She saw herself walking down to the taverns, where the air was charged with laughter, and if some of it sounded strained, it was still forgivable and quickly swept past. Flushed faces would turn her way, painted eyes suddenly gauging, as she moved through the crowd, and before long a man smelling of ale would press against her, and she would cling to him, smiling at his awkward jests, seeing his desires behind his guarded expressions. Before long, he would, in her imagination, turn to the innkeeper and hire a room and old Greniz would nod with a sour gleam in his eye and hold out a greasy hand. Coins would flash in the gloom and in the moment her man moved to take her through the doorway to the back rooms a woman would brush close and say, ‘There’s a cut, jes so ya know.’ And Renarr would nod and for the briefest of moments the two women would lock gazes and pass between them the fullest understanding of this new shared world.

A world of pleasure and despair entwined, down among the dead roots. This was where her imagination took her, cold and rushing like a mountain stream, painting details she knew nothing about.

Witch Hale came out to stand beside her. ‘He is gone,’ she said.

Renarr nodded, if only to appease the old woman. But she had seen her father die some time before, when she had met his eyes and saw in them no feeling, and he had but studied her, detached, as if gathering details. And she had understood something then. This was how death came to the dying: from the inside out; and this was how the living took it: from the outside in.

She gathered about herself the new, rich clothing a guilt-ridden man had bestowed upon her, and then said, ‘I am going down to the village.’

* * *

Coming from the barracks, where she had been lounging with a half-dozen veteran sergeants before hearing the bell clang, Lieutenant Serap made her way across the compound towards the keep’s front entrance. She saw that Sergeant Yeld had returned. A crowd surrounded him, but he was holding up his hands, as if to defy their questions. Haradegar had rushed inside a few moments earlier, to sound the bell that would summon Urusander back up to the keep, and thence to the Campaign Room.

Two more riders appeared from the gate and Serap glanced over to see Sharenas Ankhadu and Kagamandra Tulas. They cantered across the courtyard, forcing a path through the milling soldiers, stablers and servants, and reined in close to Yeld, who pushed free, straightening against his weariness, and saluted Sharenas.

Serap reached them, but said nothing as she followed Yeld, Sharenas and Kagamandra into the keep. Their boots rang hollow as they marched down a corridor, the walls of which bore only the bleached impressions of the tapestries that had once lined it. The sergeant looked worn, as befitted someone who had ridden through the night.