Chapter Four

The Herbalist

One week later, the inhabitants of the small town of Furnost were surprised when a man emerged from the forest at dawn. The man had long, filthy hair and a ragged beard, and wore the remains of what had been a black robe. He was badly hurt, with one arm bound up in a makeshift sling and his leg dragging behind him while he supported himself with a length of tree branch. The man limped slowly into the town square, and there he fell over. People ran to help him straight away, lifting him to his feet and asking questions.

'Who are you? What happened to you? Do you need help?'

The man was still conscious. 'A healer,' he mumbled. 'Take me – to a healer. I can pay.'

'A herbalist just moved in not far from my house,' one woman said. 'We'll take him to her.'

'Thankyou,' the man said, overhearing her. 'I… thankyou.'

He said no more, and they half-led, half carried him to where the herbalist lived. Someone had gone ahead to alert her, and she was ready for them. She appeared in her doorway when they arrived, and immediately touched the stranger's face, saying; 'What happened to you?'

'I fell,' said the man, raising his head with surprising strength. 'My right leg and left arm are broken, and I think I might have some internal injuries. I haven't… haven't eaten for a week, but I took water from the lake. If you'll help me, I can pay you.'

The herbalist nodded. 'Help me take him inside.'

The man was duly carried into her home and laid down on a spare bed, after which the people who'd brought him left, though with many curious backward glances. Once they were alone, the herbalist handed her patient a bottle of green liquid.

'Here,' she said. 'Drink this. It'll numb the pain.'

Once he'd drunk it, she carefully removed the crude splint from his leg and examined it, breathing in sharply when she saw the bone sticking out through the skin. 'This is a bad break,' she told him. 'Very bad. I'm not sure how much I can do to fix it. It'll heal, but it won't heal cleanly. You'll have a limp for the rest of your life, most likely.'

The man sighed. 'I thought I probably would. Are you sure you won't just cut it off? I'd prefer you not to.'

'No, I can save it,' said the herbalist. 'This sort of thing is my speciality. It's just your bad luck there isn't a rider here.'

'A rider?' the man repeated blankly.

'Of course,' said the herbalist, getting up and fetching some clean bandages from a cupboard. 'If there was one here, he'd be able to heal you with magic in seconds. I've seen it done. It's really quite an astonishing thing to watch. But enough of my rambling. No point in complaining about something we have no control over, is there?'

'No,' said the man, lying back, his chest heaving.

'My name's Sabriel,' said the herbalist. 'And you?'

'I'm… Arren,' said the man.

The herbalist paused. 'A good solid name, Arren,' she said eventually, her eyes lingering on his face. 'Try and relax. This will hurt.'

'I'm used to that,' said the man.

For the next few days Sabriel cared for the man who called himself Arren, cleaning the dirt off him as best she could without moving him more than was necessary, and then seeing to his injuries, which were extensive. As well as a broken arm and leg he had several sprains, massive bruising on his back, a cracked skull and a choice selection of cuts and grazes. He was also severely undernourished and dehydrated, and suffering from exhaustion brought on by his journey to Furnost. He slept most of the time, too weak to even eat, but she forced him to drink as much water as he would take, along with various potions intended to build up his strength and fight infection.

For a time it was uncertain whether he would recover, and once or twice she thought he was about to die, but his heart kept on stubbornly beating against all the odds, and on the fifth day he was sitting up in bed and asking for food, though at first he couldn't handle much, and she knew he would pull through.

She wasn't sure if she was happy about that.

At the end of the first week, Arren was awake and alert, and able to speak coherently. 'Thankyou,' he said, accepting the bowl of soup which she offered him. 'For your help. You saved my life, Sabriel.'

Sabriel, sitting by his bed on a chair she'd brought in, watched him eating. 'You're welcome,' she said at length, not taking her eyes off his face.

He glanced at her over the bowl. His own eyes, sunken and with dark smudges under them, were black and unreadable.

'You were very lucky,' Sabriel told him. 'Most people I've treated who were as far gone as you only lived a few days.'

Arren smiled. 'Oh, I'm tough, me. Hard to kill.'

'I know,' said Sabriel in a low voice.

Arren paused. 'Do you now.'

Sabriel was silent for a while, watching him closely, her expression unreadable. The silence became uncomfortable, and then Sabriel looked away. 'You'll be strong enough to leave by the end next week, if I'm any judge,' she said. 'I suggest you find a tavern and stay there for a few months before you leave town. The immediate danger is over, but you'll need to let that leg heal enough so that you can walk on it again.'

'How long will that take?'

'At least four months,' said Sabriel.

Arren nodded resignedly. 'I see. Thankyou for the advice.'

'I hope you decide to take it,' said Sabriel. 'I wouldn't want to see all my hard work go to waste.'

Arren smiled. 'You won't.'

The end of the following week duly arrived, and, true to what Sabriel had said, by then Arren was strong enough to start walking around again, albeit using a pair of wooden crutches. His recovery had been amazingly fast, although he didn't seem aware of the fact. He seemed keen to get going, and once he had wrapped his few belongings in a piece of cloth which he hung from his uninjured arm, he left. At the door he handed Sabriel ten gold coins from the leather bag of them in his pocket.

'For your help,' he said.

Sabriel accepted the money, saying; 'Thankyou, Arren. And good luck.'

Arren nodded formally and went on his way, moving slowly on his crutches but with determination. Sabriel watched him go, and then went back inside, where she slumped into a chair, her head in her hands. 'What have I done?' she moaned.

She was watched by her cat; a large, tawny orange thing with a magnificent ruff of white fur. The cat was grooming idly, seemingly unbothered by her distress.

Sabriel looked up at the cat. 'That was him,' she said. 'I know it was, Solembum.'

The cat paused in the act of rubbing his forepaws over his head. 'It was,' his voice said in her head. 'I recognised his smell. How did he come to be here?'

'He must have survived what happened in the mountains,' said Sabriel. 'I should have known the boy wouldn't be able to kill him.'

'But what about Shruikan?' said Solembum.

'He must be dead,' said Sabriel. 'Otherwise…' a look of wonder came into her face, and she said; 'He survived it. Twice. It's incredible.'

'Not so incredible,' said Solembum. 'That man is physically and mentally tougher than anyone I've ever met. He survived a hundred years, didn't he? A hundred years and he stayed sane and fit. That always impressed me.'

'It's astonishing,' said Sabriel. She paused. 'I found two arrow-wounds in him, you know. One was right over his heart. And the broken bones… he must have fallen from Shruikan's back.'

'If you were so sure it was him, then why did you not kill him?' the cat asked in lazy tones.

Sabriel hesitated. 'I'm… I'm not sure. Maybe if Eragon can't kill him, I don't have the right to even try.'

'That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,' said Solembum. 'You're afraid of him.'

'Maybe I am,' said Sabriel. 'But I think… well, if he died, what would the alternative be? Who would rule Alagaësia then?'

'Eragon would,' said Solembum.

'Precisely,' said Sabriel. 'And I don't want that to happen.'

There. She had finally said it. And, she decided, she wouldn't back away from having said it. It was what she really believed. To emphasise her point, she glared at Solembum, who stared at her out of his green eyes.

'You're right,' the cat said eventually. 'It would… not be good if he were to take control. The boy has changed. I could see it in him long before we left. What did you see, Angela?'

'I saw that he's lost his mind,' said Sabriel. Or, rather, Angela.

'He never had much of a mind,' said Solembum. 'But now he has lost his heart. Once he talked of freedom and equality, but suddenly it was all about power. He wants power now, nothing more. And you can be sure that he would bring chaos to Alagaësia in order to get it.'

'Exactly,' said Angela.

'So you would prefer to let the traitor remain in charge?'

'I'm not sure what I want,' said Angela. 'But he's the only one who can stop Eragon. No-one else in Alagaësia has the prowess in magic and fighting, or the leadership ability.'

'No-one would follow him now,' Solembum scoffed. 'The man is crippled and his dragon is gone.'

'Not just his dragon,' said Angela. She sat back in her chair, feeling the warm sunlight from the window on her face. 'His power, his empire… everything he had. And he doesn't even know it. He's lost himself as well.'

The sky over Urû'baen was red. Not from the sunset, which was just beginning to burn on the horizon, but from fire. Up on the battlements of the castle, Skade stood and watched the battle being fought overhead. The silver elf was wearing polished armour, and strapped across her back was a white-bladed sword. In her arms she held a small bundle.

It had been three weeks since Galbatorix's disappearance. Three weeks since she had found Shruikan's body in the mountains. Three weeks since she had picked up the white sword and sworn to avenge her beloved. She and her adopted children had fought Eragon and his rebels in the mountains that day, and it had been a fierce fight. But it had ended in defeat for Skade and the dragons she led. Myrkyr had suffered a crippling blow to the legs which had left her unable to walk without help, Valdyr had been blinded in one eye, and Hrafn had nearly died when a cruel blow from Saphira's claws tore his belly open. Skade had been able to partially heal them, but she did not have the skill to complete the spell, and she knew that all three would be affected for life. They had returned to Urû'baen, and she knew full well that they were not journeying but fleeing, and that they would be pursued.

They were. As soon as Skade was back in the castle, she had set to work, heedless of the fact that her time was near. She had organised the Imperial army, and sent Dreyri and Skömm away to act as her messengers. Dreyri had gone to the outer cities to alert the local governors and tell them to prepare for war. Skömm, however, had gone to the Spine. He had taken a message to Kullervo, leader of the wild dragons, one which begged for his help. But Kullervo had not come. Skömm returned with the news that the reclusive warrior dragon had turned his back on Skade, who he blamed for the death of the rider he had once had, and that he had instructed the wild dragons to take no side in this new war. Last time they had taken part in the affairs of humans and elves they had paid a heavy price, and Kullervo was determined to keep it from happening again. Skade was on her own.

Almost. There were two wild dragons who responded to her need. Now they, along with Skömm, Dreyri, Valdyr, Myrkyr and Hrafn, flew over Urû'baen, locked in battle with Eragon's followers. Flames billowed into the sky, and the air was full of screams and roaring. Skade could only watch. She had given orders to the soldiers in the city below, and they were doing their best to fight back against the rebel riders, manning the huge ballistae – giant crossbows designed to take down a dragon. They had managed to injure one of the enemy dragons, but Eragon had planned for this, and the ballistae were being taken out one by one by blasts of fire and magic. Skade could only watch, and hope with all her might that they would win. She had no illusions. She knew perfectly well that if the city was overrun they would not spare her. And they would not spare her child, either.

The child stirred in her arms. He had been born a week ago, after a long and difficult labour. Skade murmured to soothe him, and he clutched at her hair with a tiny pink hand. He was just as silent and calm as his father had always been, and the wispy hair on his head was silver. Of course, the fact that she'd successfully brought him into the world didn't mean much. If the riders got hold of him they'd kill him. It didn't matter that Galbatorix's claim to the throne had been legitimised… he was dead. Skade had no illusions about that either. She knew that she would never see him again. All that remained for her to do was protect their child and do what she could to keep the Empire safe. And she would kill Eragon, if she got the chance. She had vowed it.

But it did not take her long to see that they were losing. Large portions of the city were on fire, and the soldiers on the ground were beginning to withdraw into the relative safety of the castle. The civilians had long since been evacuated to Dras-Leona for their own safety, and it had been a wise move – it looked as if the city was going to burn to the ground before the day was out.

Skade's personal bodyguard appeared at her elbow. 'My lady, you shouldn't be up here now,' he said. 'Come on; we have to go inside.'

Skade didn't look at him. The guard hovered anxiously, too well-trained to be more forceful with her. A huge blue dragon hurtled overhead, her dangling talons inches from Skade's head. The guard ducked in terror, but Skade didn't move an inch. She was staring impassively at the burning city below. The guard pulled himself together. He took hold of her arm and hauled her away. She went with him placidly enough, carrying the child in her arms, but it was already too late.

The blue dragon had circled around, and now she came in to land on the parapet between Skade and the door leading into the castle. Skade and the guard stopped dead, and then Eragon jumped down from Saphira's back, his sword in his hand. The boy advanced on her purposefully, murder in his eyes.

The guard reacted quickly. He turned and began to hustle Skade toward the other end of the wall, where there was a second door, shouting; 'Run, my lady! Run!'

But Skade would not move. She stopped and turned to face him. 'No,' she said. And when he persisted, 'No! Stop it. Here.' She gave the child to him. 'Take him inside and keep him safe. This is my fight.'

'But my lady-,'

'Go, Bergholt,' said Skade more gently. 'You have done well.'

Bergholt accepted the child and did as he was told, but with great reluctance. Skade did not watch him go. She faced Eragon steadily as he came on toward her, already raising the blue-bladed sword, Íssbrandr.

Skade felt no fear, only hatred. She drew the white sword, snarling; 'So you've come back, brat.'

'I have come for my throne,' said Eragon.

'The throne will never be yours,' said Skade. 'What you will find here is death. And this time it will be yours.'

'I know what you are,' said Eragon. 'Murtagh told me what you are… Skade, daughter of the Night Dragon. You killed Arya. I will avenge her.'

'You killed Galbatorix,' Skade accused.

Eragon laughed harshly. 'So I did. And you should have seen how he suffered. How he pleaded with me to finish him off.'

Skade attacked. It was exactly what Eragon had wanted her to do, and he was ready for her. The two of them began to duel, neither sparing a thought for the magic they could have used. This was a fight for vengeance, and nothing else mattered now. Not the city, not the Empire. There was only the will to kill.

Eragon fought noisily, but with the ease and grace of a born swordsman, dodging and striking like one who has been schooled in the art for most of his adult life, his handsome face alight with passionate hatred.

Skade was less disciplined. She fought like the wild creature she was, putting her full weight behind every swing she made with Galbatorix's sword, Hvítr Atganga. Its name meant 'white violence', and violence was all Skade had in mind. She was oblivious to any notion of defence, and plunged forward recklessly, swinging the sword as if it were an axe, her sharp dragonish teeth bared. Eragon was a little surprised by the sheer ferocity of her onslaught, and for a time he was actually driven back by it, unwilling to press on with his attack lest he take a serious injury. A direct hit from the white-bladed sword while it was being wielded so powerfully would do a lot of damage, even taking his armour into account.

Saphira took no part in the fight. She stood and watched over her rider, her face impassive. She felt nothing. Not fear, not anger. Her mind was empty and blank.

Meanwhile, Eragon pulled himself together. He halted his retreat and began to fight back, blocking Skade's attacks and getting in his own as fast and hard as he could. And it worked. The fact of the matter was that he had far more experience in swordplay, and more natural talent as well. Skade was not a swordswoman. Hand-to-hand combat was where her talent lay, and she was simply not suited to weapons. Nor was she suited to the body she was in. Skade had only been an elf for five years, but Eragon had been human for twenty-two. And he was winning. He took advantage of her reluctance to defend herself, and hit her several times on the arms and chest. Her arms were unarmoured and were soon badly cut, although the sword simply bounced off the breastplate she was wearing. But her lack of self-control was already beginning to have consequences. She began to tire, the white sword and the armour weighing her down. Eragon spotted this, and started to grin horribly.

'No-one can beat Eragon Shadeslayer in swordplay,' he boasted. 'Especially not you.'

'Galbatorix beat you,' Skade retorted.

'And now he's dead,' said Eragon. 'Just-,' he kicked her in the stomach, knocking her over. '-Like-,' he flicked the white sword out of her grasp. '-You.' He rested the tip of his own sword on Skade's throat, and it was all over. He had her at his mercy.

Or so he thought. Skade grabbed hold of the swordblade and wrenched it sideways, simultaneously rolling over onto her front and leaping upright with a quick thrust of her legs. In the same movement, she whirled around and leapt at Eragon, so fast that the young rider was taken by surprise. The next thing he knew, Íssbrandr had been knocked out of his grasp and he was tussling on the ground with a snarling, berserk silver elf.

Skade wasted no time. She slashed at Eragon with her claws, several times, very fast, tearing his skin open all over his face and neck. He punched her hard on the chin, and her head snapped back, but she bit his hand, crushing one of the bones.

Eragon screamed, and at once Saphira darted forward. She flicked Skade off her rider with a blow of her paw, and Eragon got up and retrieved his sword, blood dripping from his hand.

Skade struggled to stand up, reaching vaguely for her sword, but she was stunned by her landing. But she was not the only one who had a dragon on her side. There was a roar from overhead. Saphira turned sharply to see what it was, and then a massive silver dragon swooped toward her from out of the sky. His hind legs smacked into her head and flank, and the blue dragon toppled sideways, demolishing a portion of the crenulations on the top of the wall before she fell from it.

'Saphira!' Eragon shouted.

Skade had recovered the white sword. She staggered toward Eragon, still intent on killing him. But it was at this point that Bergholt returned. The heavy-set bodyguard lifted her off her feet and ran for it, carrying her away and back through the door he had emerged from and away.

When Skade's head cleared, she found herself lying on her own bed. Several healers were attending to her injuries, and Bergholt was there, holding the child. The silver elf sat up sharply. 'What happened?' she demanded.

'The city's lost, my lady,' said Bergholt. 'We're preparing to surrender.'

Skade climbed out of bed at speed, ignoring the protests of the healers. 'Surrender?' she said.

'Yes, my lady,' said Bergholt. 'But not without your permission, of course.' He added this disclaimer respectfully but with very little conviction, and Skade knew just how serious the situation must be.

'We're not going to surrender the Empire,' she said, striding over to her clothes-chest and taking a fresh gown from it. She pulled it on, heedless of any concept of modesty, and began to put her armour back on over the top.

'It's no good, my lady,' said Bergholt, discreetly signalling to the healers to leave. 'The war's lost. Half the outer cities have gone over to their side. We just don't have the numbers to win.'

'I had their leader down,' said Skade. 'I could have killed him if you hadn't stopped me. Why did you do that?'

'It's hopeless, my lady,' said Bergholt, not looking her in the eye. 'I'm sorry. I'll help you and the child get out of here, but after that you're on your own.'

Skade stared at him. 'You mean…?'

'Yes. I'm sorry.'

Skade walked toward him, her golden eyes burning. Bergholt, big though he was, looked decidedly nervous, but Skade only took the child from him. She placed it on the bed, and set about packing a bag. She slung that on her back, and then went to the bedside table, where she picked up a small stack of fairths. These were pieces of slate which had pictures magically imprinted on them – pictures captured from the maker's mind. The topmost one had a picture of Galbatorix, captured in a moment of thought, his hand in the act of touching his beard. Skade touched the image with her fingertips, her face suddenly losing its look of fierce determination. Then the moment passed and she wrapped the fairths in a piece of cloth and stuffed them into her bag.

She picked up Hvítr Atganga and strapped it to her back, and then picked up the child, hugging him to her chest. 'Where are the dragons?' she asked Bergholt.

'I'm not sure,' he said. 'I think most of them fled. One or two of them are still in the city.'

'Take me to them,' said Skade. 'Now.'

In the city outside, it was chaos. Half of the buildings were simply gone, reduced to heaps of blackened rock and smouldering wood, and most of those still standing were on fire. It was now nighttime, but the air glowed with firelit smoke, blotting out the stars. Eragon's followers were everywhere in the city. He had brought in an army of ordinary foot-soldiers – elves, humans and dwarves – the remnants of the Varden which had escaped the battle at Farthen Dûr. They worked their way through the city, looting and destroying. Even now others were in the castle, searching every room. They were looking for Skade. But the silver elf was already gone. She and Bergholt made their escape through a back door along with a number of terrified servants, and slipped away through the city.

Skade, hugging her son to her chest, saw terrible things in those ruins. And the worst among these were the bodies of two black dragons, lying where they had fallen. Hrafn was close to the castle walls, his wings torn to shreds, his spine shattered by his fall from the sky. Not far from him was his sister Myrkyr, burned to death where she had tried to protect him.

There was no time to mourn. Eragon's followers were circling overhead, on the lookout for any sign of their enemies. Skade and Bergholt kept under cover wherever they could, running from house to house, from one source of shelter to another. Once they ran into a stray soldier, but Bergholt ran him through without pausing and they continued on without even waiting for the body to hit the ground. Bergholt led Skade to the spot where he had seen one of the two wild dragons who had fought for them. She was still there.

The big dark-blue dragon was surrounded by dead or dying soldiers. She herself was wounded. Her face and neck were covered in sword-cuts, and her flank was peppered with arrows. One wing hung limply by her side, the delicate membrane torn and bloody.

Skade ran to her. The blue dragon raised her head when she saw her coming, but it flopped back onto the ground.

Skade put her hand on the dragon's head. 'Lifrasir,' she said.

The blue dragon's powerful back heaved. 'Mother,' she rasped. 'I'm sorry. I did… my best.'

'Don't apologise,' said Skade. 'Ever. You're a storm dragon. A warrior dragon.'

'Like mother, like daughter,' Lifrasir murmured. 'Listen to me, Mother. Get out of here. Now. Leave me.'

Skade ignored her. She walked around to Lifrasir's injured wing and held her hand out over it. 'Was heil,' she said.

The magic went to work. It repaired the worst of the damage, and Lifrasir sighed in relief. 'Thankyou,' she said.

'Now get up,' Skade commanded.

Lifrasir gathered her legs beneath her and pushed hard, trying to get up. But they slipped out from under her, and she fell heavily onto her belly. Skade ran to her head, urging her to keep trying, but the blue dragon had gone limp.

'Lifrasir!' Skade shouted, but she did not respond.

'My lady,' said Bergholt.

'What?' Skade snarled, rounding on him.

And then she saw what. Eragon's followers had found them. A yellow dragon came lumbering toward them on foot, his rider running beside him and a dozen soldiers following them. Skade froze. Her child, cradled in her arms, began to cry.

There was nowhere to run.

Bergholt acted fast. He hurled himself at the oncoming rider, shouting; 'Run, my lady! Run!'

The rider, a young elf, didn't hesitate. He held out his hand and shouted a word in the ancient language. A blast of yellow magic shot from his palm and engulfed Bergholt. The hefty bodyguard fell, screaming in agony, and died before Skade's eyes.

Skade's eyes narrowed. She reached for the hilt of Galbatorix's sword – they weren't going to take her without a fight.

But they never got the chance to do it. Because it was at that point that Lifrasir's eyes snapped open. The dark-blue dragon lurched to her feet, her wings opening. She belched blue fire at the oncoming enemy, killing or disabling most of the ordinary soldiers. The rider was only spared because he was fast enough to throw up a magical shield to protect himself and his dragon. Lifrasir sprang toward them, bellowing; 'Get out of here, Mother! Now!'

Skade ran. Away through the city, as fast as she could go. Away from Lifrasir, and away from her home. But as she ran she could not block out the terrible sound that split the air – the agonised cry of a mortally wounded dragon. Tears streamed down Skade's cheeks, but she didn't dare look back. She reached the outer wall of the city, and darted through a small gate which was hanging open and away into the stand of trees that grew close to the city. She reached it, and there she found a dragon waiting for her. This one was male and silver, and he came straight to her.

'Mother,' he said. 'There you are. I thought you were dead. Are you all right?'

'Lifrasir's dead,' said Skade.

The silver dragon let out a small groan of disbelief. 'Are you sure?'

'She's back in the city,' said Skade. 'With… I heard her die.'

Mother and son stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Skade broke down. She wrapped her arms around the dragon's neck and sobbed into his scales, her slim form shaking. The dragon draped his wing over her, growling deep in his throat to soothe her.

He didn't want to disturb her, but there was no choice. 'We have to go, mother,' he told her. 'We can't stay here. They'll find us.'

Skade raised her head. 'What about the others?' she asked.

'You mean the hatchlings?' said the silver dragon.

'Yes,' said Skade. 'Myrkyr and Hrafn are dead. I saw their bodies. But where are the others?'

'They're alive, I think,' said the silver dragon. 'I saw Valdyr fly away toward the Spine not long ago. One of the enemy was on his tail, but I think he got away. Skömm and Dreyri were with me, but I sent them ahead of us. If we get where we're going, they'll be waiting.'

Skade nodded and pulled herself together. 'I'm proud of you, Skirnir. Let's go.'

Skirnir held out his foreleg, and Skade climbed onto his back, using it as a step. She settled down in the hollow between his shoulders, making sure the child was securely wrapped in his blanket. Skirnir walked off through the trees, not taking off for fear of being spotted. He reached the open air of the plain beyond, and there broke into a run. Skade held on as well as she could, but the silver dragon's back was so broad that there was little chance of that. The child was crying harder than ever, and she held him close, trying to keep him warm.

Then Skirnir leapt. His wings opened, and lifted him into the air with several powerful blows. And, after this violent motion had ceased, he began to glide. Skade relaxed and let go of the neck-spine she had used to anchor herself. Held in her free arm, the baby stopped crying and began to coo excitedly. He had flown on a dragon's back before, and always seemed to enjoy it. Even now.

Skade reached out with her mind and touched Skirnir's, since the wind was now too strong to talk over. 'Where are we going, Skirnir?' she asked mentally.

'The only place we can go,' Skirnir answered. 'Home.'