To an Anakim, a home was something that grew with time. They sank their roots into the earth slowly, as memories and loved ones became associated with the place. They became familiar with the orientation of the surrounding hills, mountains, forests and rivers. They knew so exactly where the stars would be at which point in the night that they had no need of timekeeping devices. They knew from which peak the sun would emerge on the winter solstice, how the earth would smell when the spring rains arrived, and all the oldest trees of the forest. The world around them was inhabited by spirits, formed from the powerful memories they had of the area and the people who had moved through it. To be uprooted from all this was bitter indeed and initiated the feeling of fraskala; being cocooned, as you were not connected to the land around you.
Of course, the Anakim had to travel abroad sometimes. They had invaded Suthdal regularly over the centuries, and when it had no longer seemed wise to use that training ground, they had sent the legionaries to help in conflicts over the sea, to renew the perishable skills of war. But this was all accomplished with a wretched heartsickness, which most thought to be the explanation for why Anakim armies seemed to be a more fearsome prospect at home than they were abroad.
When Thorri had departed, Roper bolted the door behind him and sealed the shutters, for the clouds had lifted and the moon was shining off the snow. His last thought before sleep took him was to wonder whether Keturah knew that Cold-Edge lay beneath their bed. Perhaps that was why Uvoren had armed himself: each night the two famous weapons clashed in Roper’s captive mind. He allowed himself to descend into dark combat.
Resurrected once again the following morning, the dreadful depressions created by Marrow-Hunter filled in and his limbs untwisted, Roper dressed to tour the streets once more. It was the coldest day yet of the winter and he wore two woollen tunics: one finely woven and close-fitting, worn next to the skin; one loose and thick which he pulled on over it and which he then belted about the waist. Goatskin gloves, elk-skin leggings, high oxhide boots with woollen socks, and his wolfskin cloak. As he pulled it on, something needled his back. Reaching a hand round, Roper discovered a little patch of cotton pinned to the inside of the fur. He inspected it briefly once and then glanced at it more intensely a second time, his gaze lingering on the image printed thereon.
“What is it?” asked Keturah. She was half out of the door, already dressed, and her short hair covered by a cowl. She still had no feeling in her hands, making her unable to weave. Instead, she was going to the Academy to discover what she could about the Kryptea.
“Nothing,” said Roper, balling up the cotton scrap and casting it on the fire. “Keep your enquiries subtle, won’t you?” She nodded. “I’ll see you this evening, Wife.” He kissed her and she departed, leaving Roper a little pile of food on his table: cakes of dried salmon and lingon berries. Roper put them in a large pouch at his belt, to which he attached Cold-Edge.
On his way out, he cast one more glance at his hearth, beneath the great elk-head mounted on the wall. The piece of cotton was blossoming slowly as the heat of the charcoal caught it. It opened just wide enough for Roper to catch sight once again of the image printed on it: a spread-winged cuckoo. The cuckoo discoloured, the cotton turned grey and a small flame burst from the cloth. Roper did not wait to see it consumed; he was gone.
He and Helmec walked the streets together. It should have been a cheering sight, for half a dozen communities were reopened that day, all trace of the plague gone. The area it affected had grown smaller and smaller and Helmec chattered happily about how it would soon be over.
But Roper’s mind dwelt instead on the linen cuckoo in his cloak. Watch your back, that meant, he was sure. It was the Kryptea letting him know that what he had done to Uvoren’s friends, full subjects of the Black Kingdom and thus protected by its ancient customs, had been noted. A ruler had to rule, the Kryptea knew that. Sometimes he must discipline and make examples, so they would allow him some freedom. If he were to abuse it, however, he would be reintroduced to the matt-black blade, this time wielded by a skilled assassin. He hoped Keturah was safe, asking questions about that organisation.
The linen cuckoo was their idea of a dialogue. If Roper wanted to survive the winter, he would need to come up with a riposte.
The Academy had always been Keturah’s favourite building within the Hindrunn. Its position within the innermost wall of the fortress—a status awarded only to the Central Keep and the Holy Temple besides—marked it out as one of the Black Kingdom’s buildings beyond price. It took
