The figure was female; he could see that in the smoky lines of her face and the long, flowing hair that merged with the curve of her back. From her waist down she was less distinct, though the tendrils of fog that connected her to Morghien were almost tangible. Mihn felt the colour rise to his face as he realised the figure was entirely naked, but she appeared not to notice his embarrassment. He recognised her now: Seliasei, an Aspect of Vasle, the first and strongest of Morghien's spirits.

Seliasei scrutinised Mihn for a few moments, her expression blank, then stepped forward and bent down to place her hand in the ditch water.

'Vasle is God of Rivers,' Mihn murmured to himself. He began to see Morghien's plan. These ditches are connected, he thought, and if they all have water in, Seliasei will be able to lead us safely past any guards.

Morghien was still standing with his eyes closed, as if in a trance. Mihn hoped he'd be able to wake Morghien if anyone did come.

Apparently satisfied with whatever she felt in the water, Seliasei straightened and drifted forward. Mihn saw the hint of legs walking, but her movement was too graceful and ethereal to be human. As Seliasei moved out from the darkness and into the faint light, she dissipated until she was little more than a suggestion in the air. Mihn thought the guards, whose night sight had probably been ruined by the lanterns that adorned the whole compound – and who would probably have sneaked a drink or two to celebrate Meqao's Day – would dismiss anything they saw as fancy. Even if they didn't, were they really going to run to their commander claiming they had seen a ghost?

Mihn watched Seliasei as the Aspect, followed closely by Morghien, made her way around the earthwork and disappeared from view, then he shook himself and followed them until they reached a corner of the compound that was, according to Xeliath's description, in easy reach of her bedroom.

Less than a hundred yards away stood a great circle of tents where the household were celebrating Meqao's Day. Mihn could hear voices raised, haunting and beautiful in the cool summer air. He smiled slightly, remembering how much he had enjoyed feast days as a child. Without thinking, his lips began to move and silently join in. The song the Yeetatchen were singing was one of the oldest known, written before the Great War, when Amavoq and her Aspects regu¬larly walked among the Yeetatchen people. The rapturous silence that greeted the singers at its close tugged at his heart.

'Well, lad,' Morghien said at last, 'up you climb.' He gestured to the fat creeper entwined around the oak-bough wall.

Mihn gave the creeper an experimental tug. It seemed sound. 'I hope she's right about being able to make it out of here by herself,' he whispered. 'I don't fancy having to lower a white-eye down on my rope.' He checked again for servants or guards, then began to climb. There were plenty of handholds and within half a minute he'd slipped a knife up between the shutters and opened the catch.

He looked down at Morghien, barely seen in the shadow of the wall, who nodded. Mihn pushed open the window and slid over the window sill onto a large rug. He looked around, cataloguing the spar¬tan room. There was an ornately carved bed, with posts carved like bent branches, leading up to a canopy of leaves above, and a massive chest along the wall opposite the bed.

The only personal details Mihn could see were a silver-backed hair¬brush on the chest and a stuffed horse, a child's toy, on the foot of the bed. Mihn took a step towards it; the small horse looked old and well loved. No doubt Xeliath kept it still because she could no longer ride in real life, something any Yeetatchen would mourn.

A sound came from the bed, hoarse and strained, as if the voice was rarely used. Mihn thought perhaps it was his name being spoken, but he couldn't be sure. He took a step closer, still not able to make out who was under the dark blankets. He was afraid to speak in case they had made a mistake and he was in the wrong room.

The person in the bed moved and suddenly a soft light spread out over the blanket. Mihn froze; he'd spent enough time around Isak to know this wasn't lamplight.

'Xeliath?' he whispered. The light grew, mapping out the lines of her body under the blanket.

'You are Mihn?' she croaked, her hand twitching as she struggled to prop herself up. He strained to hear the musical notes of the Yeetatchen dialect, but she sounded more like a withered old woman than a girl in her prime. He tried to reply, but the words caught in his throat for a moment as he studied the ruin of her face in the magical light. Her short-cropped hair exposed her left side, and the damaged flesh, the slack muscles underneath trembling occasionally, on the brink of spasm. The eyelid drooping over her left eye hid the tiny pupil, and made the bright white iris of her right eye all the more startling.

'I – yes, I'm Mihn,' he said before realising that he'd spoken in his original tongue, a language he'd not used aloud in years. He repeated the words in Yeetatchen and saw the beginnings of a smile.

'He didn't say you'd be handsome.'

Mihn looked down, caught between embarrassment and amuse¬ment. 'Somehow that doesn't surprise me.' A floorboard outside the room creaked and the latch clicked, and Mihn covered the ground in two quick steps to reach the person entering. He smashed an elbow into the person's head, a boy, he saw, who dropped like a stone. Mihn caught him just before he clattered to the floor and eased him quietly to the ground, then closed and bolted the door against further inter¬ruptions.

Xeliath grunted in effort as she tried to get up, but Mihn ignored her while he checked out the servant boy. He was out cold, but hadn't suffered any lasting damage. Mihn pulled a length of rope from around his waist and a cloth from around his arm and soon had the youth bound and gagged. Then he took the boy's small knife from his belt and shoved him under the bed.

'Are you finished now?' Xeliath asked.

'Not quite.' He worked the chest onto the rug, then dragged it to the door. Like that it wouldn't be enough to stop a determined man, but Mihn was inventive: he jammed the servant's knife and one of his own spare blades between the floorboards right up against the chest so it was wedged tight up against the door – it wouldn't hold forever, but it would give them a few precious minutes. He chuckled to himself. Close inspection of his knife would show its local origin, courtesy of the merchant who had unwittingly provided it a few days before. A little bit of luck and a few hot tempers should send the chase in entirely the wrong direction.

Xeliath had succeeded in pushing back the blankets. Laid out next to her was a man's riding jerkin and trousers. 'You'll have to help me dress myself,' she said, her voice a little stronger than it had been at first. She pulled feebly at the cotton shift she wore. 'I can't manage alone.'

'My Lady-' he began, before his heart melted. She's a white-eye who's been crippled, he reminded himself. She'll have been stronger than any normal man under her father's command until her destiny was linked with lsak's; this must be doubly painful. 'I understand, my Lady.'

He went about the task as gently as time permitted, and Xeliath never made a sound, even though her pain was written on her face. Her right side looked perfect, but her left arm was curled in on itself, the tight fist bent around something hard and smooth, pushing the knuckles against her bony hip. The arm was the most damaged part of her body, as if whatever had happened had started in her fist, then spread. Her leg was not badly affected, but it was wasted from under-use, the veins showing clearly through the dry, flaky skin. She stared intently at the pattern of oak and elm leaves carved into the canopy, enduring the manhandling with her lips pinched together.