Clan

The grate was empty and cold. Despite this, three men were clustered around it. Perhaps the merest memory of a fire was enough to make that location seem the warmest place in the room. Two of the men were standing, hands under armpits and shifting from foot to foot. The third—who was wrapped in an old blanket—sat on a stool, shivered fitfully, and coughed.

Gorrys al Lunn watched his father, Halyr. Instead of speaking, Halyr looked up into the rafters of his workshop and carefully examined the hides hanging there. When Gorrys' uncle finally stopped coughing, Halyr addressed his visitors.

'Barth, you are head of our clan; Gorrys, you are my firstborn; you are kin, clan, and you are both welcome here, but...'

There was an uneasy silence. Gorrys was about to break it, but his uncle, Barth, waved for silence, pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and waited for his latest coughing fit to pass.

'We should be eating at our Lord Yâlen's table,' Barth croaked. 'Instead, four days ago, we arrived unannounced at your door. All we brought with us were those few of our personal possessions Sir Alarn allowed us to take.' Barth coughed again. 'You will take care of us, Halyr I know that. But instead of five mouths to feed, you have seven. Our presence is a strain on your household, and your winter stores. For that I am truly sorry.'

'Sir Danard will recompense us when he recovers, father,' said Gorrys. 'We will repay you.'

Halyr dismissed any potential debt with a shake of his head. 'I've received enough from you over the years, Gorrys. We likely have enough food for the winter, even with you here. Though the portions will be smaller, and there will be less meat than you're used to. It's not the now which concerns me, son, it's the future.' He turned his attention back to his older brother. 'If Sir Danard does not recover, what will happen then?'

Barth shrugged, coughed again, and spoke hoarsely. 'Even if he does recover, I worry that between them Sir Alarn, Chamberlain Tellyr, and that fat oaf Petry will poison our lord against us. Sir Danard is old, but until the chills took him, he was strong. He enjoyed the hunt.' Barth looked around and, despite the fact they were alone, lowered his voice. 'If… If Sir Danard dies, then everything will change. Sir Alarn, prefers indoors to out. Rather than tasting the good air and eating fresh meat, he's happiest when he's sitting in his hall eating porridge and counting his silver. To him, we are an unnecessary indulgence.'

'Sir Danard must recover, Uncle! We are his huntsmen. We track his game, we eat at his table, we...' Gorrys protested.

'You've been dismissed from the manor house, son. You do none of those things,' Halyr reminded his son.

'I have tracked and flushed beasts for Sir Danard for five years, father,' Gorrys protested. 'Uncle has done so...'

'For most of my life,' Barth interjected throatily. 'I am clanhead because I sat at the table of a knight, but I fear your father is right, Gorrys. We have always served Sir Danard, never his son. Sir Alarn often speaks against us, you cannot deny that. We must plan for the worst, face the possibility that we will never return to Yâlen Manor.' Staring Gorrys into silence, he returned his attention to his brother. 'When the clan next meets, I will suggest that you replace me as clanhead, Halyr.'

'We should wait. Perhaps Gorrys is right. Sir Danard may recover, and you can return to the manor. If not, perhaps you'll find another lord within the Hundred. There must be someone who would appreciate your skills more than Sir Alarn.'

Barth gave a dismissive snort, which turned into another coughing fit. When it subsided, he continued.

'It would be difficult to find a lord who would appreciate them less. But you're right, brother, there are a few others. When I recover from this damned affliction I'll visit the Hundred Bailiff at Asólade, and the Lord of Yeashim, too.'

'Why now?' Halyr asked. 'Why did Sir Alarn dismiss you when he did?'

'I suspect…' Barth hesitated, carefully considering his words. He tried again. 'For days...' he got no further, because he again began to cough. Gorrys took up the tale.

'Sir Danard has been ill since this foul weather arrived, and for all that time Lady Maris has been demanding a Peónian priest be fetched. "He's your father, Alarn, do your duty by him!" Those were our lady's words!' As he spoke, Gorrys pitched his voice high, and tried to put on a noble accent.

Barth nodded his agreement. 'It's almost as if Sir Alarn doesn't want…' He interjected in a whisper between coughs. With a flailing arm he indicated that Gorrys should continue the story.

'Four days ago, Lady Maris argued with her son. She wanted him to send Petry to Novélim for aid. The Ebaséthè there is a fine healer. Everyone in the manor heard their argument. You should have seen the look on Petry's face.' Gorrys mimicked a terrified expression. 'Sir Alarn persuaded her to wait, because the storm was at its height. Our lady protested, but finally agreed. Later that day—while Lady Maris was in the tower, caring for her husband—Sir Alarn dismissed us. He told us: "My father has no need for huntsmen, nor do I. You have kin in the village, go to them." We were cast out into the storm with nothing.'

'With everything we own, Gorrys! We have our clothes, weapons, and equipment,' Barth reminded Gorrys.

'But you had more than two shillings in coin!' Gorrys protested.

'True, but there are six more pennies, in the bottom of my quiver, wrapped in a cloth,' said Barth. He turned to his brother. 'I have little hope we'll see the rest. If you need coin, Halyr, they're yours.'

'If we need food, and if our neighbours have some to spare, they will drive a hard bargain. The pennies are yours, Barth, and your need will likely be greater than mine.'

'What about the snares, Uncle?' Gorrys interjected. 'We set them the day that the snows came, remember? We had to battle Sárajìn's breath to get back over the bridge and into the manor. The snares were well placed, we agreed, and they've been out for eight days. We may have rabbits. Perhaps if I...'

'Where are these traps?' Halyr asked.

'The west forest,' said Gorrys eagerly. 'No more than a league away.'

'No!' Gorrys' father shook his head firmly.

'Sir Alarn is fond of rabbit stew,' said Barth thoughtfully. 'It might be wise to remind him of our usefulness.'

'In this weather?' Halyr turned on his brother. 'Please, Barth, don't send the lad out in this.'

'Lad!' Gorrys protested hotly. 'I'm grown, father, my seventeenth year is almost here! I make my own decisions. I'm going!'

'No,' Barth ordered, holding up a hand to still any protest. 'It is a good idea, Gorrys.' He paused to cough. 'But your father is right, only a fool would go out in this weather! Are you a fool?'

'If not now, when?' Gorrys demanded.

'When the snow stops,' his father suggested. Gorrys' uncle nodded in agreement and hauled himself to his feet. Their discussions at an end, three men returned to the warmth of the cottage.

The sun was well past its zenith when the wind's howls finally subsided. Gorrys opened the door and peered out. The slender streaks of blue peering cautiously through the gaps in the grey and black clouds were faint and feeble, but they were enough for the young huntsman. The snow had stopped falling. The west woods weren't far away.

'I'll go now,' he told his kinfolk firmly. 'I can be there and back before dark. Rabbit stew tonight.'

Ignoring his father's protests about the lateness of the hour, and his mother's entreaties regarding the foolishness of his decision, Gorrys grabbed his cloak and pulled on the rabbit skin mittens his father had made for him. Picking up his spear, he stepped out into the deep snow. His mother's worried cries ringing in his ears, he fled the claustrophobic confines of the leatherworker's cottage.

Heedless of his family's concerns, Gorrys trudged through the snow towards the manor house. As he got closer, he realised he wasn't the first to do so. His hunter's eyes spotted the snow filled footprints and surveyed them, trying to make sense of the depressions in the snow. Fighting the urge to backtrack, he continued to the manor gate. As he approached, he faced his first obstacle. The gate was closed and, no doubt, barred. There was no access to the bridge.

He looked around. Someone else had walked up to the gate. It was obvious. Soft new snow covered a well-trampled area. Again, Gorrys had to fight the urge to investigate further.

He'd told his family he'd go and check the snares, but he'd given no thought to getting across the river. That, he realised as he cursed himself for his foolishness, was because he was thinking as if he still dwelt inside the manor. Only four days earlier he'd been sitting in front of the firepit. He'd been making snares and teasing Sarysé, the youngest of the manor's kitchen maids while Petry glowered at them both.

He and his uncle hadn't merely been dismissed, they'd been cast out into the teeth of a storm. Anger over the injustice of his situation came to the fore. If he went through the gate, the noble household would know he'd crossed the river. The lord's son would want his due. But what was Sir Alarn owed, really? He was the one who'd dismissed them.

Sir Alarn was not lord, not while Sir Danard lived. It wasn't his place to dismiss anyone, yet he'd done it. He'd allowed them to take their bows, spears and other equipment, but had failed to hand over the leather pouch containing the pennies they'd saved.

Gorrys had raised his spear, intending to strike the gate with its butt. As angry thoughts swirled, he lowered it, and considered his options. There was no chance that Petry al Oland would be standing outside in the cold waiting for someone to knock, and there was little chance anyone inside the manor would hear him. Trying to get through the gate would take time and effort, but he could not return, defeated, so soon after his departure.

Imagined "I-told-you-so's" from his parents spurred Gorrys to reckless action. A long look around the village confirmed that it still slumbered silently under its thick white blanket. No one else was about. No one else is as foolish as you, the sensible part of his brain suggested. The obstinate part ignored it. There was no chance that Petry, or anyone else, would be watching the bridge. Praying that no villagers would take the opportunity of the lull in the storm to leave their cottages, Gorrys trotted around the manor walls until he reached the river's edge. The ledge between the daub and wattle wall of the stables and the five-foot drop down to the river was narrow. For the first few feet it was almost non-existent.

After pulling up his hood, Gorrys fastened his long spear over his shoulder. Offering up a silent prayer to Peóni for his own, his uncle's, and Lord Yâlen's delivery from this foul winter the young hunter took off his mittens and pushed them into his belt. This, he assured himself would be the most difficult and dangerous part of his journey. Curling his fingers around one of the stable's timber cross-beams, he carefully inched his way along its outer wall. The snow-covered ground wasn't firm under his feet, and his heart pounded as he slowly made his way towards the bridge.

The traverse would be relatively easy in good weather, but in good weather he'd be seen, and reported. Everyone using the bridge was required to pass through the manor.

As he moved along the ledge he tried to rationalise his actions. At best, they were a misdemeanour, although if he'd hammered at the manor gate, no one would have opened it. No one could possibly know that he hadn't even tried to go through the manor. That would be his defence.

By law, the Lord of Yâlen was due half of whatever was trapped, but Sir Alarn wasn't Lord. Lord Yâlen's miserly son had dismissed his father's huntsmen with neither funds nor food. He was due nothing. A few rabbits weren't worth the coin they'd lost. Besides, he could make up any loss to the true lord, Sir Danard, later.

By the time he reached the bridge his spear had slipped down. His twist to save it caused the butt to clatter against the stable wall. Gorrys' fingers were tingling with the cold as he grabbed the swinging spear, laid it on the bridge, and stepped across to safety. His heart racing, he listened carefully at the gate. Hearing nothing but the wind, he pulled his mittens and peered down at the snow-covered bridge.

What he saw wasn't good. It was obvious he wasn't the first to cross. Carefully brushing the new flakes from the nearest print, he examined the compressed snow beneath. Heel to toe, away from the manor, he noted. He turned back to look at the snow around the gate. Whoever it was, they had left Yâlen village during the snowstorm, likely around the time he'd been in his father's workshop. He carefully rechecked the bridge. Someone had left the manor. They had not returned.

Perhaps the Lady Maris had prevailed, and Petry had finally been sent to fetch aid from Novélim. He looked again at the boot print, and then stepped back and examined his own. The prints were about the same size as his own, but he was confident that it wasn't Petry. Whoever it was, they were lighter on their feet than the manor's man-at-arms. Remembering the prints on the other side of the manor, he reasoned that it was a villager, likely one of the yeomen.

Faced with the possibility that he'd meet a yeoman, Gorrys tried to fix his story in his head. He prayed that it would be the beadle and not Lysha's father, who made him nervous. Carefully crossing the bridge, he followed the tracks. They led along the south bank of the Tâmora River, towards the Kald. From there they turned to follow the Kald downstream.

Whoever he was following, their movement had made his own trek through the deep snow easier. Much of the heaviest snow had been compacted. As he made his way through the soft fresh snow, walking in a trail blazed by another, he wondered who was ahead of him. Based on stride length, this person was within a few of inches of his own height. That meant little, of course. Most folk—including the beadle and Lysha's father—were.

Despite the ease of following in another's footsteps, Gorrys' feet were numb and he was tired, cold and worried when he finally reached the central woods. The traps were in the wide band of trees separating Yâlen's north fields from its west. The person he'd followed had gone on, but if they returned, they would certainly backtrack, and see his tracks. No story he could tell could stray far from the truth. Even an untrained child could follow footsteps in the snow.

Leaving the riverbank, he struck off into the trees. Despite the storm, in many sheltered spots under the trees the snow had failed to find entry. He occasionally found himself standing on a spongy bed of pine needles. Despite this, the thick undergrowth meant that travel was no quicker.

It took Gorrys some time to locate the network of burrows where he and his uncle had placed their snares. The rabbits had regular runs, and once he'd found them, he backtracked to a snare. From there, it didn't take him long to trace the others.

The results were desperately disappointing. The first of the snares he found held no more than a rabbit's foot and a few shreds of bloody fur. The culprit, his searching eyes soon told him, was a fox. There was little more left in the second, and Gorrys continued to curse the sly old scavenger. When he found a third snare empty, his absent uncle's voice rang in his ears. "Always remember! Peóni knows us. We are the fox, or the wolf, not the rabbit or the deer."

Sighing, he clasped his hands under his chin and offered up the prayer his uncle always used in similar circumstances. 'Blessed Peóni, provide for me, as I provided for the fox.'

Gorrys' prayer to his goddess did little good, as the next snare was also empty. Eventually, however, he found a rabbit; it was newly snared, and dead no more than a few hours. A single rabbit was pitifully small reward for his efforts, but it was better than nothing. Tucking the rabbit into his sack, he reset the snare and continued his search. Nothing, it seemed that his goddess had rewarded his prayer with one solitary rabbit. Perhaps she was punishing him. His dreams of a rich rabbit stew dashed, he was gloomily making his way back toward the river when he heard a loud splash.

Proceeding cautiously, Gorrys moved closer to the Kald and heard a distant cry. The tree-muffled noise sounded more like human voice than animal cry. Wondering if someone—perhaps the person whose trail he'd followed—had fallen into the river, he quickened his pace. When he stepped out of the trees and onto the riverbank he saw the source of the splashes, and he saw the savages, too.

The splashing came from a doe. The beast was in the river, and it was struggling. It was some distance upstream, and close to the opposite bank. Beyond, four fur-clad savages were watching it carefully.

The beast was being swept out towards the centre of the river. The current was carrying it away from the bank and downstream, toward him. As it approached he saw the steam from the doe's breath, the panic in its eyes, and the arrows in its flank. One of the tribesmen raised a bow and took aim at the struggling beast. One of his companions jabbered something, and the man reluctantly lowered his weapon. Although he couldn't hear the words, Gorrys could guess what had been said. "Don't waste another arrow."

The struggling doe was getting closer to the centre of the river, and the hunters on the opposite bank were following it. Gorrys remained still. There were three possible outcomes. The beast might drown, and be lost to everyone. It might return to the north bank of the river, where the savage Kath tribesmen would again take up the hunt. Or, he fervently prayed to Peóni, it might make it to the south bank. If it did, wounded and exhausted from the swim, he would be able to finish it himself.

By the time the panicked doe reached the centre of the river, it was obviously nearing exhaustion. The skies were darkening, too, and Gorrys could see the snowstorm sweeping down the valley from the north east. It was then that a shout from the opposite bank told him that he'd been spotted.

'Mine!' one of the Kath shouted, thumping his chest with his fist. The black bearded tribesman waved his spear threateningly.

'The river's!' Gorrys replied loudly, shaking his head. He dropped his spear and held up his empty hands.

The man angrily reached for his bow, but his grey-bearded companion stopped him. Gorrys met the older man's gaze and, hunter to hunter, they reached an agreement.

'Big water will decide,' the older man bellowed his agreement. Gorrys barely heard the words. The cooling and quickening wind snatched them from the air, making further communication impossible.

That uneasy agreement reached, Gorrys began to follow the doe downstream. The tribesmen were now opposite him. He was reasonably confident that the bowmen on the opposite bank wouldn't try to shoot at him. Even if they did, over almost four hundred feet and in the still increasing storm, they'd need a lucky shot or assistance from whatever pagan god they worshipped.

Moments later the question became moot. The tribesmen, and the opposite bank, vanished in the swirling snow. Trying to ignore the biting wind, and his frozen feet, Gorrys concentrated on the creature in the water. It was moving closer, and it seemed likely that, despite the three arrows in its flank, the beast would indeed reach the bank.

As he followed it downstream, Gorrys rehearsed several arguments in his head. The Kath had injured it. He couldn't be found guilty of poaching if the Kath had killed it, but could he get away with not reporting his find to Lord Yâlen? How much of the meat could he carry home?

"Concentrate on the quarry, fool! You can't butcher the beast until you've caught it!" His Uncle's most frequently used words of wisdom arrived so clearly in his head that, for an instant, Gorrys wondered if Barth had followed him. The doe was being swept downstream, and he was losing it in the eddying white flakes. Picking up his pace, he moved closer to the river's edge. Suddenly, there was no ground beneath his feet.

As he tumbled, Gorrys threw his spear aside and braced for an impact that didn't come. He hit the water with a resounding splash, and the malignant river hungrily sucked away what little breath and warmth he'd retained. As he resurfaced, and tried to struggle to his feet, he realised that he'd fallen in at an undercut. He had no footing and was being swept downstream by the hungry river.

Gorrys' first instinct was to panic, to thrash, but he'd watched the doe exhaust herself by doing just that. Through sheer force of will, he calmed himself and tried to think. His clothing was dragging him under. Should he try to shed it? He was so numb that he could feel nothing. He went under, resurfaced, and struggled for breath. The sun-dappled Meadows of Valon, paradise, were only a few steps away when he caught a glimpse of a black mass in the water in front of him. It was the doe.

Despite the danger he reached out and grabbed for it. He missed. Even though he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, he tried again. This time he managed to wrap his arms around an antler. The doe twisted, attempting to be rid of him and its head went under. As he followed it into the cold darkness of the river, he thought he heard a shout.

Gorrys had heard the expression "cold to the bone" many times, he'd even used it in the mistaken belief that had reached that level of discomfort. Now, as he experienced true coldness, he appreciated what an understatement those words were. He was numb, the marrow in his bones seemed frozen and he was unable to think coherently. Chattering teeth, and the shivers coursing through his body, were the only sign that he still lived. As some feeling returned, he discovered that he was clad in something rough. The unfamiliar garment was wrapped so tightly around him he could barely move. Enshrouded, his arms bound to his side, for a moment he wondered if, despite the shivers, he was dead. He was gently rolled onto his side.

'Now!' The voice was female.

Someone began to pummel his back. Startled, Gorrys took a deep breath, coughed, and spewed water from both mouth and nose. As he continued to cough, choke, and gasp for air, he tried to open his eyes. They were stinging, and he couldn't focus. Trying to make sense of the white blur in front of him, he struggled to move. It was impossible, he was wrapped up tightly, swaddled like a baby.

'He's alive, and he's taken in only a little water. You can stop hitting him now. We need to get him warm, and we must dry his clothes, and yours, before we all freeze,' the voice said. The more the woman spoke, the more her accent came through. Gorrys was certain that she wasn't from Asólade. He thought he recognised the nasal twang of someone from northern Káldôr.

There was another thump to his back. 'Perhaps I don't want to stop hitting him,' said a second voice vindictively. Gorrys recognised it immediately.

'Lysha?' he spluttered. The only reply was an even harder blow.

'D'you know this poacher, Lysha?' a third voice asked. This one was male, and it seemed to be some distance away.

'He's Gorrys al Lunn, Kalas. He was born and raised in the cottage next to mine,' Lysha said. 'But he's been under huntsman to the Lord of Yâlen for a few years.'

Although Gorrys wanted to protest Lysha's sarcastically dismissive use of the word "under", his mind was unable to formulate a retort. It didn't matter, as his teeth were chattering so much that speech seemed impossible. Someone grabbed his head and began to towel it dry with a rough blanket.

'Huntsman or not, he could still be out poaching.' The man Lysha had identified as Kalas observed.

'A-a-a-arrows,' Gorrys forced the word through chattering teeth.

'Arrows?' Kalas asked.

'There were three arrows in the doe, and Gorrys doesn't have a bow with him,' Lysha observed.

'It might be lost in the river, as he almost was,' Kalas said. The man was behind Gorrys, but he had neither the energy nor the ability to turn and face his accuser.

'N-n-no! P-Peóni b-be my witness,' protested Gorrys.

'You swear by the goddess?' the second woman asked, leaning over him. She was the one who'd been towelling his head. He stared up into an unfamiliar face. Her dark hair was cropped short, and she wore the white robes of an Ebaséthè. 'Your life is in Peóni's hands, Gorrys, now is not the time to lie to her, or her servant,' she told him seriously.

'I-I swear by Saint Belsirasin,' said Gorrys earnestly. 'Arrows.'

'Fire's going,' Kalas announced.

The man's voice was now much closer, and Gorrys found himself being twisted and rolled over the cold ground. With Kalas on one side and Lysha on the other, Gorrys was pushed in front of a spluttering, flickering, fire. As he lay there, he realised that his clothes had been removed. He was tightly swaddled in two rough wool blankets, one around his legs, the other around his arms and torso. Over them, he wore an old and worn cloak of fine blue worsted.

As he struggled to sit, the young priestess wrapped a third blanket around his head, and another cloak around his bare feet. Gorrys looked at his saviours. The man, Kalas, was tall and good-looking, the priestess was small, attractive, and surprisingly young. Lysha was, as always, Lysha. The blonde girl's bright blue eyes stared scornfully down at him.

'We rescued you from the river,' the priestess said.

'We rescued him from the river. You stayed on the bank while Kalas and I pulled him out,' Lysha's forceful correction rang loud but, as he shivered, Gorrys thought that her angry expression was softening. 'I thought you were on your way to join your goddess in the Meadows of Valon, but the Ebaséthè Ryssi here blew air into your lungs and brought you back. You're a cretinous arse, Gorrys!'

Her final, angry, words were accompanied by a kick to his ribs. Gorrys again found himself coughing.

'Lysha!' The Ebaséthè Ryssi's admonition was firm, but was followed by one final kick from Lysha.

'"Make certain there's no more water in there," that's what you said,' Lysha reminded the priestess.

'Where are we?' Gorrys asked. There wasn't much heat in the fire, but it was enough to make his frozen body tingle.

'Central woods,' Lysha told him. 'Because of you, my boots are wet, and my feet are cold. Can you cope with him, Ryssi? If Kalas and I can gather more dropwood, we'll all be warmer.'

'There's a fallen tree over here,' Kalas called. 'Anyone have an axe?'

'No, but I have this,' Lysha said.

Gorrys watched the girl he'd grown up with pull out her father's heavy falchion. She strode over to join Kalas. Cold and dizzy, he closed his eyes. He opened them again immediately, because the priestess grabbed him by elbow and thigh and rolled him even closer to the fire. In the distance, he could hear wood being chopped.

'I must keep you warm,' the priestess said, lying down at his back. 'And you must tell me about the doe.'

After murmuring a prayer to his goddess, Gorrys told the young priestess his tale.

As dusk fell, the fire was blazing strongly. Gorrys, now warmer, had been rolled further from it. His wet clothes were hanging from branches above the fire, as were two pairs of breeches and a pair of hose. Three pairs of boots and various gloves and strips of cloth were also laid around the crude stone hearth someone had built.

Lysha dropped another load of cut timber, walked up to the fire, and held out her hands. As she flexed her fingers, and soaked in the warmth, Gorrys spoke.

'They sent you to Novélim, to seek their priestess,' he observed. 'So off you went, brave and noble Lysha, trying to impress your father.' She whirled around angrily. Staring at the footwear drying around the fire, he suddenly remembered the size of the prints he'd followed. A pit opened in his stomach.

'You're wearing your father's boots! Peóni's tears! I'm sorry, Lysha. What's happened to him?'

'The same sickness that struck down our lord!'

Gorrys had been certain she'd been about to stamp on him, as she hesitated, he saw the fear behind her anger. 'You volunteered in his stead, because Yâlen needs a priestess skilled in the arts of healing.'

'Why didn't they send you?' Lysha asked harshly. 'That fat oaf Petry would never have made it to Novélim, but you, or your uncle…'

'Sir Alarn dismissed us four days ago,' Gorrys said. 'Why you, Lysha?'

'Petry came to our cottage,' she said. 'The Beadle was ill in his cot, as was my father. I… I couldn't allow my father to go! He could barely stand. But you! This is your fault. We're here, now, because of you! We'd be back at the manor by now, had you not allowed the prospect of fresh meat to overrule what few brains you have.'

'As you two are well enough to argue, we could press on now,' Ryssi suggested.

'No!' Gorrys and Lysha spoke in unison, and in agreement. They exchanged a look of horror.

'Why not?' Kalas asked.

'Because…' Lysha began.

'We're…' Gorrys, too, started to speak. Not wishing to annoy her further, he fell silent.

'We're midway between Novélim and Yâlen,' she said. 'Návek is vanishing with Yaél.'

Ryssi nodded in understanding, but Kalas was looking puzzled. Recognising the expression of a man who took little notice of the sky, Gorrys explained. 'Yaél—the moon—is a waning crescent, therefore the month of Návek is drawing to a close. Dusk is turning to twilight, and when darkness falls we'll have only starlight to guide us. That isn't enough to travel by. I stumbled into the river in daylight. In the dark of an almost moonless night, we'll have no chance.'

'Here, the trees provide us with some shelter,' Lysha added. 'And I, for one, wouldn't want to cross the bridge over the Tâmora in darkness.'

'Exactly!' Gorrys agreed. 'We wait here until dawn.'

'Then we'll need more firewood,' said Kalas.

'We'll need food, too,' Gorrys said. 'What happened to the doe?'

'After we'd hauled you out, we pulled her to the bank,' said Lysha.

'And once we'd made sure you would live, and she was dead, I sent her to Peóni,' Ryssi added.

Get me out of these blankets, and I'll butcher us some meat,' Gorrys demanded.

'Poached,' Kalas shook his head.

'I eat no meat,' Ryssi added.

Gorrys' belly rumbled. 'I'm no poacher!' he protested. He was beginning to feel warmer, but he was weak with hunger. 'Where is the beast, and what happened to my rabbit?'

'Rabbit?' asked Kalas suspiciously.

'There are snares in the wood, with my lord's permission,' Gorrys protested.

'That's likely true,' Lysha told Kalas. She turned to Gorrys. 'If there was a rabbit, the river has it now.'

'The river took my rabbit, but it gave us a doe,' Gorrys observed.

Kalas shook his head. 'Eating poached meat is a crime.'

'The Kath killed it,' Gorrys protested. 'They chased it into the river. I saw them. I have no bow. Look at the arrows!'

'The river could've taken your bow when it took your rabbit,' Kalas observed.

'We'll be able to tell the truth his tale from the arrows. I'll recognise Gorrys' fletching.' Lysha pulled on her still wet boots. 'You'd best be telling the truth, Gorrys,' she warned. 'Ebaséthè Ryssi won't lie for you. Nor will Kalas.'