A ten-night had passed since they had escaped Murias, each day falling into a similar routine. She had wanted to talk more with Corban, but it seemed that everyone wanted to talk to Corban. And everyone else seemed to have a role, a task that they performed in this fledgling warband. Everyone except her. She was starting to feel useless. She daren’t even spar with the rest of them, although part of her was desperate to take part. I’m not good enough. Even the worst are better than me. She felt her scowl deepening.

‘Careful, girl: if the wind changes, your face might stick like that,’ Brina rasped beside her.

Cywen smiled wryly. ‘My mam used to say that to me.’

‘Have some of this.’ Brina held out a skin and Cywen sniffed it and wrinkled her nose. Brot. The giants’ food. Food is too generous a term.

‘YUK,’ Craf squawked, eyeing the skin disapprovingly.

‘T a s t y ,’ Fech reproved.

The giants were gathered in the woods, just darker shadows amongst the trees. Mostly they kept themselves separate. Whilst the warband travelled they took the position of rearguard each day, always grouped together, rarely mixing with the Jehar. Sometimes the younger ones would run alongside the column, racing and tackling each other to the ground, wrestling and even laughing. The sight of it had made her smile, feeling like a taste of normality in this world gone mad.

‘Just a mouthful,’ Brina said, poking Cywen with a bony finger, and Cywen swallowed some brot, figuring it was easier than trying to argue. It was like porridge, but chewier, with all the pleasure taken out. It filled her stomach like a stone, but it did its job. Cywen had consumed just a mouthful each morning and had not felt hungry until the next day.

Brina took the skin and replaced it with an empty linen bag. ‘Come help me,’ the old woman said. ‘I saw some foxgloves and elder in the woods.’

‘Me?’ said Cywen.

‘Yes, you. My old apprentice seems to have become too busy lately to help me gather plants.’

Cywen followed Brina silently into the woods, frowning at Craf, who along with Fech flapped from branch to branch above them.

‘Here,’ Brina said, pointing at a bush dotted with clusters of white flowers. They’d stopped in a small glade, wildflowers opening about them in response to spring’s pale sun.

‘That is elder,’ Brina told her. ‘Too early for the berries, but the flowers are useful. Everything on an elder is useful, the bark, the roots.’ She pulled out a knife and started cutting stems of flowers, skinning some bark and gesturing impatiently for Cywen to hold her bag open.

‘We’re a long way from Dun Carreg,’ Brina said, peering over a branch at Cywen.