‘The dead here . . . they’re all soldiers. Nevana . . . she said something . . .’
In dry measured tones, Pran iterated, as though from a formal text long rehearsed, ‘Nevana’s father, Arlon, is badly injured. It is a miracle that the others have met with no harm. It would seem that some disagreement or reticence on the part of the soldiers prevented their committing murder.’
Ralph almost asked how they were doing, but decided that it was probably wiser for him not to. Instead, he said, ‘All right. What happens now?’
‘We wait until Doc is finished tending to the injured and the dying,’ Pran said, his gaze yearning towards his daughter, as if wishing to, but fearing to close the distance between them at this time, in this place. ‘Then, we will go. I suggest you take a meal, and prepare yourself for another hard ride.’
Standing before the Elf obstinately, Ralph replied, ‘I will if you will.’
Pran considered him blankly for a moment. But then, a bleak wintry look, almost a smile, touched his features.
Ralph was not sure whether he found this mood in his friend reassuring.
As they waited, a group of five returning riders came to Dornal to report.