“Maybe Dad escaped. Or maybe Dad won… we have no idea what happened. Or Maybe Thellops thought madness was a better punishment.”

She shook her head. “Maybe… but it doesn't feel right. I think there's another answer. Something that hasn't occurred to either of us yet.”

I had to agree. None of it quite fit. Somehow, I had the feeling we had missed an important detail or two.

Blaise stifled a small yawn. “Anyway, it's best to do nothing if you don't know what the problem is. You might make it worse.”

“I don't think it can get much worse.”

“I'd say death is worse. Dad is still alive.”

“True.” She had me there.

“Wait and see if Dad recovers his senses,” she said. “Then you can ask him why he keeps saying 'Thellops.' Maybe he's dreaming of old friends.”

“I don't think Thellops is a friend.” I had to smile. “Dad wanted to kill me. And he put a lot of effort into it. Old friends don't generally go around trying to murder each other.”

“It could be something you said or did to Dad.” Blaise yawned again. “It's nothing a good night's sleep can't fix. Speaking of which…”

“No!” I raised my hand as if I planned to slap her again, and her eyes flew open.

“All right, all right!” she snarled, eyes narrowing to slits. “I'm awake now! Honestly, Oberon, you can't go around hitting people. The next time you try, I'll break your arm!”

“Promises, promises.” I smiled and shrugged. “As I said, you have to stay awake. I can only carry one unconscious relative at a time.”

“I'm not going to fall asleep.”

“Uh-huh. Not with me on watch, anyway.”

I studied her face carefully; her eyelids already drooped. What could be causing her sleepiness? Our proximity to the Pattern?

Maybe she would feel better if we moved farther away from it. It was worth a try.

“Come on, let's get moving. We'll find a place where you can rest safely.”

“All right.” She climbed unsteadily to her feet. “What about Dad?”

“If you can walk, I'll carry hi—”

“I will walk.” She sounded determined.

“All right. Follow me. Shout if you can't keep up. I'll slow down.”

“Don't worry about me, brother dear.”

“Fair enough.”

Picking Dad up, I started for the forest at a brisk pace. A clear destination filled my mind. As I walked, I let my imagination soar, and the landscape around us began to flow and change: a hint of pink around the sun, bunches of white flowers at the curve in the path, a covered bridge spanning a creek. A tame fawn paced us, nuzzling our pockets for treats.

Blaise laughed in delight. I glanced back and smiled. We didn't have enough laughter in our lives.

Then, letting my stride lengthen, we left the deer loping through the underbrush, playing hide-and-seek in the bushes with rabbits, skunks, and other forest creatures.

Forest, to grasslands, to gently rolling hills lush with ripening wheat and rye, and on through pastures of fat cows and rotund sheep. Here and there prosperous-looking farmers worked the fields with sons. All waved and drawled the friendliest of welcomes. Two boys came running, carrying packs. They both eyed our father curiously. Neither asked why I had a tied-up old man in my arms; that would have been rude, and they weren't the prying types… a restful Shadow indeed. We needed calm natives who wouldn't try to kill us or betray us…

“May we offer you a drink, sir?” they asked. “Or a sandwich, ma'am?”

“No, thanks.” I paused and looked back as my sister caught up. “Blaise?”

“A drink would be lovely,” Blaise said. She brushed a dangling strand of hair off her forehead. Without makeup, with her hair in disarray, she had a harder edge to her face. I remembered the strength behind her punch and wondered not for the first time if I had somehow underestimated her.

“Here.” The oldest of the two fumbled a clay jar from their pack and poured water into a cup held by his brother. They both handed it to her.

“Thank you.” She drank deeply, coughed, gasped, and handed it back quickly.

“Good?” I asked with a grin.

“It was… water.” She gave a horrified shudder.

“More?” Both boys grinned up at her, thinking she had enjoyed it.

“I'm fine now.”

They looked at me again. “Sir? Perhaps for the old gentleman?”

“We're both fine,” I said. I glanced up the road and frowned. There would be an inn just ahead, beyond the grove of trees over the hill… a rambling old inn with a railed porch around the front. Dad could rest easily there. A brilliant physician lived on an estate not far beyond. He could help us.

It had to be so. My vision made sure of it.

Sure enough, the small town came into view when we topped the hill. As places go, it was nothing fancy, perhaps two dozen buildings, but a sprawling old inn sat facing us. Smoke drifted lazily from a pair of tall brick chimneys, carrying smells of fresh bread and roasting meat. Three gray-bearded old men sat on the porch in rocking chairs, whittling away at wooden blocks. As we approached, they all looked up and called cheery good-mornings.

“Somethin' wrong with that fellow?” one of them asked me idly. He stared without concern at our father's bruised face and bound wrists.

“He has seizures,” I said. It came out sounding more exhausted than convincing; it had been a long day. “I tied him up to keep him from hurting himself. That last seizure almost killed him.”

“Ayah.” Nodding sagely, he settled back into his chair and began rocking slowly once more. “You'll be wanting Doc Hand, then.”

“Not Young Doc Hand,” said the second old-timer, still whittling. “The one you need is Old Doc Hand.”

“Ayah,” said the third whittler. “Old Doc Hand, he's the best for seizures, sure enough. He lives over the short hills, nearer to Haddoxville than to Barleyton, at Manor-on-Edge.”

“Thanks,” I said. Old Doc Hand would be our man.

The first whittler said, “Have Young Jamas fetch Old Doc Hand for your daddy. Young Jamas ought to be inside, behind the counter more'n likely. He won't mind the trip. His girl's in Haddoxville, right enough.”

“Ayup,” said the second whittler rocking slowly. “Young Jamas won't mind 'tall.”

I glanced at Blaise. “How are you doing?”

“I feel much better,” she said, giving me a look that said the worst for her had passed. “Though after that foul farm beverage, I need a real drink.”

“Jamas has the best wine in seven counties,” said the third whittler.

“Thanks,” I said. “When you're thirsty, come in and I'll buy you all a round of drinks.”

“Thank you kindly!” said the first. “We'll be along presently, once Jamas has you settled in, sure as you're standin' there!”

I carried Dad inside. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the low-ceilinged common room, I saw scattered tables and a long counter. A pot of something hearty-smelling simmered in the fireplace.

Behind the counter stood a red-haired man of middling years. He looked up from polishing the thick oak slab used as a bar and gave a friendly nod. Could this be Young Jamas?

“Mornin',” he said with a pleasant smile. “Somethin' wrong with that fellow you're carryin'?”

“He's ill—having seizures.” I decided to stick with that story.

“Need a room, then?”

“Three of them.”

“Have your pick upstairs.” He nodded to the steps at the far end of the room. “There's no one else stayin' here at the moment. It's nothin' fancy, mind you, but the beds're warm and the food's good and plentiful.”

“That's all we want.” I started for the stairs, then hesitated. Better take care of Dad first. “The men outside said to ask for Young Jamas. That wouldn't be you, would it?”

He chuckled. “I haven't been Young Jamas in nigh on twenty years. That's my eldest boy. I'm just Jamas now.”