The sedate pace wasn’t to last. Although Brecki maintained her distance when they camped, ignoring the varied tales around the evening fires – most of which seemed to revolve around Rennic’s catastrophic escapades with a string of mercenary companies – and treating the rest of the group with a blank-eyed indifference that was somehow more hostile than any direct interaction, she ate heartily and each day seemed that much more restored, ranging ever further ahead and away. Eventually only Whisper could keep pace with her.

Chel watched the reaver carefully, uneasy when she was nearby, more so when she was out of sight. He kept close to the prince out of habit, but his curiosity about the woman grew as they travelled. Occasionally he’d see her struggling to tear off a strip of meat, or snarling at a trailing bootlace. He realized the pang he felt was guilt. He’d captured her. He’d injured her. Her presence, and all its concomitant issues, was his fault.

Every so often, this sense of obligation would overwhelm him and he’d try to offer her help. Although she stopped short of physically striking him, the hot contempt in her glare was usually enough to send him scurrying, muttering apologies.

Whatever Chel’s misgivings, Brecki knew the land. Despite the clotting snow and icy brooks, she kept them moving along hidden creeks and goat-paths, well out of sight of settlements much bigger than the occasional hut. They moved carefully, forever mindful of pursuit, hiding their tracks where they could. The farther south they went, the more the temperature dropped, and the thin snatches of sunlight through cloud became ever rarer until the sky was a single leaden sheet, seeping swirling flakes over a blasted and barren world.

Foss stopped on a snowy hillside, dropping to one knee and scraping at the ground’s white covering. He churned black frozen earth beneath, thin black stubs crunching between his fingers. He stood, wiping charcoal streaks from his hand.

Rennic approached. ‘Is it?’

He nodded. ‘Crops burnt.’

‘Who do you think?’

Foss spread his heavy hands. ‘Take your pick. Rival claimant, local lordling, our friends in the church, Corvel himself. Or maybe even her lot, on their way north.’ He jerked a thumb at Brecki, who affected indifference.

Foss sighed and resumed his trudge. ‘Evil days.’

‘Evil days.’

***

The weather’s deterioration was matched by declining visibility, and before long they had travelled several days without seeing the sun. Whisper alone could match Brecki’s now tireless, uneven canter; the rest of them took turns to ride the mules, more so as the supplies dwindled. Tarfel and Kosh were never off theirs, the non-riding prince bobbing unsteadily on the lead-rope. Their sluggish pace and persistent griping had ensured it could be no other way.