For a long time the companions gazed at the fire, forgetful of the world and their own troubles. But suddenly Swin turned round with a start. They were no longer six around the fire, but seven. The seventh was a Woman. None had heard her approach. She stood a little back from the circle of firelight, dressed in sombre garments. Her eyes seemed to glitter: some of the Punchkins wondered whether, and if so, how it might be that she shared their grief.
‘Lady, I bid you good evening,’ said Swin. ‘Come forward to the fire, if you like. It has served friends of ours for their funeral, but it will warm you none the less well for that.’
She shivered, or shook herself, and then came up. She was much taller than the Punchkins, almost as tall as Swin, who was a little over medium height for a Man. She had a mien of pride and dignity as she stepped into their company; yet suddenly disdaining all pride, she flung herself down on the ground before Swin, kissed his feet and then clung to his legs.
‘Have pity, lord!’ she cried in a shaking voice. ‘Pity, pity a poor suppliant!’ She raised her face to address him, and her eyes were large and desperate. ‘Help me, protect me, I beseech you!’
In reply he bent down, kissed her forehead and then unfastened her clasp from around his knees. Still holding her hands, he straightened up and brought her upright with him. He bent his head a second time, kissed her hands, then gently pushed her from him as he released her. In the flickering light the Punchkins saw her smile, then drop her head with a half-sob. ‘You are,’ said she, ‘a man of my father’s race – from the Oldknife? Of the South?’
‘Indeed I am.’ Swin thereupon introduced himself and his companions in full. ‘Now, lady, fear us not, but tell us who you are, and how you come to be here.’
‘I am Bryd, daughter of Afi and Amma. They were folk of the Newknife, whose fathers came from your land long ago. Many sufferings have I endured since they died. A month ago I purposed to go to Ruminas, where my own daughter dwells in the King’s household. But those with whom I was travelling were attacked by robbers, Ayarg and his band. Ayarg took me prisoner. He kept me to serve his men.’ She seemed to sense the question that was restrained by her hearers’ delicacy, and continued bleakly: ‘And serve them I did, in all ways, as they desired. They had another woman prisoner with them as well, whom they tired of and slew. I expected the same fate. Today they went off, leaving me imprisoned, to attack your company, as it seems, for there is no-one else in all the woods around. Then two of them returned in terror. They released me, but at once fled away, and I hid among the trees. I waited till night, intending to set out for Ruminas tomorrow, but then I saw your beautiful fire in the distance; and it seemed to encourage me like a beacon. So I am come hither to throw myself on your mercy.’ She swayed on her feet, but recovered. ‘And I am very hungry and thirsty.’
‘And so are we all,’ said Mr. Proudfoot. ‘Tim, you and I had better see what we can do about supper. Madam, you are welcome to us.’
So they sorted out cups and plates, bread, meat and drink. The prisoner was not neglected: he still lay in his bonds in the cart, not yet having spoken, but he quickly drank and gobbled up what the Punchkins offered him. The company settled down, making the pyre their camp-fire. All felt very weary, and none had much to say. Swin took the first watch. They placed Bryd amongst them and lent her their blankets, stretched themselves out in the grass and went to sleep, as Punchkins can do, like wild animals.
Next morning, after breakfast in the cold drizzle of a grey dawn, the Woman begged to examine all their hurts. Aldred and Waltrot were both sick of their wounds. These she carefully washed, anointed with a paste she had with her in a small jar, and then rebandaged. She made a sling for Aldred’s hand. It is possible that Swin and Tim Bottlebanks were mildly envious as they saw their comrades receive the touch of those gentle, capable hands. Bryd herself, now they saw her in the plain morning light, also appeared to be very much in need of some healing kindness, but for some less tangible ailment. She had not slept. Her face was pale, her eyes ringed with dark circles, and full – as Swin saw, gazing at her while she worked – of their own dreadful pain and wounding. To the Punchkins she seemed noble, a lady. Her age, as was later known, was above forty; and though her hair, braided and coiled on the back of her head, was touched with grey, and though they contemplated her with wondering pity, they thought of her as a woman fair and young, though grievously afflicted.
Some of the party were hoping to reach the City that same day. The golden dome still gleamed at them across the long leagues, though fitfully obscured by passages of mist and rain. But Aldred and Waltrot were in no state to travel fast. Better, they all decided, to take the journey at a leisurely pace, and pitch camp one last time; ‘or maybe we’ll find an inn along the road,’ they thought. Bryd didn’t think there were any inns, but she advised them to visit Ayarg’s stronghold, which was only a few miles away. It would be difficult, however, to bring the cart along the trackless, root-ridged floor of the forest; yet unwise, perhaps, to split up the company. After some closely-argued, though still amicable discussion, it was agreed that Tim and Fortinbras should go, using the utmost caution, and seek the robbers’ den. They listened to Bryd’s directions, then set out on foot, with a pony to carry the burden of any useful loot that might be found.
While they were gone Swin patrolled tensely, moving among the dark trees with his sword in his hand. The young prisoner sat with bound hands and feet. He flinched violently whenever Swin came near. Noticing this, Mr. Proudfoot tried to engage the youth in conversation. Nothing came of the attempt, for he was speechless; Mr. Proudfoot said he must be dumb. In fact he was not, but all the time he was in their company he spoke very little, and the few sentences that he did utter were too base, larded with obscenity, and at the same time too vague and uninformative to deserve to be placed on the record. Therefore, although he was soon to play an unexpected part in the tale of Swin’s progress, the reader will be spared any direct representation of his talk.
Presently Bryd came across and spoke to Mr. Proudfoot. ‘His name’s Melda,’ she said. ‘I know little of him. Why didn’t you slay him?’
‘At the bidding of Clemo Bavour, the eldest of our party,’ answered Mr. Proudfoot. ‘With his dying breath, our dear friend commended mercy to us, and so we showed mercy to this wretched fellow. We will now convey him to the Officers of Justice in Ruminas, who will no doubt administer condign punishment.’
‘I wonder about that,’ murmured Bryd. An expression of faint slyness had come over the lad’s pudgy face. ‘They’d say he’s young,’ she said. ‘He’ll say he was a prisoner of the robbers, like me. He was Ayarg’s bedmate, but I don’t suppose they’ll think any the worse of him for that.’
‘Excuse me, madam: a “bedmate”? In what sense?’
Social disasters can happen anywhere, even in the wilderness. It was a horribly unlucky accident that Bryd’s friendship with these Punchkins, almost at its outset, should now suddenly require from her an explanation of an act which the Demesne, deep-rooted and secure in its innocence, had never heard of at all, never even thought of or dreamed. Waltrot, had he been in less pain, might have been able to laugh at the situation, but to no-one else did it seem the least bit comical. Bryd tried to extricate herself; Mr. Proudfoot was firm and insistent. She shook her head, blushing and frowning, sinking deeper and deeper into the morass. At last she called Swin over to help. Mr. Proudfoot at once reiterated his demand for enlightenment on the subject, and Swin gallantly took the whole burden of the question upon himself.
‘What?’
The Punchkins stared at their prisoner with disgust and loathing. A vehement argument ensued. Aldred and Mr. Proudfoot were now in favour of marching him off to the nearest bog and drowning him in it summarily. Swin and the lady found themselves unexpectedly pleading in his defence. Mr. Proudfoot was the most enraged of all.
‘Very well – very well!’ said he at last. ‘I find myself outvoted once again, and you are of course right to remind me of poor Clemo’s dying words. Nevertheless, such things are too unnatural! Mark my words! No good will come of saving this unnatural and abominable wretch! Nothing but evil!’
Fortinbras and Tim returned before noon, both very pleased with themselves. They had found the unguarded cabins, had loaded the pony with a sack of the robbers’ stolen gold and had even retrieved a bundle of Bryd’s own possessions. Camp was struck, baggages re-packed and steeds allotted. Swin now rode the black horse he had taken; Fortinbras rode his own pony, and Mr. Proudfoot drove the wagon with Aldred and Waltrot lying in it, on heather overspread with blankets. Another pony carried their packs. Bryd rode the remaining pony and Tim walked. Melda also walked, tied to the cart’s tail, with his hands tied behind him and Tim’s dagger sometimes angrily pricking his back.
They passed through the arch of the trees, and the road sloped down before their feet, into the great vale of the upper Belechel. The midst of the vale was flat, as it had appeared from the hilltop; towards the onlookers, from the very gates of the City, as it seemed, a blue river ran for many miles along the road before winding off beyond the lower hills on the right-hand side. Up from the plain, on either side, swept the great shallow curves of the hillsides, rising to brown moors, scattered with many high woods of dark or leafless trees. Here and there, in the plain and along the lower slopes, many grey square buildings, barns and farmhouses, were dotted about. Beyond the City itself, further and dimmer hills shaded off into the distance.
‘What’s that river?’ said Tim. ‘Oh, it’s the Bleck, of course. Fancy seeing the headwaters of the old Bleck!’
(Flowing from its source, Lake Aduchel which lies beyond the City in a hollow of the hills, the young Belechel or Bleck races through its valley-bed for some fifty miles before sweeping out in a great sickle-shape; of which the handle, wide and stony, passes under the stone arches of Kingsbridge, Aldred’s home. From here, now brownish in hue and swollen with the gathered waters of innumerable peat-streams, it runs on through the Demesne, forming the borderline between the West Hundred and the newer territory of Bleck Vale, to Bournbrookhythe, where it accepts the tribute of the Demesne’s southern border-stream. Thence veering off westward, meandering more broadly and calmly through the deserted regions of old Athenor, it comes in many channels to Kedral’s Ford, where the ancient boundary once ran to intersect with the great north-south Road. And from there? Perhaps another hundred miles, perhaps two or three, the river flows on and on, through the haunted Neverglades and the remote coastal regions, somewhere finding the Sea.)
The company, now eight in number again, trotted and walked down the road. Looking back, Fortinbras saw a flock of crows. He asked Swin: ‘Do you think we should have buried ’em?’
‘No,’ was the answer. ‘By the way, there’s a big party coming along behind us. I expect they’re friendly.’ And so it proved. A train of over sixty pack-horses – the great dappled beasts of Doroech, much favoured by the Men of Turmal – began to emerge from the gateway of the wood. There were about a dozen merchants and drivers. They called out cheerfully and exchanged greetings as they passed, but they did not stop.
‘Now why wouldn’t they lend a hand?’ complained Mr. Proudfoot indignantly. ‘They saw that we have members of our company sick!’
‘Those were traders from the South,’ said Swin. ‘They were just thinking about getting to Vinya in time.’
‘In time for what?’
‘Oh, in time for when they said they’d arrive. In time for being in time, I suppose. All the merchants we see at Garholt are like that. They say that time is money.’
As the company slowly advanced up the plain, the subtle, inhospitable aloofness of all its inhabitants became more noticeable, even while the land itself took on a friendlier look. The sun came out, shining strong and warm between thundery showers of hail; the waves of the river danced and furled and sparkled; daffodils twinkled along its banks, and celandines and small hyacinths were seen beside the mossy paving-stones of the road. Paths and lanes now led off it; wagons and wains trundled on before the company, and barges were on the river; but no-one spared them more than a glance, with perhaps a brief, guarded word of greeting. The Punchkins found this behaviour odd. How often did these people see their kind of folk, after all? How often did they see them hurt and bandaged, riding in a cart with a strangely-coloured flag, and a footsore prisoner, bound and shuffling forward at knifepoint? And another thing: though Women were at work in the fields of the farms, digging and sowing after the plough, the people on the road and the river were all Men, and all were conspicuously armed. A sense of isolation began to weigh upon the spirits of the company – all except Mr. Proudfoot’s. He, having acknowledged Vinya-Ruminas, now approached it with the fervour of a late convert. His air, as he drove along, was rapt and excited. And the prisoner, Melda, though he still walked in a limping hangdog manner, also raised his head now and then; and Fortinbras discerned a faint gleam in his eye.
Darkness fell, the plain-dwellers all disappeared into their homes and the scene became quite deserted. Gloomy and depressed, the travellers camped in a grove of trees on the river-bank. Fish were rising in the water. Swin fashioned a rod and line, begged a pin from Bryd and within an hour had caught half-a-dozen perch and trout, which she fried for everyone’s supper. It was another silent meal. But afterwards, the Punchkins having obtained her permission to light their pipes, ‘Madam,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, ‘now that we have supped, will you not favour us with your history?’
She drained her mug of wine-and-water, and slowly wiped her mouth. ‘Well, good friends, I have you to thank for my freedom, so the telling of my tale is a payment owed. But it is a sad one, full of many tears; and they rise up from my heart and flow from my eyes, just as you now see, in the very moment of my beginning to cast my mind back. Sometimes I have begged the Gods for forgetfulness. I have resolved to turn my back on the past, or to cut it out of my mind like an ill-festering wart. Then the Gods remind me that my memory is by far the greatest part of what I am. And so, ever and anon, I turn backwards, and the grief rises again like a pure spring, and I plunge into it and am cleansed – delivered from my hatreds and poisoned cankers. Wherefore be you neither ashamed, seeing my tears, nor desirous to console me; for that you cannot do. To listen merely, to listen with still and open ears, though it may seem a slight service, is enough for charity, and is what I most desire from you.
‘Know, then, that I am Bryd Svarriambat Ammasdaughter, of the tribe of the Pelduin, one of those that descend from the old race of the Snow-people and the ancestors of your folk, son of Guma, who came into our country long ago. The men of this City and the priests of its temple hate us, for we prefer our own ways and our own old gods to the worship of their wicked Dru. They call us heathens and Foravari: they consider us worthy of slaughter and sacrifice to the Worm.’
‘Do you mean the Dragon, madam?’ asked Mr. Proudfoot.
‘Even him: Fëaruk the White, who dwells in the far North, in the terrible city of Lhygost. This is something that even the wisest of us cannot understand: that the great City of the Kings, founded by Kedral whose memory all revere, dedicated to Dru as the great Lord of Justice and Fountain of Righteousness, should so cruelly and wickedly persecute our tribes who have harmed its people never. How can they think that Dru commands them so? Three brethren and four sisters I had, on our mother and father’s farm, not far from the banks of the river Malog; their names do not matter now, but they were beautiful and golden-haired, and they grew to young manhood and womanhood as the joy of our parents, Afi and Amma. Then there was a change of barons, and from Lord Lefnui, who looked after his servants, we were delivered into the power of Lord Hriveor, whose heart is colder than ice. It is rumoured of him that – whispered tales of evil such as I dare not speak of before this present company. Lord Hriveor’s men came: they were foul and ugly, but they carried a commission, a written parchment with Hriveor’s own seal on it. They seized my brothers and sisters: most of them as meat for the Dragon; yet if one or two, as we feared, were destined for Lord Hriveor’s household, then they were the less fortunate. Saved by the lot, I was left alone to support my parents. But that was needless, for they soon died of grief.’
In the firelit darkness of the trees Swin and the Punchkins sat spellbound, seeing the tears that glistened as they coursed down Bryd’s cheeks; but in the cart, some way off, Melda snuffled and fidgeted.
‘Then my father’s land was given to a man named Fulnir, and him I must serve, and be numbered among his wives. But that was the first year of the plague, the seventh year of King Oresgal. The pestilence spread down from Lhygost, wherefore it was called the Worm’s Evil. I believe that Fulnir was already tainted with it when he began to possess the estate, and I escaped being forced to his bedchamber, for he soon died. Then those of us who remained were in a sad plight. I fell sick, and I believe that that we all should have died had it not been for the Gulwen, the Lady of Healing who came among us. Calendis is her name. We had never seen her before, but we had heard tell of her. She is the Good Witch of the North. She comes and goes as she will. The King and his officers all desire to capture her, but her craft and her power are too great for them, and indeed it is said that none can ever approach her unawares; and any enemy who seeks her is confounded and put to shame. She has her own purposes, unknown to mortals, but these are good… In our sickness we discovered that she had taken up her abode amongst us, and she ministered to us, and healed many. She had some kindness for me. She taught me a little of her craft. I begged her to take me as a maidservant, even a slave, to let me sleep before her door, if so she would but let me remain in her enchanted house, Wiccot, and study her craft; but she said that the time was not yet come. She advised me to cross the river and sue for the protection of Lord Lefnui, the old baron’s son, of the same name, at his castle, Thaliondas, on the Nibichel. Then she gave me a bag of her herbs, and kissed me, and bade me be of good courage; and then she returned into her dwelling-house and shut the door. And those of our people who sought her next day found her not, for her house had taken wing and disappeared, just as the tales said. Yet she has promised that I shall see her again one day.’
She paused. Fortinbras said, ‘Excuse me, madam, for doubting your word, but this is such a strange tale. This lady, this witch, what is she?’
‘I do not know. I do not know if anyone knows. She is very old: she is perhaps an Elvish woman, but she has not an Elvish look. Her hair is white, and she has a great bosom.’
‘And she has powers of – healing – and magic – and disappearance, you say? And her house too, it comes and goes on wings like a flying cottage in a children’s story?’
‘Yes; but that is never seen. When it is there, it seems always to have been there. And when it is gone, you see only the undisturbed grass, the rocks and the rushes. And the stream. They say she never encamps but by a stream or a river.’
In the darkness the rushing sound of Belechel now seemed clearer and nearer.
‘I wish I could meet her,’ muttered Fortinbras.
‘You’ve seen her,’ said Waltrot unexpectedly.
‘Where?’
‘She’s known in Tregg, though she’s not much talked about. The Little Folk call her Berma. The peasant Woman by the stream, the last one we passed on the way out of town, remember? She waved to us. Sometimes you see her, sometimes you don’t.’
Fortinbras’s mouth opened in astonished protest, but he said nothing. Bryd continued with her story.
‘So one of our own men rowed me over the Malog, and that was the first time I’d ever crossed it; and I set off westward. It was a red dawn, a cold day of late winter; the land was withered, and I felt very lonely on my path. But at the first house a dog ran out, and gripped my skirts with his teeth, and tried to pull me in; and inside the house I found a horrid plight of death and sickness and decay. I was able to help a few of the people. When I went on, it was the same at the next village. It took me all spring and all summer to travel the sixty miles down from the river. Many I cured, many I fed, many eyes of corpses I closed, many graves I helped to dig; and there were some folk who came after me, waifs and strays, poor ones who had lost all. At length we came to the castle of Lefnui, and found the gates shut against the plague; but when I had told my story to the porter, and he to the steward, and the steward to the baron, then the gates were opened. We were allowed to stay, and I tended Lord Lefnui’s people till the plague had ceased in those parts.
‘Then he thanked me, and accepted me as his bondager, and rewarded me with a dowry, and said that I might choose a husband from among his men. The one I liked best was a man called Dreng, a man of my own people. The autumn and winter of that year were the happiest time for me since the beginning of my misfortunes. Dreng was my husband and my first of men. Soon I was with child, and I rejoiced to find that my life had run into a fairer course.
‘In the springtime Dreng set to work: he ploughed with a will, and I helped him. But it was a rainless spring, and the air had a bitter taste of smoke, as if some subtle blight had followed the disease of men. The crops sprang up, withered and died. So we were in despair. And then, when the time had almost come for me to give birth, a band of men, soldiers, came down the road from Vinya. They were a recruiting party: they told us that men were needed, away in the far South, in the lands beyond Turmal, to fight the King’s wars against the desert peoples. Lord Lefnui said that it behoved men to enlist, as Turmal was the ancient ally and partner of Thandor. He said that there would be good pay for the men who went, as the fields of Turmal were rich and prosperous, far from the plague and the dragon-blight. Dreng desired to go. He did not want to leave me and the child, but he needed to be up and doing, and neither of us could see anything better to be done.
‘But on the night before his going he spoke to me strangely. You may know that there is a gift of foresight, or second-sight as you would perhaps call it, which is possessed by some few of our people.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Swin.
‘He put his hand on my belly, and the child moved inside; and he looked into my eyes, and he said, “It is this one who will bring me back; and then I shall see you again.” I begged him to say more, but he would not. Next morning he went away with the soldiers, and as they walked I saw him fitting in and changing his pace, so that he marched in step. And then my daughter was born.’
Another charged pause.
‘I will not speak of the difficult time that followed. We never had any word from my husband. Though I have never believed that he is dead, I strove to put him out of my mind, and always I worked to provide for our little maid-child. She grew up strong and well enough. She suffered from the plague, but she recovered and her looks were not marred. And so we went on till last year, when she turned eighteen.
‘Lord Lefnui had been made a member of the King’s Council, and so he had, and has, to spend many months of the year at Court. What happened last year, happened at a time when he was away from us. Maybe it could not have gone otherwise even if he had been present. Another band of Hriveor’s men turned up at Thaliondas. They could have been the same men, or they could have been different ones. They looked fouller and uglier than I remembered them from twenty years ago. They were strong in numbers, heavily armed, and they still carried their dirty scrap of parchment. They took Wencela. They tore her out of my arms, and beat me and kicked me, so that I fell down.
‘After that I lay on my bed for weeks. I had suffered too many blows. I wished for death. But I did not die, and at last Lord Lefnui’s steward, a kind old man who was always a good friend to us, came to tell me a tale that shook me out of my despair. He had just returned from Vinya, whither he had been summoned to bring tallies and scrolls of accounts. The City has ever greater need of such sustenance as the neighbouring lands can provide.’
‘Don’t we know it,’ interjected Mr. Proudfoot.
‘While in Vinya-Ruminas he had lodged with his master, at the King’s palace, and there by chance he had seen my daughter! He had been able to speak to her, and had discovered her story. The wagon-train carrying the human tribute to Lhygost had encountered a trader with a gang of young slaves, who was journeying to Ruminas.’
‘Oh, madam, slaves? In the King’s City? Surely not,’ said the perturbed Mr. Proudfoot.
‘I guess they don’t call them slaves. The name varies. Hriveor certainly has many slaves on his estate. Slaves, palace servants, bondsmen, servants of the King’s Wormwarden –‘
‘Who’s he?’ asked Swin.
‘The Wormwarden is Lord Tirmo, the man in charge of things at Lhygost. He rules the few Men and the Dwarf-clans that work there, and keeps them from fighting each other. The folk whom Hriveor’s men take are sent in name to him, to the Wormwarden’s household. That household has an especially great demand for young maidens. Yet it seems that there is trading on the inside, at any rate; for the slave-trader noticed my Wencela, and liked her looks, and said that she was the right kind of girl. He offered Hriveor’s man two of his own girls in exchange for her. Up to that moment, no doubt, those two girls had been grateful to escape being eaten, even at the cost of slavery. So Wencela was exchanged from one party into the other, and she arrived at Vinya in due course, and she was indeed sold to the Palace, and the trader made a good profit on her. Then the Chamberlain offered her to the King himself, and she took his fancy; and since then, as I have heard, my daughter has been promoted to Mistress of the Royal Wardrobe, and the King of Thandor summons her two or three times a week. I cannot imagine her life…’
‘And so?’ prompted Swin gently when a few more minutes had passed. He picked up his harp and began to strum on it very softly.
‘And so… I was pleased to hear that she was alive, and the steward wrote a letter to her for me. And I rose from my bed and went back to my work. I was trusted now, I was the steward’s housekeeper. More months went past, and in the night time I often lay awake and thought of all the dear ones I had lost. They all seemed far away, equally beyond reach, except for one: my husband. When his image came into my mind, he looked sorrowful and weary, and he seemed to reproach me. In the night-times I quarrelled and argued with that image, that wraith, for its reproaches. Had not I been the abandoned one? Had I not suffered? Yet – at last – it came into my mind that if Wencela was enjoying the King’s favour, there might be something that she could do for the father she had never seen. She could beg the King to send a message down to the General of his army in the South, and to inquire after the soldier Dreng, and if he yet lived, secure his release. And King Oresgal, if he was fond of her, he might do it. He could lose little by doing it. Even in his greatness and amid his weighty affairs of state, he might well take five minutes to order such a simple message.
‘After that thought had come into my mind it refused to go out again. I resolved to set off for the City. And in the end I set off alone. I did not seek the advice of friends, or send a letter – I set out alone. So very foolish – but I was half-distracted. Luckily I fell in with some foresters I knew, who were taking timber to the City. Then Ayarg and his band ambushed us. Bands of men: always accursed bands of men. What can a poor woman do? Toil and wait, smile and submit, drey her weird and keep on hoping amid her tears. Such is our lot, here in Midyard, and so it is ordained: that women must suffer and men must die… Yet, clearly, a band of Punchkins is not the same thing at all. I thank you all once again for defeating my captors.’
‘And we thank you for your story, ma’am,’ said Mr. Proudfoot with simple gravity. ‘We hope that you find your daughter when you reach the City tomorrow, and that all may go as you wish.’
‘Yes, if the Gods will it so,’ she replied. ‘But you, son of Guma: I owe you thanks most of all. You have taken a great thing upon yourself!’
‘What thing, lady?’ he asked.
‘Is it not an accursed thing to slay another – even in fair and open battle, even in defence of the innocent who would otherwise themselves be slain? Is that not still the ancient law of the Knife?’ Swin gave no response, and she probed him further: ‘A dark stain, surely? Or a burden of guilt? Don’t warriors need to purge themselves after fighting?’
Oddly, unexpectedly, Swin laughed out loud. His laughter had an unusual quality of weakness, even childishness. ‘Oh no!’ he chuckled. ‘I’m still a youngster. No need to worry about any of that stuff just yet!’