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Julien’s hand and walking day after day until Julien collapsed and some Calidorian soldiers returning from the border had prized him off his brother’s dead body and carried him to the safety and warmth of the prince’s camp. March used to think of himself as lucky: lucky that he’d not starved; lucky that he’d been rescued by the Calidorians not the Brigantines; lucky that the prince had taken him in and trained him to be his personal servant; lucky to have enough food to eat every day. He thought all that until he met Holywell. March had been back to the land that had once been Abask, when he was traveling nearby with the prince. He’d slipped away from the royal entourage and climbed up into the rugged mountains. He’d hoped to remember places or recognize some feature of the landscape, but in honesty it all seemed strange: more rugged and inhospitable than he’d thought. After three days he returned to the prince, telling him some of the truth. “I needed to see it, sire.” “And what did you find?” “The mountains remain, and a few ruins, but the bracken and woods have reclaimed the land. No one is living there.” The prince had smiled sadly. “It was always a tough existence, living in the mountains. Your people were strong and resourceful.” And left by you to starve or be taken into slavery, March wanted to shout in the prince’s face. “Well, I’m glad you returned to me, March. I was lost without you.”
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