A gentle knock on the door woke him. When he opened his eyes, he found it was the middle of the night, and the only illumination was a shaft of moonlight coming in through the room's one small window. The fire had all but gone out in the hearth, and the cold was seeping in under the blankets, adding to his reluctance to get up at the summons.

The knock was repeated, and this time a voice called out, "Farron, are you awake?" It sounded like Minna, one of the castle serving girls.

"One moment," he said, sleepily. Throwing back the blanket with a sigh, Farron swung his legs out of bed and reached for his tunic, which he had hung on the back of a chair to dry. He pulled it over his head and grimaced as the still-damp wool clung to his skin. As he pulled on his boots the meaning of his summons made its way through his crippling tiredness. A call at this time of night could only mean one of two things; either his father's health had started to improve, or he was dead or about to die. It had been perilously close for two days now.

Minna knocked at the door again and asked him to hurry. Probably not dead then, he thought, with a stab of hope.

When he opened the door, he found Minna waiting for him with an oil lamp in one hand, and clean blankets in the other.

"He's asking for you," she said.

Farron turned to his table and picked up a quill, inkpot and several sheets of parchment before following Minna down the corridor. If what she said was true, then perhaps his father was over the worst and on the mend. In any event, Farron thought it would be wise to write down anything his father said, in case it would help the Protectorate's yeomanry find out more about why he had been attacked in the first place. So far all they had was a body of an unknown assassin, and the crossbow and quarrels that had been in his possession, which Thom, the elderly and irascible yeoman sergeant had called "intriguing."

The castle was quiet as they walked along corridors, down darkened staircases and through sparse, echoing rooms. Most of the castle's inhabitants were away with Lord Kilvern, and they didn't meet anyone else until they had passed through the inner courtyard to the main gate, where a pair of sentries dressed in leather and chainmail stood warming his hands at a brazier. The gates had been closed since his father had been attacked, and several guards stood vigil on the battlements, looking out over the darkened land.  There had been no reports from the watchtowers of anything untoward, and there had likewise been no messages from nearby towns of anything happening out of the ordinary. Even so, everyone knew what had happened, and the fact that the entire yeomanry had been mobilised to 'seek out raiders on the boundary' had served to put the town on its guard. That in itself had made another attack less likely, according to Thom.

The guard opened the gate as they approached and they stepped out into the moonlit grounds outside the castle. They crossed the moat via a wooden walkway, then left the path that led to the town and headed instead towards a group of single-story houses a little way to the west of the castle. The moat, noticed Farron, was dry. In fact, the moat was a relatively recent addition, being less than two hundred years old. If the castle was under threat, the moat could be flooded by diverting a nearby stream, with the wooden walkway the only dry approach possible, so making the castle more easily defensible. To Farron's certain knowledge, the moat had never been flooded other than for practice, and then not at all in the nine years Farron and his father had been in the Protectorate. For the last hundred years or so, there had been little need for heavy defensive measures anywhere within the southern counties, or even within the larger Kingdoms as a whole.

All of which made this attack on his father even more unfathomable. Disputes between townsfolk, farmers or tradesmen from other towns were not unusual, and they could occasionally lead to murder, which the Protectorate's castle guard and yeomanry normally dealt with on behalf of the county sheriff. The motives for such crimes were usually obvious – jealousies, disputes over land or cattle, drunken fights – and the guilty parties tried and sentenced by the sheriff or his deputies.

But as far as Farron knew, no-one in the Protectorate had any cause to want his father dead. Since arriving, he had given much for the inhabitants to be grateful for. But on the other hand, thought Farron, there was also much he didn't know about his father (or himself, for that matter), and there was a nagging thought at the back of his mind that wanted itself to be heard: that the attempt on his father's life and his own ignorance of their own history were linked somehow.

They had arrived in the Berkeley Protectorate during one of the worst winter storms in living memory. Where they had been going, and where they had come from, no one knew. His father would not talk about it. Sable Holm had simply arrived, seeking shelter from the cold and snow, and asking for a place where he could tend to his desperately sick son.

When Sable had revealed Farron to the Sisters of Healing, they had summoned the Protectorate sergeant. They had nearly been sent back out into the snow. The townsfolk were a conservative lot, on the whole. What they knew, they liked, and what they didn't understand, or what they couldn't comprehend, they were afraid of. So when Farron had been revealed by Sable in the healing house, their initial reaction was intense distrust and fear. The reason for this was simple. Sable was no different to anyone else in the Protectorate – he could pass for a relative of any number of people in the town - whereas Farron most definitely could not, and the reason for that was the colour of his skin.

Farron's skin was a deep, deep red, so dark it could be mistaken for black until he stood in sunlight, where its true colour could be seen. And for a rural, relatively isolated community that was mostly farmers and craftsmen, a red-skinned person was something to be fearful of.

By the time Farron and Minna had crossed the rampart and had neared the healing house, Farron's thoughts had settled on his place in Berkeley's community, and what might happen if his father were to die. Would the last nine years count for much? Would the acceptance his father had battled with for years, persuading and cajoling the inhabitants of Berkeley to accept Farron as an equal, survive his death? He doubted it, and that made him sad, and very nervous.

When they entered the healing house, the heat was stifling. Farron paused a moment in the doorway and gazed at the brazier stood in one corner of the oblong room, and at the fire burning brightly in the hearth, and then he fixed his stare on sister Jen, whose rotund form was sat in a chair across the room from the doorway.

"It's too hot in here," observed Farron, noting the expression on sister Jen's face, which was more than its usual one of dislike.

"He said he felt cold," she replied, in a tone of open defiance that would never have been displayed so strongly had Sable not been so ill. Sister Jen had always been difficult with Farron, but tonight she seemed particularly disagreeable. "What do you expect me to do, boy? Let him freeze?"

Farron ignored the obvious invitation to argue, and instead took the lamp from Minna and walked to the other end of the room, where his father lay on a cot. A candle in a sconce on the wall was giving off more smoke than light, so Farron extinguished it and hung the lamp on the sconce. Sable's face was pale and drawn, and he looked to have aged ten years in the two days since he had been brought in from the fields. His mouth was open and from it came the sound of heavy, laboured breathing. As Farron approached the cot Sable's eyelids flicked open and his bloodshot eyes fixed on his own.

"Son ... son ... send the others ... away." Sables voice was a ghost like - a pale imitation of the man he knew as his father. Farron looked round at Minna and Jen who had come to the foot of the bed and told them to leave. Minna obeyed at once, retreating to the door. Jen looked between Sable and Farron and seemed on the verge of arguing until Sable suddenly barked "Go!" in a hoarse shout that made both Farron and Jen jump. With obvious reluctance, Jen left the two of them alone, pulling the door shut with unnecessary firmness.

"It's better ... that they aren't here," whispered Sable, closing his eyes again and panting a little.

Farron lifted the blankets and inspected the wound where the crossbow bolt had entered Sable's thigh. It looked to be much better, the wound clean and already scabbed over. The shaft had only gone in a little way, and the tip hadn't been barbed, so it had been easy to remove. There was little sign of infection, so Farron couldn't understand why his father was so poorly. At least now his father was conscious, Farron could ask him about his symptoms.

"Father, how are you feeling?" he asked.

"Farron," whispered his father, "I am about to die. And there is nothing you ... or anyone else ... can do to prevent it. So please don't waste time trying."

This so took Farron aback that for a moment he just stared open mouthed. From his viewpoint, his father was improving – his return to consciousness proved it – and it stood to reason that he would only continue to get better. It wasn't like Sable to be so negative, especially in matters of healing, of which there was no-one more knowledgeable in the whole Protectorate.

"Father, that's nonsense! You're getting better! There's no infection, very little blood loss. It's just the shock of the attack, that's all..." Farron's reassurances died away as Sable shook his head.

"I'm sorry Farron. But I'm right in this. And you must listen now. We have ... very little time. Your life ... is in danger."

Farron sat in silence for a moment, contemplating this statement. It only served to reinforce his fear that something bad was happening.

"You need to tell me why that man shot you. Who was he?" asked Farron. "And, what on earth happened to him?" he added, voicing the question that Thom and many others had asked since both Sable and the assassin had been brought in from the fields. Hoping that Sable would provide swift answers to these questions, Farron laid a parchment sheet on his knees and quickly dipped the quill so he could record in detail what Sable told him. However, when Sable saw this, he reached out and grasped the parchment in his fist, crumpled it up, and dropped it on the floor.

"No," he said. "Do not record this. Use ... your memory. It would be ... safer."

"Has this got anything to do with our past? Before you brought me to Berkeley, I mean?"

"Yes. Everything."

Farron's heart beat a little faster. If there had been anything in his relationship with his father that Farron found difficult, it was the question of where they had come from before Berkeley. Whenever Farron asked about it, Sable point blank refused to discuss it. The only words Sable would give on the matter were that it was better for Farron not to know, and that Farron should trust Sable's judgment on this. For Farron, that only added to the mystery of his past, and initially made him all the more intrigued. For many years, Farron had brought the subject up periodically and met the same stubborn resistance. Eventually, after many years of trying, as they had gradually become a part of the Protectorate's close community, Farron had given up asking, although his interest in the matter never truly waned.

Now, however, the arrival of an unknown and determined assassin, and the mysterious circumstances of the assassin's own death, had raised Farron's instincts to a high pitch, and it was this, as much as anything else, that had prompted him to ask the question.

"Everything," repeated Farron. "Then, you'll tell me where we came from – who I am?"

Sables face took on a pained expression for a moment.

"No... There isn't the time. But I will tell you what you must do now, and along the way ... well, you will find out. I'm just sorry ... that is has to be this way."

"Then you can tell me when you are better," said Farron, stubbornly.

"No. I will not survive this, I've told you."

Something in Sable's expression told Farron that it would be futile to argue, and then he remembered something Sable had said earlier.

"You said my life is in danger..."

"Yes. The man who found me – he would have come for you too, afterwards."

"But why? Who wants us dead?"

"Not you – they don't want you dead. At least, not yet. They need you, you see. Although they do not know it yet. And now they know you are here, they will be back to try again."

"Why?"

"Because you have something ... in your mind. They will need it, but they must not have it."

"In my.... What do you mean?"

"Just listen to me, and do as I say. In my room, there is a cabinet with three draws. It has an eagle motif on the top."

"I know it," frowned Farron.

"The top drawer has a fake bottom. Inside you will find a... a key. Consider it your... inheritance."

"My inheritance? A key?" asked Farron in surprise.

Sable smiled slightly. "This is a special key. It will unlock a new world for you. You only need to hold it for it to work." Sable's smile faded again and he coughed for several moments, afterwards seeming to find it harder to breath.

"And then ... you must find somewhere safe. It may be best if...," at this point, Sables coughing returned, and he seemed to be struggling to speak. Shaking his head, Farron heard him utter one more word, before Sable suddenly arched his back and began fitting, his arms twisting and extending into strange shapes while his face turned purple.

"Help!" shouted Farron, throwing back the covers and feeling for a pulse. Jen and Minna rushed back into the building – Farron had no doubt that they had been listening outside at the window – and for several minutes they did what they could for his father, which was precious little.

After a while, Farron told the others to stop, and they left him with his father's body; Jen and Minna gone to fetch the Field Master, and Farron to sit and grieve at his loss, nurturing his fears for his own future, and wondering where Sable had meant by his last word – "Home".