As the delays mounted and it became clear that Unick must beat them to Casyme, Llian could see Wilm shrivelling before his eyes and shrinking into despair.

“I failed Dajaes,” Wilm cried, “and I can’t help Aviel either. I’m useless!”

“We’ll make it,” said Llian without conviction.

Wilm was incapable of taking comfort from anything. He was a desperate wild-eyed automaton who slept three hours a night and practised the seven basic strokes every hour he was not on horseback. But it was all in vain.

In Casyme they surveyed the abandoned workshop, then discovered Aviel’s note on Shand’s kitchen table.

“See,” said Llian, putting his arm around Wilm’s shoulders. “She left before he got here. Maybe days before.”

Wilm perked up a little. “But where did she go?”

Llian had known before he saw the sketch. He had been expecting it ever since he’d read Mendark’s notebook at the megaliths.

“Carcharon! I’ll raid Shand’s larder; we’ll need food for a week. Then I’ll give the horses a good feed of oats and a rub down. Anything you need to do?”

Wilm started. “See my mother.”

“You’ll have a lot to talk about. What say we leave in an hour and a half?”

“An hour will do. She’ll be working.”

Wilm slipped his bag of silver into his pocket and ran off. Llian got on with his work, but before the hour was over Wilm was back, his shoulders sagging.

“Something the matter?” said Llian.

“I couldn’t find her; she cleans houses all over town and no one knew where she was today. I left her a note and most of the silver…”

“But it’s not the same as seeing her.”

“There’s too much to explain. She’ll worry.”

“Yes, she will.”

“How far ahead is Aviel?” said Wilm.

He was desperate for comfort but Llian could give him none. “No way of telling. We’d better go.”

“All right,” said Wilm, “but I’m not stopping for sleep.”

“You may be able to do without it – though you look like a walking corpse – but I can’t and neither can our horses. There’s no point arriving in such a state that we can’t do a thing for her.”

They rode for what remained of the afternoon and half the night, only stopping at midnight. Wilm could not sleep. He practised and paced, paced and practised until Llian could take it no longer. The lad’s despair was infecting him too, and at this rate they would both collapse before they reached Carcharon. At one in the morning Llian wrenched the stopper out of the decanter of Driftmere, poured three fingers’ worth into a mug and got up.

“Drink this!” He used a commanding tone.

“What is it?” said Wilm.

“Drink the bloody stuff! One gulp.”

Wilm, inured to obedience all his life, drained the brandy, choked and spluttered.

“Gahh! That’s horrible.”

Llian winced. The finest brandy in the world was utterly wasted on him. Llian wanted some too, but he liked good drink too much and everything had to be sacrificed to their quest. He stoppered the decanter and returned to his horse blanket.

Wilm restarted his sword practice but after a couple of minutes said, “Head’s spinning. Just have a little lie-down.”

Without taking his boots off he lay down and crashed over a cliff into the first proper sleep he’d had in seven nights.

Llian lay awake. What would they find at Carcharon? If Aviel was there, how could they rescue her? He had lost far more fights than he had won, and his wins had mostly been due to luck. Wilm was strong and hard-working, but he was also an untutored youth with one week of training using instructions that, for all Llian knew, could be badly flawed.

Unick was one of the most vicious street brawlers Llian had ever known, and if he got within range of those scarred fists, he would die.

Wilm was still somewhat intoxicated when Llian woke him four hours later, though the sleep had done him good: he had regained hope. They ate a hasty breakfast – one of Shand’s blisteringly spicy sausages, a handful of stinky blue cheese each and a few carrots. Llian made sure Wilm drank plenty of water and they rode on, Wilm dozing in his saddle, Llian trying to formulate a plan.

He had still come up with nothing when they reached the Forest of Gothryme in the afternoon. They camped by the Black Lake, dined on ham and eggs and apples, and bathed in the dark icy water. Afterwards Llian’s skin tingled for an hour.

“We’ll sleep for a few hours, though we can’t ride much further.”

“How far is Carcharon now?” said Wilm.

“A good few hours. The last part is quite a climb, but there’ll be a bright moon for it. I want to get there before dawn.”

“What about the horses?”

“Plenty of water on the plateau, and plenty of grass. They’ll still be here when…”

They stared at one another. The sentence didn’t need to be finished.

“I don’t suppose I could have another drop of Driftmere?” said Wilm. “For courage.”

“I could do with a bit myself.” Llian poured a generous slug into each of their mugs. “We who are about to die,” he said, raising the mug and inhaling the glorious bouquet, savouring it.

Wilm clinked mugs, sipped, set it down and closed his eyes for a moment. “Actually,” he said, “it’s not all that bad.”

“Not bad!” cried Llian. “If I were Magister I’d have you put down for that.”

Wilm smiled, though it quickly faded. “We probably will die up there, won’t we?”

“Our hopes aren’t brilliant.”

“I’ve always been a bit of a duffer,” said Wilm. “Never could get anything right.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“It’s true. I’ve never known what I wanted to do with myself.”

“Knowing your path in life makes a huge difference,” said Llian. “From the moment Mendark came to our door in Jepperand, when I was twelve, I knew I wanted to be a chronicler and a teller of the Great Tales. I burned for it.”

“And now?”

“I still ache for it, particularly telling.”

“But if you wanted it more than anything, you wouldn’t be here now,” Wilm said perceptively.

Llian did not feel the need to talk about it. Clearly, Wilm did. Llian felt that the lad was on the verge of discovering who he really was.

“And you?” Llian prompted.

“I want to stand up for what I believe in,” said Wilm. “And fight for what is right.”

Llian took an exploratory sip. The Driftmere exceeded his lofty expectations. He almost purred. “Will you continue with your sword practice?”

“The moment I can afford it I’m going to have lessons. I’ve got to do it properly.” He flushed in the firelight. “Sorry! I didn’t mean…”

Chroniclers weren’t easily offended. “I just wrote down the basic strokes as I remembered them. I’ve no idea if they’re any good.” Llian took another sip and sighed. “We’d better turn in.”

He was settling down by the fire when Thandiwe’s words resurfaced. “About your sword…” said Llian.

“I still can’t think of it as mine,” Wilm said dreamily. “What about it?”

“Mendark was a truly great mancer, and a mancer’s weapon could well be enchanted. I thought you should know.”

“It might give me an edge,” said Wilm, and laughed.

“You’re quite the witty young blade,” said Llian, and went to sleep.