The ride down from the Mountain of the Wind had reminded them where it had got its name. Banners fluttered along with robes and capes. The whistle of the mountain winds played past Asla's ears, and made it difficult to hear. She could hear voices, but she could not make out words, and she could hear drums but not their tune. It stung at her skin, and she pulled her fur cloak around her for protection while tangling her fingers in the mane of her mule.

Her husband was called the King of Rock and Salt, at the title was apt. Stone overwhelmed the terrain in the forms of thin daggers and bloated boulders. They rose and fell like mountains, but they did not have the simple elegance of the snow-tipped cones that foreigners knew. These mountains fell suddenly in some places, and rose above the clouds in others, but there was no order to their shape, and water made it worse. Thin streams and rushing rivers carved their paths, forcing deep gorges and thick canyons. In some placed, they left arched bridges thick enough to pass over. 

There were no true roads in this land either, only thin trails squirming alongside cliffs between smooth mountain meadows and rocky plateaus. Some said that in this land, it was the goats that made the roads rather than the people. Looking at them, worn smooth and often so narrow that only two men on muleback could pass abreast, it looked likely that goats had a part to play.

Bergen rode ahead of her, caught in awkward conversation with the fat lord Barbic Wrenseer. His shield and its bearers followed them often, wielded by visiting sons or cousins. The Wrenseers courted their King as often as they could, and their company always came down to the same thing. Barbic claimed that men in a far away land had wronged his distant cousins somewhere in the south. It was a land of wonders, Barbic would say when he was drunk enough, where totems as high as true mountains kissed the sky with monkey lips, and the decendents of apes still built their cook-fires under its ruins. And it was a land ripe for plunder, he always made sure to add. When she was younger, Asla had feared that her husband would someday listen, and that he would gather a host and sail away never to return. As the years went on, however, it became clearer that he had no interest in treasures on the other side of the world. Bergen was a man who never made bets he was not certain of. Where other men simply acted, Bergen planned.

"Mi'lady, you'll want to hold tight to 'im, now" the man leading her mule said. He was a simple looking man, dressed in dirt-stained wool and wearing a hat ringed with fur. His face was crooked, and his teeth were missing half of their number, but he was pleasant enough. "The road gets a little closer now. Just hold on."

And she did. They were crossing a natural bridge as it passed next to a roaring waterfall. Its spray wettened the stone and made it slippery. She held on, staring anxiously at the drop below. She could see where the canyon opened into a valley filled with fields and orchards. It was peasants who lived in the low places, but their food fed the rest. When she had been a child, Asla had wanted to live in the low places. The thought of living amongst green and calm waters had seemed like a beautiful dream. Age had made her grow used to the stone of her homes, but that childhood dream still lingered in the back of her mind. When she looked down the falling water and saw smoke rising from a wooden hovel, those pleasant thoughts of youth came back to her mind.

"We are over it now, Mi'Lady." the mule-lead said. "I been over it plenty time. I am a Suerfoot on my mothers side, I am. Got some o' the goat in me, if you get my drift." When he smiled, she could see the blackened roots of his teeth, but he looked happier then most people with full teeth ever manage to be. 

Their path snaked up the side of a cliff until they entered a mountain meadow. Sweet smelling lilac and pale flowers in red and yellow filled the white-green pasture. In the distance, a line of deep-green pines stood amongst a clinging mist that spoke of a pool. [i]There is green up here too.[/i] Asla thought. 

Somewhere over the rise, a hunters horn blew. A herd of wild goats came charging through the procession, bleating and crying in fear. The site of more people scattered them. One ran in front of Asla, frightening her mule and causing it to kick. The goat, startled beyond hope, lost its footing and fell from a nearby cliff. She watched as it turned its head to bleat once more before plunging to its death. A second goat passed, an arrow in its shank, but it changed course and headed in a safer direction.

Braying mules and whining goats caused a wave of confusion to flow down the Royal procession. The hunting horn blew once more, and the hunters came over the rise. They were clad in furs, and the shields on their backs were pure white with grey lines waving across. [i]Hardwinds[/i] she thought. [i]This is their land[/i]

And elder Hardwind came riding up to the front to exchange harsh words with his Kinsmen. 

"Tres, you young fool. You could have injured the King." the old man blustered. Asla watched as his cheeks turned a bright red, as did the bald spot in the center of his scalp. He was more angry for being embarrassed then he was for whatever small danger the hunters might have caused.

"My apologies." the young fool answered. He was handsome - the type of man Asla would have dreamed of in girlhood. His jaw was thinly haired and chiseled, but his skin looked soft and perfect. A wave of thick black hair flowed from his head, and his pale grey eyes made her feel warm. Broad shouldered and tall, he looked more like a warrior from a song then a warrior had seen war. [i]No scars[/i] Asla thought, [i]Has he ever been hit before?[/i]

Tres the Lover, he was called. He had a reputation in the Hardwind clan as being having bedded more women then even Rober the Bastard-Maker had in old times. Seeing him now, she could see how he had convinced so many.

"Apologies won't do." the older Hardwind shouted. "This is your King you have offended! Kneel and beg!"

"That won't be neccessary." Bergen interrupted. He looked at the young man in that soft, commanding way that he did. "Tres did no harm, unless mountain goats are to be counted as casualties."

Tres bowed his head and smiled slyly. "You are too kind, my King. I cannot offer much in apologies, but I can escort you to the home of my kin."

Bergen patted the boy on the back. "This is a kind offer, and I accept it."

Tres and his men rode next to the King, sharing jokes and talking of landmarks along the way. For Asla, she enjoyed lagging behind well enough. The mountain flowers gave her plenty to look at, and when they passed out of the meadows she found attention in the rocky crags and trickling streams. 

"Look." her mule-leader said. "Hardwind Hall."

A lonely knife of stone shot out of the rocky hillside. Stairs led up to its doors, and windows and balconies were carved into its side. Along the flat slabs of stone around it, stables had been built, as had temples and houses and many other buildings. They had just left this place a few days before, but returning to it felt sweet. Soon, she would meet back up with her older children, and they would have a feast.