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King Ab Ster, the first and last suzerain of the Unified Kingdom, was above all a warlord with exceptional oratory skills. By tradition, the regions crossed by the river Brown were ruled by a disunited urban nobility, the primates, and their history until the reign of Ab consisted of an uninterrupted series of small territorial wars, each one more deadly and ineffective than the other. There were two main reasons for Ab's accession to the throne. The first was the invasion and siege of Brumal by the Morid khelifa of Assel, which started the third Morid war, almost thirty years before my birth. The second, as I have already mentioned, were the clever speeches of Ab.

The siege of Brumal had already lasted six moons, and the ruins of the villages and estates of the canton had long since stopped smoking, when the future King Ab, then Primate of Winsol, convened a round table. During the meeting, he managed to convince all the lords gathered that, if Brumal fell, no primacy would be safe from the armies of Mor, which was probably more than half a truth. Moreover, at the farthest primacies from the conflict, such as Wolf Bay, or Southy, Ab dangled the idea of a Red coast free of the Morid ships, which would open up many trading opportunities with the very rich theocracy of Rajja, on the other side of the detroit. In short, he proposed union, then war.

The primates squabbled for days, but ended up grudgingly allocating him a scummy troop of High Brownians, Low Brownians and Grey Marchers militiamen. Without further ado, Ab rallied Brumal at the head of this army, which was joined by the regular troops of Winsol. To everyone's surprise, he won a resounding victory.

But if the primates had been stunned by his victory at Brumal, what happened afterwards defied their understanding, as well as that of many strategists and historians.

After having delivered the city under siege from the Romids, Ab pursued the rearguard of the invaders to the very walls of Assel, and in the space of a few weeks he somehow managed to annex the city. It was a military victory as much as a political one, and when Ab again summoned the Brown nobility to present him with the head of the khelif of Assel on a bed of gold, he promised them more conquests. The Treaty of Pulo was signed, Ab obtained his crown, and the Unified Kingdom emerged from it.

In spite of the initial reluctance of the primates to entrust their men to a king they had just designated, ambitious captains and young nobles in search of glory from the four corners of the primacies flocked under his banner. With a worthy army at his disposal, Ab then embarked on his bloody northern campaign. The free city of Greysword, one of the last bastions of the Arke people, stood between him and the new Romid border, redrawn since the fall of Assel. Ab massacred its inhabitants until the last when they refused him the right to cross their lands.

Like a rabid wolf, Ab then threw himself on Foss, the nearest Morid city, which he besieged, while at the same time he led by the sea the invasion of the Near Islands.

The notables of Mor were slow to understand the extent of the threat, surprised at first that a people of uncultured peasants could threaten their professional armies. The great Romid houses were finally forced to unite by the Grand Khelif, and they led a counteroffensive with mixed success. The fight finally got bogged down. After twenty-five years of indecisive warfare, pressed to the rear by primates increasingly reluctant to join the conflict, Ab negotiated the armistice of the Near Islands with the cities of Mor, following which he lifted the second siege of Foss and returned home.

While he was a brilliant orator, a powerful warrior, and a daring tactician, Ab was not so brilliant when it came to managing his new kingdom. It is true that the Unified Kingdom prospered during his reign, but this was more a result of past military victories and the individual politics of the primacies than of the king's true will. Ab spent the last fifteen years of his reign resolving petty primate quarrels and clinging in vain to the power that slipped through his fingers. Once his war was over, his political weight diminished, and over the years his inability to prevent the primates from gradually returning to their traditions of independence became evident. Increasingly isolated, he ended up sinking into suspicious eccentricity, not daring to name a successor, even on his deathbed. Thus the Unified Kingdom died as it was born: on a breath of King Ab.

Of course, we, the four orphans of the Ronna farm were unaware of this. In our minds, a crowned old man had just died somewhere we would never go, and since we did not count on the old man to feed us or give us alms, it was a problem that was none of our business. Of course, unfortunately, the Brown Hornians did not agree with us.

In the weeks following the king's death, there was not a tavern, not a market stall, not a single abandoned dovecote to escape the dull debates of the adults. Neither the alleys of the lower town nor the cobblestones of the upper town escaped the sound of the royal first name. People walked cautiously with a pinched, worried look on their faces, as if they all knew something that the others did not, and the hoarse voice of every little old lady we came across announced to us in a gloomy tone that great misfortune was at hand. Eventually we grew tired of the gloom and decided to spend most of our time at the Basin.

At sunrise, we left the dusty straw of the farmhouse and took the path to the ridge. There, greeted by the early morning dogs and the bleating of the cattle, we wandered among the yurts exchanging rude jokes with the children we passed. Brindy, Robin and I all spoke fluently the clanic language, for Brindy and Robin had shared a half peygen nanny for some time, and even Ucar - who was as Brown Hornian as one could be - managed to make himself understood.

I took advantage of these few weeks to barter. Green apples here, fish there, a helping hand to draw water or pluck a bird, so that I soon found myself with a nice handful of coins, enough to buy myself a small piece of clothing. Mine hung around me in rags, and if I didn't care about modesty, Brindy's gaze mattered to me. I chose one of the items sold by the old Frieze, a sewn leather trouser stuffed with wool. The outfit was still far too big and wide for me, but I guessed that I would eventually fill it up, and that I would not regret my purchase when winter was upon us. Frieze, whose chiseled face was covered with clan tattoos, smiled broadly and thanked me more generously than he should have, giving me a small discount.

The people of the clans do not take care of abandoned children, because according to their beliefs it is not wise to devote time to descendants who are not of the same blood. If a lineage must die out, it is because a will that escapes men is at work and it is therefore futile to oppose it.

Some even consider that it can be dangerous to change the course of the world in this way. So, in the hostile hell of the Stone Forest and High Lands, orphans like me were abandoned and left to perish from cold, starvation, or between the fangs of predators. The fact remains that, contrary to the Brown Hornians, those of the clans did not formalize the customs of the others, and I believe that Frieze, having observed our daily efforts to survive, had finally come to feel for our reckless determination a certain form of respect. I shook my head and thanked Frieze for the pants I rolled into a ball under my arm. Then, with my fingertips I made the traditional sign to indicate that the transaction was right for me, thumb crossed over middle finger, and I walked away in search of the others.

I discovered my comrades at the bend of a wagon filled with dead wood, all three of them sitting near a yurt with Chaigs colors. In front of them stood a skinny teenager and a short-haired girl. The girl was about the same height as us, and the young man would probably have been old enough to shave off his first beard if he had been a Brownian. Their tattoos designated them both as Chaigs, brother and sister. I sat between Brindy and Robin, elbowing, but my friends did not pay much attention because they were so taken by the story of the two people they were talking to. The story was chopped up and the narration clumsy, as they kept cutting each other off and going back and forth to digress or argue about this or that detail. That didn't stop me from getting caught up in it.

The father of Vaug and Dera - that was the name of the two young storytellers - had gone hunting with his companions during the winter, when their family left the Basin to stock up on skins, furs and herbs, which they then sold during the summer. Hunting was a risky activity in the forests of the High Lands because the region was teeming with game and predators. Large packs of cabu dogs, bears, solitary vesh cats and many stranger animals that did not hesitate to attack humans when they could. After traveling several miles through the maze, the group of hunters finally discovered a small cave where they planned to camp for the night.

On entering the cave, the three Chaigs found themselves facing a scal, one of those monstrous scolopendres that haunt the Stone Forest, nightmares of the clan children. It was a large female, their ruckus had pulled her out of her winter torpor, and she jealously guarded her eggs.

Vaug described with forceful gestures how the gigantic creature had thrown itself at the hunters, and the heroic battle that followed. He appropriated the story so enthusiastically that, when he had finished, the little Dera stared at him, her chin trembling and her mouth sulking.

" I was supposed to tell the end !" she exclaimed in an outraged voice.

"You don't do it well" Vaug sniffed, grinning exaggeratedly. Then, in a more compassionate tone: "Tell the rest, if you want."

Dera took a deep breath :

"Dad kept the ten most beautiful eggs. He sold them to a merchant from Sandport with his share of the chitin. The merchant paid him for the chitin in cash. He told him that in Rajja, they would be willing to give him a fortune to see scals fighting in the armena."

"The arena" Vaug rectified. "That's what I said" said the girl, her forehead wrinkled. " He said he'd pay Dad if he could sell them there. "

A few moments passed, during which the girl stared at us proudly. I raised my eyebrows. Then, with a sardonic laugh, Ucar disdainfully unfolded his chubby legs :

"Well, it looks like your dad has been scammed. Come on guys, I'm hungry."

We got back on our feet by mutual agreement and Dera's sharp protests began to rain. "It's not true, he'll come back next summer and he'll give a lot of money to my father!" Ucar was staggering, which didn't bode well. The little girl annoyed him. He had a bad temper at times, and got carried away quickly and easily, even with us. His voice got louder: "He won't come back, this merchant, guys like him spend their time scamming the Fysses like your father!" Vaug took offense at the thinly veiled insult and intervened orally :

"We're not Fysses, moron!"

"Well it's the same, and anyway the scals, I don't even believe in them!"

Ucar made an obscene gesture towards Vaug, then ran away, releasing behind him a stream of incoherent swear words. Robin and Brindy shrugged their shoulders and followed him, shaking their heads. I glanced at Vaug and Dera with apologies and did the same. Before he disappeared into the corner of a yurt, Ucar turned around in a storm, his red face framed by his brown curls. I think he was crying :

"And on top of that, if I had a dad as stupid as yours, well, I'm glad I don't have one!"

With these words he disappeared.

The gloomy mood that weighed on Brown Horn had finally fallen on our small group. We knew it was best to leave Ucar alone, and Robin left us, as he had promised to spend the afternoon helping the widow Ronna, who had ducks to deliver to the city. Brindy and I headed for the orchard hill, after I had exchanged my last coin for a quarter of sheep's cheese.

The sun was hitting hard, and we decided to eat on the way, before the heat spoilt our meal. The wind was beginning to pick up. The grasses along the path were slowly undulating. When we reached the top, Brindy insisted that I try on my new pants. Brindy was almost my age, maybe a year older, with almond-shaped eyes and a laughing mouth, but she often acted like a mother to the three of us.

She was, without a doubt, the mistress of our little clan. She was the one who took care of our splinters and bruises and our hearts.

She was the one who shared food and gently repaired injustices. I loved her. We all adored her, and sought her approval in everything.

After she had complimented me on my new look, we reduced my old clothes to a series of raggedy shreds that we could use to stuff our shoes when the weather cooled down. Then we sat down, as usual, facing the city, each one biting an apple. Beyond the walls, far to the north, the white peaks of the Hornus mountains stood out, and we could see the cogues and the boats making furrows in the placid water of the Brown. Brindy eventually put her head on my shoulder, as sometimes happened. We could stay like this for hours, contemplating the landscape and breathing the sweet air.

I don't know why, but we couldn't get enough of it. We just knew it was beautiful, and that it stayed beautiful. After a while, my eyebrows frowning, I ended up turning my mouth towards the hollow of her ear :

"Say Brindy, do you believe in scals?"

Brindy rose up and grabbed my hand, playing first with my fingers and then imprisoning them between hers. She finally raised her head, plunged her gray eyes into mine, and finally sketched out a simple smile :

"Yes I believe in them."

I nodded my head imperceptibly, prisoner of her murmur, my mouth wrinkled with seriousness :

"Me too."

We stayed like this for a while, eye to eye, hand to hand. Then the wind began to blow again, bringing with it all the freshness of the mountains. Brindy hugged me again, and our black locks became tangled in the wind. Her hair smelled like hay and sugar. Our silent glances were lost in the distance, and were lost again when night finally fell. We made our way back to the Ronna farm and the bowl of raves that awaited us there, without having broken the silence. I believe that nothing could have torn our two palms from each other that evening.