Let it go, Geralt had said. And Roche had smiled at the peasants who'd called him a whore's son. It's your lucky day. And it had been. He could have, would have, should have beaten them into the beer-soaked floorboards. Now there was nowhere to put this energy. I need to take a walk.

He walked down to the harbor, hating everyone he passed. The idiot bumpkins. Ves may enjoy these small towns, but he loathed them. They smelled uniformly of shit and pigs and stale beer. Without breaking his stride, he pulled out his pipe and lit it. Down the creaky, weather-worn steps he walked as if he had to get somewhere, fast. But there was nowhere to go, not in this town. Walking by the water at least made him feel like he could escape any time, the Blue Stripes ship awaiting his command.

He took a long drag from the pipe and exhaled, clomping down the pier to its end and then stopping, standing perfectly still, breathing smoke and water. The smell of the town, this town or any of the hundreds like it, always reminded him of the whorehouse, the sadness of his younger self playing with blocks waiting for his mother, or the anger of his teenage self fighting the other children. Whoreson! Whoreson! He took another deep drag, the tobacco crackling and glowing. Would he have become the fighter he was today if he hadn't had to defend himself starting so young? His mother had done horrible things to keep him alive, to save her child from starving. And he'd joined the military the second he could, leaving only a note, saying no goodbyes, giving no thanks. Sailing out on a night much like this, quiet and cool. And over the years he'd done so many horrible things himself…

Only look forward, he thought. And something King Foltest had said came back to him. Protect yourself and keep running. He'd been maybe sixteen, training in the yard; after drills were over for the day he'd snuck back in. While all the other new recruits were drinking and ploughing, he'd been practicing swordplay and testing his speed and endurance running back and forth across the packed earth. He was about halfway across the yard when a stone hit him on the cheek. He stopped and scanned the area, rage filling him the way light fills the air at noontime, bright and complete. He would kill the man who'd thrown the stone, damn the consequences, he would kill him. But then the king stepped from the shadows, tossing and catching another stone.

He'd immediately fallen to his knee, rage replaced by fear and confusion. "Your Majesty, I didn't-"

"Your name is Roche isn't it?" Vernon looked up at him. He didn't wear his usual robes, but only a hunting coat, a medallion, a crown.

"Yes, sire."

"Get up."

He got up.

"You did two things wrong," the king said, and Vernon's breath caught in his throat. "First, you weren't expecting to be attacked. Always expect to be attacked, understand."

The king never spoke in questions, only statements. And there was only one right answer. "Yes, sire."

"Expect to be attacked when you're running, when you're walking, when you're shitting and when you're ploughing. Expect to be attacked when the moon is fresh and full and when it's rotten into darkness. Expect to be attacked at dawn and midday and dusk and midnight. That means that at all those times and more you must be prepared to protect yourself and your king. You understand me."

"Yes, sire." A thousand questions raced through his head, but he was smart enough not to ask any of them.

"Second, you stopped. When arrows are flying at you, and one grazes your cheek," he drew a gloved finger over the spot on Vernon's cheek where the stone had hit, "what will happen when you stop. You'll become a pincushion, a porcupine. You'll be so full of feathered arrows that your mates will think you're a bird. You understand."

"Yes, sire." He couldn't remember the last time someone had spoken to him with dignity, as if he were an adult, as if he mattered. He ate it up like a man starved nearly unto death.

"Protect yourself and keep running. Always remember this." He tossed the stone he'd been holding over to Vernon, who caught it easily. "And keep training, Roche. Keep growing smarter and sharper and stronger while the others are off getting drunk and fat. A kingdom needs men like you. A king needs men like you."

Protect yourself and keep running. He could still hear the words as clearly as if Foltest had just spoken then. But now the king was dead. Where was there to run now except after the killer?...