“You are cursed,” Minser said, weeping, head bowed. “Cursed in spirit. More devilish than those cats.”
“Shut your mouth,” Sayeed said, but only half heartedly. He could not work up any anger. He felt something he had not felt in decades, something alien, something he’d thought lost forever long ago: hope.
“What about my mule?” Minser asked diffidently. “What about Gray?”
“Your mule is coming with us,” Zeeahd said. “My cats are carrying him around in their bellies.”
Minser wept.
Growing fatigue slowed the pilgrims. Vasen, Byrne, Eldris, and Nald did what they could to keep spirits and strength high, but the encounter with the Shadovar riders had put a seed of fear in the pilgrims that flowered in the dark Sembian air. Eldris carried Noll, although it was plain the boy was healing.
Byrne, Vasen, and Orsin walked in the front of the column. “This pace is too much,” Byrne said. “They are failing.”
“We can’t let them,” Vasen answered, eyeing the terrain ahead. “See to them. Word will get to Sakkors or Shade Enclave quickly. More Shadovar will come. We must get them to the Dales.”
“And then?” Byrne asked. “War awaits them there.”
“I know,” Vasen said. “But what else is there, Byrne? This is the world.
We just have to get them through safely.”
“Aye,” Byrne said. “This is the world.”
Vasen put a hand on his shoulder. “Walk among them. Tell them stories. Give what solace Amaunator’s blessings offer. And take comfort from what comfort you give.”
“Yes, First Blade.” Byrne faded back into the column, leaving Vasen and Orsin alone.
“You said you wanted to speak of something,” Vasen said. “So speak.” Orsin walked in silence for a moment, perhaps deciding where to begin.
“Your Oracle can see the future, yes?”
“‘See’ is a strong word, but yes. He has glimpses of future events.” “And yet he sent you-us, all of us-from the abbey at a time when he knew the boy would sicken, when he knew we would encounter the Shadovar riders.”
Vasen shook his head. “‘Knew’ is too much.”
“Either he’s a seer or he isn’t.”
To that, Vasen said nothing. Shadows made slow turns around his flesh.
“Why would he take such a risk? An encounter with the Shadovar puts the entire abbey in peril. The worship of any god but Shar is outlawed in Sembia. And the Shadovar discourage travel unless it has official sanction. What if you had been taken?”
“I would never speak of the abbey to the Shadovar.”
“Byrne? Eldris?”
“Neither would they.”
“Well enough,” Orsin said, accepting that. “But why take the risk? Did his vision fail him or. . ”
Vasen stopped and turned to look into Orsin’s face. “Or what? Do you think he would risk the pilgrims’ lives for nothing? Ours?”
“Not for nothing, no,” Orsin said. “But I think something is happening. I think he sees it coming.”
Vasen recalled the conversation he’d had with the Oracle outside his quarters. It must have shown on his face.
“You think it, too?” Orsin asked. “Don’t you?”
They started walking again before the column caught up.
“I don’t know,” Vasen said, looking up at the sky. “Things have been strange of late.”
“Yes,” Orsin said, nodding. “My journey to the abbey. Our meeting.” “You think the Oracle arranged it?”
“Now you use words that mean too much. ‘Arrange,’ no. ‘Foresee,’ yes. But what does it mean? What did he intend?”
Vasen shrugged. “The spirits in the pass, too. That was odd.”
“Yes,” Orsin said. “They spoke to you of your father.”
Vasen nodded. “And you know of my father. You follow the same god he did.”
“And you and I met and here we are. There’s more afoot here than we can see, Vasen. Maybe more than the Oracle could see.”
“Possibly,” Vasen said. “I’ll ask him when I see him again. For now, the pilgrims are my concern.”
Orsin seemed about to say something more, then said only, “Agreed.”
Each walked alone with his thoughts for hours, pushing the pilgrims, monitoring the sky, the plains around them. Most of the day passed with nothing more eventful happening than Noll trying to walk on his own. Although weak, he managed, and his recovery brought smiles and brightened spirits. Elora rushed to Vasen and hugged him so tightly she momentarily took his breath.
“Thank you, goodsir,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving my son.”
Vasen felt his cheeks warm. The shadows around him swirled, caught up Elora, although she seemed not to care. Byrne and Nald grinned at his discomfiture, and discomfited he felt.
“You’re welcome, milady.”
“Thank you for your prayers, goodsir,” Noll said to Vasen, all seriousness.
Vasen smiled, disentangled himself from Elora, and mussed the boy’s hair. “I’m not sure it was the prayers. You’re a tough one, Noll.”
The boy smiled, his face still pale, and went to his mother’s side.
The Dawnswords pushed the pilgrims as far and hard as they dared, then camped in a pine-shrouded declivity.
“No fire,” Vasen ordered, and received groans in response. “Crowd together for warmth. I’ll take first watch.”
“And I’ll take second,” Orsin offered.
Byrne looked skeptical at that. “First Blade, I should take second watch. And Nald or Eldris third. Orsin is not one of us.” He nodded sheepishly at the deva. “And I mean no disrespect.”
“I take none,” said Orsin, as implacable as a statue.
“He’s one of us in the ways that matter,” Vasen said. “And he can see in the dark as well as me.”
“As you say, First Blade,” Byrne acknowledged with a nod, and walked back to the pilgrims.
“Go eat, Orsin,” said Vasen. “Then sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”
“As you say, First Blade,” Orsin said with a nod and a mischievous wink, then walked off to join Byrne with the pilgrims.
That night, while the pilgrims lay on the wet ground and shivered in the wind, Vasen sat alone at the edge of the camp. He stared out at the inky plains. His father had known Sembia before the Shadovar had shrouded it in perpetual night. His father had fought to keep Sembia in light.
And, in the end, his father had failed.
You must not fail, Vasen.
The words that plagued his dreams.
Vasen pondered events until the end of his watch, then woke Orsin and fell asleep.
The next day they plodded on. A light rain fell, summoning exasperated sighs from the pilgrims. Notably, Noll kept his mouth clamped shut.
Three hours into the trek, Orsin put his arm before Vasen. “Stop.”
Vasen’s hand went to the hilt of his blade. He saw nothing, but held up his hand to stop the column. “What is it?”
Orsin cocked his head, as if listening. Vasen heard nothing but the soft patter of the rain.
“Why are we stopping?” Byrne called from behind, his tone overloud in the quiet.
Orsin stared into the distance. Vasen followed his gaze and saw it at last.
Black dots wheeled through the sky ahead, visible against the dark sky only because of their motion.
“It’s the Shadovar again,” one of the pilgrims, an elderly woman, said.
“No,” Vasen called back. “Not the Shadovar.”
“Crows,” Orsin said.
“Yes,” Vasen said. “Crows.”
The wind picked up, carrying the caws of the birds, the distant sound as faint as a whisper. He and Orsin moved back to the column.
“What is it?” Byrne asked.
“Carrion birds,” Orsin said.
“Something has died,” Elora said, and put her hand to her mouth.
Vasen resurrected a smile and put a hand on Elora’s shoulder, pleased to see no shadows dancing from his skin. “Take heart. It could be the carcass of a beast. Crows out here will swarm a dead deer.”
Elora looked doubtful, her eyes worried in their nest of wrinkles. She put her hands protectively on Noll’s shoulders. The other pilgrims, too, seemed uneasy, sharing concerned glances, whispering among themselves. A few looked up into the dark sky, perhaps fearing Sakkors itself would materialize out of the darkness, perhaps fearing another Shadovar patrol would happen upon them.