For a moment, it looked like it might not be a meeting so much as a trampling, but Clariel was pleasantly relieved to see the riders expertly bring their mounts to a fast, wheeling halt right in front of her, incidentally cutting up the lawn something terrible.

‘Bel, you’re an idiot!’ called out Tyriel, the finely worked collar of silver keys on his chest confirming Clariel’s guess. She knew he was a similar age to King Orrikan, but he didn’t look it. His hair was silver, but cropped short, and his close-shaven face, though lined and weather-beaten, was not fallen or shiny, as the King’s had been. His hands were stained to the wrists with the blood of a stag, and he wore no sword, only a hunting dagger at his waist. ‘And you, I suppose, are my granddaughter Clariel?’

‘Yes, I am Clariel.’

‘Come here,’ said Tyriel. He bent down from his horse as Clariel approached and reached out with his hand towards her forehead. She stood still as he gently placed two fingers against the Charter mark on her forehead. He did not lean down so far that Clariel could return the gesture, as was polite. Consequently she felt only a faint, distant connection with the Charter from the brief contact. Evidently whatever Tyriel felt, he was satisfied that she was indeed his granddaughter.

‘What’s wrong with Bel?’

Bel remained hunched forward, and had not spoken. He had either really fallen unconscious from weariness or was pretending in order to avoid getting into trouble over disrupting the hunting party.

‘He was badly wounded a few days ago,’ said Clariel forcefully. ‘Fighting a Free Magic creature. He’s still recovering and he’s worn himself out flying here. He needs help.’

‘I had a message about his wounding,’ said Tyriel. He didn’t sound like he was particularly concerned. ‘One of many messages in the last few days. He can’t be too sorely hurt if he managed to get here. Siranael, go get some of your people, have them carry Bel up to the infirmary.’

One of the riders behind wheeled his horse about and rocketed back towards the main body of the hunt.

‘There is also a silver bottle,’ said Clariel. ‘Charter-spelled. It holds a Free Magic creature.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tyriel. ‘Cursedly inconvenient. I suppose I’ll have to take it. Pass it up.’

‘I can’t touch it,’ said Clariel. ‘Magister Kargrin –’

‘That’s right, I forgot,’ said Tyriel impatiently. He swung his leg over and slowly lowered himself down from his horse, the smell of stale sweat preceding him. He went to the Paperwing, lifted Bel’s head and looked at him with what seemed casual indifference, then bent down and rummaged around. Finding the bottle, he picked it up as if it might be a flagon of ale, tucked it under his arm and remounted. His movements were quite stiff, but very practised.