‘You did,’ replied Clariel. She set the food and water by his side.

‘Thanks,’ asked Bel, his eyes half shut. ‘I’m glad you’re here with me.’

Clariel did not answer. She looked back at the Paperwing and then over to the shadowed edge of the wood proper, with the dusky light coming through the trees. She felt the trees beckon to her, inviting her in.

Here she had a real choice, for the first time ever. Her parents were gone, the ties of love, affection and duty broken by their violent deaths. She had not wanted that, and she felt guilty at the thought that they could no longer hold her back from living the life she wanted to lead.

Against that, even in death they had set a very strong obligation upon her. They had to be revenged, and she was their daughter; surely this was her task.

But even as Clariel thought this, some small part of her was whispering away, suggesting that they would be avenged anyway, no matter what she did herself. The Abhorsens and the Clayr and Captain Gullaine and Kargrin would deal with Kilp and Aronzo. Besides, what did the living ever really owe the dead?

That same sly internal voice suggested Clariel could and should simply go into the forest here. This was a small wood, perhaps only a league from side to side, but it would be a stepping stone. She could head west on foot, there would be other small forests to hide within, she would cross the Ratterlin somehow …

Clariel paused, forcing herself to make a realistic assessment of her chances. She had neither the gold nor the disguise promised by Kargrin, and without either she would be taken easily at the ferry by the guards there, who would answer to Kilp as Governor or Lord Protector or whatever he called himself now. Besides that, she would have to survive forest and road, weather and ill-chance, barefoot, dressed in just a smock and cloak, with only the small knife around her neck and, if she could sink so low to steal it, Bel’s sword.

Furthermore, this little wood was nothing like the Great Forest. It would have few animals to hunt, or woodland foods to gather. She would have to beg or steal from the surrounding farms, and with every contact the chance of running into guards searching for her would increase, or word of her passage would get back to them.

Bel groaned in his sleep, and his mouth twisted as if he were about to whistle, before relaxing again.

Clariel looked down at him. He was unconscious and even paler than usual, so white that if she hadn’t met him before she would think him sorely wounded and losing blood.