Something in the bird-an old instruction from his mistress, perhaps, or something embedded and pat shy;terned since his time in the egg-stirred him to action.

Folding his wings, the hawk plunged from the sky a hundred, two hundred, five hundred feet. The bird dove gracefully, its talons extended like deadly, curved knives, the falconer's jesses and bells trailing.

In a shimmer of ringing music, Lucas struck the sergeant in the back of the neck just as the man leaned over to question Vincus. The sergeant fell headlong, neck broken in a heap of spattered robes, his horse bolting away with a terrified whinny.

The bird jerked to free himself from the kill, the awkward jesses tangling and knotting in the fabric of the sergeant's robes.

He flies bound. Enslaved, too! Vincus thought. Somehow the thought inspired him.

With a fierce, powerful surge, he shook loose the astonished troopers. Crotalus spun about, his sword ringing as it fell to the hard ground. The other man, quicker and more resourceful, had already lifted his spear.

Rolling away from the flashing pont, Vincus drew forth the slivers of his collar, the edges forming deadly hooks on each side of each hand. They glit shy;tered in the dying sun like scimitars, like the talons of the hawk. Before the spearman could recover, the broken collar's sharp edges whipped cleanly and fatally into his throat. Vincus pushed him aside in a fierce, pantherlike rush toward Crotalus, who had managed to find and draw his crossbow from its place on the saddle of his skittish horse, just as Lucas hopped free of his tangles.

A piercing cry and the flap of wings about his head forced Crotalus's point-blank aim high, and the bolt whizzed over Vincus's shoulder, skidding long and hollowly over the cracked earth behind him. With a lunging leap, Vincus wrestled Crotalus to the ground, and the two men scuffled briefly, until the other collar half flashed high in the sunlight and plunged downward.

Moving away from Crotalus, who had breathed his last foul breath, Vincus covered his head, still expecting a rain of arrows from the last trooper's direction. But he heard the soldier cry out weakly, and looked up to see him already borne far away atop his rampaging horse, the two remaining steeds following close behind.

In high pursuit of them, Lucas swooped and glided and dodged, all the while crying shrilly until they were dwindling specks on the horizon.

Vincus stood up painfully, more bruised than he first had realized by the struggle with the outriders.

The hawk, unruffled and fresh, sailed back to him through the climbing dusk. With a cry it circled overhead, then soared toward the southwest, its flight now framed by Lunitari low in the sky.

His heart rejoicing for the bird-for its mastery and bravery-Vincus threw his hands up and fol shy;lowed eagerly. They had fought together. The hawk would not betray him.

When darkness had fallen and the stars spangled the clear sky, a comforting light seemed to rise from the looming shadows.

Vincus laughed and quickened his pace. He called to mind again the druid's patterns in the sand of the rena garden, the arranged stones, and the instructions.

At last Vincus knew where he was.

The camp of the rebels lay ahead in a soft, waver shy;ing firelight.

Chapter 19

Silently, moving through the tall grass like he moved through Istarian alleys, Vincus made his way to the edge of the rebel encampment.

He was not sure, actually, why he chose such secrecy. After all, he had come this far, through dan shy;gerous country and Istarian patrols, and finally, with the aid of the mysterious hawk, had reached his des shy;tination. But all of his instincts-born, perhaps, of his years in slavery and his childhood on the fringes of Bywall-urged him to be cautious, not to drop his guard just yet.

So he approached the camp stealthily, crouched low to make his movements small and quick through the grass.

The camp was laid out in three concentric circles. The outermost contained the outposts and fires of the sentries, the first warning line against assault or raid.

The men here were young: sharp-eyed, but also inexperienced. If an army had approached, they would have surely given warning, but Vincus was a solitary traveler, and a slippery, streetwise one at that.

Folding his tattered cloak and the bag Vaananen had given him close to his side, Vincus moved easily between two sentries-sallow-faced bandit boys from Thoradin, part of Gormion's following. He crept around the shadowy side of the first tent he came to, then waited until a cloud passed over the red moon, and raced through an open dry expanse until he reached another tent, another shadow, the second circle of the camp.

Instantly, Vincus knew he was among more sea shy;soned and watchful troops. These were men and women who had fought the year's war in the service of Fordus Firesoul, and had probably come to the Water Prophet battle-scarred and ready.

As Vincus crouched in the tent shadow, he sud shy;denly heard a low growling behind him. Slowly he turned to face a snarling midsized dog, its teeth bared and its fur bristling with aggression.

Vincus extended his hand. With the last scrap of his Istarian traveling rations, he bribed the dog to silence. He sat in the darkness, rubbing the willow-wounds that scored his shoulders, feeding bread to his newfound friend, mulling over a dozen ways- all unsatisfactory-to try to reach the center of the camp.

Something rattled against the book in the bottom of the bag. Reaching into the dark folds, gently brushing away the curious, snuffling dog, Vincus drew forth something hard and oblong, smelling green and citric, like the soft, thick husk of a freshly fallen walnut.

A zizyphus fruit. It could be nothing else.

Vincus wrinkled his nose. The zizyphus was ined shy;ible, good only for a soporific-to induce the sleep that banished pain. Clerics and druids made infu shy;sions from the fruit that their patients would inhale, and, within a matter of minutes …

Vincus smiled, tight-lipped.

Tossing the very last crust of bread into the shad shy;ows, he waited until the dog vanished after it, then crept around the side of the tent.

He approached another tight circle of tents and fires, perhaps a hundred yards away, that marked the command post of the rebel army. Vincus fell to his belly at the sight of two sentries standing watch by a fire in the open ground.

Raindiver and Bittern, the Plainsman sentries, stood faithfully at their posts, exchanging few words and staring out into the darkness. The banked fire between them was dim but warm, and while they watched, their thoughts slipped in and out of vigi shy;lance like the moon slipped in and out of the scat shy;tered clouds above the plains.

It was a night like any other, until something whistled by Raindiver's ear and skittered into the ashes, scattering sparks and filling the air with a thick, acrid smoke.

Bittern bent toward the fire and saw the small, oblong seed aflame in its very heart. Suddenly, the seed and the fire began to waver and double and blur, and he looked up to call to Raindiver, to warn him that something … something …

But Raindiver was already facedown in the grass, snoring contentedly.

Bittern dropped to his knees and tried to call out to the other sentries, to Fordus or Northstar, but another cloud seemed to pass over the moon and the sky and the fire went dark, and he felt himself falling.

Someone brushed by him, running. Bittern tried to shout again-a cry of alarm, of warning. But a pleas shy;ant dreamless sleep rushed over him, and he remem shy;bered nothing more.

The man had the look of a Prophet.

Vincus, belly-down in the dark grass like some enormous lizard, watched the auburn-haired Plains shy;man from a distance.