You sleep too soundly. Are you sick?

  No. Just stu­pid.

  I never be­fore no­ticed that it made you sleep soundly.

  He poked me with his nose again and I pushed him away. I squeezed my eyes shut for a mo­ment, then opened them again. Noth­ing had im­proved. I tossed a few more sticks of wood onto the em­bers of last night’s fire. ‘Is it morn­ing?’ I asked sleepily, aloud.

  The light is just start­ing to change. We should go back to the rab­bit war­ren place.

  You go ahead. I’m not hungry.

  Very well. He star­ted off, then paused in the open door­way. I do not think that sleep­ing in­side is good for you. Then he was gone, a shift­ing of grey­ness from the threshold. Slowly I lay down again and closed my eyes. I would sleep for just a short time longer.

  When I awoke again, full day­light was stream­ing in the open door. A brief Wit-quest found a sa­ti­ated wolf drows­ing in the dap­pling sun­light between two big roots of an oak tree. Nighteyes had small use for bright sunny days. Today I agreed with him, but forced my­self back to yes­ter­day’s res­ol­u­tion. I began to set the hut to rights. Then it oc­curred to me that I would prob­ably never see this place again. Habit made me fin­ish sweep­ing it out any­way. I cleared the ashes from the hearth, and set a fresh arm­load of wood there. If any­one did pass this way and need shel­ter, they would find all ready for them. I gathered up my now-dry cloth­ing and set everything I would be tak­ing with me on the table. It was pathet­ic­ally little if one were think­ing of it as all I had. When I con­sidered that I had to carry all of it on my own back, it seemed plen­ti­ful. I went down to the stream to drink and wash be­fore try­ing to make it into a man­age­able pack.

  As I walked back from the stream, I was won­der­ing how dis­gruntled Nighteyes was go­ing to be about trav­el­ling by day. I had dropped my ex­tra leg­gings on the door­step some­how. I stooped and picked them up as I entered, toss­ing them onto the table. I sud­denly real­ized I wasn’t alone.

  The gar­ment on the door­step should have warned me, but I had be­come care­less. It had been too long since I had been threatened. I had be­gun to rely too com­pletely on my Wit-sense to let me know when oth­ers were around. Forged ones could not be per­ceived that way. Neither the Wit nor the Skill would avail me any­thing against them. There were two of them, both young men, and not long Forged by the look of them. Their cloth­ing was mostly in­tact and while they were dirty, it was not the ground-in filth and mat­ted hair that I had come to as­so­ci­ate with the Forged.

  Most of the times I had fought Forged ones it had been winter and they had been weakened by priva­tion. One of my du­ties as King Shrewd’s as­sas­sin had been to keep the area around Buck­keep free of them. We had never dis­covered what ma­gic the Red Ships used on our folk, to snatch them from their fam­il­ies and re­turn them but hours later as emo­tion­less brutes. We knew only that the sole cure was a mer­ci­ful death. The Forged ones were the worst of the hor­rors that the Raid­ers loosed on us. They left our own kin to prey on us long after their ships were gone. Which was worse: to face your brother, know­ing that theft, murder or rape were per­fectly ac­cept­able to him now, as long as he got what he wished? Or to take up your knife and go out to hunt him down and kill him?

  I had in­ter­rup­ted the two as they were paw­ing through my pos­ses­sions. Hands full of dried meat, they were feed­ing, each keep­ing a wary eye on the other. Though Forged ones might travel to­gether, they had ab­so­lutely no loy­alty to any­one. Per­haps the com­pany of other hu­mans was merely a habit. I had seen them turn sav­agely upon one an­other to dis­pute own­er­ship of some plun­der, or merely when they had be­come hungry enough. But now they swung their gazes to me, con­sid­er­ing. I froze where I was. For a mo­ment, no one moved.

  They had the food and all my pos­ses­sions. There was no reason for them to at­tack me, as long as I didn’t chal­lenge them. I eased back to­ward the door, step­ping slowly and care­fully, keep­ing my hands down and still. Just as if I had come upon a bear on its kill, so I did not look dir­ec­tly at them as I gingerly eased back from their ter­rit­ory. I was nearly clear of the door when one lif­ted a dirty hand to point at me. ‘Dreams too loud!’ he de­clared an­grily. They both dropped their plun­der and sprang after me.

  I whirled and fled, smash­ing solidly chest to chest with one who was just com­ing in the door. He was wear­ing my ex­tra shirt and little else. His arms closed around me al­most re­flex­ively. I did not hes­it­ate. I could reach my belt knife and did, and punched it into his belly a couple of times be­fore he fell back from me. He curled over with a roar of pain as I shoved past him.

  Brother! I sensed, and knew Nighteyes was com­ing, but he was too far away, up on the ridge. A man hit me solidly from be­hind and I went down. I rolled in his grip, scream­ing in hoarse ter­ror as he sud­denly awakened in me every sear­ing memory of Regal’s dun­geon. Panic came over me like a sud­den poison. I plunged back into night­mare. I was too ter­ri­fied to move. My heart hammered, I could not take a breath, my hands were numb, I could not tell if I still gripped my knife. His hand touched my throat. Frantic­ally I flailed at him, think­ing only of es­cape, of evad­ing that touch. His com­pan­ion saved me, with a sav­age kick that grazed my side as I thrashed and con­nec­ted solidly with the ribs of the man on top of me. I heard him gasp out his air, and with a wild shove I had him off me. I rolled clear, came to my feet and fled.

  I ran powered by fear so in­tense I could not think. I heard one man close be­hind me, and thought I could hear the other be­hind him. But I knew these hills and pas­tures now as my wolf knew them. I took them up the steep hill be­hind the cot­tage and be­fore they could crest it I changed dir­ec­tion and went to earth. An oak had fallen dur­ing the last of the winter’s wild storms, rear­ing up a great wall of earth with its tangled roots, and tak­ing lesser trees down with it. It had made a fine tangle of trunks and branches, and let a wide slice of sun­light into the forest. The black­ber­ries had sprung up re­joicing and over­whelmed the fallen gi­ant. I flung my­self to the earth be­side it. I squirmed on my belly through the thorn­i­est part of the black­berry canes, into the dark­ness be­neath the oak’s trunk and then lay com­pletely still.

  I heard their angry shout­ing as they searched for me. In a panic I threw up my men­tal walls as well. ‘Dreams too loud,’ the Forged one had ac­cused me. Well, Chade and Ver­ity had both sus­pec­ted that Skilling drew the Forged ones. Per­haps the keen­ness of feel­ing it de­man­ded and the out­reach­ing of that feel­ing in Skill touched some­thing in them and re­minded them of all they had lost.

  And made them want to kill whomever could still feel? Maybe.

  Brother?

  It was Nighteyes, muted some­how, or at a very great dis­tance. I dared open to him a bit.

  I’m all right. Where are you?

  Right here. I heard a rust­ling and sud­denly he was there, bel­ly­ing through to me. He touched his nose to my cheek. Are you hurt?

  No. I ran away.

  Wise, he ob­served, and I could sense that he meant it.

  But I could sense too that he was sur­prised. He had never seen me flee from Forged ones. Al­ways be­fore I had stood and fought, and he had stood and fought be­side me. Well, those times I had usu­ally been well armed and well fed, and they had been starved and suf­fer­ing from the cold. Three against one when you’ve only a belt knife as a weapon are bad odds, even if you know a wolf is com­ing to help you. There was noth­ing of cow­ar­dice in it. Any man would have done so. I re­peated the thought sev­eral times to my­self.

  It’s all right, he soothed me. Then he ad­ded, Don’t you want to come out?

  In a while. When they’ve gone, I hushed him.

  They’ve been gone a long time, now, he offered me. They left while the sun was still high.

  I just want to be sure.

  I am sure. I watched them go, I fol­lowed them. Come out, little brother.

  I let him coax me out of the brambles. I found when I emerged that the sun was al­most set­ting. How many hours had I spent in there, senses deadened, like a snail pulled into its shell? I brushed dirt from the front of my formerly clean clothes. There was blood there as well, the blood of the young man in the door­way. I’d have to wash my clothes again, I thought dumbly. For a mo­ment I thought of haul­ing the wa­ter and heat­ing it, of scrub­bing out the blood, and then I knew I could not go into the hut and be trapped in there again.

  Yet the few pos­ses­sions I had were there. Or whatever the Forged ones had left of them. By moon­rise I had found the cour­age to ap­proach the hut. It was a good full moon, light­ing up the wide meadow be­fore the hut. For some time I crouched on the ridge, peer­ing down and watch­ing for any shad­ows that might move. One man was ly­ing in the deep grass near the door of the hut. I stared at him for a long time, look­ing for move­ment.

  He’s dead. Use your nose, Nighteyes re­com­men­ded.

  That would be the one I had met com­ing out the door. My knife must have found some­thing vi­tal; he had not gone far. Still, I stalked him through the dark­ness as care­fully as if he were a wounded bear. But soon I smelled the sweet­ish stench of some­thing dead left all day in the sun. He was sprawled face down in the grass. I did not turn him over, but made a wide circle around him.

  I peered through the win­dow of the hut, study­ing the still dark­ness of the in­terior for some minutes.

  There’s no one in there, Nighteyes re­minded me im­pa­tiently.

  You are sure?

  As sure as I am that I have a wolf’s nose and not a use­less lump of flesh be­neath my eyes. My brother …

  He let the thought trail off, but I could feel his word­less anxi­ety for me. I al­most shared it. A part of me knew there was little to fear, that the Forged ones had taken whatever they wanted and moved on. An­other part could not for­get the weight of the man upon me, and the brush­ing force of that kick. I had been pinned like that against the stone floor of a dun­geon and poun­ded, fist and boot, and I had not been able to do any­thing. Now that I had that memory back, I wondered how I would live with it.

  I did, fi­nally, go into the hut. I even forced my­self to kindle a light, once my grop­ing hands had found my flint. My hands shook as I hast­ily gathered what they had left me and bundled it into my cloak. The open door be­hind me was a threat­en­ing black gap through which they might come at any mo­ment. Yet if I closed it, I might be trapped in­side. Not even Nighteyes keep­ing watch on the door­step could re­as­sure me.

  They had taken only what they had im­me­di­ate use for. Forged ones did not plan bey­ond each mo­ment. All the dried meat had been eaten or flung aside. I wanted none of what they had touched. They had opened my scribe’s case, but lost in­terest when they found noth­ing to eat in there. My smal­ler box of pois­ons and herbs they had prob­ably as­sumed held my scribe’s col­our pots. It had not been tampered with. Of my clothes, only the one shirt had been taken, and I had no in­terest in re­claim­ing it. I’d punched its belly full of holes any­way. I took what was left and de­par­ted. I crossed the meadow and climbed to the top of the ridge, where I had a good view in all dir­ec­tions. There I sat down and with trem­bling hands packed what I had left for trav­el­ling. I used my winter cloak to wrap it, and tied the bundle tightly with leather thongs. A sep­ar­ate strap­ping al­lowed me to sling it over a shoulder. When I had more light, I could de­vise a bet­ter way to carry it.

  ‘Ready?’ I asked Nighteyes.

  Do we hunt now?

  No. We travel. I hes­it­ated. Are you very hungry?

  A bit. Are you in so much of a hurry to be away from here?

  I didn’t need to think about that. ‘Yes. I am.’

  Then do not be con­cerned. We can both travel and hunt.

  I nod­ded, then glanced up at the night sky. I found the Tiller in the night sky, and took a bear­ing off it. ‘That way,’ I said, point­ing down the far side of the ridge. The wolf made no reply, but simply rose and trot­ted pur­pose­fully off in the dir­ec­tion I had poin­ted. I fol­lowed, ears pricked and all senses keen for any­thing that might move in the night. I moved quietly and noth­ing fol­lowed us. Noth­ing fol­lowed me at all, save my fear.

  The night trav­el­ling be­came our pat­tern. I had planned to travel by day and sleep by night. But after that first night of trot­ting through the woods be­hind Nighteyes, fol­low­ing whichever game trails led in a gen­er­ally cor­rect dir­ec­tion, I de­cided it was bet­ter. I could not have slept by night any­way. For the first few days I even had trouble sleep­ing by day. I would find a vant­age point that still offered us con­ceal­ment and lie down, cer­tain of my ex­haus­tion. I would curl up and close my eyes and then lie there, tor­men­ted by the keen­ness of my own senses. Every sound, every scent would jolt me back to alert­ness, and I could not re­lax again un­til I had arisen to as­sure my­self there was no danger. After a time, even Nighteyes com­plained of my rest­less­ness. When fi­nally I did fall asleep, it was only to shud­der awake at in­ter­vals, sweat­ing and shak­ing. Lack of sleep by day made me miser­able by night as I trot­ted along in Nighteyes’ wake.

  Yet those sleep­less hours and the hours when I trot­ted after Nighteyes, head pound­ing with pain, those were not wasted hours. In those hours I nur­tured my hatred of Regal and his co­terie. I honed it to a fine edge. This was what he had made of me. Not enough that he had taken from me my life, my lover, not enough that I must avoid the people and places I cared about, not enough the scars I bore and the ran­dom trem­blings that over­took me. No. He had made me this, this shak­ing, frightened rab­bit of a man. I had not even the cour­age to re­call all he had done to me, yet I knew that when push came to shove, those memor­ies would rise up and re­veal them­selves to un­man me. The memor­ies I could not sum­mon by day lurked as frag­ments of sounds and col­ours and tex­tures that tor­men­ted me by night. The sen­sa­tion of my cheek against cold stone slick with a thin layer of my warm blood. The flash of light that ac­com­pan­ied a man’s fist strik­ing the side of my head. The gut­tural sounds men make, the hoot­ing and grunt­ing that is­sues from them as they watch someone be­ing beaten. Those were the jagged edges that sliced through my ef­forts at sleep. Sandy-eyed and trem­bling, I would lie awake be­side the wolf and think of Regal. Once I had had a love that I had be­lieved would carry me through any­thing. Regal had taken that from me. Now I nur­tured a hatred fully as strong.

  We hunted as we trav­elled. My res­ol­u­tion al­ways to cook the meat soon proved fu­tile. I man­aged a fire per­haps one night out of three, and only if I could find a hol­low where it would not at­tract at­ten­tion. I did not, how­ever, al­low my­self to sink down to be­ing less than a beast. I kept my­self clean, and took as much care with my cloth­ing as our rough life al­lowed me.

  My plan for our jour­ney was a simple one. We would travel cross coun­try un­til we struck the Buck River. The river road par­alleled it up to Tur­lake. A lot of people trav­elled the road; it might be dif­fi­cult for the wolf to re­main un­seen, but it was the swift­est way. Once there, it was but a short dis­tance to Trade­ford on the Vin River. In Trade­ford, I would kill Regal.

  That was the total sum of my plan. I re­fused to con­sider how I would ac­com­plish any of this. I re­fused to worry about all I did not know. I would simply move for­ward, one day at a time, un­til I had met my goals. That much I had learned from be­ing a wolf.

  I knew the coast from a sum­mer of man­ning an oar on Ver­ity’s war­ship the Rurisk, but I was not per­son­ally fa­mil­iar with the in­lands of Buck Duchy. True, I had trav­elled through it once be­fore, on the way to the Moun­tains for Kettricken’s pledging ce­re­mony. Then I had been part of the wed­ding cara­van, well moun­ted and well pro­vi­sioned. But now I trav­elled alone and on foot, with time to con­sider what I saw. We crossed some wild coun­try, but much, too, had once been sum­mer pas­tur­age for flocks of sheep, goats and cattle. Time after time, we tra­versed mead­ows chest-high in un­grazed grasses, to find shep­herds’ huts cold and deser­ted since last au­tumn. The flocks we did see were small ones, not nearly the size of flocks I re­called from pre­vi­ous years. I saw few swine­herds and goose-girls com­pared to my first jour­ney through this area. As we drew closer to the Buck River, we passed grain­fields sub­stan­tially smal­ler than I re­called, with much good land given back to wild grasses, not even ploughed.

  It made small sense to me. I had seen this hap­pen­ing along the coast, where farm­ers’ flocks and crops had been re­peatedly des­troyed by the raids. In re­cent years, whatever did not go to the Red Ships in fire or plun­der was taken by taxes to fund the war­ships and sol­diers that scarcely pro­tec­ted them. But up­river, out of the Raid­ers’ reach, I had thought to find Buck more pros­per­ous. It dis­heartened me.

  We soon struck the road that fol­lowed the Buck River. There was much less traffic than I re­called, both on the road and the river. Those we en­countered on the road were brusque and un­friendly, even when Nighteyes was out of sight. I stopped once at a farm­stead to ask if I might draw cold wa­ter from their well. It was al­lowed me, but no one called off the snarling dogs as I did so, and when my wa­ter­skin was full, the wo­man told me I’d best be on my way. Her at­ti­tude seemed to be the pre­vail­ing one.

  And the fur­ther I went, the worse it be­came. The trav­el­lers I en­countered on the roads were not mer­chants with wag­ons of goods or farm­ers tak­ing pro­duce to mar­ket. In­stead they were ragged fam­il­ies, of­ten with all they pos­sessed in a push­cart or two. The eyes of the adults were hard and un­friendly, while those of the chil­dren were of­ten stricken and empty. Any hopes I had had of find­ing day-work along this road were soon sur­rendered. Those who still pos­sessed homes and farms guarded them jeal­ously. Dogs barked in the yards and farm­work­ers guarded the young crops from thieves after dark. We passed sev­eral ‘beg­gar-towns’, clusters of make­shift huts and tents along­side the road. By night, bon­fires burned brightly in them and cold-eyed adults stood guard with staffs and pikes. By day, chil­dren sat along the road and begged from passing trav­el­lers. I thought I un­der­stood why the mer­chant wag­ons I did see were so well guarded.