“Most of us have two ears!” Taran protested.

“It is always the right ear,” Raphael said gently.

“When they cut off Illarion’s right ear, he woke up,” Cnán said. “Reached up like a demon out of the muck, snatched the knife from the ear-cutter, twisted it around, and gutted him. A few other black bones bandied their bowlegs his way. He picked up a plank and used it like a quarterstaff. Brained them one by one. Killed them all.”

This cheered her a little, and she took another bite. “Collected their horses and rode away. Do you have beer?”

The knights looked at each other and smiled as if at a secret. Raphael poured her a glass of the foaming sour stuff they had been drinking. It tasted like beer but was as strong as mead and made her head swim.

“Since Illarion still lives, I cannot simply dismiss the story,” said Feronantus, after thinking about it for as long as he wanted to, “but I suspect it to be half true and half nonsense.”

“Plank as quarterstaff,” Taran said, tugging mightily at his beard and screwing up his face. “Difficult to get a proper grip.”

“Illarion was always good with a staff,” Feronantus reminded him.

“I doubt that the ear-taker woke him,” Raphael said. “He was probably lying in wait, feigning death.”

“His ear is definitely gone,” Cnán announced. “His right ear.”

“We needn’t resolve such questions now,” said Feronantus, as Taran seemed about to voice a new objection. “You say he is alive, and nearby.”

“Barely, and in a manner of speaking,” said Cnán. “Two days’ ride under normal circumstances.”

“I love Illarion,” Feronantus admitted freely, “and would do almost anything for him. But there are only a few of us, and we are here for another purpose.”

“He said you would say that,” said Cnán, “and you should come and get him anyway, and that you would understand when he got here.”