Ebigail frowned. “And I’d have it no other way, Roslava. But I’m told you’ve not slept these past two days. See out the last miles from my carriage. I’m certain Kasamor would not begrudge a grateful mother’s hospitality.”

Malachi couldn’t help but be surprised. Generosity was expected under the circumstances, but for Ebigail to invite the rain-sodden, travel-stained Rosa into her sanctum? Then again, loss did strange things to people. It might even spur a miser to generosity.

“Respectfully, lady, it’s no longer for Kasamor to begrudge or allow me anything, if it ever was.” Rosa’s voice crackled like ice. “He was my comrade, my . . . dearest friend. I’ll gladly accept whatever hospitality you offer, but first I’ll see him home.”

Malachi caught Ebigail’s flicker of annoyance. Grieving or not, she didn’t care to be gainsaid. But she nodded. And she was not done with surprises.

“I see my son was fortunate in at least some of his friends.” She exchanged a glance with Sevaka. On receiving a small nod, she raised her voice. “Marek? We shan’t need the carriage any longer.”

Without another word, Ebigail took up position at Rosa’s side and Sevaka at Malachi’s. And so, on a rainswept evening – heralded by church bells ringing out for Ascension and surrounded by those who had loved him – Kasamor Kiradin at last came home.

Fourteen

Fourteen

Vorn followed the narrow boot prints, bruised vegetation and muddied stone for five miles through Davenwood. Long enough for the evening sky to fade to black. Long enough for the last ale skin to empty, and ill-fitting boots to chafe. Gregor’s abashed confession was therefore not warmly welcomed.

“What d’you mean, you’ve lost the trail?” hissed Vorn. “Never had it to begin with, more like.”

“You read the signs clear as I did,” Gregor growled. “And now, they’ve . . . stopped. It’s like she’s stepped off into thin air.”

Vorn stared across the wooded hillside, failure joining the day’s bleak harvest. Gregor was right. To all appearances, nothing larger than a fox had passed that way in hours. Nor was there any clue upon the wind. There was only the burble of water from the stream, and the hundred small sounds of the forest at night.

“She’s a witch,” whispered Keera. “A shadowthorn shouting prayers at the moon.”

“More likely she’s Raven-sworn,” Gregor spat. “Drifted off into the mists.”

Vorn stomped away uphill, growling to himself. Could have been back at Maiden’s Hollow, full of ale and curled up with something warm and pliant. But no. Instead, he had to go harking at his pride.

Ahead, down in the hillside dell, a campfire smouldered.

Calenne drew her blankets tight and hunched closer to the flames. Thus far, freedom had brought blisters, cold bones that the fire seemed powerless to warm, and isolation.

She loved every minute.