"WHY is it so quiet?" Maerad asked.  "Is it always like this around here?"

"No, it's not.  I don't like it," Cadvan said.  "There are birds, very high up.  I can't see what they are.  Perhaps they watch us.  It's like the quiet before a storm, but there will be no storm tonight.  Tomorrow, perhaps, I think.  No, it's something else."

"Can you guess what it might be?"

"Yes.  But I might be wrong.  What I guess is that the Landrost has sent his messengers out, and that the hunt is on.  I have only seen crows today, all other birds are in hiding."

"The hunt?" said Maerad, faltering.  She realised Cadvan was correct about the crows; she had seen no other birds all day. 

They were steering South East, with the mountains on their right and the forest on their left.  The sky was clear and cold, a high pale blue, and all through the morning the sun scarcely warmed them.  All around them the earth was alive with the pale green of early spring; snowdrops and jonquils pushed through the tangled herbs and grasses, and marjorams and wild mints released sharp fragrances as they bruised beneath their feet.  Low thorny trees and scruffy clumps of pines grew in the lees of the hills, bent by the winds, surrounded by tangles of gorse and bramble.  Everywhere crept a pale blue flower shaped like a star, which Cadvan said was called aëlorgalen.  "Dawnflower, in the Speech," Cadvan explained.  "It only grows this far North."  Maerad tried repeating the name, but found that her tongue tripped over it, and afterwards she couldn't remember it at all. 

It was a beautiful countryside, but Maerad thought it curiously lonely.  Their footsteps sounded loudly in the emptiness; they seemed the only things that moved as far as the eye could see.  There was no sign of habitation anywhere, although strange grass-covered ridges and mounds, which seemed too regular to be natural, constantly threatened to trip her up: perhaps they were remains of buildings long vanished.  And she saw no animals - once some rabbits propping and running in the distance, but that was all. 

"I thought the Landrost was just a mountain," she said, looking back at its high snow-tipped peak.  "You talk as if it were a man... and what's the hunt?"

"The Landrost is a power, yes, a person... the mountain is merely his dwelling.  He is not a man, and never was."

"Like the Nameless One?" said Maerad.

"Not so powerful as him: although the Nameless was once a man, even as I am.  He is but one of his slaves.  I will not speak his name here, although I know it."  Cadvan paused, and Maerad noticed again the exhaustion on his face: it was, she saw, a deep exhaustion born of long struggle and pain.  "He captured me, and held me in his fastness, deep in the mountain.  I saw things there that he would rather I did not know, because in his pride he thought to make me tremble before I died.  But I escaped, and his vengefulness is deadly, and we are not beyond his reach, not yet.  I only just held him back in the valley, with your help: he would have brought the mountain down on us, else.  His power wanes the further we go, but here we are still too close. 

"He does not easily countenance escape from his claws.  I think he sends out the Wers, and that is why it is quiet.  Their shadows track us, although they can do nothing while the sun still shines.  Only in the dark can they take their forms.  It will be a bad night."

He was silent for some time.  His words seemed to magnify the stillness around them, and Maerad again looked around her uneasily.  The landscape seemed peaceful and unthreatening, but some more subtle sense told her otherwise.  Her skin began to creep with an indefinable dread.

"Maerad," said Cadvan at last.  "I think I should have left you, rather than draw you into my own danger.  I didn't think enough, when I stumbled across you in that cot.  I was too astonished, and too weary.  And now it is too late to turn back."

"No," said Maerad warmly.  She thought of the suffocating despair of Gilman's Cot.  At least here, now, she could breathe freely.  "No, you were right to ask me to leave.  I would rather die than stay there."

"Well, you might die," said Cadvan. 

"At least I won't die a slave," Maerad answered.  Proud words, she thought to herself; but she meant them.
 
 
 
 

Cadvan pushed the pace and they walked in silence, wrapped in their own thoughts.

Maerad still couldn't quite believe she had escaped the cot; every now and then she caught herself thinking idly that she should be performing some task - weeding the fields or churning butter or spinning the rough wool which made all their clothes - and then she would catch herself, with a tiny shock: perhaps she would never have to do any of those things again.  Even with the increasing sense of watchfulness, a feeling that the very stones were spying on them, the present moment overwhelmed her.  She couldn't imagine anything more amazing than the mere fact of her freedom.  Where she was going, or why, were questions she couldn't even contemplate.  And this Cadvan - who was he?  Why did she have this strange feeling she could trust him?  She knew nothing about him.  She had never trusted a man before, save Mirlad, and even that trust had taken years to establish.  Why start now? 

They stopped for the midday meal beside one of the many streamlets that ran down from the mountains.  Maerad's ankle was beginning to swell and she eased it out from the boot and held it in her hands, massaging the muscle. 

"It hurts?" asked Cadvan.  "Let me see."  He took her foot in his hands and gently turned it.  "It's a little swollen.  Nothing very bad.  Now, breathe in."  He pressed his hand hard over her ankle and Maerad gasped with pain; then she gasped again, because the swelling and pain had vanished. 

"It's gone!" she said.  "Are you a healer as well?"

"All Bards are healers," said Cadvan softly, still holding her foot.  "You should have shown me before."  He smiled at her, and Maerad felt suddenly uneasy and withdrew her foot abruptly, wriggling her toes in relief. 

"What's happening?" she asked.  "I mean, there's so much I don't understand.  Maybe I could help?"  She looked up at him from under her tangled hair.  "You said you were wounded, but I can't see any wounds on you.  Did you heal yourself, too?"

Cadvan stood up and squinted at the sun.  "We should move on," he said.  "I'll tell you things in time, Maerad.  I was sent here on a secret task, and I am not at liberty to tell you everything.  But yes, I was wounded, and no, I couldn't heal myself.  It's not a wound you can see.  I am weaker than I should be, here without protection in the wild."

"But you can trust me," said Maerad, beginning to feel angry.  "You said so yourself.  And if you're in danger, then so am I, if I am travelling with you.  So you owe it to me."

"I owe you nothing, Maerad."  Cadvan's voice was even, but Maerad saw the flash in his eyes.

"You wouldn't have got out of the valley without me," she said.  "You said so yourself.  What was it in the valley?"

"Peace!" said Cadvan harshly, and his face closed against her.  "Maerad, you are a child.  Don't bother me with all these questions, at least not now.  We have a long way to go."

Maerad was suddenly furious.  "And who are you?" She didn't care that she was shouting, although her voice echoed loudly in the empty land around them.  "You turn up out of nowhere in rags and then expect me to believe you're some kind of grand person from the South, with your talk of Bards and magic?  You could just be a tinker full of tricks, for all I know.  And then you tell me I'm just a child, go sit in the corner and be quiet.  Shut up Maerad, you'll find out later!  I'm not a child.  I'm sixteen summers old!"

"There are more important things than the vanity of a young girl," Cadvan said coldly.  Maerad realised she was standing before him, her fists clenched, trembling with anger.  She flushed. 

"I'm not a child," she said again, but with less conviction.  All at once she felt very childish.  Cadvan looked weary, but his eyes were hard.  He turned and began to walk away.  Maerad paused a while, and then followed him, afraid of being left behind in this eerie silence.  He was walking very fast and she had to run to catch up.  When she did, she didn't draw even with him, but walked just behind.  Her temper had ebbed as suddenly as it had appeared, but she didn't want to apologise. 

They walked in stubborn silence for more than two hours.  The sun was warm on their backs now, and Maerad was tiring.  Cadvan kept the pace fast, and she was by no means used to this punishing trekking, no matter how trained she was to hard labour.  She was too proud to ask him to slow down, and gritted her teeth.  She was beginning to hate his straight, unbending back, always before her, always unforgiving.  And there were still hours to go before sunset, when presumably they would stop, although it was quite possible that Cadvan would insist they keep going through the night.  She had just swapped one tyrant for another...  When they got to this place they were going, Norloch or whatever it was called, maybe she could find her own way through the world.  For the moment she was stuck with him.  Sweat trickled down her face.  She was thirsty as well, and Cadvan had the water bag. 

"We're making good pace," said Cadvan, turning at last.  Maerad scowled at him, and he looked surprised.  "Are you still angry?  Put anger aside, child.  It's no use." 

"I'm not a child, I said," said Maerad sullenly.  "Stop treating me like an idiot."

"If you are not a child, don't behave like one," Cadvan snapped.  He turned to move off, then stopped, sighing, and turned back to her, holding out his hand.   "Maerad, this is ridiculous.  I'm sorry.  I'm used to travelling alone.  If I have been less than courteous to you, forgive me.  I'm tired, and we have a long way to go unhoused.  And this place worries me, I don't want to be out in the open tonight.  Let's stop this bickering, yes?"

He held out his hand, and slowly Maerad took it and nodded, swallowing.  She felt ungracious, hot and sulky under Cadvan's grave gaze.

"I need your help," he said.  "Maerad, be sure there are things that I will tell you, when it is the right time, and that I don't tell you now because I can't bear to, not because I think little of you.  And there are other things I can't tell you, because I may not."

"As you like," said Maerad.  Suddenly she didn't care.  Let him have his secrets.

He gestured Southwards.  "I want to get to a place I know before nightfall," he said.  "It's not a protection, like the Irihel, but it will be safer than the open.  It's still a league or more hence and the afternoon is half gone.  That's why I hurry."

"Can I have a drink of water, please, before we start again?" asked Maerad.

He pulled the waterbag out of his pack and handed it to her, drinking some himself.  Then they began their trekking again.
 
 
 
 

Cadvan led them closer to the mountains, and towards nightfall began to steer towards what looked like a spike or a standing stone set high on a small, oddly round hill.  As they neared it, Maerad saw it was a ruin, bare even of moss, with empty slits for windows.  It was getting late; the sun already threw the long shadows of the mountains over them, and Maerad could feel the chill of early dew.  The land was now completely silent, and it frightened her: she felt as if the unseen hunt was drawing in, crouching, preparing for attack.  She thought she would like it better if she could see what tracked them.  This invisible stalking was unnerving. 

As they walked up the hill, slipping a little on the smooth turf, she asked what the ruin was.

"It used to be a guardhouse," answered Cadvan.  "Nothing else stands here, but this.  We did well to make it by now."

"What did it guard?" asked Maerad in wonder.

"A great city," Cadvan said.  "Its name is now long forgotten.  Before the Silence this was a rich and populous country.  The Nameless razed even the memory of this place, and took all its palaces and gardens down stone by stone.  Save this place.  Perhaps it had a use for him."

They passed under a thick granite lintel into the roofless ruin.  It had been a small tower, about fourteen feet square, and once a stair had led to a lookout high above.  For the most part the walls, made of huge stones cunningly fitted together without cement of any kind, still stood high, although the roof had collapsed and the stairs and floors had long rotted, leaving the marks of fireplaces high on the walls where rooms once had been.  There was only one doorway, and the slitted windows were set high up in the walls.  Cadvan threw down his pack.

"We have but little time, and we must use it well, if we are to survive the night," he said.  "Fire is our hope.  We need wood, quickly, before it grows dark."

They left the tower and went wood gathering.  Around the base of the hill grew some thorn trees, and two had been uprooted in some winter storm.  "Dry, perfect firewood," Cadvan said.  "I think there will be enough here."  Maerad had opened her mouth to ask how they were to chop firewood with their bare hands when Cadvan drew a sword from beneath his cloak.  "Forgive me, Arnost, for putting you to such usage!" he said, and began to hack the dead wood as easily as if he cut bread.

"I didn't know you had a sword," said Maerad.  "I never saw it before!"  Suddenly she felt almost lighthearted, as if they were preparing a bonfire for a party.

"There is much you don't know about me," Cadvan said.  "Pray that you get the chance to find it out!  Now hurry!"

Catching Cadvan's urgency, Maerad dragged bundles of branches up the hill, and soon, after he had split the trees, he helped her.  It was difficult work, as she kept slipping on the smooth turf.  Before long they had a high pile of firewood inside the old guardhouse.  Cadvan eyed it critically.  "It will do," he said.  "It will have to.  It is almost dark.  Gather some more branches while there's time.  I have something else to do." 

He drew a small, curiously shaped dagger and began to score a deep line around the base of the hill, and as she lugged more firewood to the guardhouse Maerad could hear him chanting words in the Speech in a low rhythmical monotone.  When he had circled the whole hill, he stood still and lifted his arms up to the sky.  Again he seemed to be illuminated by a strange light and for a second Maerad saw a ring of white flame leap around the tower; but then she blinked, and it was gone, and she thought it must have been a trick of the vanishing light. 

She went inside the guardhouse.  The pile of wood was high, and the sun was just now slipping over the horizon.  Inside it was almost completely dark.

Cadvan joined her and immediately knelt down and made a small pile of kindling by the door.  Then, stretching out his hand, his two forefingers stiffened, he said: "Noroch!"  A tiny white flame lit on the kindling and spread, and he tended it, building the fire swiftly until Maerad was forced to stand by the opposite wall because of the heat. 

"It's a bit like saying, here we are," she said.  "Don't you think?"

"And you think they don't know we're here?" 

"What happens when it's dark?"

"In the dark the Wers hold their power," said Cadvan.  "They will fear this fire.  They cannot break the stone.  I don't believe they will break the barrier I have made.  We have - I think - enough wood to last until morning.  Now, Maerad, I know this is not a good time to ask you, but can you fight with a knife?"

Maerad did, in fact, own a dagger she had stolen from one of the Thane's men and kept secretly in her belt next to her skin.  "I can try," she said.  "I've never really fought with one."  She showed Cadvan the dagger and he examined it swiftly. 

"It's of rough make, but serviceable, and your size," he said.  "If you are attacked, go for the eyes, if you can, and remember to hold it firm in your fist, like this, so it will drive in.  I'll have to give you lessons in swordcraft when we are in a less tight spot." 

Maerad felt her stomach tighten.  "What will attack us?" she asked.  What use was a knife against shadows?

"I don't know, yet," said Cadvan.  "But remember, although they are of the Dark, they can be killed.  Their worst weapon is fear.  Hold back the fear with everything you have.  And only fight if you are attacked.  Otherwise, leave any fighting to me."

He drew his sword and the faint ringing sound echoed off the stone.  The fire snapped and cracked, throwing strange shadows over the ancient walls, leaping up into the abyss above them.  Maerad could see no sky through the roof, only an impenetrable darkness.  Cadvan stretched, and then reached for his pack.  "But for now, I am ravenous!" he said.  He tossed Maerad a biscuit and some nuts and fruit, and they ate, their backs to the walls, their feet stretched out to the fire, their faces glowing in the heat.  Maerad could hear the silence of the empty land around them, stretching for miles beyond the friendly popping of the firewood.  It bore down on her, like a weight.  And then, the sound she feared: a long, drawn out howl.  She almost dropped her biscuit with fright, but Cadvan appeared unmoved.

"The sun has set," he said.

"Wolfwers?" she whispered.

"Yes, for the meantime.  The hunt is starting.  They will take a little time to work out what to do about the barrier.  It's white fire.  The Dark cannot pass it without breaking its power, and that will not be easy.  You should get some sleep."

The howl came again, and then was answered. 

"Sleep? Now?"

"Why not?  I will watch."  Cadvan turned and grinned at her.  "Be assured I won't let you miss any fireworks.  Remember: fear is their worst weapon."

Maerad obediently lay down and closed her eyes.  She tried to act as if she were not afraid, she tried to relax, but it was difficult, out in the wild, on a broken stone floor, with Wers howling for her blood sent by some black magician...  She ached all over with weariness after the hard walk that day , and the fire was so warm.  But her body sang with tension, and would not let her sleep.  After a while she stopped trying and sat up, drawing closer to Cadvan, who nodded, but said nothing. 

The Bard sat very still beside her, carefully feeding the fire.  His face relaxed: he might have been asleep, apart from the watchfulness of his eyes.  His sword lay drawn by his feet. 

The Wers were circling the hill.  Maerad and Cadvan could hear their feet padding, around and around, trying to find a way past the barrier.  Cadvan listened hard and counted maybe twenty.  Every now and then one would stop and howl, a long ululation that froze the blood, a sound of utter desolation born out of long years of horror and emptiness.  The cries hit Maerad in the pit of her stomach.  They seemed to her the very sound of un-life, of creatures neither dead nor alive, but caught in a tormenting void between, condemned to envy and hatred of everything that joyed in existence.  She shuddered with nausea.  Cadvan continued to feed the fire, apparently unmoved.  Then they heard the Wers bunch together, and Cadvan reached for his sword.  "They're going to rush the barrier," he whispered.

Maerad's pulse was hammering in her ears; she clutched her dagger until her knuckles were white.  She listened to the heavy thunder of the Wers' paws, and their breaths, and the collisions as they hurled themselves; but the barrier held, and they were repulsed, howling.  Cadvan relaxed, and sat back. 

"First game to us," he said to Maerad.  She saw the flash of his grin through the leaping shadows.

The Wers' assault on the barrier lasted for more than an hour: an interminable attack, as they threw themselves again and again at the enchantment, or tried to break it with their claws and teeth.  Cadvan and Maerad sat in silence the entire time.  Cadvan's barrier held good: they were not strong enough to break it, and he wanted them to tire themselves in useless assault.  He hoped that they would hurl themselves against it all night.  Then they stopped their rushing, and he heard one Wer, the leader he guessed, begin to howl: but a different howl this time, a thin, almost human wail, with words in it.  It started low and quiet, but as time went by it grew louder and more insistent. 

"The Wer leader is making a counter spell," Cadvan said.  "We're unlucky.  It's rare for a Wer to know sorceries."

Maerad met his eyes, fear clutching her afresh.  "What does that mean?" 

"Either my spell is good, or it is not.  There is nothing we can do except wait to see if it holds."

Cadvan picked up his sword and waited, tense.  Maerad felt the power outside build.  It gathered at the weakest part of the barrier, the join, like an evil black blade seeming to force itself into Cadvan's mind.  He fought back, his jaw set, the sweat starting on his forehead, and Maerad watched him with mounting anxiety.  The voice built to a crescendo, an unbearable pitch of sound, and then suddenly came a noiseless explosion, or a burst of black light, and Cadvan rocked back against the wall with a grimace of pain.  But the barrier still held.  The Wers could not enter.

Then came a sound Maerad disliked even more: silence.  The Wers were regrouping. 

Cadvan put down his sword and rummaged through his pack.  "Drink something," he said.  He passed her the bottle that contained the herbed drink.  "Now we must be vigilant."

"What for?" 

"Anything.  Anything at all.  Sit with your back to the fire.  Try to remember that this tower is roofless.  The only way they can get in now is from above.  The fire will daunt them, but not enough."

Maerad grasped her dagger in her hand and sat next to Cadvan, straining to listen.  She could hear nothing but the blood in her ears.  Dread rose in her heart until almost she wished something would happen, anything, anything to break this horrible suspense.  She stole a look at Cadvan.  He looked almost serene, his face relaxed, his eyes watchful.  She took a deep breath. 

They sat in this silence for what seemed like hours.  Every now and then Maerad moved to ease the aches in her body, but Cadvan never stirred. 

"Maybe they've gone away," she said at last.  "We've heard nothing for ages and ages."

"Sssshh," Cadvan hissed.  "The only thing we can be sure of is that they haven't gone away.  Listen."

"But there's nothing to hear."

"They will wait.  They want our wills to weaken in fear.  They feed on our fear.  It's their life, their bread.  Starve them!  Send your mind out into the night.  Use the Gift you have.  Send it out into the night.  Then you will hear."

Maerad wondered what he meant.  Perhaps she should... Experimentally she gathered up her mind and imagined it past the walls of the guardhouse.  At once she felt cold, although she still had her back to the fire.  It was as if she had stepped outside, although she could see nothing but the opposite wall.  But she heard the slow flapping of wings, wings of creatures that she could not guess, wings without feathers, taloned and heavy, and hisses, as of cold breaths drawn in and out of cold leathery bellows.

"Wings," she whispered.  "But giant wings.  It's not bats, or it's bats as big as wolves."

"Yes.  They are close.  The barrier will not hold them.  I cannot make it high enough."

"But I can't see anything, Cadvan, I can't see anything."  Maerad turned to him, her eyes wide.  "They're so big, I can hear how big they are.  What are we..."

"Silence!" Cadvan turned with the fury of a snake.  "I can't be patting your hand like a terrified child.  If we are to get through this night with our hides in one piece, you remember who you are.  You are one of the Gift.  Grow up, or we will die here."

Maerad gulped.  Cadvan was preoccupied again, taking no notice of her, listening and watching, his sword in readiness.  She took a deep breath and pushed back the terror that had started to take hold of her mind, winding its way through her muscles, insidious and cold, like a poison mist.  Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to relax.  She held her pitiful dagger in her hand.  It seemed so small.  She wished she had a sword, and knew how to use it.  Perhaps then she might feel more like a warrior.  She sent out her mind again, not knowing what else to do, and heard the winged creatures, further away now, higher up.  They were flying to the top of the barrier.  What was the barrier made of?  She didn't know, but they were going to fly over it and down on top of them.  She knew that now.  Instinctively she stood up, and saw that Cadvan also was standing, staring above them, up the walls where the fire flickered into shadow and then blackness.  She moved closer to the fire.  Cadvan threw another few logs on, building it up so the flames leaped high.  It was unbearably hot.  She looked above her, straining her eyes, her nerves stretched to breaking point.

At last she heard something, but so slight she hardly knew if it was the wind.  Cadvan's breath hissed through his teeth.  Then, so fast she could hardly see it, a huge shape came plummeting down on them from above.  It veered briefly into the fire and shrieked, flapping back.  Cadvan leaped forward and hewed its neck with his sword, jumping back as it crashed down, spouting black gouts of blood. 

Maerad saw with surprise it wasn't as big as she had thought: the body was about the size of a goat.  But she had no time to look at it, for now the air was full of claws and wings and hissing.  One came straight for her, she saw its eyes burning red in the fire.  Her dagger was useless, and with a sudden inspiration she dropped it and dragged a burning branch from the fire and thrust it at the creature, which wheeled away and crashed into the wall.  It fell to the ground, its neck broken. 

Immediately another came for her, landing on the ground and rearing up to slash her with its claws.  She swung the branch around and her shoulder jarred as she hit it hard.  The creature cried out as the flames licked it, and its long neck snaked towards her, hissing in fury.  Maerad hit it again and the branch broke.  She leaped sideways, grasping another branch and the Wer struck her a glancing blow on her head with its claws.  She didn't feel any pain; her fear was suddenly overborne by a surge of anger.  She held the brand in both hands and swung it randomly: the room was so small it was impossible not to hit something.  She was aware of Cadvan to her right, slashing and hewing, beset by three of them, and then another three, while others hovered overhead.  Maerad kept lashing out, remembering to go for the eyes, and the creatures swung away from the flame, concentrating their attack on Cadvan. 

Then one of them landed before her and to her dismay she saw its outlines blur and soften.  At first she thought it a trick of her eyes, but then to her disbelief it began to transform into a man, startlingly white in the darkness.  She cried out and thrust a brand in his face, and he fell back, but then came for her, his wings melting into his back, his face blank and murderous, a black broadsword in his clawed hand.  Maerad ducked the swing of his sword and with all her strength brought the burning branch back as hard as she could against his body.  The flames burst into life and licked up his neck, setting his hair on fire.  He screamed horribly and fell writhing to the ground, trying to beat out the flames, but it stuck to him like a deadly glue, spreading until he was wholly alight, a screaming torch. 

Maerad watched in horror, almost for a second forgetting her danger, but another creature landed and rose on its hind feet and her horror burst again into rage.  This time she swiped it with the brand before it could begin to transform.  It fell stunned to the ground, which was now slimed and smoking with blood.  She stepped forward to bash it again when Cadvan reached past her and slashed off its head.  And suddenly the room was still.

They stood together, panting.  Maerad sent out her mind to hear if any more wings were coming, but she heard nothing but the night.  The room was piled with dead creatures.  She gasped, feeling suddenly sick. 

Cadvan put more wood on the fire, and started dragging the corpses out of the door.  Maerad stood back, swaying with nausea.  The stench of death was overpowering, and she was beginning to tremble.  She realised that the branch she was holding was about to burn her hand.  She dropped it back on the fire and then, fighting down her desire to vomit, helped Cadvan clear the room of the creatures, casting them out of the doorway and down the hill, although she couldn't bring herself to touch the one who had burned, the one who was still half a man.  At last the room was empty, although it stank of burning flesh and hair and blood.  Neither Cadvan nor Maerad felt like sitting down.

"What were they?" she asked at last.

"Wormfilth," said Cadvan.  "Wers can take whatever shape they desire.  But they are all evil shapes, mockeries."  He looked at her, smiling grimly.  "You did well, although you nearly got me once.  A doughty fighter, but somewhat undisciplined."

Maerad tried to smile back.  "Do you think there are more?"

"I don't know.  I don't think so.  I counted nineteen, and I heard about twenty.  Maybe one didn't chance the fire.  And it's not long to dawn now."

They moved outside and sat down by the doorway, still watchful but too exhausted to speak.  Cadvan did not relinquish his vigilance, and Maerad, despite her weariness, watched with him.  They heard nothing else that night, and at last the Eastern horizon began to lighten and the sun, with unbearable slowness, lifted its rim over the edge of the earth, sending level rays over the forests before them.  Maerad thought she had never been so glad to see a new day.  She turned to Cadvan, and almost laughed.  They were not a prepossessing sight: both were smeared and spattered in the foul blood of the Wers, and their faces were black with ash. 

"Well," said Cadvan heavily.  "We made it."