Heritage Of The Xandim

27

IRIANA ALONE

Iriana was curled with Melik in a nest of cosy blankets. Though the warmth felt wonderful after her long, cold vigil over the camp, she was finding sleep elusive. She had experienced a whirl of emotion that day, swinging between joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, belonging and loss.

The link between her and Boreas was severed utterly now. He had gone to make his own life, no longer an appendage to her. In her head she was proud and glad for him - but that didn’t assuage the ache in her heart.

Then there was the feeling of discomfort and unease she had felt, yet again, while she was on watch. It was happening every night now, to the point where she no longer dared awaken Esmon. At first he had taken her seriously, but as night after night had passed without incident, his concerns had diminished, and she knew he had begun to put the whole thing down to the nervous imagination of a novice traveller.

Well, if Esmon wasn’t unduly concerned, maybe she should stop worrying about it. Shifting an indignant Melik, Iriana wriggled over onto her other side and tried to concentrate on the good things that had happened that day. She and Seyka had found this wonderful campsite for everyone. How satisfying it had been finally to feel herself to be an equal, functioning member of the group, instead of the blind girl who had to be guarded, helped and cared for. Iriana smiled in the darkness. Men were so pig-headed. It had taken her a long time to convince them, but today she’d succeeded at last. Then the strangest thought crossed her mind.

Maybe, before I could convince them, I had to truly convince myself, deep down inside.

However it had come about, she was glad that it had happened and proud of her achievement.

And of course, Avithan’s kiss had changed things. She wanted it to happen again, and maybe again. If Avithan was willing, of course. Don’t take it too seriously, she warned herself. Not until you know whether he does. But her first real kiss . . . She felt as if she was beginning a new journey that night, and wondered where it would lead.

By this time, Iriana was beginning to grow drowsy and, as was her nightly habit just before she fell asleep, she linked with Seyka for one last look around the camp and its environs. She found the bird hunting in the forest, but it accepted her presence and let her distract it easily enough, and she suspected that it had eaten already. Sure enough, a quick scan of its recent memory revealed two fat mice that had lately gone the right way - at least as far as the owl was concerned.

Flying a sweeping arc through the trees, Seyka circled back over the campsite for her, and swooped low towards the tents. All at once, Iriana smothered a gasp as she saw a clot of blackness detach itself from the surrounding darkness and transform into a figure. It glided up behind Esmon and sliced a knife across his throat, then plunged the glittering blade deep into his chest. Iriana saw blood spray across the ground; saw his body slump and fall. There was no time to catch her breath, no time to absorb the horror and peril, for that sinister shadow was gliding rapidly towards the tents.

‘Wake up,’ she shrieked to Avithan in mindspeech. ‘We’re being attacked! ’ Desperately she hurled the images that she’d seen and was seeing into his mind.

The dark killer bent down to reach for Avithan’s tent flap. Like lightning, a blade thrust out straight through the flimsy fabric of the shelter, piercing the assassin’s shoulder above his sword arm. With a curse he danced swiftly backward and, with a deadly economy of motion, transferred the weapon to his other hand. As he did so, Iriana caught her first good look at his face through Seyka’s eyes. A Phaerie, as she had suspected.

On silent feet, he stole around the side of the tent and slashed downward - but just as the tip of his blade tore the moonmoth silk, Avithan’s sword jabbed out again and caught him in the side. Iriana heard him hiss with pain and frustration as he jumped back once more. Though he must have been in pain from his wounds, he gave no outward sign: only stood very still for a moment, thinking, then looked long and slowly around the camp. To her horror, he abandoned Avithan and turned towards her tent.

Then his gaze lit on Seyka, perched on a nearby branch, and to Iriana, it seemed as though he was looking directly at her, not at the owl. Without warning, a bolt of dark power flashed across the clearing from his eyes to those of the bird, and Iriana’s vision went black in an explosion of intense pain. Horror, grief, disbelief: all these emotions struck through her in the space of a heartbeat as she searched frantically with her mind for the bird. But her mind could only confirm what her heart already knew. Seyka, beautiful Seyka, was dead.

Stunned by rage and sorrow, Iriana had almost forgotten her own plight, and left herself with little time to escape. Switching to Melik’s eyes, she grabbed her knife and sliced open the rear of the tent. The cat, catching her panic, shot out ahead of her. She began to crawl through - but it was too late. The killer grabbed her ankle, his fingers grinding cruelly into flesh and bone, and jerked her backwards, out of the tent.

The terrified cat had fled, and Dailika was in the bushes, out of sight of the clearing. Iriana was left utterly blind. She twisted herself around and flailed wildly with the knife, but it found no target and her assailant took it out of her hand with a cruel twist of her wrist. He dragged her roughly to her feet and struck her hard across the face. Had he not been holding her arm, the blow would have knocked her off her feet. As it was she staggered, her head reeling. No one had ever hit her before, and the fact that she had never seen the blow coming only exacerbated the shock and pain.

Yanking her towards him, he pinioned her arms from behind. Iriana struggled until she felt the cold bite of a blade across her throat, then suddenly became very still. How had it all happened so fast? Never had she been so helpless; never so terrified. Now that her life hung in the balance, her blindness mattered more than it ever had before. From childhood, she had always found ways to circumvent, to compensate, to cope. Now, weaponless, all her animals dead or fled and a knife at her throat - now, for the first time she truly found her blindness to be a grave disadvantage.

Behind her back, the shadowy killer laughed, a sound as cold as the steel that threatened to take her life. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I knew your little blind friend would bring you out of your lurking-hole. The best way to catch a cowardly dog is with a bitch in heat.’

Iriana stiffened. He wasn’t talking to her but to Avithan. She didn’t need eyes to know that her companion had emerged from his tent, sword in hand. She was one of the few people who knew he’d trained to fight in secret with the Warriors’ Luen - but she was sure he’d be no match for one who could creep up so silently on Esmon and slit his throat.

‘Leave her alone,’ Avithan snarled.

‘Make me.’ That same cold, grating laugh came from the killer.

Iriana’s heart was breaking over Esmon, over Seyka; she was terrified to the depths of her being, for she knew how it would end - Avithan would attack and die, they would both die at the Phaerie’s hands. Yet this final threat to her companion froze the fear that had turned her knees to water into an icy, deadly fury. This murderous bastard thought she was helpless - well, he would soon learn otherwise.

Though her wrath was cold, she struck with fire. With a roar, flame enveloped her assailant’s body. For an instant, just an instant, his grip loosened and the knife fell away, then to her horror the fire was gone; extinguished. How had he done that? Even as the thought flashed into her head, she kicked him hard in the ankle and slipped from his grasp.

‘Run, Iriana,’ Avithan yelled. ‘Hide. Warn Father.’

Iriana ran. Not through cowardice, but sense. Blind like this, she would be no good to Avithan, and a downright hindrance if the Phaerie got his hands on her again. If she could only get to Dailika, find another pair of eyes, then maybe she could help her companion - her love.

She fled in what she hoped was the right direction, but she was hopelessly disorientated. Suddenly there was no ground beneath her feet, and for the second time that day, she found herself floundering in the frigid stream. Gasping, she struggled up again and clawed her way out, and continued to fight through the bushes.

The forest was a dangerous place for one who could not see. She ran into a tree with bruising force, and kept stumbling on the uneven ground, barely catching herself before she fell. Branches whipped across her face and snatched at her hair, and her heart was almost beating its way out of her chest with terror. All she could think of was Avithan at the killer’s mercy. She had to help him, she had to. Where were those bloody horses? Where was she, anyway? Without the vision of her animals, everything was so bewildering. She could be running right back into the arms of the killer.

Yet she couldn’t stop. Some primeval instinct kept her moving, searching. ‘Warn Father,’ Avithan had said.

It won’t save us, she thought, we’re too far away from anyone who could help. But it might save others from walking into this trap.

Yet how could she manage it? Mindspeech would never reach as far as Tyrineld. Not even to Nexis, unless the link between the participants was exceptionally close. She had but one solitary, unlikely spark of hope. Maybe . . . With all her heart, all her power, all her strength, she tried to fling a desperate message back to the frontier town. To the only one she knew there. To the one who’d been her foster-father. Even as she did so, something - a fallen tree trunk, she realised - swept her legs out from underneath her. She fell hard, fast, and oblivion claimed her.

Now that Iriana was out of danger, Avithan was free to concentrate on staying alive. Clearly, this cold-eyed Phaerie had some way of circumventing Wizard spells, for the bastard had smothered Iriana’s flames in an instant. All Avithan had to rely on was Esmon’s legacy of sword-training to avenge his murdered friend.

Unfortunately, his opponent was a much better fighter. Avithan circled defensively, trying, as far as possible, to avoid that lethal blade. ‘Who are you?’ he said.

‘Your Death.’ The voice was granite hard and utterly without emotion.

‘Why?’

‘Because I can.’ With a deadly swiftness, the assailant moved, weaving a dance of death around Avithan, who could only try to defend himself as far as possible, hanging on to his life one moment - one breath - at a time.

Had his night vision not been superior, and if he hadn’t already wounded the Phaerie twice, leaving the killer bleeding from shoulder and side, he would have been dead in no time. As it was, he could barely hold his own. He ducked and wove around the clearing, forced ever backwards by the cold-blooded ferocity of the Phaerie’s attack. The flash and flicker of the lethal blades filled his blurring vision, and the clang and clash of steel jarred his ears. His legs felt heavy as iron bars; his arms were soon numb from the repeated impacts as he tried to defend himself. Sweat dripped into his eyes; strands of his long hair plastered themselves across his face. His footing was uncertain, his boots slipping and sliding on the soft earth.

Avithan’s only hope was that the Phaerie’s wounds would eventually slow him down, but that didn’t seem to be happening. Though that cold, mocking smile had become a grimace, though his breathing was harsh and laboured, his movements were still fluid, swift and lethal. Suddenly his sword flicked across the Wizard’s face, leaving a long slice down his jawline and a flash of shock and pain. Distantly, Avithan registered the pain of other wounds, to left arm, belly and thigh, but could not say when his foe had nicked him. He could hear the pounding of his blood and a distant buzzing in his ears that marked the onset of exhaustion, yet somehow he found the strength to keep on fighting. Not only was his life at stake, but Iriana’s, too. The more time he could buy her . . .

Who am I deceiving? he thought desperately. He’ll wear me out; sooner or later one of these brutal blows will land, and that will be the end. Then he’ll hunt her down - she’ll be easy enough to track - and she’ll never see him coming.

Her death would be cruel.

And that thought was enough to distract him. Only for an eyeblink, but it was enough. The killer’s sword snaked past his guard: a hot, vicious pain exploded through his chest. No, no! Desperately Avithan tried to stop his weak knees from buckling, to keep to his feet, to raise his sword arm to defend himself, but there was no control any more. His throat filled with choking blood. He couldn’t breathe. His vision greyed and clouded, and the last thing he saw was the cruel triumph on the face of his foe, as he pitched forward and down, down into the bottomless black void.

Iriana swam blearily back to consciousness with blood trickling down her face and a throbbing head. All was confusion. How had she come to be here? Where was here? She sought for Seyka, so that she could get a good look at her surroundings - and sat up abruptly with a stifled cry that could have been grief, pain, fear - or all three together. Seyka was dead. Esmon murdered. And Avithan . . .

I’ve got to get back!

How long had she been unconscious? Was she too late? Was Avithan dead, and the killer stalking her even now?

She took a firm hold on her panicking thoughts, and cautiously felt the gash on her forehead. Good. The blood wasn’t crusting yet, so she hadn’t been out for long. Now, where was Melik? But the cat had run off in terror and search as she would, she could not reach him. She didn’t know how far away she was from the campsite, but she had to see what was happening, and she had to help Avithan. Frantically, she located Dailika, the only one of her animal companions she had left.

When the Wizard linked, she heard the clangour of blades, and fear for Avithan warred with incredible relief that he was still alive. But she had tied the animals in the bushes, away from the clearing. Though it sickened her, she had only one option. For the first time in her life she overrode the gentle partnership they had always shared, put forth her mind in an iron grasp and took control of Dailika, forcing her to pull and jerk at her rope again and again, attacking it with hooves, teeth and all her considerable strength. The knowledge that she was hurting the poor creature and betraying a trust tore at Iriana’s heart, but she had no choice. She drove the mare without mercy, until finally the tether snapped.

The mare stumbled backward and Iriana turned her and goaded her towards the clearing; towards the clash of weapons and the fearsome stink of spilt blood. The terrified mare fought back, striving with every sinew to run away from the horror. The Wizard was bleeding inside, knowing her actions for the betrayal of trust that they were, but she gave Dailika no choice, even as she herself had none.

Dailika burst into the clearing, just in time for Iriana to see Avithan fall, and the Phaerie raise his blade for the killing blow. Ruthlessly she forced the horse forward - fast, faster, too quickly for the killer to turn. He never saw what hit him. Dailika ran him down, trampling him into the dirt beneath her hooves. Even as he tried to rise, Iriana turned the mare back and attacked again. Even as she reared over him to knock the sword from his hand, Dailika felt its bite as he tore her flank with the tip of her blade. Caught in the remorseless grasp of the Wizard’s will, goaded against her instincts to a kind of madness now, the horse pounded the killer into a bloody pulp.

Iriana, weeping, loosed her grip on Dailika’s mind, and the mare fled screaming into the darkness. A trust and a bond, which had been there since the Wizard was a youngster and the mare a stilt-legged foal, had been irredeemably shattered tonight. Her grief a crushing force, she put her face in her hands and knelt - but only for an instant. There was no time for such indulgence. Avithan could still be alive - oh, let him be alive - but he could be bleeding to death in the clearing. She had to get to him. But how could she find her way back without her animals to see the path?

Panic gripped her. Blind, lost and alone in hundreds of miles of wilderness. What if she fell over a precipice? Encountered a bear? Wandered aimlessly in circles until both she and Avithan died?

‘But I won’t.’

Iriana fought down the terror and told herself to think. She used the fallen tree to haul herself to her feet. Her legs were bruised and abraded, a vicious pain lanced through her right ankle and her right arm throbbed from shoulder to wrist. Her face was scratched, the wet clothes from her earlier tumble into the stream clung to her soaked and shivering body, and kindly nature had clearly arranged a sharp stone in just the right place to cut her head open. Ignoring the aches and pains, she orientated herself by the tree trunk that had been her undoing. Now she had a rough - very rough - idea of the direction in which she needed to go.

Though her heart urged her to hurry, Iriana stood very still and listened, trying to catch the distant sounds of the stream. How far had she run? Not that far, surely. Though her instincts were screaming out at her to run again - towards Avithan this time, instead of away - she knew she would never find him that way. Blundering around the forest all night would help no one. She listened again for the stream, trying to separate its bubbling murmur from the sounds of the forest all around, and turning her head from side to side to try and fix on its direction. As soon as she was sure she had it firmly in her mind, she followed the sound, concentrating with every fibre of her being and changing direction if it seemed to move or diminish.

It wasn’t easy. Between the Wizard and the water lay an obstacle course of rough ground, briars and trees. Iriana stumbled, tripped and was hit by low branches. She realised for the first time that she’d been fortunate to have run so far without seriously injuring herself. Then, of course, she had been fuelled by terror, not registering the obstacles, the collisions, the falls. Now, as she tried to retrace her steps, the forest was making her pay. Far worse than any physical pain, however, was the unrelenting fear that Avithan might already be dead.

‘Please, Avithan. Please be alive. Just keep holding on - I’m coming as fast as I can.’ Desperately Iriana called to him in mindspeech, but there was not the slightest whisper of a response. All the time she tried to keep the sound of the tumbling water ahead of her, and finally she found the stream exactly as she had found it last time - by falling into it. It was deeper here than the previous place, and icy. Iriana surfaced, spluttering and spewing curses, and sloshed doggedly to the far bank, turning to the right to follow the watercourse up to the pool and nearby clearing. After a few moments she could hear the churning of the little waterfall, and the remaining horses nickering and stamping restlessly among the bushes. She was just opening her mouth to call out when it occurred to her, belatedly, that there might have been more than one Phaerie present. Who was to say that the killer didn’t have friends nearby?

It was no good. She had to see what was happening in the clearing. Once more she tried casting her mind forth for Boreas, or little Melik, lost in the forest, but received no response. She couldn’t find them anywhere. All her animals were gone.

But there was an alternative.

Maybe.

She crept up to the remaining horses, quieting them with her familiar touch. They had excellent night vision. She knew they could see all she needed. Though one part of her was screaming with impatience, she suppressed it somehow, knowing that the animals would pick up on her state of mind. Lightly, she touched the mind of each horse, testing which, if any, would be amenable to her presence and this unusual form of control, which was, in reality, more partnership than domination.

To her astonishment, it was Esmon’s black warhorse who acknowledged her presence, and let himself be guided. As a stallion, trained to fight, he was the last one she’d have expected to respond. There was no time to wonder, however. Gently she seated her awareness within the warhorse’s mind and sent him to poke his nose out of the bushes and look into the clearing.

‘The bastard! I knew it.’ In her dismay, Iriana almost uttered the words aloud. Anger and terror curdled in her blood as she saw another assailant kneeling over Avithan’s still form. Though his back was turned to her, he had an indefinable look of Phaerie about him. The Wizard’s main feeling was one of outrage. She had driven her beloved Dailika mad in dealing with these murdering scum. Now she’d have to do it again, this time using Esmon’s mount as a weapon. At least it was a warhorse; hopefully it wouldn’t be driven past all endurance this time. But if Avithan was already dead, if this second killer had finished him while she was still unconcious, for she had felt no death pang, then what would be the point? In that case, it would be more sensible to take the horse and sneak away. How could she find out? If there was the slightest chance of saving Avithan’s life, she was damned if she was going to leave him.

No, she couldn’t take that risk. Steeling herself to perpetrate the unthinkable for a second time, Iriana clenched her fists and sent the warhorse charging into the clearing.

This time there was no conflict. Esmon had trained this animal to attack on command. Like dark lightning, the horse leapt forward, but at the last split second the shadowy figure rolled aside, out of the way of the lethal hooves. At a slow, half-staggering run, he headed straight towards the horrified Wizard. ‘Iriana, please stop him! I’m a friend. From Cyran.’ On the other side of the clearing the warhorse stopped and spun, turned and charged again.

Trust him?

Let him die?

The stranger stumbled and fell. With only the space of a heartbeat in which to make her decision, Iriana went with her gut. With an effort she pulled up the horse, letting it stand close to the man, stamping and snorting. The threat of power and danger were still very evident, but judging from his struggles, he seemed unable to rise in any case.

‘Who are you?’ she called.

With an effort, he pulled himself up to his elbows. ‘Taine. Cyran sent me to warn you—’

‘Then you came too late.’ Iriana snapped. ‘Is Avithan still alive?’

‘Yes, but he’s badly hurt. I’ve tried to stop the bleeding, but . . . He needs a proper Healer. And I—’ He collapsed face down on the muddy ground.

‘Oh, merciful Creation!’ Iriana ran out of the bushes, and brought the fractious warhorse close enough for her to get a good look at the stranger. He stank of bear. His thick hide jerkin had protected him from being disembowelled, but the leather and the shirt below it were in tatters across the front, and soaked with blood from the deep scratches across his stomach. A torn piece of cloth tied roughly over his right shoulder and under his arm was soaked with blood. Iriana swallowed hard, and swore. She could sense no other horses nearby. How far had he come, alone and on foot, and so horribly mauled?

You came too late. Well, now she knew why, and how she wished she could take back those angry words.

She wondered who he was, for she had never seen him in Tyrineld, or heard his name. Her friendship with Avithan had given her a fairly close association with the Archwizard and his family, and she tended to recognise members of Cyran’s trusted inner circle. With a shrug, she put the puzzle aside for the present. She had far more pressing matters to deal with.

At first glance his wounds didn’t look life-threatening, so she left him where he was and ran across to Avithan, Esmon’s stallion trotting obediently behind her. She sank down beside her companion, almost afraid to look. He was still breathing, though there was a dreadful gurgling sound when he did so, and his lips were covered with a bloody foam. That bastard had got him in the chest, then. Quickly she assessed his other hurts. A long gash in his thigh was bleeding badly, but the slice into the muscle of his left arm and the cut across his belly didn’t look too deep, and the wound on his face was, compared to everything else, only a scratch.

How thankful she was that one of her best friends was such a talented Healer. Melisanda had taught her a lot over the years. The first thing was to stop the bleeding. Now, of course, she understood why the stranger had failed in his attempt. With such serious injuries of his own, he would never have the strength to heal another. Also, he probably didn’t have the knowledge she had picked up from her friend. Iriana put her hand over the thigh wound and summoned what healing magic she knew. She had no need of normal eyesight for this. Where her palm rested, she could ‘see’ inside the leg, the images coming directly into her mind. She knew spells to seal off the bleeding, to repair damaged tissue and muscle, to close the wound and imbue it with the magic to kill infection. She worked quickly, keeping the horse’s eyes on the injuries, rather than Avithan’s face. That way she could somehow hold herself together; keep at bay the urge to curse and weep; hold back her own weariness for long enough to complete her work.

The chest wound was more difficult. When Iriana saw how close the killer’s sword had come to Avithan’s heart, she felt sick. Still, there was a great deal she could do. Close off the wounds in the lung and chest, stop bleeding, prevent infection. Lastly, though she was shaking with exhaustion now, she performed the spells that eased the shock to the body and stilled the pain. The rest would be down to time, and Avithan himself.

Blessing her talent for Fire Magic, she lit a fire to keep both men warm. If the Hunt passed that night - well, she would just have to take the risk. It was a question of survival now, she thought, as she wrapped Avithan in a blanket. Iriana was weary beyond measure. Magic did not come without a price. The more complex, or expansive, or powerful the spell, the greater the toll on the Wizard. Iriana knew - it had been driven home by her tutors again and again during her training - that if she expended too much of her own energy in the use of her power, she would fall into a state of oblivion from which she might never awaken. After healing Avithan, she needed desperately to eat and rest, and recoup her energy - but there was the stranger to care for yet. Sighing, she moved across to the other recumbent form and sat down by his side to check the damage. As she did so, there was an ear-splitting crash of thunder and the first splutters of rain hit the fire.

One thing after another.

Iriana, too weary even to curse, dropped her head onto her knees and tried to think. The rain was falling harder now, and the wind tore at the branches of the trees. Then a whiplash of lightning seared across the skies, followed by thunder loud enough to make her ears ring. She would have to do something, fast. Though she weighed nothing like as much as these two tall men, somehow she must get them into the tents - supposing that the tents would stay up in this storm. With their wounds, they couldn’t lie out in the rain, and she couldn’t shield them magically or apport them into shelter: she had already exhausted too much of her power in healing Avithan. In addition, supposing she did manage to get them inside, how could she even see them without Melik or Seyka?

The thought of her animals - one dead, one insane, one lost in the perilous night-time forest - was almost enough to break her. But even as she felt a sob rising in her throat, Iriana gritted her teeth and swallowed it back down. You wanted adventure, she told herself. Well, now you’ve got one, so stop feeling sorry for yourself and get moving. There are things that must be done, and no one to do them but you.

The lightning flashed again. ‘Well said, Lady.’ The voice was so unexpected that Iriana, who had just started to get to her feet, sat down abruptly. The eyes of the wounded stranger - in the midst of all these crises she had forgotten his name - were open. Iriana felt her face heating with an embarrassed blush. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud?

‘Just about. You are very close to me, and you’ve forgotten to shield.’ As she frowned, he added, ‘I’m truly sorry, but you were thinking very loudly.’

‘Just don’t do it again.’ She hadn’t the energy to snap at him for such a transgression. ‘Since you’re awake, let me help you inside—’

‘Let me help you. I only have one working arm at present, so I can’t lift your friend into the tent, but if you pull him, I can help with an apport spell to support his weight.’

‘If you can apport, why not transport Avithan inside the tent yourself?’ Iriana demanded, aware of sounding ungrateful even as she said it. ‘He’s too badly wounded for me to be hauling him about,’ she added apologetically.

The newcomer shrugged, the gesture sending a grimace of pain across his face. ‘If only I could. But like yours, my power is down to the dregs now. I’ve been drawing on it to keep myself going, ever since the bear attacked.’

Stranger or no, Iriana’s heart went out to him. If what he’d said was true, then the Archwizard had sent him to warn them of danger, and though he had come too late, it was not his fault. Though he had been injured, alone and on foot, he had not given up, but had found them in the end. ‘Then let’s get Avithan under cover between us,’ she said. ‘Afterwards I’ll take a look at your wounds.’

The rain and wind were by this time tearing savagely at the tents. Her companion looked at them doubtfully. ‘Maybe we should try to seek some other shelter. I doubt these will stay up much longer.’

‘Yes they will,’ Iriana said decisively. ‘Avithan bespelled them to stand firm whatever the weather. He’s very good at practical magic like that.’

‘Come on, then. By the Light, Cyran would never forgive me if I failed to save his son.’ Again, the grimace passed over his face.

As they moved Avithan, he stirred and moaned. Once she had him inside the tent, however, Iriana spent a little more of her power putting him into a deep, healing sleep. Working by touch, since she had no way of seeing once she was inside the shelter, she made sure he was comfortable, tucked his blankets warmly around him and dropped a gentle kiss on his brow. With a sigh, for she hated to leave him, she crawled out again into the cold rain, relieved to be back where she could use the eyes of Esmon’s patient horse, to see what she could do to help . . . ‘Your pardon, sir, but with everything that’s happened, your name has flown right out of my head.’ She felt a bit of a fool, but she couldn’t go on without knowing.

He was bending over the now dead fire, which was clearly beyond all saving in this downpour. When she spoke he turned to face her, and his quick smile was like the sun coming out from the clouds. ‘With all that has happened, Lady, I’ve almost forgotten it myself. I am called Taine, by your grace.’

His accent was strange to her, Iriana realised, but pleasant, and she was charmed by his courteous manner. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Leave the fire. It’s hopeless. We’ll get out of this infernal rain and—’

At that moment another lurid flare of light came streaking across the sky - but this time it was no lightning. Taine’s face blanched to the colour of bone. ‘The Hunt! The Phaerie are upon us!