Chapter Seven - Asking Questions

Cal groaned, bracing his shoulder against the cart. The damp wood creaked, wheels struggling for purchase on the sodden shale. Beside him, the old donkey snorted, tramping its hooves and straining against its harness. Cal gritted his teeth, fighting against the weight of it. He groaned, legs burning, and the cart rolled slowly out of the mud-flooded ditch, crunching back onto the shale of the track.

He stood panting for a moment, blowing steam into the cold air. The imminent winter had left the path rutted and riven with turgid pools of dirty water, and the old cart was faring poorly. He glanced back the way he had come. Through the trees that wreathed the roadside, Rindon looked back in reproving silence from lower down the slope, chimneys smoking softly. Not so far away as he had hoped. The Teeth loomed through the boughs overhead, bare and black. Dark clouds had started gathering over them, veiling the midday sun, and the air was thick and still. Rain was coming. He hoped he would be home before it arrived.

Beside him, the old donkey was breathing heavily in its harness, flicking its grey ears back and forth in protest. Cal stepped out of the ditch and stroked the animal's nose.

‘Almost there.’ He patted its side, and the it started forward again, albeit a little more reluctantly than before. The wheels rattled against the stony track, creaking. Away from the village it went, winding into the grey hills and dark trees like a coiled rope, frayed half to breaking with age. But it still held, despite the weather, trundling upwards towards the mine. Wasn’t anything else up there worth visiting.

'Not far.' He murmured, more for his own comfort than anything else. It was a punishing climb, but there would be no smithy without iron. Cal was breathing hard and dripping with sweat when they finally reached their goal, half-stumbling over the lip of the hill into a barren, grey clearing between the trees. The cart sagged against the level ground, and the donkey groaned in relief, snorting great plumes of steamy breath into the chill air and braying morosely. Cal wiped his brow, taking a swig from the waterskin at his waist, and looked at the large, open archway that had been cut into the rock beside the road. He could hear voices inside, and the clang of picks, the slow rumble of the smelting furnaces, roaring to each other unintelligibly in the din. The opening glowed faintly, pulsing with orange light, belching hot air like the mountain itself was alive with fire.

The barn beside it was marginally more welcoming. A high roof, thatched and dripping, clinging precariously to the shelf of black, uneven rock where the trees had found no purchase. Men in stained tunics were carrying crates through the open doorway, grunting and straining against the weight of them. Brows damp with sweat, muscles cording. They paid Cal no attention, and that suited him just fine. He wasn’t much in the mood for chatting, and working men seldom have time for strays and their animals. Each time he made the climb, he recognised fewer of Solen’s workers. What drove men to come east into this Godsforsaken place looking for work, he had no clue.

Cal brushed his hair back from his face, looping the donkey’s reigns over the short post at the roadside. The Blacksmith had given him little coin to bargain with, and Solen was a shrewd man. Pompous, stuffed over-full of sweetmeats, and far too fond of his own voice, as is often the way with merchants; a small, bloated fish in a smaller pond. Unfortunately, he was also the only source of iron any of the hillfolk had, so Cal’s personal objections to his character weren’t important. Bartering was a game, another of the Blacksmith’s lessons, and he would play it, if he had to. This lesson, at least, gave him a reason to leave the perimeter of the smithy. Little comfort, but he took a deep breath all the same, affecting a careless smile, and stepped past the empty cart into the barn, leaving the donkey’s melancholic braying behind him.

It was warm beyond the doorway, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and damp, but Cal didn’t remove his cloak. It would make him look older. Dim light filtered through the rafters, and dust sifted through shards of grey sunlight. A maze of crates rose haphazardly from the earthen floor, marked by broad strokes of colour, red, blue, green and yellow, and workmen moved like shadows in and out of the towering piles, shifting and marking the wood with large, colourful brushes. There was a short desk near the door, and small man sat behind it, tallying coins against a piece of well-marked parchment. The man looked up as Ren entered, nose twitching, then quickly back at his coin, sneering noticeably. Solen was not a tall man, and his penchant for fine foods from the Lowlands had left him with a paunch that strained against his patterned belt. Where his workers were dirty and stained with sweat, he was remarkably clean in his fresh, collared shirt, thin hair combed carefully over his pale head. As Cal approached, he dabbed at his smooth, doughy face with a white handkerchief, and a slight smile curved his thin lips.

'The blacksmith’s boy!’ he said dryly, eyes blinking at the dusty air. As he spoke, his fingers brushed the coins before him like fisherman baiting his line. ‘Yer old man no longer trust himself to haggle with me?’

‘He is very busy, this past month.’ Cal said politely, biting back a retort. ‘He sent me in his stead.’ He gave the merchant a smile, dipping his head.

‘Ah. The wolf sends his pup to hunt for him. A lesser man might take offence.’ Solen replied dryly, dabbing at his face with the handkerchief. ‘Go on then, boy. How much you buying?’

‘Two crates, for now.’ Cal told him, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a heavy purse. ‘I have the coin.’

The short man looked at the purse, bulbous eyes flashing. Cal could almost see the cogs turning behind them. ‘Doubt that’ll get you two crates.’ the merchant told him, lifting himself to his feet with a grunt. ‘Still, let’s see what you can afford.’

Cal followed him, trying not to frown. When standing, Solen was already smaller than him, and his gait had the weary unevenness of a man taken more to sitting than walking. The merchant approached a large crate marked with red paint, patting it thoughtfully. Then he clicked his fingers, and gestured to one of his men.

‘This one.’ he snapped, and a tall man hurried over, hefting a metal bar in his hands. The big man dug the narrow end into the lid of the crate, and heaved it downward, filling the air with the crackling sound of splintering wood. The container fell open, and light gleamed on the dark chunks of metal within. Cal inspected them closely.

‘Men found the vein three weeks ago’ Solen said at his shoulder. ‘Shaft was long and deep, very dangerous. Won’t part with it cheaply.’

‘Of course not.’ Cal reached down and picked up one of the ingots, weighing it in his hands. It was good iron. For Rindon, anyway. More than good enough for butcher’s knives and arrowheads. He straightened, looking back at the merchant calmly.

‘I can’t go below three coppers an ingot.’ Solen told him, holding the crate open with one doughy hand.

Cal frowned, weighing the purse in his hands. ‘I can pay half that.'

Solen laughed, a thin, joyless sound, scoffing at him. ‘Then you’ll be going back to your master with an empty cart.’ he said bluntly, lowering the lid of the crate. Cal sighed.

A short while later he was waiting patiently as a couple of Solen’s workmen lifted two red-marked crates onto his waiting cart. The donkey was braying softly, and the clouds overhead were grumbling ominously. Cal weighed the coin purse against his palm as he watched them, smiling faintly in spite of himself, pretending he couldn’t feel Solen shooting daggers at his back from the barn’s open doorway. When the cart was readied, he thanked them and untied the donkey, leading him unhurriedly back onto the path. He smiled politely at Solen as he passed the doorway. The merchant didn’t smile back, and that made Cal’s smile all the wider. But, in spite of his little victory, he found himself strangely uncomfortable, on the little shelf of black rock beside the glowing mine. There was a dour air to Solen’s warehouse that day, more so than usual, and he had seen several of the newer workers moving dark-faced through the crates, eyes flicking at him distrustfully. He knew better than to outstay his welcome. Besides, victors shouldn’t dance near their fallen foes, as the Blacksmith would say. The road ahead was long enough, and the gathering clouds were heavy with water. Time to be off.

‘Come on, then.’

The cart groaned beneath its new cargo as they began the slow descent back towards the village, aching like an old man in winter.

*

The afternoon was dwindling on towards evening when they drew past the first of the houses. In the east, the Teeth thrust upwards like black daggers, opening the belly of the clouds, and cold, thick water began to fall in sheets across the jagged slopes below. The men and women of Rindon hurried through the low stone buildings with downcast eyes, headed for their thick doors and warm hearths, quickly disappearing out of the deluge. But Cal had always liked the rain. The shimmering reflectiveness of a world underwater. The distorted sharpness of it. So, instead of taking shelter with the rest, he shrugged himself a little deeper into his cloak, and kept walking. The donkey moaned in disapproval, and they rattled slowly along the narrow, muddy street, making for the forge beyond the village’s edge, and for home. Water ran in thick rivulets down the animal’s glistening coat, and Cal could feel it soaking through his clothes, clinging to his skin. The path was empty, by now, and water gleamed around his feet, pouring in streams from the thatched roofs. Even the inn had closed its doors, leaving only the glimmer of firelight around the edges of the shutters. The stony shapes of the village drew past him in a slow blur. Shale clicked beneath the wheels, half-lost to the rain, and the cart rumbled on.

‘Cal!’

He started, looking back over his shoulder. The Innkeep’s boy was standing under the eaves of the inn, scowling. The youth’s fair hair was dry, and he was leaning casually against the door, ill-fitted shirt draped haphazardly over his slender shoulders. Lokk had always been handsome, and now, with his youth dragging on towards manhood, there was a little more sharpness to his jaw than there had been, a dash of fair stubble on his still soft, rounded cheeks. Even frowning, his mouth was curling like a dried leaf. Lokk was always smiling.

'Trying to catch your death?’ Lokk demanded. ‘You’re cracked.’

‘My master is.’ Cal replied, grinning. ‘What’s your excuse?’

‘Escaping Carel for a moment.’ Lokk chuckled.

‘Does she need another potscrubber? Beats the smithy.’

‘My heart bleeds for you, poor, clever Cal.’ Lokk rolled his eyes. ‘Get inside, will you. Wait this out by the fire.’

Cal shook his head. ‘Got to get this back.’

‘Don’t be an ass. It’ll pass soon.’ Lokk told him. ‘Beast knows better than you do.’

Cal glanced down at the dejected shape of the donkey beside him, staring sullenly at the dirt.

‘Fine.’ he relented, starting to turn the cart around.

‘Can’t stand all this water.’ Lokk said as they began to steer the cart off the path. ‘Much dryer, down west, in the Stones. Another summer or two, and we’ll be out of this place for good.’

Cal smiled agreeably, but didn’t reply, lowering his eyes a little uncomfortably. Together they found a space for the donkey in the narrow stable bay beside the inn, covered from the rain. The animal seemed as grateful as a donkey could seem, drying beneath the thatching with some day-old hay, and they left him to his grazing, heading for the promise of shelter. The inn door creaked as it opened, a creak of satisfying sturdiness, and Cal found himself suddenly bathed in the accumulated warmth of the fire. The Watcher’s Nest had always been a place of slow things, the quiet unhurriedness of lazy thoughts and careful words. Where the name had come from, no one seemed to remember, or had decided not to care. The common room was broad, scattered with wooden tables and benches, worn in the way of an old walking stick, made comfortable by the touch of many hands. A few working men were spread unevenly amongst the seats, breaking their fast in dour silence. But the amber light was warm, and there was a smell of fresh bread on the air. Cal smiled. It was a place familiar to him in a way that few places were. The place where he had started to know the names of things. Of cedarwood and lavender, peppered bread and spiced ham, woodsmoke on beams of ebony. He realised suddenly how hungry he was.

For the moment, though, he ignored his belly, and followed Lokk over to the bar, wiping the rain from his face. Behind it, a young woman in a loose tunic and ale-stained apron was balanced precariously on a narrow stool, face obscured behind the rows of iron-banded barrels racked against the ceiling. Lokk cleared his throat, giving Cal a look.

Stolen novel; please report.

‘Back from your important business in the stables already, are you?’ the young woman asked dryly, still busy with the barrels.

‘One of the beasts was terrified. Had to bring him inside. Can’t have him running off.’ Lokk replied. ‘Ugly brute, but it couldn’t be helped.’

A small, exasperated noise came from behind the barrels, and the young woman dropped lithely to the floor from her stool, scowling. Carel was a year or so the boys’ senior, and even the looseness of her smock could not quite hide her womanly curves. Her hair was fair, like her brother’s, and fell down about her shoulders in a sea of delicate curls, framing the soft lines of her face. As she landed, she caught sight of Cal, and her frown deepened.

‘Poor thing.’ she agreed, looking back at her brother. ‘Did you try watering him?’

‘Everything but ale.’ Lokk replied, giving Cal a concerned look.

‘Well, no time like the present.’ Carel’s scowl faded, and she favoured Cal with a small smile, cheeks dimpling. Cal felt a little heat returning to his lips. ‘Father just opened a new barrel from Westmere. Lowlanders might not know Westri wine from horse piss, but they know their ales.’

‘What’d’you know about wine?’ Lokk snorted.

‘More than you.’ Carel snorted back, looking at Cal. ‘How about it, then?’

‘A little early for me.’

‘Too early?’ Lokk demanded, eyeing him incredulously. ‘I think Da has a saying about that…’

Cal rolled his eyes. Carel chuckled, and he found himself smiling.

'Lokk, you lazy sod! Get in here!' a man's voice bellowed somewhere in the back. Lokk flinched.

'Duty calls.' he murmured, hopping over the bar and vanishing through a swinging door, scowling.

'You sure about that ale?' Carel asked as her brother disappeared, brown eyes watching him.

'Not today.' Cal said, cursing the Blacksmith silently.

Carel shrugged, hopping back onto the stool and busying herself with the stubborn cask above the bar again.

'He's working you harder than usual.'

Cal blinked, and Carel laughed.

'Haven't seen you in nearly two weeks. I notice.'

'Ah.' Cal hesitated, finding himself suddenly self-conscious. On the other side of the bar, Carel cursed as she fumbled with the cask. It gave an alarming lurch, and Cal was over the bar without thinking, holding up his arms to catch it. Carel ignored him, hopping nimbly down from the stool, plucking the falling barrel easily from the air above Cal’s waiting hands and dropping it onto the bar. He blinked, embarrassed, suddenly aware of how close she was, and felt his face redden. Then she turned away, busying herself with the cask again.

‘Any sign of all that mad old wolf giving you a breather, soon?’ she asked him, casting an eye back over her shoulder.

He sighed. ‘Not likely.’

‘Shame.’

A moment of quiet. Cal squirmed. He was almost wishing he was back looking at the Blacksmith's scowling face when the door behind the bar came to his rescue, swinging open noisily. A man in a stained apron spilled through, face ruddy and sweating. The Innkeep had never been the slimmest man, but he'd added a few extra inches to his waist in the last few years, leaving him with the comfortably swollen belly of a man well into his fortieth decade. Otherwise, little had changed since Cal had arrived on his doorstep all those years ago. Sandy hair shot with grey, lazily stubbled cheeks, a smile a wide as his children's, if a little less mischievous. He was frowning as he entered, but the moment he saw his guest, a warm smile spread across his face, and Cal found himself smiling back.

‘Cal!’ he beamed. Cal had always liked the Innkeep's voice. It was soft and kind, unbothered, in the way many of the hillfolk were, with finishing every word it started. A safe voice. Nothing like the blunt authority of the Blacksmith, or the devious riddling of the Old Man. As he entered, Carel took her cue, bowing out quickly through the door behind him. Cal thought he caught the smallest of smiles flicker across the Innkeep's face, but he made no comment.

‘Makers’ arse, if you don't look skinnier every time I see you.’ the older man frowned. ‘That brute still feeding you?’

‘Of course. Wouldn't risk me keeling over. Who'd do all the work?’

‘Damn right! What else are children for?’ he grinned. ‘Did those whelps of mine not offer you a drink?’

‘They did. A little early for me, though.’ Cal replied apologetically.

‘Never too early for ale, lad. Best to start the evening as you mean to finish it. Still, won't let you leave without a little something to warm your belly.’ he smiled, winking at him conspiratorially. ‘Got some fried potatoes and ham left over from lunch. Still warm...’

‘Thank you, but I should be getting back.’

‘If you say so.’ the Innkeep relented, producing a small, worn pipe from behind his apron and began to tamp down at the weed.

Cal raised an eyebrow. ‘Thought you gave that up?’

‘So I have, if it’s Carel asking. Always smoky in here, though. Gets into the clothes, it does.’ He grinned. ‘You been up at Solen’s?’

‘For my sins.’

The Innkeep snorted. ‘Little weasel, that one. Taken on some new hands, too. From down west, by the look of them.’

Cal thought of the dark-faced men with their curious eyes, frowning. ‘I saw.’

‘Lowlanders don’t last long in a place like this. Made of butter, that lot. Not like us hillfolk.’ He grinned, patting his belly. ‘Men made of granite, in these hills.’

Cal didn’t reply. He looked towards the window, where giant spears of rain were slicing down with a sound like distant thunder, and a little flash of white lit the grey sky.

‘Reminds me,’ the Innkeep was saying, looking for a light for his pipe. ‘Had a stranger in here asking questions, yesterday. Might’ve been one of Solen’s new folk. Didn’t get much of a good look at him.’

Cal frowned. ‘Questions?’

‘Asking after that Greycloak fellow, one what lives up in the hills, hereabouts.’

Cal blinked, suddenly realising who he was talking about. The Old Man. A Greycloak? He supposed he’d never given it much thought. His mind felt a little muddy, blurred. He frowned at himself. He was exhausted.

The Innkeep lowered his voice, giving the scattered patrons a glance, and leaned a little closer. ‘Now, look, I know it’s none of my business, but people talk. Saying you go visiting up near the old stormtower more than most. Thought you might want to know someone was asking questions.’

Cal blinked. Apparently the Blacksmith was right. He needed to be more careful. ’What’d you tell him?’

‘Nout. Those Greycloak types are a dangerous sort, no matter what folk say. Not that I hold much water with that magic nonsense, mind, but dangerous all the same.’ he paused scowling around his pipe. ‘Besides, no good’ll come of strangers asking questions. Trust these city folk about as far as I can spit. Too much air up here, goes to their heads.’

Cal frowned. ‘I should be going.’

‘See that you come back soon, boy.’ the Innkeep told him, chewing at the end of his pipe. ‘He’s working you hard, that’s the Makers’ truth. But I reckon a man needs two things to be happy. Ale and good cooking. Ain’t no life at all without those, especially when they’re free. Call it repayment for giving you up to that madman in the first place.’

Cal gave the Innkeep his thanks, excusing himself and heading for the door. He looked back from the doorstep, hesitating,amd found the Innkeep right where he’d left him, face flashing amber in the glow of his pipe, blowing smoke rings into the air with a contented smile on his ruddy, stubbled cheeks. Then went out again into the rain, alone, frowning to himself.

*

By the time he arrived back at the Blacksmith’s cottage, the day was drawing on towards evening, and the sun was beginning to droop behind the western pines, smeared like wet red paint with the endless deluge of rain. He tended quickly to the donkey, and the iron, eager to be out of it, then hurried towards the promising glimmer of firelight from the window.

The cottage door swung closed behind him with a thud, and the sound of the rain and wind vanished. He threw off his cloak and wiped the water from his face, raking fingers through his sodden hair.

‘You’re late.’ the Blacksmith told him bluntly, looking up. He was sitting in a chair beside the fire, one hand scratching idly at the pale scar under his coal-black beard, bald head gleaming. The chair looked almost comically small beneath his enormous frame, and his shoulders covered most of the wall behind him. There was a mug on the table beside him, and dark liquid swilled gently against its rim. The cottage was not large, and it made room only for the most necessary of things. The small hearth, the small table beside it. The low shelves, stuffed with a modestly necessary collection of pots and pans, a handful of scratched plates. The nightwood chest in the corner, of course, too, weighing against the stone floor, black with waiting. Even the stairs leading to Cal’s attic were barely wide enough for feet. The shadows of the evening were creeping in, amber light and shifting shadows swirling across the bare stone walls. Cal hung his cloak up beside the door, and came over towards the fire, holding his hands out to the flames.

‘Iron’s in the forge.’ he told the Blacksmith, blinking the rain from his eyes. ‘Donkey’s in the stable.’

‘You’ve been at the Nest.’

Cal hesitated, opening his mouth, then closed it again.

‘Pipe smoke.’

‘You reek of it.’ the Blacksmith’s dark eyes flickered. ‘Thought he gave it up?’

‘Apparently not.’ Cal replied, shivering, rubbing his hands together.

‘Out with it, then.’ the Blacksmith grumbled, staring at him.

‘One and a half coppers.’

The Blacksmith nodded. ‘A good deal.’ He looked back into the fire, and his scar gleamed hotly under his beard. ‘Solen is a shrewd little toad.’

Cal thought of the merchant watching him go, red-faced and scowling.

‘A toad with a leaky warehouse.’ Cal grinned. ‘Rust gets in real quick, this time of year. Much quicker than a caravan from the lowlands.’

‘Well played, boy.’ the Blacksmith said quietly. The boy thought he saw a twinkling of amusement in his eyes for a moment, and then it was gone.

‘Here’s the rest.’ Cal replied, reaching inside his cloak and dropping a jingling, if a little depleted, purse onto the table. His master’s praise was rare. He caught sight of a fresh loaf on the table, and his stomach growled at him hungrily. He hadn’t eaten in hours. He reached out to snatch it up, but the Blacksmith held up a hand to stop him.

‘Wait.’ he told him, dark eyes unyielding. ‘The most prominent chroniclers of the Valian Fractures.’

‘Deronis, Oritan, and Molaer.’ Cal replied without hesitation, still eyeing the bread.

‘Best carbon ratio for a wagon strut?’

‘One part in a hundred.’

A pause. The fire whispered. The Blacksmith shifted in his seat, taking a swig from his mug.

‘You are distracted.’

Cal blinked. The Blacksmith was watching him with his black eyes, scar gleaming in the firelight.

‘Out with it, boy. What has you spooked?’

Cal hesitated. ‘Just something the Innkeep said.’

‘Do I have to ask him, to hear it?’ the Blacksmith grumbled.

‘No, I…’ Cal trailed off, frowning. ‘Said a stranger was asking questions at the Nest. Asking about an old man living in the hills. A Greycloak.’

‘And he thought this would interest you?’

Cal hesitated, lowering his eyes.

‘I told you that you were being careless, boy. The villagers have taken notice of your exploring.’

‘You’d rather I was locked up here day and night?’ Cal demanded, cheeks suddenly hot.

‘Don’t be a fool, boy. The innkeep may not care, but these are superstitious folk, here. They will not take kindly to boys who seek the company of Cursed Ones.’

Cal glared at him, anger hot on his tongue. The bearded Blacksmith watched him, unmoved. He gritted his teeth.

‘You would go to him.’

It was not a question. He could feel the Blacksmith’s black eyes boring into his skin. He swallowed, then nodded. ‘If someone is asking questions… I should warn him. If they think he’s a Greycloak… Well, I doubt they’ll be friendly.’

The Blacksmith was silent for a long moment. The fire cracked, and outside, the soft rhythm of the fading rain brushed against the thatching. Even the nightwood chest in the corner seemed to withdraw into the quiet, gleaming like a shadow.

‘No. The old man can look after himself.’

‘But…’

‘No!’ he thundered suddenly. The Blacksmith was gone, and in his place, a shadow filled the room, giant shoulders towering against the rafters. Anger filled the air like the weight before a storm, heavy and writhing. The fire sputtered, and Cal recoiled, blinking.

Then the shadow was gone. The air cleared again, and the fire flickered. Cal straightened. The Blacksmith was sitting again in the chair beside the hearth, not terrible and angry, but hunched, aged like an old root. He looked at once very tired, like the final throes of ale from an empty barrel. His long, pale scar gleamed beneath his black beard, eyes sunk deep into hollow cheeks. Not for the first time, Cal wondered what had come before. Before Rindon. What places and things and names had he known, before the boy had come up out of the trees?

‘You will remain here, for now. You will work, and you will forget about the hills, and about old men and their stories.’ the Blacksmith said at length, his voice distant and faded. ‘I will go to Solen’s myself, next time.’

‘But-’

‘Do not question me a second time, boy. Remember our word.’ the Blacksmith rumbled, but his anger was gone, and his voice was nothing but weary. His dark eyes flashed, but they did not look up. ‘You may go. I have no more need of you, today.’

Cal hesitated a moment longer, staring at him. Anger was building in the pit of his belly, hot as embers, and his head ached. But Cal knew better. He had learned better. So he snatched up the loaf from the table, and hurried up the stair into his little attic chamber, leaving the scarred Blacksmith and the nightwood chest brooding in the growing shadows of the fire. He ate, and he sat, staring out of his small window in the sloping roof, at pine-swept hills, gleaming wetly in the last throes of the day. He watched, and he waited, as was his way, while the light faded, and the shadow of the mountains pressed against the faint glimmer of the veiled moon. He looked, and he thought of the Old Man in his cave, of his stories, of the names he had taught him. He thought of a horizon watched from the black slopes, of cities and seas and names beyond count, and a word crept into his heart. A word became thought, and a thought became resolve, and it hardened in him like gemstone, pressed in with the terrible ache of his waiting.

Before sleep found him, he went for a moment to the stairs, looking down into the room beyond. The Blacksmith’s broad shoulders were laid prone against the hard edge of the floor, facing away into the dimming embers of the fire. As Cal watched, he stirred fitfully in his sleep, turning onto his back, and Cal saw that his lips were shifting wordlessly, eyelids twitching, bald head sheened with sweat. Cal thought about going down to him, but then his lips fell still, and he turned away towards the dead fire again, submerging his face shadow.

Cal watched for a while longer, but the Blacksmith did not stir again, and at last he went in search of his own sleep, frowning softly in the dark.

*

It was morning, when he came up out of the trees. The sun made him squint, and the cliffs bled black into the sky.

‘We will walk, today.’ the Old Man told him, grey and gold and gleaming.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked him.

‘You will see.’ the Old Man replied.

So they walked, and the sun glowed hot overhead, ripped with cloud. Away from the cave, over a ledge of black stone, across a stream of flashing water, and further still. The mountains were at their side, taller than the sky, and he stared at them as he went, too small, still, to see beyond them.

‘Has anyone ever climbed them?’ he asked as they went, eyes full of the sky, and the Old Man looked up at the Teeth, thinking for a moment.

‘Not since the Breaking.’ he replied. ‘But every wall has its doors.’

‘So there is a way?’

‘The way is watched, by those who remember.’

‘Greycloaks.’ The boy frowned.

‘The ones who guard the dark.’ the Old Man agreed.

He blinked. ‘How can you guard the dark?’

The Old Man’s eyes gleamed.

‘You’d have to ask them.’

The boy stared at the mountains, and the mountains stared back, and the black hills filled his eyes, smothering the sky.