And in these dangerous times, Bryan knew, such black despair often translated to foolishness. Rhiannon had gone off alone, much as he had the previous night. To face danger, no doubt, probably to prove something that didn’t need proving. Bryan cursed himself repeatedly as he straightened his clothes and gathered up his other belongings. It was his fault, he believed, for he had stung Rhiannon profoundly with his words about the diminishing power of magic. Now, if anything happened to her, he knew that he would never be able to forgive himself. The young warrior found the witch’s trail easily enough in the fresh covering of light snow. She was moving north—not surprisingly—out of the Baerendils, to the wider fields where talons were still thick for the fighting. Bryan made fine progress that morning, running as often as walking, for there were few options along the rocky and broken terrain. Rhiannon was obviously traveling north, to the foothills, at least, and there were no more than a handful of trails she might follow that way, and the light snow, so revealing of even the young witch’s light step, kept Bryan running fast and true.
