At last, five days ago, the Khalkists had given way to craggy foothills, and the party passed between a pair of white, ivy-covered obelisks that marked the empire’s border. Ilista had signed the triangle as they passed, whispering a prayer of thanks, but Beldyn had done more, reining in to stare at the standing stones. She’d watched as he dismounted and walked over to one, running his fingers over its smooth edges. His eyes had seemed to shine even brighter than usual when he returned to his saddle.

She’d asked what was wrong, and he’d shaken his head. “Nothing-a feeling. As if I were coming home.” They would be at the Lordcity in a fortnight, if they kept pace. Ilista shut her eyes, picturing it-riding with Beldyn through Istar’s streets, then on to the Temple, where the Kingpriest lingered on the edge of death. She’d spoken to Loralon a few times over their journey, using the enchanted orb, and the news he’d given her was grim. Symeon had suffered a second seizure, and it was a miracle he still lived at all. Brother Purvis had found him near death, slumped over in his bed, and Stefara had saved him, but just barely. His mind, the healer said, was all but gone. The Kingpriest lay senseless, taking water and food. He would live a few more weeks, then Paladine would take him. Nothing could stop it now.

Ilista smiled, as she had smiled then. Stefara didn’t know about the Lightbringer. She pictured it in her mind: Beldyn kneeling at Symeon’s bedside, praying to Paladine for help. Then the Kingpriest would awake, his shattered body and mind whole once more-

Gareth stopped suddenly, raising his hand. “Hsst!” Snapping out of her reverie, Ilista reined in her horse. Hands on their hilts, the Knights formed a protective ring about her. Amid it all, Beldyn looked about, his brows knitting with confusion. After a moment, he nudged his horse over to Gareth. Ilista joined them, her fingers brushing the new mace she’d taken from the monastery. “Trouble?” she whispered.

Gareth raised a finger to his lips, and Ilista fell silent. Nerves tingling, she glanced up at the slopes. They were steep, dotted with mossy boulders and swaying trees. Plenty of shadows in which to hide. Up ahead, a narrow cataract foamed down several layers of rock, making noise enough to drown out the whisper of boots on stone, or steel sliding against leather.

Beside her, Beldyn nodded slowly, his face smooth and his eyes closed. “It begins,” he murmured.

Ilista blinked. She was about to ask what he meant when the sound of hoofbeats rose ahead, echoing among the hills, growing steadily louder. She looked up and saw one of the Knights, a tall, silent youth named Reginar who had been riding point, gallop around abend. He reined in, his horse snorting as it tossed its head.

“Road’s blocked,” he panted, pushing up his visor. “A tree, some rocks.”

Gareth made a face, looking up the hillside. “A barricade. Like as not, we’re being watched.”

“We are,” Beldyn said.

Ilista looked at him sharply, but his gaze was far away, looking north, beyond the hills. He still appeared unwor-ried, his face holding the satisfied look of a man who had just figured out a clue to a troubling riddle. Before she could ask him anything, Gareth leaned close, his eyes stone-dark.

“Efisa, we should turn back.”

Her eyes lingered on Beldyn, however, and the Knight had to touch her arm to rouse her. “Uh?” she asked, then his words sank in and she nodded. “Very well. There’s another pass to the south. We can-”

She never finished. Beldyn jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks, and suddenly he was galloping forward, past the startled Knights and on down the road.

“Beldyn!” Ilista cried. On instinct, she spurred her own mare after him.

Gareth grabbed for her robes, but he didn’t catch hold of her, and she heard him swear behind her. A moment later, the clatter of mail told her the Knight was giving chase, his men with him. She kept her eyes on Beldyn as he rounded the shoulder of a hill. Her mare snorted, hooves thumping against the stony ground. They were heading into a trap-he had to know it, as well as she did. Why-

She came upon the tree so suddenly, she barely had time to pull up, saving her horse from spearing itself on the broken stubs of branches. It was an oak, its leaves fringed flame-orange, its trunk wide enough to crush any hopes of jumping over it. Beldyn stood his palfrey just before it, looking about. The young monk was calm, his eyes gleaming as he looked up the hillside, as if awaiting someone.

“What are you doing?” she asked, grabbing his arm. “We have to get away from here now!’

“Too late,” said a firm voice.

Dista started, twisting in her saddle to follow Beldyn’s gaze. On an outcropping partway up the northern slope stood a short, wiry man in a mail shirt and hooded cloak. He cradled a crossbow in his arms, a quarrel on the string. He nodded to her, and turned his head west, toward the clamor of the approaching Knights. Then he lifted his head and let out a raptor’s shriek.

To either side of the road, the hills came alive as more than a score of cloaked figures appeared. They rose from the shadows, stepping out of the undergrowth or from behind boulders, armed with crossbows and slings. Their armor was lighter than the first man’s-leather breastplates, mostly, some with metal studs-and all had shortswords or axes at their belts. Ilista knew at once they were trapped. Gareth and his men could put up a fight, but they would never overcome them all. Even so, she reached for her mace, her blood pounding in her ears.

“Yield!” called the bandits’ leader. “Throw down your arms, and this will end without bloodshed!”

Everything seemed to slow. Ilista held her breath. Beside her Gareth’s horse danced sideways as he drew his sword. He was a Solamnic Knight. It went against his honor to surrender without a fight. Beneath his raised visor, his moustache twisted into a warlike snarl. The other Knights yanked their blades from their scabbards.

The bandit chief raised his hand while the ring of steel echoed among the hills, then brought it chopping down. Ilista heard the snap of crossbow strings, and a steel quarrel buried itself in the ground before her. Her horse reared, whinnying, as more bolts narrowly missed the Knights as well. Ilista hauled on her reins, trying to control her mare. Beldyn did not budge.

“That was a warning,” the lead bandit proclaimed. “Next time, we won’t aim to miss.”

Ilista was still staring at the quarrel when a hand touched her arm. Startled, she turned to meet Beldyn’s cool, assured gaze.

“Do as he says,” he said.

Caught by his penetrating eyes, Ilista found she had no choice but to obey. Her mace thumped on the ground.

“At least the Revered Daughter has a brain,” the bandit declared, and chuckled. “Now. The rest of you do the same.”

“Never!” Gareth cried, brandishing his sword. “We do not give to highway-”

“MarSevrin,” the bandit said.

Something white flew down from the hillside, and the Knight’s fierce glare vanished in a red spray as it struck him, just beneath his open visor. He slumped against his horse’s neck, then toppled from the saddle with a crash. His sword skittered from his hand, and he lay still, his face covered with blood.

Ilista looked at him, aghast, then turned to the younger Knights, as they began to raise their own blades. “No! Enough!” she shouted. “Stop this, before you get us all killed!”

The Knights looked at her, then at Gareth, then at one another. One by one, they dropped their swords.

“Very wise,” the lead bandit noted. “Now dismount, all of you, and don’t move.”

Beldyn moved first, a strange smile curling his lips. He hadn’t flinched, even when Gareth fell. Qista and the Knights followed, keeping their hands up. Several ruffians half-climbed, half-slid down the slope while the rest kept their crossbows trained on the party.