He is convinced it is starstone metal. And it is strange: twice as heavy as it should be, and a black that seems to suck light into it. I’ve never seen anything like it. But starstone . . . ?
The more Drem thought about it, though, he had to admit that there was a slim possibility that his da was correct, regardless of how farfetched the likelihood seemed. Besides, his da was a practical man, not given to wild theories or flights of fancy. Local legends told how the lake beyond Kergard was supposedly a crater formed by the original Starstone as it crashed to earth. He looked back over his shoulder at the foothills they had only recently left, one hand coming up absently to stroke the bear claw that he had tied to a strip of leather about his neck.
Behind those hills reared the jagged teeth of the Bonefells, looking as if they were holding up the sky. He squinted his eyes and tried to imagine the Starstone coursing over those mountain peaks, spitting great gobs of fire and smoke and blazing a trail of flames.
He blinked and nodded to himself.
Who is to say that part of the Starstone did not crack and fall away as it plummeted to earth.
He frowned, unsure of what it meant if what they carried hidden in their pack was indeed a piece of the fabled stone.
‘No time to stop, we’re almost home,’ his da called back to him.
I hope it’s not a piece of the Starstone. Look what happened last time – blood, war and death throughout the Banished Lands.
With a sense of unease seeping through him, Drem hobbled on.
Drem smiled to see their homestead appear, the rooftop of their barn visible beyond a copse of oak and alder. It was not as isolated as it had been when he and Olin had left. A handful of fresh-built homes were running along the line of a stream that curled out of thickening woodland to the north and fed into the lake. They passed a fence line belonging to the last of these new homes and turned onto the grass-choked path that led to their homestead. A dog barked and a voice called out. Drem saw a big hound standing in their path, lips curled back in a snarling growl. He was old, scars criss-crossing his dun coat, one ear half-chewed. A voice called out, an old man was hurrying from the porch of a timber house, a hobbling run using a long staff for help. A younger woman appeared a dozen steps behind him. The old man reached his fence, gasping for breath and leaned upon the timber rail for a moment, though he still managed to wave the tip of the spear he was carrying in Drem’s direction. Drem had thought it a walking staff, but the old man seemed to have other ideas as he pointed it at Drem and his da.
‘That your hound?’ Olin asked, keeping one eye on the snapping, snarling creature.
‘It is,’ the woman said as she reached them. She was of an age with Drem, as far as he could tell, hair as yellow as the sun, tied and pinned tight to her head, blue eyes creased with worry as she reached a hand out to the old man.
He snatched his arm away and tutted at her.
‘I’d be grateful if you’d call him off.’ Olin nodded at the hound.
‘Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t,’ the old man said. ‘Who are you? And what business do you have to come creeping about my home?’
‘We’re not creeping!’ Drem said, annoyed at the unjust and inaccurate accusation.
The spear-point levelled at Drem’s chest.
‘That’s our hold,’ Olin said, stepping between Drem and the old man and pointing to their home.
‘No one lives there,’ the old man snapped. ‘Been empty since we came here.’
‘It’s been empty for a little over six moons,’ Olin said, ‘and like as not it is cold and damp inside and needs a hearth-fire lit. It’s our home, though, built by our own hands. Didn’t have neighbours when we left, but looks like we’ve more than a few now.’
The woman looked at their packhorses, the skins and furs tied in big bundles.
‘Calder the smith said that trappers built that place, Grandfather,’ she said to the old man. ‘He said they’d be back for winter, as well.’
‘He did?’
‘He did,’ she said.
‘Huh, then why didn’t you say so?’ he snapped at Drem and his da.
‘We just did,’ said Drem.
The old man lowered his spear-point, a little begrudgingly, Drem thought.
‘Your name is Olin, is it not?’ the woman said.
Olin frowned at that, but eventually nodded into the growing silence. ‘Aye, it is.’
‘Well met and welcome home,’ the girl said. ‘I’m Fritha, and my grandfather is Hask.’
‘Well met,’ Olin said. ‘And this is my son, Drem.’
‘It’ll be good to have some neighbours out here,’ Fritha said, ‘so close to the forest and mountains.’
Drem looked where she was pointing, at woodland just behind his own hold, and hills beyond.
‘They’re not mountains,’ Drem corrected, not liking it when things were said wrong. His da gave him a flat stare.
‘Well, whatever they are, we’re happy to meet you,’ Fritha said. ‘Isn’t that right, Grandad?’
‘What? Yes, I suppose we are,’ Hask muttered. ‘Can never be too careful,’ he added with a shake of his spear.
‘True enough,’ Olin said.
The hound was still growling and barring the way. Olin looked pointedly at it.
‘We’ve been sleeping on root and rock for six moons; it would be nice to light a fire and see our beds.’
‘Of course,’ Fritha said.
‘Surl, enough,’ Hask snapped and the hound slunk over to his heel with one last snapping growl and then it was silent.
Olin bade them farewell and led Drem and the line of ponies on.
‘You can be very diplomatic when you put your mind to it,’ Drem said to his da as they drew near the gates to their hold.
‘Don’t have to use a sharp edge to deal with every situation,’ Olin replied. ‘More often than not a kind or polite word will fix a disagreement.’ He looked a long moment at Drem. ‘And you don’t have to correct every inaccuracy you hear in a conversation.’
‘I just don’t like it when people get things wrong.’ It was more than that – a compulsion far beyond habit or annoyance. Drem felt that he had to do it, a pressure would grow within him until he voiced his corrections. He knew his da didn’t like him doing it, had often spoken to him about it.
‘I know that, son, but other people, they can take it wrong, think you’re criticizing, being rude. Some people don’t react well if they think you’re disrespecting them.’
‘But—’
‘I know, you don’t mean any harm, but just think before you speak, eh? And hold your tongue if that’s at all possible. Even if you don’t understand why it’s important. Do it for your old da.’
Drem winced, knowing that it would pain him, but he nodded. ‘I’ll try,’ he conceded.
Olin smiled and patted Drem’s shoulder.