And then, when he was dying, when he knew he was dying, he’d asked for his sword. The Starstone Sword.

Drem had not been able to search for it as he’d sat with his da, not while his da still had breath in his body, and every breath and moment had been precious. But after, Drem had searched everywhere, all the more desperate to find it because his da had asked for it.

But Drem had not found it.

Maybe I just missed it. It was dark. I was wounded and grief-stricken.

No. He knew how methodical he was, even in anxious, stressful times.

Then where is the sword?

He moved to his da’s very last words.

I was wrong.

What did he mean?

It could have meant so many things. Wrong to walk away from the Order of the Bright Star. Wrong to think he could protect Drem. Wrong to go after the bear. Wrong to give in to Drem’s desire to find Fritha, even when they both knew she was most likely dead and that they were wasting their best opportunity of leaving without being noticed.

But none of those options rang true with Drem.

I was wrong.

There’s more, I know it. Think back further.

Fritha’s cabin. Da was concerned, then.

Drem closed his eyes, seeing the cabin, the destruction and bodies. He remembered his da crouching by the hound, then moving on to Hask’s body, lifting a piece of timber.

Part of the door.

Maybe he wasn’t as concerned by the need to leave as he was about what he saw in the cabin.

And that wasn’t the first time da had been troubled lately. Think back, further.

He remembered their night at Calder’s forge, sifted through their snatches of conversation over or between the din of hammer blows.

We spoke of Bodil, how we were both troubled by the death-scene. No tracks. And the strap-marks torn into his wrist, like an animal caught in a snare. And Da said that Calder’s corpse bore a knife-wound.

Drem stored this information away, a nagging voice telling him he was missing something. He felt as if he was sitting at a loom, staring at the threads of a tapestry but not quite seeing the picture.

And then, finally, he forced himself to think of the scene in the woods, amidst twilight and snow, where his da had died. A shivering breath threatened to overwhelm him again, a blur of tears and pain in his chest, but he took a few long moments and breathed deep as his da had taught him when he was worried or anxious, and slowly the sensation subsided. Not gone, but it became a calm sea of grief, not a great wave.

The white bear, sounds of it fading. A conversation – what to do.

He realized he was standing, physically re-enacting the moments and steps with his da.