The Borderswords were falling in behind Draconus and Raskan as they set out on the curving track that would lead them westward.
Arathan twisted in his saddle and studied the gate and the wall of the estate.
‘Tell me what you see,’ Sagander demanded, his voice oddly rough.
‘The Great House of Lord Draconus,’ Arathan replied.
‘Your entire world, student. Until this day.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Over with now.’
Arathan nodded.
‘Your sisters didn’t want to see you off. But your father commanded. Those girls despise you, Arathan.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you know why?’
He thought for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘I was born to the wrong mother.’
Sagander snorted. ‘Your life as you knew it is now over. You must look to yourself and none other, for all that awaits you. Even my own teaching is mostly done. Your half-sisters — they do not expect to ever see you again.’
‘They wore black, yes.’
‘Foolish boy, they always wear black. But yes, they wanted you to see.’ He released Besra’s bridle. ‘Come, let us catch up. You ride at my side, but I should tell you, your father was disappointed this morning — he did not expect to have to wait for you.’
‘I know, sir.’
‘Even more disappointing in his eyes, Arathan, was that you chose the gelding over the mare.’
‘But — I was told that I should not ride Hellar too much-’
‘When you leave the Great House, you ride your charger. Bastard son you may be, but in the eyes of the staff, you are still the Lord’s son. Do you understand me?’
‘I was not so instructed-’
‘Such instruction should not have been necessary! You have not just shamed your father, you have shamed me as well! I am your tutor who clearly has failed to teach you anything!’
‘I am sorry, sir.’
‘And you left behind the scales. What use the weights and measures without the scales?’
Ahead, the track opened out, winding and dipping through low hills. Beyond that, according to the maps Arathan had perused, the path angled slightly south, leading to the settlement of Abara Delack. Past Abara Delack was the Bareth Solitude, and at the far end of that vast plain there waited the lands of the Azathanai and the Jaghut.
‘I trust you brought with you my gifts, including the special one for the Lord of Hate?’
‘I have, sir.’
‘Tell me what it is — no, do not bother. After all, it is too late to change it, isn’t it? I expect it is worthy.’
‘That is for the Lord of Hate to decide.’
Sagander shot him a look. ‘I remain your tutor,’ he snapped. ‘You will speak to me with proper respect.’
‘Always, sir. My apologies.’
‘You are not particularly likeable, Arathan. That is your problem. No — both hands on the reins! Would you have your father look back to see you chewing your nails again? Sit straight in that saddle.’
The day would be hot, and the way ahead promised no hope of shade. Arathan could feel sweat trickling down beneath his heavy clothing. It was hard to believe that only a short time ago he had been shivering, feeling lost in a courtyard he had known all his life. Now, the sky was lightening, unrelieved by any cloud, and it was the blue of ice and steel, and the new sun felt hot on his back.
They continued on at a steady trot, suddenly amongst the denuded hills. A track cutting to the right looked vaguely familiar to Arathan. He pointed. ‘Where does that one lead, sir?’
Sagander seemed to flinch. ‘The quarries. I am not surprised you remember it.’
‘I don’t, really.’
‘Just as well.’
‘It’s where I almost drowned, isn’t it? Down at the end of that trail, where the cattle are driven to slaughter.’
‘You are better to forget all that, Arathan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arathan fixed his attention on the back of his father — the shoulders wider than Sergeant Raskan’s, wider than those of any other man Arathan could recall seeing. A heavy cloak of tanned hide hung down to drape across the rump of Calaras. It had been dyed black but that was years past and now it was bleached with salty sweat and years in the sun, giving it a mottled, shadowy hue.
Raskan kept his horse a step behind his lord, positioned on the left. Arathan did not think they were speaking. It suddenly struck Arathan that Ivis had not made it back in time to see them all off. His father had sent the master-at-arms away the day before, along with a troop of Houseblades. Arathan regretted that: he would have liked to say goodbye.