Gar saw Corban and walked towards him. His eyes looked raw, red-rimmed. Corban remembered him weeping before his mam’s cairn. The first time he’d seen him display such emotion.

He has always seemed so strong, so in control. Something about seeing Gar weep had made him seem more human, somehow. Corban felt a sudden surge of emotion for the man, his teacher and protector. His friend.

‘What’s happening?’ Corban asked him.

‘The Jehar that followed Sumur and Nathair,’ Gar said with a nod towards the Jehar, who had risen and all started forming the lines for the sword dance practice. ‘They have recognized my father as their captain.’

‘Good. And him?’ Corban said, looking at the one who had spoken with Tukul.

‘Akar. He was Sumur’s captain. He is ashamed that they followed the Black Sun, that they were fooled by Nathair. That he was fooled. And he is proud. It is making him say foolish things.’ Gar shrugged, the emotion of a few moments ago gone or well hidden.

‘He looked like he wanted to fight you.’

‘It may come to that.’ Gar looked at the warrior, mingling now in the line of the sword dance. ‘And we have a history.’

Corban waited but Gar said nothing more.

‘Where’s Meical?’ Corban asked.

‘Scouting. He set off soon after the attack – took a giant and a few of my sword-brothers and left.’

‘Shouldn’t we go and find him?’

‘I think Meical can look after himself. He’ll be back soon. Best use our time.’ Gar ushered him forward amongst the ranks of Jehar warriors. Corban drew his sword and slipped into the first position of the dance, his mind sinking into the rhythm of it, muscle memory automatically taking over from conscious thought. Time passed, merging into a fusion of contraction and extension, of focus and sweat, of pumping blood and his beating heart and the weight of his sword. Then he was finished, Tukul stepping from the line and ordering the Jehar to break camp.

Corban stood there a moment, savouring the ache in his wrists and shoulders, clinging to the familiarity. He looked around and saw his friends were nearby, watching him – Farrell and Coralen, standing with Dath. A figure walked towards him – Cywen, their mam’s knife-belt strapped diagonally across her torso.

‘Happy nameday, Ban,’ Cywen said.

‘What?’

‘It’s your nameday. Seventeen summers.’

Is it? He shook his head. It’s been over a year since we fled Dun Carreg, since I last saw Cywen. A year of running and fighting, of blood and fear. But at least I have spent it amongst my kin and friends. What has she been through? A year by herself, surviving who knows what. And only to come back and be reunited with us and help bury our mam. He took a long look at her – thinner, grime on her cheeks highlighted by tear tracks. The bones in her face were starkly defined, and her eyes were haunted. They hadn’t spoken much last night before sleeping. There’d been too much happen to all of them that day for them to relive anything else. Instead they’d sat by the fire for hours, just comfortable in each other’s company, Dath teasing Cywen and trying to make her smile, Farrell quietly watching and Coralen pacing as if she couldn’t quite settle.