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Shanith Al-Fallion, nothing I do with you will ever be a waste. [ i_001.jpg] There was a lightness in his step he hadnt felt in a long time. Working with honest people was a new challenge—a very profitable one. He whistled softly, thinking about the five hundred thousand dollars in his safe. He waited at the bottom of the steps for Jenna to finish. Shed been fairly rough on the coroner during her examination and accused Marcus of manipulating the system. The judge had been inclined to believe her, but with Marcus representing Harris pro bono, where was the motive? Was this what she would face from now on? Gods, she couldnt deal with that. Just Jeren, Leithen. You know that. We can talk about that later. I placed an arm around his waist and let him lean just a little on me. You need to rest, and I have a lot of writing to do. No. Indarin is Shans brother. Shan is on a mission with the Sect Mother at the moment. Indarin is teaching me the ways of the Shistra-Phail. I suppose Gilliad has spread some wild tales. Jeren stepped out of the doorway opposite him, dressed in white and grey, her sword at her side, her eyes widening with alarm when she saw him. And something else. Relief? Could that really be relief? Thats got legs, muses Chris. You know better than anybody that if its outside London or the victims not a pretty girl from a nice white family, too often it sinks without a trace. She pushed herself up to her feet.Youre wrong. Indarin gazed at her for a long moment, studying her. Then he shrugged and led her away, back across the camp and into the trees, to the same copse of trees where she had met Shan the previous night, the same hollow, the same spot. Indarin stood before her and her cheeks turned scarlet. Lets go, Max. Gabriel stomped to the door, and seconds later, it slammed behind them. Shan could hear Jeren muttering prayer after prayer as she retreated back down the narrowing tunnel behind him. She prayed for a miracle and he reached out his spirit to the Goddess in sympathy. They needed a miracle. Another pub, one that shed seen a few times walking past this alley, poked out of the haphazard buildings about halfway along. No one would think to look for her here. She wasnt even sure if Lily even knew of it. A good, secret place. No, he said. I took you and left. Thus, we are both alive. Anala thought I was a fool to get involved. The timbre of his voice resonated through her, tainted with pain. That wasnt a good sign, Jeren thought. It wasnt good at all. Hed been wounded saving her. And yet, he hadn’t saved the others. Mina was dead. She shook aside her concern for his obvious pain as an irritant in the way of her anger. His deep voice rippled over her senses.Weve crossed the border? How did you get here? asks Sumaira, dabbing at a small drip of spilled mimosa on the tablecloth and trying to turn her finger into a sponge. I didnt see a skateboard in the car park. Rowan rolls the car to a halt in the parking area at the end of the road. The copse of trees that surrounds St Olafs is a couple of hundred metres ahead. There are several vehicles in the car park; mostly working vehicles; flat-bed pick-ups and bottle-green Land Rovers. Theres a blue BMW, a black Jeep and battered red works van; its mudguards clogged up with torn grass and thick mud. Beyond the car park, the road peters out at the front of the big hotel. Its a long, imposing building that looks up to the task of doing daily battle with the elements. Its front is the colour of old butter and thick black gloss serves as thick mascara around the dark windows. Rowan scanned the website before they left, taking a mental note of the names of the owners and a little about the place’s history, in case he needed a tool with which to start a conversation with a taciturn local. He now knows that this is where British climbing began. It has been a hotel for two centuries or more, providing much-needed lodgings for the peddlars, merchants and tradesmen who laboured over Black Sail, Sty Head and Burnmoorpasses to ply their trade in adjacent valleys.It has played host to the great men of British climbing; Victorian upper-class daredevils who pitted themselves against the towering crags and made daily wagers with the elements. Many of those early pioneers are buried in the consecrated ground of St Olaf’s..