A Blackbird In Darkness (Book 2) by Freda Warrington

there had, presumably, died in the Serpent’s jaws, or been consumed by its venom, or died of illness caused by the ash it had left. Yet there seemed not to be a mark on any of them, nor any sign of decay even in the bodies that had been there the longest.
    A terrible feeling swept through her, a terrible vision hung crucified across her brain; figures in a colourless landscape, frozen under topaz glass in eternal, agonised worship of the Serpent…
    She then found out just how hard it was to hide her feelings, without the Serpent’s dreadful presence to make it essential. She had to struggle not to run or cry out, steeling herself until at last her horror subsided and her face was expressionless again.
    It’s only a feeling, only a feeling, she told herself. There must be another reason why the bodies are perfect. Don’t think of it, she told herself. They are dead – even the Serpent could not –
    ‘E’rinel,’ Falin was saying, ‘come back to the cottage. We can talk there. You’ll feel better after a drink.’
    ‘Tell me how it happened,’ Estarinel said hoarsely.
    ‘Yes – when we get back. Come on.’
    Darkness was falling as the three left the barn and gently closed the wooden double doors behind them. Falin supported Estarinel as they went; he was too faint with shock to walk unaided. Medrian walked ahead of them as if they did not exist, cold as alabaster.
    Falin found himself disliking her, though it was a most un-Forluinish reaction to dislike someone on sight. Still, nothing had been the same since the Serpent’s attack. It was also un-Forluinish to feel fear and misery, to know hunger and illness – to find that even the love he shared with his many friends in the village was edged with the pain and dread of losing them also.
    But at least that most Forluinish of traits, the love and concern they felt for each other, had not been diminished by the Worm. In that respect it had not conquered them, and never would. So he could not understand this strange woman, who had come with Estarinel, yet had not spoken a word to him, who kept her back turned to him, and whose face clearly showed – he thought – that she felt nothing, absolutely nothing at all.
    Perhaps Falin’s feelings towards her were also tinged by jealousy of a sort. She had been Estarinel’s companion for several months, while Falin and his other loved ones had been separated from him, not knowing how he fared or whether he was alive or dead. And he had an idea that whatever they had been through together, they were not going to tell him. Falin felt excluded by their relationship, and angered to think that Estarinel might have come to feel love and friendship for her while she was apparently quite indifferent to him.
    He must try not to pre-judge her, though that was difficult when Estarinel’s life was at stake.
    In a few minutes they were inside Falin’s cottage. He moved around the room lighting lamps, and then stoking a dying fire until warm light flooded away the darkness. The floor was covered with rugs of russet, gold and green, and the creamy walls bore several small tapestries. On either side of the stone fireplace, dark wooden doors led off to other rooms.
    Estarinel sat in a chair by the fire and gratefully drank the wine that Falin offered. Medrian sat opposite. He glanced at her but she was not looking at him, just staring into the fire.
    Gradually the wine steadied him; his muscles loosened and he felt the colour returning to his face. He felt almost unnaturally calm as he said, ‘This is your aunt Thalien’s cottage, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Falin, sitting down on the floor near him. ‘Edrien and Luatha were staying here too, but they decided to return to the coast. Thalien went with them because she wasn’t feeling well, and thought the sea air might help. So I’m here alone now.’ Falin was plainly fighting tears as he spoke. For the first time Estarinel noticed how pale and strained he looked. After