It was glorious on the moor. Hooves flying, churning up the short, tough peat-grasses, they thundered over the land towards the dimly-shining lake that sat in the dip between Silverheim and the low hills beyond. It still had the glimmer of copper from the sunset on it, though there were but scant moments left before the land would be dark. The air was cold now, but still had the scent of the day’s warmth on the wind. A cold land, Sorrel thought, but a serene one. He breathed deep and let it fill his lungs.

Sorrel hadn’t realised how oppressive he’d found Silverheim, how closely hemmed in he’d felt, the walls towering above him. They sparkled like silver, pale grey and luminous with mica, but they might as well have been obsidian. He felt their presence like shadows, constantly blocking him from the light and air. He didn’t know how he’d make it through his time there. He’d been there an hour, less than two, and already he needed to be away from the noise and the light.

My people will be taking their evening meal in the new hall now, lit by lamps not torches, with incense and the fragrant grasses to tickle my nose and not the stench of old, piss-stained straw and hunting dog.

He was almost convinced Arianlach felt the same. The Earl’s countenance lost some of its pallor once they left the inner walls, and became rosier still when they left the outer camps. He grinned at Sorrel, his eyes full of sparks, all mischief and joy. He was a wild spirit, and one that would find his own way.

They rode to the lake shore. Sorrel sat at ease on his mare, staring at the darkly-glimmering waters. Beyond the far shore mountains rose, forming a natural boundary between Vartjastafel and Serahaleros. Snow-capped and grey with shale, the range spread a hundred miles to the South, and after that the tough, short grasses of Northern Serahaleros began.

My home. 

Sorrel swallowed the lump in his throat and tried not to think about home. He had a new home now, albeit temporary. And he'd have a new one still, in a year. He fiddled with the leather reins and pretended he'd got dust in his eyes.

'Lake Draugur,' said Arianlach, reigning in beside him and nodding at the water. Henarian jostled him, and got a cuff on his ear for his impudence. ‘They say the ghosts of the dead rise on Midwinter Dark, just before sunset. I’ve never seen them, so I think that’s a load of shit, but I could be wrong. The mists are quite eerie, though. And there's another legend. They say that the world's first dragon sprang from these waters. That's why it's named like that. Of course, there are no dragons, but it’s a pretty legend nonetheless.’

‘A pretty place,' Sorrel said softly. He jerked his chin to the south of the lake. 'Look.'

Arianlach followed his gaze. A flock of swans had risen in flight above the marsh-reeds, feathers like snow against the darkening sky.

Henarian barked a low laugh. ‘We should have brought bows!’

Sorrel dismounted. He wasn’t ready, not just yet, to cease riding, but the crystal waters of the lake spoke to him, drew him in. He wanted to dabble his fingers in its chill, taste the reedy sweetness, and hunt for eggs among the grasses. It reminded him of such days spent with Grizhen. Long days, glorious days. He felt as though he would never enjoy such days again.

‘Where is your escort?’ he asked Arianlach, keenly aware that while he himself had been allowed to ride where he wanted, it didn’t seem as if it should be that way for the Earl. This place was about walls, not freedom.

Arianlach shrugged. ‘I forgot to tell them I was coming out here.’

‘But you’d usually have one?’

‘Of course. The Earl of Silverheim can’t be allowed to just go anywhere, by himself, at any time! Somebody might decide they want me dead. I might even agree…but not today. Not today.’ He slanted a look at Sorrel. ‘What about you?’

He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’m coddled, smothered, suffocated…Well, I’m enjoying a rare taste of freedom. There’s only so much of being hovered over I can take. No doubt my name will be mud when we return!’

Sorrel knelt at the shore, and heard the creak of Arianlach’s saddle as he also dismounted. He turned and watched the Earl, watched every step with a critical eye. He was tall, with a dusting of gold freckles over his delicate white nose, a generous mouth that turned up at the corners, and large, deep-set eyes. Sorrel thought they reflected the colours of the sky: first lavender, then apricot, then violet. He could have fallen into those eyes, fallen forever and never wanted to wake from the dream. He imagined Arianlach could have that effect on anyone he chose, and wondered why he didn’t. One look, and he gave the impression he saw deep into your soul, and all the secrets there. One smile told you he’d keep those secrets, if only you’d pledge your loyalty. The youth could be devastating – if he chose.

The ride had shaken Arianlach’s barleycorn hair somewhat loose from its messy braid, and it tumbled over his slender shoulders in sunlit tangles. Despite the ride in the cold air, his eyes were still hooded and rosy with lack of sleep. Or too much drink. Sorrel let his gaze rove over the Earl, interested now, not merely curious. The blue brocade coat he wore had a rip in the collar, its hem torn loose from its stitching where a stray thread of gold had unravelled and stuck, clinging, to the cuff of its owner’s boot. Despite his unkempt appearance it was clear from the haughty contempt in his eyes that he was highborn, if you didn't already know. Yet there was something defensive about his stance; something in the way he set his weight on one hip instead of standing straight-on, in the way he looked up, half-uncertain, through his lashes, and in the upward curve of his mouth. A mobile mouth, dimpled at each corner.

Sorrel thought he understood Arianlach’s behaviour. No Lyr Blaed had ever ruled in Vartjastafel; nor would one, ever, if the Lyr Deru could help it.

Earl Cangarth would be lucky if he kept his head, let alone his throne.

He understood, now, why he was not to marry the Earl’s sister. With the horse-lords at Rurien Hervik’s back, the Baron had a chance at unseating Arianlach and claiming the throne for his own sons, if not for himself.

And that explained why Arianlach had intervened and insisted that Sorrel spend a year as his foster-brother. It was not, as Sorrel and his clan had supposed, to ensure his betrothed was blooded before she married.

It was to forge a friendship with Arianlach – and loyalty to him, not Rurien.

Arianlach wasn’t the wet-eared youth he pretended to be. Sorrel shifted some prior assumptions to his mental rubbish-heap and tried to work out just how ruthless the Earl was likely to be.

And what would happen if he didn’t get what he wanted out of Sorrel.

And if Sorrel gave in, and sided with the Earl? Where did that leave Virishnu, and more importantly, Sorrel’s mother, who had worked so hard to secure the bond?

Why had she?

I can't do this. I can’t do any of this!

Sorrel felt the panic rising in his chest, where it threatened to spill out of his throat in a howl of rage and anguish. He forced it back down with an effort. He was well-aware that his folk already thought him weak, and he was reluctant to reinforce their belief.

They don’t know how weak! They don’t know! I’m not even a good enough mage! I get burned and sick all the time!

The panic bubbled up again, and he couldn’t keep it down. He had never felt so afraid, so helpless. He wanted to retch, but he’d done that earlier, vomiting in the bushes until he had nothing left to purge and his stomach rebelled. He could still feel the pain, as though he’d been kicked, repeatedly, in the ribs. He wanted to scrub his fingers into his scalp and rip out his hair and pile it in clumps at the feet of the one who decided this fate for him, and sent him away to suffer it without friends, without the comfort of family, in a strange land; a land so alien to him he feared that this spelled the end of his days as a mage.

He cast his mind over his father’s extortions to behave, and tried to breathe.

It is my duty as son of the chief, to endure this. It's for the greater good. We've heard what is coming for us, from the dark islands; we need friends, we need this alliance, and this is what I can do for my people, this is what I was born for.

Sorcery didn’t come into it. That was an accident; but he couldn’t help but feel that he could have had a greater impact as mage, not as the political pawn in an arranged marriage.

You bear a curse.

What is it? What is my curse, my burden? How can I do anything if I don’t know?

'Prince Ellazhán!'

He turned at the cry. Henarian had approached, still mounted, and now wheeled his horse around and rode at a break-neck gallop after Sorrel’s wild mare, who was fleeing across the moor.

Arianlach dissolved into laughter. ‘Well, since I’m feeling lucky today, I wager ten more venta he catches her. Will you take that bet?’

‘I won’t,’ said Sorrel, watching Henarian with his hand shading his eyes. The lad’s copper curls whipped his cheeks as he wheeled again, turning into the mare’s path. ‘He has almost as much skill as any Tethiri rider. Why should I wager what I stand to lose?'

Arianlach flashed him a grin, mounted, and tore across the moor after Henarian, leaving Sorrel to follow as best he could on foot.