"I'll revise my plans," Gabriel said.

"Do we get a vote on that?" Carroway muttered.

"We can't lose more time," Tris said. "The Hawthorn Moon is only a few weeks away."

"You'll reach Shekerishet by the Moon," Gabriel vowed. "You have my word."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?" Vahanian asked.

"Now, despite this... misfortune," Gabriel said, "you need to rest, and so do I."

"I don't feel very tired right now," Kiara replied, rubbing her neck where Elana had gripped her.

"I think we should stay together," Carina added.

"I'll watch over you personally," Riqua said. "I have eternity to rest and, unlike Gabriel, I don't have to save my strength for the journey. I assure you, none of mine will harm you while I'm your protector."

Vahanian looked as if he were about to make another comment, then saw the ice in the vayash moru's eyes and thought better of it. "Let's get to it, then," he said.

What Vahanian lacked in diplomacy, Kiara thought as they filed out, he made up for in voicing the sentiments of them all. She fastened her sword belt and walked to the door, where Tris waited to follow her.

Riqua led them to her own quarters, a sumptuous tomb obviously intended for one of noble birth. It had been transformed to a well-appointed boudoir, with one significant difference. In the center stood an ornate catafalque, and atop it an alabaster image of Riqua. Exhausted, Kiara and the others made impromptu beds of couches and pillows, choosing to stay close enough together that no one could pass among them without waking the others.

Kiara gave Carina's hand a grateful squeeze. "Have I ever told you how happy I am that you're a light sleeper?"

"I'm glad I was able to stop her. But I can't believe I used a blade."

"What exactly do your healer rules say?" Vahanian asked from where he had stretched out, blocking the doorway with his body. He closed his eyes, trying to relax.

"The taking of life or the shedding of blood in anger with a knife or blade is forbidden."

"Then you're clear."

"What?"

Vahanian opened one eye. "Elana was already dead. Undead. You didn't take her life. And whatever that stuff was on the floor, it wasn't her blood."

Kiara chuckled. "He's got a point, Carina. I like his logic. And admit it—it wouldn't be the first time healers have split hairs on some obscure rule."

"I'll have to think about it tomorrow," Carina said, settling in next to Vahanian and sharing his cloak. "That just might make sense in the morning."

Kiara smiled, finding a spot beside Tris, glad for the arm he slipped around her shoulders and the warmth of his heavy cloak.

When the others were quiet, Tris turned toward Kiara. "I have something I want you to carry for me."

"Not another magic dagger, I hope?"

Tris carefully withdrew the precious vial of Bava K'aa's elixir from where it hung on the strap around his neck. He slipped it over Kiara's head. "Wear this for me, please."

"What is it?" She looked at the vial, which glowed a faint violet through the thick glass.

"It's a potion. Grandmother left it for me with Riqua. Quite literally worth a king's ransom." He reached out to touch her cheek, and kissed her. "It will cure a mortal wound." She gasped, looking at the vial with renewed respect. "Keep it safe, please? If it's needed—and I hope it isn't—you're more likely to be able to do something with it than I will."

"I don't like it when you say things like that," she said, suppressing a shiver as she carefully slipped the vial down the throat of her tunic.

Tris put his arm around her. "I have every reason to want to live through this," he said, tangling his fingers in her hair, glad for her nearness. "You know that."

"I know. But it doesn't make me worry less."

Tris kissed her gently, and she leaned back against his shoulder. "I've thought a lot about what you said, back in Principality, about being the 'hound of the Goddess.' Coming when the Lady calls and doing as She bids. I only wish I were a fox hound, and not turned out after a beast."

"But look at your pack," she said. "A good pack can bring down a very large bear."

"Have I mentioned, recently, how much I love you ?

She nestled closer. "Yes, but tell me again." Tris let his kiss answer her, and then folded her close. They shared the warmth of his cloak in the crowded room, content for the company as they fell asleep in what might be the last safe night before the Hawthorn Moon.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Ban Soterius shivered and gathered his cloak tightly around him in the harsh winds of northern Margolan. It was the fourth month, the Lover's Moon, but the winds had turned unseasonably cold, even for the unpredictable weather of the north. Rain fell, mixed with sleet, in a last winter storm. Soterius had ridden a candlemark since leaving the shelter of the village where he raised his most recent cluster of fighters, and had yet another candlemark to ride before reaching his destination. Although it was not yet dusk, the heavy gray clouds made it seem much later. Soterius found himself wishing for sundown, when Mikhail promised to join him.

The trek across northern Margolan had been successful so far. He had gathered thousands of volunteers and deserters into the ranks of his militia, seeding small groups of rebels to harry Jared's troops.

It had started with the refugees and the three deserters from the Margolan army in the Principality camp. Soterius knew there was plenty of bottled up rage against Jared, but he had no idea just how deep the feelings went, or how broadly they were shared. Once his purpose became known, the number of volunteers swelled. He and Mikhail were moved from village to village, protected by ties of kin and marriage, hidden in barns and wagons, caves and sheds.

Many a tavern keeper welcomed them by the back door, tired of Jared's troops busting up their inns and taking liberties with the women. Soterius and Mikhail slept in crypts and barrows, watched over by ghosts and the undead. Out in the villages one's kin included the living, dead, and undead. Those ties of kinship were as binding as any blood oaths; Soterius found that many of the families were linked from village to village all along the Borderlands. When multiplied by many generations with the inclusion of kin who were vayash morn or ghosts, Soterius came to see the villages as a tightly woven net of families, similar to the nobility at court.

Opportunities to test the skills of their trainees were readily available. Both Soterius and Mikhail led skirmishes against Jared's troops that heightened their renown and drew volunteers to their cause. As the successful strikes grew more numerous, Soterius amassed a better store of uniforms and weapons, wagons and horses. These he hid in the caves that pock-marked the foothills, until the time was right to march an army of his own toward the palace.

The villagers who volunteered were men old enough that Jared's troops had not conscripted them and women who had been subjected to the lusts of Jared's soldiers, or who had lost daughters and sons to Margolan's army. Those who could leave their villages Soterius and Mikhail trained to fight, helping them understand how to turn the land itself into a weapon. Those who could not leave became spies, passing along information as valuable as ammunition. Willing tavern masters became important gatekeepers in the resistance, noting the movement of troops and the number of soldiers passing through an area. Mikhail, a reasonably skilled musician, made sure to teach Carroway's defiant songs to the minstrels he met. He added stories of Tris's prowess as a Summoner to the bards' tales. Thanks to Mikhail, Soterius did not doubt that Carroway would find all the minstrels and bards he needed to create chaos in the palace city on the night of the Hawthorn Moon.