Arathan took up Besra’s reins, which had been left to dangle. He had to grope to slide his boot into the stirrup, almost losing his balance, and then he pulled himself up and on to the saddle.
Draconus led them out through the gate, followed by Raskan and then Sagander, who curtly waved Arathan into his wake.
Glancing back, a moment before the gate’s shadow fell over him, Arathan saw his half-sisters, atop the steps before the door of the house. They were in their nightclothes: loose and flowing and black as ink. Above this filmy darkness their faces seemed deathly pale. A faint shiver ran through him at the sight, and then he faced forward once more and, trailed by his charger on a long lead, rode out from the courtyard.
The Borderswords were mounted on dun-coloured horses, the beasts lighter-boned yet longer-legged than the stable horses being ridden by those of the Lord’s household. In addition to their riders, the animals carried bundled tents and cookware, as well as packs bulging with dry foods and casks of water.
Feeling uncomfortable, burdened by the armour and the heavy helm on his head, Arathan guided his horse after Sagander — until without warning the tutor reined in. Besra edged deftly around the sudden obstacle, only to draw up when Sagander reached out and took hold of the bridle. ‘Look back, student. Go on, do as I say.’
The Borderswords were falling in behind Draconus and Raskan as they set out on the curving track that would lead them westward.
Arathan twisted in his saddle and studied the gate and the wall of the estate.
‘Tell me what you see,’ Sagander demanded, his voice oddly rough.
‘The Great House of Lord Draconus,’ Arathan replied.
‘Your entire world, student. Until this day.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Over with now.’
Arathan nodded.
‘Your sisters didn’t want to see you off. But your father commanded. Those girls despise you, Arathan.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you know why?’
He thought for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘I was born to the wrong mother.’
Sagander snorted. ‘Your life as you knew it is now over. You must look to yourself and none other, for all that awaits you. Even my own teaching is mostly done. Your half-sisters — they do not expect to ever see you again.’
‘They wore black, yes.’
‘Foolish boy, they always wear black. But yes, they wanted you to see.’ He released Besra’s bridle. ‘Come, let us catch up. You ride at my side, but I should tell you, your father was disappointed this morning — he did not expect to have to wait for you.’
‘I know, sir.’
‘Even more disappointing in his eyes, Arathan, was that you chose the gelding over the mare.’
‘But — I was told that I should not ride Hellar too much-’
‘When you leave the Great House, you ride your charger. Bastard son you may be, but in the eyes of the staff, you are still the Lord’s son. Do you understand me?’
‘I was not so instructed-’
‘Such instruction should not have been necessary! You have not just shamed your father, you have shamed me as well! I am your tutor who clearly has failed to teach you anything!’
‘I am sorry, sir.’
‘And you left behind the scales. What use the weights and measures without the scales?’
Ahead, the track opened out, winding and dipping through low hills. Beyond that, according to the maps Arathan had perused, the path angled slightly south, leading to the settlement of Abara Delack. Past Abara Delack was the Bareth Solitude, and at the far end of that vast plain there waited the lands of the Azathanai and the Jaghut.
‘I trust you brought with you my gifts, including the special one for the Lord of Hate?’
‘I have, sir.’
‘Tell me what it is — no, do not bother. After all, it is too late to change it, isn’t it? I expect it is worthy.’
‘That is for the Lord of Hate to decide.’
Sagander shot him a look. ‘I remain your tutor,’ he snapped. ‘You will speak to me with proper respect.’
‘Always, sir. My apologies.’
‘You are not particularly likeable, Arathan. That is your problem. No — both hands on the reins! Would you have your father look back to see you chewing your nails again? Sit straight in that saddle.’
The day would be hot, and the way ahead promised no hope of shade. Arathan could feel sweat trickling down beneath his heavy clothing. It was hard to believe that only a short time ago he had been shivering, feeling lost in a courtyard he had known all his life. Now, the sky was lightening, unrelieved by any cloud, and it was the blue of ice and steel, and the new sun felt hot on his back.
They continued on at a steady trot, suddenly amongst the denuded hills. A track cutting to the right looked vaguely familiar to Arathan. He pointed. ‘Where does that one lead, sir?’
Sagander seemed to flinch. ‘The quarries. I am not surprised you remember it.’
‘I don’t, really.’
‘Just as well.’
‘It’s where I almost drowned, isn’t it? Down at the end of that trail, where the cattle are driven to slaughter.’
‘You are better to forget all that, Arathan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arathan fixed his attention on the back of his father — the shoulders wider than Sergeant Raskan’s, wider than those of any other man Arathan could recall seeing. A heavy cloak of tanned hide hung down to drape across the rump of Calaras. It had been dyed black but that was years past and now it was bleached with salty sweat and years in the sun, giving it a mottled, shadowy hue.
Raskan kept his horse a step behind his lord, positioned on the left. Arathan did not think they were speaking. It suddenly struck Arathan that Ivis had not made it back in time to see them all off. His father had sent the master-at-arms away the day before, along with a troop of Houseblades. Arathan regretted that: he would have liked to say goodbye.
By mid-morning they had ridden clear of the hills and before them stretched land that had once been forested, perhaps a hundred or more years ago. Now it was covered in gorse and bracken, deceptively deep in places where uprooted trees had left pits. The track that crossed it was narrow, forcing the riders into single file. The land sweeping out to either side swarmed with butterflies, bees and tinier insects, all feeding on the small yellow, purple and white flowers studding every bush. Birds dipped and dived low overhead.
They met no one else and the horizons seemed too far away. The forest that had once stood here must have been vast. An entire city could have been built of the wood harvested here. Where had it gone?
Sagander had begun complaining of aches, groaning with every jolt in the saddle as the pace quickened slightly. He’d fallen silent shortly after passing the quarries and now that he rode ahead, the prospect of twisting round in his saddle to address Arathan was clearly too much, though once or twice he did glance back, if only to confirm that his student remained behind him.
Arathan welcomed the relative silence, although he too felt worn out. He hoped that for the rest of this journey he would be ignored by everyone. Life was easier that way. With attention came expectation, and with expectation there was pressure, and he did not do well with pressure. If he could slide through the rest of his life, unnoticed, unremarkable in any way, he would be content enough.
The sun was directly overhead when they reached an area roughly cleared of bracken, where the ground had been pounded level and two long stone troughs flanked the trail’s resumption at the far end. One contained burlap sacks of feed for the horses and the other was brimming with water. This was the nominal edge of the Lord’s land, and riders had been out the day before to supply the station. A halt was called, and at last Arathan was able to dismount, his legs weak as he stepped away from the gelding. He stood for a moment, watching the others, until a faint tug from his mount’s reins awakened him to the fact that he needed to lead his horses to the troughs.