Two teamsters came next, with two wagons full of carefully packed crockery, and then finally the caravan master and her four helpers. These were the ones who would do more than guide us. The very look of their leader inspired confidence. Madge was a stoutly built woman, her slate-gray hair constrained from her face by a band of beaded leather. Two of her help seemed to be a daughter and a son. They knew the waterholes, clean and foul, would defend us from bandits, carried extra food and water, and had agreements with nomads whose pasturing territory we'd be passing through. That last was as important as any of the rest, for the nomads did not welcome folk who passed through their lands with grazing animals to eat the feed their own flocks needed. Madge called us together that evening to inform us of this, and to remind us that they would keep order within our group as well. No theft or troublemaking would be tolerated, the pace set would be one all could sustain, the caravan master would handle all dealings at the watering places and with the nomads and all must agree to abide by the decisions of the caravan master as law. I murmured my assent along with the others. Madge and her help then checked the wagons to be sure each was fit for travel, that the teams were sound, and that there were adequate water and food supplies for emergencies. We would travel a zigzag course from watering place to watering place. Madge's wagon carried several oak casks for water, but she insisted every private wagon and team carry some for their own needs.

Creece arrived with the setting sun, after Damon had already gone back to his room and bed. I dutifully showed him the sheep, and then listened to his grumbling that Damon had not provided us with a room to sleep in. It was a clear, warm night with only a bit of wind, so I saw little to complain about. I did not say so, but let him mutter and complain until he was weary of it. I slept just outside the sheep pen, on guard lest any predators come near, but Creece wandered off to annoy the puppeteers with his dour nature and extensive opinions.

I don't know how long I truly slept. My dreams parted like curtains blown by a wind. I came alert to a voice whispering my name. It seemed to come from far away, but as I listened, I was compelled inexorably to it as if summoned by a charm. Like an errant moth, I became aware of candle flames and was drawn toward them. Four candles burned brightly on a rough wooden table and their mingling scents sweetened the air. The two tall tapers gave off the scent of bayberry. Two smaller ones burned before them, giving off a sweet spring scent. Violets, I thought, and something else. A woman leaned forward over them, breathing deeply of the rising perfume. Her eyes were closed, her face misted with sweat. Molly. She spoke my name again.

"Fitz, Fitz. How could you die and leave me like this? It wasn't supposed to be this way, you were supposed to come after me, you were supposed to find me so I could forgive you. You should have lit these candles for me. I wasn't supposed to be alone for this."

The words were interrupted by a great gasp, as of a wrenching pain, and with it a wave of fear, frantically fought down. "It's going to be all right," Molly whispered to herself. "It's going to be all right. It's supposed to be like this. I think."

Even within the Skill dream, my heart stood still. I looked down at Molly as she stood near the hearth in a small hut. Outside, an autumn storm was raging. She grasped the edge of a table and half crouched, half leaned over it. She wore only a nightrobe, and her hair was slick with sweat. As I watched aghast, she took another great gulping breath, and then cried out, not a scream, but a thin caw of a sound as if that were all she had strength for. After a minute she straightened a bit and put her hands softly on the top of her belly. I felt dizzied at the size of it. It was so distended, she looked pregnant.

She was pregnant.

If it were possible to lose consciousness when one is asleep, I think I would have done so. Instead my mind reeled suddenly, reordering every word she had said to me when we had parted, recalling the day when she had asked me what I would do if she had been carrying my child. The baby was the one she had spoken of, the one she had left me for, the one she would put ahead of every other in her life. Not another man. Our child. She'd left to protect our child. And she hadn't told me because she was afraid I wouldn't go with her. Better not to ask than to ask and be refused.

And she had been right. I wouldn't have gone. There had been too much happening at Buckkeep, too pressing the duties to my king. She'd been right to abandon me. It was so like Molly to make the leaving and the facing this alone her own choice. Stupid, but so like her I wanted to hug her. I wanted to shake her.

She clutched the table again suddenly, her eyes going wide, voiceless now with the force that moved through her.

She was alone. She believed I was dead. And she was having the child alone, in that tiny windswept hut somewhere.

I reached for her, crying, Molly, Molly, but she was focused inward on herself now, listening only to her own body. I suddenly knew Verity's frustration those times when he could not make me hear him and most desperately needed to reach me.

The door gusted open suddenly, admitting blowing storm wind into the hut and a blast of cold rain with it. She lifted her eyes, panting, to stare at it. "Burrich?" she called breathlessly. Her voice was full of hope.

Again I felt a wave of astonishment, but it was drowned by her gratitude and relief when his dark face peered suddenly around the door frame. "It's only me, soaked through. I couldn't get you any dried apples, no matter what I offered. The town stores are bare. I hope the flour didn't get wet. I'd have been back sooner, but this storm…" He was coming in as he spoke, a man coming home from town, a carry sack over his shoulder. Water streamed down his face and dripped from his cloak.

"It's time, it's now," Molly told him frantically.

Burrich dropped his sack as he dragged the door shut and latched it. "What?" he asked her as he wiped rain from his eyes and pushed the wet hair back from his face.

"The baby's coming." She sounded oddly calm now.

He looked at her blankly for an instant. Then he spoke firmly. "No. We counted, you counted. It can't be coming now." Abruptly he sounded almost angry, he was so desperate to be right. "Another fifteen days, maybe longer. The midwife, I talked to her today and arranged everything, she said she'd come to see you in a few days…"

His words died away as Molly gripped the table's edge again. Her lips drew back from her teeth as she strained. Burrich stood like a man transfixed. He went as pale as I'd ever seen him. "Shall I go back to the village and get her?" he asked in a small voice.

There was the sound of water pattering on the rough floorboards. After an eternity, Molly caught a breath. "I don't think there's time."

Still he stood as if frozen, his cloak dripping water onto the floor. He came no farther into the room, stood still as if she were an unpredictable animal. "Shouldn't you be lying down?" he asked uncertainly.

"I tried that. It really hurts if I'm lying down and a pain comes. It made me scream."

He was nodding like a puppet. "Then you should stand up, I suppose. Of course." He didn't move.

She looked up at him pleadingly. "It can't be that different," she panted. "From a foal or a calf…"

His eyes went so wide I could see the whites all round them. He shook his head fiercely, mutely.

"But Burrich… there's no one else to help me. And I'm…" Her words were suddenly torn away from her in a sort of cry. She leaned forward on the table, her legs folding so her forehead rested on the edge of it. She made a low sound, full of fear as well as pain.