But the woods grew thicker off to the left—and Gaborn spotted a wide diversion dam made of stones. The mill. Its huge water wheel made a great racket, with its grinding and the water splashing.

“Let me lead,” he whispered. He moved slowly now through the pussy willows, eeling on his belly, not wanting to attract the attention of the nomen on the far side of the river till he reached the shelter of the woods.

They were outside the city wall now, on a steep bank that overlooked the River Wye to the east, the moat to the south. He hoped Raj Ahten didn’t have soldiers posted in these woods.

He took his time as he led Rowan deeper into the grove, careful not to snap a twig.

Up on the hills behind him, in the heart of Castle Sylvarresta, he could hear distant cries of dismay, shouts. Perhaps a battle had broken out.

Other shouts nearby mingled with the noise, cries of hunters, shouting in Taifan, “Go that way! Look over there! After him!” Raj Ahten’s trackers were searching on the other side of the city wall.

Gaborn crept down a steep ridge, keeping to the trees, till he and Rowan nearly reached the river.

There he studied the far banks from the deep shadows.

On the hill behind, a fire had begun raging. He smelled smoke. Binnesman’s garden was ablaze. The flames looked like the lights thrown by a fiery sunrise.

Gaborn spotted giants on the far bank of the river, hoary things with shaggy manes. The blaze reflected in their silver eyes. Nomen prowled among them, naked. Shades, who shielded their eyes from the conflagration.

The river looked shallow. Though autumn was on its way, little rain had fallen in the past few weeks. Gaborn feared that no matter how far he dove beneath the water, the nomen would see him. But it looked as if the whole city might burst into flame, and for the moment the nomen were somewhat blinded.

Gaborn hugged the shadows. He pointed out twigs for Rowan to avoid with each step.

He heard a branch snap. He spun, drew his saber. One of Raj Ahten’s hunters stood on the ridge above, half-hidden by trees, framed by firelight from the wizard’s burning garden.

The man didn’t rush Gaborn and Rowan, only stood silently, trusting to the night to hide him. Rowan stopped at the sound, looked uphill. She apparently couldn’t see the fellow.

He wore a dark robe, and held a naked sword, with a lacquered leather vest for armor. Only the eyebright Binnesman had given Gaborn let him spot the hunter.

Gaborn didn’t know what endowments the man might have, how strong or swift he might be.

But the hunter would be equally wary of Gaborn’s attributes.

Gaborn let his gaze flicker past the hunter, searched the woods to the man’s right, as if he hadn’t spotted him. After a long moment, Gaborn turned his back, watched the far bank.