I am no better than my father, he thought in disgust.

Ashamed, he tracked down Goss and tacked him. The stallion was nervous, his skin twitching. Amberhill cursed himself further, for it would be a while before Goss was calm enough to ride.

Well, he decided, patting his stallion soundly on the neck, at least the world is less six insane pirates and I am flush with treasure. Truly, a caper worthy of the Raven Mask. Now it was time I rescued the beautiful noblewoman.

He turned and led Goss westward.

“Clay!” Sarge bellowed.

He’d already lifted Estora off Falan, and she stood by her white mare’s head, speaking softly to her. Falan had done remarkably well on this mad dash through the woods, a tribute to her breeding and training. But now she held her right forehoof aloft and looked miserable. Estora prayed she’d be all right.

Clay, the scout, joined them.

“Check out the mare,” Sarge said.

Clay dismounted and went to Falan, probing her leg in a practiced manner. Falan did not appear to be afflicted by pain at his touch. He cupped her hoof in his hands, concentrating, then pulled a hoof pick out of his pocket.

“She’s a stone is all.” He worked the pick inside the hoof, and after a bit of prying, the stone popped out. It wasn’t large, but it had been significant enough to bother Falan.

“Prob’ly bruised somewhat,” Clay said, “but not badly.”

“She won’t slow us down?” Sarge demanded.

“Don’t ’spect so,” Clay said. He patted Falan’s neck, and returned to his own horse.

When Clay had finished with the mare, she planted her full weight on the hoof and Estora was much relieved.

“If she comes up lame again,” Sarge said in a warning voice, “we’re leaving her behind and you’re riding with me. We’ve already wasted enough time here.”

He helped Estora mount, and once again they were off. It went like so many days before, Sarge pushing them at a furious pace through the unpredictable footing of the woodlands. Estora worried about Falan’s hoof, but the mare’s gait proved unflagging and solid.

As the day passed, the forest thinned and grew more patchy, and at times they had to cross fields and meadows. As always, Clay scouted forward to ensure they’d pass unobserved. They hurried from thicket to thicket, sometimes keeping to streambeds that had high banks and growth around them. In the distance, rounded mountains began to dominate the horizon, and it was clear they were headed in their direction.

During one of their infrequent breaks, Estora asked Sarge what the mountains were called.

“If you don’t know,” he said, “then I’ve no call to tell you.”

If Estora survived this ordeal, and especially if she became queen, she’d make it her business to know the geography of every corner of Sacoridia. She’d never bothered to know in detail anywhere but her own Coutre Province, and the immediate surroundings of the castle in Sacor City.

Of course, if she survived and became queen, she was not leaving the castle ever again!

The evening found them in a woodland gentler and less dense than the Green Cloak they left behind, and here they stopped for the night. Although all was routine, Sarge appeared more agitated than usual, counting off on his fingers as he paced, and checking the moon. Estora surmised he was required to reach their destination on a specific day.

Whittle joined up with the group and this time Estora could hear him telling Sarge, “No sign of our hero.”

Sarge looked pleased and announced the watch schedule for that night.

In the morning she was roused early. Clay checked Falan’s hoof before they set off and pronounced it sound.

“We’ve a hard day ahead of us,” he confided to Estora.

More difficult than all the days that proceeded this one? She could scarcely believe it until Sarge set off. They rode faster and longer, deeper into the night, their horses slathered in sweat and stumbling until finally, at some awful hour, Sarge called a halt. By this time Estora was so exhausted she was slumped over Falan’s neck. When Sarge helped her down, she could hardly stand unaided.

“We will wake before dawn,” he warned her. His tone was almost jovial. “It will still be dark.”

A VOICE IN THE DARK

Karigan and Fergal settled down behind a cluster of boulders to keep watch. Not that they could see much in the dark, but moonlight pooled in the clearing that was the Teligmar Crossroads, and they’d be able to detect any movement there. Their initial inspection of the area showed no sign of a trap; turned up nothing, really, and so they hid the horses and found this spot for themselves. If Timas Mirwell wasn’t playing some joke on them, they were in a good position to see whatever it was they were supposed to see.

They took turns keeping watch while the other slept. Karigan dozed uneasily, her back at an uncomfortable angle against a rock. Her mind chattered endlessly, debating with itself as to what it was Timas thought she’d “want” to see, and why. Did it have something to do with Beryl? He indicated he knew why they’d come to Mirwellton—to make contact with Beryl.

Just as Karigan’s mind settled and it seemed she might get some rest after all, Fergal gently shook her wrist.

“Whaaa—?” she began.

“Shhh. Someone’s coming.”

All at once Karigan was fully alert and upright, peering into the dark. Five riders approached through the woods, halting short of the crossroads by several yards.

“Clay,” a man said, “I want you to go on ahead and take a look around.”