At one point Bastiaan could have done that . . . literally. “Best not rely on me to save your skin,” he called back. The only skin he was interested in saving was Runt’s.

“Well then, don’t bother coming back!”

Myrthe gasped. “Sven!”

“What? He doesn’t even have his Talent anymore. He’s no more use to us than a woodcutter now.”

If Myrthe responded, Bastiaan didn’t hear it. He was already through the trees and at the grazing glade. He reached Sterk, tore the hobbles from the horse’s ankles, grabbed his bow and quiver, and threw them over his shoulder.

Myrthe burst into the glade just after he’d saddled Sterk. “Where are you going?”

“To head them off.” He mounted. “Hopefully I can take down the scout and get to Runt.” He almost choked on the words “take down the scout.” After their conversation, the regret of murder hung dark in his mind.

But this was different. Defense. Battle.

He tapped his heels. Sterk lunged forward and was in a gallop before another word made it to his ears.

It took a quarter bell to reach the edge of the forest. He traversed inside the tree line. Without knowing the timing of Sven’s visions, he figured Runt could be anywhere. Maybe he was still out on the plains—

Hoofbeats sounded from behind. Bastiaan spun, an arrow nocked before his eyes made sense of the approacher. Myrthe pulled the mare to a stop and lifted her hands. Her ivory hair hung wild about her like a mane. To have followed him at such a speed . . . and her being an inexperienced rider . . .

Bastiaan dropped his arrow point swifter than the plummet of a spring hawk. “Myrthe.”

“You shouldn’t be protecting the camp alone. That’s Sven’s job. I care for Runt too.” Her chin lifted in determination that spoke volumes of secrets beneath the statement. “Besides, the mare still belongs to you even though she clearly likes me better.”

She had no weapon. Only one thing she’d brought with her could help.

Bastiaan’s fear melted. He had the Wishtress helping him. Everything suddenly felt right. Unstoppable. Possible. “Thank y—”

“There he is!” Her gaze had slid beyond him to the plains.

Bastiaan leaned low over his horse and peered out into the plains. A speck of a boy with almost no shadow beneath the noon sun ambled toward the tree line. Bastiaan couldn’t see a scout. Either he was really good at tracking, or he was farther behind Runt than Bastiaan thought. Which would be ideal because he and Runt could lose the scout easily once on horseback.

Bastiaan was about to slide from his horse when he saw it—a sway of the stiff tan grasses that went against the direction of the wind. The flicker of a form. Here, then gone, blending with the grasses as though his skin changed color.