What if no one were there to meet him? Or worse, what if the blacksmith was waiting in ambush with the other men so they could murder him? Moragh said the castle was no longer safe, but it had never been safe, so why send him away? Why must he leave, unless they truly meant to kill him, and what better place than in the trees far away from the castle? They would cave in his skull with a rock or drown him in a milk bucket or hold his mouth shut while they stabbed him with knives, ridding themselves of the filthy gurg-child for good. His mind reeling with horrible fates, Pocket looked to both sides of the path for a means of escape, but the way was too steep and rocky, uphill or down. The Roost was built atop the mount for a reason, and where no army could tread, Pocket alone had little hope. He could run back up the path and pound on the door, trusting someone would hear and let him back inside! But who? Who would let him back in? Moragh was the only friendly face in the castle and she had sent him away. Napper would come, he would hear! He would hear and be helpless, standing on the other side of the thick oak listening to the pounding of Pocket’s fists, mewling sadly, unable to open the door.

Pocket found himself running, but it was not up the path, back to the castle. No, it was down he ran, heedless and headlong, hot tears of hopeless anger mixing with the cold rain on his face. If he was to die then let it come! He was tired of being afraid, unwanted and distrusted! Let them kill him! All their hate and loathing and disgust, let them open his throat with it and see if his tainted blood could cleanse it all away! He bit back his tears as he saw the trees and almost lost his feet on the final yards of the steep path. His stumble turned into a leap and he screamed as he landed in the shadowy confines of the copse. Let them come and find not the scared little boy! Let them see the horror they all thought him to be!

Sir Corc stood next to a laden mule. He looked down at Pocket for a moment, a frown threatening to crack his feathered brow. “Good morning,” the knight said.

Pocket froze. He found himself in a crouch, his breath pushing out from the bellows his chest had become.

“It is not necessary for you to be armed,” the knight said flatly, before turning to the mule and tightening the load ropes. Puzzled, Pocket opened his mouth to explain he possessed no weapon.

And then he noticed his hand.