breeze over Falador. It was less bitter and violent than the wind that had buffeted the land in previous weeks.
The matron mopped the girl’s feverish brow. Despite Sir Amik’s assurance that she would live, the woman’s optimism had begun to wane. Unless she woke soon, the girl would be too weak to survive.
“What is your name, child?” she asked softly. The matron had tended the sick since she was young, and she was sure that even in such a comatose state the patient would respond to her soft tones. She had spent a good deal of her time that morning singing the old nursery rhymes she had crooned to infants in her days as a midwife, hoping that the words might be familiar to the strange girl and stimulate a recovery.
But the song died on her lips when the girl suddenly turned her head. It was the first time she had moved since the knight’s prayer. Was she ready to wake?
Her eyelids remained closed, her breathing unchanged, and the matron’s heart sank. She gathered the damp rag she had used to wipe her patient’s brow and moved to leave the ward. She had just reached the door when a hard voice called out, uttering words that she did not understand, words unknown in the common tongue of men.
The patient had spoken.
Yet still she lay motionless, asleep, her breathing barely heightened from the exertion. The matron peered at her, unsure about what to do.
The girl suddenly moved again, tossing her head to one side.
That launched the woman into motion. Gathering her long skirt in her hands, she abandoned the rag on the flagstones and ran as fast as she could, down the wide staircase and across the courtyard, the winter morning cold on her face.
Theodore stood near the window overlooking the small fountains and gardens for which Taverley was famous. It was a very different place from Falador-far more peaceful, in harmony with nature. The houses reflected two styles, either thatched, wooden structures or moss-covered stone buildings that seemed to grow out of the earth itself.
He enjoyed the serenity of the town, for it did not have cobbled streets like Falador but fine earth tracks on which a horse could walk almost silently. The peace was exactly what the squire needed after the shocking scenes at the caravan.
Casting his attention outward, he surveyed the country around Taverley, looking first to the northwest, to White Wolf Mountain. He had heard tales of the huge wolves from which the mountain derived its name. Few were brave enough or foolish enough to attempt a journey over the narrow passes and into the sun-filled land of Kandarin beyond, and in winter it was said that the mountain was impassable.
To the south, a great calm lake extended as far as he could see. He remembered the tales he was told as a child, of dragons that prowled its depths, away from the prying eyes of men. As a squire, Theodore had been taught of the special equipment needed to successfully combat a dragon, and of the abilities these creatures possessed. More often they were seen on land, but they were rarely sighted in civilised regions, rather making their lairs deep underground and far north in the most distant Wilderness.
A soft voice interrupted his reverie.
“I cannot help you, Theodore,” it said. He turned to see an old man in a plain white robe, his chin boasting an even whiter beard.
“Then you have no idea where it grows?” Theodore could not hide his disappointment. He had been so sure the druids would know.
“I have consulted our specimens, but there are none that match,” Sanfew replied, handing the flower back to Theodore. “I still have some of our coven going through them, however,” he continued, speaking slowly and quietly as if he were afraid his very words might be an intrusion against nature. “If you would be happy to wait, I suggest that you explore Taverley. The calm here would do you good.”
As soon as Theodore had arrived he had relayed the message of the Imperial Guards and informed the druids of the monster’s attack on the gypsy caravan. A dozen militiamen had headed south to aid in the hunt, while the druids had offered him soothing tea to calm his nerves.
Yet still he felt a lingering panic.
“I could do with a brief rest,” he admitted gratefully to Sanfew.
“Then please, avail yourself of the opportunity,” the druid said. “Meanwhile, I have sent for Kaqemeex. He’s the most knowledgeable of our coven, although he spends much of his time in the ancient stone circles to the north. He will be here by afternoon, however, and with luck he may be able to answer all your questions.”
The manner in which Sanfew spoke drew the squire’s curiosity.
“All of my questions?” he echoed. “I have only one.”
“I thought you might have more. About the beast that stalks the countryside?”
Theodore hadn’t considered the possibility that the druids might be able to ascertain the nature of the savage creature that had committed the brutal murders. Yet the druids knew more about the world and its magical ways than they let on. It was said that they could conjure animals, compelling them to do their bidding in guarded rituals.
“Do you know anything that might help in its capture, Sanfew?” Theodore’s voice was urgent.
“You must ask Kaqemeex,” the druid replied calmly. “He hears things, from the birds and the beasts.”
Theodore nodded, content to wait, for he didn’t wish to appear rude. The druids were well known for doing things at their own pace, regardless of the pressures of the wider world. Instead, he decided that he would use the time to attend to his horse, to explore Taverley, and then to get some rest.
He had found his mare a warm stable as soon as he had arrived, and was pleased to see that a young groom had provided food and water. He found her asleep, tucked amid the warm hay that was a rare luxury in winter, her saddlebags and reins hanging nearby.
Then Theodore had only himself to look after, so he spent half an hour strolling amongst the fountains and the flower beds. He wondered whether he had time to pass through the fence to the south, to gaze upon the still waters of the partly-frozen lake.
“Squire Theodore! What are you doing here?”
Theodore recognised the youthful voice at once, and turned to see a familiar face and a shock of red hair. They belonged to a young man in a long blue robe that marked him as an apprentice to the Wizards’ Tower. The robe was too big, however, and seemed prone to being caught underfoot while the sleeves hung too far over the man’s hands.
“Castimir!”
The young apprentice bowed to the squire, but there was a look in his eye that took Theodore back to a childhood friendship that predated his own decision to dedicate his life to the knights.
Straightening, the wizard showed an eager smile.
“The druids have not ceased talking of your arrival,” he said. Then his face darkened. “Nor of the caravan.”
“That is not my concern, at least not yet,” Theodore replied, his own mood sombre for a moment. “The Imperial Guard are handling it. I will help when I am able, and when…”
“… when your duties are done.” Castimir finished Theodore’s sentence for him. “You see, young squire, I know you too well.”
“Your wits may be sharp, but how would your magic fare against the true steel of a knight?” Theodore drew his blade, the sharp sound of steel on steel reflected in the eager gleam of his eyes. He stood as if to attack the defenceless blue figure before him.
And then he laughed, lowering his weapon. It seemed as if it had been a long time since he had laughed so genuinely.
“I have moved beyond such childhood games, Theodore,” Castimir replied earnestly. “We no longer compete on the same level.” He opened his hand to reveal a dozen pebble-like stones resting in his open palm, with mysterious markings engraved upon them. The wizard smiled daringly at Theodore. “Do you think you could deliver a blow before I could stop you? Or do you lack the courage to try?”
Theodore’s eyes narrowed as he regarded his childhood friend coolly, but after a few seconds his icy demeanour evaporated and a large grin spread across his face.
“And what spell would you have used, Castimir? A fire strike?” The squire laughed again as he sheathed his
