Pilgrim took his grandfather’s arm and they shuffled down a path to the mossy bank of the stream and sat on a square stone. Bearbane tilted his face to the sunlight and said that he had always liked the sound of running water, and the smell of it too. Although he had trouble understanding where Pilgrim had been, he liked the stories about sightings of the visitors, and Pilgrim’s account of the visit to the ruined city where strange lights had been seen. They prompted him to tell a tall tale about phantoms which haunted bear ruins in the tribe’s old territory in the south, and then the story about how, when camping out in the boggy forests of the far north, he had heard three bears singing, one after the other, and knew that he had stumbled into the meeting point of their territories and doused his fire and crept away in the night. He had earned the right to adopt a new name after spending thirty years in the New Territories, driving the last of the bears ever northward, and he admired and respected their resilience and resourcefulness, and believed that they had not entirely lost their powers of reasoning.

Although Pilgrim had heard those tales many times before, he was happy to hear them again: they were good stories and his grandfather scarcely stumbled as he told them. But when they returned to the lodge and shared a small lunch of pickled vegetables and steamed mudfish in the sunny commons Bearbane had to be reminded again who Pilgrim was and why he was there, and when Pilgrim told him that he had to leave because he had business to discuss with his mother, Bearbane took his hands, his grip trembling but still strong, and said, ‘You’re as stubborn and steadfast as me, Boundless. Stick to what you need to do and you’ll most likely get it done.’

Boundless was the name of Pilgrim’s father, who had died when Pilgrim had been a pup. He didn’t have the heart to correct his grandfather, and took those few words of encouragement as a blessing.

It was late in the afternoon by the time he had retraced his path and headed east, crossing a wooden bridge that arched over the river fed by the lake, passing through a belt of wild olive and black gum and emerging at the edge of the rough pasture where shag-pelted coneys grazed, little bells around their necks tinkling out a fitful music. The rammed-earth outer wall of the Hearth loomed beyond. The gate stood open. Pilgrim rode under its arch and told the guard who he was and whom he had come to see.

‘I know who you are, young Pilgrim,’ the woman said. ‘Welcome back. But you’ll have to wait for an escort, like any other visitor.’