The sun stood high over the pass, casting white-gold in the valley. The many chances he had taken came back to him in twinges, in bursts of belated fear at all that he had risked, and images of all the ways things could have gone so very wrong. They seized at him but found no purchase. Nothing had gone wrong—not yet, at least. “Here, my lord.” He reached back for Tristan’s arm and led him to the edge of the wall. He leaned out to look down—the drop fell sheer into the dry scrub of the moat far below. The horses abandoned by the brigands wandered in a pack, grazing on the green outside the castle with their leads trailing behind them. “You must travel with the greatest caution.” Tristan felt out for the top of the wall before him. “You will be riding down the very road the Skeleth took out of this valley, and there is no telling where they will strike first.” Tom reached back to haul the carven box up onto the battlements.
