"I'll be fine." By the doubt on Soterius's face, Tris knew the other took the lie for what it was worth, but with a nod, Soterius left. Tris ducked his head out of the tent flap and stared at the full moon. Kait's voice, more distant now, still called to him. He would not sleep again tonight, he knew, staring at the moon. Not now; maybe not ever again.

The sound of arguing reached Tris as he arrived to take over Vahanian's watch. Sure enough, as Tris rounded the corner, he spotted Vahanian and Carina locked in a pitched argument that seemed to stop just short of a toe-to-toe confrontation.

"He was one of my patients!" Carina defended hotly.

"He wasn't too sick to loot the other poor bastards' pockets," Vahanian retorted. "Look, lady, when I'm on watch, I watch. And when I see something, I take care of it."

"That doesn't include dragging a man out of his sick bed and hauling him over to Linton!" she snapped. "He had a fever."

"He felt pretty cool when I grabbed him," Vahanian replied. "Bit of wormroot under the tongue can give you hot flashes. So can a little dryfleck in a glass of wine. Ask Linton. He spent time in Noor. He knows all about drugs... and poisons. Takes a little widow's heart each day, mixed with brandy, to make him harder to poison. Builds resistance."

"That doesn't change anything," Carina argued stubbornly. "You hauled a sick man out of my hospital, dragged him across camp, and accused him of stealing. When something concerns one of my patients, I want to know about it, before you toss him out on his ear on the road and send him packing."

Vahanian swore and rolled his eyes skyward. "I caught him wrist-deep in one of your other patient's pockets. All due respect, priestess, but why don't you do your job and let me do mine?"

"I'd be happy to," she grated, red-faced, "if doing your job didn't make more injured patients for me to fix." She threw her hands in the air in resignation just as Tris came within a few steps of the pair. "I don't know why I'm bothering. You won't listen. And I'm not a priestess," she added. Shaking her head, she turned back toward the makeshift building that served as her healer's shelter.

"Don't disillusion me," Vahanian called after her. "You're so sure you're right, I figured you heard it from the Lady herself."

In reply, a crockery mug flew from the shelter's door, sailing close enough to Vahanian's head to make the mercenary duck.

"You have a real way with women," Tris observed dryly.

Vahanian chuckled. "I don't think Carina likes any man who isn't on a stretcher."

"You really caught a thief?"

Vahanian shrugged. "Yeah. That's not what worries me. I think it might have been the prowler I tackled snooping around our camp on the way here. He had an old bruise exactly where I thumped that guy on the jaw. Can't say for certain."

"Why would the same prowler be here?"

"Good question. All I can come up with are ugly answers. Maybe he's found what he's looking for, and he's keeping an eye on it," he said with a pointed look at Tris. "Or maybe he's not interested in you at all. Maybe he's scouting the caravan and other travelers for bandits. He might have just gone looking for an easy purse to cut when he found us."

Tris was quiet for a few moments. "I'll be extra careful," he said finally. "You look tired. Go get some sleep."

Vahanian cracked a smile. "First some ale and chow, then some sleep. But you've got the right idea," he said veering off toward the cook tent. Despite Vahanian's foreboding, Tris's watch passed uneventfully, and he was happy to pass the shift to Harrtuck as evening fell.

"Heard Vahanian had another run-in with the healer," Harrtuck observed.

Tris shrugged. "I'm not sure it upset him as much as it did Carina," Tris shrugged. "I rather thought he was enjoying the whole thing."

Harrtuck chuckled. "That's Vahanian. He can be a real pain in the ass when he feels like it." He lifted his face to the wind and fell silent for a moment.

"What's wrong?" Tris asked.

Harrtuck shook his head, frowning. "Can't say. Just a feeling. Something's not quite the way it should be. Eyes on us, watching." He shrugged. "I think I'll make an extra pass along the perimeter tonight." He paused. "In fact, why don't you send Soterius out here? Might be nothing, but I'd welcome an extra sword tonight."

Tris nodded. "Sure. I'll get him." What he didn't add was confirmation of the same groundless foreboding. He had dismissed it as nerves before Harrtuck's observation, but now he was not so easily persuaded. Still, he thought, looking around at the fires that glowed against the cold autumn sky, there was nothing of concern... yet. But he did not expect to turn in early tonight—just in case.

The sound of hoofbeats thundered from the forest just as the supper fires burned low. Breaking from the woods at a headlong pace rode more than two dozen tattered riders, screeching a bloodcurdling battle keen, their battered weapons raised. The camp erupted in confusion, as men and women fled the attackers or ran for their weapons. Caught unprepared, the caravan cook hoisted what remained in his kettle of soup and with an oath, let fly the steaming liquid, scalding the nearest rider who flailed madly and dropped from his bucking mount.

"Bandits!" Vahanian shouted, drawing his sword. From out of the night came a hail of flaming arrows, and around them, the caravan tents and wagons burst into flames as the wagoners ran cursing to extinguish the fires.

Men on horseback ringed the camp. From their motley armor and the haphazard tack of their horses, Tris guessed that their attackers came together by chance more than design. No doubt more ranged in the forest, responsible for the hail of arrows. As the bandits charged, Tris ran for a place on the line, sword drawn and ready.

An arrow grazed his shoulder. Some of the car-avaners charged forward with a cry, while others began to pull the wagons together for defense or ran to protect the horses. Just at the edge of his sight, Tris glimpsed a fleeting spirit, and a moment later, another and a third.

Sweet Chenne, I can see them dying! he thought, fighting down panic. As his gift had strengthened in the weeks since they fled the palace, sighting the spirits came easier and easier, until now it was almost impossible for him to block out the hum of the revenants that invisibly surrounded the living. But even that, outside the heat of battle, was far different from sensing spirits fresh-torn from their bodies, feeling the sundering of soul and body.

One of the bandits was riding right for Tris, his foam-flecked horse wild with battle. Struggling to keep his wits about him, Tris ducked under the rider's swing and parried as the horse nearly rode him down. The attacker wheeled and charged again. This time, Tris stood his ground, dropping low and scything his sword along the grass to catch the rider's mount.

The screaming horse flailed to the ground, throwing its rider clear. With a sword's stroke, Tris dispatched the hapless beast, then closed on his rider as the bandit climbed to his feet, eyes dark with rage. With a cry and upraised sword, he ran at Tris. The prince lunged, slipping inside the man's guard and sinking his weapon deep into the man's chest. The bandit gasped and fell to his knees, clutching his chest. His eyes widened as he cursed in surprise and then, blood flowing from between his fingers, fell over dead.

Tris felt a sudden, disorienting lurch as if he had been slammed hard from behind. He shook his head to clear it, and stared at the dying bandit. As he watched, the man's form shifted, and two identical bodies lay one on top the other. The second form grew more and more transparent, then rose, barely visible, and fixed Tris with a sad and knowing gaze before fading into the air completely. Before Tris could shake the image from his mind, he heard the rush of hoofbeats behind him and a sharp, heavy thump on the side of his head sent him reeling, then turned the world to black.