‘What was it?’ I asked. ‘Something I would have liked, when I was eleven,’ the young man replied. ‘A set of puppets carved by Bluntner. They were dressed as if to tell the tale of the Girl and the Snow Steed. I was told it is a well-known tale in the Out Islands as well as the Six Duchies.’

Lord Golden’s voice was neutral as he observed, ‘Bluntner is a skilful carver. Is that the tale where the girl is borne far away from a cruel step-father by her magic steed, and carried off to a rich land where she weds a handsome prince?’

‘Perhaps not the best tale in these circumstances,’ I muttered.

The Prince looked startled, ‘I never considered it in that light. Do you think I insulted her? Should I apologize?’

The less said, the better,’ Lord Golden suggested. ‘Perhaps when you know her better you can discuss it with her.’

‘Perhaps when ten years have passed,’ the Prince conceded lightly, but I felt the thrumming of his anxiety across our Skill-bond. For the first time, I understood that one aspect of his dissatisfaction was that he did not feel he was doing well with the Narcheska. His next words echoed that knowledge.

‘She makes me feel like a clumsy barbarian. She is the one from a log village near an ice shelf, hut she makes me feel uncultured and awkward. She looks at me and her eyes are like mirrors. I see nothing of her in them, only how stupid and doltish I appear to her. I have been raised well, I am of good blood, but she makes me feel as if I am a grubby peasant that might soil her with my touch. I do not understand it!’

There will be many differences you must resolve as you come to know one another. Understanding that each of you comes from a different, but no less valuable culture may be the first one,’ Lord Golden suggested smoothly. ‘Several years ago, I pursued my own interest in the Outislanders and studied them. They are matriarchal, you know, with their mother-clans indicated by the tattoos they wear. As I understand it, she has already done you great honour by coming to you rather than demanding that her suitor present himself at bet motherhouse. It must feel awkward for her to face this courtship without the guidance of her mothers, sisters and aunts to sustain her.’

Dutiful nodded thoughtfully to Lord Golden’s words, bur my glimpse of the Narcheska made me suspect the Prince had measured her feelings for him accurately. I did not utter that thought. ‘She has obviously studied our Six Duchies’ ways. Have you given any consideration to learning about her land, and who her family is there?’ Dutiful cast me a sidelong glance, a student who had skimmed his lesson hut knew he had not studied it well. ‘Chade gave me what scrolls we have, but he warned me that they are old and possibly out-dated. The Out Islands do not commit their history to writing, but entrust it to the memories of their bards. All we have is written from the view of the Six Duchies folk who have visited there. It betrays a certain intolerance for their differences. Most of the scrolls are traveller’s accounts, expressing distaste for the food, for honey and grease seem to he the prized ingredients for any guest dish, and dismay at the housing, which is cold and draughty. The folk there do not offer hospitality to weary strangers, but seem to despise anyone foolish enough to get themselves into circumstances where they must ask for shelter or food rather than barter for it. The weak and the foolish deserve to die; that seems to be the main credo of the Out Islands. Even the god they have chosen is a harsh and unforgiving one. El of the sea they prefer, over the bountiful Eda of the fields.’ The Prince heaved a sigh as he finished.

‘Have you listened to any of their bards?’ Lord Golden asked quietly.

‘I’ve listened, but not understood. Chade urged me to learn the basics of their language, and I have tried. It shares many roots with our own. I can speak it well enough to make myself understood, though the Narcheska has already told me that she would rather speak to me in my own tongue than hear hers so twisted.’ For an instant, he clenched his teeth to that insulting reproof. Then he went on, ‘The bards are more difficult to understand. Evidently the rules of their language change for their poetry, and syllables can be stretched or shortened to make them fit a measure. Bard’s Tongue, they call it, but add their windy music blasting past the words and it is difficult for me to get more than the basics of every tale. All seem to be about chopping down enemies and taking hits of their bodies as trophies. Like Ethet Hairbed, who slept under a coverlet woven from the scalps of his enemies. Or Sixfinger, who fed his dogs from skull bowls of those he had defeated.’

‘Nice folks,’ I observed wryly. Lord Golden scowled at me.

‘Our songs must sound as strange to her, especially the romantic tragedies of maidens who die for love of a man they cannot possess and such,’ Lord Golden gently pointed out. ‘These are barriers you must overcome together, my prince. Such misunderstandings yield most easily to casual conversation.’

‘Ah, yes,’ the Prince conceded sourly. ‘Ten years from now, perhaps we’ll have a casual conversation. For now, we are so ringed by her hangers-on and my well-wishers, that we speak to one another through a throng, in raised voices to reach one another. Every word we exchange is overheard and discussed. Not to mention dear Uncle Peottre, standing over her like a dog over a hone. Yesterday afternoon, when I attempted to stroll though the gardens with her, I felt more as if we were leading a horde to war. There were over a dozen people chattering and trampling along behind us. And when I did pluck a late flower to offer to her, her uncle stepped between us to take it from my hand and examine it before he passed it on to her. As if perhaps I were offering him something poisonous.’

I grinned in spite of myself, recalling the noxious herbs that Kettricken herself had once offered to me when she considered me a threat to her brother. ‘Such treachery is not unknown, my prince, even in the best of families. Her uncle is doing no more than his duty. It has not been long since our lands warred against one another. Give time for old wounds to close and heal. It will happen.’

‘But for now, my prince, I fear we must put our heels to our horses. Did not I hear you say that you had an afternoon appointment with your mother’ I think we had best put a little haste into our pace.’

‘I suppose,’ the Prince replied listlessly to Lord Golden’s words. Then he turned a commanding stare on me. ‘So then, Tom Badgerlock. When will we next meet? I am most anxious to begin my lessons with you.’

I nodded, wishing I shared his enthusiasm. I felt obliged to add, ‘The Skill is not always a kindly magic to deal with, my prince. You may find these lessons less than pleasant after we begin them.’

‘I expect that to be so. My experiences of it to date have been both unsettling and confusing.’ His gaze became clouded and distant as he said, ‘When you took me… I know it had something to do with a pillar. We went to… somewhere. A beach. But now when I try to recall that passage, or the events that occurred there or immediately afterwards, it is like trying to recall a dream from childhood. The ends of it don’t meet somehow, if you know what I mean. I thought I understood all that had happened to me. Then, when I tried to discuss it with Chade and my mother, it all fell to tatters. I felt like an idiot.’ He lifted one hand to rub his wrinkled brow. ‘I cannot make the pieces go in order to make a complete memory.’ Then he fixed me with a direct stare and said, ‘I cannot live with that, Tom Badgerlock. I have to resolve it. If this magic must be a part of me, then I must control it.’

His words were far more sensible than my reluctance to deal with it. I sighed. ‘Tomorrow, dawn. In Verity’s tower room,’ I offered, expecting him to refuse me.