"We would welcome you," Soterius said. "I'd be honored."

When the others had gone to bed Soterius was still awake, staring into the small fire. He stood and walked to the door, letting himself out into the cold moonlit night. After a time, he felt Mikhail's presence, though the vayash moru's approach was silent.

"Ban, I'm sorry about your family."

Soterius looked up at the full moon. "I was thinking about Tris, the night we left Shekerishet. How he seemed to move in a fog. We were running for our lives, and he didn't seem to share the same urgency the rest of us felt. I was so impatient with him that night. I needed him to make decisions, to tell us what to do. I didn't know what to do with his grief. And I was so proud of how battle-calm I was, so unruffled. Such a perfect soldier."

Soterius kicked at the ice, and looked out at the shadow of the ruined manor house. "I feel like that deer in there—like I've been gutted and left to bleed dry. I guess that's how Tris felt, too. Only I was too busy playing soldier to understand. And when we met Jonmarc, I was so sure he couldn't be trusted, that anyone who sold his sword would be a turncoat."

He looked up at the moon, and the silent tears tracked down his cheeks. "But Jonmarc understood. I didn't realize then, but I know now what he went through, what he lost. I've been such an ass. Playing the hero while the people I loved were dying because of it. Danne was right. They died because of me. And while—Goddess help me!—I couldn't have done anything differently, Father died, thinking me a traitor. I wish I could make that right."

For the first time in their acquaintance, Soterius glimpsed old pain in the vayash moru's eyes. "Even if you hadn't saved Tris that night, Jared would have sent his troops. Your father was one of Bricen's closest friends. The same has befallen any who didn't have the good luck to hear of the coup and go into hiding before the soldiers could come. Without your sacrifice, there would be no hope of unseating Jared, no one to defeat Arontala."

"I know that," Soterius said.

"Maybe when all is settled, Tris would come to Huntwood, and let you make your peace," Mikhail suggested. "He's done so for strangers—would he do less for you?"

Soterius swallowed hard, and shook his head. "You're right, of course. It's just that tonight, it seems so far out of reach."

Mikhail gave a sad smile. "One of the things I miss most about being mortal is the ability to get drunk. I've seen much that I wish I could forget, even for a little while. But perhaps, my friend, you can take some solace in wine and find your rest. You need fear nothing—I'll stand watch."

Soterius nodded, but paused as he turned to go back into the kitchen house. "Does it get better— with time?"

He saw the centuries in Mikhail's eyes. "All things fade in time," the vayash moru replied. "But even faded, there are those things that death itself cannot erase."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

"Why so glum, Carroway?" Carina nudged her horse onward through the unseasonably cold rain.

The bard gave her a sour look. "Because it's nearly dusk, and every nightfall seems to bring us to a place to stay that's even more dreadful than the last." Their horses splashed through the water-filled ruts as they trudged down the muddy roads. "Crypts. Basements. Abandoned buildings. What I wouldn't give for an inn with a fireplace!"

Kiara chuckled. "I understand completely. Last night, I think I saw the biggest rat in Margolan in that basement!" Jae, snuggled for warmth in Kiara's lap, gave a gurgle of agreement.

"All I know is that the next time I go somewhere with Tris, I'm going to be in charge of where we stay," Carroway said. "I may never be warm again!"

Vahanian, who was riding point, stopped to let the others catch up. "Can't say I disagree," he said, flexing his cold hands, nearly numb from holding his reins. We're still a good ways from Shekerishet. Perhaps a warm place to stay and a hot meal would do us all good."

"Do you remember the inn we stayed at on our way to Ghorbal?" Tris asked the bard. "The one with the young man's ghost?"

"Is that the way you remember all the places you've stayed—by what haunts them?" Vahanian turned his horse to avoid the worst of the rain that ran down his leather cloak and dripped from its hem.

"Lately, yes."

Carroway stood in his stirrups to get his bearings. "We should be close. Why?"

Tris looked out over the horizon. "It would be a safe place for us—I'm sure of it."

Carroway nodded. "The innkeeper was willing to hide us—even before you sent away the ghost. He's unlikely to turn us in now."

"Whatever we're doing, can we decide before I freeze?" Carina put in.

Tris and Carroway conferred on the roads, and the group headed out with considerably lighter spirits at the prospect of a night in a real inn. A steady flow of traffic passed them, bound for the palace city and the upcoming festival. Still, Tris noticed that the travelers seemed shabbier than in years past, and the carts of provisions less full than before. It was a marvel that the people of Margolan had the will to celebrate at all under Jared's yoke.

When they reached the Sparrow's Roost Inn, Tris and Carroway exchanged glances. "Looks like getting rid of the ghost was good for business," the bard remarked. The inn, which had been in need of repair and nearly empty on their flight from Shekerishet now had a freshly painted sign, a tidy exterior, and a stable filled to capacity with guests' horses.

"Apparently so," Tris said. "Let's go around back."

Tris gave his reins to Carroway and bade the others stay back a few paces as he approached the kitchen door. He gave a few sharp knocks, and the stout innkeeper's wife came to the door. "Go 'round to the front if you need something," she said. "But mind that we've got no rooms left tonight." She started to close the door and Tris caught it, letting his hood fall back in the rain. The woman caught her breath and brightened, throwing her arms around Tris in a hug that nearly took him off his feet.

"Bless the Lady—you're back!" she cried. "Lars, Toby, come quickly!"

The innkeeper and his son came to the door, and puzzled looks quickly changed to broad grins of welcome. "Come in, come in," the innkeeper said, looking beyond Tris to where his friends waited. "But tell me, sir mage, why do you come to the back door like a beggar?"

Tris extended his mage sense, feeling no threat in the presence of the innkeeper and his family. While he was glad of their welcome, he did not wish to put them in danger. He thought it best to tell a limited version of their story. "We'd still prefer to stay clear of the king's troops," Tris said honestly. The others secured their horses in a copse of trees a little way from the crowded barn and joined him in the kitchen. "Not everyone is as glad as yourself to see a mage these days."

Lars, better fed and less harried than he had been, nodded. "Aye, there's many in the land today have a reason to stay clear of the king's troops, that's for sure. Have no love for them myself, as you know. Bust up the place, and then charge a fee if I want to keep them from busting it up again.

"But since you sent that young man to his rest, folks will stay the night again—and I don't lose so much ale spilled for no reason. We're in your debt, m'lord mage. Thought we would starve to death until you came along." Lars welcomed the others into the crowded kitchen, which smelled of roasting venison, cooked leeks, and the dark, rich ale for which Margolan's southern plains were famed.

"Come in, come in. I'll give you my best table, and all the food and ale you want," Lars said.

Tris smiled, knowing the welcome was genuine. "We're grateful for your kindness, but we'd like to keep a low profile. We'll be happy to eat in the kitchen."