Although it was obvious to some that the celebration of Bard's engagement was a timely event to calm the tense climate in Brown-Horn, the majority of the citizens went along with it. For several years already, Bard had been courting the lady Nami Rockin, niece of the primate Mador from Cover-Pass, and if the matter seemed to be suddenly precipitated in a timely manner, it did not prevent the good people of the city from seizing this new subject of gossip, like a hungry dog grasping a bone.

Obviously, some die-hard supporters of the old families took the opportunity to point the finger at this new affront to the Brown-Horn aristocrats: for three generations now, the descendants of Bard had been obstinately disregarding customs, marrying in a completely inappropriate manner outside the traditional upper class.

Nevertheless, these forked tongues were rare, and the matter was not all bad, even among the ancient fortunes. In those uncertain times following the revocation of the Treaty of Pulo, the announcement of a blood bond between Brown-Horn and Cover-Pass, which could easily be interpreted as a tacit alliance, served to appease many anxious minds. It now appeared that Brown-Horn was no longer alone in the face of the tensions which, it was said, continued to grow in the South. This, in spite of everything else, was good news that was unanimously accepted.

Within a few days, the atmosphere changed completely, at least on the surface.

Yesterday's discontents gave way to a miraculous hatching of groups of young girls with dreamy eyes, who, their noses reddened by the cold, whispered to one another while giggling unbearably at the slightest opportunity. The streets were filled with a soft rumor that one might have thought it was springtime had it not been for the frost, couples appeared out of nowhere, walking hand in hand. The shops, usually quiet in this season, were literally overflowing with orders for the upcoming celebrations, and it was as if the city was getting a second wind. All this contrasted painfully with my own despair and, in the same way that I was avoiding the farm, I began to avoid the city little by little.

As the cold weather set in and the year came to an end, walking or fishing became much less fun. Often, I would end up prowling around the Basin, despite the bitter taste the place had left me since Dera's departure. The camp was dull and almost deserted. Only a few scattered yurts were still smoking here and there on the granite ridge, the homes of those who had had no choice but to stay. Old Frieze was one of them. At his venerable age, Frieze relied on his sons to bring him back the goods he traded in the summer, and he preferred to keep himself warm in the Basin working furs or carving his varnished logs rather than undertake a difficult journey that ultimately did no one any favours. Out of idleness and a lack of other options, I began hanging around his stall, providing him with small favours in exchange for a little food, and we would sometimes chat. At first hesitant, the old Chaig soon waited for me to visit him, in spite of my gloomy mood, because the company of other old men, the sick, the crippled, and the drunkards suited him even less than mine. We ended up spending long hours together, and by his fire he would tell me about his life and past adventures, and showed me how to take care of leather or how to boil wood in grease to polish it.

Frieze's yurt, in which we mostly retreated to keep out the cold, was small, but warm and comfortable. There was a strong and pleasant smell of stale grease and leather. The driftwood frame was completely decorated with frayed carvings. It was literally impossible to move around without bending your head, so many hanging treasures, charms made out of bone, wood or chitin, marvelous works, charms and forgotten memories that clicked and tinkled softly in the breeze. It was as if, at the slightest movement, the whole yurt swelled to breathe with a musical breath.

In this universe cradled by strange sounds, the stories of old Frieze took on an almost physical consistency for me. I soon discovered that the joys and tragedies of his past life, and the ease and hindsight with which he told them, distracted me enough for me to begin my own grief.

I smiled with him when he evoked that dark-haired woman he had loved at first glance, all the efforts he had made to seduce her, and the four sons she had given him. Tears also came to my eyes when Frieze told me in a raspy voice how she had died in childbirth from an unexpected pregnancy in her forties, taking with her a stillborn daughter. He also told me about the incredible hunts of his youth, the miraculous fishing and expeditions to the heart of the wilderness, beyond the limits of all known territories, the ogres, scals and all the other strange creatures that still lived there.

When he had finished telling me about his anecdotes, Frieze would tell me about the ancient wars and the hordes, two subjects that interested me greatly. On one hand they nourished my childhood imagination, but on the other hand I had only heard one version of the story, that of the Brownians, and the tales of Frieze raised questions and nuances that had never occurred to me before. I learned that the clans of the past, far from being the bloodthirsty barbarians in search of gold and plunder portrayed by the storytellers of Brown-Horn, were in fact from the far west, where they inhabited vast and fertile lands far beyond the Stone Forest. Centuries and centuries ago, a belligerent and savage people had crossed the mountains that rose north of their territories, fighting the tribes they encountered, slaughtering their warriors like cattle when they resisted instead of fleeing.

Frieze called these people the Seïd, and I had heard this term before, because the terrifying shadow of these demon-men haunted many traditional clan tales. They were attributed with relentless cruelty and inhuman powers that came from the practice of odious magic, the unholy mixture of sap, ink and blood. Hunted by an enemy they could not fight, the only survivors of an alliance that included several dozen tribes, Peygens, Chaigs and Chacts had taken the path of exodus and the Stone Forest. They had finally joined the Fyss territory of the Highlands and had wanted to push further to seek refuge in Brown-Horn, on the other side of the river. This was without counting the walls of Castle-Horn. The migratory movement was stopped there, the arrows of the long brownian bows completed the work begun by the Seïd and the decimated clans returned to the forest to die. The moons passed, a hundred moons of chaos, sacrifices and apocalyptic madness, before calm returned and the afflicted people realized that the demons had not followed them.

These dark tales fit my state of mind very well, and helped me as much to forget my guilt as the jealous grief I felt towards Brindy and Ucar. I kept coming back for more, so much so that I soon visited Frieze daily, and we worked while Frieze talked. As the days went by, I learned, among other things, how Rid One-Arm had climbed the highest cliff in the Stone Forest in search of his beloved, and how the skillful Luas had managed to steal seven axes from his enemies homes.

As Frieze was never out of stories and I came back so often, the old Chaig found himself with a substantial stock of necklaces, mittens and carved bracelets on his arms.

One morning, warmer than the others, we were about to cut off yet another rabbit skin and Frieze was starting the narration of a new comical adventure, when our eyes simultaneously converged on the pile of goods that had grown exponentially on the yurt workbench. We were now running out of room to work. It seemed to me that it had happened all of a sudden, because neither Frieze nor I had realized it. "Well," said the old man, while putting down the skin he was holding to scratch his nose, "I wonder what I'm going to be able to do with all this, and also what I'm going to be able to keep myself busy all through the cold season, if I don't have anything to do because of you." I smiled, which hadn't happened in a long time, and then I started thinking.

Brown-Horn was reaching the culmination of preparations for Bard's union, which was due to take place in a few days - which I didn't give a damn about - but from what I had seen, the local economy was in full swing. Wealthy citizens were coming from Cover-Pass, the inns were packed, and the weekly fairs, usually quiet in this season, were full of onlookers and opportunistic merchants taking advantage of the windfall. After careful consideration, I suggested to Frieze to go and try to sell some of the merchandise in town. I knew that it was not in the old man's habit to frequent the city: those who wanted to do business with him usually went to the Basin to see him directly, or arranged for a third party to take care of the commission. However, I hoped that deep down he would get a little tired of his repetitive days and, even though he sometimes shared the fire of the other families who wintered at the camp, I knew that he missed the activity and the new faces of the high season. I must admit that my idea was not entirely innocent. I was hoping to impress the old merchant with the extent of my knowledge of Brown-Horn. I was therefore delighted when, against my expectations, Frieze approved my idea and made his ankylosed legs crack.

After the merchant's keen eye had selected the best items to barter, we carefully wrapped them in a large blanket. I helped Frieze to strap this load on his back with the help of long straps of worn leather, which had once been part of a braided horse bridle and still smelled like horse sweat. The old man then placed a large peat mound in his hearth, and we left the warmth of the yurt and set off on the bumpy road to Brown-Horn.

It was a beautiful winter day with a pale blue sky, Frieze was whistling distractedly while walking and, despite a light breeze from the north, the cold was not too extreme. In addition, the hardened earth of the road was hard enough so that we did not have to worry about arriving muddy like beggars.

As I had hoped, the turmoil in the city had not subsided, far from it.

Two horsemen trotted past us as we entered the main avenue; my face was grazed by the colorful wool of a long cape with a luxurious cut. We walked in front of a man leading two oxen to the castle. Behind the imposing beasts, a dozen washerwomen were chattering loudly about the rising price of bread.

I had a very precise idea where we could settle down and, to my great pride, Frieze followed me blindly, casting around him a plethora of curious glances, which many passers-by gave him back. Even though most of the Brown-Hornians were regular visitors to the clans, Friezes's face had an exceptional amount of intertwined tattoos on it. His shaved skull and braided beard gave him a fierce look that contrasted with the moderate appearance of the "civilized" Fysses it was usual to meet in the city.

I led Frieze straight to the old gate. We installed the blanket at the corner of the arch, where the Gates alley crosses the path of the Walls, which encircles Horn-Hill like a muddy ring. My reasoning was quite simple: the people from the upper town with money to spend were not far away and the increased affluence of citizens from the lower town dealing with Castle-Horn made us sure to attract customers. After having roughly cleaned up our location, the old Chaig began to advantageously dispose of his goods on the plaid.

He then sat behind them, his back pressed against the dry stone wall that borders the path of the walls. Frieze's wild appearance inevitably attracted customers, but at first it also prevented them from getting too close. The old man, however, had more than one trick up his sleeve, and when he offered one of his wooden marbles to a curious little girl who had stopped her nanny to "look at the drawn man", the atmosphere relaxed considerably and the discussions could finally begin.

The hours passed, and the pale sun soon reached its zenith. Frieze sold a considerable number of mittens to the natives, but also a few necklaces, which an elderly lady from Cover-Pass and her chubby maid found "quite delightful". Personally, I was bored to death.

Frieze had made it clear to me that, despite the fact that his knowledge of the Brown language was quite approximate, I was not to participate in the negotiations. The old man seemed to lose interest in me entirely, cutting off any attempt at discussion with an irritated gesture. Bartering was a serious business.

So I wandered around the arch, scratching in the interstices of the black stones in search of snails that I didn't know what to do with after having accumulated a good twenty of them. I sat for a while on the wobbly little wall, scraping ivy from the cold stones, and then started walking again, blowing on my frozen hands. The inactivity gave me time to think, and my mood soon took on a gloomier hue when inevitably I thought of Robin and Brindy. I began to regret having led Frieze to the city, and also to be very hungry. The sky had finally covered up as if to echo my black thoughts, by a light, fluffy veil that masked the sun enough for winter to rummage under the clothes and bite the flesh and bones underneath.

At the beginning of the afternoon, taking advantage of a lull in business, Frieze finally whistled at me. A fleeting tremor animated his calloused hand. The old man thanked me with a smile for my excellent idea and entrusted me with a few coins, indicating that he now wanted me to go and buy him some food. My stomach rumbled audibly. He smiled even more to indicate that he found some comic value in my discomfiture.

"If there's enough, you can take something for yourself," he chuckled with a sneering look. Frieze had given me enough change for at least four meals, and he knew it.

Happy to be busy and invigorated at the prospect of eating, I grabbed the change and rushed off to the nearest alley. I had previously spotted Grandma Redo at the other end of the street, and the smell of her meat pies (which I loved) had been making my mouth water for hours. Grandma Redo was a kind old woman with poor eyesight, but an undeniable talent for making pies that she usually sold by auction at Well Square. Grandma was packing up her stall when I arrived out of breath, but fortunately she had one last pie and a nice piece of cheese that I kept for Frieze.

Juggling with my new greasy and steamy acquisitions, I bite into the thick crust of my juicy pie. My mouth overflowing with cooked tubers, paste and peppered pork, I gorged myself greedily as I walked up the alley, determined to finish before reaching Frieze. I trotted and swallowed, stuffing myself with heat and fat, so that I hardly noticed the agitation that swelled up near the door. It took the first screams to finally get me running.