Those initial days at Silverheim seemed infernally long. Once the Midwinter Dark festivities were over, Silverheim became a drudgery of long, freezing nights and short, freezing days, many of them spent under a thick blanket of fog tinged blue from the peat smoke that hung like a pall over the entire moor. Riding out for fresh air and exercise became a misery that few elected to endure, and even the Tethiri in the camps moaned about the inclemency of the weather. Sorrel had to break up more than one brawl. Tempers frayed like an inferior tapestry. Knives flashed in bright firelight, and fists bruised with increasing regularity.

He informed Queen Leiryn of the need for diversion, but she said only that her son would take to the training grounds over the coming days and that would be diversion enough.

‘It’s always like this,’ she reassured him. ‘Your people hate being hemmed in by anything, and that includes this shroud of a fog. Arianlach will see to them, so no need to concern yourself, though I thank you for your concern regarding our peace, Prince Ellazhán.’

He bowed and went away again, up to his room to stitch a pair of white-fox gloves to send to his sister when the Cherndorozh became passable once more.

Of Bai, there was still no sign, and there was no word from his caravan either. Sorrel gnawed his fingernails to the quick with worry when he remembered to think of Bai. Then he felt guilty for being able to push his feet into sheepskin slippers warmed by the fire, and to sleep in a high bed with thick curtains to keep out the winter gales. The shutters across the windows were inadequate, and only a few panes of green glass remained in the lattice.

‘Vallesia, again,’ Arianlach snapped, when Sorrel asked him about the poor state of the Keep’s windows. ‘They send their glass to Iskalla now, and I am to get none unless I pay twice the price! Bed down with your tribesfolk and their bloody sheep if you’re concerned about keeping warm at night!’

As the days passed, Sorrel began to feel more at home. Getting to know Silverheim and its citizens kept him busy. And he discovered that the castle had a well-stocked library, though the keeper apologised profusely that it was not as extensive as the one at Gartharian, where she herself had learned several languages and begun a trade in rare books. She’d stolen several from the College and showed Sorrel where she kept them, winking at him in a manner that didn’t befit a serious student of antiquity, in his opinion.

‘These books were almost banned by the artificers that the Mariskene warlords brought with them,’ she said, unlocking the cupboard and showing Sorrel a stack of ten or twelve slim volumes. ‘Take a look at this one, if you will, my lord. They said it was a scourge on all that was holy, and this is one of only two copies left, as far as anyone knows. I’ve heard the other is in the tower of Sanctuary, but I don’t think that can be true.’

‘Anything that can’t be found in this world is said to be at Sanctuary,’ Sorrel said. ‘You’d think someone would have gone to find the truth of it.’

‘Ha! They get out of it by saying the place is cursed, or Warded, or otherwise beset by dragons or ghouls – and sometimes even rakshin-corth himself! Complete rubbish, if you ask me. He's confined to the Marwaithyr anyway - everybody knows that.’

He smiled at that, and watched her take out a thin book bound in blue silk, the cover skilfully embroidered in blacksilver thread.

‘I don’t let this out of the library, so if you want to read it, you read it here. I might have copies made one day, if I could find a scribe here who can write the kánlaith. My lord,’ she added, remembering Sorrel’s title.

Sorrel ran his fingers lightly over the image. Then he handed it back and kept his face carefully expressionless. ‘Do you have any books of the Bidcánid?’

She replaced the silk book in its cupboard and locked it. ‘The Tethiri bard-songs? Of course! No library would be complete without them. I’ve got twelve volumes, in various bindings. The Hanscánid too. But I guess you’d know them already? This way.’

She showed him to a case full of books and scrolls, then gave him a long, appraising look which made him a little uncomfortable, as if she could see inside his head. He looked away.

She cleared her throat, and lowered her voice, though there was no-one else to hear. ‘My lord, if you’re interested in purchasing… anything…for yourself to keep, there is a binder’s shop in the North quarter. They specialise…’

‘I’ll remember it for the future, thank you.’

She bowed to him and then left him to wander the shelves in peace. He liked the library; he’d visited once, in his twelfth year, but hadn’t had the chance to come back since. The Wind Star often went South to Oldhaven on the coast, for both Salt Tithes and New Milk, and didn’t travel for Midwinter Dark.

The library smelled of old paper and vellum, leather, and beeswax, and of the camphor oil the librarian used to keep away moths and silverfish. The librarian seemed to be a meticulous housekeeper and didn’t stint the lamps either. Even so, Sorrel allowed himself a small mage-light, for the day was a dark one and even with tall windows, the library was soaked in the gloom.

After a while he gave up on the Hanscánid and went to find the bookseller, a small shop stooped under bowed eaves in a cobbled back-street near the Northern gate. The bells above the polished blackpine door rang in a faint, tinkling cascade that reminded Sorrel of silver-strung lyres. Books lined the shelves, and behind the shining, brass-bound counter he could see a brightly-lit room where two craftsmen were seated, carefully gluing spines. The smell of strong coffee permeated the air, drowning out the now-familiar leather-and-paper smells, and camphor.

The bookseller came to the counter at the sound of the chimes, dusting her hands on her apron. She took a curt look at Sorrel, bowed, then proceeded to point out which shelf held what. ‘History, poetry, romances and tragedies – there’s some older stuff that I had my scribes resurrect – folk tales and sagas…’

‘May I browse?’ He wasn’t in the mood for a sales pitch and he was no untutored boy when it came to books. ‘Are they written in the kánlaith?’

She nodded. ‘Some. Some are Iskallan, Lyr Derian, and Vallesian. But some are kánlaith. Try that shelf over there.’ She jerked her chin in the direction of an ebony bookcase in the rear corner and retreated to a stool behind the counter, an open book before her.

Sorrel took his time. The book the librarian had showed him had intrigued him, but he hadn’t liked the idea of having to sit and read it there. It was a book to be read in private. He wanted to take his time, away from censorious stares.

The ebony shelf seemed to be full of such volumes, and he chose two, hesitating a little over the cost, and wondering if she would gossip about his choice with her next customer. She didn’t seem the type however, and several others came and went with barely a glance at him, leaving with their books wrapped in linen and tucked safely under their arms.

‘Perhaps I might make a suggestion, if my lord will hear it?’

He started at her voice, so close at his shoulder. ‘I keep some books under the counter for some of my more particular customers. May I?’

Mute, he let her place a large book in grey leather with mother-of-pearl inlay into his hands.

‘Go ahead. See if it’s what you’re looking for.’

He hesitated, considering shoving the thing back at her and fleeing the shop, but curiosity got the better of him and he flicked through it. He was pleased to see the paper was of good quality and the ink not yet faded. His heartbeat turned shallow when he read through a short passage.

The seller tapped the cover. ‘The binder is skilled, is he not?’

He nodded, his fingers trailing reverentially over the inlay, coveting such fine work. But it was what was inside that really piqued his interest. He felt his cheeks warm with the thought of it and handed it over, nodding his assent to the purchase. She wrapped it, and another book, bound in plain leather, which he planned to cover with the book cover Arianlach had given him at Midwinter Dark.

He wandered the market streets with the precious books tucked between his shirt and his tanshán, enjoying the array of things to buy, sometimes behind shop windows, sometimes laid on wooden stalls canopied with felt or hide and festooned with colourful little flags or tassels. He breathed in the smells, drank coffee for the first time, and tried it liberally laced with a fiery golden spirit the Northers called íshbenau, and learned that it came in small barrels from Cartha, and that it cost an arm and a leg. The purses of gold and silver he’d arrived with were not going to last long if he bought much more of that. He bought a string of rose pearls and wound them around his wrist, and a skein of gold thread, and a square of green silk to embroider on, and a book of thin blank paper to draw his designs in.

His evenings he spent in the mead hall with Arianlach, listening to Henarian or another musician, and the bickering banter between the red-haired youth and his two cousins, and he liked chatting to Melysarian. He found both her and her brother congenial company, both bright-natured and even-tempered, with a sense of humour that rarely reared its head but was wicked when it did. Sorrel had been rendered speechless with laughter on a few occasions, usually at something Arianlach said, but Melysarian had a few choice lines too.

And he liked the palpable warmth of Arianlach’s presence next to him at the high table, especially on those occasions when only they sat there. Arianlach seemed more relaxed when it was just them, though he never openly objected to the company of Melysarian or Henarian. Sorrel couldn’t determine if he wanted them there or if he preferred to enjoy Arianlach’s company all to himself.

Alone, in his room, he read the books he’d bought from the bookbinder, and went back to the library to tell the librarian he could scribe in kánlaith, if she wished him to make copies.

He slept well for those first few nights, and then his troubles returned.