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Raim was left alone, apart from Draikh and Oyu, as his path took him in a different direction: north, toward the Amarapura mountains.
    Raim shivered in his thin shirt, the night air having taken on an increased chill as he drew closer to his destination. He took in a sharp breath, the cold air filling his chest giving a sharp jolt to his senses.
    He needed it. His mind felt like it was wrapped in sheep’s wool. Vlad had outlined the route in the dirt, a winding trek through the mountains that would take him further north than he had ever been. Vlad had made it clear that if he – a branded oathbreaker – had any chance of being allowed to speak to a Baril, he had to find the one person there who might listen to him: his brother, Tarik.
    Raim dropped the pack he’d been carrying to the ground and rooted around in the top, pulling out a sheepskin cloak to ward off the chill. He hadn’t prepared for this journey, and though he’d borrowed the warmest clothes the others could spare, he worried it wouldn’t be enough. From afar, he could see smoke rising from near the base of the mountains. With a pang, he realized he was looking at the very village his tribe had stayed in before his brother’s wedding. He felt like he’d travelled all the way to Lazar and back, only to come full circle.
    Raim had to avoid the village, one of the few perm anent settlements on the steppes. If he was spotted and his scar revealed to the villagers, they would drive him away. Or worse, they would kill him on the spot. He adjusted the angle of his path away from the village, but not so far that he lost sight of it completely. At least if he could see the dwellings, then the Baril couldn’t be too far away.
    The cloak was enough for now, and Raim relaxed into the warmth. He slung the pack back over his shoulder, and started walking once again.
    ‘Why do they live in the mountains? Surely there are better places,’ said Draikh. ‘It’s already cold enough on the steppes in winter.’
    Raim rolled his eyes. ‘You don’t feel the cold.’
    ‘True, but I remember it.’ The spirit shivered for effect, rubbing his hands on his shoulders.
    ‘The remoteness of our location is our pride.’ Raim imitated Vlad’s solemn voice and expression, lowering his voice while stretching his neck up high and looking down his nose.
    ‘Like the Chauk,’ said Draikh. ‘Cut from the same skin, those two clans.’
    Raim laughed, dropping the act. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say that to their faces.’
    ‘Might do them some good to hear it.’ Draikh swooped down low so he was level with Raim. When they walked like this, Raim found it difficult not to think it was Khareh next to him. Just the two of them out exploring, like old times. Despite himself, he missed his friend.
That friend is gone
, he reminded himself, and he clenched his fists at his side.
    ‘How do you think you will find your brother?’ Draikh said, glancing sidelong at him. Draikh would know what he was thinking.
    ‘I’m not sure.’ He shrugged. ‘Vlad said he might not be in the main temple as he’s probably still a novice.’
    ‘How do you think he will take seeing you again?’
    Raim bit his lip, and continued to plod one foot in front of the other, staring down at the laces of his boots.
    ‘Come on,’ said Draikh. ‘You can’t avoid it for ever. You’ll be seeing him soon enough.’
    Raim shrugged, but his heart beat wildly. When he’d last seen Tarik’s back retreating into the cave, he had thought that would be the last time they would ever meet. Under any other circumstances, it would have been. Tarik had shed his previous life as Loni’s grandson, as brother to Raim and Dharma, and adopted a new clan: the Baril. That was the Darhanian way, just as Raim would never have expected to see Dharma and Loni again once he had joined his chosen clan. The Yun.
    The Baril, and the Yun. One, masters of words, the other, masters of swords. Tarik and Raim had never been close,