In a jangle of harness and creak of leather, the rider at the head of the line of horsemen reined in. Behind him, one hundred-and-twenty horsemen also halted, the dust of their journey settling, the only sound the occasional soft whicker of impatience from one horse or another. Their leader sat, his entire bulk as still as a rock, his hand on his silk-tasseled sword-pommel, awaiting the approach of the lone scout who came picking his way through the heather atop a scruffy dun horse. Behind him were ranged thirty silent riders on mounts as still as statues. Not a single soul moved.

The willow-lithe scout slowed his horse to a walk a little from the mounted retinue, drew rein, and slid gracefully from his saddle. He smiled, one hand on his gelding’s harness, the other held out in greeting.

Sorrel’s gaze flickered warily from his father at his right-hand side, and his eldest sister, Véna, on his left. Neither showed any signs they intended to dismount, or even greet the scout who now approached so confidently on foot through the heather. There was nothing to indicate his rank or his clan to the casual observer. His clothes were non-descript; fine-spun wool dyed in the colours of moss and stone and sky, and but for the shining copper curls that swept his collar, he would not have been easily seen among the rock and heather, so well did his muted colours blend in. He wore no armour, only close-fitting deerskin leggings, their knees, thighs and seat padded for riding; a padded jack of heather-coloured wool, and a linen shirt whose charcoal-coloured ruffles grazed his hairless chin. A finely-tooled red leather belt spanned his waist, from which a long, curved svárath hung, a sword made by Sorrel’s own people. The pommel was tasselled with white and silver silk.

Hviturek colours.

With that realisation came the sudden knowledge that this bright-eyed, bracken-haired stripling was a Hervik clansman. And a man soon to be his own kinsman. Sorrel shivered. Rurien Hervik was a byword for fear in the Northern realms, and for good reason. Sorrel’s knuckles turned white on his reins. He hadn’t been truly prepared for the meeting, or to face his fate as one of these people. The cub before him now had a cock-sure look to him even as young as he was; Sorrel could not imagine what coming face-to-face with Rurien himself might be like.

His horse skittered a few dancing paces, upset at the tension in his thighs.

He relaxed his grip, scolding himself for his foolish apprehension, and drew a deep breath, blowing it out through his nose in an agitated puff.

Chief Virishnu of the Windstar Clan of Eastern Serahaleros leaned down with his hand on one thigh and leered at the young scout. ‘Where the fuck’s that putrid whelp you call your Earl, boy? No – never mind him - where is Baron Whiteoak? Or is this all the stinking Northern bastards think of me? Thirty insolent riders and a boy!’

He spat. A gobbet of thick yellow spit landed in the dust at the scout’s soft-booted feet. He did not move.

‘You’d do well to mind your manners, you fat, old man,’ said the scout, squinting up at Virishnu and smiling still. ‘Your ignorance isn’t my problem, is it? If you knew who I am, you’d know neither the Earl or my father – or the Queen - offer you no slight in sending me to meet you.’

There was a snigger from one of the riders at Sorrel’s back, swiftly silenced with a snap of his sister’s fingers. Véna could command an army with a look. Her black eyes spat fire down her delicate nose as she stared at the red-haired scout, who now stood with his weight on one hip, squinting up at Virishnu. He looked all of sixteen. Sorrel felt a tingle of alarm creep down his spine. If Silverheim had sent this cheeky stripling to welcome the Serahalerosian horselords to its domain, then Hervik brat or no and despite his bold words to the contrary, they sent an insult.

Véna urged her mount forward with her knees, each hand on the hilts of her long curved svárathin that she’d drawn from their scabbards and lain across her lap. If the scout knew the significance of that gesture, he made no show of it. Two men from his own detachment came forward to flank him, the warning palpable.

She sneered at him. ‘We shall address the question of who you are, you pale hold-born calf, once you have told us where Earl Cangarth is!’

‘My cousin’s indisposed,’ the boy said, insolence permeating every arrogant enunciation. ‘So, he sent me. I’m Henarian Hervik.’

Virishnu straightened with a grunt. ‘He should have come himself,’ he snarled. ‘For me, he should have come himself, and I don’t care how far up to his scrawny neck in his own shit and vomit he is! But you – yes, I know who you are, you little piece of shit! You and all your cursed tribe.’

He wagged his finger, fat and puffy, the nail grimy and worn to the quick, in Henarian’s face. ‘Eshtroncú! Where is my reparation for the trouble your father caused last year, boy?  And now your Earl offers me insult thus, does he? He sends me the third-born brat of a man who hates him! An insult!’

Henarian shrugged. ‘I don’t care how you take it. You’re the one who agreed this marriage, and that is your reparation – and you do know my sister is all of fourteen Springs old?’

He pointed at Sorrel without waiting for an answer. ‘Is that the man I’m to call brother?’

Sorrel dismounted in a scramble of leather and harness and approached Henarian. ‘I am Sorrel.’

Henarian stepped back and snorted disbelief.

‘Crown-Prince Ellazhán,’ snapped Virishnu from his horse. ‘How do you expect these ruffians to respect you if you give only your childhood mother-name?’

Henarian swept a disdainful look at Virishnu and then fixed his stare on Sorrel. There was a glimmer of interest there, but no friendship. He tossed his head back as a gust of wind shook his red curls into his face. ‘Arianlach is sick and of those in Silverheim at present, I hold almost as high a rank as he does – unless you would have his lady mother ride out to meet a warlord?’

‘She’s a Queen, isn’t she?’

‘Are you telling me you’d rather be met by a woman than me? You people put no store in Queens. You think women are weak and good for nothing but popping your brats out. We thought sending her would be an offense.’

Sorrel held his breath. Nobody dared to speak to his father that way! Not if they didn’t have a death-wish.

But Virishnu only spat again and stared long and hard at the angel-faced Henarian. Henarian, to Sorrel’s reluctant admiration, stared back, unflinching and unrepenting.

‘Perhaps,’ Henarian continued, now idly inspecting his fingernails with an air of nonchalance, ‘you’d have really preferred my father come to meet you. I know you wouldn’t miss the chance at Rurien Hervik’s heart on the end of one of your spears. Pity that he isn’t here or you could have had that pleasure, couldn’t you?’

The tribe held its breath now, along with Sorrel. He was painfully conscious of the apprehensive hush. Even in Serahaleros, there were not many who had not heard of Baron Whiteoak, who held the strongest fortress in the entire North West. Only two others matched it in all Vartjastafel, and they sat in the shadow of one of them now. Silverheim’s grey walls loomed ahead of them, bathed in amber from the setting sun. The tall tower of the keep could be seen, rising from the morass of grey stone houses, encircled in turn by a wall fifteen feet high and a man’s length thick.

The town wasn’t so much silver as grey, grim as a winter storm, cold and stark against the backdrop of soft tones of heather and gorse and milk-blue sky.

Someone whispered something at Sorrel’s back and he concentrated all his attention on his new home, praying to every god he knew that the whisperer would have the good sense to shut up.

He stared around him. Even now, the stars were glittering in the deep velvet blue above the wash of gold and rose that bathed the moor in its glow. Beautiful, if one didn’t mind barren wastes full of ice, rock, heather, and carrion birds. Carrion, too. His eyes focussed on the half-eaten carcass of a lamb not too far away, that only moments ago he’d glossed over as being just another part of this cold landscape.

Virishnu broke the chilly silence with a final vicious emission of phlegm, and let out a roar of laughter, slapping his thigh.

‘I will string your father’s guts around my tent pole and feed his heart and lungs to my dogs one day, boy, and that’s a promise. You say he isn’t here? Then where in the Three Worlds is he?’

‘Not at Silverheim,’ was the careful reply. ‘I believe him to be in the hills south of The Shield, looking for my brother. More than that, I can’t say.’

Virishnu grunted, unconvinced. ‘Or you won’t. The man’s lack of manners will cost him more than sons before he’s dead. What of your other brothers? Who are you looking for?’

A flicker of pain crossed Henarian’s face. ‘Arianlach sent Kerren into the mountains with Lord Stengarth, to administer the witchbane. They’ve been gone almost a month. Gaelan is at Hviturek with my mother and sisters. And little Rurien has not yet seen his second summer.’

The look on his face said, what has any of this to do with you?

‘You would think Rurien has a hundred children instead of a mere ten, so casual is he with their lives!’ Virishnu chuckled, ignoring the look. ‘And you do not say a word of your father’s eldest son.’

He narrowed his eyes shrewdly at Henarian, then at Sorrel, and waved him forward, the question suddenly dropped. ‘My son has already introduced himself, but I present Crown-Prince Ellazhán mabVirishn’ y Sorreilli. I have not been so blessed with sons as your Baron Whiteoak!’

Sorrel took another few steps forward. He’d watched Henarian with interest, and now he found he liked the young man. Henarian’s eyes sparkled with good humour – and danger. The Hervik caln was headed by a warlord as fierce as Virishnu was and with three fiery, hot-headed sons by his first wife, and seven more equally wild and feral children by his second. He wondered, however, how the youngest of the first three boys had dared to come to meet them alone. And where the two eldest really were. Henarian wasn’t telling all he knew.

‘My father can say what he likes but my name is Sorrel,’ he said quietly to Henarian. He tilted his sword hilt towards the young warrior in deference and friendship.

Henarian touched it briefly, then drew his own sword half from its scabbard and offered the hilt to Sorrel.

‘Ellazhán gáhanash, I bid you welcome to Silverheim, on behalf of my cousin Arianlach Cangarth, Crown-Prince of Vartjastafel and Earl of Silverheim; and my father, Rurien Hervik, Baron Whiteoak of Hviturek,’ he said formally, loud enough for all to hear. He had a rich, warm voice as he spoke the names, and Sorrel understood then why the lad had been sent as herald. His lilting accent would have transfixed many, even in a great hall. And he’d used Sorrel’s informal Tethiri title. Sorrel was impressed.

Henarian continued, ‘I assume you’ll camp outside the walls. No provision has been made for so many men within the castle. We expected you and a small escort. Not your entire tribe.’

‘Our entire tribe? Think you we number so few?’ Virishnu guffawed, throwing his head back to let the roar of his mirth echo over the scrub. ‘This is a small escort. I command twenty-thousand mounted warriors, boy! We do not stay,’ he added gruffly, as soon as his laughter had died. ‘Ellazhán has no need of us beyond this moment. Try and keep him alive, or if not – remember to send us back his head!’

Henarian and Sorrel exchanged glances, then Henarian nodded and strode back to his mount. Once in the saddle, he sat, picking at a piece of hard white cheese he’d fished out of his coat, and waited for Sorrel to take his leave of his tribe.

Sorrel turned back to his father and stood, his arms hanging awkwardly by his side. He said nothing. Virishnu looked back at him. Then he nodded.

‘A year and a day, that is the agreement,’ he said. ‘No need to look so mournful, boy! You are like a kicked hound! If you do not learn to like the lass in that time then you must instead learn to like the title and privilege of Lord Hviturek under your Baron and your King.’

‘If you want some advice,’ said Véna haughtily, as if she didn’t believe he was worth the trouble of giving any, ‘you will keep the Earl and his cousins firmly on your side. The Earl is not such a drunken milksop as some say, or he would be dead, and the Hervik clan are powerful. They will make powerful allies, once they are united. Once you are in the Earl’s good graces, he may reward you with an even higher position.’

Sorrel raised his head higher. ‘I know all that well, sister! Any more advice and I shall think you should take my place!’

‘Begone, insolent cub!’ thundered Virishnu, his wide, pockmarked face turning red. ‘Begone before I change my mind and drag you back to Serahaleros to live your life as a eunuch!’

What could be worse than that? Only to live as a husband to a wife I do not want, a liar in the face of the world, and in my own soul.

Sorrel swallowed the bitter lump in his throat, and genuflected to his father.

‘Yes, father.’

‘Your mother will be proud.’ Virishnu spoke as if that were non-negotiable, and narrowed his eyes. ‘See that she never hears word of your wrong-doings, boy.’

He gathered his reigns in one hand and glowered at Henarian. ‘You, I don’t like. I trust your sister is of better character.’

He waited for neither reply nor retort, but yanked his horse’s head around, and he and his warriors scattered angrily back the way they’d come, silent and grim.

Sorrel watched them go and tamped his emotions deep in his chest.

Then, when the volzhoy-beru were mere dust on the horizon, he turned to Henarian, who’d been sitting quietly on a boulder eating his cheese and watching like a crow watches the wolves’ latest kill.

‘They think you’re weak,’ said Henarian. ‘They have given you no escort, no servants, no guard. Not even a maid! They’ve left you alone. Do they expect to see you again?’

‘I know I am not weak. I asked that no maid be sent with me. Am I a child, that I need one? I have none at home! And how can you talk to me like that, when you were sent to meet one hundred and twenty armed Tethiri warriors with only thirty warriors to protect you?’

Maybe they weren’t so different after all, he thought. He hadn’t wanted the maid as he knew very well that she’d be sending letters back. With news of his wrong-doings. Even Grizhen couldn’t be trusted not to. So he’d refused. His father seemed happy to be rid of him, and his mother had looked at him a long, silent moment with slitted eyes. Then she’d whisked away with no further comment.

He had magic, if he needed protecting. And there’d be servants to call on here if he needed them. He didn’t expect to, anyway. It wasn’t the Tethiri way to demand that others do your work for you.

‘Come and tell all that to my cousin, the Earl of Silverheim.’ Henarian jumped down from his rock. A wide grin split his face and lit his eyes with green fire. ‘He’s afraid of you – did you know that? I’ve heard nothing but terror from his mouth for the last moon and a half! Says you’re all storm-riders, fierce and terrible, and will snap him in half sooner than look at him. Yet, here you are. You don’t look much. Bird bones. Perhaps he will snap you, huh?’

Sorrel frowned. ‘Has your Earl never come to the markets at Midwinter Dark? My people are always there.’

‘Of course! He has several of your wicked curved blades, tassels long as his arm! But he still says you’re all demons in the grasses. No,’ Henarian amended suddenly, ‘he thinks you are a demon in the grass. He thinks you’re here to bewitch…well, I’m not clear on what he thinks you’re here to do. But he isn’t happy. Does it matter? Neither are you. I couldn’t give a shit. Coming?’

Henarian flung the remnants of his cheese snack into a gorse bush, and mounted in one fluid motion that didn’t fail to impress Sorrel. For a hall-bound Northern brat, the lad was a natural in the saddle.

Sorrel hesitated a moment, chewing Henarian’s words, then he swung into his saddle and set his face to Silverheim.