Across from her, Cymrian sat on a stone bench constructing a bow. He had gone out of the Keep into the surrounding forest—something Krolling had advised against—searching for the right piece of wood from which to fashion the bow. He’d come back with an eight-foot length of ash and been working on cutting it down and shaping it to form for the past two days. He was always somewhere close at hand, even now when they were safe behind Paranor’s walls. He was as much her shadow as Arlingfant, and sometimes it felt as if she was never alone. She had repeatedly suggested that he could go back to Arborlon; she would be fine where she was. In fact, he could take her sister with him so she could return to her duties as a Chosen.

That suggestion had been firmly rebuffed by both. They would leave when she was healed and when they felt she could be safely left alone. That time had not yet arrived.

Nor had Bombax, she thought suddenly.

It was getting harder and harder as the days passed not to obsess over his absence. She had been back to the cold room twice since that first time and used the scrye waters to try to detect some sign of his magic. But nothing had revealed itself, and she was stuck with wondering and worrying and waiting some more.

Which was what she was doing once again when Arlingfant came running down the pathway shouting, “He’s back!”

Aphenglow didn’t need to ask whom she meant. She scrambled to her feet, trying to be careful of her damaged leg. Her sister came charging up to her. “He’s hurt, Aphen. Some boy had to bring him back. They’re down in the healing ward.”

As quickly as Aphenglow’s injured leg would let her, she hurried to reach him. Forgotten were the warmth of the day and the enjoyment of gardening. All Aphenglow could think about was how badly Bombax might be hurt. She quizzed her sister, but Arling couldn’t give her any answers. Bombax, it seemed, had lost his voice and much of his muscular control.

“He seems delirious! I don’t think he even knows where he is!”

It wasn’t an exaggeration. They found him lying on a bed, strapped in place by the Troll guards who had carried him in from his airship. He was thrashing and crying out and looked to be in the throes of a form of madness. Aphenglow hurried to him, bent close, and called his name repeatedly. But he looked right through her, as if he didn’t know who she was and didn’t care.

“What will you do?” her sister asked, hands on Aphen’s shoulders to steady her as she backed away from the bed and its wild-eyed occupant.