Olin shook it out, held it up for Drem to see. A ringmail shirt, well tended, glistening with oil. His da laid it across his cot, then turned back to the chest. He lifted out a sword, sheathed in a plain-tooled scabbard of black leather, a belt wrapped around it. The hilt was leather-bound, worn and salt-stained from use and sweat, a tear in the leather showing a bone hilt beneath.

‘What—’ Drem started, but his da held up a hand, then lifted out a folded cloak of black wool, sitting upon it a large silver brooch, fashioned into the shape of a four-pointed star. It was beautifully wrought, the silver tarnished and in need of a polish, but still catching a ray of daylight from the shutters and throwing it back.

‘I know that,’ Drem said, a memory of a banner snapping in a breeze, above a stone keep, above an arched gateway.

‘You should,’ Olin said, holding the brooch up, catching more rays of light. ‘It is the sigil of Dun Seren, Drem, where you were born, where you spent the first five years of your life. Because your mam and me, we belonged to the Order of the Bright Star.’

Drem swayed, felt unsteady for a moment, felt as if the once-solid ground of his life was shifting beneath his feet. He sat on the floor beside his da, blinking.

‘Dun Seren. I’ve heard its name, many times,’ Drem said. ‘But never from you. People talk of it . . .’ He searched for the right word. ‘Reverently.’

‘Aye,’ Olin nodded, ‘I suppose some do. Dun Seren guards one of the bridges into the Desolation, but is much more than that. It is the centre of a warrior caste, an order dedicated to learning the arts of combat and healing. Dedicated to hunting down and destroying the Kadoshim.’

Olin fell silent, then, his head drooping.

‘That’s how Mam died?’ Drem whispered.

‘Aye. Fighting the Kadoshim. We had received word from the Ben-Elim – never our trusted ally, but we shared a common enemy and so on occasion would share information – your mam and I, many others, rode out. We were ambushed . . .’

‘Mam?’ Drem asked, though he knew already.

‘Aye,’ his da said, a crack in his voice. ‘She fell. Many fell.’ Olin was silent a long time, staring into nowhere. A tear rolled down his cheek, disappeared into his iron-streaked beard. Eventually he sighed and shifted, lifted the sword, turning it to show Drem the hilt.