another armsman rode up. Arvid. “A covered cart passed through the western gate a couple of hours ago, sir.”
“West?” Karel frowned. “How many men?”
“The guard couldn’t remember exactly. A handful, he said.”
“The canopy was brown?”
“Yes, sir.”
West? Why west now, when the Fithians had been heading east and north for three days?
The last armsman he’d sent out returned. Bjarne. “Nothing at the northern gate, sir.”
“West,” Prince Tomas said, bafflement in his voice. “Why west?”
“Could be they’re meeting someone.” More Fithians? “A couple of hours ago, Arvid?”
“Yes, sir.”
Two hours. He was two hours behind the princess. Karel wanted to throw himself on his horse and gallop after her.
Prudence. Rest the men. Rest the horses.
“We’ll stay here the night,” Karel said. “Leave before dawn. Catch them tomorrow.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
H E MUST HAVE passed out. He woke lying on his back, rain pattering on his face. Petrus crouched alongside him, his face shadowed, his wet hair silver in the lantern-light.
Harkeld blinked rain from his eyes. Breathing was easier. His ribs still hurt, but nothing like they had before. He tasted blood in his mouth, and bile. He lifted a hand and gingerly touched his chest. Pain, but not agony. “You mended them?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Some.” Petrus rose to his feet. “Do the rest yourself. You’re a healer.”
“Healer?” Harkeld pushed slowly up to sit. “No, I’m not.”
“Only healers can share dreams.”
Harkeld’s head jerked back. He stared up at Petrus. “ What did you say?”
The mage scowled at him.
“Share dreams? What do you mean, share dreams?” But Harkeld knew the answer, even as he asked. The dreams he’d had in Ankeny, the ones with Innis in them. The private, intimate dreams. They’d been shared .
“Didn’t Rand tell you?”
Anger swelled in Harkeld’s chest. The pain in his ribs seemed to fade. “No.”
Petrus shrugged and turned towards the taproom. “Ask him.”
Harkeld lurched to his knees, grabbed Petrus’s leather belt, and hauled. The mage sat down hard in the mud. He scrambled round to face Harkeld, fury stark on his face. “Want more broken ribs, whoreson?”
Harkeld matched him glare for glare. Cursed mages, never telling him the whole truth. “Sharing dreams,” he said. “ Tell me .”
Petrus hissed between his teeth. “I’m not one of your bondservants, to be ordered about like a slave.”
Harkeld wrestled with his temper for several seconds, clenched his jaw, unclenched it, and said, “Please.”
For a long moment, Petrus didn’t react. Then he snorted. “Remembered your manners, have you?”
Harkeld gritted his teeth and waited.
Petrus looked away. He scowled at the lantern hanging by the taproom door. “Healers sometimes share dreams. It’s extremely rare. One healer has to be exceptionally strong, like Innis. The other...” He shrugged. “Maybe you have a little healing magic, maybe a lot. But if you’re sharing dreams with her, you are a healer.” He pushed to his feet and headed for the taproom again.
Harkeld stood too, with clumsy, painful haste. “How do you know we’re sharing dreams? I don’t even know that!” But he did know, deep down. The dreams had been so unusual, so real .
Petrus halted. He stood motionless for a long moment, then breathed out sharply through his nose and turned back to face Harkeld. “Innis told me.”
“Well, she didn’t tell me .”
Petrus shrugged again, a movement jerky with anger. “I thought Rand had. He said you needed to know.”
Outrage dulled Harkeld’s pain. He almost didn’t feel his ribs any more. “Rand? She told him about the dreams, but not me ? Why?”
“She wanted to know what they mean.”
Harkeld fastened on that last word. “Mean? What do they mean?”
Petrus’s lips pressed together. He looked away. The silence lengthened until Harkeld thought the mage
“West?” Karel frowned. “How many men?”
“The guard couldn’t remember exactly. A handful, he said.”
“The canopy was brown?”
“Yes, sir.”
West? Why west now, when the Fithians had been heading east and north for three days?
The last armsman he’d sent out returned. Bjarne. “Nothing at the northern gate, sir.”
“West,” Prince Tomas said, bafflement in his voice. “Why west?”
“Could be they’re meeting someone.” More Fithians? “A couple of hours ago, Arvid?”
“Yes, sir.”
Two hours. He was two hours behind the princess. Karel wanted to throw himself on his horse and gallop after her.
Prudence. Rest the men. Rest the horses.
“We’ll stay here the night,” Karel said. “Leave before dawn. Catch them tomorrow.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
H E MUST HAVE passed out. He woke lying on his back, rain pattering on his face. Petrus crouched alongside him, his face shadowed, his wet hair silver in the lantern-light.
Harkeld blinked rain from his eyes. Breathing was easier. His ribs still hurt, but nothing like they had before. He tasted blood in his mouth, and bile. He lifted a hand and gingerly touched his chest. Pain, but not agony. “You mended them?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Some.” Petrus rose to his feet. “Do the rest yourself. You’re a healer.”
“Healer?” Harkeld pushed slowly up to sit. “No, I’m not.”
“Only healers can share dreams.”
Harkeld’s head jerked back. He stared up at Petrus. “ What did you say?”
The mage scowled at him.
“Share dreams? What do you mean, share dreams?” But Harkeld knew the answer, even as he asked. The dreams he’d had in Ankeny, the ones with Innis in them. The private, intimate dreams. They’d been shared .
“Didn’t Rand tell you?”
Anger swelled in Harkeld’s chest. The pain in his ribs seemed to fade. “No.”
Petrus shrugged and turned towards the taproom. “Ask him.”
Harkeld lurched to his knees, grabbed Petrus’s leather belt, and hauled. The mage sat down hard in the mud. He scrambled round to face Harkeld, fury stark on his face. “Want more broken ribs, whoreson?”
Harkeld matched him glare for glare. Cursed mages, never telling him the whole truth. “Sharing dreams,” he said. “ Tell me .”
Petrus hissed between his teeth. “I’m not one of your bondservants, to be ordered about like a slave.”
Harkeld wrestled with his temper for several seconds, clenched his jaw, unclenched it, and said, “Please.”
For a long moment, Petrus didn’t react. Then he snorted. “Remembered your manners, have you?”
Harkeld gritted his teeth and waited.
Petrus looked away. He scowled at the lantern hanging by the taproom door. “Healers sometimes share dreams. It’s extremely rare. One healer has to be exceptionally strong, like Innis. The other...” He shrugged. “Maybe you have a little healing magic, maybe a lot. But if you’re sharing dreams with her, you are a healer.” He pushed to his feet and headed for the taproom again.
Harkeld stood too, with clumsy, painful haste. “How do you know we’re sharing dreams? I don’t even know that!” But he did know, deep down. The dreams had been so unusual, so real .
Petrus halted. He stood motionless for a long moment, then breathed out sharply through his nose and turned back to face Harkeld. “Innis told me.”
“Well, she didn’t tell me .”
Petrus shrugged again, a movement jerky with anger. “I thought Rand had. He said you needed to know.”
Outrage dulled Harkeld’s pain. He almost didn’t feel his ribs any more. “Rand? She told him about the dreams, but not me ? Why?”
“She wanted to know what they mean.”
Harkeld fastened on that last word. “Mean? What do they mean?”
Petrus’s lips pressed together. He looked away. The silence lengthened until Harkeld thought the mage
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