For so long she had walked in the lead, the first line of defense. She was the protector, the responsible one. Now, most of the party was ahead of her while Kem, with Simo, were the rearguard, making sure their pursuers couldn’t get over the gap. She crossed the first of the fixed rope bridges, glancing down at intervals even though she knew not to look down because it made her dizzy, made her fathom the depths, the fall, the crack and splatter a body made when it hit from a height. An old memory, locked away as in a chest. What was the name of the woman who’d fallen? She didn’t recall now if she’d ever known, only the tumble, the smack of flesh hitting stone. Ao sobbing. Screams and yells as a rising Pall swept closer to people cornered by its eerie movements.

Elen shoved the memory back down into the darkness. Her palms were damp, and she didn’t dare slip or falter. There was nothing she could do to help Fulmo. Still, it was odd he’d thrown himself over like that. What had Simo meant?

She reached the third pier. Kem and Simo came running across the bridge behind her, catching up. Kem was laughing and Simo grinning, and all because a foolish soldier was starting to creep out over the temporary rope bridge, determined to get across. Nothing about the situation pleased Elen, though. She’d seen too much of death to enjoy the suffering of others. So she resolutely set her face forward and started over the next rope bridge. It was the longest of the bridges, one hundred paces of swaying length with the wind blustering about her. Her clothes rippled, her pack shifted, her boots drummed against her back because she hadn’t had time to put them back on.

A shout of warning from the other side. A frantic shriek. The wind’s rumble in her ears. One foot before the next. Her left big toe oozed blood from a scrape. When had that happened? Did it even matter? She glanced back to make sure Kem and Simo were safe behind her.

When Elen reached the north rim, Xilsi clapped her on the back. “There’s a gamble that paid off! Did you see them fall? Two of them! What idiots!”

Elen trudged past, not answering. Luviara was seated, looking windblown and exhausted. Jirvy lay on the ground, on his back, eyes open. A blot of blood darkened his indigo tabard.

“How is he?” she asked Ipis, who was crouched beside the injured warden.

Jirvy himself answered with a wan but determined smile. “I’ve suffered worse.”

“You got hit in the chest,” she objected.

“It was shallow. I hit my head. That’s why I passed out. The shoulder wound is a tough one, though. The prince already got the arrow out.”

“That was fast.”