The next morning she woke, a lightness and renewed sense of purpose filling her. Now, she sat on her bed, dressed in castoffs with her journey sack near her feet. She’d forgone gloves as being too distinctive. Instead, she buried her hands in her pockets and prayed none would put her in a position that she’d accidently touch them. A linen kerchief covered her hair, and she practiced slouching so as to appear shorter than she was. With any luck, those still awake in the castle were either too drunk on wine or too sleepy to recognize her.

The night sky was slowly paling as she sneaked out of her room and tiptoed down the hall toward the back staircase used by the servants. Only the head cook and a scullery maid were awake, and they remained in the kitchen.

Imogen’s luck held as she navigated a path through Castagher to her fortified walls and finally past the gates to the post stables where the horses for hire were kept. The stable master leered at her but didn’t question where a laundress had gotten the funds to rent a horse. Within the hour, she was galloping toward the borders shared by Castagher and Berberi on a mount too old and knackered to care that it carried death on its back. If her luck stayed with her, she would reach the gorge in three days’ time.

The miles flew by as they traveled steadily toward Tineroth. Imogen measured the distance and counted the hours. Solstice was almost here. Desperation grew within her. Reaching the gorge was the easy part. Reaching Tineroth before it vanished from the world, another thing altogether.

She left the horse at a stable in a village bordering the forest. The wood welcomed her, a shelter of dappled shade and relief from the hot sun. Imogen traveled south on foot through thick underbrush and reached the gorge at twilight. Across the gorge’s empty space concealing mist parted briefly to reveal the flickering, shadowy outlines of buildings. Home.

Unfortunately, she no longer had a key to unlock the door or summon the bridge that would carry her across the divide.

A far off sound drifted to her ears. The voices of men calling, the unmistakable resonant baying of dogs tracking their quarry.

“No,” she breathed. Surely, Hayden hadn’t noticed her gone or tracked her so soon! Dradus’s vulpine features rose in her mind, and she growled. “You rat bastard. You set a spy on me.”

Imogen paced along the cliff’s edge. She had nowhere to run. Besides, she had only one place in mind she wanted to be, and at the moment it was out of reach. She picked up a rock and threw it over the cliff’s edge in frustration. “Cededa!” She shouted, uncaring if the hunting pack heard her.