20. ArrivalsTristan’s eyelids felt thick and so heavy they did not want to open. He blinked slowly, allowing soft light to filter into his vision. Above his head was rough hewn stone. He was lying on a soft, lumpy mattress, underneath a thick green blanket. The tumultuous sound of rushing water filled the air. Where was he? Dim recollections of the last few days floated just out of reach at the back of his mind.
He propped himself up on his elbows and winced in pain as he moved his leg. That memory came flooding back. The Brathadair attack, the King’s capture, their desperate flight from the Palace, and that unlucky scramble over the wall where he had been shot. This must be Torelia. He had made it after all. But how long had he been here, lying in this bed? His only indication of the tim
