〃Don't wait too long to follow me；〃 was all Einskaldir said。 A moment later he had dashed away down the riverbed toward the great arch； the flame held high over his head。 Arrow hissed past his panions as the Rimmersman； now only a leaping spot of light； swerved and dodged。 〃Go！ Up and run！〃Josua cried。 〃Help the one nearest you。 Run！''' Someone was shouting in an alien tongue…indeed； the whole forest seemed suddenly alive with noise。 Deornoth reached down and caught at Sanfugol's arm； dragging the wounded harper to his feet； and together they plunged through the overhanging greenery after the dwindling spark of Einskaldir's torch。
Branches slapped at their faces and snatched at their eyes with cruel talons。 Another shout of pain rang out before them and the shrill cries redoubled。 Deornoth turned to look briefly over his shoulder。 A swarm of pale shapes were sweeping forward over the misty ground； faces whose pitchy eyes filled him with despair； even from afar。
Something struck the side of Deornoth's head violently； staggering him。 He could hear Sangfugol sobbing in pain as the harper tugged at his elbow。 For a long moment it seemed to the knight that it would be easier just to lie on the ground。
〃Merciful Aedon； give me rest；〃 he heard himself praying； 〃in Your arms will I sleep； upon Thy bosom I will take my peace 。。。〃 but Sangfugol would not stop pulling at him。 Dazed； irritated； he stumbled to his feet once more and saw a scatter of stars gleaming through the treetops。
Not enough light to see under the hill； he thought； then noticed he was running again。 But running or not； Deornoth thought； he and Sangfugol were moving very slowly： the dark smear on the hillside didn't seem to be getting any closer。 He put his head down and watched his feet； dim； shadowy shapes slipping on the muddy streambed。
My head。 I've hurt my head again 。 。 。
The next thing Deornoth knew； he had plunged into darkness as abruptly as if someone had thrown a sack over him。 He felt more hands take his elbows and help him forward。 His head felt curiously light and empty。
〃There's the torch； ahead；〃 someone said nearby。
That sounds like Josua's voice； Deornoth decided。 Is he under the sack； too？
He staggered on a few steps and saw a light glowing。 He looked down； trying to make sense of it all。 Einskaldir sat on the ground； leaning against a stone wall that rose and curved overhead。 The Rimmersman held a torch in his hand。 There was blood in his beard。
〃Take this；〃 Einskaldir said to no one in particular。 〃I've got。 。 。 arrow in 。。。 back。 Can't 。 。 。 breathe 。 。 。〃 He sagged slowly forward against Josua's leg。 It looked so odd that Deornoth tried to laugh； but couldn't。 The empty feeling was spreading。 He bent forward to help Einskaldir； but instead found himself down a deep black hole。
〃Usires save us； look at Deornoth's head！〃 someone cried。 He didn't recognize the voice； and wondered who it was they were so upset about 。 。 。 Then the darkness had returned and it was hard to think。 The hole that he had fallen into seemed very deep indeed。
Rachel the Dragon； the Hayholt's Mistress of Chambermaids； lifted her bundle of wet linens higher on her shoulders； trying to find the balance least trying to her aching back。 It was useless； of course： there would be no ending to the pain until God the Father gathered her up to Heaven。
Rachel was feeling distinctly un…Dragonlike。 The chambermaids who had given her the name long ago； when the force of Rachel's will had been all that stood between the age…old Hayholt and the tides of decay； would have been surprised to see her as she was now…a bent； plaining old woman。 She was surprised herself。 A chance reflection in a silver serving tray one recent morning had shown her a gaunt…faced harridan with dark…circled eyes。 It had been many a long year since she had thought much about her looks； but still； this seemed a shocking transformation。
Had it been only four months since Simon died？ It felt like years。 That had been the day when she felt things beginning to slip away from her。 She had always lorded over the Hayholt's vast household like a tyrant river…captain； but despite her young charges' whispered plaints； the work had always gotten done。 Mutinous talk had never bothered Rachel much； in any case： she knew that life was but a long struggle against disorder； and that disorder was the inevitable winner。 Rather than leading her to accept the futility of her role； however； this knowledge instead had whipped Rachel on to greater resistance。 Her parents' fierce northern Aedonite faith had taught her that the more hopeless the struggle； the more crucial it was to struggle valiantly。 But some of the life had leaked out of her when Simon died in the smoking inferno that had been Doctor Morgenes' chambers。
Not that he had been a well…behaved boy…no； far from it。 Simon had been willful and disobedient； a woolgatherer and a mooncalf。 He had； however； brought a certain irritating liveliness to Rachel's life。 She would have even weled the sputtering rages into which he provoked her…if only he were still here。
In fact； it was still hard to believe he was dead。 Nothing could have survived the firing of the Doctor's quarters…caused when some of Morgenes' devilish potions had caught flame； or so members of the king's Erkynguards had informed her。 The fused wreckage and shattered beams made it impossible to suppose anyone in the room could have lived for more than a few moments。 But she could not feel that he was really dead。 She had been almost a mother to the boy； had she not？ Raised him…with the help of her chambermaids； of course…since his first hour； when his mother had died in childbirth despite all Doctor Morgenes' attempts to save her。 So shouldn't Rachel know if he was truly gone？ Shouldn't she feel the final severing of the cord that had bound her to that stupid； addle…pated； gawky boy？
Oh； merciful Rhiap； she thought； are you crying again； old woman？ Your brains have gone soft as sweetmeats。
Rachel knew of other domestics who had lost actual birth…children and still talked about them as if they were alive； so why should she feel any differently about Simon？ It didn't change anything。 The boy was undeniably dead； killed by his love for hanging about with that mad alchemist Morgenes； and that was that。
But things had certainly seemed to go wrong since then。 A cloud had descended on her beloved Hayholt； a fog of disfort that crept into every corner。 The battle against untidiness and dirt had swung against her； being lately a thoroughgoing rout。 All this； despite the fact that the castle seemed emptier than it had any time she could remember…at least at night。 In daylight； when the clouded sun shone through the high windows and lit the gardens and mons； the Hayholt was still a knot of activity。 In fact； with the Thrithings mercenaries and South Islanders now flooding in to replace the soldiers Elias had lost at Naglimund； the castle's environs were noisier than ever。 Several of her girls； frightened by the scarred； tattooed Thrithings…men and their rough manners； had left the Hayholt entirely to live with country relatives。 To Rachel's disgust and increasing dismay； despite the hordes of hungry mendicants roaming Erchester and camped around the walls of the Hayholt itself； it was almost impossible to replace the departing chambermaids。
But Rachel knew that it was not just the castle's wild new inhabitants that made it hard to find new girls。 Crowded with brawling soldiers and disdainful nobles as it was during the light of day； by night the Hayholt seemed as uninhabited as the graveyard beyond Erchester's walls。 Echoes and strange voices floated through the corridors。 Footfalls sounded where no one walked。 Rachel and her remaining wards now locked themselves in at night。 Rachel told them it was to keep out the drunken soldiery； but she and her chambermaids both knew that the carefully…checked door bolt and shared prayers before retiring did not e from fear of anything as easy to name as a besotted Thrithings…man。
Even stranger…although she would never； never admit it to her Blessed…Rhiap…preserve…them charges…Rachel