But they had brought worse news. Ludicrous news. Dan-Tor was Oklar, the Uhriel. Sumeral had come again and raised Derras Ustramel in Narsindal. No, Berryn had thought, rebelliously. Lord or no, Arinndier, you’re wrong. Dan-Tor was a bad old devil, but I can’t accept that kind of nonsense.

And he had resolved to bring himself nearer the heart of this turmoil. Someone had to start talking sense.

Thus when Arinndier had dismissed his escort, fearing that such a patrol might be none too popular in Orthlund, Rede Berryn had offered the services of himself and Tel-Mindor as guides.

‘We know the border area well, Lord,’ he had said. ‘Tel-Mindor doesn’t look like much, but he’s worth the three of us put together. And no one’s going to be upset by a limping old duffer like me.’

On the journey, however, Arinndier had talked quite freely of all the events that had happened since the Geadrol had been suspended, and Berryn had found the threads binding him to his old commonsense reality were stretched to breaking point. Now, in his simple statement, the young Orthlundyn had severed them utterly.

Oddly, the Rede felt more at ease, as many past events took on a new perspective.

Battle nerves, he thought suddenly. Just battle nerves. All that furious turmoil before you finally turn round and face the truth. The realization made him smile.

‘You find the idea amusing,’ Fyndal said, misinter-preting the smile and uncertain whether to be indignant or reproachful.

The Rede looked at him intently. Young men pre-paring for war again, and doubtless old men encouraging them. Well he’d be damned if he’d play that game!

‘No,’ he said, his voice stern but sad. ‘I’ve ridden the Watch and done my time in Narsindal.’ He tapped the scar on his head. ‘I’m only sorry I stopped watching too soon. Sorry for my sake, sorry for your sake.’