It was a cool autumn afternoon when Klane rode into town. By the standards of elder days Ironhope was little more than a hamlet yet in the wilful amnesia of the Great Forgetting it was considered a significant settlement. Such places were rare and only the Enclaves were permitted to grow larger. Klane could already see the tents of the gathering tribes on the far hill side. A brush of smoke rose from the blacksmith's chimney and a mother and her two children watched him in silence from the edge of the low stone wall ringing the inner perimeter. He shivered, sensing the melancholy of the inhabitants at the imminent destruction of their homes and he could not help but remember how he had felt when Kalonia was burnt. Some Riders lived in very small farming communities of three of four buildings like the one where Klane had recently dwelt with Lucalle and fifteen of their royal household but most of them were semi-nomadic, moving from camp to camp in prescribed circuits bound loosely to larger tribal groups. Even so, the Riders all needed agreed places to trade, to perform specialist tasks like the shoeing of horses, the weaving of fine cloth and the tailoring of clothes, the brewing of beer and the slaughter and butchery of stock when the time came. A town was a necessary evil for the provision of these essential services and the nurturing of the skills that went with them but no town was ever trusted by true Riders. Towns acquired names and with names came a great risk for a name was a seed out of which History might grow. All the riders knew the dangers of History and how the Vow of Earth had been made so that it could never again bring tyranny to their people. That was why they undertook to make a Great Burning when a town was too old, to clear away the traces of any such History as might have gathered to taint long standing buildings. Then the people would be scattered, taken under the protection of the Riders and new towns might be established safely in different places and with new names. In this way the Riders were taught that History could not get a foothold. Without periodic Great Burnings, old towns would be certain to grow into young cities and then the Season of Innocence would surely pass. Ironhope had held its name for two full generations. Now the Conclave had declared that it must be erased. Whilst they might understand what the Vow of Earth ordered and why, the citizens of Ironhope could not all be expected to welcome the prospect of starting again.