They watched Dath climb through the rigging, swinging between ropes, moving like a monkey through the treetops.

‘For a coward he can be ridiculously brave,’ Cywen observed.

‘Dath’s no coward,’ Corban said. ‘He just screams louder than the rest of us, that’s all.’

Another silence settled between them.

‘Where are we sailing to, Corban?’

‘Drassil.’

‘And then what?’

‘War. An end to all of this.’

Aye. But whose end?

‘It seems to me a great deal is being asked of you, little brother.’

‘Asked of us all,’ Corban said. ‘And I agree. If ever I meet Elyon the All-Father face to face, I’ll have a few things to say to him.’

Me too.

They stared out over the ocean. The sea stretched into the horizon, a foam-flecked world of grey and green, shimmering beneath a hard blue sky.

‘We’re leaving summer behind us,’ Corban observed.

‘Aye. And sailing into winter.’

‘It feels like that.’

Corban, I’m scared,’ Cywen said.

He gripped her hand and squeezed. ‘So am I,’ he replied.

Cywen crept through undergrowth, looking back at the rows of sleeping forms along the riverbank, framed by the dying embers of a dozen fires. Further off in the darkness their moored ships creaked in current and breeze.

Can’t go too far, or I’ll walk into someone on first watch.

She eventually sat with her back to a wind-twisted tree, sharp-thorned bushes shielding her from the eyes of anyone not sleeping at this late hour. She concentrated on becoming completely still, even trying to slow her breathing, and listened. When she was convinced that no one had followed her she opened her cloak and pulled out Brina’s book, opening the pages to the bright moon above.

What is Brina so obsessed with?

For a ten-night they had sailed east and north, while the weather turned colder and sullen black clouds hid the sun. Dath made sure they never lost sight of the coast, a line of dark cliffs and shattered coves, each night searching for an inlet or bay, sometimes just a strip of beach to shelter. They had moored in a cove for two days while a storm lashed the coast, the eight ships bucking and rearing on the waves like wild stallions. On the thirteenth day, soon after sunset, Dath had sighted the estuary of a great river flowing into the sea that Meical confirmed would take them to Gramm’s hold. Another two days they’d rowed against the current, the wind still helping them, and earlier this day, as the sun was setting, they’d turned a bend in the wide river and Meical had pointed out Gramm’s hold, a pinprick upon a distant hill. Behind it had been a dark stain on the land, as far as Cywen’s eyes could see.

Forn Forest. Cywen had felt a dread settle upon her looking at it.