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bottles to be brought and laid against him.
    For a while Rhiannon was content to sit and drink her soup, watching as the sleeping child was expertly cared for, but as soon as her cup was empty she remembered Blackthorn. It was in her mind to slip away and tend her mare in private, but the moment she pushed aside her blanket and stood up, three swords hissed out of their scabbards and were brought to bear upon her.
    ‘I bid ye stay,’ the woman said, ‘and tell us what ye ken.’
    Her voice was calm, even conversational, but the look in her hazel-green eyes was whetted sharp as the blades at Rhiannon’s breast. On her shoulder was perched a tiny black cat with long tufted ears and turquoise-coloured eyes. It hissed, showing very sharp pointed teeth.
    ‘I must tend my mare,’ Rhiannon said.
    Jay the Fiddler and the woman – who could only be the sorceress they called Finn the Cat – exchanged a quick glance. ‘Ye are the girl who flies the winged mare, are ye no’?’ Finn asked. As Rhiannon nodded, she continued, ‘The one who killed Connor?’
    Rhiannon nodded again, warily.
    ‘My men will tend the mare. Ye will stay here.’
    ‘My mare will no’ allow these soldiers to approach her,’ Rhiannon said, raising her chin. ‘Besides, ye have no right to tell me to stay or go. I fly on the Banrìgh’s business.’
    ‘Do ye just?’ Jay said quietly, and again there was that quick flick of a glance between him and the sorceress. On his face there was only a gentle consideration, a sort of open watchfulness, as if he was waiting for some sign from her, some sudden movement. Finn’s face was more guarded.
    ‘Aye, I do,’ Rhiannon said angrily. ‘She sent me to rescue Roden, and that I have done.’
    ‘She sent ye ? When she knew I was on the trail?’ Finn sounded affronted.
    ‘Aye, she did. Blackthorn and me, we are fast. We fly high above the world while ye must slog around down below. She kent I would save him, and I have.’ Rhiannon was aware that it may have been wise to moderate her tone, but she was cold and weary and she did not like having swords poked at her when she had just done a brave and clever thing.
    Rhiannon knew that the sorceress had good cause to dislike her. After all, the man she had killed had been a dear childhood friend of Finn and Jay’s. They had both sat through her trial for his murder with their hands clenched about the gold medals they wore, symbol of their membership of the League of the Healing Hand, a gang of beggar children who had banded together to help Lachlan the Winged gain his throne. There were only four members of that original gang left – Jay and Finn, now married and working in service of the Coven; Captain Dillon of the Rìgh’s own guard; and Johanna, who had been head of the healers until betraying the Rìgh to his death and abducting his son and heir, Donncan. Johanna had wanted Rhiannon to hang for Connor’s death. It was the news that Lachlan had planned to pardon Rhiannon that had driven her to help his murderers.
    Finn and Jay must hate her too. They must have wanted her to hang. Rhiannon did not want to be near them. Every muscle in her body was rigid with nervous tension. If it had not been for the need to bring Roden to shelter as soon as possible, she would never have come near them. She wished she had not had to kill their friend. She was sorry Connor’s death had caused so much grief.But that was the nature of life. People were born, people died. Sometimes they died out of time. He had been a soldier in the Rìgh’s service and must have known the risks of riding into the wilds. She ran the same risk now, chasing after the lord of Fettercairn.
    Finn was scowling, her hands on her hips. Rhiannon glared back at her. The tiny black cat on Finn’s shoulder hissed furiously. Rhiannon hissed back.
    Unexpectedly Finn’s face relaxed, and she put up one hand to soothe the elven cat. ‘So Her Majesty has pressed ye into service, has she? Have ye