There was a proverb, oft-quoted by Pendeclos: Usas supo munamfat. The god’s mind is one. That applied to Paladine as well as Majere. It was sometimes hard to understand the dawn-father-otherwise, why would men need clergy?-but Paladine did not contradict himself. There were only three possible solutions the Kingpriest could see, then: first, the boy’s powers might not be as great as Ilista hoped; second, they would not reach Istar; and last, he would die too soon for Beldyn to help.

“Let it be that,” he murmured, sliding an ivory marker between the pages and setting the book aside. His hand went to his medallion. “Take me, Paladine, if it is your desire. Better that than the others.”

He frowned, then, shivering. The room had grown cold. He glanced at the window, but it was shut-and besides, it was still summer. Still the flesh on his good arm rose into bumps, and his breath became a plume of mist in the air. A deeper chill ran through him as he watched ice form on the goblet of water he kept by the bedside. This was no freak chill-something was causing it to happen. What?

He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. As he shrank back, feebly tugging at his blankets to cover himself, the shadows in the room’s corner shifted. They moved like a living thing, undulating and swelling, then darkening and growing solid… more and more solid. His heart beat erratically and he held his breath as he watched the darkness take form-a lithe, feminine form that shifted and coiled like smoke. Finally, two glowing slits appeared in its face, combing the room, then blazing with green fire as they settled on him.

With a soft hiss, the creature broke away from the darkness, gliding across his bedchamber. He watched it with horrible fascination-the way its body floated above the floor, the wintry glare it fixed on him, never once wavering as it drew near his bedside. He wanted to slip away, to get up and run, but his enfeebled body wouldn’t let him. He wanted to shout, but his throat tightened until it was hard even to breathe.

Watching the monster draw near, he had a thought that terrified and amused him, both at once. He’d asked for death, only moments ago. Evidently, someone had been listening.

The… thing… hovered before him, poised like a coiled serpent. Its blazing eyes bored into his own. Black talons like scimitars reached out, inches from his flesh. In that moment, with death at hand, all fear left Symeon IV, and he nodded, his rosebud lips relaxing into a smile.

Palado Calib, he prayed silently, mas ipilas paripud. Mas pirtam tarn anlico.

Blessed Paladine, forgive my wrongs. I give my soul to thee.

Aloud, he said, “Very well. Come on, then.”

Snarling, the demon lunged. Its talons plunged into his breast, piercing him without breaking the skin. Cold pain surged through him, worse than any he’d ever known before. Then it went away.

Chapter Twelve

Wentha lived in darkness now, her windows shuttered, the candles gone from her bedside. Silence filled the room, broken by the thin wheeze of her breath. Her body was wretchedly thin-a skeletal girl now, rather than the blooming young woman she had been-and she shivered no matter how many blankets covered her. The herbs hanging from the rafters could no longer mask the sour reek and the drier, mustier scent beneath.

Autumn came early to the highlands, tinting the trees with flame. Watching his sister from the doorway, Cathan knew she would be gone before the leaves fell.

He’d returned from Govinna with the rest of Tavarre’s band more than a month ago, setting camp in the same gorge as before. He’d meant to go to Luciel immediately, truly had, but something had stopped him. Fear, probably-to see his sister again would have made her illness real. He’d spent his days in other ways, practicing swordplay or taking watch over the broad, winding highroad. The rest of the time, he’d roved the hills, thinking dark thoughts-but always staying away from Luciel.

Finally, last night, Tavarre had drawn him aside as he sat by the fire, casting dice with the other bandits. “We came back here for your sake, lad,” the baron had said. “Keep hiding from her, and you’ll wake one morning to find it’s too late.”

Bolstered by Tavarre’s words, Cathan had taken one of the horses this morning, and ridden back to town. Now, standing at the entry of Wentha’s sickroom, he found he could go no farther. He knew what she would look like-he’d seen his parents die, and Tancred too-but still he couldn’t face her. That wasn’t his sister in the bed anyway. His sister was gone. Sighing, he shut the door.

“She’s a valiant girl,” said Fendrilla. The old woman stood near him, grave and ancient. She had aged ten years over the summer. “She fights.”

Cathan nodded, not wanting to hear it. “You’ll keep looking after her?” he asked. “Until-until-”

“You know I will, lad.” She rested a bird-bone hand on his shoulder. “I wish you’d let me pray for her.”

Shaking his head, he stepped away from the old woman. The gods had abandoned him, abandoned Wentha. Paladine was far from Taol. The Longosai was all over the north now, spreading even within Govinna’s walls, and neither King-priest nor regent had replied to Lord Ossirian’s demands. The Scatas would come any day now, and the god would do nothing to stop them.

The thud of hoofbeats on the dirt road outside brought Cathan back to the present, and he heard the creak of leather and a grunt as a man jumped down from his saddle. Mail rattled as booted feet hurried toward the house, and Cathan went to the door and flung it open, a hand on his sword. It was Vedro, his stubbled face red from the hard ride. He wore a crossbow across his back and an axe at his belt.

“There you are,” he said, and glanced around, at the rocky land around Fendrilla’s cottage. “Where’s the horse? Tavarre needs it”

“The horse? Why?”

Vedro scratched his neck. “The scouts came back,” he said.

“There’s a group of riders near here, couple leagues south.” Cathan paused, glancing over his shoulder. Tavarre had asked for the horse only. He ought to stay here. Wentha might live out the week, but she also might not last past the morrow.

He knew he didn’t have the strength to see her. He’d tried, and his courage had failed.

“All right,” he said, hating himself as he spoke the words.

Jaw squared, he pushed past Vedro, on toward the spot where he’d tied the gelding Tavarre had given him. “You can have it-but you’re taking me, too.”

Taol’s hills had a way of channeling the wind. One moment the air was completely still, holding the ghost of summer’s warmth, then, suddenly, the pines would bend and gusts would pummel between the crags like a hammer of ice. It was doing this now, and Ilista sat hunched in her saddle, pulling her hood low. Tears froze on her cheeks, and despite her woolen gloves, she could no longer feel her fingertips.

She looked up at the rest of the party. Sir Gareth and his men bore up with typical Solamnic stoicism, their armor and visored helms keeping some of the cold at bay. They glanced this way and that, watching the slopes for trouble. Her eyes drifted past them, to the figure who rode beside her. Beldyn sat erect on his brown palfrey, his head bare, his hair whipping behind him. If the wind troubled him at all, he gave no sign.

They’d left the monastery weeks ago, Beldyn bidding his brethren farewell then riding away without looking back. Turning north, they had crossed the golden grasses of the Schalland Plains as the sun beat down upon them, then endured torrential rains as they threaded their way through the Khalkist mountains. The young monk remained untroubled through it all, his piercing blue eyes always fixed on the horizon before them.