‘I could track them,’ she offered.
He shook his head. ‘Morak wasn’t with them, nor was Belash. I wouldn’t want to track either of them. They would have sentries watching from the high hills, or trees. They would see us coming. No, we wait for Waylander.’
‘I don’t like the thought of just sitting,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he told her, stepping forward and laying his hand on her shoulder. ‘It is always the hardest part. I was the same when I was waiting for the call into the arena. I could hear the clash of swords outside, smell the sand and the sawdust. I always felt ill.’
Miriel’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s someone coming,’ she said.
He swung, but there was no one in sight. ‘Where?’ She pointed to the south, where a flock of doves had flown up from a tall pine. ‘It could be your father.’
‘It could,’ she agreed, spinning on her heel and walking back into the cabin. Angel stood where he was, one hand on the porch-rail, the other resting on the leather-bound hilt of his shortsword. Miriel rejoined him, a sword belted to her waist, a baldric of throwing-knives hanging from her shoulder.
A tall man appeared at the edge of the clearing, saw them, and walked down the slope, sunlight glinting in the gold of his hair. He moved with animal grace, arrogantly, like a lord in his domain, thought Miriel, anger flaring. The newcomer was dressed in expensive buckskin, heavily fringed at the shoulders. He wore two swords, short sabres in black leather scabbards adorned with silver. His leggings were dark brown and tucked into thigh-length tan cavalry boots that had been folded down, exposing the lining of cream-coloured silk.
Coming closer he bowed to Miriel, his arm sweeping out in courtly style. ‘Good morning, Miriel.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘Not yet, and the loss is entirely mine.’ He smiled as he spoke and Miriel found herself blushing. ‘Ah, Angel,’ said the newcomer, as if noticing the gladiator for the first time. ‘The princess and the troll … I feel as if I have stepped into a fable.’
‘Really?’ countered Angel. ‘Seeing you makes me feel I have stepped into something altogether less pleasant.’
The man chuckled with genuine humour. ‘I have missed you, old man. Nothing was the same once you left the arena. How is your … shop?’
‘Gone, but then you knew that.’
‘Yes, come to think of it someone did mention that to me. I was distressed to hear of it, of course. Well, is no one going to offer breakfast? It’s a long walk from Kasyra.’
‘Who is this … this popinjay?’ asked Miriel.
‘Oh yes, do introduce us, Angel, there’s a good fellow.’
‘This is Senta, one of the hired killers sent to murder your father.’
‘Delicately put,’ said Senta. ‘But it should be pointed out that I am not a bowman, nor am I the kind of assassin who kills from hiding. I am a swordsman, lady, probably the best in the land.’
Miriel’s fingers closed around the hilt of her sword, but Angel caught her arm. ‘He may be conceited, and self-obsessed, but he is quite right,’ said Angel, his eyes holding to Senta’s gaze. ‘He is a fine bladesman. So let us stay calm, eh? Prepare some food, Miriel.’
‘For him? No!’
‘Trust me,’ he said softly, ‘and do as I say.’
Miriel looked into his flint-coloured eyes. ‘Is this what you want?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply.
Her hands were trembling as she carved the cold meat. She felt confused, uncertain. Angel’s strength was prodigious, and she knew he was no coward. So why was he pandering to this man? Was he frightened?
The two men were sitting at the table when she returned. Senta stood as she entered. ‘You really are a vision!’ he said. Her reply was short and obscene. Senta’s eyes widened. ‘Such language from a lady?’
Furious and embarrassed, Miriel laid down the tray of food and bit back an angry retort.
‘Seen anything of Morak?’ asked Angel, breaking the bread and passing a section to Senta.
‘Not yet – but I sent him a message. He’s got Belash with him, did you know?’