My guts quake and roil as they always do after a vision. Is Morcant taking me prisoner? He is speaking that guttural gibberish he spoke with Lucius and though I strain to listen I cannot even distinguish separate words. What is he saying about me? Should I draw my sword and end this now? I’m not sure my hand is steady enough. At best I could take the man nearest me, but I would die soon after. Anyway, I can’t fight; instead I turn my head away from the armoured men and vomit into the tree roots. The hands that grab and brace me are gentle enough and I’m not acting when I slump against one of the soldiers. This vision is hard to forget. It was full of violence, which isn’t unusual, but in this vicious battle Morcant lies bleeding; blood spurts and stains his naked torso. The ghastly pallor of his face, the look in his eyes are both disturbing, but what shocks me most is my distress. He’s not of my tribe – he’s not even fully a man – and I don’t even know if he is on my side, but I can’t shake the terrible sense of loss I felt at this vision of his death.
