(A/N – Here we go again. The following chapter is a touch shorter than usual – depending on your attention span, this could be a good or a bad thing. Apologies if it's the latter.

Lolli – Gosh. Sounds like you were having a nightmare of a day when you reviewed. Hope things are better now. Yes, Mat's outburst was a bit unexpected but I've always considered him the mercurial type so I was hoping his behavior wasn't too OOC. Thanks for reviewing and I'm glad the chapter served to cheer you a tiny bit, despite the ill-timing of the subject :( May your dreams be not trippy and I wish you a veritable bounty of decent nights' sleep [beam]

Trickster's-Lulaby – Hullo there. Thank you for your lovely comments and commendation. I've now managed two updates in one month, which is almost unheard of – all those pleases prove that manners always pay off in the long run, eh?

Virago – There you are! Thought I'd lost you so I was thrilled to see your review. Glad the chapter was worth the wait and thanks for the feedback [is happy].

VercisIsolde – Wow. Thank you for the fantastic review – you've more than made up for any tardiness [grin]. Glad you enjoyed it. Actually, I'm not sure if Mat uses his Grinwell persona more than once. It might have been just that one scene with Morgase in tDR. I shall have to investigate. Arli – a dichotomous creature indeed and we haven't seen the last of her yet. Strangely, I never connected the dream sequence with Melindhra's fate before. Thanks for pointing that out. Yup, Mai is a little creepy when she thinks she's dreaming – I guess she feels she has nothing to lose in those situations. You're spot on about the reason behind Mai's current mental state. She's not the most stable of individuals and betrayal has destroyed whatever tenuous hope she had. Plus, despite Tillalia's warning, she has developed a deep attachment to her savior/tormentor ('though she was originally intended to covet Cal's affections), and that is a very dangerous thing for a tragic heroine. For Mat's part, he's frustrated, guilt-ridden, harassed and generally p'ssed-off enough to lash out at the creature behind all his current troubles. And as for them reaching an amicable resolution….well, there are going to be a few complications first. Thanks again for the glorious review – you certainly have an insightful technique. Actually, it's a bit scary you picked up things I hadn't even noticed I put in. Hope this installment's not too pear-shaped. :P Enjoy.

All right, so around four chapters ago I reckoned there were only four chapters to go. In hindsight, that was a rubbish estimate. But hold on, my brethren; the end is very much nigh….)

Disclaimer - meh.

Chapter Twenty

The river was pale and still, a snake of mellow green. Her toes hovered amongst the damselflies and shimmering webs as she sat in her hollow beneath the willow tree.

Reeds and sleek branches trailed to the water and clasped about her ankles, playthings all of the river's furtive currents. She hummed softly and cast a handful of buds into the water. Fennell. A herb for melancholy and black bile and any ague of calamity.

She watched the buds swirl amongst daisies and columbines before looking to her hip. A wasp was idling over her spring votives, its drone quieting as it lulled on a leaf or curved petal.

The creature darted wide as she lifted a spray of pink blossom. Rosemary; a gift for remembrance. Her lips curled as she flung it to the breeze.

The next bloom was berry-bright, the red, red betrayal of torn flesh. She stroked a soft petal and smiled.

'Remember this well.' Nath's grip was a vice as he rammed her hands into the basin. 'I just saved your miserable life.'

She had howled when her skin cracked and bled in the scalding water. As crimson heartsbane spilled from her apron to scatter 'cross the floor, Nath had made her swear never to pluck the poisons again.

Ruby petals brushed her lips. The velvet hearts smelled sweet. They would taste sweeter.

The wasp had returned to dither on her quiet prizes, its wings a colourless rainbow. Her head titled as she closed a hand around the little creature.

'Now I have thee…'

It shivered in her trap, hum pitched almost to a snarl.

'And I love thee…'

She felt it nudge her caged fingers then a clean spike of pain.

'And I shall never let thee go…'

Her hand sprang open and the creature danced free. Like some winged spark in her drab nest, it zagged over roots and silver leaves and into the clasp of a waiting web. As the spider hooked it into a writhing embrace, Mai closed her eyes and caressed the heartsbane in her throbbing hand. She soon lost herself in the sounds of the hollow; the stir of the river, the purr of a gadfly, the flip of a fish nipping at skaters and whirligigs.

And then footsteps. She knew the rhythm of that gait as it crunched over loam.

'I wanted to say goodbye.'

She opened her eyes. Leaves dappled his face in shadow. He was so handsome, his eyes large and earnest, his mouth a supple bow that never crooked into some mocking half-smile that was not a smile at all.

She ached to her marrow.

What was to gain in hurt?

'They promised they could help a fever,' she whispered as Nath smoothed the salve on her palms. 'That you would be pleased I picked them.'

'Then you are a little fool.' Nath's smile took the sting from his words even as the balm numbed her seared flesh. 'To trust is to court your own defeat. Remember that.'

'Yes.'

His gaze narrowed. Splashes of sunlight made quick sapphires of those eyes.

'You asked me a question not so long ago.' She tossed the crimson flower into the stream. Its colour greyed and sank beneath the murk. 'The answer is yes.'

Cal caught her hand and raised it, slowly, as though fearing it would change her offer somehow. She shivered as he kissed her wrist.

'Then it's time to be gone.'

Mat winced and forced himself to straighten in the saddle. His ribs ached like a cracked tooth and sweat was making fire of the deep scratches on his back. As if he needed reminding of those little injuries.

The road was dry and narrow with crooked trees looming into their path and carving the sky to azure slices. At least the branches gave some shade against the blistering sky. A magpie chittered in the canopy, startling his horse into a canter even though it was barely loud enough to be heard over the rumpus at his side. Mat yanked the reins and shot his companion a withering look. After failing to coax Mat into conversation, Ferrell had sought solace in his own deep baritone.

His last effort has been a lively song about a goatherd and a merry spinster. Mat remembered the tune with a different name and very different words. He had winced often as Ferrell rumbled through the bawdy verses, each one lewder then the last. Light, the man had a mind like a cesspool.

At least the latest ballad wasn't raw enough to made a bilge-tote blanch. For Ferrell's standards, it was positively chaste.

The time I lost in wooing,

In watching and pursuing,

The light that lies in womans eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.

Mat's fingers had strayed to his shoulder now, probing the bite that was adding its tune to his complement of sore spots. He clamped his fingers on the reigns. Now was not the time to think about that.

'Tho Wisdom oft has sought me,

I scorned the lore she brought me,

My only books were women's looks,

And folly's all they've taught me.

As though sensing his glower, his grey gelding shook its mane and broke into a nervous trot. A long, lean hotblood, the thing was princely enough for the sprint-track, but no amount of long-legged grace could match Pips' deep withers and powerful flanks. Another thorn in his craw. Pips was languishing at the camp, his blunt snout buried in hay after the rigours of Laybridge.

And are those follies going?

And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise for brilliant eyes

Again to set it glowing?

But it was not the niggling pain, the showy steed or even Ferrell's bloody singing that had him such foul humour.

That morning, as he ploughed through the ranks of men lagging wagons, hauling tents and chattering with eagerness to be finally on their way, Cal had sought him out. Mat had flinched when the man flipped a coin but instinct had him snatching the gold before it could hit the dust. The morning light cast a cool tint to Cal's face as he gestured at the coin in Mat's palm.

'We had a wager, once. Remember?'

Mat had stared at the man, his eyes taking in the blanket roll on his back, his laden belt, the air of poised urbanity and found that he did.

The inn had been typical Lugard; hot, smoky and ripe with sweat, soaked leather and spilled wine. They had only rounded a handful of recruits that day, a group that defied their numbers by sinking enough ale for twice as many more. One of them, a young blonde fellow with a smile that had the barmaids fluttering their lashes, was quietly shunning the revelry. He refused to dice or wager, sipped nought but the finest wine, declined the offer of a seared needle and ink and all with the most courteous of smiles. Maybe it was because this novice hadn't seen enough of the world to wipe the boyish gleam from his face. Perhaps it was because the serving maids were flashing their ankles for no one but the butter-blonde newcomer. Or it could have been the belly-full of wine that made Mat stagger to sling an arm around the fellow's shoulder and exclaim; 'A wager. A gold-mark that our newest friend will bow out before Maerone.'

Cal had sealed the bargain with his small, assured smile. 'Done.'

In the pale, morning glow, Cal looked no different from that wet night in Lugard. And yet something was different. Different beyond repair.

He smiled as Mat struggled for a retort. 'Congratulations.'

'Where will you go?'

Cal never answered, just turned and walked on with his hands hooked into his belt.

Before he could follow, Ferrell had popped up with a cheery; 'Trouble, lad? You've got a face like a wet Bel Tine.'

Mumbled assurances hadn't worked, nor had his admission that he had to go somewhere, somewhere terribly ordinary with not the slightest possibility of adventure. Oh no. None at all.

'I'll come along. I'm useless with knots anyway,' Ferrell had boomed, waggling his considerable fingers in Mat's face.

No - vain, alas! th'endeavour

From bonds so sweet to sever;

Poor wisdom's chance against a glance

Is now as weak as ever

He caught himself whistling Ferrell's tune – Dabbling in the Dew they had called it in the Two Rivers – as he rolled the gold over his hand. Mat bit off the whistle with a scowl and jammed the coin into his belt.

'Once knew a Saldean lass who liked to frolic in lavender,' Ferrell suddenly announced. The man towered above him on the huge Dhurran. While Mat's horse clipped and flounced over the trail, Ferrell's steed lumbered, its huge hooves rolling a ponderous gait.

'She had a weakness for purple fields and the company of young men,' he went on, ignoring Mat's glower. 'She was quite good at combining the two. '

'Is this story going anywhere?'

'Not really. It was fun, though.'

Mat grunted and willed the man to shut up. No such luck.

'Did you know you smell like a garden?'

Ferrell blinked when Mat shot him savage glare.

'No, Mai doesn't wear lavender, yes, I was away from the camp last night and why that is anyone else's business is a bloody mystery.' His deep breath tugged a twinge from his ribs. 'Can't that thing go any faster?'

'He's made for battle, not jaunts. Set him a juicy tussle and you'll soon see him shift. Isn't that so, my good lad?'

As if on cue, the black Dhurran vented a wounded bellow.

Ferrell patted the beast's corded neck. 'Pay no heed, Dob. Someone just got out of the wrong bed this morning.'

'I did not get out of the wrong bed.'

'My mistake. Sorry.'

'How many leagues?'

'To Farwell?'

'No, to bloody Aridhol.'

'Arid-wha—?'

'Never mind.'

Ferrell shook open the map. 'Two at most.'

'Then ride.'

He cracked the reigns and the beast clawed into a gallop, its neck arched and teeth bared as though to tear at the very wind. Mat dimly heard Ferrell bellow his name and urged the creature on, locked his knees to the steed's ribs as the forest melted into a blur of green and brown and spikes of startling yellow. Oiled hooves seemed to hardly touch the ground, flowed over knots and roots like sunlight on water. Light, with this wild creature he could ride, just ride beyond the next rise, and the next and the one after that until his name was dust and there was no way back.

He was grinning as his fingers slipped from his reigns, laughing when he raised his arms so the wind rushed through his fingers, sang in his ears.

The horse screamed as it stumbled.

Mat flung his arms around the beast's neck. Clods of muck flew from scrabbling hooves as the creature skidded, buckled almost to its rump. Mat was wheezing almost as hard as the horse when they slid to a sharp halt. His legs throbbed and gave way to trembling as he thumped to the ground. The dirt felt too yielding beneath his boots. It was also slick as a greased griddle.

With a bitter oath, he tucked the steeds muzzle under his arm and blinked in the brash light. The forest had emptied into a valley caged with chiselled hills. Brooding and spire-steep, they stood like solemn sentries. All but one. As his eyes lingered on the mount that sloped and blurred into a wide, black slick, Mat realised that they were not hills at all.

'Light, lad.' Ferrell roared as the Dhurran lumbered from the trees. 'Didn't you hear me?'

'No,' he lied. 'We're here.'

The man threw him a disgusted look as he swung from the saddle. 'Then where's the flaming town?'

'Right beneath us.'

'Light,' Ferrell turned his gaze to sloped hill and then the black dirt under his boots. 'Bloody Light.'

Mat patted the grey gelding and lifted the ashandareifrom his saddlebow. It felt an age since he had last used the thing. The feeling hovered somewhere between relief and dismay.

'Good idea.' Ferrell turned to his own steed. 'Feels like my skin's kissing my bones goodbye.'

Mat shivered again as the man unclipped the weapon from his saddle. The axe glinted liked a wicked grin, all sharp teeth and spite.

'That's revolting.'

Ferrell hefted the brutal axe with obvious pride. 'When you're a big boy, maybe you can trade that toothpick for one.'

'Why are you here again?'

'Be nice.'

'If one more person tells me that—' He scowled as Ferrell strutted off, axe swinging in a huge fist.

The black earth was like a frozen tide, a surf of midnight capped with scuds of sickly green. Blasted trees, buried in slow, sinking death, clawed for the light just beyond their reach.

'Looks like we're not the only visitors.'

Mat had noticed the same; prints from foot and hoof had churned whole plots of earth into a choppy sea.

'Why would anyone want to come here?'

'Looting?'

'What's here to steal?' Mat muttered, scanning the smothered valley. 'Besides, there's no sign of digging.'

'Well, I'll be burned if there's gain in staying here any longer.' Ferrell swung the axe to his shoulder. 'Seen enough?'

Something glittered in the scraggy copse on a shallow tor. A heartbeat later, it was gone. 'Not quite.'

Ignoring Ferrell's complaints, Mat trotted towards the small hill.

Whatever had thrown that glint had vanished by the time they crested the rise. Ferrell tugged irritably at his shirt, tearing the lacing until tufts of fiery hair poked through.

Mat peered into the thicket, a tangle of elms and evergreens and scrubby clumps of fern. 'I think I see something.'

'Thought you might say that.' Ferrell blew a resigned sigh and a half-step forward.

In the trees, something growled, a low, glottal sound.

Mat stayed Ferrell with the spear haft. 'Listen.'

'Hog. Bear, maybe.' The big fellow shrugged and pushed the spear aside. 'We looking or are you going to stand here trembling all day?'

Mat hesitated before following the man into the leafy gloom. That sound had been like no boar or bear he had ever heard.

Ferrell was characteristically undaunted. Shoulders heaving as he hewed at the branches with that fierce axe, the hulking man carved a trail to what looked to be an abandoned cottage.

The cabin was small and might once have been a cosy snug. Now it was in ruin, the bitter relic of a dead town.

'Pretty.' Ferrell observed. 'Think there'll be a bowl of mead and oats waiting for us inside?'

'I think you've heard too many stories.' He edged closer to the ramshackle cottage. 'Hullo.'

A spray of birds beat into the air like a thunderclap.

Mat lowered his cupped hands and gaped at the creatures winging into the distance. 'Ravens. I'll be burned, ravens the bloody lot of them.'

Wishing he had brought a bow or even a trusty sling, Mat approached the rusted gate with more gumption than he felt. A mere nudge of his boot sent the thing clattering to the path. Ears ringing, Mat turned a tight grin on his companion. 'Time for a little gardening.'

He pushed into the undergrowth, cursing each time a vine snagged his shirt or flesh. Ferrell's approach was somewhat more direct. Mat ducked as a spiked bramble whicked past his head.

'Must you?'

Ferrell lowered his sap-slicked axe reluctantly. 'But it's more fun this way.'

The door that loomed before them was cracked, weathered and daubed with something that made ice of his flesh.

'Burn me, lad. Do you look for trouble, or does it come courting you?'

Mat grimaced. The Dragon Fang was a stark blight on the rotting wood.

His fierce kick slammed the door wide. A rank, dusty smell sighed at them, cellar-dark and cold as a dying breath.

Ferrell ducked under the sagging frame. 'Cosy.' The man's second stride had him ankle deep in splinters.

'Mind your step, there.'

'What's that stink?' Ferrell grunted as he staggered from the rotted board.

Mat shrugged and looked at the hearth. There was nothing but ashes in that grate, but the sting of smoke and something else, a hot, musky odour, lingered in the gloom.

He trod carefully to the table. A sunken candle squatted between two plates. Two knives and forks sat neatly on those grimed plates, as though the diners had been disturbed during a quiet supper. He almost jumped when a low croak sounded to his right. Mat turned, his hackles rising. A black shape hunkered in the shadows.

Mat took a swing at the raven crouched on a chair, but the thing made no move to flee. It hissed, wings arched wide and beak snapping from its tiny, pointed tongue.

The creature looked almost startled when the knife sheared through its breast, pinning it to the wall in a shower of stone. Mat wrenched the still-thrumming knife from the dead bird. 'I don't like being watched.' The thing lolled to the boards with a satisfying thud.

'A woman lived here.'

'What makes you say that?'

Ferrell used the axe to lift a ragged tail of curtain. 'Useless at keeping out draughts. Uselessness means women's work.'

'Best not let Mai hear you say that.'

'She's no woman yet.' Ferrell let the curtain drop and moved to thump open a small door. 'Give the lass time, though. She'll be stringing frills all over camp before you know it. Do you think this is good for eating?' he muttered, ducking from the hatch with a jar in his hand.

'What is it?'

Ferrell shrugged. 'It's got a little bee on the lid.'

'Can honey go bad?'

'How can you tell it's honey?'

Mat sighed and scraped his blade on the table-edge. 'Let's just keep looking.'

They crept through a curved alcove where the gloom lurked thick. It was only a small relief when Ferrell split the shutters with a swing of his axe. Light speared into the room, forcing the shadows to huddle in sullen corners.

The dim crackle of a dying wasp accompanied their trawl about the room. For once, Ferrell seemed to have lost his tongue. Mat felt the same. There was sorrow here, an air of misery so deep the place seemed to ache with it. Thick bundles of herbs swung from heavy beams but the only smell was that strange, charred stink.

Ferrell paused by the formidable hearth, his hand worrying his beard. 'What do you suppose this is?'

Mat craned a look. Pressed into the stone, as neatly as a light step might mark ashes, was a paw print. The bitter smell flared a quick, sickening connection - sulphur. A small, cold voice gauged the print of a similar breadth to a Dhurran's hoof. He wrestled a hot spurt of nausea and brushed a hand over the scarred stone. It was cool to his touch. 'Whatever made it is long gone.' All the same, he darted a quick glance about the room. 'Keep looking.'

Mat left Ferrell still pondering over the print and ducked into another room. It was darker here, the burnt smell fainter.

He pulled a calming breath and caught a faded scent of flowers. Golden light poured through the shutters he gently creaked ajar. Save for the narrow bed hugging the far wall and a large, carved chest, the room was empty.

He crouched before the chest and swept dust from its domed lid. It opened with a throaty creak and he breathed in its sigh of almond and cedar and old, forgotten secrets. He found a creamy-white feather nestled atop the strange contents. It was startling, familiar and he knew at once that it had belonged to the throat of an eagle owl. A rare treasure indeed. A rock, worn smooth by some sandy brook, fitted neatly in his palm. He clasped a scrap of velvet, deep and rich as burgundy wine, and found it still held the scent of violets.

A sprig of forget-me nots peered from the pages of a speckled book. His tentative touch crisped the petals to dust. Wrapped about the stem was a coil of black and brown hair, interwoven and twisted into a small circle. He placed the strange relics by his knees and looked again to the chest.

Cocooned inside a wrap of raw silk was a doll. Large, glass eyes of the brightest blue gazed at him beneath a wealth of dark curls as he traced painted lashes, a porcelain cheek, the bow of her pink lips. Resting atop her froth of pale blue skirts were two crumples of parchment. He palmed them smooth and joined the ragged edges. It was torn sketch of the doll's owner, her face youthful and bearing a smile of such sweetness that he almost flinched. He had never made her smile in that way.

A childish scrawl was scratched beneath; Now I have thee, and I love thee, and I shall never let thee go.

He fought a sudden urge to tear those words from the paper, rip the ancient verse into ruin.

But those large eyes stayed his hand, so faithful he could almost see himself reflected in their depths.

'I'm sorry.'

And he was. For this dead home, this tiny room, for the girl she had once been. For the sorrow in her eyes before she had fled from him. For then and now and everything in between.

'Found what you were looking for?'

Mat folded the pieces and slid them under his belt. 'I don't know.' He muttered, rubbing the dust from his eyes.

'Why, Mat. I didn't know you cared.' Ferrell bent to pluck something from the floor. 'Loversknot,' he declared, spinning the twisted circle on his smallest finger. 'A lock from two heads, twined to make a finger-posy.'

'Very sweet.'

'Isn't it? Got quite a collection of them myself.'

Mat snatched the knot and tossed it into the chest. 'There's nothing here.'

'You all right, lad?'

'Bloody wonderful.' He stood and slapped the dust from his knees. 'Let's go.'

'Light, it's the image of her.' The doll was clasped in the man's broad palm. 'Is it Mai's?'

Mat forced his shoulders to relax. 'How should I know?'

'Well, I think she should have it. She needs some cheer of late.'

Mat barely heard the man's veiled accusation. He strode the window to palm grime from a cracked pane. Something small and pale nestled in a claw of branches.

'Where are you going now? Mat? Mat.'

By the time Ferrell yelled his name a third time, Mat was already outside in the tangle of thicket. He hacked at the gnarled green, ignored the slice of thorns. The old rowan was broad and twisted, smothered in yellowed ivy.

It could have been a vine, nothing more than a loop of branch locked in a tangle of thorns and red, puckered berries.

Light, how he wished that were so.

Mat tore his gaze from the noose. Dismay tightened his throat as he reached into the knotted green, grasped a swathe of stiff cloth. It slid from where the leaves had harboured it; the white had faded to grey but the sunburst was still a brash flame. He hurled the flag to the ground.

Ferrell was blundering from the undergrowth as Mat ran for the horses.

'Get back to the camp,' he yelled, vaulting onto the dapple gelding. 'And tell them to be ready.'

She held a breath as the fish swam closer. The play of leaves on the water had made the creature wary, but her stillness beguiled it.

Mai lay on her belly, her cheek resting on her free arm, waiting for Cal's return. She knew he should be back by now, but couldn't rouse herself to pay the thought much mind. The sunlight cast a net of shining pearls over the water, forcing her to eyes to close against that golden assault. These drowses weakened her, made the world tilt closer to the veil. He was here again, unreachable across the dark water. At times, he seemed to be beckoning her; at others, walking away.

Now he was calling her, his face lost in the shadow of his hat as he cried silent words. She moaned and opened her eyes.

The fish was closer. She tilted her hand, stroked the trout's slick belly. The creature paused, as though suspended, its fins willowing at her touch.

A shadow fell over her. The fish snapped through the water as she looked up at Cal. The sun hazed a corona about his corn-gold curls and she smiled.

'Don't fight, Mai-'

The blow rang loud in the silence. Cal staggered as a swarthy stranger planted a stance before her.

'No warnings, Delloraine.' He sneered, his black eyes slitted as he yanked her afoot.

Cal wiped a bloody smear from his lip as the dark man reached to yank her afoot. 'This is her?'

'Yes, Lieutenant.'

Fingers clutched her face, wrenched her gaze from Cal. 'I was expecting something impressive.' His voice was oily with scorn.

She shrank back as his leer ducked closer. His breath stank of cloves and spoiled meat.

'Do you know what day it is, you little slut?'

'Some decorum if you will, Lieutenant.'

The numbing grip tightened then released as an armoured man strode to the bank. His face was open and almost kindly. Grey hair swept from his high brow in neat waves. He was not alone. Several others accompanied him, all sporting armour and white, billowing cloaks.

The kindly man stopped before her. 'Salutations, Malori. It's been a long while.'

Cal made a clipped bow. 'She calls herself Mai, Commander.'

'I see. Child Delloraine tells me that you have no recollection of your youth, Mai. I understand this to mean you have no remembrance of me. Is this correct?'

'Cal.' She struggled as strong hands seized her from behind. 'What is this?'

'Answer the Commander, bitch.' Hot, reeking breath seared her ear. 'Or I will rip your skinny arm from its socket.'

'There will be plenty of time for dramatics later, Lieutenant.' The older man gave her captor a stern look then turned a softer gaze upon her. 'It's been six years since I last saw you. Six years to this very day.' He murmured, shaking his head in a wondering fashion. 'Do you sense the fortuity in that, Malori?'

'My name is not Malori.'

'Ah, yes. Mai. Your name is not the only thing that's changed child.' His eyes flickered over her before resting on her face. 'But not your eyes.' A chuckle rumbled beneath the polished breastplate. 'Yes, I would remember those eyes anywhere. My name is Commander Thrayne.' He paused, as though waiting for her to recognise the name. 'No matter, Mai. I'm afraid I must request your company in town.'

'I'm not going back there.' She yelped as her arms were wrenched higher.

'Oh, it will be quite a short stay, I assure you.'

'No.'

Her kick connected hard and she felt a hot, vicious joy at the startled grunt behind her. Then her head wrenched back until her muscles shrieked. Something cold kissed her throat.

'Irial, please. We are not savages.'

It took a few moments for the dagger to leave her throat. Her captor released her braid with a snarl.

'My apologies, Mai. We shall try and make this as civil as possible. Child Delloraine, if you would be so kind.'

'Cal, stop this.'

His eyes stared past her as he unstoppered a small bottle. The scent of hemlock stang the air.

'Cal. Please.'

His steady hand upended the bottle onto a cloth.

She kicked at her captor, fought and writhed until Cal gripped her jaw. The sick-sweet smell was choking. She screamed as the white cloth pressed over her nose, her mouth.

'Best not to struggle, Malori. This won't take long.'

A low laugh chased her into darkness.