Next night he crouched in a corner with half a dozen kin-thralls, one of whom was no more than half-witted. He had been waked at dawn by the shrieks of the youngest daughter, the first to spy him; fortunately, she had quickly waked her brothers and cousins, who ran him down as he fled ineptly through their woods. They were still boasting of the capture, sitting with their father and uncles around the hearth, as proud as if Sorchone had been a small army of Sferiari. The mother of the hall sneered at their new possession’s small and scrawny stature, not more than her own height and maybe half her weight; sneered, but made sure he had an extra plate of stew, and smacked the other thralls who tried to steal it away. One of the boys suggested giving their prize to King Toryarl and Sorchone’s hopes bounded, but Mother worried him by saying loudly that he would be no use to anyone without he was fattened up some first. Father laughed. “Naaay, lass! Them’re all for bein’ lik’ thaat!” To cover his own laughter, Sorchone swiftly imagined their having said something incomprehensible, and stared at them as if he might learn their speech just by looking hard enough. One of the cousins flung a boot at him.

“And Toryarl be wantin’ for some cheer, wi’ Madroch gone i’ t’ wood,” Father went on, shaking his head, and the whole family sobered. They sat in an uneasy silence, and then the father rose to take down a large brown jug: something important, Sorchone guessed from the widened eyes of his family. It proved to be wine, and even the kin-thralls were given small cups; one restrained the half-wit until the father solemnly raised his own mug high above his head. “T’ Madroch: safe home, then.” They drank in silence, and then put all the household to bed.

Apart from a couple of clumsy escape attempts over the next few days, Sorchone worked well, reasoning that the better he performed, the better a gift he would make. His new mistress had charge of him, though her sons wanted to take him to help work the livestock, for the anticipated hilarity of watching the little man struggle with their tasks. She kept asking him for magic; he kept looking for ways to seem to grasp her meaning without betraying his grasp of her tongue, and she set an elderly aunt to teach him how men should speak. If he proved too quick a student, would they notice?

A quick student, he now understood Master Leoff’s advice, and it worried him. To give the impression of fearfulness was child’s play: curl the shoulders so, contract the belly thus, bug the eyes, and for good measure call vividly to mind anything that had ever frightened one. Done properly, the fear conveyed excellently well, for though it was born of artifice, it was real fear.

And like any fear, it clouded the mind. He was in grave danger of attending to an event, great or trivial, as his mask and not as himself, and though that would support the impersonation, that would not necessarily be his best choice. Sorchone wrestled within himself. How to play a part to conviction, without self-conviction? If he played it too long too well, might he convince himself that he was a timorous prisoner of events, and not his own master? He took to waking earlier than the rest, to have a time for meditation; and seized moments when he was reasonably sure he was not observed, to remind shoulders, belly, eyes, mind, and especially breath, of what courage and serenity felt like. And if anyone did catch him at it, he could always blush and cringe, and let them laugh at him. That, at least, had no power over him. If it ever did trouble him, their mockery, he decided he would take that as his cue to get out and go home and restore himself.

Now it seemed the family had in any case planned a trip up to Toryarl’s seat, a week hence. They would take Sorchone’s small treasures, his silken clothes, his small steel belt-knife, his fine bristle-brush as gifts to their king—and yes, the slave himself. “He’m worth more in t’ gifting, than he be about t’ house!” said Father. Mother pursed her lips, but made no contest.

And that night the palisaded gates rumbled as though another quake rocked the earth, and a fierce, bedraggled, but living band, seven unlooked-for heroes, roared into the household.

Come the morning, the disrupted hall woke slowly. The thralls, of course, were first afoot after the mistress and her sister-in-law, to stoke the cooking-fire, fetch water, start great rashers of bacon frying. The mistress was frantic, sharper-tongued than Sorchone had yet seen her; he wished he could teach her even one of his breathing exercises, to calm her mind.

Deorgard! The great warlord himself, come right to her very own hall! Nothing was good enough, clean enough, tasty enough—though the bright side of that, from the thralls’ point of view, was to be given the rejects which were truthfully good enough for anyone. The children were her next victims, to have all their chores done before the king arose, barn and stable shoveled and fresh, animals brushed, eggs and milk fetched. She set Sorchone to drawing water, as a task he should manage well enough alone and requiring the least effort to convey what was wanted. Bucket by bucket, he filled the kettles and cauldron, and watched the hurrying work-bransle like watching an unearthed ant-hive. Soon the hall simmered in the aromas of venison roasting and bread baking for the day-meal.

The king, of course, had been given the master and mistress’s own apartment, the one private room in their home and a feature only of the more prosperous freeholds at that. He slept soundly, if all the snores therein were his own: a second bed had been arranged for one of his companions, and pallets for the two slaves they brought with them. Of the other three, one was plainly a son of this house, and his mother seemed torn between rousing him, too, as she had ever done, or letting him sleep. Eventually she left him in peace with the guests.

Presently, bleary-eyed but erect, the king’s thralls strode out of the royal apartment to request bathing-water, soap, and cloths. This being something of an honor, Mother fetched all that was required herself, albeit using Sorchone’s hands and back for the actual portering. Sorchone did his best to look appropriately intimidated, and not laugh: he kept picturing how the proud Treskiel would accept a small room off the barn for noble quartering, and a wooden stool among the rushes while hot water was poured over him for a bath.

When his clean majesty and his clean lieutenant emerged at last, they put Deorgard on the dais at the head of the hall in the father’s chair—a chair with a back, another sign of their wealth—cushioned with a deep pile of the family’s best furs, and presented all the household to him, thralls and dogs excepted. Then there must be a tour of barn and byre, and fortunately for everyone’s thin-mastered anticipation, the renewed rain forestalled a tour of the fields and orchards. They returned to the hall, Mother, her sisters-in-law and daughters-in-law brought forth a bounteous if simple feast, and towards its end her son Jav shrugged into his blue robes and stood before the dais to sing.

Sorchone began by listening indifferently. Geillan boasting-songs usually bored him, and he was supposed to be ignorant of the language, besides. Instead, he watched the listeners. Soon, however, the tale spun by the young bard taxed all his power to pretend he could not understand. He had been among the Geillari before, had seen more than one local hero start in surprise—and pleasure, but surprise still—at some bardic embellishment of what he had done.

Not these. King, lieutenant, heroes and slaves watched their bard solemnly, even grimly. A wince, a tightened jaw, a sombre sigh, as the song stripped away friend or brother from the original two hundreds down to this bare handful, by perils weird and marvellous even in a poet’s fancy: again and again, Sorchone caught himself staring, taken by the tale. At least no one noticed, enchanted themselves.

An hour he sang to the hushed household. And when he thundered at last the praises of the Seven Masters of the Wood, a long and respectful silence rewarded him, and he retired to his stool all pink above his red-gold beard.

Deorgard, slouched forward with both his elbows on his knees, rolled the family’s one silver goblet back and forth between his hands and let the silence spread. At length, though, the young bard caught his father’s eye and made a tiny, anxious nod. Father then stood up from his cushioned stool below the dais, to praise the king and his hardy companions, and to demand that the gods reward their heart and courage with prosperity and undying fame. The Geillari seldom want for words, but Father made an awkward work of it; not from him his son’s poetic prowess, and Sorchone felt a little embarrassed for him, the more so as he plainly embarrassed himself. Deorgard seemed not to notice, though whether in truth or in courtesy, Sorchone could not tell. Father finished by kneeling before his king and giving the silver torque from his neck into the king’s hands.

Deorgard accepted it gruffly, admired it, though it would never fit his own neck, and passed it to his lieutenant to hold. If he then considered how to reply, it was more pause than Father could bear, who in his nervous excitement pressed still more gifts on him: the goblet the king already held, and then the steel belt-knife he had taken from Sorchone.

At Deorgard’s flicker of interest in the steel, Father quickly explained about his recent capture, gestured urgently to his wife to produce the captive, and pushed Sorchone to his knees before the king. And O! blessed luck, he said ’t was plain the gods sent the creature to be a prize for the Lord of the Wood. Sorchone ducked his head. If it looked like fright, so much the better. Having weeks of work, at his best and subtlest manipulations, yanked out from under him challenged even his self-mastery.

“Has it got a name?” he heard the king ask.

“He’m not got our speech, lord,” Father admitted. “We don’t know.” Someone’s fingers snapped, and then a young Sferan voice spoke to him:

“What is your name?”

He jerked his head up. He had marked the one slave-boy last night as certainly Sferan and, noting the evident companionship between him and the older, hairier one, guessed that they both must be. He wondered greatly what their stories were; but if they were also prizes of Deorgard’s, he should soon discover them.

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He assumed an attitude of hopeful surprise at the sound of his native tongue. “Sorchone.”

Deorgard barely turned his great head to stare, suspiciously, Sorchone thought, at the boy; young man, rather: he was beginning to get some meat on him. The translator stared back levelly—and Sorchone hastily masked his astonishment at this boldness in a feint of anxiety. Now, who, he wondered keenly, are you?

“He one of your people?” the king growled.

“No, lord.” His gaze darted dispassionately over Sorchone. “I do not know his House.”

Sorchone’s cloak with its Ristovan badge had been given to the eldest daughter; he bore no identifying tokens. Then how do you know I am not of your people—oh! There was only one House who might be so sure of knowing an outlander. Ah, well, two, but all Rhyllandari were gone—wherever they went. Kinnatiari, are you fellows, then?

Deorgard considered this shortly. He glared at Sorchone, who stared back as one too frightened to move while plans were made for him in an incomprehensible tongue. Then the king nodded to Father, accepting the gift. Sorchone had not prayed in years but he made one now, a burst of wordless gratitude. He wondered who among the pantheon might be a patron of expedience. The Wind-lord Kavin, maybe, with his variable temper; or the angel Lheinne, Areolin’s Dog, the swiftest of the roving stars. Both.

The afternoon revised the family’s plans to travel to Toryarl’s seat at Brandhad-town: Deorgard would go tomorrow. The household fell into a flurry of preparation, but the Seven Heroes were pressed into idleness, and the younger children vied to serve them, even the two thralls.

Sorchone followed the translator and his friend about like a lost puppy. They slept often: if a tenth of the bard’s song were true, he could not blame them. The furry one in particular was given to soft outcries like, “Oh, sweet gods: blankets!” before burying his face in them. Awake, they drank as much ale and ate as much bread as the household would grant, and the family were generous.

Late in the day the one called Raian took pity on the king’s latest acquisition. He had been watching Sorchone respond blankly to the youngest daughter, who considered him “hers” as being the first to spot him, and who was both kinder and bossier than the rest.

“You have no idea what’s happening, do you.”

Sorchone tried to flush, and felt himself succeed. “I am a prisoner of these—” he decided to balk at “barbarians,” and instead finished, “—these people: I understand that!”

“You’re a slave.” Raian flicked his own collar meaningfully. “Did you get that?” Sorchone hunched sullenly into himself and looked away. “What’s your House?”

“Ristover.” Presently he looked back up at them, to ask politely, “And yours?”

“Kinnaith-Dunwyrding.”

Sorchone’s surprise did not need pretense: he had not heard the double name used before. He leaped on the part he was expected to understand. “Kinnaith, then?” And he began to sing softly:

“Oh, old Andras he wanted fat venison,

“but young Listas liked acorns hot.

“Merry Kinnaith whistled a wheetle a dew,

“whistled up a fat acorn-and-venison stew,

“and the three of them cleaned the pot!”

At their now-blank looks, he said shyly, “Have you never heard that one?

“Now proud Andras, he wanted a mansion fine,

“but mild Listas, one simple hall.

“Canny Kinnaith whistled a wheetle a doh,

“whistled nine upon one, fine above, plain below,

“and nobly sheltered them all.

“Oh, bold Andras, he would a-swimming go,

“but fair Listas in breezes would play.

“Crazy Kinnaith whistled a wheetle a dare,

“whistled up a bright boat with sails so fair—

“and Celtannan stole it away!”

That won at least a grin from them. “Is that not why your families have names like Riversmoke, and Cloudfallow?”

“Raingold,” Raian agreed, and then offered his family’s sengwyth, pausing to think how to put it in plain Sferan:

“A rain

“of gold

“prospers all.”

“Coppertree,” said Wolf, adding likewise,

“A tree

“of copper

“lights the forest.”

“They’re called sengwyth—osenga-wit, braid-verses,” Raian explained to Sorchone’s widened eyes. “The Galring, what you call Geillari, have this tradition. Or at least Dunwyrding do,” he amended, as he realized he did not know how widespread the custom was; certainly he had heard none since leaving home. “A simple one is: ‘A man/and a woman/make a child.’ Or, ‘Fire/and ice:/both burn.’”

“‘A cow/and the plow/make the furrow,’” said Wolf. “‘The land/and the water/shape the river.’ It’s a braid because it’s three parts: something, something else—and the fact that they’re different.” He mimed plaiting in air.

Sorchone nodded. Wistfully, he said, “A braid is stronger than a single strand. . . . If these people have the habit of braiding even in their thought: is that why they are such a strong folk?” He looked away at nothing as he spoke, but glanced back out of the far corner of his eye to see how they would take it. Impassive, indifferent, the one called Wolf, but Raian looked uncomfortable.

Raian realized that this Sorchone was the first—should he call them “wild” imperials? he wondered with an inner giggle—purely Sferan man he had ever met. He had given them little thought, not bothering even to resent their long-ago betrayal of his Kinnathen ancestors; certainly he had never considered what these times might mean to them, they who saw only their own fall in the rise of Geillan power. His capture must bite Sorchone doubly hard, then.

“Some of us dream of winning our old lands back,” Sorchone went on, but shook his head. “I do not see it. Yet—such might not seem a victory to you. Aye?” he ventured.

Ah. That touched a nerve. He saw wariness in their faces, anticipation of his censure for their mingled blood. It was short-lived. Defiance supplanted it, scorn of his scorn, pride, and derision for anyone blind to their worth even before Wolf curled his lip, “Us half-breeds, you mean?”

Sorchone ducked his head again, clasped his hands tight together. Backbone, spirit, exhilarated him; mere defensiveness exasperated him and it was not now his place to redress it. He struggled for an aura of abjection. “No! Only—you have kin, blood-ties either way? The triumph of either one would be at least some loss for you—?”

Wolf’s surprise suggested that he had never thought of that; but something else entirely was going on in Raian. Sorchone’s best efforts could not make it out—but, then, neither could Raian himself. It would wait. What a very interesting venture this was proving to be. He changed tack. “What was the bard’s song? I thought—it seemed to affect you very much.”

They told him then of their Myrinine adventure; he was the first one they had had, to whom they might unburden themselves of their thoughts, and they talked volubly, startling themselves in their eagerness to speak aloud to anyone. And now he could indulge all his astonishment. Snow lions! The ground but a crust above a boiling stench? A tree with a bracelet—yes, Sorchone understood about the height of branches—and if it was not blood that spilled from it, it also resembled no sap Sorchone knew. A blue lake, with never a fish: incredible.

“You saved his life, then, twice, your—master.” Sorchone spoke the word in revulsion. “Why?”

Raian shrugged. “He’s got the key.” He tipped his head to set off his collar.

No, but no. That is not the least part of it, thought Sorchone. He recalled Raian’s earlier pride in the teeth of the king. Who are you?