But the city Rogan walked now was a different place than the Ralanast he remembered from before the war.
The cathedral still stood, but many of the grand old buildings were now in ruins, the victims of dirigible bombing in the days before the Black Army's conquest of the city. Ralanast's residents walked with a defeated air, heads down and shoulders hunched. Many were starving; the Halrana were far down the list of those their occupiers wanted fed first. Worst of all, any who resisted, who spoke out against the Black Army or those of their own people who'd gone over to the enemy's side, any who complained about the thieving of his goods, or the rape of his wife, simply disappeared.
Rogan had heard about the prison camp half a day's journey from Ralanast. It was a crafty insurance policy, for who would organise a resistance when they had loved ones in the camp?
As he walked the streets, exercising his injured leg and thinking about the future, Rogan looked at the boy Tapel walking by his side, and wondered what he should do.
A stone turned under Rogan's foot and he tripped, only saved by the walking stick in his hand.
"Are you all right?" Tapel asked quickly.
"I'm fine," Rogan said. What use could he be anyway?
The lad looked at him with worship in his eyes, and Rogan sighed. Tapel was young, perhaps only eleven or twelve, and the brave boy who'd found him alive on the battlefield outside Ralanast several weeks ago obviously looked up to him. He'd questioned Rogan endlessly about the bodies of the enemy Tapel had found littered in a circle around where Rogan had fallen. Had he really defeated that many men?
He was a bladesinger, Rogan had said. He was the blademaster. He was the man who instructed and led the bladesingers. "I was," he had said. Not: "I am".
Rogan leaned on his walking stick and looked around him, at the crumbling stone of a once-beautiful fountain. He was as broken as this city here, once strong and proud, now just a relic of the past.
He now knew all about the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta. When he'd heard it was Miro, the son of the old High Lord, Serosa, who had led the Alturans to victory, he'd wept. Actually wept! He was so proud of the lad he'd once taught swordsmanship at the Pens, and who now commanded the allied forces, the last bastion against the evil of the Primate and his Black Army. Could the lad, now a grown man, have use for him now?
Rogan saw Tapel's mother, Amelia, up ahead, and for a time his thoughts shifted away from blood and warfare. Now there was a beautiful woman, still handsome in spite of the hardships of war, still determined despite the occupation of her city. The late afternoon sun shone on her golden hair, and she pushed the fringe away from her eyes in a girlish gesture, squinting as she looked to the right and the left. The years had given Amelia a face of strength and wisdom, with more smile lines than wrinkles and deep brown eyes.
Rogan had to be honest with himself — he knew what he had stayed here for. He tousled Tapel's hair. "There's your mother, lad. Let's say hello."
Before he could get Amelia's attention, she darted into the door of a terraced house, quickly entering the building and shutting the door after her. She was only gone a moment, and when she emerged Rogan was surprised to see a basket in her hands, covered in a cloth of patterned red and white squares.
Amelia looked around her again, but she didn't look behind her and so didn't notice Rogan and her son. She walked a dozen paces and then took a hard right turn into an alley.
Rogan's heart sank when he saw two Tingaran legionnaires in black tabards follow her in. He didn't know what she was up to but he knew it was something dangerous.
"Stay here, Tapel. And, lad, this time I mean it," Rogan said.
Rogan started to walk as fast as he could with his gammy leg, hobbling along with his stick out and sandals slapping against the cobbled stones. "Scratch you, boy," Rogan cursed when he saw Tapel following behind him. "Just stay back and stay out of sight, all right?"
Tapel nodded, his eyes wide with fear.
Rogan reached the alley and turned in. Amelia stood terrified, her face white, and the two legionnaires were talking to her.
"What's in the basket?" a thin Tingaran with a sibilant voice said.
"Medicines," Amelia said, her voice shaking. "Woman's things. You don't need to see them."
"Actually we do," the thin man said. "C'mon, let's see 'em."
His companion, a shorter man with a hooked nose, said. "Heard of the prison camp? You want to go there?"
The thin man spoke again, his voice wheedling. "You can keep your basket secret, and we'll take you to the camp so they can question you there. Or you can show us, and we'll decide how bad it is. Maybe it's just some liquor you're trying to keep from us, eh? That what it is? Maybe some valuables you're trying to smuggle out? Maybe —"
The thin man's voice was suddenly cut off as something hit his head with a great crack, splitting the skull with a precision blow. The legionnaire crumpled to the ground without a sound.