Chapter Four
At the same time as Feather, son of Helm of the Storm, was travelling south to visit his partner, his lost father decided to travel north to find him.
Helm had remembered his name on a cloudy dawn that spring.
The exile was watching the sky as a tempest, perhaps the last of the retreating winter, gathered its power. He sat considering his way. For more than thirty summers he had been a wanderer, an outcast from his tribe. The fact that his banishment was self-imposed meant little to him now, as it had meant little from the beginning. He only knew that his own actions had forced him to flee. He had left everything behind, even his name. Some deeply ingrained instinct regularly told him that his name was poison to his own ears and better left unrecalled, unrecognised, unsaid.
