creature offered no apology and dabbed a drop on the ice. The rest of the blood, as nearly as Owen could tell, sank into the branch and a green bud rose in its place.
'Look, manling.'
Owen knelt beside the translucent ice, hands on either side, and stared down. It shifted to a mirror. For a heartbeat he did not recognize the reflection. Ragged beard, unkempt hair, sunken eyes. Captivity had not been kind. Then the ice cleared. He saw his wife, Catherine, standing, staring at him, her face full of hatred.
'No, Catherine!' He thrust a hand forward to touch her, but his fingers crumpled against the ice. It became translucent again, the droplet of blood having vanished.
Owen looked up. 'She doesn't hate me.'
'It is not what is, but what will be, because of choices you make.' More laughter rippled up through the ground. 'Her love withers, but you shall remain ignorant until too late.'
Owen's stomach collapsed in on itself. He pounded his fist against the ice, trying to shatter it. Neither it nor his hand broke, but he fervently wished for either. He wanted to destroy that future, and if he hurt himself, so much the better.
Because, as the image became clear, and as he saw the woman's face emerge from shadows, for a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, he'd feared it was Bethany. And when it turned out to be his wife, just for another heartbeat, he felt relief.
Quarante-neuf pulled him back upright, then faced the creature. 'You would have the same of me?'
'No.' The creature reached out and touched the green bud to Quarante-neuf's forehead. In the space of three heartbeats the bud flowered fully, leaves sprouted green and huge, then became red and gold and dropped away.
Quarante-neuf staggered, sinking to his knees. 'I understand.'
Owen turned. The pasmorte' s face had become a lifeless mask. 'What did you do to him?'
'Accelerated a process which you had begun.' The creature stepped back. An avenue opened to the east. 'I know you both. I know your lives will be full of misery. I shall enjoy that, therefore I shall let you live.'
Owen stood and helped Quarante-neuf up. 'You said that what I saw was the future. Is there a way to change it?'
'A few ways, if you choose carefully. If you remember what you truly are. But you won't. It is that friction, between what you want to think you are and your true nature, which will be the source of your misery.' Laughter trembled up through the earth and snow. 'You torture yourselves so well.'
The creature pointed along the path. 'Go. You will find your world different, but much the same. Go, sons of Mystria, knowing your future has earned your freedom.'
Owen threw an arm around Quarante-neuf's waist and led the pasmorte up along the path. He didn't see any other dryads lurking around trees, and did not bother to look back. The creature would be gone, all traces of the Tharyngians would have vanished. All he had of the winding path was its truth-misery-not the illusion of peace.
'What did it do to you, Quarante-neuf? What did you see?'
'It does not concern you, Captain. As it said, it made faster what you had started.'
'Are you dying?'
Quarante-neuf managed a short laugh. 'Not a task that requires doing twice. No, my vitality is not ebbing.'
'Good.' Owen stopped and hunched over. 'I'm afraid mine is.'
The pasmorte straightened up. 'I can carry you.'
'No, my friend, just let me rest. A few more steps. Let us crest the hill and then I shall rest.'
Quarante-neuf threw his left arm around Owen and looped the man's right over his shoulders again. The pasmorte 's steps remained strong. He held Owen up easily. With each step it seemed as if he was becoming stronger, showing no fatigue or consequences of having been shot.
Then Owen laughed. It is because you are becoming weaker.
They crested the hill and everything changed again. An east wind blasted them full in the face, driving wet snow. Owen staggered back a step, hoping to return to the winding path's sanctuary, but it no longer existed. Instead of being on the side of a hill, they had just emerged into a meadow.
'I don't understand.' Owen shielded his face with a hand. He had to scream above the shrieking wind. 'This can't be.'
Quarante-neuf laughed. 'Where we just were could not be, Captain. This place is. Luckily, I know where we are. Come.'
They kept walking. Quarante-neuf, anyway, walked. He dragged Owen through drifts and kept him moving when Owen wanted to stop. 'You cannot, Captain, you'll freeze. You will die if you do not keep moving.'
'That's better, my friend, than causing what I saw. My wife hating me.'
'Is that truly what you saw?'
'The expression on her face. My fault.'
'But you can change it. He said that.'
Owen collapsed, curling into a ball. 'I can't take another step.'
'And I can't let you come to harm.'
Owen patted the pasmorte' s leg. ' That is du Malphias' magick speaking. Save yourself. If you save me, I will kill him.'
Quarante-neuf knelt, and gathered Owen into his arms. 'What I feel is not his magick. It is the magick of what a friend feels for a friend.'
How long he traveled in Quarante-neuf's arms Owen could not say. The blizzard had made the world a timeless, silver-grey tunnel. When night fell it became colder. He would have frozen to death, save for the pasmorte 's warmth.
Finally Quarante-neuf set him down. Owen opened his eyes and found his surroundings vaguely familiar. This place. This is the Frost house. 'How did you know?'
Quarante-neuf did not answer. He stood over Owen and pounded on the door. He waited and pounded again, then backed down the steps.
Owen reached out even as he heard footsteps on the other side. 'No, you cannot go.'
The pasmorte shook his head. 'I am dead, but I remember. For this reason, I must go.'
The door cracked open, yellow light pouring into the storm. Of Quarante-neuf, Owen could only see a dim silhouette being devoured by the storm. Snow had filled his footsteps and, by the time Owen had been stripped of his clothes, bandaged and lowered to bed, there would be no sign of Quarante-neuf's passing.
1764
Chapter Forty-Five
May 13, 1764
Government House, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
P rince Vladimir had always found the long delay in communications with Norisle to be a blessing. The swiftest response he had ever had to a missive had been three months, and that was on a matter of no consequence. In general, the more serious the request, the slower the response. And while that suggested due deliberation at the highest levels of government, the replies most often had an offhand quality that suggested no one read his reports nor did any sober thinking on the problem.
Within a day of Captain Strake's miraculous return, the Prince had interviewed him. Within a week, Owen had come to the estate and helped update the model of du Malphias' fortress. The Prince had written a fully detailed report with all cogent facts included-he left out specifics of Owen's escape since that would have undercut the reliability of his testimony-and sent it with Colonel Langford back to Launston on the tenth of December.
And then he had waited.
And waited.
