Rolencia, near Midwinter's Day
Byren went first, hoping to spot the Affinity beast's tracks so he could judge its size and the danger to his men. Despite the clumsy snow shoes, he ploughed on. Cold air stung his nostrils and the drifts lay deep with a crust of crisp ice crystals, glinting in the rays of the setting sun. Ah, how he loved Rolencia!
When he reached the rim of a small, treeless hollow, he searched for signs of the beast. No tracks in the smooth white snow. And they hadn't had a fall since dusk, last night.
'Slow down, Byren. Lence isn't with us this time,' Orrade called, short of breath despite the reserves of strength in his wiry frame.
Byren grinned ruefully. For as long as he could remember, he'd pushed himself to challenge Lence, but his twin had remained at the castle to welcome the Merofynian ambassador. Byren did not envy Lence. As kingsheir, his twin had to marry to consolidate Rolencia's alliance with Merofynia. While Byren…
Orrade joined him, sucking in deep breaths.
To give the others time to catch up, Byren studied the bluffs and ridges of the Dividing Mountains which formed a barrier between the rich Rolencian valley kingdom and the savage spars. Familiar peaks told him they weren't far from the border of Dovecote estate. Why, if he climbed a tree and looked east, he could probably spot the nearest warning tower looming over the snow-shrouded forest and fields.
What was Elina doing right now? Last spring he'd caught her in the cold-cellar and demanded a kiss. She'd promptly clipped him over the head with a frozen ham, almost knocking him out. Moaning convincingly, he'd let her put fresh mountain ice on the bruise. Her contrite sympathy was better than any kiss. He smiled to himself. Back in Rolencia's war-torn past she would have made a fine warrior's wife.
'Say, Orrie, when our work's done here do you want to go down to Dovecote and visit your father?'
'Visit Elina, you mean.'
Byren chuckled and went to move, but Orrade stopped him. His friend's sharp, dark eyes surveyed the hollow, and his black brows drew together to form a single line of worry.
'What?'
'Don't know.' Orrade spoke slowly. 'Something's not right.'
Byren studied the trees lining the rim. Mostly evergreens, their skirts were mantled with snow and could easily hide the beast they sought. The size of a large wolf, with the markings of a leopard, lincis were rarely sighted this close to habitation. All Affinity beasts were dangerous but a lone predator was not a great threat for a party of armed men like his. And it was a lincis the villagers had reported, not a manticore pride or a fearsome leogryf. 'Could it be the beastie?'
'Don't know… nearly midwinter so the walls between the Seen and Unseen are at their weakest.' Orrade shrugged. Byren reached for his bow, but Orrade gave himself a shake and grimaced. 'No sign of the beast and I don't have Affinity, yet — '
'Byren Kingson?' The village's Affinity warder caught up with them, red-faced and insistent.
'Monk Hedgerow,' Byren greeted him, then had to wait while the man bent double, gasping. He had seen the monk ordering the villagers about, insisting on the best of the harvest for himself. No wonder he'd grown so plump in just one summer. Halcyon's monks were renowned for their fighting skills but this one would be useless if the warlord of Cockatrice Spar sent raiders over the pass, or if they met up with the beast. Byren began to regret not bringing the village's healer as well. She had looked lean and eager, despite having seen sixty winters. Consideration for the nun's age had stopped him; that and the thought of them bickering. Rivalry between the monks of Halcyon and nuns of Sylion went as deep as the rift between summer and winter.
'So where did they see this lincis, Hedgerow?' Byren prompted.
'Not far from here,' the monk said, and frowned. 'Why haven't you strung your bows?'
Orrade raised his eyebrows, and Byren shrugged. 'There's been no sign of tracks. It could be hours before we sight the beast, if at all.'
When the monk looked blank, Orrade added, 'If we leave the bows strung, the strings will lose tension. They'd be useless when we needed them.'
The monk seemed unconvinced, but gave an ingratiating bow. 'Kingson, I ask a boon. I shouldn't be serving a rural village whose only claim to fame is discovering a tin mine by accident. I'm a scholar, not a dirt grubber. You will be seeing the mystics master this midwinter. Can you mention my name to him? I've written five times asking to be transferred back to the abbey but my messages must be going astray.'
Byren was careful not to catch Orrade's eye. If the monks back at Halcyon Abbey found Hedgerow as annoying as they did, it was not surprising his requests had been ignored.
'I can mention your name, but that's not why I'm here, you know.' No, he'd been diverted from his true purpose by the report of the lincis sighting. Originally, he had been sent to escort the Royal Ingeniator to see if it was possible to link the village to the canal network so they could transport their tin. After three hundred years of rule, his family had linked the great lakes of Rolencia with a clever network of canals that made trade so much easier. Despite its longer pedigree and its claim to a higher culture, Merofynia had nothing to compare with Rolencia's canals.
'Just remember me to Master Catillum, that's all I ask, kingson. Please?' The monk fixed slightly protuberant eyes on Byren until he nodded.
Satisfied, Hedgerow set off down the slope only to stumble over his snow shoes, sliding down into the base of the hollow amid a rush of loose snow.
'Freezing Sylion!' The monk screeched.
'That should scare off the lincis,' Orrade muttered.
'Well, we wanted to either scare it or kill it. Come on.' Byren ploughed down after the monk, who was dusting snow off his goatskin cloak. Orrade followed, muttering under his breath.
'What's wrong?' young Chandler yelled from the rim of the hollow as the others joined him.
'Keep your voice down,' Byren warned. 'You don't want to scare off the little beastie.'
They laughed, all bravado. Byren smiled grimly. Five years ago he'd been just like them, an untried warrior of fifteen, desperate to prove his worth. Today he led a hunting party of half a dozen armed men, more than enough to tackle a lincis. The last thing he wanted was to return to the castle bearing someone's dead brother or son. But five of his warriors were the inexperienced younger sons of rich merchants and Rolencian lords, eager to distinguish themselves. Even though Byren's task was only to escort the Royal Ingeniator, they'd volunteered hoping for a run-in with warlord raiders or Affinity beasts. When the Affinity warder revealed the reported sighting of a lincis, Byren had thought it the perfect chance to give the youths some experience without too much risk. But, with the racket Monk Hedgerow was making, they'd be disappointed.
Byren and Orrade reached the monk in the hollow.
'So which way is it?' Byren asked Hedgerow.
The monk lifted his hands to his face, sniffed, and drew back, his lips twisting with revulsion. He flicked the snow away convulsively and began tapping on his eyelids, ears, mouth and chest while muttering under his breath.
'What now?' Orrade asked, scooping up a handful of the white, powdery snow. He sniffed, frowned, then thrust the snow towards the monk. 'I don't smell anything. What's wrong with it?'
Hedgerow stumbled back a step, tripped and fell into a drift so deep that only his legs protruded, thrashing about.
Byren was tempted to leave him there.
Orrade read his expression and grinned, then flung the snow away, dusted off his palms reached into the drift to grab one of the monk's arms. 'Come on.'
Together they hauled Hedgerow to his feet.
'It's a new seep. Affinity seep!' the monk whimpered.
Byren's amusement died. A seep would attract all manner of Affinity beasts. God-touched, they ranged from the bizarre to the deadly. 'Where — '
'Everywhere. The hollow's full of it!' Hedgerow gestured widely, then winced and ducked as if assaulted by screeching birds. His began to shiver. 'Probably triggered by digging the tin mine. You can't t-take from the land without paying Halcyon her due. I warned them but they wouldn't listen. Blame Sylion's nun. It's all her fault, now it's t-too late…' His teeth chattered and he slumped.
Byren shook him, waited for the monk to focus on his face, and said, 'you're an Affinity warder. You've been trained to contain — '
'This is seeping up from Halcyon herself. I need help. It's too powerful!' Hedgerow glanced around frantically. 'Besides, I don't have any sorbt stones. We'll have to go back and send — '
'We can't leave it uncontained. It'll contaminate the land,' Byren decided. He feared Affinity as much as the next man, but he knew his duty. After nothing for twenty years, this was the third Affinity seep reported since spring. And he'd led his men right into it. Sylion take this useless monk. 'Untamed Affinity will attract the beasts. It probably drew the lincis — '
'I tell you, I can't do this alone. I'm not very good. I barely passed my tests,' Hedgerow confessed in desperation. 'You don't know what you're asking.'
'I'm asking you to do your job. The villagers have been housing and feeding you just in case something like this happened,' Byren snapped, sickened. 'At least get your wards out, say your chants and contain it until we can locate the stones.'
They would have to send to Halcyon Abbey and that would take several days. The monk's mouth dropped open to reveal uneven bottom teeth. He blinked once.
Byren stepped back. 'Get to work.'
Hedgerow turned and ran. He made for a lightning blasted tree, fleeing Byren and his men, who stood watching from the rim.
Before anyone could move, the lincis, all muscle and dappled silver fur, charged from behind the dead tree, leapt for the monk and brought him down. Man and beast rolled, ploughing through the snow towards Byren and Orrade.
The five untried youths just stood and stared. Only Winterfall plucked his bow from his back and began to string it.
Too close for the bow, Byren drew his spear. Aware of Orrade following suit at his side, he lunged, aiming to drive the point in behind the beast's neck. But the lincis was all sinuous movement and the spear skidded across its back, into its flank.
The lincis screamed at Byren, sounding more cat than wolf. Bright red blood soaked through its beautiful fur and its writhing wrenched the spear from Byren's hands, leaving him unarmed.
Without hesitation, Orrade stepped between him and the beast, lowering his own spear to make himself more of a target. 'Over here, beastie.'
'Save the kingson!' Winterfall yelled, letting his arrow fly and beckoning the youths, who recovered and ran down into the hollow towards the beast, shouting a challenge. The arrow overshot the beast. Always a danger when shooting downhill.
The lincis screamed again, whirling to face its new attackers. Too eager, young Chandler was out in front. The beast reared up on its hind legs, standing taller than him. Chandler fumbled his spear, trying to bring it up. The lincis swiped at him, sending him flying into a drift. Two fifteen-year-olds froze as it turned on them.
'Don't run!' Byren yelled.
But they did, with the lincis only a body length behind them.
Byren cursed, plucked the spear from Orrade's hand and threw it in one move. The spear took the lincis in the back, just off centre. The beast staggered.
Winterfall darted in, spearing it through the side. It rolled away, taking his weapon with it.
'Now!' Orrade yelled. Retrieving Byren's fallen spear, he led the attack. Heartened, the youths darted in, containing the wounded beast but careful to keep out of range of its thrashing claws.
Byren ran around the far side to drag Chandler to safety. The lad struggled to stand, holding his arm to his chest, face pale with shock and pain. Broken collar bone, Byren guessed.
Chandler managed a sickly smile and jerked his head towards the beast. 'Another Affinity kill, kingson. We've made Rolencia that much safer!'
'True. But next time attack as a team. With your bows, you could have picked it off from up on the rim.'
Chandler nodded, tears of pain making his eyes glitter.
Byren squeezed his good shoulder. 'You should have seen me the first time I faced a leogryf. Nearly pissed myself!'
Chandler laughed.
Byren frowned. Why had the beast leapt on Hedgerow? With eight armed men it didn't stand a chance — shouldn't have, if the youths hadn't panicked, Byren amended.
The lincis screamed in defiance, but it was weakening. As his warriors closed in Byren almost felt sorry for it.
'It's over,' he told Chandler. 'Come on. We'd better see if Hedgerow will live to complain another day.' He helped the youth down the slope then knelt to check on the monk, who lay in the churned snow covered in blood.
'I told you it was too much.' Hedgerow struggled to speak between ragged breaths. 'No one listens to me. Now we'll have to send for another Affinity warder. The abbey will have to send a pair of stones to absorb the Affinity. Until then only a trained warder must come near the seep. Warn the village.'
'I will. But first we'll get you back safe,' Byren told him. 'Can you stand?'
'I don't know.'
Sliding his arm under the small man, Byren tried to help him up. Hedgerow gasped and passed out. Suspecting broken ribs, Byren let him slump on the snow.
'The nun's a good healer, I hear,' Orrade said, as he returned.
Byren nodded grimly. She'd need to be.
Straightening up, he looked around. His men had cut the beast's throat and were retrieving their weapons, preparing to string the body from two spears strapped together to support its weight.
'Eh, leave the lincis. You'll need to make a stretcher for Hedgerow.' Byren took off his own cloak and tossed it to Winterfall, who caught it and began devising a stretcher. Byren joined him but did not interfere. As he suspected, being the eldest son of a lord whose estate was in the foothills of the Dividing Range, Winterfall was used to dealing with injured men who'd seen the worst of beasts or raiders.
Judging him capable, Byren advised, 'Strap Chandler's arm to his chest. It'll make it easier for him to walk.'
Winterfall nodded.
Orrade caught Byren's eye with a look of sympathy.
Suddenly angry with himself, Byren turned away, moving towards the lightning-blasted tree. This should never have happened. At least Chandler would live, as for the monk… Byren leant against the dead tree. He'd let his dislike of the man colour his judgement. Perhaps the seep was too powerful for Hedgerow to contain. Perhaps he was not a lazy coward after all.
Byren's fingers brushed across parallel gouges in the trunk's satiny bark. He fixed on them, his memory nudging him, until recognition hit him with an odd little kick of satisfaction. The gouges were lincis territory markers. So that was why the beast had attacked.
Fiercely territorial, lincis marked their region by clawing tree trunks and leaving a spray of special urine which solidified, forming flame-coloured stones called lincuriums. The stones that formed in the depths of icy winter were renowned for their beauty. Occasionally a hunter would find some and make his fortune selling them to a renegade Power-worker.
Byren wanted the stones, hopefully a matching pair to set on rings for his parents. The thought of his mother's surprised delight made him smile. As a king's daughter from Merofynia, she had given up much to marry his father for the sake of peace. For their twenty-first wedding anniversary this spring cusp, they planned a grand Jubilee. He'd wanted to give them a special gift. Even better, lincurium were so rare that there was no chance Lence could get his hands on anything to equal the stones!
'You all right, Byren?' Orrade asked.
'Never better.' Byren straightened up, containing his excitement.
'We're ready, Byren Kingson,' Winterfall reported.
'Good.' He glanced to the sky then went down to join his men. 'Nearly dark, but there'll be no clouds tonight. If you leave now and walk by starlight you'll reach the village come midnight. Orrie and I will be right behind you. We'll bring the lincis in. Tell the headcouple no one is to come this way until the seep's been contained. They'll have to send for at least one pair of sorbt stones and another warder. The healer can advise them.'
Winterfall nodded. 'Chandler can manage on his own. With four to carry the stretcher and one to spell them we'll make good time. Are you sure you want to bring the lincis now? We can come back for it.'
'If we leave the body scavengers might get it and I've a hankering for a lincis fur coat,' Byren said, deciding he might just have one made up for Lence. It was the sort of finery that would appeal to his twin.
Winterfall nodded, then turned to the others. 'Right. If you want a hot meal and a warm bed tonight, get your backs into it.'
As they lifted the stretcher Hedgerow groaned and Byren wondered how long before he began haranguing them. Chandler picked up his spear to use as a staff. Winterfall took the rest of the spears, leaving two for Byren and Orrade to string the lincis from.
Orrade said nothing until they were out of hearing beyond the rim, then he swung around to face Byren.
'A hankering for a lincis coat?' He snorted, thin face animated. 'What are you up to?'
Byren grinned. 'This way.'
Orrade followed him back up the slope to the lightning-blasted tree. Byren pointed to the scratch marks.
Orrade frowned. 'Could it be…'
'It is. Lincis bury their territory markers so that only their own kind can sense them,' Byren whispered. 'Then they mark the surrounding trees like this. That's why the beastie attacked.'
Orrade nodded slowly. 'I don't see why you didn't say something when you first spotted the signs. We had the others to back us up then.'
'Because I don't want Lence to hear about it.'
Orrade said nothing.
Byren grinned.
'No good will come of baiting Lence, Byren.'
He laughed, leant his bow against the far side of the tree and dropped to his knees in the snow.
Orrade leant against the trunk, arms folded across his chest. 'Do you really intend to bring the lincis back with us? It'll be a struggle. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.'
Byren didn't answer, intent on digging. He used his hunting knife, the blade as long as his forearm, to break the crust and loosen the snow. Then he gripped the fingertips of his right glove in his teeth and tore it off, plunging his hand into the snow to feel for the hard, round lincurium.
'Any luck?' Orrade asked.
The cold burnt his fingers but he persevered, searching partly by touch, partly by sight in the rapidly fading light.
'Ha!' He pulled up three stones, one large and two smaller. Turning his hand over, he brushed snow off their glistening red-gold surface. Byren wanted nothing more than to light a fire and hold them to the flame to see if these were the finest winter-crystallines.
Orrade whistled softly, dropping to his haunches. 'Three lincurium. What a haul!'
'I'll get the two smaller ones set on matching rings for my parents. As for the larger…' Byren visualised it set on a simple chain. It would make an exquisite pendant. Exactly the right gift for his brother's betrothed. What would she be like, this daughter of the cunning Merofynian king, who had usurped his mother's brother? As cunning as her father, no doubt. As his old nurse would say, the apple never falls far from the tree.
Poor Lence, forced to marry -
'Byren,' Orrade warned softly.
A low growl sounded behind him. It was so deep it seemed to vibrate through Byren's body, setting his teeth on edge. He looked over his shoulder, catching sight of a juvenile lincis. It stood over the body of its mother. Not much smaller than her, it was probably due to strike out on its own come spring.
Kneeling in the snow like this, Byren felt vulnerable but he was not afraid. Two full-grown men could frighten off a lone, inexperienced lincis. If only he had collected the spears before heading back to the tree. The lincis was between him and the weapons.
Orrade came to his full height. Moving smoothly so as not to startle the beast, he slid his bow from his back and bent to string it.
Shoving the stones into his belt pouch, Byren went to rise, turning to face the lincis at the same time. One snow shoe twisted, obstructing the other. Heart thudding, he struggled to free the snow shoe, snapping the thongs that held his right boot in place. Standing at last, he glanced up to check on the beast.
About two body lengths down the slope, the lincis confronted them, hackles raised. Oh, but it was a beauty. The silvery fur made it hard to see against the twilit snow. Lence would have killed it for its coat alone, but Byren was content with the stones.
Unfortunately the lincis was not. A low, warning rumble came from deep in its chest, making its muzzle pull back from its teeth.
Byren swore softly. Too late to put the lincurium back, too late to climb a tree, too late to do anything but bluff.
With the speed and economy of long practice, Orrade stepped in front of Byren, reaching behind his shoulder for an arrow. His arm hit one of the dead tree's low-hanging branches, triggering a fall of snow and a terrible screech as if the dead tree itself was protesting. Before Byren could yell a warning, a large branch split from the trunk. Byren watched it swing for Orrade, gathering momentum as it fell, striking the back of his head below his right ear with a sickening crunch. His friend toppled into the snow, pinned under the branch between Byren and the beast.
The lincis sprang back startled by the noise, but it grew bold when it smelt the fresh blood from Orrade's head wound.
Byren's mouth went dry with fear.
Instinct told him if he lowered his guard to collect his bow and string it the lincis would attack Orrade, so he raised his hunting knife, eyeing the beast. The knife was an in-close weapon. No one in their right mind would tackle a lincis with only a hunting knife but all he wanted to do was scare it.
He leaped over Orrade and the fallen branch, roaring.
It might have been enough but, as he landed, his right boot, with no snow shoe to cushion it, went through the crust. Combined weight and momentum drove his leg down into thigh-deep snow, toppling him sideways. Hard to look menacing, when his head was level with the beast's. At least he was between it and his unconscious friend.
Desperate, he shoved his right hand out to lever himself up, only his hand went through the fractured crust plunging his arm deep into the snow. His right cheek stung as it slammed into the ice crystals. Rearing up, he twisted about trying to get purchase.
Meanwhile, the lincis padded back and forth a little more than a body length from him, broad paws barely denting the snow's crust, as it prepared to attack.
Stupid! In a heartbeat the lincis would be on him, going for his throat and then Orrade would freeze to death, if the seep didn't attract some other beast to make a meal of him.
Taking the knife blade between his teeth, Byren lurched back, trying to scramble out of the hole he'd dug with his thrashing.
The beast yelped.
Byren looked up, startled, then stopped struggling to gape. The knife dropped from his mouth.
An old woman, draped in straggling furs, clipped the lincis over the nose with the end of her staff as if it was a greedy piglet. 'Pah. Be gone!'
Though it could have crushed her old bones with one blow, it whimpered and slunk off, tail between its legs.
'Thank the goddess!' Byren muttered.
Thwack.
The old woman's staff connected with his head. 'Thank me, not Halcyon. She gets more than enough credit!'
Byren grunted. With tears of pain stinging his eyes, he blinked and tried to focus on the old woman. Though she looked, and smelt, like she came from the savage Utland Isles, she'd spoken Rolencian with the accent of Merofynia and, besides, she was old enough to be his grandmother, so he owed her the veneration due her many winters. 'Forgive my — '
'Hisst. None of your mother's courtly airs, Byren Rolen Kingson, or should I say Byren Myrella Queenson?' Her clever black eyes fixed on him. 'Mark my words.' She dropped the staff and her body straightened, eyes rolling in her head until only the whites showed.
Byren sucked in his breath, teeth protesting at the sudden cold. He might not have Affinity, but he knew it when he saw it. She was a renegade Power-worker, outlawed by his father's royal decree. If discovered, banishment or death were her only choices.
The old woman lifted one arm to point at him, hand twisted with the bone-ache. He was pinned in the snow, helpless as a hare in a snare.
'Seven minutes younger than kingsheir, yet destined to be king. Blood, I see, your twin's blood on your hands — '
'No!' Byren shouted.
His cry broke her trance and she focused on him, eyes brilliantly black despite great age. Wheezing with the effort, she leant down to scoop up her staff, muttering. 'Pah. The boy thinks he knows better!'
Byren stiffened. He was no boy. He'd killed his first warrior at fifteen and he'd been leading raids against upstart warlords since he was seventeen.
Thwack.
The staff connected with his head.
'Hey!' he protested.
'Silence, and listen. Boy you are, and boy you'll be until you learn to lead your people along the right path. But what is right? Right by might? Right by law? Right by tradition? Or is right a matter of perception?'
He stared, unable to make sense of her babble. As if he couldn't tell right from wrong!
He shook himself. First things first. Check on Orrade.
Byren leant back, grabbed the fallen branch and, with a determined wrench, hauled himself out of the snow pit, then shoved the branch off his friend. Kneeling, he rolled Orrade over, hardly registering the broken bow. His friend was unconscious, barely breathing. Blood from his head wound stained the snow, appearing almost black in the gathering gloom, and a pale fluid leaked from his eyes and nostrils.
Byren's stomach clenched. He'd seen enough men die from head wounds to know the signs. That pale fluid was bad.
'Always the same. Won't listen, can't see,' the old seer muttered. 'Waste of breath. I'll be off then. No, don't thank me…' Still mumbling, she turned her back on him.
'Wait,' he cried. Those with Affinity could sometimes heal. 'What about Orrie? Can you help him?'
She tilted her head like a curious bird. 'Your own father has outlawed renegade Power-workers. Why ask me?'
Byren brushed this aside. 'He's dying. I can't let him die.'
Her wrinkled face creased with a mixture of malicious spite and delight.
'Please,' he whispered.
That surprised her.
She hunkered down in the snow next to him, placing one grimy, clawed hand on Orrade's forehead. Byren watched anxiously as she concentrated, seeming to turn her focus inward, for several heart beats.
'He'll linger for a day or two then die,' she announced.
'But you can prevent that?'
She studied him. 'He won't be the same — '
'Doesn't matter. Uh…' Byren reconsidered. Affinity was tricky and those with it, doubly so. 'Do you mean he won't have his wits? Orrade would hate that. He'd rather die.'
'Oh, he'll still be your friend. But there'll be consequences if I use Affinity to — '
'Sylion take the consequences. I can't let him die.'
'What will you give me?' she countered.
He stared at her, shocked.
Her eyes narrowed. 'Do you expect me to help you out of the goodness of my heart?'
He nodded. 'I would.'
She laughed, then shook her head. 'You have a long way to go before you're ready to rule Rolencia. But perhaps — '
'So you'll do it?' he asked, concentrating on what was important. 'You'll save him?'
'I'll try. Good spot for a healing, plenty of raw power.' She replaced her hand on Orrade's forehead and her eyes glazed over. Sweat appeared on her top lip, popping up between the sparse silver hairs. Byren could see the effort required for healing, but he felt nothing as time stretched. It went on long enough for him to get a cramp in his foot. He massaged it surreptitiously.
'There.' She grunted with relief, sitting back on her heels to catch her breath. 'He'll pull through. But you'll need to get him somewhere warm to recover, and he'll never be the same.'
'Thank you, thank you!' Byren grabbed her shoulders, planting a smacking kiss on her papery cheek.
She stared at him, stunned, then smiled like a young girl.
He laughed and turned back to Orrade. 'Orrie, can y'hear me? Orrie?'
No answer. But his friend was breathing easier and Byren was sure his cheeks were a better colour already. He swung back to thank the old woman. 'You've done it, he's — '
She'd gone.