The baron stood before the mounds, his head bowed, as Ilista made her way down to the courtyard. His shoulders shook, and though he heard the First Daughter’s tread on the stairs, he did not turn to greet her.

No wonder he took to the hills, she thought as her eyes flitted to the mounds. She thought of the others that filled Luciel’s graveyard and of the scorched patches of earth where pyres had burned. No wonder they all did. If only…

If only what? a voice asked in her head. Symeon may have ignored the plague, but even if he hadn’t, what could have been done? The Mishakites couldn’t have stopped it. No one could-or so she would have said, not long ago. Now things were different, though. Now there was Beldyn.

The monk was not at the keep right now, but rather stayed in Luciel, as he had every day since they’d come to the town. It was slow, healing all who suffered from the Longosai, but finally he was nearing the end of the task. A dozen men and women had remained ill this morning. By nightfall they would be half as many. When the morrow ended, the plague would be gone.

After that, Ilista didn’t know. Symeon’s death and Kurnos’s coronation had surely changed the situation, but she didn’t know how. She had tried repeatedly to contact Loralon, but to no avail. No matter how many times she spoke the Emissary’s name, the crystal orb remained dark, empty, her own reflection mocking her from its depths. Something had changed to keep Loralon silent, and not knowing what it was infuriated her. Tavarre had sent out riders to learn what news they could. Now, seeing the leather scrollcase tucked in the baron’s belt, she knew one had returned.

He straightened, signing the triangle, and though he did his best to blot them, tear-tracks still glistened on his scarred face when he turned to face her.

“Efisa,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Your Honor,” she replied, then faltered, seeing something in his eyes, beneath the sorrow-a deeper unhappiness as his gaze met hers. “What’s wrong? Is it Beldyn?”

He shook his head, pulling forth the scroll-case. “I’m sorry.”

Ilista took the scroll-case from him and undid its lacing to remove a sheet of parchment. The wind tried to snatch it away, but she held on, unfolding it with trembling fingers. Something’s happened, she thought. To Loralon? Was that why he’d turned silent?

That wasn’t it. It was much worse, and as she read her skin turned cold.

There were three degrees of censure in the Istaran Church. The first, Bournon, was a simple reprimand for minor sins, easily lifted wifli an atonement tithe and three nights of fasting. The second, Abidon, was an official reproach and not so easily removed. It took a patriarch or a hierarch of the Great Temple to do so. The church bestowed it upon those who committed some great affront to Paladine, and while it was in effect, the condemned could receive no sacraments, nor could he set foot on consecrated ground. The clergy declared hundreds of folk Boumon each year, and perhaps a few dozen Abidon.

The third degree was different Foripon was a full declaration of anathema casting the condemned out of the church. Often it led to inquisition and death. Only the Kingpriest himself could revoke such a denunciation, and none had ever done so. In her years at court, Ilista had only seen Symeon cast out a single man, a soldier who had pissed on a roadside shrine and refused to do penance for it.

Kurnos’s reign was only days old, and he had already doubled that number. Written on the parchment were two names- hers, less the title of First Daughter, and that of Brother Beldyn. For black heresy and consorting with traitors, it declared-and beneath their names, a promised reward of a thousand gold falcons.

Tavarre reacted quickly, rushing to catch her as her knees buckled, but he couldn’t stop the parchment from dropping from her hands. The wind caught it, sending it soaring over the keep’s walls. She watched it spin away.

“No,” she murmured. “It has to be a mistake.”

The baron didn’t reply, but his grip tightened. It was a familiar gesture, one of kinship. They were both outlaws, now. She shuddered at the thought.

Then another occurred to her. “Beldyn. Does he know?”

“No, Efisa.”

She nodded, then took a deep breath, and pushed away from Tavarre to stand on her own. “Come on, then,” she said, turning. “We’d best-”

A sound rose, eerily filling the air as it echoed among the hills: the mournful howl of a wolf. Hearing it, Tavarre stiffened and muttered a curse.

“What was that?” Ilista asked as the howl died away.

“A signal,” the baron replied. “The sentries have returned.”

He whirled, his cloak flapping, and hurried up the steps to the battlements. Ilista followed, hardly breathing as she looked down from the keep into the vale below. In the distance, two frothing horses were galloping along a trail to the village. One was a bandit, cloaked and leather-clad, but the midday sun’s light glinted off the other’s armor, and she knew it was Gareth, come back early from his sojourn to the highroad.

Ilista swallowed as the riders charged toward Luciel. Already she knew what they were going to report, and she saw her knowledge mirrored in Tavarre’s pale face as well. The Foripon seemed silly now. War had come to the highlands.

They met down in Luciel, and gathered inside the tavern- Cathan and Gareth, Tavarre and Vedro, Ilista and Beldyn. Caked in road-dust, the Knight drank a flagon of raw wine to moisten his throat, then told what he had seen. Cathan nodded breathlessly as the others stared in shock.

“Well,” Tavarre said when he was finished, and sighed.

“Perhaps they won’t come here,” Ilista said. “This is a small town…”

“They’ll come,” Vedro growled.

Everyone looked into the room’s corners, trying not to meet one another’s gaze. In the end, it was Beldyn who coughed softly and spoke.

“We must leave, then,” he said. “All of us.”

Tavarre looked up, meeting the monk’s burning gaze. After a moment, he nodded and turned to Cathan. “Did they see you?”

“No, but they’ll find the bodies of their men,” Cathan replied, “and we left tracks.”

Vedro cursed, slapping his thigh in frustration. “It’ll have to be tonight, then. They’ll send riders ahead and have our heads if they find us here.”

“Where can we go?” Gareth asked.

“Govinna,” said Tavarre, running a hand through his dark, curly hair. “Ossirian will take us in-and he has to be told the army’s in Taol.”

Dista cleared her throat. “You’re all forgetting the Longosai” she said. “Beldyn, how many still have to be healed?”

“Only eight,” he replied.

Vedro swore again, and the others slumped, looking defeated. They looked at one another hopelessly, and Dista could tell they were all sharing the same terrible thought The sick couldn’t make the journey, but sunset was only three hours off. Already Beldyn looked tired, and wisps of holy light clung to him like clouds to the peak of a mountain. His strength was leaving him. No one wanted to say the words that flashed through their minds, though it was the only choice left. They had to leave the eight sick people behind, if the rest of Luciel were to live.

Beldyn’s mouth hardened into a line, however, and he pushed away his mug of wine, untouched. “Bring them,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“What?” Ilista asked as everyone turned to look at him. “Beldyn, don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have the strength right now-”

He glared back at her, and her voice failed her. There was something terrible in his gaze, a ferocity she hadn’t seen before.

“I said I’ll take care of it,” he declared. “We’re not leaving anyone.”