moment, no one spoke. Harkeld found himself watching Adel. The journeyman water mage’s face seemed to grow paler, his eyes to get bigger.
“It’d be easy for them to pretend to be refugees,” Serril said. “They could get right up alongside us. So from now on, when we travel, we’ll have two shapeshifters guard us, plus one flying ahead, searching the road, looking at everyone, and I mean everyone .”
“Do we have enough shapeshifters for that?” Malle asked quietly.
Serril’s grimace said Not really , but what he said aloud was, “We’ll be pushed for the next day or so, but once Innis is better, we’ll have the numbers.”
R AND DISAPPEARED BACK into the wagon. Harkeld wanted to follow him. He wanted to push back the canvas and clamber inside and talk to Innis while she was still alive, even if she couldn’t hear him.
He stayed at the campfire until it burned down to glowing embers, then crawled into his tent. He never slept alone, always shared his tent with a shapeshifter—Cora’s rule. Tonight, it was Hedín, as lean and weather-beaten as Rand. Hedín was already asleep. Harkeld wrapped himself in his blanket, and lay staring at the dark.
The sound the stave had made echoed in his ears. Thock . Like an axe splitting wood. Thock .
H ARKELD JERKED AWAKE. Dawn. He flung aside his blanket, crawled out of the tent, and hurried across to the wagon. His ribcage felt as if it had shrunk overnight; tight with hope, tight with fear. Let her be alive .
Innis was still alive, but Rand and Nellis looked half-dead, their skin almost gray, their eyes bloodshot. Rand lurched when he climbed down from the wagon and nearly fell. “You, sleep,” Serril ordered. “And you too, Nellis. Petrus’ll take care of her.”
Let me help . Harkeld bit back the words. He knew the answer: not without training. He peered into the wagon and saw Innis, saw her curling black hair, her pale face. He recognized that she was deeply unconscious.
“There’s not much left to do,” Rand told Petrus, rubbing his face, yawning. “Keep an eye on her right forebrain. There’s a chance it might hemorrhage again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
W HEN P OX BROUGHT her food that morning, Britta hid some bread in her pockets. What else could be useful when she escaped? She scanned the ground where she’d lain. Stubbly grass, stones, twigs.
A short, snapped-off twig about six inches long caught her eye. One end was as sharp as a spear. She picked it up, tested its strength. Would it pierce skin if she stabbed hard enough?
Perhaps.
Britta slipped the twig into a pocket.
Plain came for her. Britta clung to his arm, stumbling as they walked to the horses. Weak and exhausted, that’s what I am .
Plain boosted her up into the saddle, then mounted himself and came up alongside her, taking the mare’s reins.
Leader swung up onto his horse and headed for the road. Plain tugged the reins. The piebald mare obediently fell into a trot. Britta sat drooping, her eyes half-closed, her mind racing. She had a weapon in her pocket. She had food. Today, she’d escape.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
K AREL HEARD THE same story in each village. Seven riders, one mounted on a piebald mare, had passed through the previous day. “A young woman?” he’d asked in the first village.
This question was met with a blank look and a headshake. “Woman? Ain’t no woman with ’em. They was all men.”
Have I made another mistake? “Can you describe the piebald mare’s rider?”
A shrug was his answer. “Small lad. Short yeller hair. Looked a bit wean.”
“Wean?” Prince Tomas asked.
“Sickly.”
“When did you see them?”
Another shrug. “Mornin’, it were. Near on a day ago.”
After that, Karel stopped asking for a young woman. “A lad with yellow hair? Riding a piebald mare? Passed through here in the last day?” And in each village the answer was the same: yes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
T HE MAGES PUSHED their way through
“It’d be easy for them to pretend to be refugees,” Serril said. “They could get right up alongside us. So from now on, when we travel, we’ll have two shapeshifters guard us, plus one flying ahead, searching the road, looking at everyone, and I mean everyone .”
“Do we have enough shapeshifters for that?” Malle asked quietly.
Serril’s grimace said Not really , but what he said aloud was, “We’ll be pushed for the next day or so, but once Innis is better, we’ll have the numbers.”
R AND DISAPPEARED BACK into the wagon. Harkeld wanted to follow him. He wanted to push back the canvas and clamber inside and talk to Innis while she was still alive, even if she couldn’t hear him.
He stayed at the campfire until it burned down to glowing embers, then crawled into his tent. He never slept alone, always shared his tent with a shapeshifter—Cora’s rule. Tonight, it was Hedín, as lean and weather-beaten as Rand. Hedín was already asleep. Harkeld wrapped himself in his blanket, and lay staring at the dark.
The sound the stave had made echoed in his ears. Thock . Like an axe splitting wood. Thock .
H ARKELD JERKED AWAKE. Dawn. He flung aside his blanket, crawled out of the tent, and hurried across to the wagon. His ribcage felt as if it had shrunk overnight; tight with hope, tight with fear. Let her be alive .
Innis was still alive, but Rand and Nellis looked half-dead, their skin almost gray, their eyes bloodshot. Rand lurched when he climbed down from the wagon and nearly fell. “You, sleep,” Serril ordered. “And you too, Nellis. Petrus’ll take care of her.”
Let me help . Harkeld bit back the words. He knew the answer: not without training. He peered into the wagon and saw Innis, saw her curling black hair, her pale face. He recognized that she was deeply unconscious.
“There’s not much left to do,” Rand told Petrus, rubbing his face, yawning. “Keep an eye on her right forebrain. There’s a chance it might hemorrhage again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
W HEN P OX BROUGHT her food that morning, Britta hid some bread in her pockets. What else could be useful when she escaped? She scanned the ground where she’d lain. Stubbly grass, stones, twigs.
A short, snapped-off twig about six inches long caught her eye. One end was as sharp as a spear. She picked it up, tested its strength. Would it pierce skin if she stabbed hard enough?
Perhaps.
Britta slipped the twig into a pocket.
Plain came for her. Britta clung to his arm, stumbling as they walked to the horses. Weak and exhausted, that’s what I am .
Plain boosted her up into the saddle, then mounted himself and came up alongside her, taking the mare’s reins.
Leader swung up onto his horse and headed for the road. Plain tugged the reins. The piebald mare obediently fell into a trot. Britta sat drooping, her eyes half-closed, her mind racing. She had a weapon in her pocket. She had food. Today, she’d escape.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
K AREL HEARD THE same story in each village. Seven riders, one mounted on a piebald mare, had passed through the previous day. “A young woman?” he’d asked in the first village.
This question was met with a blank look and a headshake. “Woman? Ain’t no woman with ’em. They was all men.”
Have I made another mistake? “Can you describe the piebald mare’s rider?”
A shrug was his answer. “Small lad. Short yeller hair. Looked a bit wean.”
“Wean?” Prince Tomas asked.
“Sickly.”
“When did you see them?”
Another shrug. “Mornin’, it were. Near on a day ago.”
After that, Karel stopped asking for a young woman. “A lad with yellow hair? Riding a piebald mare? Passed through here in the last day?” And in each village the answer was the same: yes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
T HE MAGES PUSHED their way through
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