A long-dead river had carved this mighty path through the Land, stirring life for miles around, but that had been in another age. Now the summer heat baked everything to the same dusty brown and it took an effort to find the hidden beauty of this place: the strange nocturnal creatures, the scented mosses concealed under rocks, the camouflaged plants bursting with colour underneath. All Isak's father saw was the desiccated channel they drove down. It was too much effort to drag his damaged leg up the bank so the only things to break his horizon were the twin mountains to the south.

Isak ran over to one of the lead caravans and leapt up on to the driving seat with the carelessness of familiarity. The driver, like Isak himself, was a man apart from the rest of this inbred community. Carel made no comment other than to smile wearily at Isak's arrival. His crinkled face belied his strength and age – Carel was close in years to Isak's father, but where bile had aged one, experience had marked the other.

His black hair, now heavily seamed with white, was long, plaited three times and tied back with copper wire, which declared to the world that he was a mercenary – but the white embroidery on his collar and the white leather threaded through the plaits set him above being a mere sword for hire. Carel – Sergeant Betyn Carelfolden – was a Ghost, a legend within their small group. He had retired from the Palace Guard of Lord Bahl, the Lord of the Parian, a handful of sum-mers after Isak's birth. Membership of that elite regiment guaranteed a position in society that could not be bought. Everyone respected the Ghosts of Tirah.

'Herman not in the best of moods today, then? Here, take the reins, I could do with a break.'

Isak took the reins from Carel's hand and watched as the man stretched, then fumbled for his pipe. The horse, unimpressed, snorted scorn at its new handler.

Carel was the only person in the wagon-train to treat Isak as if he were normal. Being born to parents who had been servants on a Suzerain's estate, coupled with years of hard soldiering, had taught the mercenary to look beyond appearance, something for which Isak was always grateful.

'He's never in the best of moods,' Isak grumbled. 'Yesterday he pushed a knife right into my hand, just for touching that green ring of mother's.' He held up his hand, displaying the ugly, dark-red scab.

'Well then, you deserved it.' Carel wasn't going to let his fondness for the boy stand in the way of a lesson. 'You know perfectly well what that ring means to him. Just leave her things alone. It's all he has left. At least you heal much faster than the rest of us. Be grateful for that.'

'He has more of her than I do. All I have is the blame for her death.' Isak sighed.

'And such is life,' replied the mercenary without a trace of sympathy. He was Isak's friend, but that didn't mean Isak got special treatment. 'You are what you are – that in itself is enough for most, and more for Horman. He really loved your mother. Why antagonise him?'

There was no reply. Isak just sat there looking sullen, unable to admit defeat.

Fine, enough talk of your father. Are you looking forward to joining the Palace Guard? After Silvemight you can take the trials without your father's permission.'

what's the point?' Isak ran a fingernail along a groove in the wood.

11 never be a Ghost – why would they want someone like me?' You won't be an outcast all your life, I promise you that. Do you

ink I would bother to waste my time teaching you to fight despite what that lot think?' Carel jabbed a thumb back at the wagons follow-jng- These people aren't like most Parian. You might never be popular, u the tribe has a use for you, sure enough. I've fought side-by-side with your kind, and there's far worse than your childish temper in the ranks of the Ghosts – men who'd have been hanged years back if they weren’t so happy to be in the front line. You're all a dangerous lot, but you've more of a mind than most and the Swordmasters will see that. Just remember me when you become General Isak.'

The veteran smiled and Isak smiled back. Carel didn't suffer fools or time-wasters. There had to be something to his words, or all the hours of drilling and sparring would have been for nothing. Isak knew he could best Carel with a weapon – even a weighted training stick against a sword – but that wasn't the problem. All white-eyes were preternaturally fast, and strong, but it was this very power that scared normal people. Isak had had that demonstrated to him almost every day of his life.

Carel insisted there were others like him in the Guard, but no one ever saw them. If it were true, clearly they were not trusted with keeping the peace on Tirah's streets; they were used only in the slaughter of battle.

'I suppose you're right,' Isak admitted. 'I just daren't allow myself to hope. But I'll take any chance to get away from this lot, even if I have to break Father in two to do it.'

This disrespect earned him a clip round the ear, one that would have been painful to anyone else, but Isak bore it without flinching. Every child in the train had felt the back of Carel's hand at one time or another, but it made no difference: they all loved him – and his stories. But no one else in the train understood Carel's obvious affection for the wild white-eye, and all Carel would say was that in Isak he recognised the angry young man he himself had been.

The wagoners were a community held together by blood ties as much as poverty. Most of the year was spent on the road and even in Parian territory they kept to themselves. The caravan was the only home Isak had ever known, but it was not where he was welcome; only in the wild places did he find some comfort of belonging. The presence of others always reminded him that he was blessed and cursed in equal measure – and that men feared both. White-eyes were bom to be protectors of the Seven Tribes, but jealousy and fear had demonised his kind and now many saw them as symbols of the Land's polluted soul.

Carel grimaced at the boy. 'You're as sulky and bad-tempered as your father. I think you've inherited more than you lot normally do.'

'Perhaps he's just particularly unpleasant,' retorted Isak sourly.

'Perhaps so, but he's not too bad a man to others. Your problem is that you have the look of your mother. He sees her in your face, and

brings out the worst in him. If you didn't get at him so, you might not have to spend your life trying to stop yourself fighting back.'

Isak turned his head sharply to meet the mercenary s knowing expression. As he looked into those dark eyes he saw the twinkle of humour that had brightened his childhood and relaxed. Carel might be

the only one who could see his internal struggle, but he was also the only one who understood it.

'White-eyes are pretty much the same, whatever the tribe,' he continued, tapping out his pipe on the rail beside him. The curl of a smile hung on his lips as he fixed a fond gaze on the youth. 'You remember I told you about Sergeant Kulet? Now that one was a bastard, the worst white-eye I've ever met. Man killed his entire family when he was sixteen – well, 'cept his mother of course, but we can't blame any of you white-eyes for the size you were as a baby. The ones to blame are the Gods, and most folk aren't that stupid.

'Anyway, the Swordmaster wasn't allowed to execute Kulet. The high priest of Nartis stepped in and said a birthmark on his face showed Kulet'd been touched by Nartis.' Carel gave a snort of scorn. Touched by a daemon more like, if you ask me, but that birthmark was as blue as a temple door, no doubt about it. We kept him just drunk enough to spend most of the day telling jokes – the bugger could make me laugh even more than your foolery can – otherwise he'd get bored and start a fight in the barracks. But when you saw him on the battlefield – well, merciful Death! If you had Kulet next to you, you were glad. He fought like a man possessed, never gave ground, never left the man next to him vulnerable. You knew you were safe in his lee.'