Twain did.

"Is your will your own?"

"I have slain my will. The Ascended Masters play upon my lifestream as a man's hands play upon the strings of a harp."

"Are you prepared to hear the voice of the One Initiator?"

"I am."

"It-see-you."

Twain blinked, startled. Sethaz' powerful swordsman's hands flashed up to clamp his head on either side; the Prophet felt the action, but somehow as if he were observing it rather than willing his limbs to move. Their gazes locked, and there was a movement, a feeling as if the Prophet's skull were hollow, and something nested there.. . and now uncoiled to strike.

Twain gave a muffled, choking sound. His hands scrabbled at Sethaz' wrists, more and more frantically, and his feet drummed on the carpet like a man hoisted aloft by a noose around his neck. The movements gradually ceased, until the only motion the priest made was his breath… and then his chest rose and fell in rhythm with Sethaz. Soon their pulses thundered in unison as well. Two small trickles of blood started from the corners of his eyes, and another two from his nostrils; by the time they ran to his lips, he was grinning.

"Oh, now I understand!" he said thickly, licking the blood with relish. "Hail to the Regent Lord of This World!"

Sethaz nodded, stepping back. "Go, and serve the Masters," he said. "The Solar Logos go with you."

The High Seeker's grin was… disquieting somehow. Sethaz turned and looked out the window again, wondering why. The reflection prompted him.

It is because I've seen it before. In my mirror.

Then he shook his head; that made no sense, and there was much to do. He sat at his desk and took out the letter from Boise's new ruler, reading carefully once more. It was a tissue of lies, of course…

But from the lies a man tells, you can read the truth of his soul, he thought. His eyes went to a map, then glazed over as if he were listening to a voice only he could hear. Yes, there's something in what he says. Pendleton does offer us an opportunity. But not quite what he thinks.

"From the hag and the hungry goblin

That into rags would rend ye

All the sprites that stand by the Horned Man

In the Book of Moons defend ye-"

The tune had a steady thumping beat; Mackenzies used it as a marching song, though Rudi's mother had come up with the words long ago, when she was a bard before the Change. Rudi and Edain sang it-but not too loudly. A human voice wouldn't carry far in country like this, but there wasn't any point in taking unnecessary risks.

They were riding up a long open valley with a soil of something black, a coarse ashy stuff that crunched beneath the horses' hooves and raised a little dust with a strange taste, more bitter than the normal Snake River alkali. Small mountains or big hills showed here and there about them, looking as if they'd been built out of cinders-which they were. Sparse straw-colored needle-grass was scattered across the flats, and some of the hills had thick sagebrush, or even quaking aspen on the northern slopes, and some yellow-flowered rabbitbrush swayed a little in the hot wind. Nothing else moved, except a violet-green thrush that snatched a beetle stirred up by his horse's hooves; native animals hereabouts had the good sense to stay inside in the daytime, in summer.

"Ah, that was a bit of home," Edain said when they'd finished the song, and Rudi nodded. "I'll take a look at the pack-train."

His half-mastiff bitch Garbh jumped down from where she'd been sitting behind him and trotted along at his stirrup as he rode back down the line, whistling.

Edain could sing passably, which was a great deal more than his father could-Sam Aylward was longer on volume than anything else. Mackenzies generally could sing well, since it was an important part of their lives and they practiced hard, if not quite so hard as they did with the bow. Rudi had inherited a male version of his mother's talent, and she was first-rate; he sang very well indeed, and enjoyed it.

He smiled wryly. Rumor in the Clan said that the fae had clustered around his cradle to give him all the good gifts of the Lord and Lady. There was something to it, he supposed. He hadn't had trouble with his wisdom teeth and he'd gotten over his few zits quickly, too.

And all that makes my life so simple and satisfying, he thought sardonically. Which is why dead men try to squeeze my throat shut. Yes, it's just one long Beltane feast followed by a roll in the clover, if you're beloved of the Powers. They give… or sometimes, They just delay the stiff payment They ask.

"Interesting song," Frederick Thurston said, pushing his horse up beside Rudi.

"Heathen nonsense," Mathilda said, half joking, from his other side.

She uncorked her canvas water-bag and handed it over. Rudi drank deeply and passed it on-the water was tepid and a bit brackish, but you had to take as much as you could in desert country. His stepfather, Sir Nigel, and honorary uncle Sam Aylward had taught him that. The sun was bright and hot today, though the air was thankfully dry. Sweat was running down his flanks under his brigandine; they were all still wearing light harness, torso-protection, just in case, and it was as well to keep yourself used to the weight and discomfort. Even Father Ignatius had put off most of his panoply, though, for his horse's sake if not his own.

He's a hardy man, Rudi thought. Though I'll never understand why Christians think it pleases their God to be uncomfortable when it isn't necessary.

"Time!" Odard called.

He had a working windup watch, an heirloom. Everyone dismounted, unsaddled, let their mount roll, and began to put the tack on a remount.

Epona came over and pushed at him; she'd never liked to see him riding another horse. The big black mare nudged again as he transferred his saddle and blanket to Macha Mongruad.

"You're middle-aged!" Rudi said to Epona, touching a finger to her velvety nose. "You need the rest. And she's your own daughter!"

He swore and lunged for Macha's bridle when her dam mooched off. .. then turned and nipped the younger mare on the haunch. A few seconds of work prevented an equine catfight, and they began leading their horses; Epona trotted off with her tail high, and her ears making a horse's equivalent of a smug smirk.

"That's a fine horse," Fred said, as they started walking.

They had a long way to go and even rotating the mounts and walking half the time as well it was going to wear the horses down.

"I don't think I've ever seen better movement," Fred went on, looking admiringly where Epona seemed to float along, hooves barely touching down. "But isn't she around ten, or even twelve?"

"Fifteen or sixteen," Rudi replied.

A well-treated horse with a good deal of Arab in her breeding could be worked until she was past twenty, but it was true that if he could he'd rather have left her back in the home pasture, bullying the rest of the Dun Juniper horse-herd. Warmbloods tended to break down more easily, too.

"Why did you bring her on a trip like this?"

"She'd start killing people if I left her behind that long," Rudi said.

Frederick laughed, then stopped when he saw nobody else was.

"She's vicious?" he said incredulously. "But I saw you riding her without a bit! Bareback!"

"Not vicious exactly; she just dislikes the most of humankind, the more so if I'm away for long. Which given the way she was treated as a filly isn't surprising. We've been together a long time, since I was about ten, and she still won't let anyone else ride her."