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it done?’ Caitrin asked.

      Nihal nodded. ‘Yes. Once again, I’ve restored your virginity.’

      Caitrin was puzzled by the comment.

      The words ‘once again’ suggested they had gone through this interaction before, although she couldn’t recall when she and Nihal had previously done something so intimate. She knew she wasn’t the brightest of the daughters of Blackheath, but she figured even someone with her limited capacity for remembering details would recall something as memorable as having a mage restore her virginity.

      She opened her mouth to ask the question and a flood of memories came rushing back.

      Nihal frowning with disapproval.

      Nihal performing the restoration ceremony.

      Nihal concluding the ceremony with a memory incantation.

      She trembled, saddened by the idea that the mage would force her to forget the pleasure they had just shared.

      The offices were now held in shadow. Glancing out through the west window she could see that the sun had finally set beyond the edge of the Last Sea. Braziers and torches burnt in the taverns and whorehouses around the port. The silhouettes of lewd revellers began to break out into the streets as a large covered wagon was drawn down the main road leading toward Blackheath.

      ‘You have to promise me that you’ll give up your quest for dragon horn.’

      ‘Give up the quest?’ Caitrin laughed, surprised by the ridiculousness of the suggestion. ‘Never.’

      Nihal’s shoulders stiffened. One trembling hand raised the bitternut hickory wand. The silver tip glowed dully. ‘Don’t say never, Caitrin. Reconsider your decision before I have to do something we’ll both regret.’

      Caitrin pressed her mouth close to the mage.

      ‘Don’t make me forget what we just shared,’ she begged.

      Nihal stiffened as though stung by the suggestion.

      ‘Don’t make me forget what we just shared,’ Caitrin repeated. ‘And don’t make me forget my quest for dragon horn. It’s important to me. If you knew what dragon horn was like I’m sure it would be important to you.’

      ‘But, Cait,’ the mage began. ‘It’s such a dangerous substance.’

      Caitrin thought she liked having her name shortened by the mage. It made her feel as though there was something developing between them.

      ‘You’ve never tried dragon horn,’ she whispered. ‘And until you’ve tried it you can’t judge me for wanting to experience it again.’

      ‘But, Cait –’ the mage started.

      Caitrin silenced the interruption with a kiss. She allowed the moment to linger as their tongues twisted and twined together inside the battleground of their joined mouths.

      ‘I’ll make you a promise, Nihal,’ she decided. ‘I’ll continue my quest to find dragon horn. And I will find it. And once I’ve got a secure supply, I’m going to bring some back here so that you and I can share it together.’

      ‘But, Cait –’ the mage began again.

      Caitrin shook her head and continued. ‘If, once you’ve tried it, you still think I should give up my quest, then I’ll consider your point of view.’

      There was a long silence from within the shadows of Nihal’s hooded cowl. Eventually the mage said, ‘You’re determined to do this, aren’t you?’

      ‘More than you can know.’

      ‘In that case,’ the mage sounded sad but determined, ‘I’ll do what I can to help you find dragon horn.’

      Caitrin brightened, shocked to discover she now had an ally in her quest.

      ‘You should join your father at the banquet hall this evening,’ the mage went on. ‘I believe the castellan is greeting Gethin ap Cadwallon and it would serve you well to meet the High Laird of the West Ridings.’

      ‘I wish I could stay here with you.’

      The mage’s head moved from side to side inside the cowled hood. The bitternut hickory wand was suddenly flashing bright light into the room. And Caitrin realised the clothes had returned to her body. She also realised that there was a ring now sitting on the middle finger of her left hand. It was a band of gold emblazoned with a shimmering eye of moonstone that looked like the pearl-white stone they called a mage’s eye.

      Caitrin examined the ring and then glanced into the shadows covering Nihal’s face. Again, she said, ‘I wish I could stay here with you.’

      ‘If you ever need me,’ said Nihal softly, ‘all you have to do is call my name.’ The mage spoke with a soft and earnest conviction that could only be the truth. ‘If you ever need me, simply take yourself to the peak of a climax, close your eyes and then whisper my name. If you do that, I’ll be with you.’

      ‘I want more than that,’ Caitrin sighed. ‘I want to stay here with you.’

      ‘Go to the banquet hall, Cait,’ Nihal whispered. ‘My magicks aren’t strong enough to grant all your wishes.’

       Chapter Three – Owain of the West Ridings

      Owain had a momentary insight into the figure that he presented. He was tall and broad and conventionally handsome. The linen tunic he had worn for travelling was a plain green that hugged the muscles of his powerful chest. With fresh hosen on his legs, and a sword dangling idly from his left hip, he supposed he looked like a debonair and attractive stranger.

      Not that the redhead by his side was there because of his appearance, he thought glumly. She would have stood eagerly outside the cage if he had been a hunchback dwarf dressed in motley and burdened by pox scars.

      She wasn’t there for him.

      She was there to see what was hidden inside the cage behind the flag.

      Not that the flag was hiding much, he reflected. The flag showed a red dragon, six foot tall, standing on a white background above a green base. The dragon on the flag was as red as the brightest sun rubies. It was as red as the most heartfelt desire. It was as red as the dragon hidden beneath the flag concealed inside the cage.

      On the journey up to Blackheath, Owain had told Laird Gethin ap Cadwallon that using the flag to cover this cage was like hiding the whole of the West Riding’s coffers beneath a flag decorated with golden coins, sapphire purses and diamond-encrusted ingots.

      But, not for the first time, Gethin had ignored Owain’s observations.

      ‘Are you sure you want to see this?’ Owain asked the redhead.

      She was a pretty young maid who had taken the time to help him guide the wheeled cage into a covered storeroom beside Blackheath’s stables. The earthy smell of horses filled the air around them. There were no torches or sconces inside the stables but there was sufficient moonlight for Owain to appreciate the young woman’s milk-skinned beauty and the shine of daring that danced in her emerald eyes. He had seen that her hair was the russet colour of an autumn sunset. He had also seen the leather band on her heart finger but he was doing his best to brush that latter consideration from his thoughts.

      All men, he knew, were able to brush that sort of consideration from their thoughts.

      The redhead giggled and pressed close to him.

      His nostrils flared as he caught the sweet scent of her nearness. She wore a perfume that reminded him of the exotic aroma of the flowers from the kingdom’s most forbidden gardens. The bouquet was rich and heady and intoxicating.

      His need for her hardened.

      ‘I’ve

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