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    The man on the animal was dark-skinned – not dark like Fenzi, but more as if he had been seethed in honey and smoke. His hair was black, with scarlet wool woven into its plaits.
    He stared down at Arok with contempt and animosity. He said no word, only pointed with a gold-ringed finger at the dead lionet.
    â€˜Who gave you leave to slay our tigers? Only our royals may do so, or their servants for them.’
    Arok found he could understand. That then had remained to him if invulnerability had not, one more fringe benefit from lying with Chillel. But would this other understand him ?
    â€˜We’re strangers in your land and didn’t know.’
    The man on the tall sheep widened his eyes.
    The tall sheep burped with a disgusting sound that filled the air with the odours of fermenting grain, rotten wood and decaying vegetables. This did not disconcert the rider, only Arok, who coughed.
    â€˜You speak Simese?’
    Arok cleared his throat and risked the throw. ‘I speak all tongues.’
    â€˜I see you are an outlander. You’re snow-coloured and have the hair of an elderly man.’
    â€˜I’m young enough. What reparation do you want for killing your beast?’
    â€˜Probably your death.’
    â€˜Then sing for it.’
    â€˜No. My king will sing for it and we’ll skin you and hang your pelt by the tiger’s.’
    â€˜You think so.’
    â€˜Come,’ said the rider, almost gracious with scorn, ‘you have about twenty men. We are ninety.’
    I misjudged the number. Ninety? Can we do for them? No .
    â€˜Take me ,’ said Arok. ‘I killed the animal – your tiger .’
    â€˜And you’ve thieved the cub. All of you will go with us. The king will like to know how you reached our country. Before he skins you all with a blunt knife.’
    Athluan was a child again, a toddler with strong legs that, once grown, would be long and muscular. He was paying visits in the garth, ambling up and down the man-made slopes and terraces.
    People were always pleased enough to see him. He did not know yet clearly sensed they gave him their approval and kindliness in lieu of something else. Although he had been told of the stolen first son, Dayadin the Hawk, no one had ever made Athluan miserable or jealous. No comparisons were ever voiced. It would be unlucky, disregardful of God’s second gift. In any event Athluan’s was not a jealous nature, He was a serious boy, already bright and generally reasonable.
    Behind him walked the nurse of fourteen who acted as his guardian on such excursions. She was always careful of him, yet here he was safe enough. So she had paused to linger with one of the younger men by the hothouse. A few kisses and fondles and she would pluck an orange for Athluan and catch him up.
    Arok’s lionet hunt would be gone for some days. The garth was usually a little more relaxed in his absence. More than a year without sight or sniff of an enemy had lulled them after the brittle last days in the former country.
    Athluan had also paused. He had been going to the blacksmith’s, to watch the hammering of metal and the sparks fly. But in a small yard between there and the houses, an interesting whirling went on in mid-air. What was it? Almost it was like the smithy sparks, only wilder.
    Or was it bees? He had seen bees somewhere, the hive-bees that must always live indoors – the Holasan-garth did not have such hives, but Athluan did not recall this.
    Soon he went towards the bee-sparks, fascinated, unafraid. At that moment they coalesced in an unlikely upright formation. Athluan stopped still again. Something was about to happen.
    It did. The glinting nothing of the shape drew itself swiftly into lines and curves and put on washes of colour.
    To a young child magic is everywhere, startling but seldom unbelievable.
    He looked up at the pale young woman in her silvery dress and fall of saffron hair. Her eyes were black.