the helm. 'It is time to choose.'
The people of Rahariem turned to one another, tearfully begging for understanding, for forgiveness. And they chose.
Many nobles and Guildmasters had escaped the city's fall, abandoning their offices and estates to hide among the populace. And now that populace grabbed them, exposed them, hauling them into the open to suffer Rebaine's judgment, for they knew what he would do to them otherwise.
He'd told them, after all, and they need only look at the dangling bodies to know he spoke the truth.
Most of them, aristocrats and Guildmasters both, screamed as they were dragged from amid their fellows, pleading for secrecy, for sanctuary. But some few stepped forward on their own, heads held high, unwilling to force their brethren into making such a terrible decision.
Sir Wyrrim, respected baron and landed knight, revered as highly in Rahariem as the duke himself, was the first to come forward. He faced the crowd around him, and to each of them he offered a gentle smile.
He felt a small hand take his own, and looking down saw his distant cousin, a young noblewoman of Rahariem. Her face was pallid with terror, a sheen of sweat across her brow, but she forced her lips into a matching smile.
Ignoring the weeping from all sides, the flapping of the fleshy banners above, Sir Wyrrim and the Lady Irrial joined their fellow prisoners, following Rebaine's soldiers toward whatever fate awaited in the dungeons below. DROWNING IN THE TIDE OF MEMORIES she had fought so long to escape, Irrial sat upon a knotty tree root and glared across the embers of the dying fire at the blanket-wrapped figure. Her bloodless lips were pressed together, her hands clasped tight about the hilt of her stolen sword. It would be so simple, the work of an instant, and so many years of unspeakable suffering would find some tiny measure of justice. No murder, this, but legitimate execution; perhaps even the putting down of a wild beast.
'If you're going to try to kill me,' Corvis said without opening his eyes, 'could you go ahead and get it over with? Cliches to the contrary, a man can't actually sleep with one eye open, so you're sort of keeping me up.'
'You're really pushing me, Rebaine.'
'Am I?' He sat, allowing the blankets to fall from his shoulders and finally opening his eyes. 'Look, Irrial-my lady,' he corrected at her expression, 'we need each other. You accepted that when we left Rahariem. You're just making yourself miserable thinking the way you are now.'
'I'm so sorry that my revulsion at your crimes is disturbing you.'
Corvis sighed. 'Just tell me that you'll wait until after this is all said and done before you decide to try anything stupid, all right?'
'Fine. But only for Rahariem and Imphallion.'
'I don't really care why.' He lay down once more, hauling the blanket up to his chin.
'That's it?' she asked after a moment, curious despite herself. 'You trust me just like that?'
'I've trusted you for years,' he told her. 'Nothing's changed for me, even if you think it has for you. But if it'll make you feel better, you can swear an oath to one of the gods. That's how I made it work last time.'
Another pause. 'Last time?'
'Somehow, my lady, I doubt you'd be surprised to learn that I've had other traveling companions who wanted to kill me.'
'Rebaine, I'd be surprised if you had any that didn't.'
'Funny.'
'I wasn't joking,' she insisted.
'I know.' Corvis yawned once, loudly. 'Wake me when it's my watch. Irrial?'
'What?'
'It's very simple to set up a spell to wake me if anyone comes too close. I really do trust you, but I'm not an idiot.'
He was snoring softly before she could come up with a viable answer to that one. THEIR FIRST DAYS ON THE ROAD had been more than a little harrowing. Travel was a nervous affair, as they remained alert for approaching soldiers, ready to scurry into whatever cover might make itself available. Once they'd ambushed a small patrol-obtaining mounts, supplies, and a replacement weapon for Irrial-they moved a bit faster, but it was only after they'd passed beyond Cephiran-held territory, and the highways began to boast Imphallian travelers, that they breathed easy. Corvis felt his shoulders and back relaxing, and the next morning was the first in a week that he'd awakened without a headache crawling up the back of his neck.
Not that they'd escaped the invasion's shadow; far from it. Long stretches of road were packed with refugees, making their slow and sad way westward. Some rode mounts with saddlebags stuffed to bursting, others drove wagons laden with the pitiful remnants of homes and lives, and many carried only what they could hoist on their backs. Uncounted plodding feet kicked up the dirt of the highways, tromped flat the grasses alongside, all accompanied by muffled sobs, whispered reassurances, and tear-streaked prayers. Sweat perfumed the air-sweat and, somehow, the stink of despair. It turned the stomach, this stench of slowly rotting hope.
Corvis, though it shamed him, found himself grateful for their presence. They offered plenty of cover for Irrial and him to hide, should any Cephiran scouts range this far; and they held the baroness's attentions, so conversation-and acrimony, and accusation-remained scarce.
'Well, we always knew the masses had to be good for something, right?'
After some days, however, the bulk of the refugees turned aside. The road passed by the city of Emdimir, the informal line of demarcation between central and eastern Imphallion. Already the city was so crowded the stone walls threatened to bulge, like the distended belly of a starving man, and every moment more people arrived. The air above the city wavered with the heat, and Corvis was sure he could actually see pestilence lurking within the clouds above. But the people had, for the most part, no strength to travel farther, and Emdimir's government hadn't yet hardened their hearts enough to begin turning them away.
Once past that city, Corvis and Irrial made excellent time, thanks to the horses and the highways-and a good thing it was, for the journey remained remarkably unpleasant, even without the sorrowful throng. The sun seemed utterly determined to cook them into some sort of stew, its heat letting up only for the occasional summer squall- which, in turn, summoned up mosquitoes by the bushel. After the second such shower, Corvis had scratched himself bloody and was fairly convinced that he'd prefer a dagger in a vital organ over one more bite.
Irrial promptly offered hers, and Corvis decided to keep his future complaints to himself.
Nor were these the only bites he had to endure. The Cephiran warhorse he'd acquired was a nasty, ill- tempered brute who still wasn't entirely sold on his new master. The beast was more than cooperative while Corvis was riding-its training saw to that-but it constantly tugged at the reins when they walked, balked while he was trying to lead. It had bitten him thrice already, once drawing blood as he tethered it up for the night, and had even once kicked at him, a blow that would assuredly have broken bone had it landed.
Corvis, sick to the death of the whole thing, had cuffed the horse hard across the nose. Apparently he'd gotten some of the message across, because the kicking had ceased, though the biting continued unabated. Also, he had to endure an extra-intensive glare from Irrial for a day and a half after he struck 'that helpless creature.'
For the first time in years, Corvis found himself desperately missing Rascal. He'd been such a good horse; the poor thing just, after trying so hard for so long, hadn't proved up to being Corvis Rebaine's horse.
And then there was Irrial herself, who spoke with him as infrequently as feasible. The prior discussion on whether or not to murder Corvis in his sleep was perhaps the longest exchange they'd shared since Rahariem.
'Have you considered cuffing her across the nose?'
'Shut up.' Corvis actually found himself hoping, for an instant, that the voice in his head was genuine; he didn't like the idea that such a thought came from him, crazy or not.
But as summer entered its downward slope-not that one could tell by the stifling heat-and they drew ever nearer their destination, passing by larger towns and ever more numerous travelers, Irrial's curiosity apparently overcame her hostility. As they made camp that evening, she moved to sit across the fire from him, rather than taking her meal to the far side of the campsite as had been her wont. He tilted his head, his expression puzzled, and maybe just a little pleased.
'Where, exactly, are we going?' she asked him, one hand clutching a sharp stick from which hung a greasy haunch of rabbit.
