Dawn broke through the trees as Beckhead Town came into view. A choir of birds chirped and darted among the branches. White wrens, Amon noted, hunting for caterpillars and worms. The lightening sky promised a blue and clear day in the lead up to High Summer.

Amon could almost count on one hand the number of blue-sky days he’d seen since the Eternal Storm broke. The beauty of it mystified him, yet he’d never dreaded any coming dawn as much as this one. Here it came, though. He would have chosen to live in perpetual gloom if it meant life would go backward.

A palisade wall ringed Beckhead Town, much like Odrin’s longhouse. At twice his height, the sharpened tips that ran along the top looked like a predator’s teeth, and he was about to enter its jaws. The main gate stood before him, just opened for the day and ready to swallow him whole.

Little activity stirred beyond the gate. The calm wouldn’t last long, though. Soon Beckhead would be thrumming with life and activity.

They had a war to ready for, after all.

He paused before the gate, his whole body still throbbing from the beating Kessen had given him. His leg in particular, though it felt better after a bit of walking. It had carried him all the way from the thrall village to here, to his surprise, but now it seemed it didn’t seem to want to carry him any further.

It’s not too late to turn back, a voice inside whispered, tinted with false hope.

The hour for that had passed, though, and the realization redoubled his sense of loss, reopening the despair that had taken root in the center of him. Lucia was gone and he didn’t even know where she was heading to. She’d actually wanted him. Wanted him the way he’d wanted her to want him, and now he would never have her. Even if he turned around now, they would be long gone. He’d never find them.

And not only was Lucia gone, but Amara had thrown him to the monsters so that she could save herself.

He’d reflected on that as he’d walked. Oh, Amara had said he could come with them, but she’d never really meant it. She’d been sure to highlight all the ways his presence could only bring more danger.

But she was right.

He didn’t want to hate her. He knew it was wrong. In a world as cold as this one, Amara had brought as much or more warmth to him as anyone else. She’d been a mother figure. But she wasn’t his mother, and maybe it was his fault for expecting her to act like it.

For ten years she treated me like a son, only to abandon me.

Every time he tried to bat such thoughts away with logic, they came swarming back.

A son she abandoned.

Not abandoned. Just…

He couldn’t find another word for what she’d done, but it didn’t matter. It had been necessary. There was no point swirling around his own head with it, either. He didn’t have the time or energy to waste on regret now. The decision was already made and now there was nothing to do but keep moving forward, one step at a time.

So Amon passed through the gate, into the jaws of Beckhead.

Beckhead’s luckiest and wealthiest lived within the walls. Only here could anyone find true safety from creaches and whatever other monstrosities wandered down from the hills and mountains.

A half dozen longhouses lined the main thoroughfare, belonging to retired warriors who had earned their wealth in the Long Reaving years ago. More lined the branching side streets. The street itself was made mostly of laid logs and old timber – a luxury compared to the mud roads that connected Beckhead Town to all the outlying hamlets and farms. He smelled woodsmoke and spiced tea, and somewhere a little further along, roasted pork.

Hunger seized him, almost dizzying in its intensity. It suddenly occurred to him he hadn’t eaten for most of a day, but this was the first time he’d truly felt anything like an appetite. That would have to wait, too. He needed to find Odrin before the events of the day occupied the Chieftain fully. His best chance of getting an audience would be now, if it hadn’t already passed.

The Five help him, but he still didn’t know exactly what he might say to the man. After he’d come back to his senses the night before, after his failed attempt to resurrect the storm, he and Amara had spoken for a long time on the subject.

Odrin can be trusted, she’d said, resting her frail hands on top of his. He’s a good, honest man. He’s always been honorable. Tell him the truth and he will protect you.

She’d painted him as a just ruler of the Chiefdom. He was far better than most, at least according the stories he’d heard, but Amon had been there to see the fallout from a minor thrall rebellion on the outskirts of his Beckhead. Odrin’s men had nailed the so-called rebels to trees and left them there until there was nothing but bone and rags. Didn’t exactly seem a friend of the thralls to Amon.

He had no choice, Amara had said. A chieftain can’t expect to stay in power long if he tolerates rebellion.

True enough, but it didn’t inspire much confidence. With Aile’s mages after him, helping Amon now would be a dangerous game. Would Odrin really risk his life and chiefdom for Amon?

That’s what he’d be risking, after all. If Aile or any of the other Chieftains learned that he’d been hiding him, they could easily strip him of everything.

He pledged a Blood Oath to your father. He’d die before he breaks it.

Amara’s conviction had soothed him last night, but more doubt crept in with each step. In a land as harsh as Illia, a man’s oath meant everything. Most would die before they betrayed an oath like that, but he’d never heard of an oath applying to a thrall before, even a half-Illian son of a former Chieftain.

He passed into the small market square at Beckhead’s center. Most of the Chiefdom’s wealthiest traders lived here. Merchants selling sealskin and reindeer furs, weapons dealers with arrays of spears, axes, and blades, healers with salves and potions in little clay pots. Most of the shops and stands were closed this early, but one food vendor’s stand had opened. Three women and two men stood around it, holding bowls of steaming breakfast porridge.

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One of them – an old man wearing an ugly scowl – stared at Amon as he crossed the market square, scowl deepening even further as if he could see right into Amon’s heart and all the secrets it held.

That look made Amon want to shrink and disappear entirely. It made him wonder if Aile’s mages were already here and looking for him.

Impossible.

That’s what he’d been telling himself, at least. It would take days for Aile’s servants to reach Beckhead, and hopefully by then Amon would be on a ship to Karrakdun. He could hide among Aile’s gathering army, impossible to find among the masses provided he could keep his Casting under control. That was the hope, anyway.

Unless, of course, Aile had mages near Beckhead. In that case, they could already be here in Beckhead Town. It wasn’t inconceivable, though Amara seemed to doubt Aile had so many mages at his disposal that he’d posted one this far from the centers of power.

He passed through the market, feeling the man’s gaze follow him.

Why had Amara been so insistent on him coming here? Was he really as powerful as she’d said? So powerful the Cassadan king, Catalus, needed him? It seemed absurd, and yet she’d spoken with utter conviction.

He still couldn’t overcome the sense that she’d betrayed him to save herself somehow, as much as he hated to believe it.

She should be here with me, at least. She could have at least tried to talk to him with me.

Afterall, she’d once been his close confidant, before the Purge.

Instead, she’d left him with nothing more than a letter for Odrin. In it, she explained what had happened in a code she’d hoped would be clear enough to Odrin but opaque to any strangers that might intercept the message.

Amon forced himself to move faster, realizing that he’d slowed his steps. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time. More people were emerging from their houses now, more noise rising from the market and businesses, and now he could hear even more noise from the slips down by the water, where the dragon ships were being readied for war. Indecipherable commands shouted and the thumping of hammers on wooden pegs.

Ahead, Odrin’s Longhouse loomed. It sat on the highest hill in Beckhead Town, ringed in another palisade wall. Four loachs stood at the gate, as usual. Amon walked past them. If they noted that he was here earlier than usual, they said nothing of it.

His heart galloped faster now. Not just from the walk up the steepening road.

If I tell him everything, if I give him Amara’s note, he might just kill me himself.

That was how Amara had wanted him to play it, but he’d had enough time to consider alternatives.

If I hide the real reason I’m here, maybe he won’t question it. He’ll need a scribe in Cassada anyway.

That felt decidedly safer to Amon. He failed to see what good would come from telling Odrin about his Casting. He could simply call in the debt Odrin owed to his father, ask to serve as his scribe in the coming war, and leave it at that. He doubted Odrin would be able to hide him from Aile’s mages anyway. That would fall on Amon alone. Somehow, he would need to keep himself from Casting in his sleep or running into the mage who had seen him so clearly.

Amon entered the longhouse, stepping into the hall where Odrin hosted his great feasts, where the bards would spin their verses and tales in the depths of winter. The space was almost utterly dark after the brightness of dawn, but after a few moments his eyes adjusted.

When they did adjust, they found Kessen at the far end of the room. Amon felt suddenly like a rabbit caught out in the open with falcons flying overhead.

Kessen had already seen him, was already walking at him with a broad, utterly unconvincing smile splayed across his face. His skin was so pale that his bald head seemed to shine with its own light.

For a moment, the urge to run almost overcame Amon, but it only took a moment to remember he had nowhere to run to.

Kessen closed the gap between them with an almost unnatural speed. “Thought about what I said, boy?”

Amon nodded, though truthfully he hadn’t considered it much. With everything else that had happened, he’d almost forgotten about it, as impossible as that seemed.

“What’s the word among the thralls?” Kessen asked. “The elders must have met last night to talk. What did you hear?”

Amon tried to steady himself with a long breath, but there didn’t seem to be enough air in here. “I heard nothing. I was in bed, recovering from what you did to me.”

He tried not to let the anger and fear bleed into his voice, but he could hear the waver in his own voice, hated himself for it. His father’s voice had never faltered like that.

Kessen took a step closer, almost on top of Amon now. He lowered his voice to a cold, emotionless whisper. “That’s disappointing, Amon. You should think well on what I said. You can choose an easy life or a hard life. It will be much better if we remain friends.”

It was hard not to stare at the dent in his head when he spoke. The one a creach had given him by braining him with a heavy stick. It was hard not be chilled by the cold, soulless look in his eyes.

“I will,” Amon said. “I promise I’ll try to do what you asked. I just… couldn’t last night.”

Kessen frowned hard, one hand violently seizing Amon by the shirt. “Don’t try. Do it. I won’t hear excuses again.” Then he paused, as if realizing something. “You’re here early. Why?”

I could ask you the same, he wanted to say. There was no good reason for Kessen to be here, either. “I’m here to see Odrin,” he said instead.

Kessen’s frown deepened. “And why would be here to see Odrin?”

Amon already regretted admitting his true purpose, but too late to claw back the words now. He scrambled for some kind of legitimate-sounding answer. “He asked me. Scribe’s work.”

Perhaps Kessen was too dumb to remember that Odrin would be far more likely to call Scribe Vestro for any urgent scribe work, because he seemed to buy it as he let go of Amon’s shirt.

“Just remember,” Kessen said, flicking at the bronze torc around his neck, the one that marked him as Slaine’s second, “Odrin will be gone soon. You won’t be able to escape me.”

Amon nodded.

Kessen smiled. Amon’s obvious fear must have been convincing enough, because Kessen stepped around him and disappeared down one of the halls.

Amon walked toward Odrin’s quarters, trying to calm the shaking in his hands.

Roda stood at Odrin’s door. The old warrior was wearing chainmail, one hand hovering not far from the Cassadan-forged axe at his side. His sharp blue eyes fixed on Amon.

“I’m here to see Odrin,” Amon said. “I need an audience.”

“The chieftain is having his breakfast.”

“It’s important,” Amon said. He didn’t know what else he could say. “If you tell him I’m here, I’m sure he’ll see me.”

Roda studied at him for a long time, those bright blue eyes seeming to peel away layers of Amon with each passing second.

I’ll tell Odrin as little as possible, Amon decided. Even if he could trust the Chieftain, there were too many enemies about. If he told Odrin all of it, or if the wrong person found Amara’s letter and learned its import, it would all be over.

With people like Roda and Kessen about, it was simply too dangerous.

At last, Roda gave a small nod and stepped into Odrin’s chambers.

He emerged a few moments later and with wave motioned Amon into the room.

Amon followed, heart thudding heavily again, feeling as if he were entering the lion’s den.

###

Kessen watched and listened from around the corner. He’d followed the pathetic little thrall here. He’d known there was something suspicious about it. There was no reason for him to be here so early.

He heard his words with Roda, requesting an audience with Odrin.

Why? To cry to the Chieftain about how Kessen had beat him into the mud?

Eventually the door to Odrin’s chambers opened and shut, and then a second time.

So Odrin had granted the audience.

He needed to hear what the slave boy had to say. It was a good thing he and his little friend had showed him exactly how they eavesdropped on their Chieftain’s confidential meetings. He’d known it would prove useful, but not so soon.

He climbed into the loft to see what a lowly thrall would have to say to the Chieftain of Beckhead.