By text by Nicholas Van der Bijl ; colour plates by Paul Hannon.
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Myrt drew back warily and opened his mouth, then closed it again. Aremys hurried on. " He held up his hand. "Before you jump in---no, I can't wield it. I just sense it. " his companion whispered. " Myrt looked toward the ground. "Galapek," Aremys said. "This horse is not natural, Myrt. It is riddled with magic, bad magic. It's tainted---it smells evil and repulses me as effectively as the Thicket transported me all those leagues. " "That's why you were so keen to avoid his touch," Myrt finished, tying together the threads of all he had noticed but had not been able to understand.
Aremys nodded. "Worked by Rashlyn, I'm guessing. " There, it was said. Myrt stood and began pacing. He said nothing for a while and Aremys kept the silence, watching Rashlyn for any signs of consciousness. "I don't believe this," the warrior hissed eventually, pointing at Aremys. "You don't have to," the mercenary replied calmly, having anticipated the anger. "I'm just offering my own thoughts. " Myrt asked brusquely. Aremys was sorry that he had pushed his friend so far. It was obvious from his anger that Myrt had suspected something not so far from what Aremys had suggested.
Others, such as Elspyth and Aremys, had accepted the strangeness of his life, but Fynch had guessed his secret from the start and had protected him. Little Fynch, so humble and yet so wise, had saved not only Wyl's life but also that of a sovereign with his ingenuity. And then, following his own path, he had left the safety of Werryl, first to track down Romen's killer, and after obeying the pull of the Wild. The boy was deeply enmeshed in this whole business of Myrren's Gift, or at least in the curious life that Wyl was now leading, and Wyl was angry at himself for not insisting that Fynch leave Elysius and travel with him.