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The one whose name Arathan knew was Rint seemed to scowl, before saying, ‘My sister offers you the gift, Arathan. Your father has already shared the meat.’
Feren went over to the pot and speared a grey sliver of flesh with a dagger. Straightening, she offered it to Arathan.
When he took the dagger from her hand there was some chance contact, and the roughness of her palm shocked him. Regretting that the instant had been so brief, he bit into the meat and tugged it from the iron point.
It was tough and tasteless.
Feren then handed her dagger to one of her comrades and he repeated the ritual with Gate Sergeant Raskan. The fourth Bordersword did the same with Sagander. Once this was done, hard bread was provided, along with bowls of melted lard in which herbs had been mixed. Arathan watched Rint dipping the bread into the lard and biting into it, and so followed suit.
Unlike the meat, this was delicious.
‘In the cold season,’ one of the other Borderswords said, ‘it is lard that will save your life. Burning like an oil lamp in your stomach. Bread alone will kill you, as will lean meat.’
Raskan said, ‘There was a pursuit of the Jheleck, I recall, in the dead of winter. It did not seem to matter how many furs we wore, we could not stop shivering.’
‘Wrong food in your packs, sergeant,’ said the Bordersword.
‘Well, Galak, none of your kin were accompanying us.’
‘Did you track them down in the end?’ Rint asked.
Raskan shook his head. ‘We gave up after one bitter night out in the cold, and with a storm coming down from the north we knew we would lose the trail. So we returned to the fort. A warm fire and mulled wine enticed me back from death’s ledge, but it was most of a day and a night before the chill left my bones.’
‘It was well you turned back,’ observed Galak, nodding as he chewed. He swallowed before adding, ‘Jheleck like to use storms to ambush. I’d wager my best sword they were tracking back to you, hiding in that storm.’
‘That was an unpleasant war,’ Rint said.
‘Never knew a pleasant one,’ Feren replied.
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The one whose name Arathan knew was Rint seemed to scowl, before saying, ‘My sister offers you the gift, Arathan. Your father has already shared the meat.’
Feren went over to the pot and speared a grey sliver of flesh with a dagger. Straightening, she offered it to Arathan.
When he took the dagger from her hand there was some chance contact, and the roughness of her palm shocked him. Regretting that the instant had been so brief, he bit into the meat and tugged it from the iron point.
It was tough and tasteless.
Feren then handed her dagger to one of her comrades and he repeated the ritual with Gate Sergeant Raskan. The fourth Bordersword did the same with Sagander. Once this was done, hard bread was provided, along with bowls of melted lard in which herbs had been mixed. Arathan watched Rint dipping the bread into the lard and biting into it, and so followed suit.
Unlike the meat, this was delicious.
‘In the cold season,’ one of the other Borderswords said, ‘it is lard that will save your life. Burning like an oil lamp in your stomach. Bread alone will kill you, as will lean meat.’
Raskan said, ‘There was a pursuit of the Jheleck, I recall, in the dead of winter. It did not seem to matter how many furs we wore, we could not stop shivering.’
‘Wrong food in your packs, sergeant,’ said the Bordersword.
‘Well, Galak, none of your kin were accompanying us.’
‘Did you track them down in the end?’ Rint asked.
Raskan shook his head. ‘We gave up after one bitter night out in the cold, and with a storm coming down from the north we knew we would lose the trail. So we returned to the fort. A warm fire and mulled wine enticed me back from death’s ledge, but it was most of a day and a night before the chill left my bones.’
‘It was well you turned back,’ observed Galak, nodding as he chewed. He swallowed before adding, ‘Jheleck like to use storms to ambush. I’d wager my best sword they were tracking back to you, hiding in that storm.’
‘That was an unpleasant war,’ Rint said.
‘Never knew a pleasant one,’ Feren replied.
Arathan had noticed his father’s retreat from this easy conversation, and he wondered at what force or quality of character Draconus possessed, to ensure loyalty, when camaraderie was so clearly absent. Was it enough that Mother Dark had chosen him to be her Consort?
Draconus had fought well in the Forulkan War. This much was known, meaning his courage and valour were above reproach. He had led Houseblades into battle, and he wore his heavy armour as if it were light as silk, and the sword at his belt looked worn and plain as a common soldier’s. These details, Arathan suspected, meant something. There was a code among soldiers — how could there not be?
The meal was suddenly over and everyone was preparing to resume the trek. Arathan hurried over to Besra — and saw that Raskan had instead readied Hellar. His steps slowed slightly, and then Feren was walking beside him, her eyes on the warhorse.
‘A formidable beast,’ she said. ‘But see her eyes — she knows you as her master, her protector.’
‘There is nothing that I can protect her from.’
‘But there is, at least in her mind.’
He glanced across at her. ‘What?’
‘Your father’s stallion. Oh, true enough, it is by the Lord’s hand that Calaras is held in check. But this mare looks to you. Such are the ways of beasts. Faith defies logic, and for that we are fortunate. But I see the animal is tall — here, I will give you a boot up.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked suddenly, the words out before he could stop them.
She drew up at the question.
‘My father called you over — I saw that, you know. Did he tell you to be kindly towards me?’
Feren sighed, looked away. ‘None of this is by his command.’
‘Then what did he say to you?’
‘That shall remain between me and him.’
‘Has it do with me?’
A flash of anger lit her eyes. ‘Give me your boot, lad, or will we all have to wait on you again?’
Lifting him into the saddle seemed effortless to her, and once she’d done so she turned away, returning to where her comrades waited on their mounts.
Arathan wanted to call her back. He could hear his own tone echoing in his mind, the words sounding plaintive and thin as a child’s. A petulant child at that. But his suspicions had taken hold of him, and with them he had felt a deep, turgid humiliation, hot and suffocating. Did his father believe a woman’s attention was still required for his son? Was he to be mothered until his very last day in the man’s company?
