Elaine fell, and the cloth ripped. As he dropped away into darkness, he mouthed her name, "Elaine."

"Elaine!" She lay on the roof, the cloth of his tunic tight-gripped in her hands. She watched the snow tumble into the darkness and strained to see him. But there was only black night and the fall of snow.

TWENTY-TWO

Tereza lay very still under the blankets. Her raven hair, rich and full as fur, spread out on the pillow. Her face seemed more lovely and less harsh in deep sleep, and this was a very deep sleep. Her left arm was bandaged tight to her chest. The wound had bled and bled until Jonathan began to fear it would take her life.

Averil had been so badly hurt that the doctor said she might die before morning. Her throat had been bitten by one of the dead.

The doctor had given Tereza an herbal drink to help her sleep, to keep her from going out into the night in search of the twins. Only rest, the doctor said, only rest and time would heal her.

Jonathan sat by the bed, her hand resting in his. Even in drugged sleep, she held lightly to him. The lamplight wavered, smearing in a wash of gold. The tears finally fell in silent streaks down his cheeks. Were the twins dead? Could they survive for hours in the night with the dead?

No. Jonathan knew the answer was no.

He bowed his head over Tereza's hand. He'd called Elaine corrupt, evil, and he still believed her supposed healing was evil, or at least unnatural. But he would have given a great deal not to have quarreled, not to have the last memory of her tainted. The thought that she had died thinking he hated her, perhaps hating him in return, was almost more than he could bear.

Tereza would live. The doctor would not promise that she would ever have full use of her arm again, though. Tereza didn't know yet. He wasn't going to tell her until he had to. He was a coward.

There was a soft knock at the door. Jonathan thought about not answering, pretending he was asleep. The knock came again. He sighed, then said, "What is it?"

The door opened slowly. Thordin stood half in the frame. His gaze went to Tereza's pale form. He looked at Jonathan.

"She's resting."

Thordin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "The townsfolk are gathered. The town council wishes to speak to us tonight." He stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind him. He leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest. "I didn't explain that Blaine and Elaine were more than helpers to the mage-finder. I … didn't know if you wanted them to know."

He shook his head. "No, our grief is our own. Blaine was of the brotherhood. He knew the risks. It is Elaine. …" His voice failed him, and he turned his head away so Thordin could not see the tears.

"It is no one's fault, Jonathan."

"Isn't it?" he said. He turned back to Thordin, anger and tears mixing in his eyes. Self-hatred threatened to choke him. "If I had left her behind with the wizard, let her learn her magic in peace, she would be alive."

"We don't know they are dead, Jonathan."

"Elaine was unarmed, Thordin."

"Blaine went to find her. He is a good fighter."

"We would all have been killed if Lukas had not opened the door. He saved us all."

"Someone else might have opened a door to the twins."

"Thordin, it is night, and the dead walk the streets. Mo one will risk himself for strangers."

"There are always good people, Jonathan, wherever we go," Thordin said.

Jonathan shook his head. "No, Thordin, no false hope. We must face the truth."

"You are burying them before they are dead, Jonathan. You are simply giving up," Thordin said. "It is not like you to give up without a fight."

"Perhaps I have learned that you can fight long and valiantly and still die a bad death."

"You speak of Calum Songmaster," Thordin said.

Jonathan nodded. "Elaine asked if Silvanus could heal Calum. It never occurred to me to ask for Calum's sake. She thought of it."

"Elaine has a good heart," Thordin said.

Jonathan nodded again. He scrubbed his free hand across his face, smearing the tear tracks more than hiding them. "You said something about the town council."

"They want to see you tonight. They are badly frightened and want the reassurance of the great mage-finder."

"We entered the town and lost four people in less than an hour. They still think I can help them?"

"Your reputation is strong, Jonathan. They believe in you."

"I am not some magical talisman that can chase away the evil just by being here," Jonathan said. His voice was harsh.

"They probably do expect something that easy, that dramatic, but even small hope from you will be enough tonight, if you're up to it."

Jonathan stared at him. He wanted to be angry that Thordin would even ask, but looking into his friend's blunt face, his anger faded. He was simply tired, so tired that all he wanted was to crawl in beside Tereza and sleep, sleep, cling to his wife as if just by touching her he could keep her safe.

He raised her hand to his lips, bestowing a gentle kiss on her fingers. He stood and laid her hand under the covers, tucking them beneath her chin. He ran his fingers through her hair, then turned to Thordin.

"Let us go comfort the town council," he said.

Thordin smiled. "We always do a lot of hand-holding in this job."

Jonathan just nodded. He glanced back at Tereza as Thordin shut the door. She looked very pale in the lamplight. She had lost so much blood, but not as much as Averil. He glanced at the door across the hall.

Silvanus stood vigil over his daughter. If she survived until dawn, the doctor thought Averil would live. If she survived.

They had been told there was a plague of the dead, but there were hundreds of zombies in the streets, more than could have died this winter. Cort-ton was not that large a village. Where had all the dead sprung from? A question he intended to ask the council.

The town council consisted of the innkeeper, the meistersinger, and the undertaker. The innkeeper, Belinna, was the woman who had thrown oil on the zombies. She was tall and wide, but not fat. Fat implied softness, indulgence. Her brawn was solid, what some would call big boned. Her hair was tied in a long plait down her back. The boy that had held the torch was her eldest son. He stood by her side now-tall, slender, dark, but his harsh, watching eyes were mirrored in Belinna's.

The meistersinger, Simon LeBec, had been a well-known bard in his younger days. Jonathan had heard him sing once, perhaps thirty years ago. He had been the handsome darling of all the ladies then. His hair was white as snow now, his face lined. Only his eyes remained the same-piercing blue.

Jonathan did not try to remind LeBec that they had met thirty years ago. He had not been known as a mage-finder then. He had been simply Jonathan Ambrose, a wandering adventurer who happened to specialize in slaying wizards. He hadn't had the law behind him then, and was almost an outlaw. Jonathan remembered the surety of purpose he had, like a shield that could not be pierced. No doubts.

He stood, staring at their worried faces, watching the strain fade just a little simply because he was there. It was obscene that they had such confidence in him.

The undertaker, Marland Ashe, was a tall, thin man. His milk-pale skin and violet-blue eyes were typical of the natives in this area of Kartakass. The combination was startling, lovely, but some disease had pock-marked his cheeks until the skin was rough as gravel. The spoiled skin seemed odd below those large, beautiful eyes.

The three of them sat behind a long table in the common room of the inn. There were only a few servants. Jonathan and his companions were the only guests. Visitors did not come to a cursed village. If they happened in by accident, they hurried away before nightfall. If they happened to come after dark. . well, Jonathan had seen what happened then. They died.