprotruding from the creature.I am less consoled when I

notice that, roaring andfurious, it continues tomoveas though its wounds arenothing more than a slightannoyance. Selene,meanwhile, has just aboutreached me. As her handtouchesmine,myattentionisagain stolen by anotherterrifying yowl. At the edgeofmyvision,Iamreasonablycertain that another cat hasjoinedthefray.

Selene’shand is firmand

sureand,usingwhatmustbethe combined total of ourstrength,Iamabletowrenchmyself free, minus boot,seconds before Leo succeedsin putting me betweenhimself and the rapidlyapproaching cat. He iscertainly turning out to be arather special kind of‘saviour’.

I am only just back onmyfeetwithmysworddrawnbefore the cat is upon me,

knockingmedownasthoughI am a leaf in thewind. Thestrength in a swipe of itspadded paw is incomparableto any sword blow I haveever received. It is as thoughthe full power of nature hasbeen distilled into a single,devastating movement,smashing across my face,stealing my breath, my skinand,Ithink,afewteeth.

Fortunately, if anythingabout this situation can be

saidtobefortunate,Iholdmysword strong and true as hepounces.Asmuchasthereisto be commended about thisincredibleanimal,itsdecisionto dive onto an open bladedoesn’t speak highly for itsintellect. For, from thesatisfying feeling of mysword through its flesh, IknowinstinctivelythatIhavegravely wounded it. Now,with the full weight of thebeast upon me, the only

questionseemstobewhetherit will kill me before it dies.My entire body is almostimmediately drenched withwarmblood.

Whatever happens fromthis point is nothing but ablur. IdoeverythingIcan tousemyarmstocovermyfaceand to hunch into as small aspaceaspossible.Aboveme,I amvaguely aware thatLeoandSelenemustalsobeuponthe animal. Screaming and

shouting and rumbling fillsthe air. How long thescrambling and strugglinglasts for, Ihaveno idea. It iscertainthat thebeastmustbeinflicting some terribleinjuriesuponmebutthepainthat accompanies themstruggles to make it throughthe terrible numbness that iscastovermyentirebody.

Forty-oneAs my eyes flutter open

for the first time, variousparts ofmybody screamoutin agony, each desperate toreport to me the terribleinjuries I have suffered, eacheagertobeginchasingmeforthe debt of pain that I owe.They play together like amusical ensemble, eachcontributing their own

individual piece, to create awhole even greater than thesumoftheirparts.

The loudest and mostconstant pain seems to beemanatingfrommyface,rawand sharp. I know instantlythat it is the deepest, mosthideous flesh wound I haveever experienced. My leftshoulder also throbs in asimilar manner. However,whenever I attempt to moveevenslightly,thesesensations

are eclipsed by a terrifyingand severe pain shootingfrom the base ofmy back tothe top of my neck. Withevery stab of this sensation,some dark fear rises frominside me, whispering thatthis is how its feels to becrippled.

All the while, a dullerpainrumblesoninmyfoot,aburning, tingling sensationakin to numbness. Then,deeper than all of these

combined, is an even dullerpain, one that I am scarcelyable to locate; it is perhapsbest described as an achingfatigue washing over myentire body. To top it off, itfeels as though the alarmbells ofBrightstone are aliveonce again, pounding awayinsidemyhead.

“Selene!”Ishout,withoutso much as a thought. It isonly as I shout it that Iwonder why I have shouted

for her instead of Shara. Shearrives almost immediately,as if, perhaps, she has beenwatching. Weare in a snowden.

“Thank the God that youareawake,”shesmiles.“Ihadthought… I thought….”Withoutamoment’swarning,her smile shatters and giveswaytotears.Inherhandsisasteaming bowl of Shara’srabbit broth. It is only nowthat I notice that the air is

infused with the smell andthat,onceagain,Iamnestledwithin furs. It takesmy rustymind a moment to translateherBright-tongue.

“Where am I? What’shappened?” I ask, graspingthe bowl, my mouth fillinginstantlywithsaliva.

“Itisallright.Weareinasnow house. Everyone is allright,” she coos reassuringly,stroking my head. Her tearsseem to have disappeared as

quickly as they arrived. Asshe strokes me, some of theagony begins to dissipate. Itisprobablythebroth.

“WhereisShara?”“She is gone to hunt,”

comes the gentle reply.Before she can continue, theboyinterrupts,runningacrossthe snow den fromsomewhere hitherto unseen.He looks as glowing andhealthy as ever. Even after amonth in the snow, his tan

hasn’tfaded.“Uncle Gruff, Uncle

Gruff! Did you see me killthe lion?! Did you see mesave your life?” he jabbers,almost incoherent withexcitement.

“Iamnotyouruncleand,no, I didnot. I sawquite theopposite,” I spit, attemptingtotransfersomeofmypaininhisdirection.

“Bu.. but… bu…” heblusters, caught awkwardly

between indignation anddisappointment.

“Don’t worry, Leo,Uncle Gruff has just wokenup.Hedoesn’t feelwell. I’msure he will thank youwhenhefeelsbetter.”

“Imostcertainlywon’t,”Ireply. “It was your stupiditythat put us there in the firstplace.AndsincewhenhaveIbeen ‘Uncle Gruff’?! Nevercallmethatagain.”

“Bu…but…but…itwas

mydestiny tokill that lion…I was named for him… Leomeans ‘Lion’…Noman hasever even seen a lion beforeme. And I killed him,” hecrows, chuntering childishly,desperatetoimpressme.

Before I became sointimately familiar with thebeast, I was not even awarethat such a thing existed.Thereisnoword,noconcept,todescribesuchacreatureinthekingdomofTallakarn.For

this,Iamglad.Incomparisonto that, the creatures thathauntourkingdom–wolves,wolverines,foxes–areaboutasformidableasbabyrabbits.

“Why would you benamed for a creature that nomanhasseen?”

“The lion is fromhistory.They are magical creatures,bornefromthesun,”explainsSelene.

“Nonsense. That creaturewas nomore borne from the

sun than you or I,” I reply,finishing off the last of mybroth.Thewarmglow insideme is, givenmymood, scantconsolation.

“Leo, why don’t you goandskinsomemorerabbits?”Selene suggestsdiplomatically. The boyignoresherwithcharacteristicselfishness.

“How are you going towalkwithoutyourtoes,UncleGruff?!”

“What?!” I reply, myhead involuntarily twitchingtomyfeet.Thepainthat thissudden movement causes inmyneckandbackissogreatthat I can’t even sustain it; Iam denied the opportunity toevencheck.

“Shara told me that thefrost took your toes whenyourbootcameoff.I’vebeenthinking about it and I can’timaginehowyouaregoingtobeabletowalk?Whatdoyou

think?Doyouthinkyou’llbeable to walk? If you can’t,does that mean you’re goingtobestuckhere?Idon’tthinkyou could live somewherelike this for very long, couldyou? Especially if you can’twalk.”

The shock of this newsand the silence that it bringsto my lips affords him moretime to warble on than Iwould normally allow him.Finally though, I am able to

find some words. I turn toSelene.

“Isthistrue?”“Oh, Gruff…” The tears

rising in her soft blue eyesinstantly tell memore than Ineedtoknow.Iresisttheurgeto look, the pain inmy neckhavingtaughtmewell.

“And onmy good leg aswell?” I snap, suddenly veryangry. She can’t reply fortears.

“Oh, yes, because you

already found it difficult towalkdidn’tyou?”Leocarrieson, helpfully. “I supposethat’s going to make it evenharder?”

My temper rises but thephysical pain I’m in meansthatI’mnotabletoexpressitproperly. Instead, I justmutter a curse under mybreath. Tomy great surprise,however, an even greateranger flashes across Selene’sface. It is almost as though I

amsoangry that Ihavebeenabletowillmyactionsintoamorecapablebody.Althoughshe is only just bigger thanhim, she grabs him roughlyand bundles him out of theden.Asshedoesso, I’mjustabout able to make out thetear-filled fury on her face.Even through all the pain, Imanage, out of thankfulness,tofindasmile.

Shereturns,flustered,andtryingtohidehertears.There

isabeautifulsimplicityabouther face - it seems unable tohide even the slightestemotion. The sadness etchedupon it as she walks backtowardsmemakesherlookasthough she has experiencedall theworld’s sorrow inonesingle moment. Despite therealisation that Iamalmostacripple,Ifindmyselfwantingtocomforther.

Andthen,likeaflash,itisgone. A fond smile rises on

her face and her entirecomplexion changes. Theemotion that it creates inmeis so strong that it might aswell be a hug. The injurieshavemademeweak.

“I’msorryaboutLeo.Hemeans well,” she coos,returning to sit very close tomyhead.

“Ah, forget it. I’ve gotbigger things to worry aboutnow.”

“You will be fine. I

promise you,” she replies,strokingmy head again. Thefeeling is so pleasurable, sowelcome, that it may evenhave been worth beingmauledbyalionfor.

“I’ve heard that before.My lifenevergetsanybetterthough,”Igrumble.

“Well, you’ve got mehere to look after you now.Justlikeyoulookedafterme.You’ve never had thatbefore,” she smiles. All of a

sudden, she seems so strong,so secure. It is hard toimagine that she could everbecapableoftears.

“Whywouldyouwant tolookaftersomeonelikeme?”I groan, half aware that I’mlookingforsympathy.

“You’reagreatman.Youmight not realise it but yousaved our lives. Most menwho’vebeenwhereyouhavewould be dead. But not you.We’re all here because of

you.”“I’vebeenlucky.AndI’m

luckytohaveyouallhere,”Ireply. I am too tired toexclude Leo from thisstatement.OnlyasIsayitdoI realise it is probably thekindest thing I’ve ever saidoutloud.Ifeelbetterforit.

“Shara has been veryupset. She has hardlyspoken,”shecontinues.

“Shehardly speaksat thebestoftimes.Andshespeaks

a different language to you.No, she’s not thekind to getupset,” I reply. “How longhave I been unconsciousfor?”

“Three days. She reallyhas been upset though. Youmustbelieveme.Isupposeitis only natural,” shecontinues. Even beneath theeffort of having to translateher words into my nativelanguage, I can still pick upthat there ismore to this line

of conversation than meetsthe eye. Those months withBrotherGeminandhisbookshave made me quiteproficient in the Bright-Tongue.

“Why should it benatural?” I ask, sensing thatthis is the question shewanted.

“She is yourmate, is shenot?”

“No. Where did you getthat ideafrom?Whathasshe

said?” I snort, spluttering upsomeofmybroth.

“She has said nothing tome.Infact,she’shardlyevertriedtosayanythingtome.Ijust… assumed,” sheanswers. As emotionallytransparent as ever, she isunabletohidethesatisfactionthatmovesacrossherface.Itshocks me to think thatanyonewould think of Sharaandmeintheseterms.Ihaveonly begun to recently and,

even then, only in terms ofthe difficulties of beingmarried to someone sounpredictable. With eachstroke of Selene’s handacrossmy forehead, the ideabecomes more and moreludicrous.

“It’s nothing like that.Shara is bound to me out ofhonour. That is all. I don’teven think she especiallylikesme,”Ireply.

“I understand,” she

beams.“Welearnmoreabouteach other every day don’twe? Iamgladyou’reawake.Let me feed you. I can seeyou are struggling.” Like aninfant,Isurrender.

Forty-twoI count the passage of at

least five days before I amabletomoveevenslightly.Itis certain that Selene, Sharaand their broth are the onlyreasonthatIdon’tdieduringthisordeal.Thetimeseemstopass by in a blur of fever-fuelled nightmares.Mealtimes and my tenderconversationswithSeleneare

experienced, in a similarlydreamlike fashion, as briefislands of peace amongst thechaos of recovery. Theexperiencehastaughtmethathuman beings are notdesigned to recover fromtrauma such as the type Ihavesuffered;thepainofmybody slowly repairing itselfhas feltnodifferent from thepainofabodyslowlydriftingtowardsdeath.

MyinteractionwithShara

has been much less duringthis period. She seems tospend it almost eternallyoutside – hunting, repairing,scouting, guarding– in ordertokeepusallaliveandwell.It almost passes withoutmention that shesinglehandedly felled thelion’smateduringtheattack.

Besides this vital work,anothermercyshedelivers isthat she keeps the boy busy.Withher,hereceivesnoneof

thepanderingthathereceivesfrom Selene and, followinghisfirstchildishintrusionintomy recovery, it seems thatshe has endeavoured to keephim from me whereverpossible.

She is, however, presentonthefirstdaythatIamabletostepfrommynestoffurs.Ido so gingerly and with theassistance of Selene’s softwhite hand. Her response is,rather predictably, a tear-

filled smile. However, theother two only manage tomusterresponsesthatsuggestthey are in competition witheach other as to who can belesssympathetic.

“That looks difficult. I’mglad that didn’t happen tome,”saystheboy.

“Good. Now we mustcontinue,” is Shara’scontribution.

“I’ve only just taken myfirst step,” I gasp, the

discomfort of balancing adamaged knee against a footwith no toes alreadybeginning to take its toll.Shara scansme fromhead totoe, eyes full of her usualdisdain.

“It is all right, you canwalk.Iknowthis.AslongasGoat Man can stand, he canwalk. And as long as GoatMan can live, he can stand.His head is as strong asstone.”

“Ineedmoretime.”“There is no more time.

We are very weak here. Ifyoucanstand,wecanmove.”

Forty-threeSo it is on Shara’s

command that we begin tomove. The shelter that shebuilt for my recuperationstandsalmostonthesoutherntipof theFrozenSea, theso-called ‘heart’ of the MotherIsland. By my estimation, itwould have taken Morriganandme,walkingatfullspeed,about a month to reach this

point from the fringes ofTallakarn. Given my currentimpediments,Ianticipatethatit will take at least doublethat.

And thedifficulties that Iexperience every second ofthis walk cannot beunderstated. On the outwardjourney, our struggle againsttheelementswas sogreatasto seem almostoverwhelming. Indeed, it hadbeen such an ordeal that it

would have been hard tobelieve that anything couldhave made it more difficult.Yet here I am struggling toput one foot in front of theother,scarcelyabletochangepace, harbouring no greaterambition than to reach thenext point on the horizon.Concerns regardingpreviously vital objectives –food,shelter,snowsavages–arenowasinconsequentialtome as thoughts of warmth,

comfortanddrynesshadbeenon the outward journey.Instead, I simply have theonerous task of keeping myhead down, my teeth grittedand my momentum forward.My pain is such that I havelittletimeforanythingelse.

One could argue that thislack of concern is a luxurythat few people in mypositioncouldafford.Foritiscertain that the aboveconcerns do not become any

lessimportantsimplybecausea man is missing half of hisfoot.MyfortuneisthatIhaveShara to carry theseconsiderations for me; foodremains surprisinglyplentifuland her skill for evadingconflict borders onsupernatural. Indeed, not amoment goes by where Idon’tconsiderthelifelinethatsheprovides.

Her presence alongsideme perfectly illustrates the

wild caprice of life;desperation forced us toslaughter her tribe, yet mylast remnant of chivalryforced me to spare, of allthose present, her. Only her.That single act, the one lastdrop of civilisation thatremained within me, hassavedme from death severaltimes over. Without her, Iwould be a frozen corpse or,ifIwerenot that, Iwouldbeanempty skeleton in the cell

at Brightstone or, if I werenot that, I would havebecome a lion’s eveningmeal.

Despite all this, I cannotagree that I am lucky. As Istagger through each frozenday, the resentment thatbuilds in my heart isunavoidable; there are noheroics in my actions, nosolace to be found in thestrokes of destiny that havesaved my life. Instead, I am

ashamedatmyrelianceuponher. After all, a person whocannot help himself isscarcelyapersonatall.Beingviewed as a victim, as acripple, is beginning to feelalmost as painful as theinjuriesthemselves.

And it is clear that theseinjuries will leave a long,darkshadowoverwhateverisleft of my life; I will neverhave toes, I will alwayshobble, my face will always

bear the lion’s scar. Beingdamagedsomanytimesbysomanythingswillalwaysbeaburden that I must carry.Above all, it is clear that Iwillalwaysbetherecipientofpity.Foramanlikeme,therecouldbelittleworse.

Of all things, the worstcontrivance that my fate hasbrought me is the sensationthat my toes are still there.They still tingle madly inmuch the sameway they did

before the frost took them.Whenevermymindbeginstowander too far fromconscious effort, my foolishbraintakesthebaitoncemoreand trusts them to hold myweight.Thisdecisionhas thesame result every time: anundignified tumble to theground,thewomenrushingtomy assistance, and a furtherflush of shame andembarrassment.

As if this were not bad

enough, theyassisteach timewith such understatedhumility, so little fuss, that Iam unable to even criticisethem for it. Theymake suchaneffortnot topatronisethatit would almost seem mean-spirited of me to be angry.But I am angry; the wholeexperience is so thoroughlyhumiliatingthatIamleftwithnothing but impotent ragethatIcannotexpress.

This frustration, like

water boiling in a pan, has aneedtoescape.Itisfortunatefor me, then, that the boy iswith me. There can surelyhaveneverbeenatargetmoredeserving of scorn than thiswarbling egotist. Itwould beunfair of me to suggest thathehasnotchangedduringtheprocessofourjourneybut,aswith Morrigan before him, Icannot help but feel that thisis partly situational. Forinstance, a turd placed in the

snow will become hard andsignificantly less odorousthan its warm weathercounterpart. This doesn’tmean that ithasceased tobeaturd.

SuchisthecasewithLeo.Heisbecomingmuchquieter,although still not quietenough,andiscertainlymuchless likely to make themistake of expecting to findsatisfaction fromconversationswithme.He is

growing less demanding alsobut,onceagain, this issurelyonly because there is less todemand and fewer people topander to him. Selene, withher gentle compassion, is theonlypersonwillingtoindulgehim even slightly and eventhis has reduced from herearlier devotion. Now, hersubmission to him is nogreater than her naturalsubmission to everyone – areflectionmore of her caring

nature than of any specialbond between them.Nevertheless, however muchchange I perceive in him, Idoubt any of it will last farbeyond our journey toTallakarn.Itseemsinevitablethat a boywho has spent hiswhole childhood receivingand enjoying literal worshipis beyond salvation as far ashis ego is concerned. Iimagine it won’t take morethan a few enquiries into his

foreign novelty to see himrevert to the unbearablecreatureheoncewas, for thethawingoftheturd.

The only lasting changeswill surely be hisdevelopment as a hunter andwarrior. Despite not quiteliving up to the spectacularridiculousness of his ownboasts, he has quickly, withthe assistance of Shara,developed an aptitude withtheswordandbowthatwould

probably earn him aknighthoodinthekingdomofTallakarn. I fully expect thisto be the minimum that heachievesuponhisarrival.

The reasons for thisexpectation are twofold.Firstly, I know that the kingwillbelookingtorekindlethe‘Son of God’ angle for hisown uses and, secondly, Ihave seen first-hand theeffortlessness with which amalewithagoodeducation,a

strong chin and an unhealthydoseofcharismacanachievesocialrankinanewkingdom;Morrigan certainly set theprecedentforthat.

I find myself thinking ofMorriganmoreandmoreasIstagger closer to home. Myheart fills with a curiouscombination of pining andguilt every time he crossesmy mind. He will usuallyenter my thoughts whenShara delivers some

masterstroke of wildernessliving, for instance, fourplump, tasty ptarmigans fordinner or a shelter so wellmade that it is even slightlytoo warm. Such relativeluxury brings my mindnaturallytothedailystruggleofhisandmyjourney: livingfor days off the charredremains of a single babyrabbit, the taste of tree bark,him dancing through thesnowwithallthesubtletyofa

thousand-strong army,shivering to death each nightinsnowholesthatmayjustaswellhavebeengraves.

There is no doubt that Imiss him, too. With theexception of my father and,now, perhaps Shara andSelene, IhadalwaysdoubtedmyabilitytogrowasattachedtoanyoneasIseeminglyhadtoMorrigan.He carriedwithhim such a levity that it justmade everything feel easier.

His attitude, a refusal to takeanything seriously, such acontrast to mine, had, Ireluctantly admit, made ourjourney feel lessoverwhelming than it everwas. He could smirk atsomething and make it seemridiculous, even if it wasn’t,and this simple act madeeverything less frightening.Butaboveall,andthereisnogreater commendation that Ican give, he was one of the

veryfewpeopletoevermakeme laugh. It is one of mygreat regrets that he wouldnever have known this; anyamusement Igainedfromhisclowning was always wellhidden.

And it is regrets thateventuallyconsumemewhenmy mind lingers on hismemory for too long. Thereare countlessways to dissectthe events that led up to hisdeath.Somewerebeyondmy

control–his initial exile, theinvasionofBrightstone–butmy guilty mind insteadchoosestofocusonthethingsthat I could have changed.Forinstance,hadSharaandInot been so fixed onescaping, he would not havefound himself where he did.Or if I had simply compliedashedid,wemayhavebeenable to settle down togetherandperhapsescapeduringthesackofthecity.

Ofall things though, it isthe scene of his death that Icannot forget. Of all mymemories,thissceneissurelythe most vivid: goldeverywhere, splashed withcrimson, the shouts of men,the crying boy, the heftyswordblowsofmyopponent,Shara’s curses, the confusionasanextragoldmanjoinsin,Morrigan’s dying smirk, thesticky darkness of the bloodleakingfromhim.Irelivethis

scene countless times eachday, scrutinising my actionsover and over again,remonstratingwithmyselfforeach individual failing. Whydid I not see that he was introuble? Why did I let himleavemy line of sight?Whydid I allow him to die soeasily? Surely I should haveknownthatSharadidn’tneedmyhelp?WhywasIfightingalongsideherinsteadofhim?All of these questions dog

me, nibbling away at mymind as the long slogcontinues. The absence ofanswersdebilitatesmealmostasmuchastheabsenceofmytoes.

IfitwerenotforSelene,Iwould very likely havedisappeared into the blizzardof these thoughts and neverreturned. Alongside Leo’segotism and Shara’simpenetrable enigma, shestands for me as a single

beacon of sanity. In manyways, she is remarkable; sheisthekindofpersonwhowillgo without to ensure thateveryoneelsehasenough,thekind of person who findsconflict so unbearable thatshewill step into themiddleofittomakeitstop,thekindofpersonwhowillaskhowIamandthenactuallylistentotheanswer.

It is this ability to listen,to absorb and then actually

take the time to empathisethat makes her soastonishingly rare. As thedays pass,we spend eveningupon evening engaged in thekind of conversation that,despite the ever-reducinglanguage barrier, standswithout comparison in therest ofmy life. Conversationhas always been, for me,nothingotherthanameanstopass on information. I havenever met a person who

seems to understand it inquitesooppositeafashionasSelene and, for this, in mytime of need, I could not bemore grateful. Conversation,for her, instead seems to besomething quite vital,somethingattheveryessenceof existence. She will hearand see and feel everythingthatIhavetosay–whetheritbeaboutMorrigan,theshameof my injuries, my fears ofreturning home – and accept

it;shewillmakemefeelthatitisallrighttofeelhoweverIplease. It is as though Ihavespent my entire life encasedin ice and am only nowbeginningtothaw.

WhenIdon’twishtotalk,which is often, she alsoproves adept at the art ofdistracting me from myglumness. She can talk forhours about the smallestdetail, the most mundanetopic – for instance the

differencesinladies’dressinourtwokingdoms.Insteadoffinding myself bored as Imight expect, I find hergentle chatter has a pleasingsedative nature. The contentdoesn’thavetobefascinatingto distract me from my ownthoughts and her own sweetenthusiasm is pleasureenoughinitself.

This is not to say thateverything she talks about iswithout value. As our bond

continues to develop and ourlanguages intertwine, shebegins to share more andmore of the life that she hasbeen forced to leave behind.Heremotionsonthetopicriseand fall like the tide.On theonehand,sheisdevastatedatthe destruction of her homeand its familiarity, but thisdevastation is countered byan equally devastatingrealisation – that almosteverything she loved had

beenbuiltuponalie.She was raised as an

orphan in the nunnery ofBrightstone Isle, the nunneryheaded by Mother Maryam,Leo’s mother. Despite heraustere and devoutupbringing, she recalls hertimetherefavourably.Thingsbegan to change when Leowasborn.Shewasonlysevenyears old when he wasallegedly gifted by God toMotherMaryam.Atthepoint

of his birth, the nunnerychanged its focus. All of asudden, Mother Maryamherselfbecame thesubjectoftheir worship. The nunsbecame known as Mother’sMaidens, they adopted theturtle insignia, the symbol ofallmothers,andweresentoutinto the kingdom to performacts of kindness on herbehalf. Eventually, when shewas twelve, she becametrustedasoneofLeo’sclosest

attendants, instructed toobeyhiseverywhim.

Once again, despite thefundamentalrottennessoftheentire scenario, a mistyfondnessdevelopsinhereyeseach time she talks of herdaysspentalongsidetheboy.Shedescribeshowheandhisattendants were insulated,almost oblivious to theatrocities that were takingplace in his name. His role,she reveals, was almost

entirely ceremonial; Maryamtoldhimwhat to say,how toact,whentoappear.Theroleof his attendants was simplytokeephimhappy,distractedand cared for. The closenessbetween the four youngwomen that attended him issomething that she canscarcely talk about withoutbeing moved to tears. It isclear that they, including theboy, were essentially theclosestthingsheeverhadtoa

family.Assuch,itisonlyhergentlepleasonhisbehalfthatspare him from the worst ofmyscorn.

As the days develop intoweeks, the knowledge that Iwill be able to sit down andtalk to her each eveningserves as one of the keyimpetuses allowing me toforce my broken bodyonward.Theotherimpetusis,ofcourse, thedesire toproveeveryoneelsewrong.Asdeep

snow turns to mountains, Ishuffle forward, teethgritted,encased in snow, without athoughtofgivingup.

As we reach the greatmountainsthatdivideusfromTallakarn, I begin tounderstand why the snowsavageshaveneverbeen,andwill never be, able to raiseforces against us in the waythat they did at Brightstone.These mountains, theseforeboding titans, do not

seem to show even theslightest concern over themaintenance of life; faunabecomes sparse, breathingbecomes difficult, snowbecomes heavy andimpassable gorges becomefrequent. At one point, wehave to backtrack three daysof walking in order to avoidsuch an impasse. This pricereflects perhaps the onlydecision thatMorrigan and Imade that has proved more

productivethanShara’s:ifwehad crossed the frozen seathen wewould have avoidedthemountainsentirely.Itisasign of how little energy Ihave remaining that I don’tevenpointthisout.

Deepinsidethebosomofthe mountains, there is nosign of snow savages. It isclear that, even with theirlimited needs, the mountainswill not nurture them.Instead, the snowscape is

inhabited only by a smallnumber of well-adaptedanimals – goats, wolves,rabbits. It has been a longwhilesinceIhaveeatengoatand the dense taste bringsmemories of home floodingtowardsme.

We push forward,sometimes backward, oneawkwardstepata time.As Ihobble closer and closer, Ibegintofeelthatmymapandmy understanding of the sun

allowtometostealatleastabit of ownership back fromShara. Shara, who in theseforeignclimes, isdeprivedofthe foreknowledge that hadpreviouslymadeher seemsoformidable. Simply thefeeling of possessing someknowledge that no one elsehasfinallybeginstomakemefeelasthoughIammorethanjustaninvalid.

Being closer to home,however, means absolutely

nothing in terms of themountainous world we areforced to move through.Indeed,Imightaswellbeontheothersideoftheworldforall the familiarity theypossess.They riseand fall infrontofus,oneafteranother,imperious and unflinching,fierceinclinesdroppingawayto nothing, chill windsthreateningtofreezeusinourtracks.Theyare sohostileasto be almost awe-inspiring

and,aswepassthroughtheirmurderous mists, I becomemore and more convincedthat they are the greatestallies that Tallakarn couldeverhopetopossess.

Finally,afteralmostthreemonths of stumbling,hobblingandgrimacing,Iamtreatedtomyfirstglimpseofhome. As we reach yetanother peak emerging fromyet another valley, I’mamazedtoseeanarrowsliver

of sea opening out on thenorthern horizon. Betweentheseaandourmountainnestlies the vast flatness fromwheremy journeybegan, theGors. In the distance, abouttwo days walk to the NorthEast, lies its castle. Where Ishouldfeelexcitementrising,instead I feel only relief;wherethereshouldbesmiles,it isallIcandotoholdbackthetears.

Forty-fourOf all the places that I

have travelled, thefrozenseamust have been the worst. Itwas not just the cold thatmade it so. For although themountains and the tundrawere equally as cold, they atleast had the benefit ofscenery. In these lands, theroute is dotted withlandmarks by which one can

track ones progress. It wasthe absence of any suchlandmarks,inotherwordsthesheer monotony, that madeprogress across the sea sodifficult.

The same could be saidfor the saltmarsh throughwhich we complete the lastleg of our journey. The low,barren, perfectly flatlandscape creates an illusionof almost perfect stillness; itispossibletohobbleformiles

without any senseof change.The languid inertia of theland fuels my impatience aswe track ever closer to thecastle.

Similarly to themountains, it is only beingforced to physically endurethe approach to the kingdomthat allows me to trulyunderstandquitehowdifficultit would be for an enemy tomoveagainstus.Bereftoftheguide that had escorted

Morrigan and me to theoppositeendofthemarsh,weare instead forced to plodgingerly through a deceptivemaze of bogs, ditches andpuddles.InsteadoftakingthetwodaysIhadestimated,wefind ourselves strugglingforwardforalmostfour.

Only now, as we reachtheendofthefourthday,isitevidentthatourapproachhasbeen noticed. We areprobably about three

kilometres from the castlewhen we notice a horse, orperhaps a mule, amblingtowards us in the distance.Sitting proudly astride themule, if it is possible to dosuch a thing proudly, is avague brown dot of a manholdinga largegreenbanner,the crocodilian banner of theGors.Despitethefactthatheis too far away to make outhis features, I recognise himas Robin, the young squire

wholedmeoutoftheswampall thosemonthsago.Behindhim, on foot, linger a looserabble of men dressed likepeasants. I suspect that theyare swamp archers, theskirmishers renownedthroughout the kingdom fortheirdefensiveutility.

As with our entry toBrightstone, the thoughtflashesthroughmymindthatwe are very likely to betreated as hostile. My only

reassurance is that the squireriding towards us should, Ihope,recognisemebeforethearchersmakehisdecisionforhim.Itakefurtherhopeinthecasual languor of theirapproach; they seem to bestrollingforwardinamanneras flatanddeadas themarshitself. As I muse over this,memoriesoftheyoungsquirehimself come trickling backto me; he was a meek andquiet boy, perhaps a few

years older than me, withscarcely a word to say forhimself.

“Itisallright.Iknowtheboy on the horse. We justneed to keep moving asthoughwemeannothreat,”Isaytotherestofthegroup.

“Menbehindarearchers,”saysShara.

“I know.Andgoodones.They are the guards of themarsh. We will be all right.I’llspeaktotheboyfirst.”

“Hmm…” is Shara’sdoubt-ridden reply. Inresponse, I raise both myhands towards him to showacknowledgement and, Ihope,mypeacefulintentions.

“Just keep moving. Theyknow we’ve seen them, andthey’re more likely to attackif they think we’re trying toavoidthem.”

Despite my protestations,my companions slow downmore and more as Robin

draws nearer. He himselfnever ups the pace from theleisurely trot at which hismule seems comfortable.Finally, he moves closeenough into view for me toconfirm that he is definitelythe person I suspected.He iswearing a green tabard overthe top of dull iron armourand has themiserable, ruddyface of a hard-drinking mantwice his age. The only realindication of his youth is the

sweep of brown hair thatalmostcovershisglassyblueeyes.

“Who goes there?” hewhimpers nervously, andwithoutauthority.

“Robin! It’s Gruffydd ofYnys Gwyn. Well, thatshould be Ser…” I splutter,falling suddenly to the mud.It is as though, withoutwarning,mybodyhasfinallysuccumbed to the months ofexhaustion that have passed.

Selene rushes towards me tohelpmebacktomyfeetbutitistoolate.Mymind,knowingthat I am safe, begins a fullfoggy retreat. As I fall,something within me seemstosay‘nomore’.

“Ser Gruff?!” shouts theboy,suddenlyexcited.“We’dthought it might be… OhLord,youlookterrible.Help!Quick!Helpmegethimuponthemule!”

Thesenseofurgencyand

shock coming from the boysendsmyfaceaflame.Whyishetroublinghimselfwithme?Surelyitshouldbeoneofthewomen or perhaps Leo thatneeds to go on the back onthemule?Instead,Isuddenlyfind myself surrounded byRobin,SharaandSelene inafrenzy of activity. A deepsense of shame washes overmeattheindignityofitall,atmy powerlessness, as I amhoisted up onto the dirty old

mule.The truthof thematteris, though, that howeveremasculating the wholeexperience is, I do not havetheenergytofightit.Instead,it is all I can do not to passout.

“Please be careful,” saysRobin, addressing the wholegroup. “The marsh becomesvery dangerous here.” As hesays this, I note that somesemblance of authority hasfinally entered his voice; the

realisation that he is dealingwithtwowomen,achildandan invalid seems to havesteeled him somewhat. Hetakes the reins of the muleand begins to lead. Somemoments later, once we aremoving, he turns to speak tomeoncemore.

“Did you reachBrightstone?” he asks. Thevaguehaloofawearoundhiswords cheers me upsomewhat,makesmefeelless

useless.“That should be ‘Ser

Gruffydd’,” I slur, not inresponse to the new questionbut, instead, in an attempt tocontinue my originalintroduction. I only realisehow I must sound as thewordsleavemymouth.

“I’msorry.DidyoureachBrightstone, Ser Gruffydd?”replies Robin, chastened,without a hint of reproach inhis voice. Were I not so

cheered by his immediatedeference,Iwouldbeslightlyembarrassed. As it is,however, I am not. Trailingbehind, the rest of mycompanions appear to bestruckdumbwithshyness.

“Yes,” I reply solemnly.As I begin to speak, anydesire to expand upon myanswer seems to fade fromme. My eyelids begin todroop. The fatigue thatinvadesme isoverwhelming,

seizing upon this moment ofrelaxation in the same waythat a starving man mightleapuponacrumb.

Forty-fiveIt is the next morning

before I am in any state tocontinue the conversation.Although I remember verylittleofmyevening,itisquitepossible that I have not hadsuch a comfortable night’ssleep since I departed thislonelycastleallthosemonthsago. Last night seemed topass by in a dreamlike blur.

The details elude me. Forinstance, I am certain that Imusthaveeatenand,fromthepains in my stomach, eatenwellbut,duetoexhaustion,Ihavenomemoryof it. In thesame vein, I have very littleideaofhowmuchIsaidortowhom.

The one thing I do knowis that I awoke in a featherbed so soft and welcomingthat the act of leaving it feltas tortuousasanythingelse I

have endured. Indeed, mostof themorning’s experiences– from the opulence of myroom through to the richnessofmybreakfast–havemademy first hours back inTallakarn amongst the mostluxuriousinmylifesofar.

Besides the master’sroom, my bedroom must bethe best in the castle – amarked change from thesquires’ quarters where Ispentmyprevious stay.Both

thebed linenand the rugarean expensive green colour, acolour matched by the twoupholstered chairsaccompanying the darkwooden table in the corner.Upon the table, and variousother dark woodenfurnishings, sit a wealth ofsilverornaments,allpolishedand gleaming, set off by thegentlemorninglight.Perhapsthemost dominant feature ofthe room, besides the bed, is

the large hearth opposite it.From the smell ofsmouldering coal, I surmisethat the fire probablyaccompaniedmetosleep.

Breakfast is alsosomethingtobehold.Muchinthe way a lord’s meal mighthave several courses, so ourbreakfastispresentedtousinsimilar stages.Tobeginwithwe are treated to a compoteof summer berries. This isfollowed by a second course

of eggs and porridge. Wefinish with a sticky-sweethoneybread.

I have scarcely finishedlicking the honey from myfingers before we are joinedby the lord and lady of thehouse.Onmy previous visit,when Morrigan and I werepassing through in theoppositedirection,thecouplehad not been present. This,therefore, ismy firstmeetingwiththem,andonethatIhad

notbeenexpecting.Leo, Selene, Shara and I

aresittinginarowonthetoptable as they enter. There isnobodyelseintheroom,savefor the people attending thetable, and the conversationbetweenushasbeenpoor.Infact,acuriousstillnessseemsto hang over each of them. Ihave seen it before in goats:thewayanewanimalappearsalmostparalysedinfearwhenintroducedtotheflock.Since

waking, I have seen moredeference from each of themthan they ever showed whentheywerehaulingmethroughthesnow.

As the lord and ladyenter, I instinctively stand togreet them. My companionsdo likewise. Ser Geraintcasuallywavesusbackdowninto our chairs, as though hedoesn’twishtobotherus.HeisanotherknightwhomIcanonly identify by his heraldry

–ablackcrocodileswimmingongreen.

LikeMorrigan,hedoesn’tcarry himself in the mannerof a normal knight. Instead,with his dirty stubble andunkempthair,helookslikeawell-dressed tramp. Thisunsavoury air is made worseby his darting green eyes,whichappearmorelikethoseof a man waiting to pickone’s pocket than host one’sluxurious stay. Marking him

out in further contrast is hisarmour, brown leather ratherthan plate, and his build,small and spindly rather thanbroad. It is only as I notethese differences that Irememberthemanisamarsharcher.

“Welcome to the Gors,Ser Gruffydd. And welcomealso toyourcompanions,”hesays, beaming proudly.Despitetheclearformalityofhisvoice,hestillrollshisR’s

in the same manner as hissquire.

“Thank you. It is anhonour to stay with you,” Ireply, trying desperately toremember my etiquette.“Pleaseallowmetointroducemycompanions.Theyareallrefugees from the fallenempireofBrightstone.ThisisLeo, the former emperor.This is Selene, his attendant,and this is Shara, mywilderness guide.” I daren’t

give even a hint of Shara’ssavageancestryforfearthatitmight change their attitudetowards her. As I introduceeach of them, they all nodtimidlytoSerGeraintandhiswife.

“Itrustthatyouhavebeentreated well?” asks LadyFfion, smiling softly. She isbothbetter spokenandbetterpresented than her husband,witha fieryredspiralofhairand a soft green dress that

couldwellbevelvet.“Yes, I couldn’t have

hoped for better,” I reply,wondering how few timesthat answer is actuallymeantwhen given in politecompany.

“And your companions?Can they speak thelanguage?” she continues,perhaps subtly pickingupontheir lack of personalgratitude. At this, I turn myhead to Shara who, sharp as

ever,picksupthecue.“Yes… I couldn’t have

hoped for better,” shemimics, head cowed. Fromthe awkward, almostanimalistic manner in whichshedeliversher thanks,Icanonly conclude that a smilewouldhavebeentoomuchtoask.

“Thankyou.Youareverykind,” adds Selene bravely,through the thickness of herBright-tongueaccent.A little

tingleofpridemovesthroughme as I sense her dignityshiningthrough.

“And Leo? Would youlike to thank the Lord andLady?”Icontinue,feelingthesame desperate urge for himto impress as I might if heweremyownson.

“What for?” is the reply.Theonly savinggrace is thathe chooses to ask this, themost impertinent ofquestions, in his own

language. Seemingly, anddespite understanding bothlanguages well, he is notprepared to stoop from hismother tongue in front ofthesepeople.

“For their food and theirbed,” I reply, in Bright-tongue, not wishing to insultthecouple.

“Ishouldn’thavetothankpeople for that. It is the willofGod,”he replies.Seethinginside, I turn to Ser Geraint

and Lady Ffion to cover uphisrudeness.

“My apologies. The boyis young and shy. He is notquite yet up to speaking ourlanguage.”

“It isnotaproblem,”shereplies graciously. “We arehonoured to host you all andare glad that you haveenjoyedyourstay.”

As she talks, they bothbeamwith a kindwarmth; itis clear that they enjoy the

role of host, a role that isprobably not too oftenbestowed upon them. Theyapproach the breakfast tablewithcasualease,thekindthatonemightexpectfromfamilymembers,andsitoppositeus.This is a nice touch; I knowfull well that there are somelords and ladies who wouldnever deign to suggest theequality that sharing a tableimplies.Ontheotherhand,ifpromises are tobekept, then

the reality is that I am theirequal; I have earned myknighthoodinbloodandice.

“Iamsureyouhavemorestories to tell than I canpossibly imagine,”smiles theroguish knight. His eyes arequickandfriendly.

“Yes.IsupposeIhave,”Ireply.“IhavealmostasmanystoriesasIdoinjuries.”

The lord and lady bothlaugh,althoughonlyasmuchas is necessary to be polite.

At heart though, I feelreluctanttotalk.

Firstofall, I ameager toleave, to continue toTallakarn, to bring tofulfilmentthatscenewiththeking that has rolled over somany times in my head.Second, I don’t even reallyknow where to begin; somuchhashappened,somanymemories have passed, somany feelings have waxedand waned. To begin telling

my story – the things I havelearned, the places I’ve seen,the people I’ve met – wouldtakedaystodoitanyjustice.DoIreallywanttostartnow?Howmany timeswill I havetoretellmystorybeforeithasbeen heard enough? Also,rattling away in the back ofmymind, is the politics of itall. Surely the king, howevermuch Idetesthim, shouldbethe first to receivemy story?In reality, it is perhaps him

rather than me who shoulddecidewhoelsewillevergettoknow.

“So, tell me ofBrightstone.Isitsuchaplaceas the legends say?” SerGeraintasks.

“SerGeraint, it’s trulyanhonourtostaywithyouandIhope that, one day, I canshare with you every singlepart of my story. But, fornow, and I hope that youdon’t consider this a slight, I

think I should save it for theking.As I amhis subject, somystoryishistotell.”

The honey-coateddiplomacy of this statementtastes bitter on my tongue. Ifeelalmostdirtyforsayingit,as though by honouring thekingIhavecompromised thevalues I have always strivedfor.The truth, though, is thatI have learned the hardway,byvirtueofmyentireordeal,that sometimes it is wiser to

follow the diplomatic linethan the truth. This isparticularly true when therisksareashighastheywerein the gaol atBrightstone or,conversely, when therequested sacrifice is as lowas it is presently. Forinstance,Icouldnotgivetwohoots whether Ser Gerainteverlearnsofmystoryanditwould be utterly foolish ofme to risk dishonouring thekingbytellingittohim.

“I understand. It looks asthoughyouhavethemeasureof thatfatfoolbetter thanI,”helaughs,payingmeaquickwink.Despite adisapprovinglook fromhiswife,he seemsquite comfortable andgenuine in his criticism,paying no mind whatsoeverto the servants around him.He appears to be of thatunusual brand of knights, ofwhich Morrigan was also,that could best be described

as outsiders – those scruffy,disobedientsortswhohaven’tthe slightest regard for rankor its favours and who feelnothing for the king exceptfor a mutual and casualindifference.

“If I have, then I havelearned it the hard way,” Ireplygrimly.

“AndwhatofMorrigan?”hecontinues.“Hewasadearfriendtous.”

“Ser Morrigan died at

Brightstone.Hesavedmylifeseveral times.Hewas a dearfriend to me too,” I answer.Themistinessformingaroundmy eyes makes my answersseem short and clipped. I’mcertainthattheynotice.

“I’msurehedid.Themancould fight. He only knewhowtodothreethingsdidSerMorriganandhedidthemallbrilliantly.”

“Did you know himwell?”

“Aswellasonecangettoknowanyonewhenone livesout here. And less since Imarried… He had a strangeeffect on men’s wives, youknow. They either hatedhim… or they… err…didn’t,” he laughsmischievously, once againunchecked by his wife’sdisapprovingglares.“Hewascertainly the queen’sfavourite. Probably why hegottheoldheave-ho.”

Ser Geraint’s snorts,masculine and comradely intheir tone, remind me onceagain of a world that I willnever occupy – the world ofmalebravado,ofwomanisingand drinking, of petty one-upmanship, of foolhardyantics, the world to whichMorriganbelonged.AsIlookinto Ser Geraint’s dancingeyes,Ican’thelpbutfeelitisa shame that it is in thesecrudetonesthatSerMorrigan

willberemembered.“Well, Ihopesomeday I

can repay his memory byrecountinghisdeeds toyou,”Ireply.Iwillnotbedrawnonhisdiscussinghisprivate lifeor the reasons that the kingwantedhimdead.Hehashadhiswayandthatistheendofit.

“And so do I, Ser Gruff.Wehavealreadysentwordofyour arrival so I hope that itwon’t be long before you’re

abletoproceed.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Oh,hasnooneexplained

to you? I do apologise.People onlypass through theGors after being given royalapproval. It’s not a matterthatarisestoooften.”

“Approval? Fromwhom?”

“Well,lasttimeitwastheroyal toad, Llewellyn. Haveyoumethim?”

“Yes, I have,” I reply,

rememberingtheman’sfutileattemptstodissuademefromwinningthetrophy.

“It’s curious really. Noonehasattemptedtopasstheborder for years and then,within the space of amonth,ithappenstwice.”

“Oh, did someone elsereturn?”

“No, this was a truediethrin.Strangeoneactually.Spoke the language quiteperfectly but didn’t seem to

knowathingabouttheplace.I'mnotsurewhathappenedtohimnowIcometothinkofit.Stocky,surlybrute,hewas.”

“And they let himthrough?”

“Yes. I think Llewellynfanciedhim for amemberoftheroyalguardorsomething.Hecertainlylookedmiserableenough for it. Anyway, I’msure that it’s justa formality.Youshouldlookonthebrightside-noonehaseverleftthe

kingdomandreturnedbefore.I don’t suppose anyone hasever thought to make a ruleforwhatshouldhappenthen.”

It is easy enough forhimto be unconcerned; he hasn’tsuffered in the way that Ihave. This rule, emergingfromnowhere, evokesall thepetty intrigues of themonthsbefore my departure,disturbing them from theirforgotten sleep deep beneaththe snow of my more recent

troubles. Sickness washesacrossmygut.Ibracemyselffortrouble.

Forty-sixIt is scarcely past noon

when Llewellyn, in thecompany of twenty or somen, arrives. We are firstalertedtotheircomingbythewatchman’s horn floodingthrough the castle. Themorning,inafashionentirelyforeigntome,hasbeenspent‘at leisure’ alongside Sharaand Selene, with the boy

havingbeensentawaytoplaywith the castle children.During the morning’sconversation, Shara hadbrazenly suggested thatSelene and I should marryupon our arrival. To heramusement, this prompted agreat deal of splutteringembarrassment on both ourbehalves and I was glad fortheinterruption.

The speed of Llewellyn'sarrival, in combination with

the size of the forceaccompanying him, onlyserves to increase myconcerns. The three of usmake our way, hesitantly,down to the large receptionhall, where we find that SerGeraint, Lady Ffion, fiveswamparchersandanumberof children and servants arestanding in attendance. Withthe exception of lady Ffion,they look like an unkemptrabble.

Ser Geraint greets mewith a gentle nod as we re-enterandbeckonsustowardshim.Evenovermyownsenseof trepidation, I sense anatmosphere in the room; SerGeraintandhisarchershardlyseem to be brimming withroyal sympathies. We arestanding still for only thebriefest instant beforeGeraint’s herald, dressed ingreen and black, formallyannounces Llewellyn’s

arrival.“Pleasebeupstanding for

the arrival of the royalmessenger, the lord of PantGlas, Llewellyn ApLlewellyn.”

The herald’s voiceresonates crisply across thecavernoushallandthereisnodoubt that it ismuchtoofinean introduction for thebloated and unpleasantcreaturethatwaddlesinonitsfinal note. Llewellyn looks

exactly the same as Iremember him: flickering,bulbous eyes, a smug grinandgreasyblackhair slickedover a receding hairline.Furthermore,Iamreasonablysure that he is even wearingthesamefilthyorangerobeashewaslasttimeIsawhim.

“SerGeraint,LadyFfion.It is an honour to see youagainsosoon,”hecroons.

“Llewellyn…”repliesSerGeraint. “It’s not Ser

Llewellyn yet, is it? It is anhonour to receive you oncemore. I’m not too proud tosaythatIshedasmalltearthelasttimeyouleft.”

“That’sverypoliteofyouto say so.Letushope itwillnot be the same this time,”replies Llewellyn, managingto effect a sense of smilinginsincerity that the kinghimselfwouldbeproudof.

Only after this awkwardinterchange do his flickering

eyes finally move to me.Behind him, several of hismenbegin to stream into thehall,formingtwoimmaculateranksbehindhim.

“And young Gruffydd! Iscarcelyrecognisedyouforamoment.”

“Icannotsaythatthepasteighteen months have beenkind to me,” I reply,restraining the urge to touchthescaronmyface.

“So I can imagine. But,

nevertheless, here you are. Itseemstrulyamiracle.”

“There is nothingmiraculous in it. I’ve simplydone as I was bid.” I replysmugly.

“Yes, soyouhave!Quiteunlike thatotheroccasion…”he smiles. He is of thatunfortunate ilk who, evenwhensmiling, lookmorelikethey are passing wind.Meanwhile, the last of hismen has reached position.

They stand behind him astwenty anonymous statues,clad indark ironwithorangetrim.

“Imust say, Llewellyn…It’s not Ser Llewellyn, is it?Please correct me on that ifI’mwrong…I’dhatetoinsultyou in front of these youngboys… You’ve brought anawfullotof…err…people…with you today,” says SerGeraint, managing tomaintainan impressiveblend

of decorum and openhostility.

“Oh…these…Thisismypersonalguard.Paythemnoheed.Wewerealreadyonourwaytothemainlandwhenweheard the news. And, Ithought,whynot?”

“I’m sure they must behonoured to serve in suchesteemed company. Tell me,are there any potentialknightsamongstthem?”

“They are all fighters of

great potential. But, as youknow, it takes much morethanthattomakeaknight.”

“Thatisgoodtohear.I’msureyouwilltrainthemtothebest of your ability. But, tellme, Llewellyn, why are theyhere?YouknowSerGruff isa loyal servant, and the onlymembersofhispartyaretwoladiesandaboy!”

“As I’ve said, theirattendance is purelyincidental. Pay them no

regard. I will ask them tostand outside if it will makeyoufeelmorecomfortable?”

“No, no. Iwouldn’twishto make such frail creaturesstand outside in the cold.Besides, I wouldn’t wish tomakeyoufeeluncomfortable;I understand that lords suchas yourself like to have theirmenclosetothem.”

“Thatisverykindofyou,SerGeraint.Butwe’regettingdistracted. I do apologise,

Gruffydd. I hear that youhavebrought theboykingofBrightstonebackwithyou? Iwouldverymuchliketomeethim,” Llewellyn replies,unruffled. A lifetime ofbullying from men such asSerGeraint has clearlymadehim almost impervious totheirgames.

“Yes, indeed I did,” Ireply, spying Leo across theroom. “Leo, thisman speakson behalf of my king. Step

forward,please.”The very mention of the

word‘king’seemstolightuptheboy’seyesinawaythatIhave never seen. He stepsforwardproudly.He isaboywho, even in the humility ofhis current dress, stands outnaturally amongst the otherchildren. His strong jaw, jetblack hair and unfeasiblywell-tanned skin suggest hewill, one day, be another ofthose sickeningly handsome

knights who seem todominatetheking’scourt.

“Your Highness, onbehalf of the king ofTallakarn, it is an honour tomeetyou.”

“What does ‘highness’mean?” asks the boy, rudelyturning aside and once againswitchinghis language to theBright-tongue.

“It is thetitle thatprincesare given inTallakarn.He isdoing you a great honour,” I

reply, in Bright-tongue,ensuring that Llewellyndoesn’t understand.Fortunately, Llewellyn’sodiousnessallowsmetherareluxury of finding the boy’sbehaviourmildlysatisfying.

“Idon’tlikeit.MytitleisGod,isitnot?”

Sensing that now is notthetimetotakehimtotask,Iformaquickcompromise.

“IwillaskhimtorefertoyouasHisHoliness.Thisisa

better translation,” I reply,before turning back toLlewellyn. “His HolinesspreferstobeaddressedasHisHoliness.”

“I do apologise, YourHoliness. On behalf of theking of Tallakarn, it is anhonour to meet you,”continues Llewellyn, bowingdramatically, displayingevery centimetre of thesycophancythatdefineshim.

“Thankyou.Whereisthe

king? I want to see him,”Leosnapspetulantly.Ialmostlaugh.

“The king is desperate tomeet you also, YourHoliness. You are cordiallyinvitedtojoinhimatcourt.”

“Can Selene and Sharacome?

“YourHoliness,whateveryou desire, so it shall beprovided. Are they yourservants?”

“Yes,” the boy replies

arrogantly.IsenseSharanexttome, shifting herweight inanimalreadiness.

“The only problem,YourHoliness, is that I cannotpermityour friend,Gruffydd,topass.Ihopethis isnot toomuchofaninconvenienceforyou.”

The words slither out ofhis cold, cowardly mouthwithout somuch as a flickerof recognition for me. Myblood rises and it is all I can

do to prevent myself fromlunging at him. I glanceinstinctively at Shara. Herfaceisawarmask.Selene,onthe other side of me, istrembling with shock.Without thinking, I find herhandinmine.

“Thatwould be a shame,butheisnotagoodfriendtome,” the boy continues,seemingly in two minds. Inresponse,Shara,GeraintandIspeak at almost exactly the

sametime.“IamsworntotheGoat.I

am no one’s servant,” spitsShara.

“Turntolookatmewhenyou are talking about me,swine,” I utter, at almostexactlythesametime.

“Llewellyn, I will notallow this to happen here.They are all my guests,”boomsSerGeraint, his voiceultimatelytheloudest.

“Ser Geraint, is it your

custom to allow women andexilestotalksofreelyinyourcourt?” replies Llewellyn,still managing to convey anairofperfectcourtesy.

“It is none of yourbusiness what my customsare,yousnivellingtoad,”saysSer Geraint, his armmovinginstinctivelytohisweapon.

“I’m afraid, Ser Geraint,that it is my business. Youseemybusiness is theking’sbusiness,” he continues

mildly. “Whatever happenstoday, happens on the king’scommand. I would suggestthat you don’t troubleyourself with it. You are anacceptable lord of the Gorsandthereisnoreasonforanyofthattoalter.”

The implicit threat in thetoad’s voice is there for theentire court to see. Severalservants shuffle to the exit.Selene fails to muffle ashriek. Lady Ffion grabs her

husband’s sword arm,holding it in place, and, indoing so, seems to grab thesword arm of all herhusband’s men. Ser Geraintturns to look at me, regretsmearedacrosshisface,asheappearstostanddown.

Shara reacts quicker thanme;herbladeisdrawnalmostimmediately.ThemenbehindLlewellyn do nothing inresponse. My instinct is thatwe will take down seven of

them before we areoverwhelmed.

“No,no.Wearenotherefor that, Gruffydd. The kingdoes not disregard yourachievement.Inexchangeforyour heroic deeds, he isprepared to offer you twogreathonours.”

“What?”Igrunt.“Ourkingisamanofhis

word. Let it be known thatGruffydd was knighted heretoday. He shall be known

henceforthasSerGruffyddofthe Green. Let it also beknown that, today, the kingchose to spare the lifeofSerGruffydd of the Green. ForSer Gruffydd returned fromhis exile knowing that itwouldmeanhisdeath.”

“It was... Lady Vestanever told me that I was anexile.”As I stumbleovermywords, the watchman’s hornblaresthroughthecastleonceagain.Thereisadifferenceto

the tune this time; there ismore of an intricacy to it,morenotesplayed.

“If you were a truesubject, youwould notmakethe king lower himself todeclaring you an exile. Youshould have understood it inthe same way your fellowexiles did. I cannot imaginethat SerMorrigan was underany illusion as to his fate.Nevertheless,thekinghas,inhis mercy, chosen to spare

your life. So long as youreturn from whence youcame.”

“Thensobeit,”Ispit“butlet it be known the king hasbetrayedme.LetitbeknownthatLadyVestahasbetrayedme. They have made anenemy for life. And, as foryou…”

“I suggest that you stopnow, Ser Gruffydd. Stopwhilst you still have theking’smercy.”

For the first time,Llewellyn’s amiable façadeseems to drop; his threatbecomesmoreexplicit.Ashespeaks, I become aware ofmovement in variousquarters: hands moving toweapons, servants stirring inthe entrance way, franticlooks exchanged betweenSelene, crying inconsolably,and Leo, who is not. Mostnotable, though, is the sightof the herald frantically

reconvening himself at thedoorway.Hehurriedlytugsathis costume, brushes his hairback with one hand anddrawsadeepbreath.

“Pleasebeupstanding forHis Royal Highness PrinceLibran,Lordofthemainland.Accompanying him is SerCai, TheGoldenArrow, heirtoBegelly.”

At this announcement,Llewellynreactsasthoughhehas just become intimately

acquainted with a red-hotpoker.Hejustaboutmanagesto disguise his frightenedjump by transforming it intoanundignified-lookingswivelfollowed by a bow. Almosteveryone else – Selene,Shara,Leo,SerGeraint,LadyFfion, the various servantsand children – immediatelyjoins him in this gesture. Astheprincewalks in, Idipmyhead.

His eyes immediately

seek my own and, when hecatches them, his facecontorts into an expressionhalfwaybetweena smileanda grimace. He has changedremarkablyinthemonthsthathave passed; there is verylittle trace of the chubby,pottering little character thathe was two years ago.Instead, his body seems tohave absorbed the puppy fatthatusedtolinger;hisjawlineis harder, his chest and

shoulders are broader and hehas grown by at least onehead. Indeed, were it not forhis eyes, flushed cheeks andthe fact that the heraldannounced his arrival, I mayverywellnothaverecognisedhimatall.

“Oh,Gruff!I’msohappytoseeyou’vereturned.It’sanhonour tobe in the companyofamansuchasyourself,”heshouts, projecting his voiceloudly across the room.Both

theexuberanceofhisgreetingand the enthusiastic mannerwithwhichherushestowardsme suggest that he considersgreeting me more importantthan traditional royalrestraint. He is dressed veryfinely,inabluish-greentunic,with his golden hair slickedback and a matching charmaroundhisneck.

“Thank you, YourHighness.Ihavedoneitallinyour name,” I reply, trying

mybesttoleaveanyemotion,positive or negative, hiddenfrommyvoice.

“Ifearyouhave.And,forthat, I am sorry. My familyowes you a lifetime ofapology,” he answers. As hereachesme,hewrapsmeinawarm embrace as though heis my brother. It isremarkable to think that, inmy entire life, we cannothave spoken on more thanthreeoccasions.

Behind him strides thenowimposing,andseeminglyknighted,figureofhiscousinCai. Where he had been tallbefore,henowstandsaclearhalf metre above most othermen in the room.Uncharacteristically for aman of his size, he moveswith a swift elegance thatwould not shame a dancer.Thisgraceismadeevenmorenotable by the fact he isdressedinshinybronzeplate.

Asheapproaches,henodshishead towardsme and smiles.It is a smile that will breakone hundred hearts. It is notlost on me how quickly hisdark brown eyes move toShara.

Almost as soon as theprince has released me fromhis embrace, he turns on hisheels to acknowledge SerGeraintandLadyFfion.

“My lady, my lord. It iswonderfultofinallymeetyou

again. Lady Ffion, you lookbeautiful. Your castle is anhonour to you both,” hecontinues, reeling off hiswell-rehearsedniceties.

“Thank you, YourHighness,” replies SerGeraintwho,atonce,appearshumbleanddignified, almostas though the mischief hasdrainedfromhim.

“Your Highness…”interruptsLlewellynmeekly.

“Ah… Llewellyn. You

can leave. You aredismissed,”repliesthePrince,not even turning to look theman in the eye. Instead, hewanders over to the smallgroup of children inattendance and affectionatelyrufflesthehairofone.

“But… Your Highness…I… I… Your father…”stumbles the unfortunatetoad-man. Only now, at thisdisplay of insurrection, doestheprinceturntowardshim.

“My father has manygreat virtues and I love himdearly. However, I will nothave him, or you, sully myfamily name.Not today.Notany day.Don’tmakeme tellyou again. You have beensuch a loyal servant to myfamily,” the prince sayscalmly.

The change in the princeis remarkable. Not only hashisvoicedroppeddowntothelevelofagrownmanbuthis

tone – slow, measured,exacting – has also changed.Where once he might havepanicked or becomeindignant, he now soundscalm and commanding.Llewellyn, meanwhile,appears to be almost visiblyshrinking;bloodrushestohisface, poking his ugly bugeyesoutevenfurther.

“I… I… am here on theking’s orders… YourHighness…andIwillenforce

them…”hecontinues,caughtbetween two forms ofcowardice.

“Llewellyn, if my princehas to say onemoreword inyourdirection, I amgoing tokill you…” replies Ser Cai,flushedwith righteous anger,“andthesaddestthingofitallisthat,eveniftheycould,nota single one of your menwouldtrytostopme.”

Instinctively, I reassessthe combat options; I’m

reasonably sure that Cai andShara could kill an awful lotof people between them. IfSerGeraintchosetohelpus,Iimagine it’d be more like amassacrethanaswordfight.

“Your father will hear ofthis,”scowlsLlewellyn.

“I am counting on it. Beassured that I am doing thisfor his benefit as well asmine,” replies the prince, thepicture of composure. Foreveryone else, the tension

seems to increase asLlewellyn and his men filterout. The true warriors in theroom–Cai, Shara,Geraint -watch their exit intently.Meanwhile, Libran wandersaround,payingthemnoheed,trying his best to introducehimself to everyone,regardless of rank. Heappearstobetheonlypersonnot on edge. I look towardsSelene, standing next to me.She is trying not to look

confused and failing at itmiserably.

With theexceptionof theprince, nobody seems tomove a muscle until the lastman leaves.Thereappears tobe a collective understandingthat things could still changevery quickly. Even when hedoes, it takes a momentbefore people begin to relax.My eyes move instinctivelytowards Ser Geraint. Heflashes me a satisfied wink.

The prince is the first tospeak.

“I do apologise for ourlateness, Ser Geraint. Weneeded to pick someone upon the way. I almost forgotwithallthatexcitement.Iwillgo and bring him in,” hedeclares. There is apurposefulness to his speechand he moves to the doorwithout seeming to considerthat he could quite easilyhavesentsomeoneelse.

“It is good to see youagain,SerCai.Bothyouandthe prince have grownmarkedly sincewe lastmet,”saysSerGeraint.Meanwhile,Selene beckons Leo overtowards us. Shara standsfixedandemotionless

“It is good to see youalso, Ser Geraint. Althoughyou don’t seem to havegrownatall,”laughsSerCai.Ser Geraint returns hislaughter.

“I must say that, in allseriousness, the prince israpidly becoming someonewecanallbeveryproudof.Imake no secret of myantipathy for the king but Iwill happily bow before theprince,” Ser Geraintcontinues.

“He is the fairest,kindestman I know and I love himdearly for it.Hewillmake awonderful king,” replies SerCai. He says this with

confident and unashamedemotion. He looks roundtoward Shara again andsmiles.Sharadoesnotreact.

In this instant, I realisethat there is so much abouttheprinceandhiscousinsthatIhaveneverreallynoticed.Ina class where I was bulliedalmost daily, these two (andtheircousinHowell)weretheonly ones that never joinedin. They never spoke to meeither.ButthenIdidn’tspeak

to them. Indeed, the fact thatthey were so neutral meantthat I never gave them somuch as a thought. I nevergave myself a chance tonotice their fundamentalwarmth and decency. Anoutsider such as myself is, Isuppose,predisposedtothinktheworstabouteveryone.

“So… Ser Gruff… Whowould have thought that thefirst twoknights of our classwouldbeyouandme?” says

Cai.“Well, I don’t think

anyone would be toosurprisedaboutyou,”Ireply,trying my best to soundgracious.AsIsayit,I’mfullyaware that there would havebeen a time where I wouldhave said the exact samething but in a much morebitingtone.

“That’s very kind of youto say so but I think you doyourself a dishonour.

Knowingwhat Idoofyou, Idon’t think the king couldhave chosen a better man toundertake the task,” hecontinues naively. Either hedoesn’trealisethatIwassentfor a punishment or ischoosing to ignore the fact. Iresisttheurgetocomment.

“Thankyou.”“Are you going to

introducemetoyourguests?”heasks.Onceagain,helooksat Shara and smiles. Once

again, she ignores him. Thelook in his eye unsettles meslightly, rubbingupagainst afeelingofpossessiveness thatI wasn’t aware I had. At thesametime,IamgladitisnotSelene;thisisnotamanthatIcan compete with. However,the return of the princeinterrupts the conversation.He stands at the door like aherald.

“Be upstanding forGruffydd Ap Gruffydd, the

goatherd of The Green,” hebellows theatrically,obviously enjoying theopportunitytomakeabitofashow. It takes me a momentto realise that he is notreferring to me but to myfather.

My dad steps gingerlyinside the reception room.Thewhole sensationmustbeentirelyforeigntohimandhelookslikealostchild.Inthatmoment, he appears so sad

andold thatmyheart almostshatters on the spot.Then heseesmeandasmileexplodesacross his face. He runstowardsmeasfastashecan.Within seconds, I am lockedinhisembrace.

“I knew you’d be back,”hewhispers. Ibreakdown intears.

Forty-sevenThe ride to the palace at

Tallakarn passes swiftly.There are seven of us -Selene, Shara, Leo, Libran,Cai,my fatherand I. I spendthe entire journey lost inconversation with my fatherwho, because he cannot ride,isforcedtosharemyhorse.Iam so happy to be reunitedwith him that it is almost as

thoughtheothersaren’tthere.Aswemoveacrosstheland,Itrymybesttorecounttohimeverything that I’ve seenanddone.ItisthefirsttimeIhavetold the tale in detail andimagining it from hisperspective helpsme to trulyrealise what an incredibleexperience I have had. Itscarcelyseemsreal.

Whatmovesme themostas I talk it through is thenumberoftimesthatIshould

havedied.ThereisnodoubtIwould have done so were itnot for my companions.Nowhere is this more truethan during my return. I canhardly remembera thing thathappened following myencounter with the lion and,withhindsight,IcanseethatIwas effectively half deaduntil I reached Ser Geraintand the Gors. My fatherdoesn’treallysaymuchaswemove forward. Instead, his

brown leather face remainsstill, intent on simplylistening. Not wishing toupset him, I do not makemuchofthehardtimes.

My emotions as weapproach the great whitepalaceareentirelydifferenttohow I have ever felt before.The few times that I havebeen to the city previously, Ihave approached it with asense of awe: an amazementthat mere humans have been

able to create something soformidable, so beautiful.Now,though,havingseennotonly the civilisation atBrightstone but also thebreath-taking achievementsof Mother Nature, Iunderstand that it is not sucha remarkable thing. This isnot to detract from it – it isstill beautiful. The emotion Ifeel now is, instead, theexcitement of someonereturninghome.

As we arrive, we areattended by footmen whohelp us off the horses andstable them for us. This isanother new experience forme and, hopefully, one ofmany reflecting my newfoundstatus.JustasIbegintofeel slightly satisfied by thisthought, I realise that I stillhave my audience with theking to survive first. Iinstinctively seek out Selenethispointtocheckthatsheis

well. She has riddenalongside the prince andseems utterly charmed byhim. Shara, forced to sharewithSerCai,doesnot.

Asweapproachthegates,we receive the first whiff ofthe king’s dirty tricks. Theguard, in as respectful amanner as could be possible,advises that my father is notinvitedintothepalace-heisnot deemed of sufficientstatus to be granted such a

privilege. As the guard, astout and reasonable lookingman with a grey moustache,informsPrinceLibranofthis,itisclearthathefeelshimselfto be in a bit of a bind. Itmust be awkward to passorderstotheprince,evenifitisontheking’scommandandespeciallywhenitispartofapowergame.

Libran deals with thesituation in a diplomaticmanner, attempting some

gentle persuasion beforerelenting. At this stage, heturnstomyfather.

“I’m sorry, Gruff, butwe’regoingtohavetoletthisone go. You have my wordthat your son will be lookedafter. Here, take some coinand get yourself off to ‘TheBrink’.It’saninnjustacrossthe way. We will come outand join you later.” He talkstomyfatherwithsuchrespectandreverencethatonewould

not know it was a princetalking toapeasant.He issowarmthatitmustsurelybeaflaw.Icannotbelievethatheistheking’sson.

“Thank you, YourHighness. I will do as youask,” replies my father, stiffwith formality. He has toomuch integrity to let theprince’s disarming kindnessaffect him in anyway. Eventhoughhedoesnotdrinkandhasscarcelyspentsomuchas

a moment at leisure in hisentire life, Iknowhewilldoexactly what is asked. Hegives me another hug andleaves.

Within moments, we arein theking’s reception room.It is an occasion I havefantasised about ever since Ileft. Almost every day formonths, I have consideredthis scene. At times, it hasbeen the only thing drivingme forward: the desire to

walk back into the roomandsay‘Ididit.Youdidn’tthinkIcould.YouthoughtIwoulddie. But I didn’t die. Here Iam.’

But the problem withfantasies is that they neverquiteworkoutinreality.Theimageinmyheadhadbeenofan empty room, lookingexactly as itwaswhen Iwasgiven the orders. Whenpicturing the scene, Iimagined there would be no

one present but the king,Lady Vesta, perhaps myheadmaster and, latterly, mycompanions. Instead, to mygreat surprise, it is a fullcourt.

The chamber is packedwithalmostallthenobilityinthe land. It is alive with thecolour of heraldry; flags andshields seem to jump acrosstheroomatus.ItlookshowIimagine the front line of abattlefield of oldmight look.

There are knights and lordsstanding around the entireperimeter of the room. Theybreak into a rapturousapplause, whooping andcheering,aswestep inside. Ihear the boy ask Selene ifthese are his new servants.Selene says no. There is ahintofrebukeinhervoice.

As the roomcontinues inits celebration, the princeturns to face me, raises hishands above his head, and

joinsintheclapping.Iamsostunned that I don’timmediatelylooktotheroyalbench. When I finally do, Inotethat therearethreeseatsonitandonethrone.

Inoneseat,attheextremeleft, sits an absolutebehemoth of a man with asmile so broad that he couldquitepossiblybethehappiestperson in the whole ofexistence.His laugh, and theclaps that come rumbling

from his hands, are so deepthattheycanbeheardclearlybeneaththerestofthenoise.Ihave never seen him beforebut Iknowfromhisheraldrythat he is Ser Torryan, TheBull, the leader of theindependent people of theBwlch. There is an emptyseat,presumablytheprince’s,nexttohim.

Besidetheemptyseatsitsthekingwhoistryinghisbestto act happy. His drooping,

pallid face is a wonderfulpicture: the false smile ofsomeone who is furious butnotallowedtoshowit.Ontheother side of the king, LadyVesta sits impassive. Shemakes no pretencewhatsoever. The applausecontinues for awhile longer,as the prince takes his seat,before the king gestures forsilence.

“Well, Ser Gruffydd.You’ve returned to us as a

hero.On behalf of the entirekingdom, I thank you,” hesays. I cannot detectinsincerity in his voice. Infact, it sounds as though hemeans it. He is as bald andugly as ever and, perhaps,even fatter. I relax a little ashe speaks; he is not likely tobe openly hostile in thisenvironment.

“Thank you, YourMajesty. It is an honour tohave undertaken such a

journey in your name,” Ireply. I bow before him as Igive my answer, determinednottomakeitseemlikeitisIwhoisthecoldfish.

“And it must beremembered that it was myfather’s wisdom to chooseyou for such a quest. Threecheers for the king!” addsPrinceLibranheartily,beforelaunching into the fullcelebration on his father’sbehalf. It seems curious that

he should be exalting hisfather so openly after hisearlier show of insolence.Nevertheless, thekingbeamsastheroomfillswithcriesofadulation. As the applausedies down, the princecontinues.

“I thank you, father.Thankyouforbeingsowise.Therewerethoseamongstus,our enemies, who wouldbelieve that our family issmallmindedenoughtohave

sent him to his death. SerGruffydd’s returnproves thatthis isnot thecase.Yousenthim because you believed inhimdidn’tyou?”heasks.Theroomfallssilent,awaitingthereply.

At once, I understand.The audience is not here atthe king’s behest but at theprince’s; the prince is usingthe audience to shame hisfatherintocontrition,tomakehimsaysomething,inpublic,

that will end his vendettaagainstme.Thekingsquirmsuncomfortably in his chair,outwitted.

“Of course. I had everyconfidence in you, SerGruffydd.Itdoesnotsurpriseme in the least to see youback,” he stumbles. Hemustbedeeply ashamed tohave ason who is so pathologicallyfair.

“Do you see, SerGruffydd?My father truly is

anobleandwiseman.Icouldnot live thinking that I haddonesomeoneabadturn,”helaments. Having seen himneartearsonmanyoccasionsas a child, I am able to spotthe same cues here now. Ihave no doubt that hemeanswhat he says; equality is tooimportant to him. Before Icanrespond,hecontinues.

“Whilst I have anaudience, I would like toswear - by blood – that Ser

Gruffydd of the Green is alifelong friendof this family.No harm shall come to himwhilst my father and I arealive,”theprincepronounces,stealingthemomentfromhisaghastfather.Onceagain,theking can do nothing but tryand hold his composure.Without committing himself,hechangesthesubject.

“Of course. Now, wouldyou care to introduce yourguests?” he replies.His face,

once again, is a source ofpuredelightforme.Hissmilemasks a wounded, impotentwrath that will only benoticed by the one or two ofusthatarelookingforit.Iamnot sure if the princeunderstands the privatehumiliation that he hasexposedhisfather to,orhowthankfulIamforit.

“This is Shara. She is aladyofBrightstone,trainedinthe ways of the wilderness.

Withouther, Iwouldn’thavesurvived,” I begin, gesturingtowards her. As with SerGeraintpreviously, Ihavenoinclination to announce hertrueidentity.

“This is Selene. She is aladyof the religiousorderofBrightstone. She was anattendant of His Holiness,” Icontinue. It is not consciousbut I do not linger on herintroduction as I do withShara’s.

“And, most importantly,this is His Holiness, TheEmperor Leo of Brightstone.The people of BrightstonebelievedhimtobetheSonofGod.”

Itstillgallsmetohavetointroduce him in such amanner. Despite having along time to get acquaintedwiththeidea,Istillfeelafoolevery time the words leavemy mouth. To my greatsurprise, the rest of the court

does not share my cynicismand there is an almostpalpable gasp as I introducehim.SeveralpeoplemaketheSign of the Cross on theirbodies. The king, with greateffort,risesfromhisseatanddrops to his knees. At leasthalftheroomjoinhiminthischarade.

“Ladies,itisanhonourtowelcomeyoutomykingdom.And Leo, Your Holiness, IthinkIamrightinsayingthat

this is a historic day foreveryone here. I think youhavearrivedattherighttime;our kingdom has waited aneternityforamomentsuchasthis,”hesmiles.

Ibracemyself,wonderingwhether Leo will showhimself up as he did in frontof Ser Geraint and LordLlewellyn. Instead, he stepsforward and presents himselfwith grace. It is enough tomake me wonder whether

thereissomesecretbywhichpeople so abhorrent canrecogniseeachother,inordertobepolitewhentheymeet.

“Hello, King. I ampleased to meet you. I lookforward to working withyou,” he smiles, just aboutmakinghimselfunderstoodinhisbrokenEnglish.

“And, I,withyou. Ihopethat, with your help, we canonce again bring light to thepeople of Tallakarn,” replies

the king. As he says this, Inote a warm smile moveacross Leo’s face. I havenever seen a smile like it. Inthis moment, I realise thatbringing light to people issomething that he genuinelywants to do. He may be apetulant, misguided egotistbutthatsmilebetrayshim;hehasakindheart.

“SerGruffydd.Itlooksasthoughyouarehere to stay,”the king continues, “and as

that is thecase, then Iwouldsuggest that your royalservice is not yet done. Youare, after all, as the princesays, a good friend of myfamily.” I note now that themenace has returned to hisvoice.Perhaps thedistractionof the introduction has givenhim a chance to collect histhoughts.

“Your Majesty, it is anhonourtoserveyou.Iwilldowhatever you ask,” I reply.

Something is going verywrong here; the carefullyorchestrated public nature ofmy returnmeans that neitherofusareallowed tospeakaswe please. The prince hasdesigneditthatway.

“I want His Holiness tomeet the people. I want himto travelaroundour landandspreadthemessageofGod.Iwanttobringsalvationtoourkingdom in this, our darkestof times,” says the king.

There is such warmth andsincerityinhisvoicethat,fora moment, I almost believehim. If it were not for LadyVesta sitting quietly besidehim,Imightevenhavefallenfor it. Instead, I see it forwhat it is – a cynicalproclamationdesignedtobuyfavourfromhisaudience.

“I would be glad toaccompanyhim,”Ireply.Idonot add the caveat that hewouldneedtobegaggedand

bound in order to make agood impression on anyone.Instead, I take a quietsatisfaction in knowing howbadlyLeowill doat the tasklaid out for him. It will beless than a month before thewheelsbegintofalloff.Then,Leo will be left as nothingmore than an exotic exile,destinedfornogreaterthanapoint of curiosity in theking’scourt.

“It will not just be you,”

the king continues, “theremust be twelve. Twelve isyour luckynumber, is itnot?Twelve peasants joined theschool and only oneremained, twelve heroes setout to Brightstone and onlyone returned. Will yousurviveathirdtime?”heasksknowingly. This question isaskedinsuchawaythatIamnow certain his antipathy isnotyetgone.

“If it is twelve then I

humbly suggest that Ser Caiand I should accompanythem,”interruptstheprince.

“Then you may, PrinceLibran,” replies Lady Vestaon the king’s behalf. Untilnow,shehasbeensostillandquiet that she hardly seemedtobealive.“Butnot,SerCai.Hewillhavetoearnhisrightalongside any other knightthatwishestoride.”

“SuchasI.Itwouldbeanhonour to joinyou,”declares

The Bull from his seatalongsidetheprince.Themanquiteliterallylooksasthoughheiscarvedfromaboulder.Iwonder whether Lady Vestawould try and deny him aplace.

“That’s correct, SerTorryan. And the same foranyonewhowishestojoinus.In twelvedays, a tournamentshall be held. It shall be thegreatest tournament that thekingdomhaseverseen.Itwill

be not only a celebration buta trial, a trial to determinewho will ride alongside us,”announces Lady Vesta,clearly directing herself toknights and lords thatsurround us. It is not lost onmethatshehasaddedherselfto the list without directlyaddressingtheissue.

“I need servants,” addsLeo, never far from showinghimselfup.

“Then you shall have

them, Your Holiness. Thetwelve shall be composedthus: Lord Leo, PrinceLibran, Lady Vesta and SerGruffydd. In addition tothese, I wish for the fourgreatest warriors in thekingdom and the greatestarcher. How many does thatleave,Vesta?”

“Three,YourMajesty,”isthe almost contemptuousreply.

“And the three most

devout servants that HisHoliness could wish for,”smilestheking,unashamedatnotbeingabletogetthereonhis own. Then he begins toroar, like a great general,screaming on the field ofbattle.

“Mark it, people - thismoment is the beginning ofour greatness.We have beenvisitedbyGod.Formillennia,it has been written that Heshall return in our hour of

need. Witness, ladies andgentlemen, the truth of thesewords. The time is upon us.Twelve people shall setforward from our kingdomand change the course ofdestiny. We are the Savedthat were written of. Thankyou,LordLeo.”

I’m not sure if he quitegets the reaction that he wasseeking. There is certainly abit of excitement around theroomandseveralofthemore

boisterous, or perhaps loyal,knights cheer supportively ashe finishes. Not everyonedoes though and I can onlywonderhowdifferentitmighthave been were it the princewho had attempted such arousingproclamation.Asitisthough, I look around theroomandintotheeyesofthepeople I respect:LadyVesta,Selene, Shara, PrinceLibran.Not a single one of them iseven attempting to feign

excitement. I am glad to bealongsidethem.

TheEnd

Tothereader,thankyouforfinishing!Asanyone

who'severbeenthroughtheprocessofself-publishinganovelcanattest,everysinglereadermeanssomethingtoyou.Notasareadingfigurebutasaliving,breathing

entitywho'stakenaninterestinsomethingyou'vedone.Thankyou.Ifyouenjoyedthenpleasetakethetimetoleavemeareviewanddoall

theusualsocialmediastuff.Reviewsandpublicityarevitaltoindependentauthorsandyourinputcouldmakesomuchdifferencetome.My

websiteiswww.talesofthezodiac.comand,fromthere,youcanseethevariouslinksaswellasexclusiveTOTZnews!Ifyouarestillwithme

then,inthenextnovel,wejoinPrinceLibran.Inhis

ongoingquestforequality,heestablishesa'roundtable'andsetsouttowinthekingdomroundtohiswayofthinking.Needlesstosay,itdoesn'tall

gotoplan.

WiththankstoJackieDavies,HeatherKimber,HarryRoberts,JazzMoll,RalphKariuki,CheikhBadiane,AgatheRerolle,

LaraTamim,MiriamKyama,DanielPardo,JakeMwangi-PowellandChristineGitau.I

couldn'thavedonethiswithoutyourfeedbackand

hardwork.