Orfantal finished brushing down his horse and then led it over to the rope corral. He watched for a time as the other mounts greeted the nag, wondering if they but felt sorry for it, and then he made his way over to the cookfires, where the strangers had drawn up.
He saw servants unloading charcoal and dung chips, which were then carried over to Haral’s wagons, and bundles of food now crowded the cookfires. A highborn girl was standing beside Haral, dressed in a thick midnight blue cloak of some waxed material, and as Orfantal approached he saw that her dark eyes were upon him.
Haral cleared his throat. ‘Orfantal, kin of Nerys Drukorlat, this is Sukul of the Ankhadu, sister of Captain Sharenas Ankhadu, spearwielder of Urusander’s Legion at the Battle of Misharn Plain.’
Orfantal eyed the round-faced girl. ‘Are you a hostage like me?’
‘A guest,’ Haral explained before she could reply, as if embarrassed by Orfantal’s question and fearful that she would take offence. ‘Lesser Families exchange hostages only with their equals. Lady Hish Tulla is of the Greater Families and powerful in the court.’
The expression on Sukul’s face had not changed.
Orfantal was unable to judge her age. Perhaps she was a year older than him, or a year younger. They were of similar height. Something in her eyes made him nervous. ‘Thank you,’ he now said to her, ‘Sukul Ankhadu, for this gift of food and company.’
The girl’s brows lifted. ‘I doubt you learned such manners from your grandmother,’ she said, derision in her tone. ‘She showed no honour to Urusander’s Legion.’
Haral looked uncomfortable, but at a loss, so he said nothing.
Orfantal shrugged. ‘I did not know that my grandmother has dishonoured your family. I am sorry that she did, as you have shown yourself to be generous in Lady Tulla’s absence from the Hold. For myself, I still thank you.’
There was a long moment of silence, and then Sukul tilted her head. ‘Orfantal, you have much to learn. But for this night, I will take advantage of your innocence. Together, we shall leave the bitterness of our elders in their restless hands. Your kind words have touched me. Should the need arise in your life for an ally, you may call upon Sukul Ankhadu.’
‘When I am a great warrior,’ Orfantal replied, ‘I shall welcome you to my side.’
She laughed at his reply and then gestured towards the nearest cookfire. ‘Join me then, Orfantal, and we shall eat like soldiers upon the march, and woe to the enemy awaiting us.’
Her laughter had made him uncertain, but the invitation was like a spark to dry tinder, as if she had unerringly set fire to his imagined future, and would readily take her place in it. He looked upon her most carefully now, imagining her visage — older, stronger — wrought in bold thread. A face to one side of the hero’s face; a companion of years, loyal and sure, and as they strode past Haral and Gripp Orfantal felt that face, smiling and flushed, sink into his soul.
They would indeed be great friends, he decided. And somewhere still ahead, hazy and vague but dark with promise, awaited their betrayer.
They left the two of them to their own fire, and at first this had perturbed Orfantal. He was used to Gripp’s company and thought of the old man as a wise uncle, or a castellan. But this was a matter of blood and purity, and although the Ankhadu line was lesser, still it measured far above that of Haral, Gripp and the others.
There was nothing in what Orfantal had seen while in the company of these guards and traders to make clear this distinction in class. Roughness of manner did not suffice, as it was, in Orfantal’s mind, the way of the road for all travellers; and even Haral’s brutal treatment of Narad befitted the man’s insubordination.
But when Sukul seated herself — on a saddle-like stool brought out from the Hold’s wagon — opposite him, and servants arrived bearing pewter plates on which steaming food was heaped, along with tankards of watered wine — in place of the ale being offered the others of the caravan — Orfantal was startled to realize that he had grown so accustomed to his companions on this journey that he had begun to see himself as no different from them, an orphan in their company, well liked by all and, indeed, one of them.
The sudden deference was unwanted, a reminder of all the rules of behaviour that made no sense; and watching how Sukul responded to it with such natural ease, all of his grandmother’s impatient lessons returned home, unwelcome as a switch to his back.
‘Orfantal,’ said Sukul as she picked at her meal, ‘tell me about yourself. But first, to save you time, this is what I know. Kin to Nerys Drukorlat, widow of the wars — she has a daughter, does she not? Once a hostage to House Purake. But of her family beyond her own estate, I have heard little. Indeed, it was my belief that the bloodline was almost extinct, like an ancient, once proud tree, with but a single branch left bearing leaves. You must have come far, then, from some half-forgotten brood at the very edge of Kurald Galain.’