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Sorrel finally returned to Silverheim, breathless and rosy-cheeked from the cold. He gave the mare over to the astonished groom, who acknowledged Sorrel’s riding prowess with a bow.

‘Do you have a name for her, my lord?’

‘Glasoura,’ Sorrel answered, and passed the man a silver Crescent. ‘Rub her down well.’

‘I will, my lord.’ The groom clicked his tongue at the mare and led her away, and Sorrel turned toward the mead hall.

The scents of roasting meats and stewed fruits still lingered to assail his nostrils as he entered the hall, but supper was long done, and the hall almost empty. Henarian and Arianlach were seated at the high table, a jug of ale between them.

Arianlach’s eyes danced with mirth. ‘Enjoy your walk, horselord?’

‘Thank you. Your country is a rare beauty and I appreciated the chance to revel in its peace,’ said Sorrel politely. In truth, he had enjoyed the quiet wind, the chilly sun, and the sweet scents of heather and gorse. In the end, anyway. His feet ached, and he’d found it hard to shake the unpleasant feeling of being watched until he’d left the lake behind. ‘However, I rode back. I thank you for my new mare.’

Arianlach huffed. ‘I knew you would fetch her back.’

Henarian rolled his eyes. ‘He’ll never forget he’s Tethiri.’

‘Am I likely to?’ Sorrel leaned away from the lad and accepted a cup of sweet yellow Vallesian wine from Arianlach. Henarian puzzled him. Though he seemed to be cock-sure and pleasant enough on the surface, with a glimmer of fire and humour, behind his eyes was winter, cold and grey and lifeless. It made him uneasy, as if the lad were marked for great misery.

And he had magic. Sorrel wasn’t sure what kind, or if even Henarian knew much about it, but Arianlach had been right about the rope. Henarian had taken no rope out with him and brought none back. But he’d snared the wild mare; they’d both seen it.

Sorrel fell into a silent reverie as he watched the last few drinkers in the all, letting the warmth wash over him. Then, the ale finished, Henarian climbed over the bench and sat on the edge of the dais, a gittern in his hand. He struck a chord, and then another. A hush fell over the hall at the ripple of the strings. A slow, secret smile curved Henarian’s mouth and his eyes softened. Gone was the bitter defiance that Sorrel had seen before. The music Henarian made transformed him.

Not for the first time, he wondered what the lad was doing here in Silverheim, so far from his own home. Was he also fostered here? Sorrel thought not. Rurien was a war-lord, and brother to the Queen. He had no need to send any of his children to the Cangarth seat to foster good relations. That meant he was here because he wanted to be, or he’d been cast out.

He watched Henarian’s fingers as they danced lightly over the strings of his instrument. The gittern was small, better fitted to a child than a man, its white-beech belly round and shining, its flat face inlaid with the iridescent innards of oyster shells. The luthier was clearly a skilled craftsman if he’d made such a beautiful instrument.

And the musician, it seemed, was worthy of such skill. The mournful notes of a lament rippled through the hush. Henarian’s voice was light and melodic as he sang a dirge for men lost in a long-ago battle. Sorrel recognised the story. It was one of the Hanscánid, the most famous one. He listened with a lump in his throat. There were usually thirty-six verses, one for each of the tribal houses who’d suffered heavy losses thanks to the thirty-six Lyr Blaed mages who had brought the curse down on all their kind. It was, Sorrel thought, a far-too-heavy price to pay for the defence of all they loved.

Sorrel spread his hands on his knees and stared at them. He wished they knew how to skip so lightly over silver strings, the way Henarian’s did. The only craft he knew was the inscription of letters, and even that was limited to the Bardic kánlaith. Sorrel had seen enough of Henarian’s wager-slip to know that the young man inscribed as well as any nobleman of the horse-tribes, his hand full of flourishes.

He sighed. Far from the rough-haired and rough-mannered barbarians of the North he’d expected, these people knew beauty and craft.

And magic.

And yet no-one had bothered to tell him that the Hervik clansmen were mages.

He found he had no more appetite for company. He made his excuses to the Earl and retired to the relative solitude of his room as soon as he had eaten.

Someone had sent up a glass carafe of white Vallesian barley-wine, and a set of small glass cups. There was a tray of tiny almond tarts too. Sorrel wasn’t hungry, but he ate half the tarts and drained the wine, then flopped onto his bed and let the ceiling spin above him. He was too warm. He went to the window, still unshuttered, and leaned out.

Too far.

The ground came to meet him in a blur. He panicked, a Rune fizzling to life on his fingertips. Copper webs caught him then spun him away, into the night. His feet touched black sand. His knees buckled, he doubled over, and threw up.

A hand snatched his hair and wrenched his head up. Two black-clad knees came into view, then a pale face surrounded by black hair. Sorrel struggled against the need to hurl the rest of his stomach into the ether, and tried to meet Morien’s harsh stare.

Morien did not speak, but squatted on his heels and searched Sorrel’s soul. At least, it felt like that was what he was doing. A scouring stare. Then he released his grip and let Sorrel sag, his forehead in the sparkling black sand.

He felt a burning sensation between his ribs, and purged the rest of the drink. Once that was done, he sat up.

Morien was gone.

Sorrel hugged his knees under his chin. Above him loomed the Three Gates, surrounding him, ascending in the bitter cold of the ether. Nothingness, emptiness. He felt too small, too useless, too pathetic. A ghost.

He held up his hands and watched tendrils of black mist trail away from them.

A shriek, and a beating of huge black wings, and he was sent tumbling back through his own Gate.

Arianlach was waiting for him in his room.

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