Hardbread gave a weary nod, and beckoned the warriors of Uffrith after him, and tramped towards the doors.

“The two o’ you had a lot to talk about,” muttered Corleth.

“You know how these bloody old men are.” Rikke threw an arm around the girl’s solid shoulders. “That was some wise counsel you gave.”

“Just… what felt right.”

“Don’t be afraid to speak your mind. I need some good advice, with Isern gone. In fact, I could’ve used some while she was still here. Heart a stone and beloved o’ the moon and blah, blah fucking blah. I want you to stay close to me.”

Corleth blinked. “’Course, Chief.”

“I know it’s a weight, having responsibility dropped on you from a height, all unexpected, believe me I know, but you’ve got the shoulders for a burden, eh?” And Rikke hugged her tighter, walking her towards the doors. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it, how chance throws the right people in your path? But I daresay you want to check in on your grandmother. Make sure her fire stays banked in this weather.” Though it wasn’t near as cold as it had been, thaw water dripping from the archway above.

“Aye,” said Corleth. “Reckon I’ll do that.”

“Bring me back a bowl o’ that soup, eh?” And Rikke watched her pick her way across the yard towards the gate. The snow was mostly gone now, melted down to slushy patches at the corners of the walls. “Best soup in Carleon, I swear!”

Rikke gave a cheery wave. Then as Corleth disappeared she let her hand drop, her smile fading, her shoulders slumping, the worry gnawing at her. “By the dead,” she muttered. “It ain’t easy, being chief.”

Shivers stepped up beside her. “Might be why everyone told you it’d be hard,” he said, in that breathy whisper of his.

“Aye, well, I’ve a habit of not listening to things I don’t want to hear.”

“You don’t say.”

“You’ve got to always look like you know the way.” Rikke found she was fussing with her necklace yet again and had to pull her hand away. Bad habit, the fussing and fiddling, it made her look weak. “Like you’re always sure, even if you’re farting doubts with every step.” She glanced about, making certain no one was watching, then looked up at him. “Am I doing the right thing, Shivers? Tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

“Take a breath,” he said, looking sideways at her. “It’s just soup.”

“Don’t toy with me, you old fucker, you know what I mean. Am I doing the right thing with Isern, with the Nail, with Black bloody Calder.” She waved a floppy hand at Skarling’s Chair and took the cage with Stour Nightfall in, too. “With all of it.”

“You’re the one wi’ the Long Eye,” he said.

“More curse than blessing, that’s the truth of it.” She pressed her hand against the tattooed side of her face, cold and clammy now, and gave it an impatient rub. “I can pretend I know what’s coming, but all it really gives you is more questions.”