Outside he glimpsed the shadows of trees. The terrain had changed. The pace of the horses slowed as the coachdriver eased them around the steep bend at the foot of the mountain road.

‘Horses are all but spent, sieurs!’ he called down. ‘There’s a coaching inn a mile or so off the road…’

‘Keep – going,’ Acir said with an effort, as much to himself as to the driver.

The light seemed to be fading from the sky. Was it already evening? Or was his sight slowly failing?

‘Must – keep – going.’

Orial had fallen into a doze, her fingers twisted in the folds of her dirty gown.

And though Acir Korentan was silent, Khassian thought he detected a rattling catch in his breathing. In the growing gloom of twilight, the Guerrior’s face had turned deathly pale, drawn as if with pain. The dark patch of blood crusting his grey tunic looked black in the murky light.

Just a graze.

Suppose it was not just a graze and Acir was slowly bleeding to death within? Khassian had little knowledge of wounds but he had heard of such wounds, seemingly innocuous, proving fatal. But Acir was a soldier, well-versed in wounds, surely he would know what to do?

Khassian leaned forward, trying to discern if he were asleep. He touched Acir’s knee. His eyelids slowly opened. Dark bruising shadowed his eyes whose keen blue light was now glazed and dim.

‘Acir,’ Khassian said softly.

‘I’m – glad to hear you – call me by my – soul-name.’ Acir was staring fixedly into the darkness above his head; he seemed to find it hard to focus. ‘Wish – had been more – time – together –’

‘But you’re coming to Sulien with us! You can’t go back now. They’ll brand you a –’ He stopped, unwilling to say the word.

‘Traitor.’ Acir seemed to be smiling in the darkness.

The word shamed Khassian. ‘I wasn’t worth it.’

‘You – had to be – free. You – have a – great gift.’ Acir’s hand moved out – fumblingly – reaching towards Khassian’s face. ‘Use it. Use it – to set the city – free –’

Khassian felt the caress of finger-tips that were clammily, icily, cold against his cheek. He caught hold of Acir’s hand and pressed it between his own maimed hands, trying to warm it.

‘What’s wrong?’

But Acir’s eyes had closed again. Khassian tried to feel for a pulse – but his clawed fingers were too stiff, too clumsy, to achieve such a delicate task.

What should he do? They were so far now from help.

He glanced across at Orial, curled asleep like a slender white cat in the corner. Should he wake her? He didn’t want to alarm her – she had withstood too many shocks already.

Suppose word had been sent ahead to the border, suppose the Guerriors of the Commanderie had been alerted to their imminent arrival?