The winter that ended my twelfth year was exceptionally mild.

For the temporary inhabitants of the canvas village and the soldiers of the waddan bivouac, it was like an uncertain blessing. There was indeed snow, which regularly came to carpet the bottom of the Ac Pass and to whiten the forests and peaks above, but, that year, the true great mountain cold, the one that Cleo Gon must have dreamed of every night, was kept at bay by the west wind. The gusts of wind blew from the Rains coast, carrying with them the oceanic winds of the Sarp sea. When sometimes the snow was replaced by this torrential rain that we all cursed, some people said that it tasted a little like salt. I, who had a sharp palate, because my mouth had not been burned by rot-gut, and neither my tongue nor my lips bore the anaesthetic dye of the blue rigan, was more or less certain that it was a bunch of nonsense.

While it's true that the cold weather spared us, it didn't save us from the rest, and the benign weather actually created other problems. The draining system put in place by the waddan engineers was clearly inadequate on the milder days, and on several different occasions portions of the eastern palisade had collapsed under their own weight. By the end of the Size moon, the camp had become so muddy that one could only move around on a network of planks, an increasing number of which were being swallowed up daily by the stinking mire. There were only a few solid islands left in the middle of the mud, including the farms to the south, a good part of the val cantonment, and the headquarters of Carson. Small reefs of stagnant water and piss reeked of what remained of the bivouac, and since most people were content to empty their garbage into the drainage, it periodically overflowed. The shadows of dysentery and black fever began to hang over the camp, whole moons before we expected them. The sick were isolated, but there were new cases every day. We began to hope for colder nights, just so that once morning came, the stinking earth could trap its foul miasma for a few more hours.

To health problems were added those of the supply, because the road of the Pass suffered as much from the comings and goings of our convoys as the molasses of the camp. The fodder and the food arrived more and more slowly.

This wouldn't have been so problematic if it had been otherwise for the pay, but as it was, a good half of Wadd's soldiers were in debt to the traveling merchants. The peddlers obviously refused to make any more supply runs until they were paid, creating a vicious circle with no real solution. When food ran out at the dining hall for the first time, there was violence. During the night, a number of recruits had simply decided to go and commandeer the stocks of the most difficult hustlers with their swords. Carson had cut off some hands for the sake of example and the long-awaited convoy had arrived two days later, which had put everyone in agreement, except for the one-armed men.

By the time the new year arrived, the Vals relationship with the legate had worsened alarmingly. Ofrid still took the trouble to travel to the fortified farm, but he always returned with his fists clenched. He was hardly allowed to speak, although there was much to say. The Vals were increasingly worried, and rightfully so. Vittori's strategy had relied heavily on the snow on Hill side of the passes, to avoid the risk of a counter-attack before the capitulation of Ac-Pass. We didn't know how long the starving figures on the walls could hold out, but what was certain was that in the east, winter was not playing the protective role we expected. Carson had humiliated Ofrid repeatedly, every time he brought this up. "If you want to talk about snow, val-warrior, go and gossip with the washerwomen in the camp," he had told him again and again.

We all knew that there was nothing more to be done. Contempt had become an easy habit that the legate would never give up. Our discontent grew like a tumor with each new offense.

By the beginning of the Rainy moon, the situation had escalated to the point where it had reached its logical conclusion: the breakup. Three or four weeks earlier, we had written a letter to the lord-primate Nawd Corju, explaining what was going on. We had asked him, in view of these unfortunate circumstances, to intercede on behalf of the vaïdoerk. We didn't mention it, because Carson had ears everywhere, but we suspected that the captain of the Children of Yss had done the same. The letter had left with one of the escorts returning to Wadd, but when the next convoy had arrived, there had been no reply. Exasperated, but not yet resigned to the silence of the cuirassiers and the capital, the vaïdogans had taken the situation in hand.

Despite the conflicting orders, Ereck and Rygar Vieneshaild had requisitioned steeds from the pasture and, along with the yunling Walfrick, had set out to scout the foothills of Hill. It wasn't much, but at least we would have a general appreciation of the situation to the east. Two days later, Carson's horsemen had brought them back. Rygar's arm had been dislocated when they slaughtered his borrowed horse, and Ereck, who had failed to keep his mouth shut, was displaying a horribly swollen face and a crooked nose. The legate had handed over his captives to Ofrid, who was summoned for the occasion. It was brief and unpleasant. Before dismissing him, Carson informed our hettman that the vaïdoerk was now on half-pay and that he should be thankful that he had not been hanged out to dry. We held a folnwordd after this and consensus was reached much more quickly than on other occasions. Since we had no eyes in the east and here our words fell on deaf ears that we didn't trust, then the safety of the vaïdoerk was compromised. It was agreed that as it was, we would terminate our contract with Wadd. We'd leave Ac-Pass as quickly as possible and head towards Benkepp and the val border.

Amon Carson was informed of our decision by a runner. He didn't answer us.

When the news of our departure spread through the camp, many of the soldiers murmured their incomprehension. For most of them, with the exception of illness, the situation was ideal. They were paid to hang out in their tents or on the muddy walkway, had so much free time that they didn't know what to do with it and could squander this easy pay on screwing and drinking. That our exodus was voluntary, we who were getting more than twenty times their pay, I could see how, for them, it must have looked like madness. It took us several days to prepare our belongings for departure. The horses were the biggest problem, because they had been spread out over several pastures and the grooms didn't like the idea of us bringing them to the camp corral, even if it was only for a few days.

For my part, I had a hard time getting used to the haste in which all this had taken place. The turn initiated by the vaïdoerk was expected, but brutal.

I had been in the siege camp for more than five moons, I knew its sounds, its workings and its inhabitants by heart. The idea that I wouldn't see the end of what I had put my life on the line for had suddenly hit me like an unexpected slap. It was at least as itchy as it was relieving, which confused me significantly.

During this brief period of latency, this wasn't the only thought that took me by surprise. I wondered why I was thinking so suddenly about my own future. It came in short but intense bits and pieces, piles of questions that worked my mind even more than the preparations for the trip worked my body. What would I do with my two hands when we would have passed the border of the free country? Was this the end of my short life as a warrior? Would I go with Ulrick, to care for him in his old age, working the land in a peaceful village? Or would I follow a bloodier path alongside Ofrid, Ereck and Sven.

The world was opening up again, offering itself to me in such a sudden way that I didn't know what to do with it. And then, when everything was ready three days later, just before our last meal at camp, I went to get the jacks game that Ereck had given me in our sleeping tent. In my package, I had found the note.

It was a very ordinary piece of vellum that had been neatly folded into four. The style of writing was identical to that of the anonymous letter that had snatched me from the assassin's claws, except that this time the curls were not so hurried and it had been written with a quill rather than with charcoal. Three simple sentences. An invitation, which wasn't written as such. "You will go tonight to the brothel in the canvas village," it was written. "You will look for the green lantern. You will come alone, otherwise your questions will not be answered. - A friend." I reread the message three or four times, my heart pounding.

Theoretically, I had agreed not to go anywhere alone anymore, but in spite of distrust and general common sense the note had won at first reading. I knew I would go. My mind was racing as I hastily prepared myself in the darkness of the dormitory. I attached my short sword and the carmian dagger, while listening for sounds outside and Ofrid's dry laughter from the tent. Then I put on the aventail that Ulrick had given me after the ambush in Lager. The old Val had gone for a walk on the side of the stockade that evening, and he had made a point of going alone, which was unusual. Ulrick liked to stroll by the pits on starry nights, spending hours and hours there lately, but I usually went with him. I think I understood his need for solitude, though: it was the last night of his last campaign. As much as it pained me to see him go off on his own, now that was fine with me. I knew I could be back before he or anyone else noticed anything. The braziers were lighting up here and there as, wrapped in my grimy old coat, I slipped quietly out of the Val cantonment, my nerves quivering but determined.

"This looks like the Stream," I thought, as I stealthily made my way toward the canvas village. My boots sometimes sank into the stinking mire, but that was how I avoided the plank paths and the unlikely shadows that pressed against them. The night was coming, and it was going to be clear, surprisingly clear, as only winter knows how to make them. The moon would be full within a day or two and the stars above were drawing a stunning spectacle, a luminous trail of milky evanescence. My breath condensed under my hood. Tonight would be cold.

I didn't come across many people on the way. Everyone had been sleeping more quietly for the past few weeks, and I had noticed that this was even more true for the soldiers. The whole camp was preparing for the inevitable surrender of Ac-Pass. It had become apparent that the city wouldn't be able to hold out another moon and I think that, unconsciously, in view of the work that would have to be done when the liege finally surrendered, everyone was getting more rest.

Having preferred to approach from the south rather than from the west and the road, I stepped cautiously between the darkened tents. I knew I was being careless, so I was as circumspect as possible. I walked among the shadows and it seemed to me that the coolness of the twilight air sharpened my mind as much as stone hones a dagger.

There was always a little more activity near the brothel, because of the whores, the drinking dens and the nightlife that hung around. I spent some time observing the outside of the brothel, but I couldn't see anything unusual. The pimp's business must have been good in the winter. Since my visit three moons earlier, his establishment had become one of the most imposing structures in the cloth village. I made myself wait a little longer, but I was always aware that time was of the essence. Eventually, someone would notice my absence from the val pavilion.

A passing minstrel had started singing in a dive a few tents away. At his second song, a bawdy ballad, I slipped out to the entrance of the brothel, my hand on the pommel of my short sword.

It wasn't to be a very good night for the oily owner. Not a single customer was waiting under the thick felt of the lobby. A dozen sad whores turned their sullen eyes on me. The skin bleached to excess by lead or pitifully sharpened by kohl, nothing could have made these worn-out women attractive. I was ashamed of what I had done during my night of drunkenness, during the Belmo festival and swore to myself that I wouldn't do it again. The brutes, now three in number, looked me up and down from one of the stained tables before going back to their dice game. I opened my mouth, about to pull down my hood, then suddenly saw a green lantern hanging straight ahead at the end of the corridor of rippling fabric. Without a word, I rushed forward. I thought maybe one of the watchdogs was going to call out to me, but they didn't. No one spoke to me, not even the whores. Later I figured they must have been bribed.

In spite of the thickness of the double-roof with which the camp brothel was covered (not to mention the layers in between), it was chilly in the brothel. In front of me, the green paper lantern flickered like a happy heart in the breeze. It had been hung unambiguously in front of one of the felt rooms. I folded back the thick velum, wondering how many men had done the same thing before me. It was dark inside, a blackened lantern struggling to cover half a bed with its hesitant glow. An unmistakably female figure lay there, a frail, dark figure turning her skinny back to me. She was wearing a cheap and oversized ribboned dress. I took a step forward without really understanding, unable to imagine how or why this bony whore could have written me anything. I heard a sharp intake of breath and the figure turned around on the bed to face me. "Fyss" she whispered from her painted lips and there was so much hope in that word that I had the unusual impression that this unknown girl had been waiting for me all her life.

Then the air left my body like the death rattle of a dying man and I recognized Brindy.

After all this time, during which she had never stopped haunting my thoughts, I stood in front of Brindy that evening without being able to articulate anything. She had never been thick, but she had lost weight since the last night I had seen her, when she had brought me glazed nuts in the dungeons of Brown-Horn. Everything about her seemed to have thinned, as if time had stretched her out of childhood. Her black hair had been cut much shorter than her old braid, in a clumsy caricature of the bobbed hairstyles of the low-brownian nobility. She was far too frail, but in spite of that, in spite of that vulgar make-up, I found her more ravishing than ever.

There was nowhere to start, but Brindy decided before me. She took two quick steps and hugged me with all her might. Her whole body was shaking with emotion and cold. I returned her embrace confusedly, without recognizing her odor of which I had dreamed so much, because it had been masked under the pugnacious ether of a perfume. Her hands groped until they pulled down my aventail, then she placed her long pale fingers on either side of my face. I think she was making sure for both of us that this was real. Silent tears glistened on her cheeks. I had at least a thousand questions I wanted to ask her, but none of the ones I wanted were really coming. "Did you write the note?" I finally croaked in her ear. "No," she sniffed. "It wasn't me, but he'll be here. Please, Fyss..."

I saw red at that moment, a trembling rage of foaming fangs and blackness. I had to make a physical effort to keep my arms around her shoulders, so the rest of her sentence was swallowed up by the flare. There was that old part of me that was barking from the abyss. If I hadn't had Ulrick's lessons to pull me out of the fire, I would surely have died that night, wading through the guts of the pimp, or any man who stood between him and me. Then the salutary ice flooded my veins all of a sudden and plunged me into an ocean of calm. I suddenly understood the answer that had just been given to me and what it implied. I gently pushed Brindy back, before slowly drawing the sword. Her almond-shaped eyes widened, because she didn't recognize me with a blade in my hand any more than I recognized her in her ribboned dress. I pivoted toward the darkness near the entrance, knowing full well what I would find there.

The hooded figure spread his arms wide, signifying his peaceful intentions. I didn't drop the sword. My mind was a confused, crackling volcano, and I wondered what new ghost the past had conjured, what new obstacle would stand in my way.

"Sesh?" I hissed in a low voice. The figure shook its head. Behind me, Brindy grabbed my shoulder. "The first-blade's dead, Fyss. This one doesn't want to hurt us, I think." The lantern flame sizzled like a spitting cat. I saw the lacquer glisten under the patched hood, and the tip of my sword fell back a few inches. I swallowed and swore in a low voice. The candle danced on a green iris. "Bert Sesh hanged himself four moons after you left Brown-Horn," the musical voice said. I thought I detected something like compassion, or regret. "I heard that it was because of a child he had killed, or a wizard he had betrayed. But one man also told me that out of duty he had broken his own heart."

I didn't think those words would throw me off so much. There had been a deception between Sesh and me all this time. The soldier had given me to the rope. Yet my weapon wavered in my grip at the memory of his sad blue eyes. The lump in my throat tightened as I thought about what his suicide meant. I took a step back. "What do you want from me, peregrine?" I muttered to hide my emotions. This was our third meeting and for the first time I feared him, because of what he was telling me and because of what he had done for me. Nor had I forgotten his supernatural disappearance over the Long-Vein falls, and I watched him as one would watch a scorpion. The walker crouched near the entrance. When he spoke, he did so with his eyes fixed on the ground. "I still want the same thing," he announced. "I want to help you. I saved you from the assassin. I reunited you with her. I can take you somewhere safe. Both of you, forever."

I felt Brindy's grip tighten. "I trust him, Fyss," she whispered in my ear, and hope dripped from her voice like a fervent syrup. "He's been paying for me every night since I got here, but he hasn't touched me, not once." Her breath was sweet and added to the swirl. It was too much to digest in one piece.

I was buzzing with confusion. "Get out," I suddenly ordered the crouched man. I think I was as surprised as he was. He squinted as if I had hit him, and yet, to my surprise, he bowed his head and complied.

"What are you doing here, Brindy," I asked without taking my eyes off the entrance curtain. "Why isn't Ucar with you?" I heard Brindy take a great vibrating breath and my heart was crushed in the instant by an icy grip.

My head swiveled, our eyes met briefly. She didn't need to speak as she did, I had already understood, but she spoke anyway. Her chin had begun to tremble. "He was in the riots, my Ucar," she whispered. "On the barricades in the lower town. They killed him in Closed street. Near the old well. It was a year ago. I couldn't continue with my apprenticeship after that." I bit my lip, trying to clear my mind and think of the living. The time of the dead would come soon enough. "Did you... well, did you have to... come here by yourself?" I inquired awkwardly, trying to put the missing pieces of the puzzle together. "Yes," Brindy answered me in a voice that was a little too loud. "Yes, I made myself into a whore. But it's not of myself that I'm here. The matron sold me. I was tinted, she told me. It got bad there, Fyss. Those of the clans, they sell them, when they don't kill them, and it's hardly better for the half-bloods as they call us."

Brindy's words floated for a while in the tense air, like birds of ill omen. Then, at the height of the silence, when I least expected it, she grabbed me so tightly that I felt her fingers sink like talons between the rivets of my mesh. "Listen to him, that man out there," she growled in a voice full of tears and anger. "I thought I'd never see you again, or any other friendly face. These days, I know people who'd cut off both their arms to get a piece of peace like he promises. I won't have to be a whore anymore, and you won't have to be a soldier. I don't know what his price is, this peregrine, but I'm willing to pay it. You should think about it too." I hesitated for a few moments, hanging on to her, and everything I should never have had to leave. "Think about it, Fyss," Brindy pleaded again, squeezing my hand. I nodded. "I'm thinking about it," I said in a low voice. "But that man out there is anything but a peregrine."