Chapter Eighteen: The Burning Village

“Little separates a bandit from a cannibal. In my eyes, they are the same.”

—Reuben Cowl, Ranger of the Freemen

“Fire,” said Talberon. “Up ahead.”

Alend looked up and rubbed his eyes. They were dry and prickly from lack of sleep, his eyelids as heavy as lead. The sky was grey above the horizon—not the grey of a storm but the angry, billowing grey-black of smoke. He could smell it too, sharp and pungent against the scent of sleet and snow.

“It can’t be,” he murmured, gripping his reins as he sat to attention. “It’s been raining ever since we left the valley, and snowing before then. How in Hellheim could there be a fire?”

“A ransacked settlement, perhaps,” Talberon said.

“Last I checked, the nearest village to the Sleeping Twins was halfway to Caerlon.”

“That would have been long ago. Things have changed since then.” Talberon withdrew the sparrow-locked book from his robes and opened it to a page with a map on it. He drove his horse alongside Alend and tilted the book towards him, pointing to a small dot where the line representing the Brackenburg left the entrance to the Sleeping Twins. Felhaven wasn’t on the map, and nor were several other places Alend remembered from his days as a Kingsblade, but there were about a dozen more farms and villages scattered about that hadn’t been there before. The settlement Talberon was pointing to was a small village by the name of Adeir.

“A ransacked village,” muttered Alend. He frowned as an image of a burning Felhaven surfaced. “Relicts? Worgals?”

“Possible, but I doubt it.” Talberon tugged at the wisps of his beard, thinking. “Despite what you’d think, most relict sightings have been around or close to the Capitol. Only those under the command of Al’Ashar himself would have reason to venture this far. I’d put my money on bandits or the like, though the only way we’d find out for sure is if we checked.”

They came to a fork in the road. One path continued straight ahead while the other wound up the side of a small hill. Talberon took them up the second one.

“Why are we going this way?” Alend asked. “Aren’t we checking on Adeir?”

“If stopped by every village that needed our help, Aedrasil would be dead and gone before we reached her. We simply don’t have the time, Deserter.”

“You can’t be serious. We’re just going to leave them to die? We could take on the enemy easily, just the two of us, whether it’s relicts or bandits or—”

Talberon swivelled in his saddle and scowled. Creases formed across his brow like gathering storm-clouds. “Have you forgotten your condition so soon?”

Alend glowered but held his tongue. His stomach had stopped bleeding, but it still reminded him that he was wounded with a dull pang every few miles of travel. He was in no condition to fight—especially not against several people at once.

“It’ll be faster if we cut straight through,” he said, though he already knew what the response would be.

“I’d rather lose a day and get there in one piece than take a risk and lose three.”

Alend couldn’t argue with that. Had their positions been reversed, he would have said the same.

The decision was made. The fork disappeared from view behind them, and soon they were rushing up the hill as fast as they could without the horses tripping over the rocks and roots. It had been almost a day since they’d left the Sleeping Twins, passing the bridge just before the storm had reached its worst. It was behind them now, just a smudge of grey in the distant sky, and the familiar fields of motley green and yellow and patches of white had returned. The Faengard Alend had left behind had been a lush land of trees and grass, of wildflowers blooming by the roadsides and sparkling waterholes where critters and all manner of wild beasts congregated. The Faengard Alend saw now was a land ravaged by unrest and strife, a land stripped bare of its beauty. It was shocking, even if Alend had already seen its effects in the Sleeping Twins.

“It’s not all like this,” Talberon said, as if reading Alend’s mind. “It’s worst in the north and the west, though the north has always been cold. There are some parts of the world that the Winter has been kind to, even a few places that remain untouched.”

“I imagine they’d still be affected,” Alend muttered. “The world probably relies on them for food and supplies now. That’s a lot of pressure, even for a large city.”

“True, that. It’s good to see the years haven’t dulled your knowledge and rhetoric.”

Alend ignored the remark and focused on the rhythm of his horse, loosening his muscles and allowing his body to move naturally. The soreness of his thighs had already disappeared, and like an old man awakening from a dream, his body was beginning to remember. Riding, fighting on horseback, navigating the wilderness, all the skills that he’d allowed to rust, they were coming back. The rust was crumbling, giving way to the polished silver beneath. Ein had struggled to wrap his head around some of those skills. Alend smirked; he’d barely scratched the surface when it came to some of the things he’d taught his son.

He hoped Ein would forgive him. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d thought that thought, but he hoped nonetheless. When it was all over, when the business with the Great Winter and Aedrasil was done, he would sit down with his wife and children in the forge and explain everything. Ein had a right to know, not just about the situation of his upbringing, but about Alend’s own past and how a Kingsblade, one of Faengard’s elite, had ended up in Felhaven.

The smoke in the air thickened until its acrid taste was all Alend could think about. They’d climbed high onto the hill by now, a mattress of stunted grass and withered trees below them to the left, the Sleeping Twins behind them. A pillar of black and grey rose from somewhere up ahead. The slope flattened out. The horses crunched across the loose rock and around a bend, taking the two men down the other side of the hill to where Adeir came into view.

“Mother Anturia,” he muttered.

He heard them before he saw them. Voices, a mixture of high pitched wailing and cries of despair, overlapped by the gruff barking of feral men. Alend almost didn’t want to look, but the village was right beneath him and he had no choice.

Adeir reminded him of Felhaven in more ways than one. A small collection of square-cut houses and flimsy fences, a modest inn at the centre, a noticeboard at the point where all the roads met. Thatched roofs burned to a crisp, crackling with violent flames, neat paths splattered with blood and sprawling bodies. The bandits swarmed the village, rusty blades flashing, looting everything from food to jewellery and ragged clothing. They wore crudely cut animal hides and weathered rags themselves, no strangers to the harsh wilderness. In a world on the brink of destruction, you took what you could get.

A group of bandits dragged a woman from a burning house, laughing through her kicks and screams. They pried her arms apart, revealing two children clutching desperately to her dress. As Alend watched, they separated the three and dragged her around the corner, out of sight. Someone gripped his hand and he realized it was Talberon.

“Don’t look,” he said. “And try not to listen, either.” Alend’s hand was on his Rhinegold blade, his knuckles as white as bone. His teeth were clenched so tightly it hurt.

“Cenedria have mercy.” He squeezed his eyes shut. The woman’s fate was sealed, but what of her children? What would they do to them? The boy would either be killed or forced to work, but the girl…

“Alend!” Talberon’s voice was sharp and commanding. “Remember what we talked about. By the time we get down there, it’ll be far too late.”

With a shaky breath, Alend removed his hand from the hilt of his sword. It was by far the hardest thing he’d ever done, that simple motion of lifting his fingers off the grooved leather and back to his reins. He hoped he’d never have to do it again.

Adeir was past them now, and he finally dared open his eyes. He kept them fixed straight ahead, into the lightening sky as they began their descent from the hilltop. The sounds of strife behind him grew fainter until at last he couldn’t hear them anymore. The smell of smoke and burning hair faded to a mere aftertaste in the air, and then nothing at all. Alend glanced behind him and saw nothing but the horizon, studded with runted trees and bushes.

“You’re telling me this is happening all over the world?” he asked. His jaw was sore.

Talberon scribbled in his book, murmuring under his breath. He nodded once. “It’s in our nature, unfortunately,” he said. “When we run out of food and supplies, we take it from others. It’s the way of the world.”

“Never,” Alend growled. “We would never do that, not in Felhaven.”

“Really?” Talberon looked up, regarding him with a sad look. “What if it was your wife and children starving to death? Would you take from another family to ensure the survival of your own?”

“I would, but no more than necessary.”

“And what is the definition of ‘necessary?’” the druid asked. “If there was a loaf of bread, maybe ‘necessary’ would be half of that loaf. But what happens after you finish that half? You can’t take the other half, because the other family has eaten it. So in this case, isn’t ‘necessary’ really the full loaf? That way, your family survives for twice as long.”

Alend struggled to think of a response, but his mind felt dull and sluggish from the hours of hard riding. “I would never destroy their home,” he said instead. “I would never kill them, never touch their women or children.”

“I believe you, and I would say that most humans would never do that. But when nature throws everything at us, we go back to our roots—our base instinct to survive. And when that happens, we are no longer humans. We are animals. Demons, even”

Talberon pocketed his pen and showed Alend the map once more, pointing to a spot near the entrance to the Sleeping Twins. “That’s where we are now. I expect we’ll be at Caerlon in the next day or two, and from there the Royal Road should take us the rest of the way.”

Alend squinted at the double-spread inside the book. “Where’s Adeir? Wasn’t it there just a few minutes ago?”

“It’s gone. I took it off the map.”

#

Bran wanted to die.

Since their escape from the relicts and the Urudain, three of the four horses pulling the wagon had snapped free, racing off into the horizon without so much as a backward glance. The final horse, none other than Old Bess herself had run for a good distance before finally calming down. She waited by a large pond now, lapping up the water with gusto.

Bran slumped against the side of the wagon, one hand on his forehead. He was sweating and shivering at the same time, his head muddled as if someone had filled his skull with cotton by stuffing it through his ears. Every few moments he would cough—sometimes it would be a deep, chesty cough and he would hack up something yellow and sticky from the depths of his lungs. Other times it was dry and shallow, a mere itch in his throat that refused to go away. The good news was that he was in no worse shape than the night before.

The bad news was that he was in no better shape, either.

He was sick and he knew it. Bran knew what it was like to have a fever and a cold, and he knew he was suffering from a particularly bad one at the moment. If it went untreated, combined with their shortage of food and water, death was a real possibility.

He wished he could die and just forget about all his worries. Forget about the Worgals that pursued them, about the sinister figure and his whip of shadows. Forget about the Wydlings and the people of Felhaven waiting for him back home. Forget about Evaine.

Unfortunately he was still alive, and so was Ein.

The blacksmith’s son lay in a sheathe of wet blankets on the back of the wagon, shuddering and shaking with each breath. His hair hung damp and matted against his forehead, his already-pale complexion a deathly white, and he rambled under his breath like a man who’d lost his mind. He had a fever unlike anything Bran had ever seen before, one that put his own fever to shame. It wasn’t a fever brought about by cold or sickness. It was something different.

He remembered the strange words Ein had said—sang, even—the night before, when the storm had been at its most violent. It had been like some magic incantation out of a faerie tale, mystical words that had brought the lightning crashing down at his command. The bridge had not been some collapsing, rickety piece of driftwood awaiting a strong wind to blow it over. It had been a solid bridge, well-maintained, well-designed and engineered to be steadfast and sturdy, and the lightning had destroyed it like it was made of toothpicks.

Ein mumbled something else under his breath. His eyes were wide open and rolled back into his sockets, revealing the whites. Occasionally he jerked and tried to move, but the blankets restrained him.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Come on,” Bran said, patting Old Bess gently on its rump. “Let’s keep moving.”

The mare regarded him with intelligent eyes and nodded, trotting back onto the road. Bran had always been good with animals.

The storm had passed, leaving the land wet and muddied. Trees showered the rickety wagon with raindrops every time the wind blew. Every so often Bran had to drag Ein back up to prevent him from rolling off the rear end. He was surprised their ride still functioned with only three wheels.

The hours ticked past. Ein went through several stages during his fitful sleep, laughing at times, croaking in anger, sobbing, sleeping peacefully. Bran himself fell into delirium more than once. One moment he would be sitting with his knees hugged to his chest, wishing he were dead, the next he would be remembering a song from Founder’s Eve, remembering the clapping and the dancing, the pretty lights, the girls. He would then burst into tears at the memory of Evaine, of Angramar and the Worgals charging the caravan off the side of the cliff, of his poor father whose body had never been found.

He wondered what they looked like to an outsider who might happen across them. Two boys, barely men, laughing and singing, crying and screaming and glaring at the sky, one thrashing in a bundle of blankets, the other beating his fists against the wagon. It would be an interesting sight, to say the least.

They reached a fork in the road not long after. One branch split off towards a hill while the other stretched on straight ahead. Bran squinted into the distance. Was that smoke he smelled? The sky was grey, but then again the sky was always grey.

He looked at Ein, who had finally closed his eyes and was sleeping, and made up his mind. It looked like the path through the hill would take longer, and besides, going straight would be easier for Old Bess. They didn’t have time to spare. Bran didn’t even know where they were going. He had thrown their fates to the wind. If the wind gave them a town, then so be it. If the wind gave them a kind-hearted peddler, so be it. If the wind gave them nothing, so be it.

As the wagon bounced onwards, the smell of smoke grew stronger. It wasn’t just smoke from the burning of wood, but the burning of other things as well, things that weren’t meant to be burned. Burning hair or fur, which he’d smelled a couple of times in the butchery. Burning of flesh. Through the haze of his mind, Bran realized something was amiss.

When the village came into view, he almost thought that they’d returned to Felhaven. It looked identical to his hometown on the night of the attack, neat houses aflame, streets bloodied with corpses and carnage, the roar of fire in his ears, wave after wave of heat blasting across his face. Bran was no expert but he guessed that it couldn’t have been ransacked more than a few hours ago.

It wasn’t until they’d plodded well into the village that Bran realized they were out in plain sight for relicts to see, but by that point he was well past caring. They could take him and Ein for all he cared. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about his empty stomach and the dreaded headache hammering inside his skull. Or the coughing that threatened to throw up his insides.

“Come and get us!” he yelled, cackling. “Finish us off!” He waved his hands at the sky, panting. Yelling was hard work.

Silence greeted him back, and in that silence, reason returned. He let his hands fall to his sides and swore. He had to get Ein somewhere and hide, wait for a while until he was sure the pillagers were gone.

But wait… if no one had responded to Bran’s call, didn’t that mean everyone was either dead or gone? That meant there was nothing to fear. The best option would be to take a look around, see if the relicts had missed anything. Relicts didn’t eat human food or take medicine, not as far as he knew. There was a good chance he might find something for his fever, find something to eat other than the stale bread he’d had over the last few days. His stomach began to rumble. He was going to live. He and Ein were going to live! Oh, but what was the point? Evaine was dead, and…

“Don’t move or I’ll cut you in half.”

A cold line touched his throat. Bran froze. His mind was crystal clear now. Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move or you’ll die…

He swallowed. The sensation by his neck shifted, and all he heard was a scuffle of clothing before his feet were out from under him and a heavy weight pinned him down, straddling him from above. The knife was back at his throat, a hair’s breadth away from his skin.

“Who are you? How are you still alive?”

The voice belonged to a girl, a flaming red-head no older than he or Ein. She sat with her full weight bearing down on Bran’s chest, eyes of burning gold running up and down his body, sizing him up. She was lean and lithe, a bit shorter than most other village girls Bran knew, and she wore a strange one-piece garment that hung loosely off her body, tied at the hips, shoulders and thighs with thin cord. It resembled a burlap sack with holes cut out of it.

“Answer me,” she repeated, pressing the blade against his throat. Bran coughed, nearly killing himself in the process. The girl narrowed her eyes, releasing just enough pressure from her knife so his convulsions wouldn’t slash his throat open.

“My name is Bran,” he managed, swallowing a glob of phlegm with discomfort. “Brandon Sutherland, from the Sleeping Twins.”

There was another coughing noise from beside them. They both turned. Ein was stirring, thrashing within his blankets, muttering and mumbling. The girl sprung back, her hair flaring behind her. Her face was charred and scratched, her exposed skin covered in scrapes and bruises. She didn’t appear to be wearing anything else under her rags, and to Bran’s increasing surprise, she was barefoot.

“Bran of the Sleeping Twins,” the girl said, still crouched low like a cat ready to pounce. “What are you doing here? Who is your friend? How did you survive?” She flourished her knife when Bran tried to stand up. “Don’t move! Just answer my questions.”

Bran raised his hands in a gesture of peace, lowering himself back down to a sitting position. The girl had a feral look about her. He didn’t want to know what she could do with that knife.

“We came from the Sleeping Twins,” Bran began. “My friend’s name is Ein, and he’s sick—even sicker than I am.” As if to back his story, Ein cried out again before breaking into a string of coughing and spluttering. “W-we’re on the way to Aldoran, and we just happened to pass by. We didn’t do anything. We didn’t see anything. Please believe us!” Bran pressed his forehead to the ground. If there was anything he could do to save them both, it was grovelling.

“Aldoran?” the girl lowered her knife an inch. “What business do you have in Aldoran?”

Bran kept his eyes on the mud in front of him. “We were with another group,” he said, thinking of Alend and Talberon, “but we were separated during the storm. We’re trying to catch up to them, but it’s been hard since we’re both ill.” He had never had to think so fast before in his life.

“Bran and Ein of the Sleeping Twins, on the way to Aldoran,” the girl muttered to herself. She appeared to be thinking, turning through his story in her head. “And you had nothing to do with this massacre?”

“Nothing,” Bran yelped. “I swear it on Wyd almighty and the Pantheon.”

“Your gods mean nothing to me,” she said.

“I swear it on the wind. On my dead mother’s grave. I’ll swear it on whatever you want me to.”

The girl gave him a disgusted look. “Swear it on your friend’s life, then.”

“I swear it on Ein’s life,” Bran said without hesitation.

She lowered her knife. “You either tell the truth or you have no honour. Perhaps both.” She walked over to Old Bess, who shied a few steps away. “In either case, I doubt you’d pose a threat to me, given your current condition.”

The girl peered at Ein in his bundle of blankets. Next, she noted the missing wheel on the wagon, as well as the marks where the relicts had slashed and rammed into them during the pursuit. “Gods above, what happened here?” She pulled out an arrow, holding it up to the light.

“We were attacked by relicts,” Bran said, finally allowing himself to raise his face from the dirt. He didn’t dare lie. “I imagine they were the ones who did this to the village.”

The girl shook her head. “This carnage was not done by relicts,” she said. “It was done by humans.” She spat the word ‘humans’ like a curse from her lips. “Bandits.”

“B-bandits?” Bran looked around in fear.

“They’re all gone now, luckily for us.” She gave him a look of disdain. “That’s right, Bran. It wasn’t monsters that did this, nor beasts. It was people.” She sheathed her knife and reached out a hand to the mare. Old Bess grunted and took a few steps away, still refusing her touch.

“If you don’t mind me asking… what are you doing here?” Bran asked. He stood up with a cough, still maintaining his distance from the girl.

She sighed and stepped away from Bess. “I’m on the way to Aldoran as well,” she said, “to see the High King. I have business with him.” Bran didn’t dare ask what business a travel-stained girl had with the most powerful man in Faengard. “Your horse is healthy and well-trained. I’d take it for my own if I could, but then I’d be no better than a bandit myself. Therefore, I ask of you this: may I join you on your journey, at least until you reach Aldoran?”

Bran pointed a finger to himself. “Join? Us?”

“I daresay you’ll have use of my skills along the way,” she continued. “It doesn’t look like either of you are capable of fighting at the moment. I’ll be able to protect us from anything on the road, whether it be relict, beast or man. I’ve also a basic understanding of medicine, so I might be able to do something about you and your friend. In exchange I’ll share your horse and cart, and what supplies you have left.”

She was in front of him now, arms folded, waiting for his response. Bran didn’t even need to think to give his answer.

“We’d be glad for your company,” he said. “What should we call you?”

“Rhinne is my name,” she said. “Now, tether your horse somewhere so it doesn’t run away and let’s see if we can scavenge anything useful.”

They split up and combed through the burning village. Rhinne walked through the flames and searing heat without fear, kicking down doors, waiting around in the cold for Bran without a single shiver. As expected, most of the food had been taken, though she did find a small stash of bread and dried fruits in a house that had been overlooked. Bran found some dry blankets which he promptly swapped with Ein’s damp ones. By the time they’d finished their search, most of their clothes had dried.

“Did you find any survivors?” Rhinne asked, once they’d congregated around the wagon.

Bran shook his head. He’d seen people alright, plenty of them—men and women, the young and the elderly, all dead. He still found it hard to believe it had been the work of men and not beasts or relicts. He had never seen such violence in his life, not until the attack on the Tamelyn farm at least, and even then it had only been sheep who’d been massacred.

“Me neither,” the girl said. She tossed the small sack of food onto the ground and took out a wooden jewellery box. There was no jewellery inside but instead a collection of medicinal implements—bandages and linen, alcohol, scissors, a scalpel. Several vials of liquid also lined its walls. “You’re in luck. It seems like the bandits lack any knowledge of the healing arts, else they wouldn’t have left this.”

Rhinne lifted the bottles and opened them one by one, sniffing.

“The Wydlings were right,” Bran muttered.

“Hm?”

“We had some people visit our village a few days ago, before we left, and they brought news of the outside world. They said the world had deteriorated, that brothers had turned against each other and that the land was torn with war and strife. They were right.”

“Don’t be surprised,” the girl said. “Mankind has always been like this. Whenever the going gets tough, they turn on each other for personal gain.” She wrinkled her nose at one of the vials. “I’ve heard of very few people who are different.” Rhinne handed the bottle to Bran.

“What’s this?”

“Medicine. Drink a mouthful every morning, noon and evening and you should feel better. Wash it down with water.”

“Are you sure?” Bran asked, turning the bottle over in his hands. “How do you know what it is? There are no labels anywhere.” He coughed.

“Honeycomb, mint, moonthistle and whitebark oil. A common concoction for alleviating symptoms of fever and the common cold.”

“All that from the smell alone?”

“I’m not going to make you take it. Do you want to get better or not?” Rhinne’s gaze was unwavering. Bran flinched and nodded, taking the bottle.

“What about Ein?” he asked.

She sighed and shook her head. “I’ve no idea, unfortunately. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think the medicine will work on him, but I would try it anyway. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

Rhinne carried a piece of burning timber from one of the houses and built a fire from it, settling down onto the ground. It was getting dark and the village had just about burned out. The blackened husks loomed around them like charred skeletons in the night.

“So, what’s the story?” Rhinne asked. “How did your friend end up like this? Was it the relicts?”

Bran rubbed his hands and swallowed the medicine, washing it down with water. It was thick and pungent with a sickly sweet aftertaste—like someone had tried to drown out the bitterness with an abundance of sugar and honey—but it hung smooth over his throat and unblocked his nose. For the first time since he’d fallen sick, he breathed unhindered. The air was sour with smoke.

“Have you seen them before?” Bran asked. “You didn’t really question my story like I thought you would. I was under the impression most people thought the relicts were extinct.”

“I can’t say for everyone,” Rhinne said. “I haven’t seen them myself but I’ve heard of them, as have many people I’ve known. They’re becoming more and more common out in the countryside, not just the relicts but other creatures as well, creatures of old that were sealed away by Aedrasil during the Second Age. Near my home, the Treelocs, thought to be long extinct, have started to walk again.”

“Treelocs?” Bran’s thoughts immediately turned to the gnarled tree in the Sleeping Twins. “Where are you from?”

Rhinne blinked.

“I come from across the woods to the north,” she said cautiously, as if she’d revealed too much.

“North of the Sleeping Twins?” Bran pressed.

“No. North of here, past the Whitewood.” She cleared her throat, staring into the flames. “We’re getting off track. I need to know what happened to your friend if I’m to treat him.”

Bran nodded, swatting at a moth that had drawn too close to the flame and his face. “I don’t know why they were chasing us, and I don’t know how he did it, but…” he paused, looking to Rhinne with uncertainty.

“Go on.”

“I don’t know how he did it, but… Ein called down the lightning.”

Rhinne frowned.

“I know there was a storm and all,” Bran hurriedly added, “and it could have been coincidence and whatnot, but I swear he called it of his own will. He said something, some kind of incantation, and his voice sounded different. It almost sounded like a song of some sort, what I imagine a storm would sound like if it were played on an instrument, or translated into words.” He scratched his head. “It’s hard to explain.”

“What happened after that?”

“Lightning came down,” Bran said. “It broke the bridge, and the relicts couldn’t follow us anymore. We kept running, all throughout the night. Ein passed out and I fell asleep, and when I woke up he was feverish and mumbling all manner of nonsense under his breath.”

Rhinne sat still for a moment, running her hands through her hair. “Interesting,” she said. “I have a hunch as to what his condition is, but… there’s nothing I can do about it. However, I know someone who might be able to help.”

“Who?” Bran kept a wary distance from the girl, never taking his eyes off her. She might have let down her guard, but that could change at any moment. He needed to be vigilant, to remain in her good graces until they reached civilisation. “How long will it take to reach them?” he asked again, choosing his words carefully.

He wanted Ein to survive. He needed him to survive, especially after what had happened to Evaine—

No, he scolded himself. I’m not going to think about her, not when there are things that need to be done.

“As a matter of fact,” Rhinne began, “he lives in Caerlon, not too far from here. If we’re taking the Royal Road to Aldoran we’ll need to pass through Caerlon anyway. Hopefully it won’t be too late for your friend by then.”

“Thank the gods,” Bran breathed. “Thank the gods.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Rhinne continued. “Figuratively speaking. I imagine his fever will only get worse. We’ll have to make haste.”

Bran cursed. “Should we leave now, then?”

“No.” Rhinne’s golden eyes glowed fiercely. “You need to sleep for the medicine to take effect. I won’t have you throw your life away, not when that horse will only listen to you.” Old Bess snorted. “We leave first thing tomorrow morning. Eat well. You’ll need your strength.” Rhinne nudged the sack of food towards Bran with her toe.

“Aren’t you going to have some?” Bran asked.

Rhinne shook her head. “I’ve already eaten. Besides, you need it more.”