In her mind, she saw an army advancing through craggy hills, and she shivered. Her dream on the night Paladine had appeared to her was coming true. She hoped she could complete her quest before the Scatas marched.

“You did not use the orb because of His Holiness, though,” Loralon said, his eyes glittering. “What has happened? Have you found the one you seek at last?”

Her free hand strayed to her medallion. “Not exactly. I think he may have found me.”

She told him of the mysterious scroll, reading its message to him. His eyes widened.

“Whispering limbs and leaves,” he said when she was done, surprising her. She had never heard him swear before. “The message truly says Lighibringer? Have you mentioned the prophecy to anyone else?”

She shook her head. “Have you?”

“Not even the Kingpriest.” He stroked his beard, the shock smoothing out of his face like ripples from a still pond. “What of the map?”

She held it up, tracing along its lines with her finger. “These are the mountains near here,” she said. “Sir Gareth has traveled to Xak Tsaroth before, and he knows the roads. There is an old monastery this way-it belonged to monks of Majere once, he says, but it’s been abandoned for years.”

“Not any more, evidently.” A smile ghosted Loralon’s lips. “Efisa, the choice is yours, but I think you should follow the map.”

Ilista nodded. It would mean turning from her planned path, true, but what good had that path done her so far? Who was to say that it led to anything but more failure? Looking again at the scroll, she could barely keep her hopes from spilling over. I am the Lightbringer-how could it be anything else?

She and Loralon spoke a while longer, of smaller matters, then bade each other farewell. Within the orb, the elf spoke a word, and his image flickered, then faded back into the maelstrom of the orb’s light. That dimmed as well, returning to the ghostly glimmer she’d first observed when she picked up the crystal. The orb turned cold again, and she signed the triangle over herself to ward off ill fortune as she put it away.

She lay awake in her bed after, staring at the pavilion’s silken roof. It was some time before she slept.

The day dawned gray, the mountains shrouded by fog, and a light drizzle fell as Ilista and the Knights rode south, away from Xak Khalan. The peaks loomed on either side of the road, jagged and steep, more barren with every mile. Their snowy summits disappeared into the cloudrack. Ashes and firs clung to the rocks, and creeping brambles Sir Gareth called Hangman’s Snare. Here and there, stones littered the path from where they had broken free of the slopes above, and once they even heard the crack and rumble of a not very distant slide, echoing amongst the crags.

Well after midday the road forked, a smaller path breaking off and running deeper into the wilds. An obelisk of white stone leaned among the bushes, overgrown with ivy. At its crown was a copper spider, now green with age-the holy symbol of Majere, the god of thought and wisdom. Ilista paused before the monolith to study the strange map, then bit her lip, looking from one fork to the other. In the end, though, she had little choice. They could rest the horses and themselves at the monastery and continue in the morning. So they turned from the main road to follow the spider. She prayed it wasn’t leading her to a web.

The going from there soon grew harder, the path rougher and steeper, cracked and littered with scree. Bracken covered it over in places, so they had to dismount and lead their horses through. Cave mouths yawned in the slopes above, like the eyes of skulls. The Knights eyed these warily, their hands on their swords. Kharolis was a wild country, and Gareth knew many tales of terrible creatures that lurked in the mountains, preying on goats and lizards… and now and then unwary travelers. Goblins, in particular, were rife in some places. Ilista had never seen a goblin outside a bestiary, but she still shuddered as she imagined the squat, twisted creatures shrieking down upon them from the caverns above.

Drizzle gave way to downpour. The horses grew skittish, tossing their heads and whinnying, and the Knights did too, several drawing their swords, Ilista hunched low in her saddle, her sodden robes weighing her down. The clouds sank lower still, hungrily devouring the mountains. They changed color, too, first darkening to near-black then shifting to a sickly green. The wind grew strange-utterly still one moment, then hammering the next-and the gold of lightning flashed in the distance. Thunder muttered in reply.

Gareth’s blade wasn’t out, but his hand strayed to its hilt as he rode up alongside Ilista. Water streamed off his winged helmet as he lifted its visor, and he shouted for her to hear him above the wind.

“The storm will be on us soon, Eflsa! Have to find shelter before it breaks!”

Ilista frowned, glancing up at the anvil-shaped clouds, towering above the mountains like a great wave. The way they boiled and flashed, they almost seemed alive. Her gaze dropped again, to the path ahead. She wanted to go on, yearned to reach the monastery. It was only a few more leagues-surely they could cover that ground before things grew too hard.

Lightning flared close by, making her jump as it struck a wooded outcropping only leagues ahead. Trees became torches, and the stone burst, sending rubble and burning wood pouring down the hill. The thunderclap that followed, a heartbeat later, made the ground tremble beneath them, and set Ilista’s ears ringing. The horses reared and snorted, the Knights struggling to keep them calm.

Hopes of further progress dashed, she nodded to Gareth. “Go.”

A few barked orders later, the party had reined in, and all but two of the Knights were off their horses, clambering up the slopes toward the caves. They climbed around boulders and scrabbled across gravel, grabbing tree trunks to steady themselves as they went. Soon they disappeared, swallowed by the rain and gloom.

A small mace hung from Ilista’s saddle. She hadn’t wanted to carry it, being untrained in arms, but Sir Gareth insisted. Now she thanked him silently as she reached down and pulled the weapon free. She gripped it tightly, heart hammering. Though Gareth was near-his sword finally unsheathed-and the two Knights who held the horses hovered close by as well, she felt horribly helpless beneath the looming thunderheads.

The wind howled. The rain became icy knives. Thunder’s growl rose into a bellow. The Knights did not return.

Worried, Gareth guided his horse to the path’s edge and called out, but the storm smothered his words. The horses were near mad with fear, and the Knights fought to keep them from bolting. Ilista twisted her own reins, repeating a warding prayer over and over as she stared at the thunder-heads. “Palado, me ofurbud op to me bulfant bronint…”

Paladine, be my shield against those who would do me ill…

Out of nowhere, something appeared in the sky, streaking down out of the seething clouds. Dista gaped as she watched it plummet and saw it glint as lightning flashed nearby. Armor, she thought, but couldn’t find her voice. A heartbeat later, it struck the rocks with a horrible crash and tumbled down the slope to stop on the path.

Ilista’s horse bawled, nearly throwing her. By the time she got it under control again, Gareth was off his steed and sprinting toward the tangled ruin on the ground. Feeling ill, she coaxed her mount forward as the Knight knelt down on the ground, raising his visor to see. He looked up as she came near, his face ashen, and raised a hand to warn her off. It was too late, though-she could already see.

It was Sir Laonis-or had been, once. Now she recognized the young Knight only by the etchings in his armor. The rest was a ruin, battered and ravaged, a few jagged slashes even tearing through his breastplate. His left arm was gone, and the rainwater pooled around him was pink with blood, darkening as she watched.