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I’d held the tiny frozen corpse in my hands, my brother had gently explained that the spirit of the little creature was winging overhead, safe in a realm beyond cold and hunger, and that I should lay its remnant in the earth to feed and nourish the new life of spring. My brother had dried my tears and helped me dig the hole. And he was right: in spring, a little plant with feathery blue-grey flowers had grown there. Grandmother taught me its proper name, but I always called it birdie-wings.
    ‘Father,’ I murmured, struggling to conjure up a happy memory in place of the hideous, screaming image I could not erase from my thoughts. ‘Oh, Father, I’ll miss you . . .’ And I saw a man walking away down a long, long road, so long that the end of it was lost in the grey distance. As slow tears bathed my cheeks and soaked my makeshift pillow, I sank into sleep.

    When I woke, Flint was gone. The fire had been banked up. Warmth touched my face from coals glowing under their blanket of ash. The cloak was still wrapped around my body, keeping out the crisp chill of early morning. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky was lightening toward dawn.
    Flint had taken his pack with him, including the roll of bedding he’d had strapped on top. But it seemed he’d been speaking the truth about coming back by dusk, for next to my bag was a neat pile of items that did not belong to me.
    I got up, hugging the cloak around me, and went to investigate. A woollen tunic, well worn but serviceable, big enough to cover me to the knees. A cloth bundle which, unwrapped, proved to hold a supply of traveller’s way-bread, a feast that set my belly rumbling. I allowed myself a small piece – the sweetness brought back long-lost memories of home – then rewrapped the rest and stowed it in my bag. And he had left me a knife whose edge, tested on my hand, raised a line of bright blood. My own knife had been traded last winter for a meal and a night’s shelter. Father’s knife had drowned with him. Flint had given me more than a weapon. He had given me the ability to make fire.
    I delved into my bag and found the sheath I had crafted for my old knife. To an ordinary traveller it would have looked like nothing much: sewn hide with a sun pattern pricked onto the surface, and at the opening a decoration made from crow feathers and smooth river pebbles, tied into a cord with very particular knots. Thus I set a layer of protection between the cold iron of my weapon and any being who might be harmed by it.
    It did not take long to pack up and be on my way. I filled my water skin from the nearby stream. I extinguished the fire, spreading out the ashes and scattering soil on top. I checked that we had left no other signs of our presence. I squeezed the tunic into my bag and slipped the knife into my belt. Flint’s cloak, I would wear. It seemed unlikely I would ever get the opportunity to return it to him. When all was to my satisfaction, I stood still a moment to get my bearings.
    North. The place Farral had mentioned lay deep in the mountains, due north of our home village, the village that no longer existed. To reach it I must first travel eastward up the great chain of lochs that girdled Alban’s highlands. I must walk all the way to Deepwater, then skirt the shore of that freshwater loch until I reached the river Rush, and a track that led up to the peaks called the Three Hags. There, I must cross a high pass and go along a valley. At the foot of some formidable mountains there was a rock formation known as Giant’s Fist. Find that and I could find Shadowfell. If it existed. If it was more than a wishful dream.
    Save for the very last part, the way would be familiar enough. Father and I had travelled it in reverse when we fled Corbie’s Wood and the ruins of our old lives three years ago. And I had become skilled at path-finding.
    But it would be a long journey, and the season was turning. Flint had been right: food and shelter would be