It was early morning when they set out. Xiun and his vizier’s seal had gone shopping and had returned with supplies for the road, two sets of sturdy clothes that Ehrban embarrassingly needed too obviously to refuse, and a horse. The clothes fitted perfectly but were rather less sober than Ehrban favoured. His protests about the stylish deep greens, cobalt blues and indigos were met with a cheerful assurance from Xiun that Ehrban should only consider himself lucky he wasn’t tied to a chair and forcefully divested of his beard.

  The horse, on the contrary, was a lovely grey mare who Ehrban loved from the moment she placed her nose in his hand. He named her Uliorn and pretended not to see Xiun roll his eyes. It meant ‘penance’.

  Before leaving, Ehrban had washed and cleaned everything that was still serviceable in the hut and had told Lemar to inform the Siblinghood of the War-Bereaved that he would evacuate the dwelling for the foreseeable future. He didn’t know if anyone would use anything touched by an unthulan, but that was surely no longer his problem. The figurines of the Goddess he had repacked in their chest. They, too, were no longer his concern.

  Still, after everything it was with an unexpected feeling of loss that he left the modest house behind him. Twenty-eight years, he thought as he looked over the valley ahead, the early morning mist broken by dark islands of bamboo and pine trees from which rose the morning songs of birds. A dew-hare hopped across the path and paused, sitting up on its hind legs to give the two riders a knowing stare before bounding off again into the tall wildflower-dotted grass.

  It had been twenty-eight years since he had left this home, this place, for the very first time. That morning, Ehrban had been screaming and weeping and clutching at the skirts of Auntie Hasmaya, the widow who had looked after him and his sister while their father had been away at war.

  Ytharn had been white-faced but quiet, undoubtedly remembering their father’s words before he’d left: Always be kind. Try to be brave. Don’t be selfish. Even if you do not feel kind, or brave, or strong, Ruoi will always be. Find your compassion, courage, and strength with Her.

  Oh, Ehrban had remembered the words, sure enough, that morning he’d just had no intention of following them. Just as he’d had no willingness to follow the tall, dark-haired man with his stern face and strange plains’ accent who’d come to tell them that their father had died in battle and that he would take care of them from now on. It was only much later that Ehrban had realised that what had gripped their father’s best friend that day was his own grief.

  This morning, too, it didn’t greatly matter whether he was kind, or brave, or strong. Just like that day twenty-eight years ago, he didn’t have any choice but to go.

  *

  On horseback, they reached the village after half an hour. Ehrban was thankful that it was still early and not many people were out and about.

  He still flushed with embarrassment at the memory of one of his first and only trips to the town. He hadn’t realised that it was a school holiday — and had not expected that a string of children would follow him around, whispering and giggling as they dared each other to touch the hem of his kaftan, just to run away shrieking.

  As the only road wound its way through the heart of the village, there was no option but to ride straight through it. As they passed, men sweeping the steps of their homes paused to make the eight-fold sign of protection. A woman on her way to the bakery ducked into the nearest doorway to avoid them, and an early vendor of soybean curd almost dropped her pail.

  “I wish I could say it would get better once we’re out of these little dumps at the arse-end of nowhere,” Xiun said drily, “But in truth, just expect a lot more hostility and slightly less fear.”

  “I did nothing to make them fear me,” Ehrban said, his face burning.

  “No?” Xiun chuckled. “But the tales I were told when I asked directions! One has to love your peasant Ulgarian superstitions. Supposedly even animals avoid your dwelling, and at least three different villagers swore you roam the countryside by night dressed in a dripping bear pelt, howling at the sky. Not to mention can regularly be seen in ecstatic revelry in the woods, covered in blood while dancing naked wild praises to Vishak.”

  “Naked.”

  “That’s the surprising part, right? I suppose it does add a certain… thrill.”

  Ehrban shook his head. Unthulan were despised, rejected, and feared everywhere. But here in the mountains of the Ulgarian provinces, there were even older tales that he remembered from childhood, recounted in whispers by older children to scare the little ones.

  Of the wandering mad who dedicated themselves to Vishak, who gave themselves to Her in the mountain caves in ancient rites of sex and blood and death, who in the madness of Her sacred dances slashed their skins with knives and opened their veins, who in their frenzy even disembowelled themselves.

  “True, I walked a lot,” Ehrban said. “But at most, I picked some wild plants and fruit.”

  “Reality is almost always a lot more boring than fantasy,” Xiun agreed. “Even stories about the war. It’s always about the defence of Klaag and the sacking of Strahk, the Battle of Volund. Never about the drudging weeks spent trekking through the desert or the days twirling our thumbs waiting for the enemy to show themselves.”

  He must have noted Ehrban’s hands clench around the reins, making poor Uliorn twitch with nerves, because he said: “It’s been four years, Ehrban. You have to talk about it at some point.”

  Without answering, Ehrban nudged Uliorn into a faster walk, the sooner to leave behind the town and the memories it held.

  *

  By evening, their road had joined the Imperial Way. As all Imperial Ways, it led to Heila, and as all roads to the heart of the Empire, it was generously interspersed with public rest stops that provided shade, wells, and troughs for animals. At the distance of a day’s travel apart, there were also shelters in the form of wide-roofed pavilions, raised above damp, mud and snakes, and fitted with rough benches and tables.

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  The merchant caravans of spring had already passed up the mountains and it would be some months before the caravans carrying the summer harvests would go down the other way. Ehrban and Xiun were lucky on the first night that there were no other travellers to object to sharing the public pavilion with two unthulan.

  There was a firewood stack and soon they had a cheerful little fire going in one of the fire-pits, a small pot of mungbeans ready for cooking and water about to boil for tea.

  Ehrban stretched, relishing the crisp dusk air that filled his lungs. The journey ahead loomed like a dark and heavy weight, but for a few precious days, at least, he could try not to think about the destination and what he would do when he got there.

  Already, the mountains were a day’s travel behind them, confined to the horizon in the North. In a few more days, they’d clear the foothills and the plains would roll down ahead.

  But for now, the open sky, a fire, and companionship. Xiun was right that these mundane things never featured in stories of the war. Yet the evenings in camp were some of Ehrban’s fondest memories, kept tightly fisted in his chest for the cutting pain with which they sometimes still, in unguarded moments, leapt to the surface.

  Just like the memories of his youth, the feast days when Uncle Zhuain would take them all camping: Ehrban and Ytharn, Xiun, and Pia…

  At the edge of the clearing surrounding the shelter, Xiun was crouching with his palms pressed to the soil. He was too far for Ehrban to catch the murmured words, but he saw the sigils flare and glow in the dimming light: the Gate, the Eye, the Hearth, and the Path. The components of the Watcher, accompanied by the traditional prayer to Ruoi to descry the enemy before they were upon you.

  “Is the Watcher really necessary here?” Ehrban asked, walking towards Xiun. “Bandits and robbers are not common in these parts.”

  “Maybe not those desperate enough to rob the lawful.” Xiun said grimly as he straightened up. “But many who wouldn’t think twice about beating an unthulan for whatever pitiful possessions he might have. Oh, come on,” he said when Ehrban stared, taken-aback. “You didn’t realise? A crime against the unthulan is no crime.”

  Ehrban thought of the wagoner he’d hitched a ride with from Heila, four years ago. She’d been taking tea, sugar and flour up the mountains to bring down a wagonload of goat wool. A strapping middle-aged woman with a cudgel and a knife against trouble and not too pious to accept an unthulan in exchange for generous coin and a helpful hand.

  By then, Ehrban had regained enough of his strength to be useful in chopping wood, making cooking fires, washing pots and tending to her mules without feeling like fainting every time he moved. She might have considered forcing more specific services from him, too, but the one time she’d followed him to a washroom she’d taken one look at the scars covering his upper body and had turned on her heel.

  She’d been kind enough — or more likely greedy enough — not to abandon him right there on the road, but had not spoken more than a handful of words the rest of the journey.

  “It must’ve been a long road from Tabaranta,” Ehrban told Xiun now, and was rewarded with a friendly clap on the shoulder.

  “And a much longer one still to where we’re going. At least this time I won’t be alone.”

  *

  Despite the good, honest tiredness of a day on horseback and the fresh air all around, Ehrban had trouble sleeping that night.

  At the edge of their camp, the sigil of the Watcher was a small, steady glow. It would alert Xiun if anyone with ill intent ventured too close.

  It was not the thought of bandits, robbers, or murderers that kept Ehrban awake, however. It was the weight of the journey ahead, and what would come after Heila. A counterpoint to the weight of the four years behind him.

  Back in the world, with a purpose, however flimsy, and amongst people, however hostile and keeping their distance — it was hard now to account for four years. How had he spent his time?

  Asleep, the dark little voice inside him whispered. And now that you’ve awakened, what greatness can be wrought by your hand. You only need to pick up your sword, paladin.

  Ehrban suppressed a sigh and turned to his other side as quietly as he could. He wasn’t riding fit, and he felt it in his muscles, his joints, and most of all his back: a sharp point like the tip of a white-hot knife under his shoulder-blade where scar tissue pulled and muscles spasmed. Another reminder of Dnisenfeld. Lying on his side made it worse; he eased himself onto his back again, trying not to make noise.

  “A rare night I sleep through,” Xiun commented from the dark. “Don’t worry about trying to be quiet, I’m wide awake.”

  “Hard to fall asleep and to stay asleep once you do,” Ehrban agreed. “Do you dream?”

  Xiun’s silhouette showed as he sat up with a groan. “Oh, yes. Horrid things, dreams. But I don’t have them as often anymore. In the beginning, only wine could get me to sleep, but it made the dreams so much worse.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that alone.”

  “Ha,” Xiun said. “So did you.”

  “I couldn’t afford wine to make matters worse.” He’d tried finding oblivion in a bottle, once, in the beginning. Instead, he’d found memories of Dnisenfeld and an echo of Vishak. He’d not tried again.

  “Small mercies.” Xiun got to his feet and stretched. “Shall I make tea? It’s not Pinadarya’s soothing blend, but I have a little floral evening tea popular in Tabaranta.”

  Perhaps, Ehrban thought, there would come a time when Pia’s name would not stab like a blade to the chest. Or perhaps not. He was afraid to think what kind of man he might become, when the memory of past sins no longer wounded him.

  Xiun lit a lamp and they sat at one of the tables while the tea was steeping on a small alchemical burner.

  “Do you remember when you first came to our house, you and Ytharn?” Xiun chuckled. “I was disappointed, being real Ulgarians from the mountains I fully expected you to have horns, or moss growing under your fingernails. You didn’t even speak Ulgarian.”

  “No one speaks Ulgarian anymore. It’s a dead language.”

  “So they say, but I had hopes, you know.”

  “You were such a brat,” Ehrban told him. “You didn’t even bother to hide your disappointment.”

  “It’s not my fault! I was an only child, spoiled rotten while my father was at war. And then he came back just to say his brother-in-arms was killed and I’d have not one but two new siblings. Overnight I became the middle child. You cannot begin to imagine the horror.”

  “Poor Xiun,” Ehrban smiled. “And then we didn’t even have the decency to wear pelts or have sharp wolf’s teeth.”

  “I wanted my own pet Ulgarians. Instead I got a bossy older sister and a crying younger brother. You used to cry about everything.”

  “You were kind, though. Remember that first night, when I didn’t want to be separated from Ytharn, and you made us all a tent with your grandmother’s heirloom afghan?”

  “You kicked me in your sleep all night for my trouble.”

  “And now neither of us can sleep.”

  “The perks of being an ageing soldier.” Xiun grinned darkly as he poured the tea. “They do say Ruoi doesn’t forgive those who survived Her love in their youth.”

  “We abandoned Her,” Ehrban said bleakly, the brief air of friendly nostalgic reminiscence instantly soured. “We deserve no better.”

  “We abandoned — ” Xiun stopped himself. “No. I won’t argue theology with you in the middle of the night, Ehrban.”

  Ehrban folded his hand around the enamel mug and stared at the gentle swirl of liquid, where a tiny flower had escaped the strainer and was bobbing on the surface.

  “No,” he said. “Let’s not argue.” He abruptly realised that his hand was burning from the hot tea and he put the mug down. He caught Xiun’s eye before he looked away.

  If his friend, too, was thinking of everything said and unsaid — and, in the end, shouted — in the dark of the dungeons under the Alcazar, then Xiun, too, decided not to bring it up.

  They drank their tea, and tried again to sleep.