“But from this moment,” continued the white-haired man, examining a blackened and tarnished metal plate in his hand. “From this moment, it will be possible to travel this way in safety. And what do we have here? IDR UL Ex IX 0008 BETA. Ha! This one was missing from my collection. Number eight. But now I’ve settled the score. How are you feeling, girl? Oh, forgive me. Parched mouth, eh? Tongue as dry as a board? I know it, I know it. Have a sip.”

She took the canteen he handed her in trembling hands.

“Where are we going?”

“To Do… To Dor…”

“Dor?”

“Dor… Dorian. What was that? That thing… over there?”

“A work of art. Masterpiece number eight. It’s actually not important what it was. What’s important is that it’s no more. But who are you? Where are you making for?”

She nodded her head and swallowed. And spoke. Astonished by her own courage.

“I am… I’m Nimue verch Wledyr ap Gwyn. From Dorian I’m going to Anchor and from there to Gors Velen. And Aretuza, the school of sorceresses on the Isle of Thanedd.”

“Oho. And where did you come from?”

“From the village of Vyrva. Via Guado, Sibell, Brugge, Casterfurt—”

“I know that route,” he interrupted her. “You’ve truly trekked through half the world, O Nimue, daughter of Wledyr. They ought to give you credit for that during the entry examination in Aretuza. But they’re unlikely to. You’ve set yourself an ambitious route, O girl from the village of Vyrva. Very ambitious. Come with me.”

“Very well…” Nimue was still walking stiffly. “Good sir…?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for saving me.”

“The thanks are due to you. For a good few days I’ve been looking out for someone like you. For any travellers coming this way were in large groups, proud and armed, and our work-of-art number eight didn’t dare to attack anyone like that, it didn’t venture from its hideout. You lured it out. It was able to spot some easy meat, even at a great distance. Somebody travelling alone. And not very big. No offence meant.”

The edge of the forest was, as it turned out, just around the corner. The white-haired man’s horse—a bay mare—was waiting a little way further, beside a lone clump of trees.

“It’s some forty miles from here to Dorian,” said the white-haired man. “Three days’ march for you. Three and a half, including the rest of today. Are you aware of that?”

Nimue felt a sudden euphoria, eliminating the torpor and the other effects of terror. It’s a dream, she thought. I must be dreaming. Because I can’t be awake.

“What’s the matter? Are you feeling well?”

Nimue plucked up her courage.