The bandit chief raised his hand while the ring of steel echoed among the hills, then brought it chopping down. Ilista heard the snap of crossbow strings, and a steel quarrel buried itself in the ground before her. Her horse reared, whinnying, as more bolts narrowly missed the Knights as well. Ilista hauled on her reins, trying to control her mare. Beldyn did not budge.
“That was a warning,” the lead bandit proclaimed. “Next time, we won’t aim to miss.”
Ilista was still staring at the quarrel when a hand touched her arm. Startled, she turned to meet Beldyn’s cool, assured gaze.
“Do as he says,” he said.
Caught by his penetrating eyes, Ilista found she had no choice but to obey. Her mace thumped on the ground.
“At least the Revered Daughter has a brain,” the bandit declared, and chuckled. “Now. The rest of you do the same.”
“Never!” Gareth cried, brandishing his sword. “We do not give to highway-”
“MarSevrin,” the bandit said.
Something white flew down from the hillside, and the Knight’s fierce glare vanished in a red spray as it struck him, just beneath his open visor. He slumped against his horse’s neck, then toppled from the saddle with a crash. His sword skittered from his hand, and he lay still, his face covered with blood.
Ilista looked at him, aghast, then turned to the younger Knights, as they began to raise their own blades. “No! Enough!” she shouted. “Stop this, before you get us all killed!”
The Knights looked at her, then at Gareth, then at one another. One by one, they dropped their swords.
“Very wise,” the lead bandit noted. “Now dismount, all of you, and don’t move.”
Beldyn moved first, a strange smile curling his lips. He hadn’t flinched, even when Gareth fell. Qista and the Knights followed, keeping their hands up. Several ruffians half-climbed, half-slid down the slope while the rest kept their crossbows trained on the party.
Ilista looked at Beldyn as they approached. “What now?”
He shrugged, unafraid. “We go with them,” he said. “Fear not,
She would have asked him more, but just then one of the bandits grabbed her and pulled a sack over her head, blocking out the world.
Night fell as the bandits rode back to camp. They covered the last few miles by torchlight, leading their blindfolded captives up a winding game trail. At last, as the gibbous red moon was rising, they passed sentries and rode down into the gorge to where the rest of the gang waited. A great cheer went up as they led the hostages into the camp.
Cathan moved quickly to the camp’s central yard, watching as his fellows forced their captives down onto their knees upon the dusty ground. His eyes settled on three figures in particular amid the cluster of Solamnic Knights. One was the Revered Daughter who had first surrendered her weapon, the group’s leader, apparently, her white robes fringed with violet The second was her companion, a monk who seemed too young for his gray cassock. He was a strange one, carrying himself with such assurance that but for the sack covering his head, he might have been an honored guest rather than a prisoner.
The third, the one to whom Cathan’s gaze kept returning, was the commander of the Knights, the man he’d felled with a single, well-aimed piece of his family’s broken holy symbol. The man hadn’t regained consciousness and had made the journey slung over his saddle. Now, as the bandits untied the cords securing him to his horse, he slid limply to the ground. Cathan felt sick as he looked upon the Knight’s senseless form, the face crusted with dried blood. His thoughts harked back to the guard captain in Govinna.
You’ve killed again, a cold voice said in his head.
One by one, the bandits pulled off their captives’ blindfolds, laughing as the Knights winced in the bright light of the camp’s fires. Tavarre unmasked the priestess last of all, bowing as she squinted in the glare.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” he said, his scar deepening as he grinned. “First Daughter Dista, isn’t it? I remember you from the last time I attended His Holiness’s court. I am Tavarre, fourteenth Baron of Luciel. These are my loyal vassals.”
He gestured to the bandits, who laughed again. Ilista blinked at him, then her eyes widened. Beneath his shaggy beard and grime-streaked face, Tavarre was still recognizable as the nobleman she’d once met.
“Baron…?” she began. “But why? To fall in with common ruffians-”
The bandits rumbled at this, but Tavarre silenced them with a look. “Pardon,
He signaled to his men, who started forward. Before they could take two steps, however, the priestess raised her hand- an imperious gesture that gave the bordermen pause, even though she was their captive.
“Wait,” she said. “What about Sir Gareth?”
Cathan followed Tavarre’s gaze to the fallen Knight, then watched as the baron knelt down and eased off his helmet Gareth’s forehead was livid, the flesh puffy and dark where Cathan’s shot had struck. The blood had clotted in his receding hair.
Tavarre probed the wound with his fingers, then looked up and shook his head as the Knight groaned. “His skull’s cracked,” he said. “The swelling’s pushing the bone into his brain. It’s a wonder he survived this long. I’m sorry, Your Grace-no one can help him.”
“I can.”
Everyone turned at the sound of the soft, musical voice. The strange young monk was looking at Gareth, his ice-blue eyes gleaming. Now he looked up, sweeping the crowd with bis strange gaze. Cathan caught his breath as their eyes met. There was something in Beldyn’s serene expression that made hope leap within him, just for an instant. I believe him, Cathan thought, wondering. Huma’s silver arm-who is this monk?
Tavarre met Beldyn’s look with skepticism, though. “I’ve seen wounds like this before,” he said. “Even a Mishakite healer would have trouble with it”
“Maybe so,” the monk said, “but I am no Mishakite.”
Silence settled over the camp, punctuated by coughs among the bandits. Cathan glanced at them, and saw their brows furrowed as well. They had seen something in the monk’s face too.
“Let him try,” the First Daughter said. “What have you to lose?”
Tavarre frowned, scratching his beard. He gave the monk another long, hard look, then shrugged. “Very well, but no trickery.”
Smiling, Beldyn got to his feet. He walked to Sir Gareth and knelt beside him, bending low to examine the gruesome ruin of his face. His fingers came away red. Tavarre shook his head again but said nothing as Beldyn signed the triangle over the Knight’s motionless form. That done, the monk cupped his left hand over the wound, then pressed his right over his own breast. His expression blank, he took a deep breath and began to pray.
“
A deep silence settled over the camp as Beldyn waited. Even the usual sounds-the whisper of the pines in the breeze, the chatter of night-birds, the crackle of the campfires-fell away, and the world seemed to constrict, pulling tighter and tighter until there was nothing but the place where the monk’s hand touched the Knight’s broken skull. No one breathed. No one dared. A minute passed, then another.
Nothing happened.
Cathan shook his head. He should have known better. The god was far from this place. Looking at Lady Ilista’s stricken face, he couldn’t help but smirk. She’d truly believed the monk could do it, believed with every bit of faith in her, and now that faith had failed her. Cathan chuckled to himself, knowing how she felt.
“Well,” Tavarre said. “I think we’ve wasted enough-”
“Mother of Paladine!” one of the bandits gasped, pointing. “Look!”
Cathan turned back to Beldyn, his eyes narrowing-then they widened into a stare of amazement. The young
