Kiya’s expression didn’t change, but Miya preened slightly under the old warrior’s praise.

Tol handed over the muster rolls of the Army of the North, and passed his baton, symbol of his command, to Regobart.

“Many warlords are leaving. Do you think the Tarsans will make trouble once we’re gone?” he asked.

Regobart waved the question away. “No! When they heard the emperor had died, they became even more docile!” He winked. “They fear that without a supreme lord in command, our troops will run wild and sack the city. The Tarsans are treading very lightly indeed!”

Tol clasped hands with Regobart and turned Shadow away. He and his people rode through the busy camp, passing out of the stockade via the north gate.

The splendid spires of Tarsis were visible over the city’s white walls, but Tol could not make out the Golden House. He faced forward again and saw the others had moved on ahead. Only Felryn lingered behind with him.

“When one door closes,” the healer said, “somewhere another opens.”

They skirted the north end of the bay, reaching the Torrent River by sunset. Too wide to be spanned by a bridge and too rough for most small boats, the river usually was traversed by means of an anchored ferry. However, the ferry station was abandoned and several outbuildings had been burned, probably by marauding imperial cavalry.

They decided to operate the ferry themselves. There were two large barges tethered to the shore by heavy cables. One craft lay awash, a casualty of war. The other seemed intact. Thick skeins of woven rope stretched from the east bank to the western side, a quarter league distant. They would cast off on the remaining barge and pull themselves along by means of the ropes.

Dismounting, they led their horses onto the flat-bottomed craft. Frez and Miya untied the mooring lines. The swift current immediately tugged the ferry away from shore. The sudden lurch frightened the horses, who chivvied and pranced until Felryn and Darpo calmed them. Only Shadow remained placid, merely twitching his long tail several times. Tol had once praised his mount’s composure in the face of danger; Kiya had retorted it wasn’t composure but stupidity: the big gray horse was, she opined, dumber than a tree root.

“Everyone but Darpo take told of the rope,” Tol ordered.

The wounded soldier protested his special treatment, but Tol ordered him to mind the horses as well as his aches and pains. The rest of them began to pull.

Bit by bit, the ferry crept away from shore. The sun was setting behind the mountains, from here only a far-off smear of purple on the horizon. As they hauled on the rope, Darpo sang an old seafaring song. In his youth he’d sailed the trade route between Hylo and the lands of the northern coast. The scar he bore was a memento of that former life, earned when a line had snapped and lashed his face.

The sea chantey lent rhythm to their task. As they pulled more in unison, the barge’s pace increased.

By the time they reached the western shore, twilight had come. Buildings on the far shore were intact, but silent and dark. All who were able had fled the advancing Ergothians for the safety of walled Tarsis.

The barge was tied off, the horses led ashore. Tol rode up to the ferrymaster’s house. The door was ajar. He called for a torch.

The interior of the ferry station was a shambles; it had been ransacked in a search for valuables. Miya, Felryn, and Tol kicked through the debris in search of maps.

Tol found what he sought in set of pigeonholes on the inside wall. Handing the torch to Miya, he pulled several documents from their holes, scanning and discarding them one by one. At last, he spread one curling parchment wide. It was a Tar-san map of the Harrow Sky region. The dangerous land west of the mountains was only vaguely rendered, but the passes leading to it through the high mountains were clearly shown. Directions to those passes were what Tol needed.

A sharp call from Kiya, still outside, sent the searchers hurrying out of the wrecked house. The others, still mounted, were all pointing toward the river.

Hovering high in the air over the lapping waves was a shimmering light. Perhaps a handspan wide, it quivered like living flame, but had a most unnatural color-a frosty blue.

Felryn couldn’t identify the sight, but Miya suggested it was only a will-o’-the-wisp.

Her sister sneered. “So high in the air? Over flowing water?” Kiya said. “Don’tbe daft!”

The blue light neither advanced nor retreated. As he stared at it, Tol had the odd feeling he-all of them-were being watched in return. He mentioned this to Felryn, who shrugged.

With no other recourse, they ignored the strange light and rode on. Tol wanted to make the foothills before they camped for the night.

They did so, though not without misgivings. Each time one of them turned to check, the light was still there, following and flickering in the air just behind them.

Before midnight Tol called a halt. They’d left behind the sandy coast and entered a thinly spread pine forest. The ground was rising, and more stone had appeared in the soil. Frez found a small stream, and there they made camp.

Felryn sat cross-legged on the stony ground and closed his eyes. Gripping the engraved silver disk he wore around his neck-the sign of his patron deity Mishas-he tried to identify the silent blue light. Then he tried to banish it. After a time, with sweat trickling down his face, he opened his eyes.

“Powerful,” he muttered. “It is of a different order, far beyond my abilities. It’s a strange manifestation, but I don’t sense any threat from it. It just watches.”

“That’s threat enough for me!” Kiya said.

She braced her bow and pulled an arrow from her quiver. As she nocked it, Felryn placed two fingers on the shaft. His lips moved in silent incantation, then he gestured for her to proceed.

Kiya drew the bowstring to her ear. The dark and the amorphous nature of her target made distance hard to gauge, but she squinted over the broadhead and let fly. The bowstring hummed, and the arrow whistled away. To everyone’s surprise, the glow suddenly vanished. They waited, breath held, but it did not reappear.

Miya clouted her sister on the shoulder. “Well done!”

“Good shot,” put in Darpo, and Tol added his own commendation.

Kiya lowered her bow. “I don’t think I even got near it,” she said, frowning. “The shot was way low.”

Felryn agreed with Kiya’s assessment. “I don’t believe the arrow or even my feeble dispersal spell is responsible. I think whoever sent it recalled it. We’ve halted for the night; there’s no reason to shadow us if we’re not going anywhere.”

His words gave them little pleasure. There was scant conversation the rest of the night, and they took turns standing watch, with Tol taking the first shift.

Clouds obscured most of the stars. As his companions settled down to rest, Tol leaned on his spearshaft and studied the sky.

The college of wizards in Daltigoth kept the sky clear over the imperial palace at all times. When he’d first arrived, Tol had thought this an act of silly luxury, a perquisite of the emperor always to have bright sunshine by day and glittering stars by night. Later, he’d realized the strategic value of clear weather. No lofty spies could float over the palace grounds unseen, if the sky was always free of clouds.

Twelve days to Daltigoth, he reminded himself. Twelve days till he could right the wrong done to him a decade ago. Twelve days until he saw Valaran again.

After ten years, a wait of twelve days should not be difficult, but suddenly it seemed interminable.