‘Pride, first step to defeat,’ his father had said to him.

‘Emotion, the wild horse that must be tamed,’ his mother had intoned. ‘Be the master, not the mastered . . .’

‘Wear courage as a cloak, live free, never bend the knee,’ he whispered.

‘What?’ Riv said.

‘Nothing,’ Bleda said. ‘Sorch. He does not like me. I think it was just because I am Sirak. Not one of them.’

‘That’s stupid.’ Riv shrugged. ‘What matter if your eyes are a strange shape, or your skin a different colour? We all come from somewhere else when we start our training. Well, I didn’t, but many do. People come from all over the Land of the Faithful to finish their training at Drassil, in the hope of becoming a White-Wing.’

‘The White-Wings are fine warriors. Their discipline is to be admired,’ Bleda said, and he meant it. He had trained in the weapons-field for many years, but had chosen his preferences. It was only recently that he had lifted a shield and attempted to train in the wall. It was a lot harder than it looked. Not just a case of standing around and pointing your shield one way or another, as Jin always mocked. There was unity of cause about it, a bond forged in shielding your brother-in-arms. There was a whispered appeal there.

‘Where were you born, then?’ Bleda asked Riv.

I was born into the White-Wings. My mother was a White-Wing, had me while on a campaign. She got back up and went back to her post right after, or so the story goes. Not sure I believe that one, though I wouldn’t put it past my mam. She’s a tough one.’

‘What of your father? A White-Wing also?’ Bleda could not recall having ever seen Riv around a man.

‘He was. Died on the same campaign where I was born. Fighting Kadoshim in the Agullas Mountains down south, Mam told me. Lasted almost two years, that campaign.’

‘I am sorry,’ Bleda said.

‘I never knew him.’ Riv shrugged.

‘I, too, have no father. He died in a raid. A rival Clan.’

Jin’s Clan.

‘I know. That’s why they were at war, your Clan and Jin’s, when . . . we came to Arcona.’

‘Aye,’ Bleda grunted.

Another silence grew between them. Bleda ran his hands over his bow once more, then put it back into its leather bag.

‘We should be getting back,’ Riv said. ‘Else I’ll miss prayers.’

They turned to walk back to the road, then heard a sound. The pad of footsteps, and instinctively both of them were slipping into the shelter of an oak.

The footsteps grew clearer, more than one person. Two shadows appeared on the road, one tall, one shorter. Starlight silvered them, fractured beams glistening upon the road.