He passed the time speaking to Jass and was rather embarrassed when the lad truly did treat him as an elder brother, though he was no Iceblood. He found that, indeed, there were only five living Sayers. Only these few defended the entire Holding. The bonded couple Jaochim and Yrain ruled – if that was the word for such a small clan. Of Buri, Jass confessed he had seen the man only a few times. He kept to the far north and when he visited even Jaochim bowed to him, for he was the eldest living of any clan of the Icebloods.

When they climbed the highest valley and emerged into the fields the hounds came bounding out to greet Old Bear. They leapt up upon him, licking his face and barking. He swatted them aside and tousled their ragged pelts. In turn they pulled and gnawed upon his cloak.

‘They smell the bear in you,’ Jass teased.

‘That they do,’ he answered, grinning. ‘Ale tonight, lads!’

Keth and Kasson shared small tight grins. Orman winked at Jass. They found Yrain had arrived. She and Jaochim oversaw the evening meal in two of the three raised chairs. The middle one remained empty – for Buri, Orman supposed.

Old Bear entertained them all with the tale of his appearance in the battle. How Orman fainted dead away on the spot like an old widow and how he chased the foreign soldiers up trees, into streams, and even to the very walls of Mantle town.

Everyone laughed as the tale went on and on, until it transformed into another tale, the story of one of their ancestors, Vesti the Odd-handed, and his journey to the tallest of the Salt range. There, so he claimed, he met the matriarch of all his kind living in a tower of ice, and had his amorous advances rebuffed.

‘Was this Vesti older than Buri?’ Orman asked Old Bear.

‘He was not,’ Yrain answered, cutting off the man’s answer. Orman inclined his head, accepting this. The woman shared Jaochim’s rather distant and cold manner. Her hair was long, deep flame red, and wavy. She kept it loose about her shoulders. Her build was lean and her skin had an odd hue to it, as if she possessed a touch of colour: a pale olive. She wore leathers, old and much worn, with strings of red stones, garnets, about her neck and wrists.

‘Winter is the eldest of us,’ Jaochim explained.

‘Winter?’ Orman asked.

Jaochim made a small gesture with one hand. ‘We call him that. When he visits he seems to bring winter with him.’ The man frowned then, eyeing Jass, who sat next to Old Bear. ‘Bring me your spear, Jass,’ he called.

The lad rose, puzzled. He came to the platform and handed the weapon to Jaochim, who studied the iron spearhead.