The group halted. Without warning, Karigan was shoved out of the saddle and she fell to the ground with a startled cry. Enver, who had dismounted before they could force him, stepped toward her, but speartips were thrust to his throat.

Karigan perceived that the p’ehdrose valued strength and would look down upon weakness, so she rose to her feet as quickly and steadily as she could, trying to conceal signs of stiffness and pain. She and Enver were then prodded into a circular hut.

“Galadheon,” Enver said, stepping over to her. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’ll be all right,” she said, brushing dirt off her sleeve. She’d worn her dress longcoat and sash since this was supposed to be a diplomatic occasion. “Do they even understand my words?”

“I do not know. Contact with the p’ehdrose was cut off so long ago that they may have lost the common tongue.”

Karigan pried the hanging away from the door just enough to peer outside. Mostly she saw the rear haunches of their guard, but beyond she could make out guttural voices in conversation. She let the hanging fall back into place.

“My Black Shield insignia seems to be what set them off.”

“Yes,” Enver agreed.

“Do you know why?”

“I have guesses.”

When he said no more, she placed her hands on her hips. “Do you care to enlighten me?”

“They do not care for the Black Shields.”

“Well, thank you very much. That’s very illuminating.”

She paced about the hut. The ceiling, like the doorway, was quite tall, and to call it a hut was to diminish it, for it was quite spacious, large enough to admit a few adult p’ehdrose at one time in comfort. Enver sat on a rush mat on the floor, his legs crossed and eyes closed. So, he was going to retreat. It was a good way to pass the time for an Eletian, she supposed, but also a good way to avoid talking to her. She paced, which helped stretch her back after the ride. No p’ehdrose came to them, and so were clearly in no rush to deal with their visitors.

No, not visitors, she thought, but prisoners.

She kept walking, following the contours of the walls, round and round. She would have liked to have begun the journey home the previous day with the king’s party, but her back was not ready for extended riding and . . . It would have been difficult. Difficult to be with him among all those watchers as he made his way back to his wife.

She also had to prove to herself that she could complete her mission. Her loss of confidence had cut more deeply than the thongs of Nyssa’s whip. She must not hesitate, must not be fearful, but even as she thought it, she felt Nyssa scratching at her mind again, trying to find her way in.

Karigan could not say how much time passed, but the sunlight that bled beneath the door hanging retreated and she grew weary. Enver remained in his meditative state, his expression suffused with peace.

She shrugged, knelt on one of the rush mats, and lay on her stomach. She thought back to Zachary abed with fever. After all he’d endured, he’d lost much weight. The wound on his shoulder had been red and angry with black striations radiating from it. It had made her feel totally helpless as he writhed and muttered in dreams that she could do so little for him. Destarion intimated that had he not turned when he did, they would have lost him, and she would not have been able to do anything about it. Her last thought before she drifted off was to wonder why it was that she could help the dead, but not the living.

• • •

The entrance of a pair of p’ehdrose startled her out of a dream, some nonsense of being a gryphon merchant trying to sell winged kittens. A speartip was shoved in her face, while the other p’ehdrose held Enver at bay.

“Stand,” she was ordered. So, at least one of the p’ehdrose had something of the common tongue.

She obeyed, again trying to show that it was no difficulty to do so. The two p’ehdrose grabbed her under her arms and lifted her off her feet. They carried her outside between them, while a third blocked the doorway so Enver couldn’t dart out after her.

She was dropped before a bonfire, and she gave a throttled cry at the pain that ripped through her back. Many p’ehdrose crowded in around her. They smelled of the earth, and a strange mixture of animal musk and human odor. The westering sun had cast the valley in shadow, and firelight limned the grim faces that surrounded her. Once again, she climbed to her feet, trying to retain some semblance of dignity.

She turned to the one who had ordered her to stand in the hut. “I demand to see your chief. This is no way to treat a king’s envoy.”

At first there was no reaction, then an old, grizzled p’ehdrose stepped forward. “The only reason you are not dead yet,” he said, “is that you wear the green of Lil Ambriodhe’s Riders.” He took another step forward. “I am Yannuf, chief of the Fforstald Clan, and your trespass into this valley carries the death penalty. You broke an oath by coming here.”

“I do not know of any such oath.”

“It was made by Lil Ambriodhe, King Santanara, and our great chief, Braaga, long ago. It allowed the p’ehdrose to vanish into obscurity for their services rendered during the Long War.”

A long time ago, indeed, Karigan thought. Clearly no one in Sacoridia had remembered it, just one more detail lost from that ancient time. She fumed, thinking that the Eletians would have remembered it. What of Enver? Had he known?

“We let you live because we owe a debt to Lil Ambriodhe,” Yannuf continued. “She aided us in a time of persecution.”