Cait bade him good night and watched him walk away, then went to her own tent, but found she could not sleep for thinking about Alethea. The thought of the young woman-unprepared in so many ways-wandering lost and alone in the high mountain wilderness kept her awake long into the night. She kept seeing her sister struggling through the snow, shivering, freezing, gasping out her last breath on a lonely mountainside, her pitiful cries for help unheard and unheeded.

Pangs of guilty remorse assailed her. She stared into the dwindling fire and heard again her father's dying words: Promise you will not avenge me… Let it end here.

The sun rose as a pale red blot in a darkly ominous sky, and Cait rose, too. A servant brought her a bowl of warm water, and she washed, then held the basin for a time letting the heat seep into her fingers. The rest of the camp was stirring and she heard the voices of the knights as they commenced the morning ritual of feeding, watering, and grooming the horses.

She sat clutching the bowl and listening to the knights, and her heart quailed within her. Dread, thick as the wintry mist shrouding the mountainside, swept over her. Closing her eyes, she bit her lip to keep from crying out, all the while telling herself that her distress was born of agitation and frustration, and that her spirits would improve as soon as they were on the trail once more. But, as her thoughts turned to renewing the search, she remembered those they would be leaving behind, and the stifling black desolation of the previous day descended upon her once more.

This day, she thought hopelessly, would be no different from any that had gone before: beginning in futility, ending in despair, with nothing but bone-cold monotony in between. She held little confidence that they would be able to find the place Abu had tried to describe, and even if they did, it would not make the slightest difference: Alethea would not be found and the search would go on. Indeed, the search would go on-and on and on and on for ever more without end.

She dragged herself from her tent and stood for a moment, looking up at the dark, unsettled sky. Clouds swirled on a swift east wind, but the tall pines around the camp remained untouched. The air was heavy. There would be rain or snow before day's end; she could already feel the relentless numbing cold of the trail and her sense of aching dread increased.

Rognvald appeared silently beside her. 'Caitriona.' She jumped as he spoke. 'I did not mean to startle you. I was just telling the men we should strike camp and move on. We can break fast on the trail, but I fear it would be unwise to remain at Ali Waqqar's doorstep any longer.'

'What about Paulo? Is it safe to move him?'

'Perhaps not,' allowed the lord, 'but we cannot leave him here.'

'Very well.'

He heard the defeat in her voice and said, 'Come, my lady, we must appear confident for the men.'

She looked at him and wondered at the source of his fortitude. 'Why?'

'Because,' he told her, 'they are trusting in us.'

He moved away; as she made to follow, Halhuli called to her from across the camp. He was standing before Prince Hasan's tent wearing an expression she had not seen before. She hurried to him. 'What is wrong, Halhuli?'

'The prince is not well,' he replied. 'When he did not rise this morning, I went in to wake him. I roused him with the greatest difficulty, and gave him a drink. I thought he would get up, but I went in just now to find he has fallen asleep again.'

Cait frowned. 'That is worrying.' She stooped to the entrance of the low, round tent. 'Fetch Lord Rognvald.'

The overseer hurried away, and Cait pulled back the tent flap, tied it, and stepped in. The prince was lying on his back with his head on a cushion, one arm across his chest, the other outflung. He was dressed in a loose robe, and his turban lay to one side, a small heap of winding cloth. His mouth was open, his breathing rapid and shallow.

She knelt beside him and touched her hand to his forehead-the skin was hot with fever. She took him by the shoulder and shook him gently. There was no response. She shook him again, harder this time, and called his name. The prince slept on.

She was shaking him a third time, and calling his name, when Rognvald arrived. He ducked in, regarded the sleeping prince, and said, 'Here, let us carry him outside where we can look at him properly.'

'A moment, my lord,' suggested Halhuli. He gestured to the two servants standing with him. Taking the lower edge of the tent, they unfastened the stays from the pegs and peeled back the heavy fabric, rolling it up and over the hoops. When they had finished, he ordered them to make up the fire so the prince would not grow cold.

'Open his robe,' said Cait.

Rognvald knelt beside Cait and parted the prince's robe to reveal a small red puncture in the fleshy part of the upper chest. The skin was raised and discoloured around the cut. 'He was struck by an arrow,' she said. 'I saw him brush it off.'

Rognvald pressed his fingers lightly to the wound and examined it closely. 'There was little issue of blood,' he said, sitting back on his heels. 'I have seen men endure much more and fight all the harder the next day.'

'Do you think the arrow was poisoned?' said Yngvar. He and the other knights had gathered around the stricken prince.

'Do they do such things?' wondered Cait.

'We have seen it at Bosra,' Svein assured her. 'In Horns they did this also.'

'The dogs,' spat Dag.

'Alas,' confirmed Halhuli, 'it has been known.' He placed a hand on the prince's chest. 'The skin is hot and inflamed. I think we must suspect poison.'

'The wound is not so deep,' Rognvald pointed out. 'Perhaps the poison is not of sufficient strength to kill. Could we get him back to the palace, do you think?'

Halhuli, worried, his face ashen, gazed at his lord. 'It is as Allah wills. If he is to die, then it will be. If he is to recover, then that, also, will be. Allah, the Merciful, bends all purposes to his own.'

'What do you want to do, Halhuli?' asked Cait. 'Do you want us to take him home?'

He nodded. 'I should like to try.'

'We can make a litter for him,' volunteered Yngvar.

'And drag the poor man over mountain and valley?' said Svein, outraged at the idea.

'It might be carried between two horses,' suggested Dag, 'but a sling would be better.'

'Aye,' said Svein, 'a sling would be better.' He turned up his nose at Yngvar. 'A litter! Teh!'

'Cut two stout branches,' Rognvald ordered, 'and lash them to the cantles of the saddles. We will fashion a sling.'

The knights attended to this, and the others set about striking camp. In the midst of their activity, Prince Hasan awoke. Cait turned her back on him for a moment, and when she turned around he was sitting up, taking in the bustle around him with a slightly bewildered expression. 'Are we attacked?' he asked.

'No,' replied Cait. 'You have been asleep. We could not wake you, so we are preparing to return to Al-Jelal.'

'There is no need,' replied Hasan. 'I am perfectly able to ride. We must not abandon the search on my account.'

Cait regarded him doubtfully. 'You have been wounded,' she explained. 'I do think it best to return to the palace.'

'Nonsense!' he scoffed, and made to rise.

The effort made him dizzy; he lurched forward and Caitriona caught him. 'Sit down,' she told him. 'Rest a moment.'

The prince collapsed on his bed once more. 'Ah, perhaps you are right,' he said. He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to the side of his head.

'Here, drink a little,' she said, pouring water into his horn cup; his hand shook so much as he lifted it to his mouth, that she had to steady his arm.