‘No.’ He shifted his position. He could not risk her touching the wound, for fear of contamination from the venom. Thunder still grumbled in the distance. ‘How – much further now?’

‘We’re almost across the plain.’

‘Ah.’ Halfway to the border. Farther away from their pursuers – but not far enough. How long could he stay conscious this time? And when the next bout of blackness overcame him, would it be the ultimate darkness, the tumbling descent into oblivion?

Orial sat silently watching him. When he looked into her eyes, he saw the glimmer of rainwater and healing springs, mingled.

He blinked, trying to clear the rainhaze from his eyes.

Must be feverish.

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.