years over the summer. “She fights.”
Cathan nodded, not wanting to hear it. “You’ll keep looking after her?” he asked. “Until-until-”
“You know I will, lad.” She rested a bird-bone hand on his shoulder. “I wish you’d let me pray for her.”
Shaking his head, he stepped away from the old woman. The gods had abandoned him, abandoned Wentha. Paladine was far from Taol. The
The thud of hoofbeats on the dirt road outside brought Cathan back to the present, and he heard the creak of leather and a grunt as a man jumped down from his saddle. Mail rattled as booted feet hurried toward the house, and Cathan went to the door and flung it open, a hand on his sword. It was Vedro, his stubbled face red from the hard ride. He wore a crossbow across his back and an axe at his belt.
“There you are,” he said, and glanced around, at the rocky land around Fendrilla’s cottage. “Where’s the horse? Tavarre needs it”
“The horse? Why?”
Vedro scratched his neck. “The scouts came back,” he said.
“There’s a group of riders near here, couple leagues south.” Cathan paused, glancing over his shoulder. Tavarre had asked for the horse only. He ought to stay here. Wentha might live out the week, but she also might not last past the morrow.
He knew he didn’t have the strength to see her. He’d tried, and his courage had failed.
“All right,” he said, hating himself as he spoke the words.
Jaw squared, he pushed past Vedro, on toward the spot where he’d tied the gelding Tavarre had given him. “You can have it-but you’re taking me, too.”
Taol’s hills had a way of channeling the wind. One moment the air was completely still, holding the ghost of summer’s warmth, then, suddenly, the pines would bend and gusts would pummel between the crags like a hammer of ice. It was doing this now, and Ilista sat hunched in her saddle, pulling her hood low. Tears froze on her cheeks, and despite her woolen gloves, she could no longer feel her fingertips.
She looked up at the rest of the party. Sir Gareth and his men bore up with typical Solamnic stoicism, their armor and visored helms keeping some of the cold at bay. They glanced this way and that, watching the slopes for trouble. Her eyes drifted past them, to the figure who rode beside her. Beldyn sat erect on his brown palfrey, his head bare, his hair whipping behind him. If the wind troubled him at all, he gave no sign.
They’d left the monastery weeks ago, Beldyn bidding his brethren farewell then riding away without looking back. Turning north, they had crossed the golden grasses of the Schalland Plains as the sun beat down upon them, then endured torrential rains as they threaded their way through the Khalkist mountains. The young monk remained untroubled through it all, his piercing blue eyes always fixed on the horizon before them.
At last, five days ago, the Khalkists had given way to craggy foothills, and the party passed between a pair of white, ivy-covered obelisks that marked the empire’s border. Ilista had signed the triangle as they passed, whispering a prayer of thanks, but Beldyn had done more, reining in to stare at the standing stones. She’d watched as he dismounted and walked over to one, running his fingers over its smooth edges. His eyes had seemed to shine even brighter than usual when he returned to his saddle.
She’d asked what was wrong, and he’d shaken his head. “Nothing-a feeling. As if I were coming home.” They would be at the Lordcity in a fortnight, if they kept pace. Ilista shut her eyes, picturing it-riding with Beldyn through Istar’s streets, then on to the Temple, where the Kingpriest lingered on the edge of death. She’d spoken to Loralon a few times over their journey, using the enchanted orb, and the news he’d given her was grim. Symeon had suffered a second seizure, and it was a miracle he still lived at all. Brother Purvis had found him near death, slumped over in his bed, and Stefara had saved him, but just barely. His mind, the healer said, was all but gone. The Kingpriest lay senseless, taking water and food. He would live a few more weeks, then Paladine would take him. Nothing could stop it now.
Ilista smiled, as she had smiled then. Stefara didn’t know about the Lightbringer. She pictured it in her mind: Beldyn kneeling at Symeon’s bedside, praying to Paladine for help. Then the Kingpriest would awake, his shattered body and mind whole once more-
Gareth stopped suddenly, raising his hand. “Hsst!” Snapping out of her reverie, Ilista reined in her horse. Hands on their hilts, the Knights formed a protective ring about her. Amid it all, Beldyn looked about, his brows knitting with confusion. After a moment, he nudged his horse over to Gareth. Ilista joined them, her fingers brushing the new mace she’d taken from the monastery. “Trouble?” she whispered.
Gareth raised a finger to his lips, and Ilista fell silent. Nerves tingling, she glanced up at the slopes. They were steep, dotted with mossy boulders and swaying trees. Plenty of shadows in which to hide. Up ahead, a narrow cataract foamed down several layers of rock, making noise enough to drown out the whisper of boots on stone, or steel sliding against leather.
Beside her, Beldyn nodded slowly, his face smooth and his eyes closed. “It begins,” he murmured.
Ilista blinked. She was about to ask what he meant when the sound of hoofbeats rose ahead, echoing among the hills, growing steadily louder. She looked up and saw one of the Knights, a tall, silent youth named Reginar who had been riding point, gallop around abend. He reined in, his horse snorting as it tossed its head.
“Road’s blocked,” he panted, pushing up his visor. “A tree, some rocks.”
Gareth made a face, looking up the hillside. “A barricade. Like as not, we’re being watched.”
“We are,” Beldyn said.
Ilista looked at him sharply, but his gaze was far away, looking north, beyond the hills. He still appeared unwor-ried, his face holding the satisfied look of a man who had just figured out a clue to a troubling riddle. Before she could ask him anything, Gareth leaned close, his eyes stone-dark.
“
Her eyes lingered on Beldyn, however, and the Knight had to touch her arm to rouse her. “Uh?” she asked, then his words sank in and she nodded. “Very well. There’s another pass to the south. We can-”
She never finished. Beldyn jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks, and suddenly he was galloping forward, past the startled Knights and on down the road.
“Beldyn!” Ilista cried. On instinct, she spurred her own mare after him.
Gareth grabbed for her robes, but he didn’t catch hold of her, and she heard him swear behind her. A moment later, the clatter of mail told her the Knight was giving chase, his men with him. She kept her eyes on Beldyn as he rounded the shoulder of a hill. Her mare snorted, hooves thumping against the stony ground. They were heading into a trap-he had to know it, as well as she did. Why-
She came upon the tree so suddenly, she barely had time to pull up, saving her horse from spearing itself on the broken stubs of branches. It was an oak, its leaves fringed flame-orange, its trunk wide enough to crush any hopes of jumping over it. Beldyn stood his palfrey just before it, looking about. The young monk was calm, his eyes gleaming as he looked up the hillside, as if awaiting someone.
“What are you
“Too late,” said a firm voice.
Dista started, twisting in her saddle to follow Beldyn’s gaze. On an outcropping partway up the northern slope stood a short, wiry man in a mail shirt and hooded cloak. He cradled a crossbow in his arms, a quarrel on the string. He nodded to her, and turned his head west, toward the clamor of the approaching Knights. Then he lifted his head and let out a raptor’s shriek.
To either side of the road, the hills came alive as more than a score of cloaked figures appeared. They rose from the shadows, stepping out of the undergrowth or from behind boulders, armed with crossbows and slings. Their armor was lighter than the first man’s-leather breastplates, mostly, some with metal studs-and all had shortswords or axes at their belts. Ilista knew at once they were trapped. Gareth and his men could put up a fight, but they would never overcome them all. Even so, she reached for her mace, her blood pounding in her ears.
“Yield!” called the bandits’ leader. “Throw down your arms, and this will end without bloodshed!”
Everything seemed to slow. Ilista held her breath. Beside her Gareth’s horse danced sideways as he drew his sword. He was a Solamnic Knight. It went against his honor to surrender without a fight. Beneath his raised visor, his moustache twisted into a warlike snarl. The other Knights yanked their blades from their scabbards.
