The last time they’d seen the thief-turned-Herald had been a bit over nine months ago, when he’d met with them for their half-term briefing. Cymry had spent the time frolicking with Rolan, and both she and her Chosen had forgotten about the nearly-supernatural fertility of the Grove stallions. The result was foregone—much to Cymry’s chagrin as well as Skif’s.

Talia knew Skif better than Kris did; they’d been very close as students, close enough that they’d sworn blood-brotherhood. They had been close enough that Talia could read him better at a distance than Kris could.

She shaded her eyes with her hand, then nodded a little. “Well it isn’t a disaster; there’s something serious afoot, but it isn’t an emergency.”

“How can you tell at this distance?”

“Firstly, there’s no emotional-surge. Secondly, if it were serious, he’d be absolutely expressionless. He looks a bit worried, but that could be for Cymry.”

Skif spotted them and waved wildly, as Cymry slowed her headlong pace. They hastened theirs—to the disgruntlement of the pack-mules.

“Havens! Am I ever glad to see you two!” Skif exclaimed as they came into earshot. “Cymry swore you were close, but I was half-afraid I’d have to ride a couple of hours, and I hate to make her leave the little one for that long.”

“You sound like you’ve been waiting for us—Skit, what’s the problem?” Kris asked anxiously. “What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing for you; plenty for her. Mind you, this is strictly under the ivy bush; we don’t want people to know you’ve been warned, Talia. I slipped out on behalf of a lady in distress.”

“Who? Elspeth? Selenay? What—”

“Give me a minute, will you? I’m trying to tell you. Elspeth asked me to intercept you on your way in. It seems the Council is trying to marry her off, and she’s not overly thrilled with the notion. She wants you to know so you’ll have time to muster some good arguments for the Council meeting tomorrow.”