“Ah, but he did, although I could not understand all of it.” Barrick leaned forward, watching the stranger intently. “Who are you? Why do I know you?”

The Twilight man stared back. Vansen again felt something pressing behind his eyes and his ears began to ache as though he had held his breath too long.

“Surely you heard that.” Barrick had closed his eyes, as if listening to fascinating music.

“Highness, he said nothing! For the love of Perin Skyfather, he has no mouth!”

The prince’s eyes popped open. “Nevertheless, he speaks and I hear him. He is called Gyir the Storm Lantern. He is on a mission to the king of his people, the ones we call the fairy folk. Lady Yasammez, his mistress, has sent him.” Barrick shook his head. “I did not know her name before now, but she is my mistress, too. Yasammez.” For a moment his face clouded as if he remembered a terrible pain. “I should love her, but I do not.”

“Love her? Who are you talking of? That she-dragon who led the enemy? That spiky bitch with the white sword? May the gods save us, Prince Barrick, she must have put some kind of evil spell on you!”

The red-haired boy shook his head again, forcefully this time. “No. That is not true. I do not know how I know, or…or even what I know, but I know that isn’t the truth. She revealed things to me. Her eye found me and she laid a task on me.” He turned to the one he had named Gyir, who was watching with the bright, sullen glare of a caged fox. For a moment, Barrick sounded like his old self. “Tell me, why has she chosen me? What does she want, your mistress?”

There was no reply that Vansen could hear, only the pressure in his head again, but more gentle this time.

“But you are high in her confidences,” said Barrick, as if carrying on an ordinary conversation. “You are her right hand.”

Whatever answer he thought he heard, though, it brought the young prince no happiness. He waved his hand in frustration, then turned back to the fire, refusing to speak more.

Ferras Vansen stared at the impossible creature. Gyir, if that was truly his name and not some madness of the prince’s, did not seem disposed to move, let alone to try to escape. The huge welt on the creature’s forehead still seeped blood, and he had other ugly wounds that Vansen felt sure were bites from the strange lizard-apes, but even so the dalesman could not imagine sleeping while this monstrosity lay just on the other side of the fire. Could the prince really talk to him? And how did a thing like that survive, with no mouth or nose? It seemed utter madness. How did it breathe, how did it eat?

I am trapped in a nightmare, he thought, and it grows worse with each passing hour. Now we have invited a murderous enemy to share our fire. He propped himself against an uncomfortable tree root in the hopes it would keep him awake and alert. A waking nightmare, and all I want to do is sleep…