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possessed, never gave ground, never left the man next to him vulnerable. You knew you were safe in his lee.’
    Carel took a long pull on his pipe, then tapped Isak on the head with it. ‘Smile; you’re one of the blessed. You’re all violent, insolent, brooding and heartless. You make the best soldiers because you’re twice as strong and half as caring. Don’t take that wrong, you’re like a son to me, but I’ve known many. Behind the eyes you’ve all got something barely under control. P’raps it’s worse for you - your father never was good at taking orders either - but no white-eye was ever as meek as a lamb. Obey your father till the spring and then you’re free, promise. Just keep your temper until then.’
    ‘I hardly feel like I’m blessed.’
    ‘Ah boy, the Land is harsh. It’s a cruel place and it needs white-eyes to tame it. The Gods knew that when they made the first of you to be born. The last of the Farlan line was their model, and scripture tells he was no court jester.’ Carel clapped a hand on Isak’s shoulder and tugged him round to look him in the eye. There was an almost wistful tone to his voice when he spoke again. ‘Our Gods might be great and powerful, but they’ve never needed to be subtle.’
    Isak recognised the words: an old soldier’s favourite mantra.
    The veteran smiled. ‘Come on now, get that scowl off your face. The lecture’s over.’ He put his feet up and leaned against the wooden frame of the caravan, content in the sunshine that they wouldn’t see for months once they arrived home.
    Isak shifted in his seat and settled down for a long and uncomfortable day. As his mind wandered, he tried to count the months until he reached adulthood. Whether he was good enough to join the Ghosts or not, next year he would be able to do as he pleased; not to be dragged back like a rogue mule when he left. His father had made the most of the law regarding childhood, but he couldn’t hold on to Isak forever.
    Becoming a Ghost was still a dream to Isak, but one thing was sure: he could better Carel with a sword. He had nothing more to learn. If the Swordmasters were like the wagoners, he would go elsewhere - perhaps become a mercenary like Carel was now and travel to distant cities. Many of his kind did that, and some never found employment to be proud of, but white-eyes didn’t become hermits and live in quiet humility. Their nature was not so peaceful.
    Isak was still lost in daydreams of military glory when a sound up ahead broke through his reverie. Heads appeared from almost every caravan and wagon in the train, anticipating something to break the monotony of the journey. The spiced breeze was still detectable, but it did nothing to cool faces red under the onslaught of the sun. Most people wore wide-brimmed hats of some kind, but Isak rarely bothered. His skin was as fair as anyone’s, but it never peeled or burned, just as any injuries healed quickly. In those ways he knew he was blessed. It was the rest of it that made people nervous.
    Off to the left Isak saw a pair of wood pigeons perched on a branch, eyeing the wagon-train with lazy interest. He started to reach for the crossbow slung behind him, but stopped when the sound came again. It was a voice calling. He pulled himself to his feet on the wooden seat for a better look.
    From his vantage point Isak could see a horseman approaching, plaits swinging in the air and a spear held aloft.
    Carel had spotted the rider too and had already slipped on to the back of his own steed, which trotted patiently alongside the wagon. The stock pony was nothing like as impressive as the horses he had ridden in the Ghosts, and it bore little decoration bar the tattoos of breed and a charm to Nyphal, the Goddess of travellers, but it had served well over the years. With one hand on the pommel of his sword, Carel indicated for Isak to rein in before urging his stock pony forward.
    The wagon-train ground to an eventual halt behind them as an