Han heard a familiar voice in his head, persistent, unrelenting, badgering him.

Alister. What are you doing? Stop! Let the girl go. You’ll ruin everything. You’re killing yourself. After all the time I’ve invested in you, you are not allowed to destroy yourself.

Shut up, Crow, Han thought. I know what I’m doing.

Other voices joined in. This one sounded like Corporal Byrne. Stay alive, Rai. Stay alive. Stay alive until I come. Don’t give up.

Rai?

Han was seeing things now, so maybe he was hearing things too. The landscape flickered and crawled in his peripheral vision. Wolves. Gray wolves flanked them to either side, weaving through curtains of snow. The wolves turned into fine blueblood ladies, their skirts sliding over the snow. Then back to wolves. He tried to ignore them, to pretend they weren’t there. But it seemed almost like they were helping, keeping them moving in the right direction. An escort of sorts, through the blinding snow.

He made a plan, practiced what he would say like a small child might. If he practiced it enough, engraved it into his mind, he still might remember even if he was out of his head. Any delay might be fatal to Rebecca.

Find Willo Watersong. We need Willo. The girl is poisoned.

He stared down at the snow, thinking that it would refresh his burning throat, but he couldn’t figure out how to get to it.

He became oddly conscious of his breathing, focused on it, convinced that if he didn’t remember to breathe, he would simply stop.

Breathe.

He tilted his head back, and snowflakes sizzled on his tongue like sparks. The forest around him rippled and quaked, the colors running down like paint on a canvas. Or fireworks. He remembered something about fireworks and rooftops and hope.

Leaves glittered in the sunlight.

Sunlight. The sun was up. The snow had stopped. Or was it just another hallucination?

Breathe.

With an odd clarity, he noticed that the fresh snow on the trail had been churned by many horses. Plumes of steam rose around him, and the stink of sulfur and wood smoke intruded into his clouded mind. He just couldn’t remember why it was important.

Looking down, he saw with some surprise that there was a girl in his arms, dark head drooping against his shoulder, cheeks flushed with the cold, lips slightly parted in sleep. He squinted at her. What was her name again?

He brushed her cheek with a trembling forefinger. Her face was black and blue where someone had hurt her, but she was alive. He released a long breath of relief as tears ran down his face. He must have slept and dreamed she was dead.