Next morning, as the hesitant light of dawn crept through the narrow window of my room, I heard a knock on my door. All these strange ideas were bubbling up inside me and I was gloating and laughing under my blanket, without yet being able to fully believe it. "My door." "My room." "My window." "My blanket." It was too good to be true, and I barely remembered that the day before I had been a criminal suspect. I woke up from the warmth of the old feather quilt, fresh and ready to face what would become my new daily life.

The day before, Sesh had first taken me to take a bath in a steaming back room of the castle, somewhere between the kitchens and the laundry room. By the time the water had been heated, it had taken up a good part of the afternoon.

At first I was apprehensive. Then, very quickly, the bite of the burning water had faded and turned into a dizzying sweetness. I had succumbed to it with delight. A silent old woman with a pinched face had then appeared and, while I was languidly drying myself on the corner of one of the kitchen chimneys, she had undertaken, without any restraint, to put some order in my bushy hair. The old woman even had the indecency to show me her finished work in a small chipped mirror. I had lost most of my knots, but also, to my great sorrow, all the tribal braids that intertwined in my thick mane. I was now wearing the short cut of the castle pages, neat, straight, and without frills. My face, freed from its usual mane, seemed horribly skeletal, and the shock brutally pulled me out of the blissful numbness into which the bath had plunged me. I didn't even have time to insult the old hairdresser before she disappeared down the back stairs.

Sesh returned with a large bowl of leftovers, cheese, bread, smoked rind and a few white radishes that quickly made me forget my disappointment. As I was eating the makeshift meal, a kindly-looking curly page, a little older than me, came to bring me my new clothes: a pair of black trousers and a white shirt made of thick linen with a doublet of ochre wool on top. The combination of shades did not escape me: they were obviously the colors of Brown-Horn. Added to this was a pair of high gaiters, of an already worn leather, but fortuitously, almost my size. The new set was stiff, however, and it itched a lot. I was still squirming, much to the amusement of many of the clerks present, when Sesh told me that he had work to do and entrusted me to Morton's care, while pointing to the mischievous page who had not left my side. The first-blade left the room, and Morton, with a knowing smile, beckoned me to follow him. We left the slow reverberation of the furnaces to enter the winding spiral of the back stairs. I must confess that, despite my experience of the labyrinthine alleys of the Stream, I had found the maze of the keep much more confusing, with its passages, alcoves, and endless corridors.

After a few pleasant words exchanged during the ascent, accompanied by their share of clumsy boasting, Morton had abandoned me in front of a narrow door in the east wing of the castle, a stone's throw from the staircase we had just taken. I had time to learn that the floor of dark corridors I had stepped into was the servants' quarters, two floors above the kitchens, and that I should not venture elsewhere without permission. Then I was left to my own devices, and it was alone that I pushed open the door to my new room.

The place was cramped, with no furniture other than a small bed next to which a worn-out chest had been placed, stained by the wax from the single candleholder resting on the lid. On the bed, in addition to clean sheets, I had discovered a second set identical to the one I was already wearing. There were also my old clothes, the few objects that the guard had confiscated from me before I was incarcerated - including my precious pendant - and a wooden key that locked the large flat chest. I had carefully put the key on the necklace that Ucar had given me, before carefully storing the rest of my belongings. The small window facing north had once been an arrowslit, and the reflection of the candle, combined with the dirt on the tile, had prevented me from distinguishing anything from the night outside. I had wondered if an archer had ever shot this way before and hit his target. Nervous fatigue had caught up with me and, without having bothered to undress, I curled up on the bed. I had slipped Sesh's blanket with its lingering traces of lavender under the stained quilt. A deep sleep had overwhelmed me, almost instantly. And then in the early morning, after a quiet night without dreams, there was a knock at the door of my new room.

I pushed the latch to discover a scruffy Morton on the threshold, which handled with difficulty a lantern three times too big for him. His sleepy eyes fixed mine as he slowly rubbed his flat nose. "You have to follow me," he said, without a preamble. So I followed him, with a watchful eye, ready to memorize in the slightest detail the route he was going to take. Castle-Horn was just beginning to wake up, I could vaguely make out a few silhouettes wandering in the distance, by the uncertain glow of the candles, but a twilight silence still reigned in the air, punctuated by noisy echoes, ceremonial coughs and murmurs. I shivered, and not just because of the cold: the place seemed the perfect setting for many of the ghostly tales I had heard from the mouths of these itinerant storytellers who sometimes stayed in the lower town's inns.

Instead of the maze I was expecting, the page simply took me in the opposite direction by the same path we had taken the day before: right in front of my door, the back stairs from where a delicious smell of fresh bakery was coming up. We finally reached the kitchens and I was surprised to discover that they were already in full swing. Servants and valets were working here and there, under the supervision of an intendant with a severe face and bald head. These erratic wakes crossed the regular line of a procession of maids who came up from the lower floors dragging buckets. Right in the middle of the kitchens, they would unload their liquid cargo into a gigantic basin of beaten copper. At the bottom of a glowing red alcove, on a huge worktop carved from the granite of Horn-Hill, I caught a glimpse of a sweaty baker kneading a mountain of dough. He was then cutting out dough pieces that his assistants were baking by whole trays in a dull brick oven. The baked loaves were thrown into wicker baskets and taken to the kitchens. I did my best not to lose sight of Morton, but my eyes kept falling on something interesting or appetizing, and it was only a matter of time before I lost my way in the midst of all the commotion.

As for the little page, he moved quite naturally and, sneaking sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, he grabbed a tray in one corner, a knife in the other, and soon he was carrying an assortment of cold meat, butter and cheese, which he somehow managed to carry along with his oversized lantern.

We left the kitchens through a series of narrow, worn doors. A strange but busy passage led us to the freezing cold and uncertain light of the castle's courtyard. As he led me toward the massive shadows of the east wall, and as I trotted through the snow to keep up with him, Morton, with a red nose, began to give me instructions in a thin, cheeky voice. His words, chopped up by the effort, formed small vaporous clouds:

"Tomorrow you'll have to take care of this by yourself, I already have enough to do with Shortoar, although he's not as early riser as some. Remember to blow out your candle too, before going to sleep, otherwise the intendant will kick your ass. Cleaning is once a week, but the days change, so don't leave your clothes lying around if you don't want them to disappear. On the other hand, if you have a dirty jacket, you leave it on the bed for the washerwomen. All you have to take care of in the morning is the wood, the candles and the food, we'll bring it to you up there."

In doing so, he pointed out our destination to me with his chin, the only intact tower that still stood on this section of the perimeter wall, almost above the infirmary, between the barracks and the frozen wash-house. The pile of dark stones reminded me of an old man's last snag. We arrived at the foot of the polished stairs leading up to it, and Morton placed the tray in my hands with a sly smile:

"It will also be up to you to scrub the stairs with the sandy one, and rather twice than once. When the snow starts to melt, you could break your legs. I will leave you now, I have something to do."

A little disoriented by the flood of information, I watched - with nascent anxiety - the page hop away in the direction of the stables, before casting a suspicious eye over the twenty or so worn steps that awaited me. The sun must have been shining on the other side of the walls, for the glow of dawn was already illuminating part of the black facade of the keep. Doing my best not to spill the smoking contents of the tin teapot, I began a slow and cautious ascent, suddenly not so sure that the room and the new clothes were worth the trouble. To tell the truth, the relief I had felt at Bard's merciful judgment had somewhat clouded my mind, and the anticipation I usually showed had been erased by the recognition and excitement of the novelty. Until now, caught up in the whirlwind, I had not really taken the time to imagine what might be next for me. Step by step, apprehension gradually overwhelmed me, while in my mind I had a lot of questions. It was a very troubled Fyss, carrying a wobbly tray submerged in herbal tea and soaked bread that knocked on the arched door of the old tower.

As no one responded to my drumming, and the tray weighed a lot, I ended up leaning my shoulder against the door. The door suddenly gave way and I repressed a jolt. The lunch I was carrying was irretrievably spoiled. After knocking a little more, it was finally the cold and this terrible weight that I had to manoeuvre at arm's length that got the better of my mistrust. I entered backwards into the old tower.

A spacious hearth followed the round contours of the first floor, occupying a good quarter of the facade that stretched to the right. All that remained was a bed of ashes scattered with a handful of tiny sparks. To the left, a massive hard-pine scroll disappeared into the heights. Except for a substantial supply of logs piled beneath it, the first floor was completely empty. I raised my voice and the sound echoed up to the top of the building. "Healer? Anyone?"

This time a trap door creaked somewhere above, and distant words tumbled to my ears. I managed to make out on the spot "eating", "lift" and "stairs", which was not particularly clear about what was expected of me. I desperately glanced around before I spotted a symmetrical depression in the tower's masonry, right next to the staircase. There lay a crude (and dusty) amalgam of planks connected to a system of ropes and pulleys, I concluded that this had to be the lift in question. I placed the bulky tray there in the hope of doing well, then a few logs in the dying hearth for good measure. My hesitant footsteps then led me to the thick corkscrew steps.

I had time to circle the entire tower, sometimes with my feet bumping into the dark staircase, before all of a sudden the light became brighter.

Blinking, I emerged through the half-open hatch and stepped onto the plush landing on the top floor. A glowing red dawn flooded the circular room, flowing like a thick golden syrup through the huge stained glass window in front of the staircase. In the blinding stream of light, I could still make out a large, well-kept desk in the center of the tower and a bed with white sheets attached to the north facade, very close to the chimney duct that I had seen earlier. More than anything else, what caught my attention were the books.

Two carved shelves of respectable size sat on either side of the canopy, filled with thick works, parchments and scrolls. I had heard of them before, of course, but it was the first time I had seen real books, and it took me a while to take my eyes off them. Then I looked up at the ceiling. The vision that awaited me there reminded me of Frieze's yurt, or the porch of the widow Ronna, but much bigger.

Innumerable objects hung from the beams, mostly bouquets of dry plants, and a few leather bags. And then, just above me, I saw the skeleton hanging. Crucified in the void, the yellowed bones of the rib cage cut the light into thin slices. Seized with both horror and curiosity, I was still contemplating the frozen grin of this spectral apparition when the trap door leading to the upper floor suddenly slammed. A rich voice resounded very close to me:

"His name was Landros Grifal. In his lifetime, he was the shield bearer of Unax, the third son of the twenty-second serif of Orfys. He was strangled nearly a century ago after he became involved in the political intrigues of the kodia Doïsi. Now he is making himself useful to medicine."

I slowly turned to the man who had apostrophied me, and bowed stiffly, while staring at me with his deep blue laughing eyes. His tone was heavy, a light accent that sometimes scratched his pronunciation. A slightly too long insistence on certain syllables that easily identified him as a foreigner despite his impeccable speech.

Words came back to me, among Morton's instructions. "The sandy one." His clothes were almost the same as mine - a pair of plaid trousers and a simple linen shirt - other details were not deceiving. The long, black, braided goatee, the exotic, almost grayish complexion with olive highlights, not to mention the eye color and arched nose that left no doubt. The Rockin's family doctor was a Rajjan.

I gave him forty years old or a little less. He had short, frizzy hair, as thick as mine, in which the first reflections of gray could be seen. A bumpy scar in the shape of a triangle marked his right cheek, slightly deforming the crow's feet that wrinkled the corners of his eyelids. His smile did not fade away, but he stood up and stared at me, before starting again:

"I am Narsilap Ail Shuri, and I have been asked to instruct you in the art of healing medicines and surgery. You may call me Rus'Narsi, which means Master Narsi. That will be a good start. I will also have to teach you the language of the Nine, since most of the treatises I have are written in rajjan. Can you read, young disciple?"

A little bewildered, my mind filled with the visions I had of Robin aboard his slave ship, and not yet decided on the feelings I had for this individual whose fellow countrymen had taken my friend from me, I shook my head and muttered:

"No, Russ Narsi."

"In that case, we will rectify this as soon as possible."

With a gesture, he invited me to take a seat at the imposing desk in the middle of the room. I opened my eyes, and as Sesh had predicted, I discovered that morning how fate plays with people, and what irony means. The man's left hand had been severed at the wrist.