He’d been terrified when he’d called the radio phone line, speaking as fast as he could in the old tongue, giving the number of the throwaway cell to his kindred along with the actual address of the old farmhouse outside Derry in which he and Dertu had found temporary lodgings, and terrified when the smiling gentlemen came to take them to the private airport on the other side of town, and terrified when the little plane had taken off right into the bloodred sunset sky—certain they would crash into the North Sea and never reach France. He’d been terrified when they landed in the early winter dark, and the big black car took them racing over the dimly lighted roads and into the quaint city of Arles and to a small hotel where the keys to a private car had been waiting at the desk for them. He’d been terrified as they walked two miles on narrow, crooked little streets to find the car to which the keys belonged and terrified as Dertu drove this roaring little monster down more dimly lighted roads to the pretty city of Aix and finally up into the hills to a lovely whitewashed house with white shutters where Kapetria and Garekyn and Welf had been waiting for them.

He had seen demons in the sky, monsters ready to swoop down and snatch them all up and carry them back to that hideous dungeon cell, demons coming forth from the dark trees that encircled the house, demons hovering at the top of the stairs in the shadows. Cloud Gift, Fire Gift, Mind Gift, he’d repeated the old lore in whispers to Dertu who had only nodded and held Derek’s hand all the way, trying to calm him. Brave Dertu who had pumped the pilot and attendants of the little plane for all manner of knowledge, and chatted away with the chauffeur of the black car about tourism this time of year in the South of France, Dertu who drove the car with amazing ease and dexterity commenting on the speed and the handling!

But he wasn’t frightened now.

Not now that she was holding him in her arms and she was saying all will be well, all will surely be well, and there was no reason ever to fear again, and no matter how many questions he asked, repeating the same entreaties and frantic what-ifs over and over again, she held him and comforted him and told him that all would be well. Fire Gift, Mind Gift, Cloud Gift notwithstanding. She, Kapetria, would take care of it and them and him, Derek. No one would ever do to him what Roland and Rhoshamandes had done. And she would, in her own time, see that these monsters were punished.

Suddenly Dertu gave her the phone. “The Prince is on the direct line,” he said. “He’s off the air. This is private.”