"If we join in prayer, a single stroke of God's lightning hand will destroy them all," offered one young monk, who had also been on the expedition to Aida, including the battle outside the Alpinadoran village.

Master De'Unnero's sharp eyes narrowed as he considered the monk and the assenting nods of those nearby, men who had heard the tale of the great victory in the northland, the tale of sparking fin-gers reaching down from the line of monks to utterly vanquish their enemies.

There was something else inspiring them, too, De'Unnero rec-ognized. Fear. They wanted a clean and quick blow against the ap-proaching goblin force because they were afraid of engaging these relatively unknown creatures in melee. The would-be abbot strode powerfully up to the speaker, his gaze setting the man back on his heels, draining the blood from his face. "Master Jojonah alone will use the magic," he snapped, his head jerking side to side so that all could see his expression, so that none would dare question him. "He is too old and infirm to fight."

Looking at the wretched man, Jojonah had an almost irresistible urge to rush over and prove him wrong.

"As for the rest of us," De'Unnero went on, barking the words, "let us consider this an exercise of valuable training. We may yet see battle in our new home in Palmaris."

"This 'training' could be deadly," Master Jojonah piped in, and the measure of calm in his quiet voice only added to the sarcasm.

"All the more valuable, then," De'Unnero said without hesita-tion, and when he saw Jojonah shaking his head, he stormed over to stand before him, crossing his strong arms defiantly over his chiseled chest.

Not now, Master Jojonah reminded himself quietly, not wanting to embarrass the man, for that would only make De'Unnero dig in all the more. "I beg of you to be done with this approaching band efficiently and cleanly," he said. "Let us blast them away, a single, combined stroke of lightning, and go see to whoever is beyond that rise." He pointed behind De'Unnero as he finished, to the plume of black smoke still drifting lazily into the air.

In response, De'Unnero handed him a piece of graphite, a single stone. "Use it well, brother," he said. "But not too well, for I wish to have my new attendants properly trained in the pleasures of battle."

"Pleasures of battle?" Jojonah echoed, but under his breath, as De'Unnero spun away, calling to the brothers to ready their cross-bows. The old master could only shake his head in disbelief. He rubbed the graphite about his palm, thinking to hit the goblin troupe hard and fast, to kill them or scatter them, that few, if any, of the younger monks would see any real battle. His rubbing became more urgent when the forward scout signaled back that the goblins were approaching, for Jojonah could not feel the power of the stone.

The master fell within himself, seeking that special place of magic - in his mind, that special place of God. He dismissed thoughts of De'Unnero, believing that such negativity might be having an adverse effect. And he rubbed the graphite about his fin-gers, felt its every groove.

But not its magic. Jojonah opened his eyes to find he was alone in the road. Near panic, he glanced around, and then relaxed some-what, seeing that De'Unnero had positioned the others in the brush to the side. The lead goblins were in sight now, running hard around a bend in the road. Jojonah looked down at the graphite, in-credulous, feeling betrayed.

The goblins came on, their rush changing from one of retreat to a hungry charge.

Jojonah lifted his arm and closed his eyes, calling to the stone.

Nothing, no lightning, came forth, not even a sparkle, and the goblins were closer now. Jojonah tried again, but found no source of magic within that graphite. Then he understood the truth of it, that this stone was not enchanted, was just an ordinary rock. Fear gripped Jojonah; he thought that De'Unnero had set him up to die, here on the road. He was an old man and had no weapon, and could not possibly do battle! He gave a cry and turned about, hobbling as fast as his thick legs would take him.

He heard the goblins howling, closing. He expected a spear to take him in the back at any moment

But then De'Unnero and the brothers struck hard at the goblin mob, monks leaping up from the brush at the sides of the road, firing heavy crossbows designed to take down powries, or even gi-ants, point-blank. Thick bolts tore through goblin flesh, blasting holes in the diminutive creatures, and sometimes even in goblins behind the first victim. The goblin mob was leaping, spinning, falling, and the goblin cries of attack turned fast to screams of sur-prise and agony.

Jojonah dared to slow and glance back, to see that half the gob-lins were already down, some squirming, others dead, and that Master De'Unnero had leaped out onto the road in the midst of the rest. De'Unnero was a perfect killing machine now, leaping and twisting. Out snapped his extended fingers, hand rigid, driving through a goblin throat. He turned as another tried to club him on the head. Up came De'Unnero's arms in a stiff cross above his head, catching the downswing between his forearms. Thrusting the arms out wide, he tore the club from the startled goblin's grasp, caught it while it spun about, then snapped it hard across the crea-ture's face, and then again, even more forcefully, with a powerful backhand.

De'Unnero kept running, using the club to knock aside a spear thrust, then around again to smash the first goblin a third time -  though it was already nearly unconscious on its feet - laying it out in the dirt.

Around he came, launching the club at the spear-wielder, then following the weapon's flight with a quick rush, moving inside the tip of the spear and pushing it aside, while his free hand rained heavy blows about the creature's face and throat.

Other monks were on the road now, overwhelming the gob-lins, breaking them apart. A few monsters scampered out to the side, whining, but De'Unnero had left several of his warriors in place, and they had their powerful crossbows ready by that time.

And then, with the goblin horde already falling apart, came perhaps the worst blow of all, as brutal De'Unnero fell into his signature gemstone, the tiger's paw, as his arms, already deadly, transformed into the mighty limbs of a tiger and began raking apart those nearest goblins.

It was over before Master Jojonah could even get back to his companions.

When he did return, huffing and puffing, he found De'Unnero in an excited, almost frantic state, the man rushing all about the line of young monks, clapping them hard on the back, verily snarling at their great victory.

Only a few monks were down, and the worst injured of the group had been hit by a crossbow quarrel from across the road, the firing monk not taking care with the angle of his shot. Several gob-lins on the road were still alive, but in no condition to continue any fight, and several more had escaped, running fast across the fields to the sides of the road.

De'Unnero seemed not to care. The man even found a wide smile for Jojonah.

"It could not have been quicker even with the use of magic," the would- be abbot said.

"Something you obviously never intended, other than your per-sonal stone," Jojonah replied sharply, tossing back the useless stone. "I do not like being a pawn, Master De'Unnero," Jojonah went on.

De'Unnero glanced around at the young monks, and Jojonah did not miss the sly grin on his face. "You played a necessary role," De'Unnero argued, not bothering to scold the man for referring to him as merely a master.

"With a true gemstone, I could have been more useful."

"Not so," said De'Unnero. "Your lightning stroke may have killed a few, but the rest would have scattered, making our task all the more difficult."

"Several did get away," Jojonah reminded him.

De'Unnero waved the thought away. "Not enough to cause any real mischief."

"So you needed me frightened and running."

"To lure them in," De'Unnero replied.

"Me? A master of St.-Mere-Abelle?" Jojonah pressed, for he understood the more subtle reasoning of Marcalo De'Unnero. The man had humiliated him in front of the younger monks, thus se-curing his own standing among them; while Jojonah had run like a frightened child, De'Unnero had leaped into the midst of the enemy and personally killed at least a handful.

"Forgive me, my brother," De'Unnero said insincerely. "You are the only one appearing infirm enough to so lure the goblins. The whole troupe of them might have fled from a younger, sturdier man, like myself."

Jojonah went quiet, staring hard at this man, his nemesis.

Such an action, such a deception upon an Abellican master, could be brought before higher authorities, with the likely result that De'Unnero would be severely punished for his presumption and for so embarrassing him. But to what higher authorities might he appeal? Master Jojonah wondered. To Father Abbot Markwart? Hardly.

De'Unnero had won this day, Jojonah accepted, but he also de-termined then and there that this personal fight would be a long, long battle.

"The hematite, if you please," he said to De'Unnero. "We have wounded in need of assistance."

De'Unnero glanced around, seemed less than impressed by the severity of any wounds, then tossed the stone to Jojonah. "Again you prove that you have some value," he said.

Jojonah just turned away.

"You taught her," Juraviel, sitting in a tree, stated accusingly when Elbryan came back to the ridge, his hunting successfully completed.

The ranger didn't have to ask what the elf was talking about, for he knew that Juraviel had watched his dance with Pony, and that no two humans could ever find that level of grace and harmony withoutbi'nelle dasada. Without retort, Elbryan ignored the accu-sation. He looked down to the circled wagons, to see Pony moving among the merchants, helping out.

Juraviel gave a great sigh and rested back against the trunk. "You cannot even admit it?" he asked.

Now the ranger did snap a glare over the elf. "Admit it?" he echoed incredulously. "You speak as though it was a crime."

"And is it not?"

"Is she not worthy?" Elbryan shot right back, waving his arm out toward the wagons and Pony.

That somewhat deflated the elf's anger, but still he pressed on. "And is Elbryan to be the judge of who is worthy and who is not?" he argued. "Is Elbryan, then, to become the instructor in place of the Touel'alfar, who perfectedbi'nelle dasada when the world it-self was young?"

"No," the ranger said grimly. "Not Elbryan, but Nightbird."

"You presume much," said Juraviel.

"You gave me the title."

"We gave you your life and more," the elf retorted. "Take care that you do not abuse the gifts, Nightbird. Lady Dasslerond would never suffer such an insult."

"Insult?" the ranger echoed, as though the whole notion was ridiculous. "Consider the situation that I, that we, were put in. Pony and I had just destroyed the dactyl, and now had to fight our way through hordes of monsters, and that just to reach Dundalis. And so, yes, I shared my gift with her, for both our sakes, as she shared the gift that Avelyn had given to her, for both our sakes."

"She taught you to use the stones," Juraviel reasoned.

"I am nowhere near her level of power with them," the ranger admitted.

"Nor is she near to your fighting prowess," said the elf.

Elbryan was about to offer a stinging retort, for he wouldn't suffer such an insult to Pony, especially one so obviously ridicu-lous, but Juraviel kept on talking.

"And yet, a human who can move with such grace, who can complement one trained by the Touel'alfar so very beautifully, is a rare find indeed," the elf went on. "Jilseponie dances as though she had spent years in Caer'alfar."

That brought a smile to Elbryan's face. "She was trained by the master," he said with a grin.

Juraviel didn't even challenge the joking boast. "You did well," the elf decided. "And yes, Jilseponie is worthy of the dance, as worthy as any human has ever been."

Satisfied with that, the ranger looked down the dale and out to the east. "A large group went out that way," he remarked.

"Likely they ran right into the approaching monks."

"Unless the monks chose to hide and let the goblins pass," Elbryan said.

Juraviel understood his cue. "Go to your companion and see to the merchants," he offered. "I will scout to the east and find out what has become of our goblin friends."

The ranger walked Symphony down the slope to the wagons. One frightened man raised a weapon as if to fend the newcomer away, but another nearby boxed him on the ear.

"Ye fool!" the second man said. "He's just saved yer stinking life. Killed half the goblins by himself!"

The other man dropped his weapon to the ground and began dip-ping a series of ridiculous bows. Elbryan only smiled and walked Symphony past, right into the ring, He spotted Pony at once and slipped down from the horse, handing the reins to a young woman, barely more than a girl, who rushed over to help him.

"They have many sorely wounded," Pony explained, and in-deed at the time she was tending to one man who it seemed would not survive. "From the earlier fight, not the last one."

Elbryan looked up, turning his nervous gaze to the east. "The monks are not far, I fear," he said quietly. When he looked back down, he found Pony staring up at him, chewing her thick upper lip, her blue eyes wide, questioning. He knew what she meant to do, whether he argued against it or not, and realized she was only waiting for him to explain where he stood on the issue.

"Be quiet with the soul stone," he bade her. "Wrap the wound as though you were tending it more conventionally. And use the gem only - " He stopped, seeing the transformation in Pony's expres-sion. She had wanted his opinion, out of respect, but she did not need his commandments. The ranger went silent then, nodding to show that he trusted her judgment.

He watched as she drew out the gray stone from her pouch, clutching it close and bending over the man. Elbryan, too, went down low, taking a bandage and beginning to wrap it about the man's wound, a slash in the right side of his chest, through the ribs and quite deep, perhaps even through a lung. The ranger wrapped the wound, and tightly - he didn't want to bring the man any more pain, but he needed him to cry out a bit to cover Pony's secret work.

The man gasped, Elbryan offered words of comfort, and then, in mere seconds, the man relaxed, looking up at the ranger quizzi-cally. "How?" he asked breathlessly.

"Your wound was not nearly as bad as it looked," Elbryan lied. "The blade did not get past your rib bone."

The man's look was doubtful, but he let it go at that, just relieved that the pain was gone now, or nearly so, and that his breath was coming to him easily once more.

Elbryan and Pony made their way about the camp then, searching out any too injured for conventional methods. They found only one more, an older woman who had been hit in the head, whose eyes stared vacantly across the way, drool running freely from her mouth.

"Senseless," a man attending her said. "I seen it before. The goblin club breaked her head. She'll die tonight, in her sleep."

Pony bent low, examining the wound. "Not so," she replied. "Not if she's properly wrapped."

"What?" the man asked skeptically, but fell silent as Elbryan and Pony went to work, the ranger putting bandages about the old woman's head, while Pony, the soul stone tucked under one palm, put her hands near the wound as if to hold the head together while it was being wrapped.

Pony closed her eyes and fell into the stone, sent the healing magic through her fingers. She felt stings of pain, the tenderness and swelling, but she had tended far worse in the battles of the northland.

She came out of her trance a moment later, the wound reduced so as to not be life-threatening, to the cries of "Approach! From the east!"

"Goblins!" one frightened merchant yelled.

"No!" another cried. "Brothers! St.-Mere-Abelle has come to our aid!"

Elbryan cast a nervous glance at Pony, who quickly pocketed the gemstone.

"I don't know how ye did it, but ye suren saved Timmy's life," said a woman, rushing up behind Elbryan. Both Elbryan and Pony followed her gaze across the way, to the man with the chest wound, who was standing now and talking easily, even managing a laugh.

"It was not so bad," Pony offered.

"It was to the lung," the woman insisted. "Checked it meself, and thought he'd be dead afore the dinner bell."

"You were nervous and shaken," Pony offered. "And rushed, for you knew that the goblins were coming back."

The woman's face brightened with a disarming grin. She was older than the two, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with the worn but pleasant demeanor of an honest worker who had known a hard but satisfying life. She glanced by the pair, to the wounded old woman sitting on the ground, her eyes already showing signs of life once more.

"Not so shaken," she said softly. "I seen much in the battles these last weeks, and lost a son, though me other five children are safe, God be praised. They only asked me along on the caravan to Amvoy because of me reputation for putting broken people back together."

The ranger and Pony exchanged a serious look, something the woman didn't miss.

"I'm not knowing what ye're hiding," she said quietly. "But I'm not for talking. I seen ye up on the hill, fighting for us, though ye know not a one in the group, from what I'm hearing. I'll not betray ye." She finished with a wink and turned away to join the commo-tion as the procession of monks approached along the eastern road.

"Where is our son?" Pony asked Elbryan with a smirk.

The ranger looked around, though of course Juraviel was no-where in sight. "Probably behind the monks," he answered dryly. "Or under one of their robes."

Pony, nervous that her use of the stones might have drawn these brothers in and that the quest might soon be over, appreciated the levity. She hooked her arm inside her lover's and led him toward the gathering.

"I am Abbot De'Unnero, departing St.-Mere-Abelle for St. Pre-cious," they heard the lead monk, a man full of so much energy that his eyes verily glowed. "Who is the leader here?" Before any-one could answer, De'Unnero's discerning eye settled on the pair, Elbryan and Pony. Their stride and the weapons they carried dis-tinguished them.

The would-be abbot walked up to them, looking hard.

"We are as new to the group as are you, good friar," the ranger said humbly.

"And you happened upon them by mere chance?" De'Unnero asked suspiciously.

"We saw the smoke rising, as you must have in the east," Pony answered, her tone sharp and showing clearly that she was not in-timidated. "And being folk of goodly heart, we rushed to see if we might help. When we arrived, the second fight was brewing, so we made it our own."

De'Unnero's dark eyes flashed, and it seemed to both Elbryan and Pony that he wanted to strike out at her for the implied accusa-tion. She had, for all intents and purposes, just asked the monk why he and his fellows had not hustled to join in.

"Nesk Reaches," came a call from a heavy man in bright clothing, the same man Pony had spoken with when she had first approached the caravan before the fight. The merchant hustled for-ward, extending his left hand, for his right was bandaged. "Nesk Reaches of Dillaman Township," he said, " 'Tis my caravan, and glad we are to see you."

De'Unnero ignored the man's offered hand, his sharp gaze still scrutinizing Elbryan and Pony.

"Master De'Unnero," a portly old friar interrupted, moving forward to stand beside the forceful man. "They have wounded. Pray give me the soul stone that I might tend them."

Elbryan and Pony didn't miss the flash of outrage crossing De'Unnero's angular face, the man obviously not pleased that this other monk had so openly offered help, and magical help at that. Still, he had been put on the spot, in front of all the merchants and all his own procession, and so De'Unnero reached into his pouch and produced a hematite, handing it over.

"Abbot De'Unnero," he corrected.

The portly monk bowed and walked past him, offering a glance and a smile at Elbryan and Pony as he moved into the group.

Predictably to Pony, for she had already made an accurate assess-ment of the man, Nesk Reaches started for the portly friar, holding up his slightly injured hand, playing the wound for all it was worth.

De'Unnero wouldn't let the merchant leader go that easily, though. The monk grabbed Reaches roughly by the shoulder and turned him about. "You admit that this is your caravan?" he asked.

The merchant humbly nodded.

"What fool are you to be bringing people out in this danger?" De'Unnero scolded. "Monsters are thick in the region, and are hungry and hunting. The warning has been given across the land, yet here you are, out alone and hardly guarded."

"Please, good friar," Nesk Reaches stammered. "We were in need of provisions. We had little choice."

"In need of good profits, more likely," De'Unnero snapped. "Thinking to turn a few pieces of gold at a time when few caravans are running and goods are more valuable."

Grumbles from the crowd told Elbryan and Pony, and De'Un-nero, that the reasoning was sound.

De'Unnero let Nesk Reaches go then, and called out to the portly monk. "Be quick about it! We have been delayed too long al-ready." To Reaches, he added, "Where are you headed?"

"Amvoy," the thoroughly intimidated merchant stammered.

"I will soon be sanctified as abbot of St. Precious," De'Unnero explained loudly.

"St. Precious?" Nesk Reaches echoed. "But Abbot Dobrinion - "

"Abbot Dobrinion is dead," De'Unnero callously stated. "And I will replace him. And, merchant Reaches, I expect that you and your caravan, owing a debt to me, will attend the ceremony. In fact, I insist upon it. And I remind you that you would be wise to be gen-erous in your offerings."

He turned away then to his procession, motioning the monks out of the wagon circle. "Be quick," he called to Master Jojonah, spin-ning about. "I'll not waste our entire day at this business."

Elbryan used the distraction to slip away to the horses, remem-bering that Symphony carried a gemstone in his breast which might be quite significant and telling to monks of St.-Mere-Abelle.

Pony, meanwhile, kept her eyes on the portly monk tenderly at-tending the many wounded. When De'Unnero's group was safely away, she went up to the man, offering to help with conventional healing, tearing bandages and the like.

The monk looked at her sword, at the blood spattered on her pants and boots. "Perhaps you should rest," he said. "You and your companion have done quite enough this day, from what I have heard."

"I am not tired," Pony said with a smile, taking as much of an initial liking to this man as she had a disliking to the other, De'Un-nero. She couldn't help but measure that man against Abbot Dobrin-ion, whom he would apparently replace, and the contrast sent a shudder along her spine. This monk, though, so sincerely at work to relieve the suffering, seemed more like the former abbot of St. Precious, whom Pony had met on a couple of occasions. She bent low and held the hand of the man the friar was attending, applying pressure in just the right spot to slow the bleeding of his torn hand.

She noticed then that the monk was not looking at her, or at the wounded man, but had settled his gaze on Elbryan and the horses.

"What is your name?" he asked Pony, his eyes drifting to study her.

"Carralee," Pony lied, using the name of her infant cousin who had been killed in the first goblin raid on Dundalis.

"I am Master Jojonah," the monk replied. "Well met, I would say, and fortunate for these poor folk that we - particularly you and your companion - came along when we did!"

Pony hardly heard the last few words. She stared hard at the portly man. Jojonah. She knew that name, the name of the one master of whom Avelyn had spoken fondly, the one man at St.-Mere-Abelle, Avelyn had believed, who had understood him. Avelyn hadn't talked much with Pony about his colleagues during his days at the abbey, but he made it a point one night after too many "potions of courage," as Avelyn called his liquor, to tell her about Jojonah. That fact alone relayed to the woman just how dear this old man had been to Avelyn.

"Your work is truly amazing, Father," she remarked as Master Jojonah put a soul stone to use on the injured man. In truth, Pony soon realized that she was more powerful with the gemstones than this master of the abbey, a fact that pointedly reminded her of just how powerful Avelyn Desbris had been.

"It is a minor thing," Master Jojonah replied when the man's gash was mended.

"Not minor to me," the man said, and gave a laugh that sounded more like a cough.

"But what a good man you are to do such work," Pony said en-thusiastically. She was acting purely on instinct now, following her heart, though her thoughts, were screaming at her to be cautious and shut up. She gave one nervous glance around, to make sure that no other monks had wandered back into the wagon circle, then con-tinued quietly, "I once met another of your Church - St.-Mere-Abelle, is it not?"

"Indeed it is," Master Jojonah replied absently, looking around for any others who might need his healing talents.

"A good man was he," Pony continued. "Oh, such a good man."

Master Jojonah smiled politely, but started to walk off.

"His name was Aberly, I believe," Pony said.

The monk stopped abruptly and turned on her, his expression shifting from polite tolerance to sincere intrigue.

"No, Avenbrook," Pony bluffed. "Oh, I cannot remember his name quite right, I fear. It was years ago, you see. And though I cannot remember the name, I'll never forget the monk. I came upon him when he was helping a poor street beggar in Palmaris, much as you just helped that man. And when the poor man offered to pay him, fishing a few coins out of his raggedy pocket, Aberly, or Avenbrook, or whatever his name might have been, accepted graciously, but then arranged for the coins, along with more than a few of his own, to be returned to the poor man inconspicuously."

"Indeed," Jojonah muttered, nodding his head with her every word.

"I asked him why he did that - with the coins, I mean," Pony went on. "He could have just refused them, after all. He told me that it was just as important to protect the poor man's sense of pride as his health." She finished with a broad smile. The story was true, though it had happened in a tiny village far to the south and not in Palmaris.

"Are you sure you cannot remember the brother's name?" Jo-jonah prompted.

"Aberly, Aberlyn, something like that," Pony replied, shaking her head.

"Avelyn?" Jojonah asked.

"That might be it, Father," Pony replied, still trying not to give too much away. She was encouraged, though, by the warm expres-sion on Master Jojonah's face.

"I said be quick!" came a shout from outside the wagon circle, the harsh bark of St. Precious' new abbot.

"Avelyn," Master Jojonah said again to Pony. "It was Avelyn. Never forget that name." He patted her shoulder as he walked past.

Pony watched him go, and for some reason that she had not yet discerned, she felt a bit better about the world. She moved to Elbryan then, the ranger still standing right against Symphony, hiding the telltale turquoise.

"May we leave now?" he asked her impatiently.

Pony nodded and climbed up on Greystone, and with a wave to the merchant entourage, the pair trotted their mounts out of the wagon circle, going back to the south, up the slope and away from the monks, who were back on the road, heading to the west. Just over the ridge, Elbryan and Pony met up with Juraviel again, and they were quickly heading east, putting as much ground between themselves and the monks as possible.

De'Unnero began scolding Master Jojonah as soon as the older man rejoined the monk procession. His tirade went on and on, long after the group exited the valley.

Jojonah tuned it out almost immediately, his thoughts still with the woman who had helped tend the wounded. He felt warm in-side, calm and hopeful that Avelyn's message had indeed been heard. The woman's tale had touched him deeply, had reinforced his positive feelings toward Avelyn, had reminded him once again of all that was - or all that could be - right with his Church.

His smile as he pondered the tale only infuriated De'Unnero even more, of course, but Jojonah could hardly have cared less. At least in this tirade - on the edge of insanity, it seemed - De'Un-nero was showing his temperament honestly to the younger, im-pressionable monks. They might be in awe of the man's fighting prowess - even Jojonah was amazed by that - but his verbal lashing of an old, impassive man would likely sour more than a few stomachs.

Finally realizing that Jojonah's serenity was too entrenched to be shaken, the volatile master backed off and the procession went on its way, with Master Jojonah falling into position at the end of the line absently, trying to conjure images of Brother Avelyn's work with the poor and sick. He thought of the woman again, and was glad, but as he pondered her tale, as he considered her and her companion's obviously mighty role in the battle, his contentment fast shifted to curiosity. It made little sense to him that a man and a woman, obviously powerful warriors, would be making their way to the east from Palmaris - and not in position as guard of one of the few, precious caravans that were trying to get through. Most he-roes, after all, were making their name and reputation in the north, where the battle lines were more obvious. It occurred to Master Jojonah that this situation needed more investigating.

"The stone!" Abbot De'Unnero snapped at him from the front of the procession.

The man was hardly paying him any heed, so Jojonah bent low and quietly gathered another stone of similar size, then dropped it into the pouch in place of the hematite. Then he rushed over to De'Unnero, seeming obedient, and handed the pouch over. He breathed easier when the vicious master, no lover of magic other than his signature tiger's paw, tucked the pouch away without a look.

They marched until the sun went down, putting several miles behind them before setting camp. A single tent was propped for De'Unnero, who went inside right after his meal with parchment and ink to further plan the grand ceremony of his appointment as abbot.

Master Jojonah said little to his companions, just moved off by himself quietly and settled amidst several thick blankets. He waited until all the camp had quieted, until several of the brothers were snoring contentedly, and then he took the hematite from his pocket. With one last glance around to make sure no one was taking any notice, he fell into the stone, connecting his spirit to its magic and then using that magic to let his spirit walk free of his body.

Without the corporeal bonds of his aged and too-heavy frame, the master set out at great pace, covering the miles in mere minutes. He passed by the merchant caravan, which was still circled in the valley.

The woman and her companion were not there, and so Jojonah's spirit did not stay, but rather drifted up high, into the air, above the hilltops. He spotted a pair of campfires, one to the north and an-other in the east, and by sheer luck chose to investigate the eastern glow first.

Perfectly silent and invisible, the spirit glided in. He soon saw the two horses, the great black stallion and the muscled golden palomino, and then, beyond them, huddled about the fire, the two warriors talking to a third figure he did not know. He drifted closer cautiously, giving them all due respect, moving in a circuit about the perimeter of the camp to get a better look at this third member of the band.

If he had been in his corporeal form, Jojonah's gasp would have been audible indeed when he saw the lithe figure, the angular fea-tures, the translucent wings!

An elf! Touel'alfar! Jojonah had seen statues and drawings of the diminutive beings at St.-Mere-Abelle, but even at the abbey the writing on the Touel'alfar was indecisive as to whether there really were such beings, or whether they were merely legend. After en-countering powries and goblins and hearing the tales of fomorian giants, Jojonah was not logically surprised to learn that there really were Touel'alfar, but the sight of one still startled him profoundly. He spent a long time hovering about that camp, his gaze never leaving Juraviel while he listened to the conversation.

They were speaking of St.-Mere-Abelle, of the prisoners Markwart had taken, particularly the centaur.

"The man was proficient with the hematite," the woman was saying.

"Could you defeat him in a battle of magics?" the strong man asked.

Jojonah had to swallow his pride when the woman nodded con-fidently, but any anger he might have felt washed away as soon as she explained.

"Avelyn taught me well, better than I had understood before," she said. "The man was a master, indeed the one that Avelyn had called his mentor, the one man that Avelyn had loved at St.-Mere-Abelle. Avelyn always spoke highly of Master Jojonah, but in truth, the man's work with the stones was not so strong, not com-pared to Avelyn, and not compared to my own."

She had not said it in any boastful way, but merely matter-of-factly, and so Jojonah took no further offense. Instead he consid-ered the deeper, richer implications of it all. She had been trained by Avelyn! And under his tutelage, this woman, who did not look as though she was near her thirtieth birthday, was stronger than a master of St.-Mere- Abelle. That notion, and he found from her tone that he believed her words, served to reinforce Jojonah's con-tinually mounting respect for Avelyn.

He wanted to stay near and continue his eavesdropping, but real-ized then that time was short and that he would have to cover quite a bit of ground before the dawn. His spirit soared back to his waiting body, and when he was again corporeal, he breathed easier to learn that his out-of- body flight had not been noticed. All the camp was quiet.

Jojonah looked at the soul stone, wondering how to proceed. He might need this, he realized, but if he took it, then De'Unnero would likely make hunting him down a priority even above the journey to St. Precious. On the other hand, if he left the soul stone, then it might be used, much as he had used it this night, to search for him.

Jojonah found a third option. From inside the folds of his volu-minous robes he produced parchment and ink, then set about writing a short note explaining that he was going to return to the merchant caravan and escort them to Palmaris. He would take the soul stone, he explained, because the merchants were far more likely to need it than were the monks, especially - and Jojonah took great care to play this part up - since the monks had Master De'Unnero, perhaps the greatest fighter ever to come out of St.-Mere-Abelle, at their head. Also, Jojonah assured De'Unnero that he would make sure that the merchants, and any compatriots they could muster, would attend the ceremony at St. Precious, bearing expensive gifts.

"My conscience will not allow me to leave these people out here all alone," the note finished. "It is the duty of the Church to help those in need, and by so helping, we bring willing contributors into the flock."

He hoped that the emphasis on wealth and power would calm De'Unnero's expectedly vicious response. But he couldn't really worry about that now, not with these three people, so potentially important to everything that he held dear, so very near. Carrying only the soul stone and a small knife, he crept out of the camp, taking care not to be noticed, and set out as fast as his old frame would carry him, back to the east.

His first destination was the valley where the merchants had settled, so he could get his bearings, and also from an honest desire to check in on the battered caravan. When he drew near the place, he found another potential gain. Improvising, Master Jojonah cut a piece of his robe, not a difficult thing to do since the material had grown threadbare from his many days of traveling. He broke a few low branches and scuffled his feet about to make it seem as if a fight had occurred, then cut his own finger, carefully soaking the ripped material in blood and dripping some more about the area.

He quickly sealed the wound with the hematite, then moved over the ridge to the slope above the valley. The camp seemed peaceful enough, a couple of fires burning, several figures moving about calmly, so the monk took a moment to gauge his position, then set out.

He came in sight of the low-burning campfire before the dawn, and crept up. He didn't want to startle these people, certainly not to alarm them, but he figured that his best chance was to get close enough for the woman to recognize him.

He was soon in the bushes about the small campsite, the fire clearly in sight. He thought that he had been silent, and was glad to see the two bedrolls bulging with forms. How to wake them, he wondered, without frightening them into action?

He decided to wait until the dawn, to let them wake up on their own, but even as he started to settle down for perhaps an hour's wait, he sensed that he was being watched.

Master Jojonah spun about as the large form crashed in. Though Jojonah, like all the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, was a trained fighter, in the blink of an eye he was on his back, the edge of a very fine sword pressed against his throat, the strong man on top of him, pinning him helplessly.

Jojonah made no move to resist, and the man, upon recognizing him, backed off slightly.

"No others in the area," came a melodic voice - the elf, Jojonah presumed.

"Master Jojonah!" the woman said, coming into view. She rushed over and put a hand on the strong ranger's shoulder, and with a look and a nod, Elbryan got up from the monk and offered his hand.

Jojonah took it and was pulled to his feet with such ease that the man's strength, like his incredible agility, stunned him.

"Why are you here?" the woman asked.

Jojonah looked right into her eyes, their beauty and depth not di-minished in the least by the dim light. "Why are you?" he asked, and his tone, one that showed such understanding, gave both Pony and Elbryan pause.