It might have been easier if I could have re­mained FitzChiv­alry. I knew boat­men who plied the river trade, and I could have worked my pas­sage to Trade­ford. But that FitzChiv­alry had died. He couldn’t very well go look­ing for work at the docks. I could not even visit the docks, for fear of be­ing re­cog­nized. I lif­ted my hand to my face, re­call­ing what Burrich’s look­ing glass had shown me. A streak of white in my hair to re­mind me where Regal’s sol­diers had laid my scalp open. I fingered the new con­fig­ur­a­tion of my nose. There was also a fine seam down my right cheek un­der my eye, where Regal’s fist had split my face. No one would re­mem­ber a Fitz that bore these scars. I would let my beard grow. And if I shaved my hair back from my brow as the scribes did, that might be enough change to put off the cas­ual glance. But I would not de­lib­er­ately ven­ture among those who had known me.

  I’d be afoot. I’d never made an ex­ten­ded jour­ney on foot.

  Why can’t we just stay right here? A sleepy in­quiry from Nighteyes. Fish in the creek, game in the woods be­hind the hut. What more do we need? Why must we go?

  I must. I must do this to be a man again.

  You truly be­lieve you wish to be a man again? I sensed his dis­be­lief but also his ac­cept­ance that I would try. He stretched lazily without get­ting up, spread­ing wide the toes of his fore­paws. Where are we go­ing?

  Trade­ford. Where Regal is. A far jour­ney up the river.

  Are there wolves there?

  Not in the city it­self, I am sure. But there are wolves in Far­row. There are wolves in Buck still, too. Just not around here.

  Save we two, he poin­ted out. And ad­ded, I should like to find wolves where we go.

  Then he sprawled over and went back to sleep. That was part of what it meant to be a wolf, I re­flec­ted. He would worry no more un­til we left. Then he would simply fol­low me and trust his sur­vival to our abil­it­ies.

  But I had be­come too much a man again to do as he did. I began to gather pro­vi­sions the very next day. Des­pite Nighteyes’ protest, I hunted for more than we needed to eat each day. And when we were suc­cess­ful, I did not let him gorge, but jerked some of the meat, and smoked some of it. I had enough leather skill from Burrich’s per­petual har­ness mend­ing to make my­self soft boots for the sum­mer. I greased my old boots well and set them aside for winter use.

  Dur­ing the days, while Nighteyes dozed in the sun, I gathered my herbs. Some were the com­mon medi­cinal herbs I wished to have on hand: wil­low­bark for fever, rasp­berry root for cough, plantain for in­fec­tion, nettle for con­ges­tion, and the like. Oth­ers were not so whole­some. I made a small ce­dar box and filled it. I gathered and stored the pois­ons as Chade had taught me: wa­ter-hem­lock, death­cap mush­room, night­shade, eld­er­berry pith, bane­berry and heart­seize. I chose as best I could, for ones that were taste­less and odour­less, for ones that could be rendered as fine powders and clear li­quids. Also I har­ves­ted elf­bark, the power­ful stim­u­lant Chade had used to help Ver­ity sur­vive his ses­sions of Skilling.

  Regal would be sur­roun­ded and pro­tec­ted by his co­terie. Will was the one that I most feared, but I would un­der­es­tim­ate none of them. I had known Burl as a big husky boy and Car­rod had been some­thing of a dandy with the girls. But those days were long past. I had seen what Skill use had made of Will. It had been long since I had made con­tact with either Car­rod or Burl, and I would make no as­sump­tions about them. They were all trained in the Skill, and though my nat­ural tal­ent had once seemed much stronger than theirs, I had found out the hard way that they knew ways of us­ing the Skill that not even Ver­ity had un­der­stood. If I were Skill at­tacked by them, and sur­vived, I would need the elf­bark to re­store my­self.

  I made a second case, large enough to hold my poison box, but oth­er­wise de­signed like a scribe’s case, to thus cre­ate the guise of a wan­der­ing scribe. The case would pro­claim me as that to the chance ac­quaint­ance. Quills for pens I ob­tained from a nest­ing goose we am­bushed. Some of the powders for pig­ments I could make, and I fash­ioned bone tubes and stop­pers to hold them. Nighteyes grudgingly fur­nished me hair for coarse brushes. Finer brushes I at­temp­ted with rab­bit hair, but with only par­tial sat­is­fac­tion. It was very dis­cour­aging. A proper scribe was ex­pec­ted by folk to have the inks, brushes and pens of his trade. I re­luct­antly con­cluded that Pa­tience had been right when she told me I wrote a fine hand, but could not claim the skills of a full scribe. I hoped my sup­plies would suf­fice for any work I might pick up on the way to Trade­ford.

  There came a time when I knew I was as well pro­vi­sioned as I could be and that I should leave soon, to have the sum­mer weather for trav­el­ling. I was eager for re­venge, and yet strangely re­luct­ant to leave this cabin and life. For the first time that I could re­call, I arose from sleep when I awoke nat­ur­ally, and ate when I was hungry. I had no tasks save those I set my­self. Surely it would not hurt if I took a bit of time to re­cover my phys­ical health. Al­though the bruises of my dun­geon time had long faded, and the only ex­ternal signs of my in­jur­ies were scars, I still felt oddly stiff some morn­ings. Oc­ca­sion­ally, my body would shock me with a twinge when I leaped after some­thing, or turned my head too quickly. A par­tic­u­larly strenu­ous hunt would leave me trem­bling and dread­ing a seizure. It would be wiser, I de­cided, to be fully healed be­fore I de­par­ted.

  So we lingered a time. The days were warm, the hunt­ing was good. As the days slipped by, I made peace with my body. I was not the phys­ic­ally hardened war­rior I had been the sum­mer be­fore, but I could keep pace with Nighteyes through a night’s hunt­ing. When I sprang to make a kill, my ac­tions were quick and sure. My body healed, and I set be­hind me the pains of the past, ac­know­ledging them, but not dwell­ing on them. The night­mares that had plagued me were shed like the last rem­nants of Nighteyes’ winter coat. I had never known a life so simple. I had fi­nally made peace with my­self.

  No peace lasts long. A dream came to wake me. Nighteyes and I arose be­fore dawn, hunted, and to­gether killed a brace of fat rab­bits. This par­tic­u­lar hill­side was riddled with their war­rens, and catch­ing enough to fill ourselves had de­gen­er­ated quickly to a silly game of leap­ing and dig­ging. It was past dawn be­fore we left off our play. We flung ourselves down in dap­pling birch shade, fed again from our kills and drowsed off. Some­thing, per­haps the un­even sun­light on my closed eye­lids, had plunged me into a dream.

  I was back in Buck­keep. In the old wat­ch­room, I sprawled on a cold stone floor in the centre of a circle of hard-eyed men. The floor be­neath my cheek was sticky-slick with cool­ing blood. As I panted open-mouthed, the smell and the taste of it com­bined to fill my senses. They were com­ing for me again, not just the man with the leather-gloved fists, but Will, elu­sive in­vis­ible Will, slip­ping si­lently past my walls to creep into my mind. ‘Please, wait, please,’ I begged them. ‘Stop, I beg you. I am noth­ing you need fear or hate. I’m only a wolf. Just a wolf, no threat to you. I’ll do you no harm, only let me be gone. I’m noth­ing to you. I’ll never trouble you again. I’m only a wolf.’ I lif­ted my muzzle to the sky and howled.

  My own howl­ing woke me.

  I rolled to my hands and knees, shook my­self all over and then came to my feet. A dream, I told my­self. Only a dream. Fear and shame washed over me, dirty­ing me in their pas­sage. In my dream I had pleaded for mercy as I had not in real­ity. I told my­self I was no craven. Was I? It seemed I could still smell and taste the blood.

  Where are you go­ing? Nighteyes asked lazily. He lay deeper in the shade and his coat cam­ou­flaged him sur­pris­ingly well there.

  Wa­ter.

  I went to the steam, splashed sticky rab­bit blood from my face and hands, and then drank deeply. I washed my face again, drag­ging my nails through my beard to get the blood out. Ab­ruptly I de­cided I couldn’t stand the beard. I didn’t in­tend to go where I ex­pec­ted to be re­cog­nized any­way. I went back to the shep­herd’s hut to shave.

  At the door, I wrinkled my nose at the musty smell. Nighteyes was right; sleep­ing in­side had dampened my sense of smell. I could hardly be­lieve I had abided in here. I pad­ded in re­luct­antly, snort­ing out the man smells. It had rained a few nights ago. Damp had got into my dried meat and soured some of it. I sor­ted it out, wrink­ling my nose at how far gone it was. Mag­gots were work­ing in some of it. As I checked the rest of my meat sup­ply care­fully, I pushed aside a nag­ging sense of un­eas­i­ness. It was not un­til I took out the knife and had to clean a fine dust­ing of rust from it that I ad­mit­ted it to my­self.

  It had been days since I had been here.

  Pos­sibly weeks.

  I had no idea of time’s pas­sage. I looked at the spoiled meat, at the dust that over­lay my scattered pos­ses­sions. I felt my beard, shocked at how much it had grown. Burrich and Chade had not left me here days ago. It had been weeks. I went to the door of the hut and looked out. Grass stood tall where there had been path­ways across the meadow to the stream and Burrich’s fish­ing spot. The spring flowers were long gone, the ber­ries green on the bushes. I looked at my hands, at dirt in­grained in the skin of my wrists, old blood caked and dried un­der my nails. At one time, eat­ing raw flesh would have dis­gus­ted me. Now the no­tion of cook­ing meat seemed pe­cu­liar and for­eign. My mind veered away and I did not want to con­front my­self. Later, I heard my­self plead­ing, to­mor­row, later, go find Nighteyes.

  You are troubled, little brother?

  Yes. I forced my­self to add, You can­not help me with this. It is man trouble, a thing I must solve for my­self.

  Be a wolf in­stead, he ad­vised lazily.

  I did not have the strength to say either yes or no to that. I let it go by me. I looked down at my­self, at my stained shirt and trousers. My cloth­ing was caked with dirt and old blood, and my trousers tattered off into rags be­low my knees. With a shud­der, I re­called the Forged ones and their ragged gar­ments. What had I be­come? I tugged at the col­lar of my shirt and then aver­ted my face from my own stink. Wolves were cleaner than this. Nighteyes groomed him­self daily.

  I spoke it aloud, and the rusti­ness of my voice only ad­ded to it. ‘As soon as Burrich left me here, alone, I re­ver­ted to some­thing less than an an­imal. No time, no clean­li­ness, no goals, no aware­ness of any­thing save eat­ing and sleep­ing. This was what he was try­ing to warn me about, all those years. I did just what he had al­ways feared I would do.’

  La­bor­i­ously I kindled a fire in the hearth. I hauled wa­ter from the stream in many trips and heated as much as I could. The shep­herds had left a heavy ren­der­ing kettle at the hut, and this held enough to half-fill a wooden trough out­side. While the wa­ter heated, I gathered soap­wort and hor­se­tail grass. I could not re­mem­ber that I had ever be­fore been this dirty. The coarse hor­se­tail grass scrubbed off lay­ers of skin with the grime be­fore I was sat­is­fied I was clean. There were more than a few fleas float­ing in the wa­ter. I also dis­covered a tick on the back of my neck and burned him off with an em­ber twig from my fire. When my hair was clean, I combed it out and then bound it back once more in a war­rior’s tail. I shaved in the glass Burrich had left me, and then stared at the face there. Tanned brow and pale chin.

  By the time I had heated more wa­ter and soaked and poun­ded my clothes clean, I was start­ing to un­der­stand Burrich’s fan­at­ical and con­stant clean­li­ness. The only way to save what was left of my trousers would be to hem them up at the knee. Even then, there was not much wear left in them. I ex­ten­ded my spree to my bed­ding and winter cloth­ing as well, wash­ing the musty smell out of them. I dis­covered that a mouse had bor­rowed from my winter cloak to make a nest. That, too, I men­ded as well as I could. I looked up from drap­ing wet leg­gings on a bush to find Nighteyes watch­ing me.

  You smell like a man again.

  Is that good or bad?

  Bet­ter than smelling like last week’s kill. Not so good as smelling like a wolf. He stood and stretched, bow­ing low to me and spread­ing his toes wide against the earth. So. You do wish to be a man after all. Do we travel soon?

  Yes. We travel west, up the Buck River.

  Oh. He sneezed sud­denly, then ab­ruptly fell over on his side, to roll about on his back in the dust like a puppy. He wiggled hap­pily, work­ing it well into his coat, and then came to his feet to shake it all out again. His blithe ac­cept­ance of my sud­den de­cision was a bur­den. What was I tak­ing him into?

  Night­fall found me with every gar­ment I owned and all my bed­ding still damp. I had sent Nighteyes hunt­ing alone. I knew he would not soon re­turn. The moon was full and the night sky clear. Plenty of game would be mov­ing about to­night. I went in­side the hut and built up the fire enough to make hearth cakes from the last of the meal. Weevils had got into the flour and spoiled it. Bet­ter to eat the meal now than to waste it sim­il­arly. The simple cakes with the last of the grainy honey from the pot tasted in­cred­ibly good. I knew I had best ex­pand my diet to in­clude more than meat and a hand­ful of greens each day. I made an odd tea from the wild mint and the tips of the new nettle growth, and that, too, tasted good.

  I brought in an al­most-dry blanket and spread it out be­fore the hearth. I lay on it, drows­ing and star­ing into the fire. I ques­ted for Nighteyes, but he dis­dained to join me, pre­fer­ring his fresh kill and the soft earth un­der an oak at the edge of the meadow. I was as alone, and as hu­man, as I had been in months. It felt a little strange, but good.

  It was when I rolled over and stretched that I saw the packet left on the chair. I knew every item in the hut by heart. This had not been here when last I was. I picked it up and snuffed at it, and found Burrich’s scent faintly upon it, and my own. A mo­ment later I real­ized what I had done and re­buked my­self for it. I had best start be­hav­ing as if there were al­ways wit­nesses to my ac­tions, un­less I wished to be killed as a Wit­ted one again.

  It was not a large bundle. It was one of my shirts, some­how taken from my old clothes chest, a soft brown one I’d al­ways fa­voured, and a pair of leg­gings. Bundled up in­side the shirt was a small earth­en­ware pot of Burrich’s un­guent that he used for cuts, burns and bruises. Four sil­ver bits in a little leather pouch; he’d worked a buck in the stitch­ing on the front. A good leather belt. I sat star­ing at the design he’d worked into that. There was a buck, antlers lowered to fight, sim­ilar to the crest Ver­ity had sug­ges­ted for me. On the belt, it was fend­ing off a wolf. Dif­fi­cult to miss that mes­sage.

  I dressed be­fore the fire, feel­ing wist­ful that I had missed his visit, and yet re­lieved that I had. Know­ing Burrich, he’d prob­ably felt much the same at hik­ing up here and then find­ing me gone. Had he brought me these present­able clothes be­cause he wanted to per­suade me to re­turn with him? Or to wish me well on my way? I tried not to won­der what his in­tent had been, or his re­ac­tion to the aban­doned hut. Clothed again, I felt much more hu­man. I hung the pouch and my sheath knife from the belt and cinched it around my waist. I pulled a chair up be­fore the fire and sat in it.

  I stared into the fire. I fi­nally al­lowed my­self to think about my dream. I felt a strange tight­en­ing in my chest. Was I a cow­ard? I was not sure. I was go­ing to Trade­ford to kill Regal. Would a cow­ard do that? Per­haps, my traitor mind told me, per­haps a cow­ard would, if it was easier than seek­ing out one’s king. I pushed that thought from my mind.

  It came right back. Was killing Regal the right thing to do, or merely what I wished to do? Why should that mat­ter? Be­cause it did. Maybe I should be go­ing to find Ver­ity in­stead.

  Silly to think about any of it, un­til I knew if Ver­ity were still alive. If I could Skill to Ver­ity, I could find out. But I had never been able to Skill pre­dict­ably. Ga­len had seen to that, with the ab­use that had taken my strong nat­ural tal­ent for Skill and turned it into a fickle and frus­trat­ing thing. Could that be changed? I’d need to be able to Skill well, if I wanted to get past the co­terie to Regal’s throat. I’d have to learn to con­trol it. Was the Skill some­thing one could teach one­self to mas­ter? How could one learn a thing if one did not even know the full scope of it? All the abil­ity that Ga­len had neither beaten into nor out of me, all the know­ledge that Ver­ity had never had time to teach me: how was I to learn all that on my own? It was im­pos­sible.

  I did not want to think of Ver­ity. That, as much as any­thing, told me that I should. Ver­ity. My prince. My king now. Linked by blood and the Skill, I had grown to know him as I knew no other man. Be­ing open to the Skill, he had told me, was as simple as not be­ing closed to it. His Skill-war­ring with the Raid­ers had be­come his life, drain­ing away his youth and vi­tal­ity. He had never had the time to teach me to con­trol my tal­ent, but he had given me what les­sons he could in the in­fre­quent chances he had. His Skill-strength was such that he could im­pose a touch on me, and be one with me for days, some­times weeks. And once, when I had sat in my prince’s chair, in his study be­fore his workt­able, I had Skilled to him. Be­fore me had been the tools of his map-mak­ing and the small per­sonal clut­ter of the man who waited to be king. That one time, I had thought of him, longed for him to be home to guide his king­dom, and had simply reached out and Skilled to him. So eas­ily, without pre­par­a­tion or even real in­tent. I tried to put my­self in that same frame of mind. I had not Ver­ity’s desk nor clut­ter to put him in mind, but if I closed my eyes, I could see my prince. I took a breath and tried to call forth his im­age.