“Oh, her,” Sheldon sounded less than impressed; his tone was absolutely dismissive, as if he and the empress were old not-so-much friends. “Why are we going to see her?”

What was it with him? Ever since they failed to find the horn in the crypt, he’d seemed different. The fearful servant had been replaced by a contemptuous cynic.

“If you need a reason beyond the fact that she was alive and present when the horn disappeared . . . Let’s just say I have a long-overdue letter to deliver.”

The gap in the trees was not a dead end, and soon the path ahead opened to hills that granted free rein to the horses. Off to the left, Farilane found the river again. The Bernum was narrower here than at the place they had crossed, with a deeper, rockier embankment. All this confirmed to the princess that they were well north of Dibben, but still a few miles south of the Gula River fork and the city of Merredydd. Deprived of a road and forced to guess their best path meant that what could have taken a day would require two. All that morning and afternoon, they stayed in their saddles and saw no living thing save birds and a pair of deer. As the sun began to set, Farilane led them into a wood to the west. Going deep, they were forced to walk the horses the last few yards to where she found a small suitable clearing on a bluff just up from the river. Most of the surrounding trees were pines. Their thick boughs would serve well.

“The trees will block the light of our fire, and we have plenty of fresh water,” Farilane explained, as she tied Trident to a tree.

“But we have no food,” Sheldon grumbled.

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Kile said, tossing back the flap on one of Pristine’s saddle bags. He reached in and fumbled around, withdrawing his hand as if he’d performed some trick. “Salted beef!” he proclaimed.

“Careful,” Farilane warned. “Enzio likes the spicy variety, and he adds his own hot sauce, something his mother used to make—and I’m fairly certain the woman was a sadist. Also, I would guess you’ll find wine in there. He always has a couple of bottles, special orders them from a little village in the southeast. He can’t stand western vineyards, and he insists that Avrlyn wines suffer from too rich a soil. ‘Bad dirt makes good wine,’ he always says, and everything in the west is spoiled rotten. Now, if you’re interested in something stronger . . .” She clapped the bag on Trident. “Ethan usually travels with a pint of Old Robin rye rolled up in his bed clothes. Not the best stuff but fine in a pinch.”

Kile began unbuckling Pristine’s saddle. “You’ve been in pinches before?”