It took me about two weeks to cross the primacy of Hill. The contrast with the mountains was striking, both in terms of the land and the people. After a year spent in the peaceful silence of Su-Lanté and the restrained circumspection of the Ceras, I needed time to get used to the noise of the brownian roads. Often, I thought about the path I had already walked on, about this route full of improbabilities and encounters, and the language of the mountains appeared in me without warning. Tespiné, said the Ceras. I didn't believe it, of course, but sometimes, looking back, thinking of how I had survived the plague and the mountains, and then crowned a king, I couldn't help but have doubts. I had never mattered much, and I think I liked to play with the exciting idea of my own importance. I would spend days with the word stuck to the roof of my mouth, savoring its sound and meanings.

It was Brindy who probably saved me from the looming madness, because she gave me a direction, but there was also the memory of the Padekke and the recollection of the hours spent getting beaten up in the training yard of the peak. Warriors are not quite the same as other men, but they share with the rest of mankind a propensity to forget their mistakes and retain their successes, without which it wouldn't be easy to send them into battle. I owe the Vals more lucidity, a more objective - and therefore more painful - vision, and for me the jousting and the learning of iron have always been accompanied by great lessons of humility. In my opinion, few things are more likely to unblock a bloated ego than a fight and the awareness that comes with it. How any man's existence rests on a range of minute details that mostly escape us, and that even the best fighter can never fully grasp.

When I left Ochreclod, I had less than a denarius left in my pocket, and yet I was as happy as a cat in the sun. I had found a leatherworker near the inn, but his goods were expensive and the fact that they looked new didn't suit me. On the road, the shiny bone buttons and colored lacquers would surely attract attention I didn't want. So I settled for a flea market outside the walls, where I could sell my pouch to a cheeky ragman and buy a real haversack. Ungainly and heavily worn, reinforced with sturdy leather and tarnished brass rivets, the object had probably belonged to a soldier, and I liked it immediately. I had to pay handsomely to have one of the straps repaired, a young stuttering woman and her ironworker husband took care of it within the hour for a penny and a half, but the expense was worth it. I could comfortably fit my entire package in it, with the blankets rolled up on top, and there was still a little room left.

I hung my crossbow and club on it, as well as a decent pot for boiling water, a small blackened lantern with chipped glass (which needed a good cleaning but for which I had six flat beeswax candles), and a tent fabric to protect me from the rain. The oiled linen was heavy and a bit too stiff for my taste, but it was new and solid, and had a creamy beige color that I found pleasing to the eye. It took several days for the bites inflicted by the carmian pouch to disappear, and I no longer had to readjust my things every ten steps. Moreover, there was the satisfaction of being adequately equipped for the journey and prepared for all eventualities. Despite my uncertainties about the future, it was good to finally be able to enjoy the cobblestones under my boots, and the prospect of the journey.

North of the main road, Hill's landscape was rugged and challenging, dotted with bushes and succulent plants. For the first few days, there were breathtaking rock formations, some close by, some farther away, all giving the land a distinctly mineral resonance. Adjacent to the cliffs, large assemblies of hoodoos-mushroom-shaped pillars, whose ochre caps rested on large pale columns. Elsewhere, imposing monoliths, shaped like stone spears, sometimes pointed far above the foliage, so that from a distance it was impossible to know whether one was observing a tower or a natural formation. The forests themselves stretched in uneven flows to the mountains, so dark green that at daybreak they took on the color of ink. Between the outstretched arms of the latter, stony moors, similar to those I had walked on when I arrived on the ground of Greyarm. The peaks of the carmian Wall rose to my right at an equal distance, familiar companions that sometimes disappeared behind the rugged topography, but which I always found again as soon as the path climbed a little higher.

The road was incised underneath all this, splitting Hill transversely, from east to west. Turning south, where the horizon was clearer, you could see the primacy as a sort of large basin, in the center of which rose a large stony massif known as the Gorge. The Gorge wasn't very passable and had deep ravines, even though some troglodyte villages were nestled in the heights. I learned that their inhabitants had a reputation for being rough and savage, suspected of harboring bandits, or of being bandits themselves. There may have been some truth to this, but in my opinion these suspicious rumors were mostly spread by the local lords. According to an old law, they were not allowed to collect taxes there, and they disliked it almost as much as those who couldn't avoid them. In fact, the main road went around the highlands for miles and miles, until it reached the banks of the Ash-Flow. From there, looking back, you could see a large, lapping lake nestled in the heart of the massif. I was told that beneath its surface were great sunken ruins, parts of which protruded when the water level was low, titanic blocks of carved stone that made one think of an abandoned quarry of giants. Because of the mythology of the Ceras, the rumor of such structures took on a whole new meaning for me, and I sometimes thought of the other great vestiges I was aware of, Wadd's Potan's Door, or Rauel's Forges, in the canton of Rockin. One day, I decided to go and see for myself these monuments of another age.

As I walked, the forests became sparser, as if the trees had engaged in a forced retreat to the shadows of the mountains and highlands. I could see the peaks of the Thorns lurking further south, past a stretch of green hills and rolling pastures. I sometimes pictured Hill as a confined island, a land trapped between the rocky jaws of the mountains. On a clear day, I could make out a gap between the peaks. My heart ached at the thought of returning to the Ac pass. I knew that the charms tree under which Ulrick had died wouldn't be cut down, that I would probably see it from the road. During the day, I had little time for morbid thoughts and panoramas, because the road was wide and bustling with activity, and my attention was constantly drawn to one detail or another, a conversation, a face, the antics of a dog or child.

There were villages all along Hill's road, some adjoining the main road itself, others a little further along, indicated by carved wooden signs. Inns and guardhouses lined the road, as well as other establishments for travellers. This was the most important trade route in the entire Gray-March, and its very existence generated a great deal of business. Many stalls lined the passageway, selling honeyed delicacies, cured meats, and barrels of liqueur and cider made from the wild apple trees of the region. However, the crowd that I found there wasn't really cosmopolitan. Apart from a handful of foreign merchants, it was mostly locals or people originating from the primacy. The only noticeable exception were the carts from Amuber, their axles marked with the seal of the master-grinders. Hill had suffered from poor harvests the previous year, and they were still counting on the wheat from Lorcel's granaries to supply the front. For, under the trembling surface, under the din of business and the creaking of the carts, the scent of war was everywhere.

I met almost as many soldiers as civilians, a few patrols, but mostly militia captains who were leading their companies of recruits to the capital. After the relative calm of the winter, Cleo Gon was gathering warriors in all his cantons, to continue his offensive against Wadd. I didn't doubt for a moment that the same thing had to happen on the other side of the border. In the ranks of the recruits, there were sometimes small companies, some of them lousy, unlikely processions of poor people, half of whom had neither armor nor shields, others wearing iron, professional henchmen with rapacious eyes and bodies marked by combat. These men aroused fear, and few civilians chose to stay in their company for long. Along the road there was a plethora of crippled beggars who displayed their mutilations and stories while asking for charity. Less spectacular, but just as pitiful, were penniless widows with their children, dirty and snotty faces, watching from the shelter of their makeshift tents. The poor people became more and more numerous as I approached Hill, and it was from them that I got most of my informations, often in exchange for some food, because I still had some to spare, and I wanted to save my coins. In my mind, there would be some bribing along the way.

I crossed the Ash-Flow by ford, about ten miles downstream from the city of Hill. My journey would certainly have been easier if I had passed through the chief town, but the idea of going into the heart of the stronghold of my former enemies made me wary. I also imagined that I might run into Carmians. Like some of the vagabonds, I had taken to walking with my face hidden by my hood, not knowing if this made me less visible or more noticeable. A few days later, after wandering along paths that barely deserved the name, I spent the night in a small hamlet on the edge of the foothills of the Thorns, where an affable peasant with a smiling face offered me room and board in exchange for a little company. The man had lost his wife a few moons earlier, and beneath his cheerful appearance, he was hiding a gracious sadness and great loneliness. His farm was small but prosperous. He cultivated two acres of turnips and another of fruit trees, and there were beehives at the bottom of the field which he left fallow. The man worked with his six children and his wife's parents, who were still working but were getting old. The people of his village didn't like him very much, because his father had been a foreigner from Paxos, and that's exactly why the man made it a point of honor to welcome all passing travelers.

I set up my belongings in the dryer on stilts that was next to the farmhouse, then I was invited to come and warm up and have a meal in the family thatched cottage. As I had been sleeping under my canvas since I left the main road, and had been harassed by a really bad weather and the nervous militiamen of the villages I had crossed (several of them had taken the liberty to bully me pretending that I could be a spy), this charity generously offered made me feel better. The house was small, so small that I could have touched the apparent frame of the attic just by stretching my arm, and it smelled musty and of kitchen fumes. There was a large table in the living room - which was very dark - made of thick, weathered fir planks. We sat on long creaky benches and drank a bitter juice of fermented flowers while exchanging pleasantries about the weather and the surroundings. In the fireplace bubbled an exotic-looking cast-iron pot, and its fragrant steam took me many years back in time.

Kaïm, the peasant, filled my bowl with mashed turnips, while apologizing for the woody taste, because it was the end of the previous autumn's harvest. I swallowed my spoonfuls in silence, under the gaze of the kids who didn't stop looking at me with their eyes as round as marbles. More peppery than the one I had known at the Ronna farm, spiced up with wild onions and herbs, the taste of the purée nonetheless summoned a whirlwind of melancholy that I savored as much as the meal. As I still had some of Breanna's honey cakes left over and was eager to thank the family for their welcome, I distributed them with good grace to my hosts. Dubious at first, the faces of the old parents brightened up as much as those of the children when their gums closed around the sweet cakes. The night slowly covered the foothills, the fire crackled quietly in the hearth and I decided to go and get my lantern so that we could see more clearly.

When it was late enough for me to be alone with Kaïm and his eldest son, the farmer took out a keg of rotgut and three porcelain thimbles that had belonged to his wife. We drank together, laughing at the snoring that came from the room next to the kitchen. I then shared with them the rumors I had heard on the road, as well as all the gossip that had fallen into my ears in the previous days. In return, Kaïm answered the questions I had about the upcoming trip.

As I expected, the news were not good. A peregrine had stopped by the farm at the end of the winter, and he had complained about the proliferation of checkpoints on the road to the Pass, which was by the way under construction. Anyone not in possession of official documents could be detained and questioned. Even peregrines weren't free from suspicion, and there were also many abuses. I could imagine how Hill's armies must have been diluted in the vast plains of Wadd, and how they had to aggressively close off the roads where they could to stem the movements of enemy scouts. I remembered the roadblock where I had been caught before being handed over to the Carmians, and repressed a shiver. I decided that I wouldn't go back to Ac-Pass, if I could avoid it.

Kaïm didn't quite understand my reluctance to take the road to the Pass, until I explained to him that I didn't plan to join the front, but to keep going towards Spinel, and that I didn't want to suffer the suspicion of the militiamen at the limits of their battles, nor did I want to be stuck there. We talked a little longer in search of a solution and I was about to decide to turn back, even if it meant looking for a seat on a boat in a pulon port, as Petir the Bit had recommended, but then the peasant mentioned a community of shepherds a few days from his farm, on the edge of the canton of Fela-Rock. Kaïm had heard that these men knew lots of little known paths, which disappeared in the heights of the Thorns, where the mountains faded away and disintegrated into a succession of broken hills and dizzying cliffs. Some of these routes supposedly led to the other side. He didn't know if the rumors were true, nor if I would need a guide if that was the case, but for me it was already a lead, and I thanked him for the information. Strangely enough, just before going to bed, I fortuitously got the answer to an old riddle. Kaïm mentioned the exceptional increase of the salt tax in Fela-Rock, and told me the name of the new liege: Carson. Six years later, I finally found out what lucrative prize had rewarded Amon Carson's treachery. The former legate of Wadd had sabotaged the siege of Ac-Pass in exchange for his own canton. I set off again the next day.

At the end of the first week of the Leaf moon, after wandering along inhospitable paths towards the southeast and crossing increasingly rugged terrain, I met one of the shepherds Kaïm had mentioned. He thought I was an escaped thief, and he seemed kind of sneaky himself, but in exchange for a small fee he led me to a path that didn't seem so secret. Following his directions, I set out to bypass the Thorns from the south. Without going into detail, the shepherd had assured me that the route he was pointing out would save me a week on any other detour and would also save me from several toll booths. Above all, he pointed out, as the path moved along the rock, it cut several times the border with Amuber, and thus I wouldn't risk meeting hillian or waddan patrols. I had expressed my approval and we had parted on good terms, but I was wary of him and remained on my guard for the next few days.

It was a narrow and arduous path that I was taking, and it meandered at first towards misty heights. It climbed so much that, a few hours after my departure, I wondered if I had not been deceived. Fortunately, after an endless climb, the trail finally stabilized and then forked in the right direction. I had stocked up on supplies on the road and was glad to have good weather, especially when the limbo finally left the ridges to reveal the panorama of the southern plains and the shattered limestone plateaus that stretched out to the east. I spent a fresh but perfectly starry night on the bank of an icy and roaring torrent, then another in the shelter of a fir tree growing on the edge of a large ravine.

On the third morning, I got lost in a labyrinth of escarpments, and had to turn back to find the path, wound up at the foot of a dark stone cliff. On the other side was an equally impressive gorge, and as far as I could tell, in the manner of an uneven notch, the road was thus caught between the rock and the void for many miles. For a while I noticed the tree canopy swaying in the gusts of wind thirty spans below, before I set off down the landlocked trail. I often think back to that morning, to its quietness. The birds were singing, a cool, caressing wind was blowing, and the needles were quivering on the branches of the conifers. I also sometimes think about how different it would have been if I had only struggled a little more to find my path again.