Shadowborn. Katie MacAlister

      Israel’s gaze flickered back to the dots of yellow and orange light that were visible along the parapets of his beloved home. “Let us hope Kiriah hears that prayer. We desperately need her help.”

      Sandor, pausing at the flap of her tent, turned and gave him an odd look, opening her mouth to speak, then with a little shake of her head entered her tent instead.

      * * * *

      The next two weeks passed with tedious slowness. Israel, driven by the need to be doing something, anything, spent his days hunting, both for game to feed the company of twenty-two who had followed him to Eris and back, and for any survivors of Jalas’s purge.

      On the fourteenth day, he arrived back at camp with a handful of his men, hauling the carcass of a buck they’d taken down, only to discover a messenger just setting off to find him. Marston had returned at last, and with him another score of men and women.

      “You are a most welcome sight,” Israel said, clapping Marston on the shoulder and greeting the newcomers. “You all are, for we have sore need of strong sword arms.”

      “Lady Idril has not been released, I take it?” Marston asked when Israel ordered the newcomers be given food and places to sleep, and for the mounts to be fed and watered.

      Israel frowned as he turned back to Marston, gesturing for his old friend and first in command to take a seat at his table, pouring them both goblets of wine. “She has not. Jalas might find his daughter’s tongue sharper than an adder’s bite, but I doubt if he would be foolish enough to simply turn her out. Holding her as a hostage guarantees Deo’s good behavior.”

      Marston rubbed the whiskers on his chin, the lines of strain and exhaustion on his face revealing the speed at which he’d traveled from the other side of Aryia. “That is curious, most curious, my lord. One of the women I found upon the road was a handmaiden to Lady Idril. She said that she’d received a message a sennight ago that Lady Idril had need of her aid. I thought that meant she had escaped the hold her father had on her.”

      “A sennight ago?” Israel cast his mind back. “There was no action then that we witnessed. Yesterday there was a great coming and going of men. Mostly coming, but enough men patrolled outside the town that our scouts made note of it. That is the only sign we have seen of Jalas stirring.”

      “Surely Lady Idril would come here, to you, should she make her escape?” Marston asked.

      Israel was slow to answer, his mind turning over the question. Though it was on the tip of his tongue to answer that Idril would naturally turn to her nearest allies, his familiarity with her stubbornness—rivaled only by that of his son—had him qualifying that statement. “She would if she had need of our protection. But it has been many years since I have understood the paths that Lady Idril’s mind walks.”

      Marston shared a rare grin. “She is well matched with Lord Deo in that regard.”

      “Aye. And the less said about the sort of half-mad children they will have, the better. Tell me of what you found on your way to the coast.”

      The next hour was spent hearing of Marston’s journey, of the fields left fallow and others filled with crops consumed by birds, of empty villages, and the old and infirm who were slowly starving.

      Israel let his gaze wander over the people milling around the encampment, the men and women busily setting up pallets and tents, eating, tending their animals, or just lying on the ground, resting. A company of forty-two was not enough to challenge the Tribe of Jalas when he was protected by the strong walls of Abet.

      “Take five of the Easterners you brought back, and give them supplies, a cart, and a horse. Send them to each region, and tell them they must travel from village to village, relocating those who are willing to do so, and making sure the others do not starve. They may draw on our reserves to feed those who were left behind, although I would prefer that local resources be used whenever possible.”

      It was evening before the logistics were taken care of, and Israel felt more anxious than ever to be doing something. Just as he was about to propose to Marston that a covert trip to Abet might be managed without rousing too many of Jalas’s guards, he noticed something odd.

      “Do you see what I see?” he asked, nodding toward the port side of Abet, and handing over his spyglass.

      Marston took it, looked, then lowered the glass, his eyebrows raised. “Where are all the ships?”

      “That is a very good question.” He thought for a few moments. “I wonder…could Jalas be so foolish as to have sent his tribesmen away from Abet?”

      “He might if he thought the sheer number of captives he drove north could turn on their captors and take over the High Lands,” Marston answered, watching him closely.

      “It is an interesting thought, and one that leads me to believe that a little exploration of Abet under the light of Bellias is in order.”

      “That is not needed if all you wish to know is how many members of the Tribe remain in town,” a female voice called out of the darkness. There was a ripple in the company, from which emerged a woman with the lithe, elegant grace of a doe.

      Idril, Jewel of the High Lands, strode forward with three handmaidens in her wake. She looked annoyed, Israel was amused to note, her gown torn and dirty, her face showing signs of mud that had washed off none too well, her hair poking out at odd angles—in fact, everything about her was unlike the coolly collected perfection that was the norm for Idril. But more unusual than the state of her clothing was her agitation. Israel had grown accustomed to seeing an invariably placid, unemotional expression on her face.

      “Lady Idril,” he said gravely, keeping the amusement from his voice at her unkempt appearance. He knew it must be costing her pride a great deal. “So the rumors were true, then? You escaped your father’s grasp? Or did you make him see reason?”

      “Reason,” she said with a sound that in any other woman he would have called a snort. That, too, was unlike her. Idly, Israel wondered if the few weeks she’d spent in Deo’s company had cracked her cool, calm exterior. “My father wouldn’t know reason it if came up and bit him on his gigantic pink—”

      “Lady Idril, you are with us again? Blessings upon you, child.” Sandor’s voice cut across her words without effort.

      Marston choked, and bowing at Idril, murmured something about seeing to his duties.

      Idril managed to get herself under control, her features smoothing out to an expression of blithe unconcern. “Greetings, Lady Sandor. I am, as you see, although no thanks to my father. To answer your question, Israel, my father has not been smitten upon the head with the reason stick. If such a thing existed, I would happily volunteer to be the one to beat him about the head and shoulders with it. I managed to get out via the Captain’s Swain.”

      Israel blinked at the name of the seediest, rowdiest of all taverns in Abet, one frequented only by women who paid no mind to their reputation. “Via the trapdoor to the bay?” he asked, eyeing the wrinkled and filthy gown, one that bore all the signs of having been much abused.

      “Yes.” A fleeting grimace passed over her face as she lifted her chin. “My ladies were waiting for me, and assisted me ashore.”

      “Lady Idril fought us most strenuously,” one of the handmaidens piped up in a high, bell-like voice. “She does not swim, and struggled so hard when she was in the water that we had to knock her insensible in order to drag her ashore, and then we had to hide in the swineherd’s hut when Lord Jalas’s men rode past.”

      “Yes, I don’t think we need to go into all the details of my escape,” Idril said swiftly, shooting a glare at the maid in question.

      “And then she woke up just as the guard noticed Noellia outside the swineherd’s hut, so we had to knock Lady Idril senseless again because she began to yell, and the guard came in to see, but luckily, we had just pushed Lady Idril out the window into the wallow, and the pigs hid her from view. Well,” the