Oli smiled with joy when he saw the dark water through the gaps in the trees, brooding like a black chasm between one side of the forest and the other. The day after his second encounter with Kastor’s demon, as he had come to think of it, they had finally reached the river.

Though he did not recognise either bank, there was no mistaking the murky, sluggish water or the musky smell of it. This was the Scursrun. His old fishing spot, from which he could find his way home, lay somewhere upriver from here.

From that point on they eschewed the paths and kept the bank in sight. Oli often saw Kastor peer into the trees and then rub his eyes. Sometimes he would shake his head and mutter. Among the fragments, he increasingly repeated certain phrases.

“Leave me alone... Getting worse... Miserable old bastard.”

The last phrase he spat out so bitterly that Oli flinched whenever he heard it. It always signalled a darkening of his mood. Oli would wait for the cloud to pass before attempting conversation.

When dusk approached, Kastor announced a break. Oli looked at the shapes of the rocks and thought he remembered tripping and skidding as he ran north a few days before.

“This looks familiar. Let’s keep going! If we reach the village tonight we won't need to sleep in the open. And we can eat as much as we like!”

Kastor threw the pack off his shoulder.

“I’m not walking in the night. And when we reach your village I’d like enough light to depart for the Highhomes on the same day. I’m not staying.”

“Why not?”

Oli felt a little stung.

“I’m sorry,” Kastor replied. “It’s not that I want to get away from you. I just can’t get tangled up with any more Seveners.”

Kastor’s comment struck him. It confirmed something that he had known for a while but not yet found the courage to enquire about.

“You’re not a Sevener, are you? And you’re not a Westerner either.”

Kastor looked away and thought for a moment before replying.

“I'm certainly not a Westerner. Perhaps I became a Sevener. I don’t really know.”

“How can’t you know? What do people believe where you come from?”

“They believe that Terlos is the true king of heaven and the most deserving of our worship.”

Oli stood up and his mouth dropped open. He stammered:

“What are you doing here? King Brunulf is at war with you!”

Kastor shook his head.

“The war between Giftahl and the Southern Baronies. It hasn’t been bloody since the Western army was broken by the Emperor before the walls of Terras. She has no interest in conquering other lands, and your king has no appetite for another defeat. Just because neither will sign a treaty doesn’t mean a war is still being fought. As for what I’m doing here, I told you: I’m an explorer.” His smile faded and he added: “At least I was, for a short time.”

Oli turned away and fussed with his furs. He didn’t know what to make of this. When adults in the clan talked about “the South,” they meant the southern part of Saltleaf Forest, where the Levonin and Virunin lived. Those clans were different, but they were Seveners like the Hallin – like all forest folk.

The far South, the ‘Southern Baronies,’ where pale skinned fanatics of Terlos dwelt in icy caverns or roamed the vast, barren steppes in an endless hunt was a land of myth and mystery. It was even farther from the Hallin than the Sundered Republic or their own distant capital, The Godsroof.

“Does it bother you?” Kastor asked. He sounded disappointed. “In the West they worship the Summer Trinity, in the South the Winter King. But you Seveners honour them all, don’t you? It’s one of the reasons I came here to explore. It’s a beautiful faith. It’s a beautiful hope: that one day the world could return to innocence.”

Oli reddened. He turned to face Kastor feeling slightly ashamed. What kind of Sevener was he? What were the king's wars to him? “It just surprised me to hear you say it. We honour them all but we still believe that Hurean is their ruler. He was the first to bring light. But you’re right, I don’t really mind. You’re not my enemy, Kass.”

Kastor smiled. “No, Oli. I’m not. And I appreciate you saying it. A Westerner wouldn’t.”

With this barrier between them dropped, Oli suddenly wanted to ask Kass about the places that he knew. Had he been to the frozen city of Terras? Were there really palaces built from shining pink stone and houses carved out of ice? Who was this Prophet Emperor that he had mentioned twice? Before he could ask the first question, though, he saw Kastor turn as rigid as a pole. His eyes widened and fixed on something behind Oli.

Oli turned and saw a red soldier staring right at him.

The man glided behind the trees atop a long boat that sat low on the water. The shining armour and bright tunic played in and out of the leaves. The man who had seen them shouted and a row of oars splashed into the water, pushing against the boat's momentum.

“Forest folk! To arms!”

The metallic scrape of swords rang out. Oli wasn’t sure whether to wait or flee. Perhaps the soldiers would not risk disembarking in the early evening. Once they lost sight of the river, they might struggle for days to find it again. But if the soldiers came to shore, would Oli have left it too late to run and hide? Before he could decide, he felt Kastor’s hand on his shoulder and the broad cloak enveloped his body.

Peace swept over him. It was as though he remembered, having somehow forgotten, that everything was ok and he was perfectly safe. The chill air felt refreshing. The dank odour of Kastor’s fur cloak smelled like fumes of incense. The instinct to run subsided, until it was just a gentle tug on his attention, a reminder that he had once been afraid. And then, as though he had plucked the thought from Kastor’s mind, he knew why Kastor would rather hide. If they saw movement they might pursue. It was better if they thought themselves mistaken. He knew, as Kastor knew, that now they were camouflaged as part of the forest. An illusion, he thought. Then some deeper voice within him responded:

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The illusion is that you are separate from the forest. The soldier sees the truth now, and the truth is invisible to him.

As the soldier’s comrades looked up his excited expression gave way to consternation.

“Where are they?” they asked him, swords and bows in hand.

“They were right there!”

Oli heard their words as though he were sat in between them. He smelled the pinewood planks of their vessel. And he felt their feelings as they passed: embarrassment from the soldier who spotted them and now doubted his own eyes, amusement from the others with an undercurrent of fear. They wanted to believe their comrade mistaken. They wanted to get away from here.

Oli moved his attention to Kastor. He remembered an old, hard face with a white beard and black eyes. The man’s expression was a picture of disdain. He smiled in a mocking leer and expelled a mirthless laugh. He heard Kastor think in the memory. A worn out, oft repeated thought. Just a habit, really.

"Miserable old bastard."

A smell and taste of blood filled the recollection and Oli felt himself thrust away from it. He did not mind. Something interested him more than either of their thoughts. He felt the land spread out beneath him, breathing. He drifted farther from their small minds than Kastor had meant for them to travel in this vast domain and he saw the tiny fragment of time and space that contained them. How fleeting his short life had been! Something older called out to him – and was him. A part of himself that had been awake since long before he was born.

A hard slap knocked Oli to the ground. He looked up. A pale light came through the trees. The surreal world was fading, like a dream from which he had awoken, but a voice in the back of his mind insisted: that was the real world, and this is the dream. His cheek stung. Kastor reached down and grabbed his shoulders.

“Oli!” he called, shaking his whole body.

“Oli! Come back!”

“I’m here!” Oli spurted. His surroundings came into focus. The pale light that came in beams between the leaves stopped swimming. It was the moon. He was cold. He was still not home. But he had been home, or somewhere like it! He had been to another world, and Kastor had opened the gate to it.

The explorer threw his arms tightly around his shoulders. It was the first time Kastor had touched Oli, since saving him from the soldiers. Grown-ups were always patting and stroking and kissing and cuddling, but not Kastor. Not until now. Gradually, he eased out of the thin, strong arms and stood up. He gazed down the river, inky black in the night-time. It rippled, throwing back the pale moonlight in fragments and slivers as it wound out of sight.

“The soldiers have gone. It’s night-time already," said Oli.

“They went a long time ago, Oli. We faced a different danger then. I didn’t know. I thought I was the only one.” Kastor's eyes shone. He looked as though he had found a kinsman.

“What happened? The only one of what?”

Kastor stiffened and Oli felt the space between them grow. How much time had passed? He felt cold to his core.

“You don’t know?” Kastor asked in a hard, sceptical tone. His mood had turned like a leaf flipping in the wind.

“What happened then? We went to a place that was here but everywhere. Different but just the same. What you did was amazing!”

“You take me for a fool. Just like he did.” He spoke quietly, simmering with anger and hurt. He moved closer.

“Kastor, I don’t know what happened!” Oli pleaded.

The outline of Kastor’s form swept suddenly forward. His hands found Oli’s shoulders before he could react. The whites of his eyes caught the moonlight and those black pools in the centre seemed like gaps in his outline through which the darkness of the night shone.

“Who gave you the gift? Why can’t I see it in you? How many medicine men still live near the Hallin?” He demanded answers to questions that made no sense.

Tears welled in Oli’s eyes and what little he could see blurred into a swirl. He pushed against Kastor’s chest and felt the bones of his ribcage. The grip on his shoulders hurt like hard pieces of wood pushing into his skin.

“Help!” he cried out, without thinking or caring who heard him. “Mum! Dad! Ada! Help!”

The grip relented and he fell to the ground. His flailing hands met a thorny branch and he snagged his sleeve. He panted on the ground, wrenched his arm free with a ripping sound and wiped his eyes.

He hurried to his feet and saw not only the outline of Kastor but that of the demon, too. The shadows of its wings stretched beyond his field of vision, taking in the surroundings in a posture that seemed to declare ownership of it all. The burning pinpoints glared at him. A sound reached into his head, but not the battle cry he had heard before. This was a guttural crow of triumph and exhilaration. A call of recognition. I see you. The noise and the shadow reached a climax and faded, but Oli still felt the eyes boring into him.

He forced his breathing to slow, until he could hear other sounds apart from his own gulping breaths and the thudding heartbeat in his ears. Gradually, over the gentle rippling of the river, he heard a childlike, suffocated sob. Kastor was crying. Gingerly, he moved nearer to the huddled figure and heard mumbled words under his breath.

“Can’t get away from him... The gift... The poison...”

He began to reach out and stopped. I could run, he thought. Perhaps sensing his hesitation, Kastor turned. Crouched on the ground now and looking up, he appeared too pitiful to be threatening.

“I’m sorry,” Kass whispered in a trembling voice. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Oli mumbled, because that was what grown-ups said when he apologised to them.

“It’s not,” came the hoarse reply. “It won’t be. But thank you.”

He sounded calmer now and began to rise, then instead sat with his back to a trunk, facing the river.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you ran off without me. I wouldn’t follow. I’m no use at looking after you. I only wanted to do one good thing.”

“I was thinking I might,” Oli admitted. He eased himself down a couple of yards from Kastor. He kept one leg bent, ready to jump up if he needed to run. He was torn between fear, a thirst to understand what had just happened and a sudden, burning conviction that he had to help this strange and dangerous man.

“You told me yesterday that your father likes stories,” Kastor said, still staring at the water.

“Yes.” Oli’s trembling arms and legs steadied a little.

“And he can write.”

“He’s the best at writing.” Oli surprised himself with the pride in his voice. He’d always maintained that writing was pointless, but the long separation from his parents had changed him. He saw now so many reasons to be proud of them.

“I’ll tell you what happened to me, and you can tell your father when you see him. Perhaps he’ll write it down. You might be the last person I talk to. Will you listen, Oli?”

Kastor turned and leant towards him.

“Will you tell me if you recognise any part of it? If there’s something in there that you’ve heard before?”

“Is it about the demon that follows you?” asked Oli.

There was a long moment of quiet before Kastor replied:

“You can see it. Oh, he would have loved you. Yes, that’s part of the story.”

“He? Is he the ‘miserable old bastard?’”

“Yes, it’s about him, too.”

“I’ll listen.”

“Good.” Oli heard rustling and then a muffled crack of something soft breaking up. Kastor reached across the space between them and Oli smelled honey on the night air. His mouth watered. He took what Kastor offered and brought it close to his face. A gorgeous, thick piece of honeycomb dripped sticky sweetness onto his fingers.

“I was saving it for dessert, but we don’t even have a main course today.”

“What are ‘dessert’ and ‘main course?’ Are they part of the story, too?”

Kastor laughed in a lilting, innocent burst of mirth. Oli didn't know what amused him about his use of those new words, but he laughed too out of relief. This was the Kastor that he liked.

“Dessert and main course are glorious stories for another day. But they certainly have no part in a forest tale. Let me tell you my forest story.”

They did not sleep that night. Kastor talked calmly. At times he spoke fluently and at other times with long, reflective pauses. He talked until the sun rose behind them casting long shadows that reached the water’s edge.

Oli listened more intently than he had listened to any story before.