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So it was lights you saw.”

“Aye, lights. The whole sky was on fire like water prisms.”

“I thought you said it was the mountains that was on fire?”

“Sky. Mountains. Makes no difference. There’s trouble in the north, I tell you.”

Witherby frowned. He wiped a mug with a dirty rag. “What do you have to say to all this, Drift?”

The dark-haired man turned from his drink at the mention of his name.

“You’ve been out in the world, what with the Guardsmen and all. Recently come home again with my son from Castlebridge. What have you to say to all this talk of goblins and fires.”

Drift stared at the man, then smiled lopsidedly. “I say we have another drink.”

“You’ve been drinking ever since you came home,” said the farmer, raising a bushy eyebrow.

“And what of it?” Drift drained his pint then slapped the farmer on the back. He was starting to feel merry and was in no mood for a fight. “I’ve been drinking ever since I left home, too. Eight years ago now, this New Moon festival.”

Witherby shook his head wistfully then spit on the country rugs behind the bar. “Eight years already. I remember when you and Byron left for the Guardsmen. Mere lads you were then, but look at you now. All grown up.”

Drift motioned for another ale.

The barman was about to pour, then hesitated. He slowly set the pitcher back on the table.

The man frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Maybe you should go home now, Drift.”

“Why? It’s early.” He looked at the others seated around the table, but no one met his gaze.

Witherby shrugged and shifted in his seat uneasily. “I don’t know, lad. It’s just that you’ve been here every night since coming back. I thought you might like to stay at home for a night. You know, get a good sleep and start the day early.”

“Early? I’m on furlough.”

The table grew silent. Witherby and the farmer exchanged knowing looks.