Eventually Jaldaric had to concede defeat. Flopping down next to Loman, red-faced and panting, he said, ‘You dance and sing harder than we do our military exercises. I think your daughter would make an excellent training officer for our cadets.’ He took a long drink. ‘Not to mention some of the Guards themselves.’

Then they had to leave. In spite of all protests. Jalda-ric held his ground valiantly. They had to be back in Fyorlund soon or they would be in serious trouble. They would not forget the friendship of Pedhavin and would surely return one day when time was pressing less on them. They refused all offers of hospitality for the night, saying that, leave or no, they were bound to certain ways as High Guards, and had to spend their nights in formal camp.

As Jaldaric leaned down from his horse to take Lo-man’s hand, the light from the fire seemed to make his boyish, innocent face look briefly old and troubled and, as he rode away, he seemed ill at ease, not turning to wave as most of the others did.

Too tired to face the long steep climb back to the Castle, Tirilen had begged a bed from Isloman. Now she revelled in the feel of a different room with all its shapes and shadows and smells: familiar, but free of her own personality.

Pausing before a mirror, she raised her chin, pushed her head forward and carefully examined the small scar on her throat. It was noticeably less inflamed and she touched it with a cautious finger. It was healing, but only slowly. How strangely persistent it had been, like the cut on Loman’s hand. Then she caught sight of her face in the mirror, incongruous, with lips pursed and chin extended. She put out her tongue and tossed her hair back with a spectacular flourish before setting about it vigorously with a delicate metal comb that her father had made for her many years earlier. It shone and sparkled, sending tiny lights about the room as she swept it repeatedly to and fro, unpicking the dance-swirled tangles.