"If he's as good as you say, and he smells a rat, maybe we should take him seriously." Tris held up a hand before Harrtuck could argue. "I agree with you about staying with the caravan, at least through the forest. But perhaps we should stay on guard."

Harrtuck chewed his lip, then nodded. "Aye, there's nothing to lose by sleeping with one eye open. I'll talk to Ban and Carroway."

"And Cam," Tris added after a moment's thought. "I have the oddest feeling that he and Carina are bound up in this some way."

"Just pray to the Lady that Jonmarc's being overcautious," Harrtuck replied. "The forest's no place for trouble."

Tris headed for the tent opening. "Where are you going?" Harrtuck asked.

"To shoe some horses," Tris replied without turning. "Just in case."

Tris found Vahanian at work in the makeshift stable, shoeing their horses, checking their gear and readying their provisions, his sword and his crossbow near at hand. If the other stablehands noted the sudden interest, they said nothing, leaving them to their work. For several hours, Tris and Vahanian worked silently, stopping late in the morning for lunch and catching up on lost sleep on the bales of hay. It was not until the afternoon sun lengthened the shadows into night and the stablehands headed for their beds that Vahanian finally spoke beyond a curt order or a pointed instruction.

"So," he said without looking up from the hoof he was inspecting, "I imagine Harrtuck told you about Chauvrenne." It was more a statement than a question, and after a moment's pause, Tris nodded. Vahanian cursed under his breath. "Obviously I didn't hit him hard enough."

"You hit him hard enough to fell a mule."

"Should have been about right, then."

"There's just one thing I want to know," Tris said, looking down at the horse he was handling, and working a new shoe into position.

"What's that?"

"Your friend the vayash moru says I don't dare go to Dhasson. So what happens after we cross the border into Principality?"

Vahanian was silent for a moment, then answered without looking up. "You send a message to your uncle, and I get paid."

"And then?"

There was another pause, more awkward this time, and the sound of Vahanian pounding a horseshoe into place. "Look, Tris, I know what want. You want me to sign on with the great crusade. Well, my crusading days are over. The way I figure, with what you're gonna owe me, I can buy the silk franchise into Nargi. That'll double my profits and I can retire a rich man. Go to the river, get a boat, do some legitimate trading for a change, stop getting beat up—"

"Give up," Tris added. For a moment, before Vahanian's expression slipped back into his familiar mask, Tris thought he saw a flash of something more, but then the fighter's eyes hardened.

"Yeah," Vahanian replied off-handedly. "I guess you can call it that. Harrtuck does. Makes no difference to me."

"Harrtuck says it used to."

"I got over it."

"Did you? Can you?" Tris pressed, letting the horse's hoof down and leaning against the stable wall.

"I was doing just fine until Harrtuck hired me to save your regal ass," Vahanian retorted. "And I have no intention of getting myself killed fighting something you can't possibly beat."

"Someone has to try," Tris replied. "Because he wants it all—all seven Kingdoms. You don't think Arontala will stop with Margolan, do you?" Tris continued. "Where will you run then?" He paused. "I don't have that option," Tris said. "I lost my family."

"There's a lot of that going around."

Tris looked at Vahanian's back for a moment in silence as the fighter moved on to the next horse and began studying its hooves. "Shanna... was family?" Tris asked quietly.

This time, Vahanian was silent long enough so that Tris did not think the mercenary was going to reply. "She was my wife," he said finally without looking at Tris.

"And Arontala... killed her?"

At that, Vahanian looked up, his expression a mixture of anger and pain. "You ask a lot of questions."

"The answers matter."

Again, a long silence, and then a curse and a long exhale, before Vahanian straightened and turned away. "I imagine you'll get it out of Harrtuck anyway," he said, running a hand back through his hair. "Yes, I blame Arontala," he said, his voice low and tight. "I was younger than you are, before I went into the army. Making a good living, or at least getting by, blacksmithing and pulling grave jewelry out of the caves in the Borderlands, from the tombs that everyone forgot about.

"One night, a mage showed up who called himself Foor Arontala. He offered me more money than I could imagine for a talisman he said was down in the caves. All I had to do," Vahanian said with a bitter, mocking tone, "was go get it and bring it back."

Tris waited out the next silence, wondering if Vahanian would go on. Vahanian's gaze was far away. "So I did," he said quietly. "Found it right where the mage said, in a tomb I hadn't seen before. And I brought it back. Slipped it onto a thong around my neck so I'd be sure I didn't lose it. Only that night, the Things came."

"Things?"

Vahanian swallowed hard, remembering. "Things. Like the 'magicked beasts' you keep hearing about. They're real. And they're evil. They came out of nowhere, and all they wanted was death." He paused, and his hand unconsciously rose to a scar that ran from his ear to his collarbone and down under his shirt. "We fought them with everything we had. I ran them through, hacked them to bits, nothing mattered. By dawn, there was no village left, no one but me. And the things disappeared like smoke with the morning light." He turned to Tris, his eyes bright with remembered pain. "The talisman called them," he said tightly. "Arontala had to know that. I brought them to the village. And there wasn't a thing I could do about it when they came."

"Why didn't you die, too?" Tris asked quietly.

Vahanian shook his head. "All I've ever guessed is that the talisman protected the wearer. Arontala probably knew that too."

"What happened then?"

"Then I took the damned thing back to the caves where I found it, made a pyre of the village and ran as far away as I could get. And I never saw the mage again, until he showed up a year later, behind my commanding officer in Eastmark." Vahanian bowed his head and leaned against the horse. "Is that enough of a story for you, prince?" he said, making no attempt to hide the bitterness in his tone. When Tris said nothing, Vahanian turned to him and shook his head.

"You don't get it, do you?" Vahanian said tiredly. "All the fighting in the world won't bring them back. And if you can't do that, what use is revenge?"

"Someone has to stop him."

Vahanian flung his arms wide in a gesture of hopelessness. "Stop him? You might as well darken the moon. Tame the vayash moru. Raise the dead. It can't be done. You'll be dead, and Arontala will win."

"I have to try."

"Go right ahead," Vahanian muttered darkly, checking his horse's provisions. "I'll ask the bards to tell me the stories. Hopeless causes make great tavern songs."

Beyond the stable walls, there was a dull thud and a muted thump. Before Tris could reply, Vahanian had doused the lantern, grabbed for his sword and crossbow and dropped to the stable floor, pulling Tris down with him.

"What the hell?" Tris rasped, but Vahanian motioned for silence, and gestured for Tris to draw his sword. Carefully getting to their feet, the two made their way to the open stable window.

"Look," Vahanian whispered, his grip tightening on his crossbow. "Out there."

Tris could see several dark shapes making their way through the shadows toward the sleeping camp. "Bandits," Tris said.

Vahanian shook his head grimly. "Uh uh. Slavers."

"How—?"

"Look at how they're moving," Vahanian whispered. "They're too professional for bandits. And that thud was a crossbow bolt. Too expensive for most bandits. We've got trouble."