Three weeks past Midwinter Dark, the winds turned across Silverheim, bringing a brief promise of sun from the South. The white bell-flowers of the heath began to appear, like tiny bright stars among the old brown heather. Patches of stubborn snow still lurked amid the dun grasses. Sorrel spent those days out of doors, on horseback, enjoying the feel of rangy muscle beneath him and cold winds in his hair as he rode around the lake. The waters shone as they rippled under the wind. To the South, the hills still wore their stark bonnets of snow, but he imagined the caravans beyond them, a sense of freedom in the air.

Freedom, warmth, and summer. He swallowed his homesickness and waded among the lake's reeds, hunting goose and trout eggs, letting the water's bite invigorate his blood. Blowing the cobwebs out, Leiryn called it, and Sorrel smiled with her, at ease in her company though she rarely graced the mead hall with it.

Sometimes Henarian went with him, and sometimes even Melysarian came too, but Arianlach never did. Sorrel rarely saw him before evening, and even then, he'd creep into the mead-hall and sit, head bowed, over a jug of strong wine, insensible until dark fell and the hall became lively. Then, he seemed to find a new energy, and would drink, dance, and laugh for the rest of the night. Sorrel found himself adjusting his own routine to better fit the Earl's, wanting his company.

Some of his time was spent in the Tethiri camp. He sat on low woven-grass seats and drank smoked blackleaf tea, eating charred, sticky-sweet cubes of mutton and bowls of white curd cheese. He laughed with them, sat rapt as the bards told their stories, and listened to the zithers, lap-pipes and reed-drones. He felt at home there. He found Silverheim's walls too close, too suffocating, and wondered how his parents could stand to live in the palace they were building. Even though those walls were built to pull back and leave the entire thing open to the wind and sky, walls were walls, and he didn't like them.

'I don't know how anyone could bear to be so caged,' he confided to a girl, a plump young woman about his own age.

She shrugged, her black eyes curving with good humour. 'They don't know anything else.'

'They did once. Men did not arrive in the world with four walls already about them.'

She shrugged again and bent over her sewing, a saddle-cloth for her dowry chest. 'I daresay. Pass me the silver, Sorrel.'

Sorrel sighed and passed her a skein of silver thread. Many Tethiri women had prosaic souls. Not that they didn't see beauty; they just took it for granted, and never bothered to find it remarkable.

A woman, two bairns at her hem and a Lyr Blaed husband behind, came and sat next to him. She held out a small package. 'A leaving gift. We're riding East today.'

Sorrel took the package, surprised. 'Thank you, Garwinn. I thought you were staying a little longer? Why leave so soon?'

Garwinn's husband scooped up one of the children. He crouched with the bairn under one arm like a piglet, and lowered his voice. 'There are rumours of unrest in the Hester mountains. If we don't go now, we might never get across.'

'I want to get back to Carnlóg before the Spring anyway,' said Garwinn. 'I have a garden to plant.' 

'Guess who gets to dig it first,' said Collen gloomily, though his eyes twinkled as he looked at his wife.

Garwinn tsked at him, and nodded at the packet she'd given Sorrel. 'Open it.'

He did so, fumbling with the knots in the twine. He unwrapped the folds of oiled paper and laid it flat on his knee. A blackthorn needle-case, carved with roses, gleamed in the weak winter sun. There was a length of silk too, enough for a pair of embroidered sleeves. A generous gift, indeed.

'Thank you.' A lump knotted his throat. Garwinn and Collen were among the few he counted as true friends, even in the Tethiri tents, though he hadn't known them long. They'd come from Iskalla, East of the Hester range, for Midwinter Dark. He'd hoped they'd stay a little longer.

'I'll visit,' he said, on a sudden impulse. 'The Earl said he has a lodge in the hills near Carnlóg. I could persuade him he needs to go and consolidate his claim to the land there.'

'It would be wise of him, I think,' said Collen. 'Sooner rather than later. Like I said, there's trouble brewing.'

Sorrel wrapped the needle case and silk up again and tucked it into the front of his coat. 'What kind of trouble?'

'The kind that leads to war,' Collen said darkly. He shifted the child under his arm. 'Hush, bárne. You'll see it coming if you open your eyes.'

Garwinn tutted. 'It may not. These things bubble up now and again; they usually simmer down in the Spring once men have better things to do. But to be on the safe side, we're going back now, before it gets any worse. If it gets worse.'

'Should I tell the Earl?'

'There's not much to tell,' said Garwinn, glaring at Collen as he snorted incredulously. 'But...I don't know...some are saying the Lyr Blaed are growing restless against the witchbane.'

'There are rumours that the Lyr Celain have...'

Garwinn rounded on him furiously. 'Not in front of the children, Collen Garth! If I have to tell you again...!'

'Whist, woman,' he snapped back. Lorcan began to wail. 'I say only what I have heard,' he added to Sorrel. 'But you know how rumours are.'

'I know.' Sorrel stood up and bowed to Garwinn and Collen. 'Do you need anything for your journey home?'

'We have all we need,' smiled Garwinn. She patted Sorrel's cheek, a privilege he allowed her because she was not Tethiri, nor was she of Silverheim, but had mothered him mercilessly the moment he'd stepped into the camp.

He watched them leave with a sense of foreboding, though he knew Collen was perfectly capable of taking care of his small family.

In the afternoon he went to the training ground, north of the castle. Henarian was often there, and sometimes even Arianlach, towards the later part of the afternoon, or on dull days. Sorrel hoped to find him there now, since the day had turned to grey drizzle. The smell of wet earth and slick stone permeated everything. At the far end of the ground a small group of spearmen were performing drills with long, wood-tipped practice spears. Not far from them were several swordsmen, and a ten-strong shield wall, headed by the Earl.

He selected a long wooden practice spear, shed his cloak, and stepped out to meet Arianlach.

Arianlach trotted over, pulling his helmet from his head and shaking damp blond hair loose over his pauldrons. The pale grey leather glimmered with rain.

Sorrel smiled and bowed. 'I had hoped to find you here.'

'I was thinking of going into the great hall for this.' Arianlach sniffed and swiped moisture from his nose. 'It's going to get worse. You know, Silverheim in winter is beautiful. Silverheim in summer is beautiful. Silverheim in Autumn and Spring is a quagmire of grey and brown.'

'I'm used to training outside. Besides, we can't be sure the battles we fight will always be on a sunny day.'

'Blazes, why are you always right?' Arianlach laughed. 'Come on then. That rotting hawthorn splinter against my wood-wormed sword and shield.'

'You should keep even your practice weapons in better shape.'

'There's still enough solid wood in them to give you a thumping.'

Sorrel smiled. 'You'll regret that'

He dropped into a fighting stance, the spear in one hand and one of his long knives in the other. It was the way many of his own people fought, though this spear was longer than the horse-spears he was used to, and had nothing of the precise balance the curved svárathin possessed. The knife was a foot of wickedly-curved iron, weighted for mounted attacks.

'Will you really use that?' Arianlach's eyes were wide.

'I have control over it, Earl Cangarth. Are you really so afraid of your own neck?' Sorrel's fingers curled around the leather-bound hilt, testing its weight.

'I am, if I'm faced with you, and my gut tells me that's the first time this year I've been so bloody wise!'

Arianlach shoved his helmet over his head. His oak practice sword was a cumbersome-looking thing, straight-bladed and long, both sides of the blade thinned as if they were the sharpened iron of the real thing. He scuffed a foothold in the rough gravel, bent his knees, and lifted his shield. He crouched behind it with his sword over the rim, awaiting Sorrel's attack. 'Do we have all day for this, Crown-Prince Ellazhán? Hurry up.'

Sorrel shifted his weight onto his left foot, then sprang, his right foot striking the shield and propelling him further upward. In the same movement, the spear came down, sliding past Arianlach's neck as he leaned sideways to avoid the blow. The spear-tip struck the ground and Sorrel pushed his shoulder into the shaft, flinging himself around it to land behind Arianlach.

He pressed the blade of his knife to the back of Arianlach's neck. 'Yield.'

'Fuck!'

Sorrel withdrew the blade and sheathed it, and leaned on the spear. 'Any man who's willing to attack you with no shield has more skill than you.'

'Must you revel in my defeat?' Arianlach rammed the shield's rim into the ground and pushed himself upright.

'Perhaps we'd be better matched on horseback?' Sorrel asked hopefully.

'No. I want to learn that - what you just did.'

Sorrel thrust both spear and knife into Arianlach's hands. He took the shield and sword and crouched in the same position Arianlach had been in. 'Use the shield to push your body further over my head. Do it fast enough and I won't have time to react.'

'Are you going to react?' Arianlach spun the spear around in his hand, demonstrating his own skill. 'You know what I'm going to do, after all. I didn't know.'

He didn't wait for an answer, but flung the knife from him, distracting Sorrel. A split second, but it was enough. Arianlach threw the spear over Sorrel's head, and leapt, twisting mid-air and catching the shield-rim as he went over. Another twist, and Sorrel was knocked forward, shield-less, his cheek striking the rough dirt of the training ground as he fell. Sharp pain lanced across his ribs.

Arianlach offered him a hand up.

Sorrel winced as he got to his feet. 'Don't tell me you learned that move from my people!'

'Of course I did! Who else can fight like that?' Arianlach retrieved the shield and sword and took them back to their racks, set in a thatched hut to one side of the training ground. 'But I don't know a lot. Just that one trick. I want you to teach me what you did to me.'

Sorrel opened his mouth to refuse as Arianlach's captain approached.

The man bowed, and cast a furious look at Sorrel. 'My lord. May I remind you that the horselords are not...'

'No need,' said Arianlach. 'I've asked him to teach me. You too, Lord Andael. Stay and learn what this horselord has to teach us about the art of combat.'

Lord Andael bowed again, his face closed and his eyes hostile. When he straightened, his gaze was sharp on Sorrel's. 'I shall be intrigued to learn what he knows,' he said levelly.

Sorrel turned away. 'Not today. I have an appointment with the apothecary.'

He was halfway across the training ground before Arianlach caught up with him.

'What was that about?'

'I won't be teaching anyone Tethiri combat tricks. Nobody but you. But never a Mariskene interloper like your Captain!'

Arianlach stopped, rubbing his nose. 'He's my captain. Mariskene or not...he...'

'He despises you.'

'Oh, he does. He despises everyone. Don't take it personally.'

'Why should I not?' Sorrel narrowed his eyes as he stared across to where Captain Andael stood, his arms folded as he glared back. 'No. I won't teach Tethiri secrets to him or any like him.'

'Impossible stiff!' Arianlach muttered. He looked rebellious for a moment, then sighed and shoved his thumbs in his belt. 'Alright. Somewhere else, then?'

'Where? Where can you go without him following...'

'My rooms,' Arianlach laughed. 'We don't need much room. Or...you can teach me that Travel trick. We could go anywhere we liked, if I knew that.'