He donned his hauberk, and as it settled over his shoulders, a terrible cold fear settled with it. The steel felt hard and unforgiv-ing against his body, too heavy. Almost he took it back off, returned to the fire to wait for the Kapaka. He did not. This was his only chance; if he did not go tonight, he would never go, no matter how long the Forest Lord and the Kapaka negotiated. Because as his fear was stripping away his reasons—Piraku, heroics—it also gnawed at his most basic cause. How often had she told him that there was nothing he could do? How often had she begged him to forget? She was a goddess; she knew so much more of these things than he did.

A goddess, but not a warrior. She did not know what a man with the right weapon might accomplish.

And so he settled the hauberk, donned his steel cap with its plume of horsehair, strapped on his greaves. Then, with a single backward glance, he set off along the base of the valley wall, searching for the trail up, the one that went past the caves.

It soon became terribly dark, though a glimpse now and then showed the Pale Queen to be full. The forest was, fortunately, open and expansive, so that he did not become hopelessly tangled. His progress was anything but the silent stealth he had imagined, however; everywhere there were branches to step on, snags to stumble over, and his armor protested in a metallic chorus each time he tripped. Worse, it seemed impossible to keep his bearings, and he worried that he was traveling in entirely the wrong direction. He thought seriously about lighting a torch, but that would attract the attention of everyone around him—and everything—and so he decided to muddle on without one.

He did not find the trail, and the moon set. Balat became darker than the inside of a coffin, darker than any cave could be. Perkar did try to start a torch then, but could find nothing suitable from which to make one, nothing that would catch fire. Finally, blind, he sank to the cool earth, rested against an unseen tree. He thought he heard people calling his name, after a time, but could not be certain. In any event, he did not call out himself. It would be too humiliating, too stupid, and he could already imagine the condescending expression on Ngangata's face. His back to the rough trunk, Perkar cursed himself until he dozed.

He awoke with a start, but there was no clear indication of what had awakened him; the woods were still dark. Nightbirds were calling, but not close or loud. He rubbed the grit from his eyes and strained them at the darkness, realized that it was not entirely dark, after all; he could just make out the enormous bole of an ash, to his left, the suggestion of a fern frond, there. It must be, he thought, the earliest glimmerings of dawn. Soon it would be light enough to find the camp. He would tell them that he had gone off in search of solitude, he supposed, that he needed to be alone. They would think it odd—Apad and Eruka would know it to be a lie and Ngangata, at least, would suspect some more foolish motive. But it would be better than admitting the truth. Perkar realized that he felt relieved, unburdened. The knots tied in his gut were loosened and gone. The decision had been taken from him by the forest itself; he had tried to find the caves, the magical weapon—if it existed. He had failed; not because he wasn't strong or brave, but because the forest would not let him find the way. It was simple, a relief. Be a man, she had told him. Dream of the possible.

The light was a bit grayer, more details were coming clear. He studied the earth near his feet, trying to puzzle out details, occupy himself until it was really light. He made out one of his bootprints, pressed into a worn, muddy place. There, another.

He frowned. One of his prints crossed another. Not his. He found more as he searched; many men in boots, walking one behind another. And the prints of horses. Perkar drew a tight breath, and his heart pounded. It was the trail.

The songs often spoke of caves as mouths or doorways, but to Perkar they seemed like eyes, slitted and unblinking eyes of some enormous creature. He panted as he regarded them and tried to decide which to enter. The path up was harder than the one down, as his grandfather used to say. Especially in full armor, without a horse. His clothes were already soaked with sweat, though the morning was cool. The first true rays of the sun were yet to be seen.

He had no time to dither, he knew. Ngangata and Atti might not know what he was about, but they would certainly come looking for him, follow his bumbling trail through the woods. He understood that he could yet turn back, and that nagged at him. Once he entered the caves he was committed to his course of action. He was telling himself that for the fifth time when he heard muttering voices coming up the trail, the rattle of armor.

Suddenly his choices narrowed. There was only one cave close enough to reach before Ngangata and Atti came into view, and he found himself scrambling upslope toward it. It was not the largest cave, nor the smallest; but part of its floor had collapsed and the rubble formed a ramp leading up to it, like the wrinkled folds beneath the eye of an old man. He levered himself from one broken chunk of rock to the next, fingers fumbling desperately for purchase on the moss-covered stone. He was almost to the opening when he heard his name called. Reluctantly—and yet still a bit relieved—he turned toward the voice.

It was neither Ngangata nor Atti; it was a red-faced, puffing Apad, Eruka trailing not far behind him.

"Wait!" Apad called. The two of them straggled over to the talus slope and started up it—somewhat more cautiously than Perkar.

"Where are Ngangata and Atti?" Perkar called.

"They went to take food and water to the Kapaka. We said we would look for you," Apad explained, through his wheezing. He and Eruka were both clad in their armor, as well, and had probably been running or at least trotting since they left camp.

"What are you doing here, alone?" Apad demanded as he drew abreast of Perkar. "We agreed to go together."

Perkar shrugged. "I guess I thought…" He trailed off, unwilling to say what he had really thought.

"You thought you would have the glory to yourself," Apad finished for him. "But heroes come in threes, remember?" He glanced upslope, at the cave. "Is this the right one?"

Perkar raised his eyebrows. "I don't know. It was the closest."

"You don't know?"

Perkar shook his head.

"Eruka," Apad said to their companion. "Can you find out? Is there a song?"

Eruka pursed his lips, an uneasy expression on his face. "There is a song," he admitted reluctantly. "I think it would help with this."

"Well?"

"What do we want to know exactly?"

Apad looked heavenward in exasperation. "We want to know which of these caves leads to the Forest Lord's armory," Apad said.

"I know a song that might help," Eruka repeated. "But it could be dangerous."

"How so?"

"Any spirit I call here might tell the Forest Lord."

"The Forest Lord is busy," Apad said. "And heroes must take risks."

"Why don't we risk entering the wrong cave, then?" Eruka suggested.

The conversation had given Perkar time to think. He vividly remembered being lost in the forest at night. One could just as easily become lost in a dark cave.

"We need light to find our way in there," he said. "At the very least we need torches."

Apad considered that. "Do whatever it is you can do, Eruka," he said. "Perkar and I will make some torches."

Perkar hesitantly followed Apad back down. The two of them started searching for branches.

"Look for heart pine," Apad said. "That should burn brightly and long."

Perkar had his doubts about that; his father usually made torches from bundles of dried reeds—but he also usually coated them in tar or fat. Behind them, Eruka began singing, but Perkar was already far enough out of earshot that he could not make out the words.