to leave him. He could see nothing, feel nothing but the incredible fire in his shoulder and a new stabbing pain along his thigh. He fumbled at it, and the pain of removing the arrow somehow cleared his vision. A half-sensed movement made him turn and thrust with the knife that still had his blood on it. But his eyes betrayed him then, gaze flickering down at the arrow’s fletching, expecting to confirm suspicion by the sight of Merida colors. The glance was an unforgivable mistake, for it left him open to the blow that felled him. As he crumpled into the dirt, the colors that chased him into unconsciousness were not Merida brown and green, but violet edged in gold. Roelstra’s colors—and Ianthe’s.
Feylin watched shadows fill the valley like an onrushing tide, indigo and deep brown and a strange greenish black. On the cliffs the dragonsires seemed to have melted into the stone. She shook her head, asking herself why men were so stupidly reckless. Dragons were marvels to behold—but at a nice, safe distance. Prince Rohan, Lord Farid, and the young squire ought to have returned by now from their foolish dragon-chasing, and she said as much to the man beside her.
Darfir shrugged and cast an uneasy look across the gorge to the invisible dragons. “His lordship knows his way home.”
Though his words were casual enough, his hands constantly slid up and down the reins and his eyes constantly scanned the trail. Feylin bit her lip. “We’ll wait for them,” she said, and peered into the dying light.
A short time later Darfir gave a muffled curse and pointed to the cliffs. A great winged shadow appeared against the dusky sky and launched itself into flight. Feylin’s blood congealed as the dragon bellowed a hunting-cry familiar to her from childhood.
“Sweet Goddess,” Darfir whispered. “Is he coming after us?”
“No,” another of the men said. “Look.”
The dragon swooped into the gorge and was swallowed in darkness. A horse’s thin scream rose and abruptly died. Moments later the sire lifted into the sky once more, flying to a remote perch with a large, limp shape dangling from his talons. Even at a distance, the piebald hide showed that this was the squire’s mount.
“Oh, no,” Feylin breathed, and in the next instant dug her heels into her horse’s flanks. The others followed her, the arrhythmic pattern of hoofbeats in perfect keeping with the uncertain pounding of her heart.
Suddenly she drew rein, for ahead of her trotted Lord Farid’s dappled gelding, heading home. Darfir rode forward and grabbed the horse’s reins. A quick inspection showed the nicks in his hide and blood on the reins where Farid’s hand would have held them.
“He knows his way home, unlike the one the dragon caught,” Darfir said grimly. “As for the prince’s stallion—he could be anywhere by now.”
“They didn’t fall from their horses,” Feylin said softly.
The oldest of the men, Lhoys, growled through his beard, “Whatever lost them their mounts walked on two legs and drew steel against them.”
“Or glass,” Feylin added. “And they won’t have waited around, either. Can you find the tracks, Lhoys?”
The old man nodded and dismounted to scrutinize the ground. “Bring the gelding. We may have need of him.”
Feylin glanced at Darfir. “What do you think happened?”
“How could the Merida have come so far south without our knowing?”
“They wouldn’t dare.” But it was a feeble protest.
Lhoys had gone some distance from them, and now turned to call out success. After half a measure they found the place where the squire’s horse had turned into the gorge, prints indicating a panicky gallop. They rode on in silence as the light worsened and every shape became a threat. At last Feylin stopped, seeing a stand of brush and a dark shape on the ground. She cried out and leaped down from her saddle.
Farid sprawled in a dirt-thickened puddle of his own blood, a gaping wound in his side, sword still in his hand, the blade dark with blood. Death had not gentled his face, and as she crouched beside him she almost expected him to sit up and bellow out his rage before slashing into his attackers again. Smoothing his features tenderly, she closed his sightless eyes and bent her head.
“Look here,” Lhoys called out, and she glanced up, tears blurring her eyes. The old man was a few strides away, pointing at the ground. “There’s blood all over. Our lord and his grace gave good accounts of themselves. Signs of bodies being dragged—see the