Knowing this was neither the time nor the place to argue, Guerrand whispered firmly, "See that you do."

He could hear her slide off the horse, felt her hand groping for his. "You won't be sorry."

"I already am." He searched with one hand for the shield he'd lashed to the horse's saddle, then thought better of it. He was already wearing his sword, and the metal shield would be cumbersome to carry. He didn't intend to engage the men in battle anyway.

"What exactly are we looking for?" whispered Kirah, straining at his side to be off.

"I've been watching them closely in the mirror since I got it, but I've not seen them holding anything of Quinn's so far. I want to search their packs." Holding her hand firmly in his, Guerrand led her up the grassy hillside. It was difficult to remember that they didn't have to crouch to keep from being seen. His footfalls sounded as loud as thunder to his own ears.

They came to the crest of the hill, well within earshot of the three men. Guerrand could scarcely hear them talking for the hammering of his heart. He had Kirah firmly by the wrist and could feel her own pulse beat rapid-fire under his fingers. Though still invisible, he could not resist the urge to crouch behind a boulder to observe, peering left, while Kirah leaned right.

The men were dirty and poorly dressed, with the look of old soldiers about them. They wore odd and mismatched pieces of armor that bore patches of rust. One of the men was missing an ear; another limped noticeably; the third was a dwarf with a tremendous beard tied into numerous tiny braids.

There had to be something of Quinn's here, reasoned Guerrand. He heard a horse whinny nearby. His heart stopped, and then flooded with relief when he spotted three horses illuminated by moonlight, grazing on the far side of the pillars. Their saddlebags lay on the ground near them. Apparently these bandits were too confident to worry about security. Guerrand tugged Kirah's hand and pulled her away from the camp to circle quietly to the other side.

The horses' backs were bare, stripped down for the night. Guerrand's eyes fell on the bags, several paces from the mounts.

"Pick a bag and start searching through it," he whispered. "Quiet now, we don't want to startle the horses. As it is, they'll be able to smell us, so we'll have to move quickly." Kirah started to scamper away. Guerrand's hand reached out at the last second and yanked her back. "Remember, you can't go farther than about four paces from me, or you'll become visible."

"Then hurry up," Kirah hissed impatiently. They moved up to the horses, more quickly than Guerrand liked, but Kirah could not be restrained.

Guerrand knelt by the first bag. Biting the fingers of his right glove, he pulled it off and quickly tossed back the bag's heavy flap. He rummaged almost blindly, pulling out tattered clothing, gloves, cheap jewelry, and a few goblets and other trinkets. They would become invisible only if he tucked them into his clothing, so he held them up to the moonlight for inspection. If any of the items had been Quinn's, there was no marking to prove it. Discouraged, he moved on to the second bag, nearer Kirah.

Hearing noise and smelling human sweat, the horses began to get nervous. Their snorts turned to loud whickers. Guerrand looked anxiously to the men at the firepit between the pillars. They were oblivious so far.

Guerrand looked back to the bag beneath him in time to see a large medallion dangling from a shiny gold chain above the pack Kirah was searching. Though he could not see her, he could tell from the pause that she was peering at it, obviously having trouble placing it.

Sucking in a quick breath, Guerrand knew instantly why it seemed familiar. Quinn had been given the medal by Milford, who had loved Quinn dearly, to mark the day he had officially progressed from squire to cavalier. Quinn had been inordinately proud of the piece, polishing it as regularly as his armor.

Like a river of fire, a rush of rage replaced the numbness Guerrand had felt since Quinn's death. Somehow the futility of his brother's death was made real by seeing Quinn's property in their possession, in a way that seeing his dead body had not. Quinn loved that medallion, would have wanted it on his journey to Habbakuk.

"That's Quinn's!" Guerrand whispered hoarsely. He reached out angrily to snatch it from the air.

What he did was bump the invisible Kirah, knocking her over. "Hey!" she cried without thinking. They both dropped the medallion. The horses whinnied and pawed the air. Guerrand looked anxiously toward the firepit. The men had noticed. The earless one stood and peered through the gloom in their direction.

"Must be animals rummaging for food in our packs," both Guerrand and Kirah heard him say. The man pulled up the waist of his trousers and began heading their way.

"Come on, Kirah," Guerrand whispered frantically standing to a crouch. "We've got to go, now!"

The man was halfway to them.

Guerrand couldn't see Kirah, but she was on her hands and knees, looking for the medal. "One second. I've got to get Quinn's medallion." She struggled to push the heavy pack aside and look beneath, but it wasn't there. Suddenly the shiny gold coin simultaneously caught the moonlight and her eye in some low scrub between the packs and the horses. "I see it!" she whispered. "The thing really flew."

"Kirah, no!" he gasped, hearing the words too late to stop her or even run nearer. Suddenly, the young girl in the ratty shift blinked into view, as if a light had been turned on her. She, too, instantly knew her mistake; she'd stepped too far from Guerrand.

"It ain't no animal! It's a girl!" brother and sister heard the bandit say. He closed rapidly on Kirah.

Blinking in the light like a cornered deer, Kirah looked left and right for escape. Now clutching the medal in her hand, she darted toward the darkness behind the horses. Anticipating that, the man launched himself in a flying tackle, grabbed her skinny ankles, and dropped her to the ground before him. The maneuver knocked the wind from both of them.

Guerrand felt like he was watching a dream, a very bad dream. Kirah was kicking the man as he tried to pin her to the ground. Guerrand had to do something. His hands went to his sword, but then froze. How could he fight three men, experienced killers, without even a shield for protection? He was invisible for the moment, but Guerrand knew that as soon as he attacked, the fragile spell would be broken and he would appear. It would be suicide for him, and then they would certainly kill Kirah as well.

Yet what else could he do? Guerrand was already walking toward the man who struggled with Kirah before he was conscious of his own resolve to fight. Guerrand glided forward, noiselessly sliding the heavy, well-oiled sword from its scabbard. Silent, invisible, he stood above the man who was on his knees above Kirah and swung the heavy pommel down onto the man's head. It hit with a low thunk. The bandit swayed, stunned, but was still conscious. Surprised, Guerrand struck again, harder this time. The sword handle hit with a loud crack, and the bandit collapsed immediately, landing on top of Kirah.

"Thanks a lot," she gasped, struggling to wiggle out from underneath the heavy man. "Now you're visible, too." Grinning, she rolled away and rubbed her wrist with one hand, hanging on to the medallion with the other.

Brother and sister were both visible now. Guerrand doubted they could outrun the bandits who were fast approaching. This is a nightmare, he found himself thinking. I'm asleep and having a nightmare.

"Asleep!" he cried aloud. He hadn't time to warn Kirah. Waiting for the bandits to close the distance a bit more, Guerrand stooped down and scraped at the hard soil. He needed dust! A few quick stabs with his sword loosened enough for his purpose. Dropping the blade, he snatched up a handful and tossed it in the air before him.