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later, Bavmorda arrived with Sorsha close behind. When she heard the howls of the trolls she knew what had happened. “Guards! Where are you!” She swept into the birthing room and bore down on the mother, snatching away the pathetic bundle of rags the woman had hastily gathered. “Where is that child?”
    The mother smiled. She lay back and closed her eyes.
    “Kill her!” Bavmorda snarled, and vengeful trolls leaped to do her bidding.
    “Find that baby, Sorsha! Use dogs! Bring her to me alive, do you hear me? Alive!”
    The queen swooped back through the door just as the commander of the dungeon guards hurried up with two men. He was trembling. His face was ashen under the black helmet.
    “You! How could you let this happen?”
    “Your Majesty, I . . .”
    “Listen!” The sound Bavmorda heard lifted her beyond rage into blind fury.
    Laughter.
    Throughout the dungeon, in all their loathsome cells, women were laughing. Laughing at her.
    “Kill the lot!” Bavmorda flung out her hand.
    White flames seared the corridor.
    Ethna did what the mother had told her. She did not think, she felt. And her instincts served her well.
    She went to earth like a threatened animal, into the network of tunnels beneath Nockmaar. Over the years she had discovered their secret entrances and used them when she could. She preferred that dark labyrinth to the horrors of the castle. She was safe there from the drunken advances of the guards, from the horrid gropings of the trolls. She could escape in those tunnels from the cold efficiency of Princess Sorsha. She could think there, and remember, and dream. Sometimes, safe and alone in the deep silence, she slept. But the greatest comfort her secret gave her was the knowledge that someday she might escape through that tangle of passageways. She might flee. Someday, when she had summoned her courage, she might take her chances with the Death Dogs and the troopers and, perhaps, reach Galladoorn again. Now she followed her first impulse, pausing only long enough to snatch up a little sugar and a gourd of milk for the child. Deep in those passages she waited, shivering, holding the child close, listening to the rumble of alarm drums far above.
    Go to water: that was her second impulse. She knew better than to attempt that immediately. The hills of Nockmaar were high and barren, and the nearest south-flowing stream was Eastern Brook, two leagues distant. In that terrain among the crags, the dogs would have her in no time. For a day and a night she waited, until the hue and cry died down.
    At midnight on the second day, she crept out of a brush-covered opening among the crags. Behind her, Nockmaar volcano smoked and growled on one side and the castle loomed on the other. Ahead lay the headwaters of Eastern Brook, flowing away south into the great fens of Galladoorn.
    It was an ideal night. Clouds hid the waning moon, and a restless wind covered the sounds of her passage. Furthermore, she would have the perfect companion. She had taken only a few soft steps before a white goat waiting among the outcrops lifted its head. The animal stared placidly and rose at Ethna’s approach. The goat’s udder was full, so Ethna was able to feed the child well, diluting the rich milk with water trickling from the rocks. When she had finished she climbed with her precious burden onto the goat’s back, and the sturdy little animal set off east away from Nockmaar, taking the highest path.
    Ethna’s plan was to follow Eastern Brook all the way down to Galladoorn. Then she would swing west and cross the River Troon under cover of darkness. After that, she would work her way northwest again until she reached the safety of the fabled kingdom of Tir Asleen. It would mean a journey of many months.
    She had guessed that Bavmorda and General Kael would send troops and dogs fanning to the west, assuming she had fled that way in panic, and she was right. No one anticipated her cunning. The land between Nockmaar and Eastern