Kirah succumbed first, being the smallest and nearest. Guerrand saw her legs buckle and her eyes sink shut. Looking up, he saw the steps of the two approaching bandits slow noticeably. First, the limping man yawned and sank to the ground near the bandit Guerrand had clubbed unconscious. The dwarf looked in surprise at his fallen companions, then tumbled, rubbery-legged, next to them, fast asleep.

Guerrand closed his eyes, dropped his face into his hands, and muttered a prayer of thanks to Habbakuk. He knew with certainty in that moment that he could never be a cavalier. He'd heard Quinn speak of the incredible blood-rush brought on by the heat of battle. His brother had said it was thrilling, that nothing compared with it. Looking at the thin trail of blood and the welt rising on the bandit's scalp, Guerrand was sure he could never learn to enjoy beating someone over the head.

He couldn't remember how long the sleep spell was supposed to last, but he knew it couldn't be long. Guerrand took a loop of strong rope from one of the bandit's saddles. He started to tie up the one nearest him, then decided he'd make better time with help. Using his toe, he nudged Kirah gently in the ribs. She grumbled in her sleep but didn't awaken. He shook her shoulder hard; she mumbled for him to go away. Hating what he knew he had to do, Guerrand raised his hand and slapped her pale cheek, hard. Kirah's eyes blinked open in confusion, and a hand went up to rub her face. Guerrand could see the red imprint of his own fingers.

"What the-?" Kirah sat up stiffly and looked around at the unconscious men.

"I'm sorry, Kirah," said Guerrand, and he was, "but it was the only way to awaken you before the others. I put everyone to sleep with a spell. I'll tell you about it as we tie up these scoundrels. Hurry, now," he said, handing her some rope. "I don't think we want them to wake up before they're securely bound."

"Gods, no." Kirah shuddered. She snatched up the length of rope and began looping it around one of the men, while Guerrand held him up.

"Won't that wake him up?" she asked, worried.

"No, they've got to be roughed up quite a bit before they'll wake up. That's why I had to slap you. Or wait for the spell to wear out, which could happen at any time." He pushed the man's arms behind his back. After Kirah looped them together, he tied a sturdy knot and sliced the rope.

They quickly trussed up the other two. Guerrand saddled the bandits' horses, adding the bags for inspection back at Castle DiThon. Kirah held the horses still, while Guerrand struggled each of the unconscious men onto their stomachs over the horses' backs. He put the wounded man on one horse, and had the other two share one, leaving the third horse for Kirah. He would collect the roan from the cypress for himself.

Reviewing their work, Kirah still looked uneasy. "Let's tie them to the horses, too-just in case they wake up before we get back."

Guerrand complied, feeling a little apprehensive himself. The men most certainly would waken before they reached the castle. Anticipating the abuse they would hurl upon waking and finding themselves trussed, Guerrand stuffed some dirty clothing from their saddlebags into each of their mouths for good measure.

He instructed Kirah to ride in back, to watch them closely. He rode lead, setting a quick pace. Still, as much as he wanted to be rid of these men, for other reasons Guerrand wasn't anxious to reach the castle.

"What are you going to tell Cormac?" Kirah called from the back of the line, as if reading his thoughts.

"Frankly, I don't know. If we were going to get there before dawn, I'd consider leaving them tied in the courtyard with a note attached to Quinn's medallion." He looked to the sky lightening over the strait to the southeast. "Besides it being cowardly, I'm afraid it won't be possible.

Guerrand rubbed his tired eyes, sighing. "Truthfully, I'm hoping Cormac will be so overjoyed at having Quinn's killers delivered to him that he won't think to ask many questions."

Riding in weary silence, both brother and sister knew that was as unlikely as stopping the sun from rising behind them.

The courtyard was filled with gawkers as the scraggly, unlikely quintet filed in. Guerrand glared at Kirah, who was waving happily to the crowd, obviously thrilled by the attention. She's not the one who's going to have to answer for all this, he grumbled to himself.

The absurdity of the situation struck him. He should have been rejoicing like Kirah. But all he could think about was having to face Cormac's anger and his questions. Guerrand began to resent his older brother's attitudes in a way he never had before. Belize had said something about choosing which path his life would follow. Guerrand felt as if he were walking someone else's path, and could find no forks in the road.

Just then, Cormac stormed into the courtyard with Milford at his side. "Guerrand, Kirah!" he bellowed, taking in Kirah's attire in particular. "What's the meaning of this?" Cormac unpinned the dark plaid cloak drawn around his shoulders and tossed it over the girl.

"We captured Quinn's killers!" Kirah burbled before Guerrand could form an answer.

"You what?" Cormac looked stricken with apoplexy; his fleshy face instantly turned a hideous purple-red.

"Look!" Kirah held up Quinn's medallion eagerly.

Cormac nearly yanked the chain from her hands and turned it over in his thick fingers. "It's Quinn's, all right." His glare traveled from the bound-and-gagged men to Guerrand. "How do you know they didn't simply acquire it from his real killers?"

Guerrand was puzzled. He'd expected anger and questions, but not disbelief. "Because they match the description we got from the men who brought Quinn

in," Guerrand said, more reasonably than he felt. "Call them back to identify these men. Check their bags-I'm sure you'll find more of Quinn's things."

With a nod of his head, Cormac instructed Milford to do just that. In moments the warrior's massive hands were filled with a standing-bowl bearing the DiThon crest and a book of poems and reflections with Quinn's name inked on the flyleaf.

Milford beamed at Guerrand with wide-eyed wonder. "Congratulations, young squire. You obviously perform better under pressure than you do in the training room. I'm sure the presiding cavaliers will want to discuss it, but I suspect this will qualify you for immediate knighthood. And on the eve of your wedding!" He turned to address Cormac. "What do you think, Lord DiThon?"

Cormac's smile was unnaturally tight. "I think we could not have hoped for more. Good work, Guerrand."

With that, Cormac began to fire orders. First, he told Kirah to get into the keep and dress properly; knowing his tone too well, Kirah scampered away with a pitying glance at Guerrand. Next he instructed several men-at-arms to take the still gagged and squirming bandits into the dungeon, where they would be questioned momentarily.

Then Cormac's angry eyes locked on to Guerrand, who swallowed hard under the scrutiny, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'll speak to you shortly in my study, Guerrand," his brother said crisply. "I would like to privately discuss just what your unexpected actions mean to me."