“Let them see you,” the Inkallim said quietly.
The rider straightened a little, not enough to take the bend entirely out of his spine, and slipped back his hood with one hand. The revealed face was pale and angular. He stared down at the Nar Vay men. There was silence and then, haltingly, a few murmurs of surprise, of recognition.
“Some of you know him,” the Inkallim said, and smiled bleakly. “Those who do not: this is your High Thane’s Chancellor. This is Mordyn Jerain. And you are his escort. We give you your freedom, that you may return this man to Vaymouth, and to his place at the side of Gryvan oc Haig.”
The prisoners looked at one another, uncertain and hesitant. This was too out of line with the fatalism that had mastered them, too unexpected. They thought they had misheard her.
“You will be renowned,” she said, “as the men who brought back the Shadowhand.”
They looked up at the sickly, bent figure on the horse. And Mordyn Jerain smiled down at them. It was an unnerving, lifeless smile.
“Take me to Vaymouth. There are many things I must discuss with the Thane of Thanes. Many things.”