Every morning Gar would prod him awake and work through the sword dance with him, but the stablemaster did not try to drag him into conversation. His look was enough. It said, We will talk, whether sooner or later, as patient as a hovering hawk.
On the fifth day after Dun Carreg’s fall Corban was sitting in his customary position on the fisher-boat, Storm beside him. Dath was a half-visible figure climbing on the mast up above. Farrell walked unsteadily towards him, swaying as the boat rose and fell.
‘Thank your wolven for me,’ Farrell said as he settled into the nets beside Corban.
‘For what?’
‘Food to break our fast with this morning, and dinner last night. I don’t like being hungry. Makes me angry.’
‘Well we wouldn’t want that. Not while you’ve got that hammer strapped to your back, anyway.’
Farrell chuckled, patting Thannon’s hammer-head which poked over his shoulder.
Corban thought of his da, lying in the keep at Dun Carreg, Buddai curled beside him. He felt a stab of guilt, that he could be making jests so soon after his da’s death. He shook his head. ‘How’d you get so big, anyway?’ he asked, glancing at Anwarth, Farrell’s da. He was a short man, the absolute opposite of Farrell, although they shared something in their features, the angle of their jaws, eyes set beneath heavy brows.
‘You haven’t seen my mam, then,’ Farrell said. ‘She always said I got my big bones from her. Da must like big women . . .’
Corban smiled, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders begin to lift. It was good, somehow, just to sit and talk with a friend.
‘Hope she’s all right,’ Farrell muttered, his face creasing. ‘Mind you, she can look after herself. Me and da can vouch for that.’ He tried to smile, but wasn’t completely successful. ‘Saw you training, this morning.’
Corban nodded.
‘It was quite something. Never seen anything like it.’
‘Gar’s been training me a while now. About two years.’
‘Explains why you’re so good with a sword, then. I couldn’t believe it when you beat Rafe.’
Corban shrugged. ‘I don’t know where Gar learned all that stuff, though. Always thought it was from Helveth . . .’ He trailed off. As it turned out Gar wasn’t from Helveth, after all. Turned out most of what he thought about his past was wrong, lies piled on top of one another.
Time passed, the boat rising and falling rhythmically. Corban felt exhausted, worn out by his churning emotions as much as the events of the last few days. Gwenith and Gar sat together. His mam’s eyes were red rimmed and sunken, her face pale and drawn. Storm nuzzled his palm and he absently stroked her head. The things his mam had said about him swirled in his mind like flotsam in a whirlpool, different parts bobbing to the surface. Like what she had said about him being hunted – by Asroth – how could that be? He had never given much thought to Asroth or Elyon before, was not even sure if he believed them to be real, and so far had not particularly cared. Elyon, the maker of all, and Asroth, his great enemy, leading his host of the Fallen. Corban knew the tales well enough, of Asroth’s corruption of the first giants and men, the War of Treasures that followed, and then the Scourging. Until now he’d thought they were little more than faery stories told to keep children in their cots at night. He looked about, at his companions littered around the boat. Beyond the railings he caught a glimpse of the coastline, a dark smudge of dense trees and cliffs. Lifting his hand in front of his face, he stared at his fingers, saw black dirt making patterns in the creases of his skin, the swirling design of his fingerprints. Someone or something must have made all of this, I suppose, he thought. But Asroth, hunting me . . . ?
He shook his head.
Brina sat down beside him. Farrell glanced at the healer, then looked away. No matter how the recent events had affected everyone, Brina still had a reputation. Corban weathered her silent stare as long as he could.
‘Where’s Craf?’ he asked, more to break the silence than anything else.
‘There,’ she said with a nod.
Craf was sitting on the prow of the ship, staring straight ahead like some tattered figurehead.
‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Corban muttered.
‘There’s a surprise,’ Brina snorted. ‘All right then, but this time I will be asking a few questions of you, too. Perhaps we can do a trade.’
‘What could I possibly know that would interest you?’
‘A trade – yes or no?’
‘Perhaps.’ Corban eyed her suspiciously. ‘Let’s hear each other’s questions first, then decide.’
Brina scowled. ‘Well?’ she prompted.
‘The night we fled Dun Carreg, on the way to the tunnels. You and Heb . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘That mist. Did you . . . ?’
‘Ah, a good question.’ She almost smiled at him. ‘My question, then: Gar.’
Corban sighed. He knew it would have to be about the stablemaster. ‘Go on.’
‘He came to Dun Carreg when you and Cywen were bairns?’