Makes me feel like one half of me’s pulling east, other half’s hauling west. Ripping me in half. Want to be in two places at once. Can’t happen. Thing is, though, I know Blackthorn’s strong. I know she’ll cope without me. Bardán, he’s a different matter. Needs me over there to speak up for him. Talk to Tóla for him. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I’ll do it. No choice. Anyway, it’s time someone stood up to that man. He’s a bully.

‘Not that way!’ Bardán’s sharp, calling me onto what looks like a tricky path, narrow and wandering.

‘You sure?’

‘Keep your eyes open,’ Bardán says. ‘Look there, see? Forbidden. Go down that way and you might wander forever.’

I look where he’s looking. Between two trees there’s a silvery mesh of spiderweb. All right, I might not want to walk straight into that, but forbidden’s a strong word. Then I spot something. Half-hidden in the shadows beneath the web, there’s a big knot, tricky sort of thing, woven from long grass. If that’s not the work of little fey fingers I’m a clurichaun. Seen that sort of craft before, the tiny baskets they carry, every bit just so. ‘The fey,’ I say, glancing at Bardán. ‘A warning.’

‘Eyes open,’ he says again. ‘Won’t let them trick me twice over. Never going to that place again.’

Asking seems like opening a box of trouble. But then, I have to deal with Tóla for him. ‘Was that what happened when you went there?’ I try to sound as if I don’t care much one way or the other. ‘You missed a warning sign?’

‘Hah!’ It’s halfway between a cough and a laugh, bitter as gall. ‘No time to look, no time for signs, no time for anything. Running, running. Falling. Down, down . . . Gone . . .’

‘What were you running from, Bardán?’ I say it quiet. Gentle. If he doesn’t want to say, I won’t push him.

No answer from the wild man. He walks on, and I walk on, and the shadows get longer. Looks like I’m going to be sleeping the night at Wolf Glen. Hope Gormán will give me a spot in the foresters’ quarters. Hope Blackthorn’s going to be all right at Longwater. Chances are I won’t see her now until tomorrow night.

‘Tell me,’ says Bardán, still walking.

‘Tell you what?’ Thought it was me who’d asked a question.

‘The story. The Red Giant. What happens next?’

Morrigan’s curse! Where did that come from? ‘Can’t remember where we got to,’ I say, though I can, even though it’s a while since I started telling him the tale. Fact is, I don’t want to tell him the rest. The story’s too sad.

‘Tell it, Grim.’