‘You’re not, you know. Useless, or out of place,’ Brina said to Cywen. ‘You’re in the only right place – around people that care for you. You just need to find your feet again.’

‘Are you feeling sorry for me?’

‘Aach, you’re a proud one, and no mistake.’

‘PROUD,’ Craf screeched from Brina’s shoulder. She shooed him off, rubbing at her ear.

‘Not sorry for you, Cywen, I’m just one of the few that care about you, that’s all. And it just so happens that I need a new apprentice.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cywen asked.

‘As you’ve pointed out, Corban is busy. He was my apprentice – I’ve taught him much of the art of healing. But he is busy, and that’s not likely to change. I need help – my guess is there’s going to be a lot of blood spilt before this is all over. Someone has to try and patch the wounded up. And I can’t do it on my own.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m asking you to help me, and as you’ve just told me that you feel useless, I’m thinking you should be saying yes to my proposition. You need something to do; I need someone to do things for me.’ She smiled, a little too sweetly for Cywen’s liking.

Cywen felt as if she’d been neatly manoeuvred into this position, but as she thought about it, the idea of being Brina’s apprentice did not seem so bad. Apart from one thing – or two.

‘On one condition. I’ll not be told what to do by two crows.’

‘Raven,’ Fech corrected.

‘By a raven and a crow,’ Cywen shrugged.

‘You’ll have to work that out with Craf and Fech,’ Brina said.

‘Craf. Orders,’ the crow cawed, then clacked his beak repeatedly.

‘Is he laughing at me?’

‘Yes, I believe he is.’

Hooves sounded then, growing closer.

‘Uh-oh,’ Craf squawked and launched himself into the branches above them, merging with the shadows.

Cywen turned to see a handful of riders coming through the woods towards them. Coralen was at their head. To one side a Jehar warrior rode, a female with a thick white streak in her black hair. On Coralen’s other side was Dath, his long bow strung and strapped to his saddle. He flashed a grin at Cywen as they drew up in the glade. Storm and Buddai loped up behind them, Buddai padding forward to nuzzle Cywen’s hip.

‘Corban was looking for you,’ Coralen said. She wore a wolven pelt for a cloak, a sword at her hip, a knife beside it. Another knife hilt jutted from her boot, and Cywen saw a gauntlet hanging from her saddle pommel, three iron claws protruding from it. Like Corban’s. ‘He wants you back at the camp.’

‘He’s my brother, not my lord,’ Cywen snapped. Something about Coralen’s tone irritated her.