down beneath his heavy clothing. It was hard to believe that only a short time ago he had been shivering, feeling lost in a courtyard he had known all his life. Now, the sky was lightening, unrelieved by any cloud, and it was the blue of ice and steel, and the new sun felt hot on his back.
They continued on at a steady trot, suddenly amongst the denuded hills. A track cutting to the right looked vaguely familiar to Arathan. He pointed. ‘Where does that one lead, sir?’
Sagander seemed to flinch. ‘The quarries. I am not surprised you remember it.’
‘I don’t, really.’
‘Just as well.’
‘It’s where I almost drowned, isn’t it? Down at the end of that trail, where the cattle are driven to slaughter.’
‘You are better to forget all that, Arathan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arathan fixed his attention on the back of his father — the shoulders wider than Sergeant Raskan’s, wider than those of any other man Arathan could recall seeing. A heavy cloak of tanned hide hung down to drape across the rump of Calaras. It had been dyed black but that was years past and now it was bleached with salty sweat and years in the sun, giving it a mottled, shadowy hue.
Raskan kept his horse a step behind his lord, positioned on the left. Arathan did not think they were speaking. It suddenly struck Arathan that Ivis had not made it back in time to see them all off. His father had sent the master-at-arms away the day before, along with a troop of Houseblades. Arathan regretted that: he would have liked to say goodbye.
By mid-morning they had ridden clear of the hills and before them stretched land that had once been forested, perhaps a hundred or more years ago. Now it was covered in gorse and bracken, deceptively deep in places where uprooted trees had left pits. The track that crossed it was narrow, forcing the riders into single file. The land sweeping out to either side swarmed with butterflies, bees and tinier insects, all feeding on the small yellow, purple and white flowers studding every bush. Birds dipped and dived low overhead.
They met no one else and the horizons seemed too far away. The forest that had once stood here must have been vast. An entire city could have been built of the wood harvested here. Where had it gone?
Sagander had begun complaining of aches, groaning with every jolt in the saddle as the pace quickened slightly. He’d fallen silent shortly after passing the quarries and now that he rode ahead, the prospect of twisting round in his saddle to address Arathan was clearly too much, though once or twice he did glance back, if only to confirm that his student remained behind him.
Arathan welcomed the relative silence, although he too felt worn out. He hoped that for the rest of this journey he would be ignored by everyone. Life was easier that way. With attention came expectation, and with expectation there was pressure, and he did not do well with pressure. If he could slide through the rest of his life, unnoticed, unremarkable in any way, he would be content enough.
The sun was directly overhead when they reached an area roughly cleared of bracken, where the ground had been pounded level and two long stone troughs flanked the trail’s resumption at the far end. One contained burlap sacks of feed for the horses and the other was brimming with water. This was the nominal edge of the Lord’s land, and riders had been out the day before to supply the station. A halt was called, and at last Arathan was able to dismount, his legs weak as he stepped away from the gelding. He stood for a moment, watching the others, until a faint tug from his mount’s reins awakened him to the fact that he needed to lead his horses to the troughs.
Draconus had already done so, but the others had all waited — oh, they’re waiting for me.
Sagander’s savage hiss was unnecessary but it stung him like a switch to the back as he hurried forward, both horses thumping after him.
His father had leaned forward to splash water into his face beside Calaras’s muzzle as the warhorse drank, and then he drew the animal over to the second trough. Raskan held his lord’s second mount off to one side, making it clear that Arathan should precede him, but as Arathan made to guide Besra to the water he caught a sudden shake of the head from the gate sergeant.
The boy hesitated. He had ridden Besra all morning; surely it was right to let the beast drink before the warhorse. After a moment, he decided to ignore Raskan, and drew Besra up to the trough. If his father even took note of this, he made no sign.
When Arathan reached down to cup some water, however, the gate sergeant said, ‘No, Arathan. You share with your warhorse and none other. That will have to wait.’
‘I will share with the beast on whose back I have ridden, sergeant.’
Sudden quiet, and Arathan could feel himself wilting, yet he managed to hold Raskan’s hard gaze for a moment longer, before bending down to dip his hand into the cool water.
Standing near the other trough, Draconus spoke. ‘Sergeant Raskan, Hellar is now in your care, until such time as the boy awakens to his responsibilities.’
‘Yes, milord,’ Raskan replied. ‘I would that he still ride the charger this afternoon, for a time.’
‘Very well.’ Draconus led Calaras from the second trough, and beckoned the Bordersword, Feren. ‘I will speak with you,’ he said to her, ‘in private.’
‘Of course, Lord.’
Her brother took the reins from her, and she set off after Draconus as he strode to the far end of the clearing.
Raskan’s tone was rough and low as he moved up alongside Arathan. ‘I warned you clear enough on this.’
‘My error was in choosing the wrong horse this morning, sergeant.’
‘That’s true enough. You showed your fear of Hellar — to everyone. I feel a fool and I tell you, I do not appreciate that.’
‘Should we not honour each and every beast that serves us?’
Raskan scowled. ‘Who put such nonsense into your skull? That damned tutor? Look at him — it’ll be a miracle if he survives the trek.’
‘The thought was my own, sergeant.’
‘Be rid of it. And if you come up with any more of your own thoughts, Arathan, keep them to yourself. Better yet, crush them. You are not the one to challenge Tiste ways.’
Arathan almost heard the added words: leave that to men like your father.
But he would be free of all this soon enough. He had seen the last of the High House, and the way to the west stretched before him. Leading Besra to the second trough, he glanced over at the remaining Borderswords. If he had expected to meet their hard eyes, he was spared that, as Rint, Ville and Galak were all busy preparing the midday meal. Their mounts stood motionless, reins looped over the saddle horns — not ten paces from the long trough of water, and yet not one animal moved. Arathan looked for hobbles about their ankles but found none.
I think I understand. Before there can be disdain, there must be pride.
One day I will find something to be proud of, and then I will find this taste of disdain, and see if it suits me. Should I not think this, being my father’s son?
And yet, I do not. Pride needs no claws, no scaled armour about itself. Not every virtue must be a weapon.
These thoughts are my own. I will not crush them.
Sagander hissed behind him, ‘When next you turn to me, student, I will see the face of my own humiliation. I wish he had left you behind. You’re useless. Hands from the mouth!’
Rint hunched down over the embers, watching as the first flames licked the tinder alight. He fed in a few sticks and then nodded over to Galak, who began breaking up a brick of dried dung. Grunting, Rint straightened.
‘What do you think?’ Ville asked, standing close.
Rint shrugged, forcing himself from looking over to where Lord Draconus stood speaking with his sister. ‘She’s her own mind, as if you don’t know that.’
‘He wants a soft body for the cold nights, is my guess.’
‘We’ll see,’ muttered Rint in reply, and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from cracking at the thought. ‘He is a High Lord, after all.’
