Valour by John Gwynne Page B

Helveth, after all. Turned out most of what he thought about his past was wrong, lies piled on top of one another.
    Time passed, the boat rising and falling rhythmically. Corban felt exhausted, worn out by his churning emotions as much as the events of the last few days. Gwenith and Gar sat together. His
mam’s eyes were red rimmed and sunken, her face pale and drawn. Storm nuzzled his palm and he absently stroked her head. The things his mam had said about him swirled in his mind like flotsam
in a whirlpool, different parts bobbing to the surface. Like what she had said about him being hunted – by
Asroth
– how could that be? He had never given much thought to Asroth
or Elyon before, was not even sure if he believed them to be real, and so far had not particularly cared. Elyon, the maker of all, and Asroth, his great enemy, leading his host of the Fallen.
Corban knew the tales well enough, of Asroth’s corruption of the first giants and men, the War of Treasures that followed, and then the Scourging. Until now he’d thought they were
little more than faery stories told to keep children in their cots at night. He looked about, at his companions littered around the boat. Beyond the railings he caught a glimpse of the coastline, a
dark smudge of dense trees and cliffs. Lifting his hand in front of his face, he stared at his fingers, saw black dirt making patterns in the creases of his skin, the swirling design of his
fingerprints.
Someone or something must have made all of this, I suppose,
he thought.
But Asroth, hunting me . . . ?
    He shook his head.
    Brina sat down beside him. Farrell glanced at the healer, then looked away. No matter how the recent events had affected everyone, Brina still had a reputation. Corban weathered her silent stare
as long as he could.
    ‘Where’s Craf?’ he asked, more to break the silence than anything else.
    ‘There,’ she said with a nod.
    Craf was sitting on the prow of the ship, staring straight ahead like some tattered figurehead.
    ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Corban muttered.
    ‘There’s a surprise,’ Brina snorted. ‘All right then, but this time I will be asking a few questions of you, too. Perhaps we can do a trade.’
    ‘What could I possibly know that would interest you?’
    ‘A trade – yes or no?’
    ‘Perhaps.’ Corban eyed her suspiciously. ‘Let’s hear each other’s questions first, then decide.’
    Brina scowled. ‘Well?’ she prompted.
    ‘The night we fled Dun Carreg, on the way to the tunnels. You and Heb . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘That mist. Did you . . . ?’
    ‘Ah, a good question.’ She almost smiled at him. ‘My question, then: Gar.’
    Corban sighed. He knew it would have to be about the stablemaster. ‘Go on.’
    ‘He came to Dun Carreg when you and Cywen were bairns?’
    Hearing Cywen’s name made something twist in his stomach. He nodded.
    ‘I’d like to know where he came by that curved sword of his, and where he learned how to use it. I’d like to know how he was on speaking terms with the King of Tenebral’s
first-sword. And most of all, I’d like to know why he’s so interested in
you
.’ She jabbed his chest with a finger.
    ‘That’s a lot of questions. I only asked you one,’ Corban pointed out.
    ‘Mine are linked,’ Brina retorted.
    Corban held a hand up. ‘Believe me, they are all questions that I’d like to hear the answers to, myself.’
    ‘You don’t know, then?’
    ‘No, though I wish I did.’
    ‘Well, go and ask him,’ she said. ‘Then you can come back and tell me.’
    ‘No,’ he snapped, more harshly than he’d intended. ‘It’s complicated . . .’
    She stared at him, then rose with a grunt. ‘When you’ve uncomplicated it, come and talk to me. I’ll tell you about the mist.’ She walked away.
    Highsun had come and gone. Corban was standing by the rail, staring at nothing. He could just make out the coast: a blur of tree and rock, here and there lines of smoke