‘Best not kick the nest till you know how deep it goes,’ Camlin said. ‘I left Vonn and Brogan walking the walls in black and gold; that should buy us some time. Get everyone out of that hold and into the marshes, but calmly. No rushing. I’ll go and take a look at our uninvited guest.’

Drust caught his arm and stared at him. ‘You did well, Camlin. I may have judged you wrong.’

‘Too early for back-slapping,’ Camlin said gruffly. ‘We’re not out of this yet.’

Camlin left them to it, slipping into a bank of tall sedge, Meg at his heels.

‘Best stay here, lassie,’ he said to her. ‘Don’t want you getting hurt.’

‘I can look after myself,’ she sniffed. ‘And you don’t know where he is.’

Camlin took a moment. ‘All right, come part of the way. Stop when I tell you.’ He held her eyes until she nodded.

They looped wide around the hill, following the sedge and willows that grew thick on the marshland’s border, eventually replacing that cover for tall witch-grass. Camlin stooped low, following narrow trails through the grass that spoke of foxes and weasels, curling slowly north-east around the base of the hill.

‘Over there,’ Meg eventually whispered to him, pointing towards a gnarly old elm that grew in the meadow on the north side of the tower.

‘All right, lass. You get on back to your boat, now.’

She nodded, flashed him a grin and disappeared back into the meadow grass.

It was highsun when he saw the horse tied on the far side of the elm, a dapple-grey mare. He edged closer, saw it was fitted with what looked like good-quality but travel-sore kit, the saddle-blanket fine wool but mud-spattered and its edges fraying. He scanned the area between the elm and the tower, eyes methodically running over every patch of ground.

There.

A shadow in the grass, a flicker of movement. Slowly he pulled an arrow from his quiver, quieter than the sighing of the grass, then crept closer, eyes flitting between each new space for his feet and the shadow up ahead.

At the edge of his vision he saw a figure walking along the tower wall, knew without having to focus that it was Brogan. Closer and closer he inched, until the whole figure was outlined in shadow through the grass, now only twenty paces ahead.

Close enough that I won’t miss, too far for a dash with a sword.

He straightened and drew his bow, the wood creaking.

The man in front of him froze, hearing the sound. He held his hands out, showing they were empty.

He knows what a drawn bow sounds like.

‘Nice and slow, turn around now.’

The man turned.

Elyon’s stones, it cannot be. Then Camlin was blinking, lowering his bow, rushing forwards to embrace the man before him, caught up in a bear hug in return.

It was Halion.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

EVNIS