Stark told it. He spoke slowly, watching every word, cursing the weariness that fogged his brain.
The noble, who was called Rogain, asked him questions. Where was the camp? How many men? What were the exact words of the Lord Ciaran, and who was he?
Stark answered, with meticulous care.
Rogain sat for some time lost in thought. He seemed worried and upset, one hand playing aimlessly with the hilt of his sword. A scholar's hand, without a callous on it.
"There is one thing more," said Rogain. "What business had you on the moors in winter?"
Stark smiled. "I am a wanderer by profession."
"Outlaw?" asked the captain, and Stark shrugged.
"Mercenary is a kinder word."
Rogain studied the pattern of stripes on the Earthman's dark skin. "Why did the Lord Ciaran, so-called, order you scourged?"