Elaaron …
Elaaron …
He straightened from his examination of Jamion’s dirt map and looked toward the sound of approaching hooves. The icy dread that had invaded his gut three days ago tightened its grip. A wide search of the area had not revealed any sign of Irenya and Mikey. Heavy rain had doubtless washed away their traces. Jamion thought otherwise, and had drawn the map to clarify his thinking.
‘Rain will not remove every trace. I do not believe they have come this way.’
The first rider galloped around a bend, scattering the milling guards. The aquamarine trim on the rider’s jacket identified him.
‘One of mine,’ said Lucan.
A second guard rounded the bend, the gold trim of Ilketh flashing in the sunshine.
Both riders reined in and leapt from their lathered mounts. ‘Your Grace …
