Fletcher pushed at the door to the library. It shook on its hinges, but remained firmly closed.
‘Well, it looks like we’ve just wasted a trip downstairs. Dame Fairhaven must have locked it when the last student left for bed . . . which we should do too,’ he said, kicking the door in frustration. ‘The library can wait until after Rook’s lesson.’
‘I’m not going to bed! There’s somebody sneaking about the school at night. I’m going to find out who it is. If I can bring a traitor to justice, everyone will know that the elves are trustworthy.’
With that, she strode back down the corridor and bounded down the spiral staircase.
‘Sylva, it’s not safe for you out there! Those men who attacked you in Corcillum could be watching the castle!’
But it was too late. Sylva was gone.
Fletcher cursed as he tripped in the darkness.
‘Sylva!’ he hissed, trying to be loud and quiet at the same time. He had been following her trail for the past hour, though the thin sliver of moon in the night sky gave him barely enough light to see her trail. There was a flattened patch of grass here, a broken twig there. At one point he thought he had lost her, but the ground had been softened by a recent rain, allowing him to feel the soft indent of footprints that slowly filled with water. If he had not been a practised hunter, he would have lost her.
He could have kicked himself for not following her immediately after she had left. Instead, he had chosen to run back upstairs and get his khopesh, in case they ran into any trouble. Who would have thought she would move so fast?
Now he had reached the edge of a small forest, tall trees growing in some craggy hills half a mile from Vocans.
‘Sylva, I’m going to kill you!’
‘Not likely,’ whispered a voice from behind him.
Fletcher felt cold steel press into his back and froze.
‘I’m perfectly aware of the dangers I face because of what I am. But I refuse to live in fear, or change my behaviour to accommodate my enemies.’
Sylva stepped in front of him and flashed a long stiletto blade, not dissimilar to the one he had made in Uhtred’s forge.
‘I came prepared, of course,’ she said, smiling. ‘But Sariel is worth a bodyguard of ten men and two trackers to boot.’
As Fletcher’s pride stung from being caught unawares, Sariel wandered into view from behind a crop of rocks ahead, snuffling at the ground.
‘Sylva, let’s go back. This is none of our business! It could be Genevieve visiting her family, we know she lives near here,’ Fletcher reasoned, eager to get back to Vocans. It was freezing out there, even with his jacket on.
‘Not when we are so close,’ Sylva replied stubbornly. ‘They’re just ahead of us; come on!’
She jogged away before Fletcher could stop her. Groaning with exasperation, he followed.
The wyrdlight came into view almost immediately. It floated above a small rocky cliff, which Sylva crawled up before poking her head out to see. Her eyes widened and she motioned for Fletcher to join her.
He looked apprehensively at the muddy ground. What could Sylva possibly be seeing below that had got her in such a state? Curiosity got the better of him and he lay flat in the dirt, before sliding himself up the incline to lie beside Sylva. The front of his uniform and jacket were soon soaked with cold mud, but it was nothing compared to the cold that trickled down his spine when he saw what was below.
Othello and Solomon stood in front of a cave. There were two mounted dwarves guarding it, sitting astride boars, the chosen steeds of the dwarven people. The boars had coarse, rust-coloured fur, with heavy tusks that jutted dangerously from their snouts. They were nothing like the wild pigs that Fletcher had hunted in Pelt; these were muscled chargers, with red, baleful eyes that seemed full of rage and malice.
The dwarves themselves were armoured, with horned helms on their heads and two-handed battle-axes clenched in their fists. A bandolier of hurlbat throwing-axes hung from their saddles, deadly projectiles with an additional blade in the top of the axe and a sharpened handle.
And then they heard a clear, booming voice announce, ‘Othello Thorsager, reporting for the war council. They are expecting me.’
42
The mounted dwarves followed Othello into the cave, the clomp of the boars’ hooves echoing beneath them until the sound faded underground.
‘They must have been waiting for him. Still think it’s none of our business?’ Sylva whispered.