"Aye," the youth said, "if was."

"The Storm God cast him down," the priest announced. For a thousand thousand years sea and sky had been at war. From the sea had come the iron-born, and the fish that sustained them even in the depths of winter, but storms brought only woe and grief. "My brother Balon made us great again, which earned the Storm God's wrath. He feasts now in the Drowned God's watery halls, with mermaids to attend his every want. It shall be for us who remain behind in this dry and dismal vale to finish his great work." He pushed the cork back into his waterskit "I shall speak with your lord father. How far from here to Hammerhorn?"

"Six leagues. You may ride pillion with me."

"One can ride faster than two. Give me your horse, and the Drowned God will bless you."

"Take my horse, Damphair," offered Steffarion Sparr.

"No. His mount is stronger. Your horse, boy."

The youth hesitated half a heartbeat then dismounted and held the reins for Damphair. Aeron shoved a bare black foot into a stirrup and swung himself onto the saddle. He was not fond of horses-they were creatures from the green lands, and helped to make men weak-but necessity required that he ride. Dark wings, dark words. A storm was brewing, he could hear it in the waves and storms brought naught but evil. "Meet with me at Pebbleton beneath Lord Merlyn's tower," he told his drowned men, as he turned the horse's head.

The way was rough, up hills and woods and stony defiles along a narrow track that oft seemed to disappear beneath the horse's hooves. Great Wyl was the largest of theIronIslands, so vast that some of its lords had holding that did not front upon the holy sea.

Gorold Goodbrother was one such. His keep was in the Hardstone Hills, as far as from the Drowned God's realm as any place in the isles. Gorold's folk toiled down in Gorold's mines, in the stony dark beneath the earth. Some lived and died without setting eyes upon salt water. Small wonder that such folk are crabbed and queer.