will be safe, will walk as a man again. Reynard sadly cannot survive if he sees out his mission.'
They were all meaningless names to Cassien although he tried to sound respectful of Fynch's obvious sorrow. 'If Cyricus is trapped here, what is Aphra doing in her world?'
'If my hunch is right, she's sourcing a carrier to get herself back. It will need to be a very special individual who is somehow in tune - knowingly or otherwise - with other worlds.'
'But you don't even know what this vessel, this man in this other world, looks like.'
He hesitated. 'No,' Fynch then said, 'but Reynard is hoping to mark him somehow. We couldn't plan for something we neither knew nor understood. Fortunately, I was able to send him on the trace of the violets almost directly to Aphra, but it was his decision how he would clue me into the carrier from then on.'
Cassien took a long, slow breath as he digested all that he'd learned. He realised they'd crested the second rise that formed Vincen's Saddle and down below them was the village known as Partridge Vale beginning to sprawl outward, perhaps with visions of becoming a town - but not yet. 'Looks like we're here,' he remarked.
'Tomorrow we'll reach Orkyld.'
Cassien was pleased by the sight of softly smoking chimneys and the hint of cooking on the air. 'Can you smell that?' he asked. 'No pigeon pie, Fynch, but roasted chicken, I think. It's been a long time since I've tasted that treat.'
He expected Fynch to smile but his companion looked suddenly troubled. 'Violets,' he breathed. Then looked at Cassien, his gaze raw and intense. 'You smell roasted poultry. I smell Aphra.'
Fynch swayed in the saddle and Cassien leapt down from his horse and rushed to the old man just as he slipped sideways. Cassien's fast reflexes caught him and carried him easily. The man was as light as his namesake.
'Master Fynch!' he cried, looking around for help, but there was none.
He hoisted Fynch over his shoulder and grabbed the reins of both horses to lead them into a nearby grove. After lowering Fynch gently to the leaf litter, he secured both animals. Returning, he noticed that the man he had thought looked so youthful, now suddenly appeared as ancient as the landscape they were traversing and the gnarled trees that shrouded them. His eyes were closed, his features slackening into wrinkles and creases, his skin taking on the look of parchment.
'Fynch!' he called again, rubbing his companion's cold hand.
To his relief the man stirred. 'It is done,' he murmured.
'What?'
Fynch opened his eyes and their light had dimmed: no longer like bright gemstones but more like pebbles on a shingle beach, dashed and rolled around until dulled. He spoke again, croaky this time. 'My friends ... their souls have spoken. Aphra is travelling and she's bringing someone with her.'
Gabe woke properly, coming to his senses gasping, hands on knees, to draw breath. There was pain everywhere. He couldn't isolate it. Even his mind hurt.
Be strong, Gabe, said a voice he knew. He straightened with a groan and looked around. He seemed to be alone and had probably imagined Angelina's voice. He was in a shed of some sort ... no, a barn but it was huge and full of wheat or barley in sheaves. How quaint. He staggered to the enormous doors and pushed on them. They were solid and heavy, but also barred from outside.
Through a wide gap in the doors he could see beyond to a patchwork of fields - uneven, ragged oblongs of brown and gold, and even pale grey for as far as he could see. There were people working ... they were dark specks but he could make out signs of labour. No machinery, just the regular swinging of arms, probably with some sort of tool, he thought. And suddenly a man was approaching. Gabe gave a soft sound of panic and lurched back as the man lifted the bar and unlocked what sounded like a padlock. Sunlight burst in as the doors creaked back. Gabe blinked in the soft rays and saw an elderly man in a black robe regarding him.
'How did you get in here?' the man asked.
Gabe shook his head. 'I don't know.'
'You're naked, man!'
He looked down, only now aware that he was indeed standing there without a stitch on. He cupped himself, embarrassed. 'I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm even doing here. Where