Outside, the slight lightening of the eastern sky said dawn was near but not yet breaking. Others – a few weary warriors – were also awake, shuffling through the near-darkness, trying to restart fires, or just standing in the fine misty drizzle with blankets and cloaks wrapped about them. There was no sound save an occasional cough, the crackle and hiss of wet wood resisting feeble flames, the soft voice of the invisible river.

Orisian drank from a waterskin hanging outside his tent. He was standing there, wondering whether to get back beneath the shelter of canvas, when the Kyrinin came out of the gloom. They appeared amongst the tall, thin alder trees as sudden and silent as deer emerging on the edge of a forest. Both of them were soaking wet, their hair matted down and heavy, their clothes darkened by the rain and covered in muddy stains.

Varryn went straight to the large fire at the heart of the camp and squatted down beside it. The warrior who was feeding twigs and kindling into the faltering flames regarded this Kyrinin newcomer uneasily, perhaps suspiciously, but said nothing. Ess’yr paused at Orisian’s side.

“Did you find anything?” he asked her softly.

“We saw sign of the enemy. Half a day towards dawn from here, by human pace.”

“Coming this way?”

She shook her head. “They do not seek us. Not yet.”

“But you did not pursue them.” Orisian glanced across at her brother, silent and thoughtful by the fire. “I feared you might not return, if you found sign of White Owls you could hunt.”

“There will be hunting soon. And killing.”

It was an incomplete answer, Orisian knew at once. He could not tell whether it was some subtle sign in her tone or expression that betrayed her, or whether he had come to know just enough of how her – and her brother’s – mind worked to anticipate her evasions.

“Do you think I am still in need of your protection?” he murmured, unwilling to allow anyone else to hear these words. “You think your promise to see to my safety not yet done with?”

Ess’yr returned his intent gaze, and for a moment he was captivated once again by those flinty eyes and the depths of grace they seemed to hold. The pale blue lines tattooed across her face were faint in this pre-dawn light; they almost danced with a life of their own at the corners of his vision. He could think of nothing else to say.

“Did you catch fish?” she asked him.

Orisian blinked. “What?”

“In the river.”

“Oh. No.”

She dipped her head, drawing his eyes down to her waist. A single silvery fish hung there, tied to her belt with strands of woven grass.

“I knew you would not,” Ess’yr said.

The derelict road bore them on down the valley, in amongst clumps of trees and long stretches of wet, boggy ground. Behind them, the Karkyre Peaks were hidden by thick grey clouds of mist and rain. The horses were subdued, discouraged by the foul weather. Those who rode them were little more enthusiastic, but at Orisian’s urging Torcaill did keep them to a steady, remorseless pace. Ess’yr and Varryn trotted along parallel to the column of warriors, drifting in and out of sight as the drizzle thickened and then slackened off again. They kept up easily with the horses.

Yvane did not fare so well. Orisian had known she would not. He and Rothe dropped back along the line of men and rode beside the na’kyrim for a time. She said nothing, made no complaint, but was obviously struggling. The road surface was scored across with little gullies, strewn with loose stones and scarred with pits where the cobbles had disappeared altogether. More than once Yvane stumbled. Had she been human, it would have been impossible for her to continue on foot; because she was not, Orisian felt, it was merely a bad idea.

“You’ll turn an ankle,” he called down to her eventually.

She ignored him, though he did hear what might have been a grunt – of either exertion or dismissal.

“Get up behind Rothe.” Orisian saw the expression of alarm that contorted his shieldman’s face.

“I managed to climb the Car Criagar, up and down, many times on these two feet,” Yvane said. “I walked the length of the Vale of Tears more than once. I can manage this road.”

“She doesn’t like horses,” Rothe said. “That’s fair enough. It’s her choice.”

Orisian frowned at his shieldman, but Rothe was now staring fixedly ahead, fascinated by the back of the nearest warrior.

“Ride with me, then,” Orisian said.

Yvane kept striding on. If anything, she picked up her pace a little, presumably hoping to either dissuade him or leave him behind. Irritated, Orisian gave his horse a sharp nudge and brought it to a halt across Yvane’s path. She almost walked into its shoulder. The lines of warriors parted around the two of them and flowed on.

“Listen,” said Orisian, “you will slow us down, sooner or later. You encouraged me in this undertaking, and I won’t have you now hindering me out of stubbornness, or whatever it is. I also won’t leave you behind on your own. Therefore, we are going to stand here and argue about it until you ride.”

Yvane glared up at him, drops of water beading her hair. She blinked misty rain out of her eyes. Orisian did not flinch as he once might have done. Instead, he raised his eyebrows expectantly and waited. It was Yvane who yielded.

“I never mastered the trick of riding. Tried a couple of times, at Koldihrve. Neither attempt ended well. Not for me, at least; the horses seemed to quite enjoy it.”

“All you have to do is hang on.”

“That is much what I was told on previous occasions.”

“But this time you just have to hang on to me, not the reins or the horse.”

Yvane displayed neither grace nor good humour, but she did, eventually, allow herself to be hoisted up behind Orisian. She clutched him so tightly about the midriff that he had to ask her to loosen her grip more than once.

The sky cleared, the air grew cold. Forest closed in along either side of the road. Everyone became tense, now that they could not see more than a few dozen paces in any direction. The tallest trees – elegant ash and soaring oak – almost touched their outermost branches together across the road. Orisian and the others advanced beneath a skeletal roof of leafless boughs.

Eshenna rode beside Orisian and Yvane for a time. Her pony was looking bedraggled and sorry for itself, but walked doggedly on amongst the warhorses.

“I’m feeling dizzy,” Eshenna said. She spoke to Orisian, but he had the feeling that her words were addressed to Yvane more than anyone. “If I close my eyes, I lose balance; my head whirls. I can’t hold on to a thought for more than a few moments.”

“I know,” grunted Yvane into Orisian’s shoulder.

“Can you still lead us to this woman?” Orisian asked.

Eshenna nodded. She was gloomy, her face drawn and lifeless as if she was sick.

“It feels as if she’s close. It’s getting hard to tell. Such storms are running through the Shared that it’s… difficult. The Anain, Aeglyss. It’s all too much.”

“Are the Anain here?” Orisian murmured. “Watching us?” He remembered, clearly, what Ess’yr had told him of the Anain, when they were in the Car Criagar. She had spoken of those then as though they were always present, as though the land was always inhabited by their incorporeal minds.

“We are beneath their notice,” Eshenna said, and grimaced. “They are no more likely to watch us than they are to watch a mouse, digging about in the moss. Still, they are here. They move, like ships, and we are just twigs caught up in their wake.”

“We might have been beneath their notice once,” Yvane muttered, “but now, who knows? The Hymyr Ot’tryn is near.”

“What’s that?” Orisian asked over his shoulder.

“It’s the Snake name for what you would call the Veiled Woods.”

“I’ve not heard of it,” Orisian said, but then hesitated at a flickering of memory. “Perhaps I have. In stories, maybe.”