‘He is in Gulgothir?’
‘Indeed he is. I think he feels safer there. Well, I shall leave you now. It is difficult at my age to hold such a spell.’ He said nothing. She shook her head. ‘Not even a thank you for old Hewla?’
‘Why should I thank you?’ he answered. ‘You have brought me only pain.’
‘No, no, child. I have saved your life. Look inside yourself. You no longer wish to wait here and die alongside your lovely Danyal. No. The wolf is back. Waylander lives again.’
Angry words rose in his throat. But Hewla had vanished.
117
7
Miriel’s head was aching, but the acute pain of the night before had faded to a dull ache as she rose and dressed, making her way through the cabin to the clearing where Angel was chopping logs. Stripped to the waist he was swinging the long-handled axe with practised ease, splitting the wood expertly.
He stopped as he saw her and thudded the axe into a log, then took up his shirt and strolled towards her. ‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked.
‘I’m ready,’ she told him.
He shook his head. ‘I think you should rest this morning. Your colour is not good.’
There was a chill in the air and she shivered. ‘They will come back,’ she said.
He shrugged. There’s not a blessed thing we can do about that, Miriel.’
‘Except wait?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You don’t seem concerned.’
‘Oh, but I am. It is just that I learned long ago that there is little point in worrying about matters over which you have no control. We could flee, I suppose, but to where? We don’t know where they are, and could run straight into them. At least here we have the advantage of home ground. And this is where your father expects to find us. Therefore we wait.’
‘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
118
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?’