Chapter 6: The Archer

We went out through the kitchen passage, because Garran swore it was the only door Lord Osric's men had forgotten.

The cook was asleep on a flour sack.

Garran stepped over her, and I stepped over Garran's shadow, and we came out into the dark of the herb garden.

He had two horses saddled behind the dung heap.

I put my foot in the stirrup, and a voice behind me said, "You can't ride a horse in that state."

I whirled around.

Corwin Fell stood by the garden wall in his brown coat with a satchel over his shoulder.

"You're supposed to be writing," I hissed.

"I was."

"Then go back to writing."

"I tried." He looked as though the words were costing him. "I got as far as the stairs."

"The bond," I said.

"I don't know what it is." He pressed the heel of one hand against his breastbone.

"It's like a rope tied under my ribs. Every step you take, it pulls."

"That's what mates feel."

"I'm not your mate."

"Then you're a very strange liar with a very strong rope," I said. "Get a horse."

Garran stared between us, and his moustache quivered.

"Highness, I'll want that explained later."

"So will I," Corwin muttered.

We rode north under a thin, high moon, the three of us, with the road pale and empty ahead.

By the time we reached the Crossed Keys, a roadside inn two hours out, the fever was a distant ache.

Garran slid off first and went to ask at the stable.

He came back with his face set.

"He's here. The lad. He's in the loft, and he's frightened out of his wits."

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