Miriel's head was aching, but the acute pain of the night before had faded to a dull ache as she rose and dressed, making her way through the cabin to the clearing where Angel was chopping logs. Stripped to the waist he was swinging the long-handled axe with practised ease, splitting the wood expertly.

He stopped as he saw her and thudded the axe into a log, then took up his shirt and strolled towards her. 'How are you feeling today?' he asked.

'I'm ready,' she told him.

He shook his head. 'I think you should rest this morning. Your colour is not good.'

There was a chill in the air and she shivered. 'They will come back,' she said.

He shrugged. 'There's not a blessed thing we can do about that, Miriel.'

'Except wait?'

'Exactly.'

'You don't seem concerned.'

'Oh, but I am. It is just that I learned long ago that there is little point in worrying about matters over which you have no control. We could flee, I suppose, but to where? We don't know where they are, and could run straight into them. At least here we have the advantage of home ground. And this is where your father expects to find us. Therefore we wait.'

'I could track them,' she offered.

He shook his head. 'Morak wasn't with them, nor was Belash. I wouldn't want to track either of them. They would have sentries watching from the high hills, or trees. They would see us coming. No, we wait for Waylander.'

'I don't like the thought of just sitting,' she said.

'I know,' he told her, stepping forward and laying his hand on her shoulder. 'It is always the hardest part. I was the same when I was waiting for the call into the arena. I could hear the clash of swords outside, smell the sand and the sawdust. I always felt ill.'

Miriel's eyes narrowed. 'There's someone coming,' she said.

He swung, but there was no one in sight. 'Where?' She pointed to the south, where a flock of doves had flown up from a tall pine. 'It could be your father.'

'It could,' she agreed, spinning on her heel and walking back into the cabin. Angel stood where he was, one hand on the porch-rail, the other resting on the leather-bound hilt of his shortsword. Miriel rejoined him, a sword belted to her waist, a baldric of throwing-knives hanging from her shoulder.

A tall man appeared at the edge of the clearing, saw them, and walked down the slope, sunlight glinting in the gold of his hair. He moved with animal grace, arrogantly, like a lord in his domain, thought Miriel, anger flaring. The newcomer was dressed in expensive buckskin, heavily fringed at the shoulders. He wore two swords, short sabres in black leather scabbards adorned with silver. His leggings were dark brown and tucked into thigh-length tan cavalry boots that had been folded down, exposing the lining of cream-coloured silk.

Coming closer he bowed to Miriel, his arm sweeping out in courtly style. 'Good morning, Miriel.'

'Do I know you?'

'Not yet, and the loss is entirely mine.' He smiled as he spoke and Miriel found herself blushing. 'Ah, Angel,' said the newcomer, as if noticing the gladiator for the first time. 'The princess and the troll … I feel as if I have stepped into a fable.'

'Really?' countered Angel. 'Seeing you makes me feel I have stepped into something altogether less pleasant.'

The man chuckled with genuine humour. 'I have missed you, old man. Nothing was the same once you left the arena. How is your . . . shop?'

'Gone, but then you knew that.'

'Yes, come to think of it someone did mention that to me. I was distressed to hear of it, of course. Well, is no one going to offer breakfast? It's a long walk from Kasyra.'

'Who is this . . . this popinjay?' asked Miriel.

'Oh yes, do introduce us, Angel, there's a good fellow.'

'This is Senta, one of the hired killers sent to murder your father.'

'Delicately put,' said Senta. 'But it should be pointed out that I am not a bowman, nor am I the kind of assassin who kills from hiding. I am a swordsman, lady, probably the best in the land.'

Miriel's fingers closed around the hilt of her sword, but Angel caught her arm. 'He may be conceited, and self-obsessed, but he is quite right,' said Angel, his eyes holding to Senta's gaze. 'He is a fine bladesman. So let us stay calm, eh? Prepare some food, Miriel.'

'For him? No!'

'Trust me,' he said softly, 'and do as I say.'

Miriel looked into his flint-coloured eyes. 'Is this what you want?'

'Yes,' he said simply.

Her hands were trembling as she carved the cold meat. She felt confused, uncertain. Angel's strength was pro­digious, and she knew he was no coward. So why was he pandering to this man? Was he frightened?

The two men were sitting at the table when she returned. Senta stood as she entered. 'You really are a vision!' he said. Her reply was short and obscene. Senta's eyes widened. 'Such language from a lady?'

Furious and embarrassed, Miriel laid down the tray of food and bit back an angry retort.

'Seen anything of Morak?' asked Angel, breaking the bread and passing a section to Senta.

'Not yet – but I sent him a message. He's got Belash with him, did you know?'

'It doesn't surprise me. What does is that you and Morak do not travel together,' said Angel. 'You are two of a kind – the same easy smiles, the same sly wit.'

'And there the resemblance ends,' said Senta. 'His heart is rotten, Angel, and his desires are vile. It hurts me that you would link us so.' He glanced at Miriel. 'This is very fine bread. My compliments.'

Miriel ignored him, but he seemed not to notice. 'Lovely area this,' he went on. 'Close to the sea, and not yet plagued by people and their filth. One day I must find myself such a home in the mountains.' He looked around him. 'Well-built, too. A lot of love and effort.' His eyes were drawn to the weapons on the wall. 'That's Kreeg's crossbow, isn't it? Well, well! His whore was missing him in Kasyra. Something tells me he won't be going back to her.'

'He was like you,' said Miriel softly. 'He thought it would be easy, but when you face Waylander the only easy part is the dying.'

Senta laughed. 'Everyone dies, beauty. Everyone. And if he is useful with a sword it might be me.'

Now it was Angel who chuckled. 'You are a strange man, Senta. What on earth makes you think Waylander will face you blade to blade? You won't even see him. All you'll feel is the bolt that cleaves into your heart. And you won't feel that for very long.'

'Well, that wouldn't be very sporting, would it?' countered Senta, his smile fading.

'I don't think he regards this as sport,' said Angel.

'How disappointing. Perhaps I misjudged him. From all I've heard he doesn't seem to be a coward.' He shrugged. 'But then these stories do tend to become exaggerated, don't they?'

'You have a curious sense of what denotes cowardice,' said Miriel. 'When a snake comes into the house a man does not lie down on his belly to fight it fang to fang. He just stamps on its head, then throws the useless carcass out into the night. One does not deal with vermin in the way one deals with men!'

Senta clapped his hands, slowly and theatrically, but anger showed in his blue eyes.

'Finish your breakfast,' said Angel softly.

'And then I am to leave, I suppose?' Senta responded, slicing a section of meat then lancing it with his knife and raising it towards his mouth.

'No, Senta, then you will die.'

The knife froze. Senta shook his head. 'I'm not being paid to kill you, old man.'

'Just as well,' said Angel. 'You wouldn't be there to collect it. I'll wait for you outside.'

The former gladiator stood and left the room. Senta glanced up at Miriel. 'It's a good breakfast. May I stay on for supper?'

'Don't kill him!'

'What?' Senta seemed genuinely surprised. 'I have no choice, beauty. He has challenged me.' He stared at her. 'Are you and he . . .? No, surely not.' He stood. 'I'm sorry. Truly. I quite like the old boy.'