Marken

He moved on to the final member of the group, and the most imposing, a large, bearlike man with an extensive beard and a mass of grey-black hair.

"Marken, my lord," the big man introduced himself in a Nilsaelin accent.

"He may be able to help," Nortah said. "With your want of intelligence."

The bodies had been placed in a tent on the edge of camp, the few valuables they possessed handed out as payment to the soldiers who would do the grim work of burying them in accordance with Cumbraelin custom. Marken moved to the closest one, a stocky man, as archers often were, his final grimace of terror frozen and incomplete, half his face having been torn away by the war-cat's claws. Marken seemed untroubled by the gory sight, kneeling and touching his palm to the corpse's forehead, eyes closed for a second, then shaking his head. "All a jumble. This one was half-mad long before Snowdance got to him."

He moved on, touching a hand to each corpse in turn, pausing at the fourth, judging by the lines on his face the eldest of the group. "Better," he said. "All a bit red and cloudy, but sane, after a fashion." He looked up at Vaelin. "Does my lord have a particular point of interest? It'll make things easier."

"A priest," Vaelin said. "And a lord."

Marken nodded, placing both hands on the dead man's head, eyes closed. He remained in the same position for several moments, unmoving, breathing soft, face placid beneath the beard. After a while Vaelin wondered if he was still present in his own body or, like Dahrena, able to fly beyond himself, except he burrowed into the mind of a corpse rather than soaring above the earth.

Eventually the big man opened his eyes with a pained grunt, moving back from the corpse, a sense of accusation in the gaze he turned on Vaelin. "My lord could've warned me of the nature of the thing I sought."

"My apologies," Vaelin replied. "Does that mean you found it?"