“But hope here is not lost,” Barl Lindin continued. “I know things are dire, but the mages of Dorana can help you. All we need is your trust.”

Watching closely, Jervale saw her brother and Lady Martain fail to hide their surprise. And that surprised him.

So she’s keeping more secrets? What’s she got up her grubby sleeve?

Elder Chaffie found her feet. “Posing riddles ain’t the way to win us over. Plain speaking, Mage Lindin, if you please.”

Barl Lindin smoothed the skirt of her roughspun dress. “Plainly speaking, Elder Chaffie, I’m not ready to say. But when I am, I—”

With a sharp look at his sister, Remmie Lindin stepped forward. “Elder Chaffie, I think we’ve already given you a great deal to think on. We’ll withdraw now, so you can talk about us freely. Thank you.”

Before Barl Lindin could object, her brother was hustling her from the hall. Lady Martain followed them, her expression unreadable.

Elder Chaffie turned to face everyone. “Right, then. Let’s mingle a while and talk this over.”

A shuffling of feet amid excited chatter. Jervale looked at Bannet and Del. “Need to water a tree,” he muttered. “I’ll be back by and by.”

Under cover of the noisy crowd, he slipped from the hall. Saw Remmie Lindin and Lady Martain walking towards the mage camp, slowly, on account of his limp. But where was Barl Lindin?

A flash of movement turned him towards the northern edge of Gribley village. Yellow hair and a straight back clad in ill-fitting roughspun. Remmie Lindin’s untruthful, surprising sister. He plunged after her.

The Black Woods swiftly swallowed them. A scritch-scritch of squirrels dancing in branches overhead. The low, plaintive bo-bo-no of a wood pigeon. A breeze soughing through dry leaves. Brooding unseen above them, the might of the mountains.

The slight shift of her head showed that Barl Lindin knew she was being followed, but she didn’t stop until the village was merely a murmuring hint behind them. Then she turned.

“If you’re worried I’ll lose myself, you needn’t be,” she said, raising her voice. “The mages of Dorana don’t get lost.”

Once they were close enough for comfortable talking, Jervale slowed to a halt. Thought of fire plucked from thin air, and straightened his shoulders.

She won’t hurt me. She can’t. Lur’s not done with me yet.

“Are you sure, Mage Lindin? You look mighty lost to me.”

Her clear blue eyes, beautiful as a summer lake, sharpened with suspicion. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Jervale,” he said, politely enough. “Mage Lindin, you know he won’t rest ’til he’s found you.”

She was already pale from her long ordeal, but her face drained so colourless he thought for a moment she might faint. Still, he couldn’t let that put a bridle on his tongue.