"What do you mean to do with it?" Urist asked as we rode.

"Destroy it," I said.

He smiled. "Good."

That evening, we made camp along the banks of the Voorwijk. After picketing the Bastard, I sat down with Berlik's robe and set about slicing it into strips, pausing periodically to hone my daggers. The fur was dense and thick, rippling in my hands. A smell of musk clung to my skin. I ignored it, working methodically. Strip, strip, strip. It was hard work. Kinadius joined me, raising an inquiring brow. I nodded. He beckoned. Others came, cutting the strips into smaller scraps. Urist gave quiet orders, and several men set about gathering wood. A massive bonfire was built, fire roaring heavenward. It was the largest fire I'd seen since the Feast of the Dead.

When we had finished cutting it to shreds, we burned the bearskin robe, piece by piece. Everyone took an armload of scraps. We fed them into the fire, one by one. The fur sizzled and stank as it flared and crisped, leaving bits of hide to curl and slowly char.

I didn't know if Berlik's robe held any enchantment, not for sure. Morwen hadn't needed one, and I'd seen her body shift and change in the darkness. I'd seen her pry loose a boulder that two strong men wouldn't be able to lift. Mayhap the robe was meaningless, nothing more than a badge of office, indicating his status as a magician of the Maghuin Dhonn. Or mayhap it wasn't. If he'd crossed the Straits as a bear, the robe had crossed with him somehow. And yet, if it was charmed, why would Berlik have traded it for some leather goods and supplies?

In the end, I didn't care. It was his, and there was a tremendous, irrational satisfaction in destroying it. All of us felt it.

Once it was done, we let the fire burn down low, slowly collapsing in on itself. It was too late to cook, so we ate cold rations that night. Urist passed around a skin of uisghe he'd held in reserve, and we all had a few swallows, watching the fire.

"One step closer," Kinadius murmured. "Feels like it, anyway."

Urist grunted. "But why pilgrims? Doesn't make sense." He slewed his gaze around at me. "Who are these pilgrims? Some sort of mad D'Angelines?"

"Yeshuites," I said. "And no, it doesn't make sense."

"What's a Yeshuite?" he asked.

At least what knowledge I possessed wasn't totally useless. I told them about the One God of the Habiru-the god whose angel Rahab had once bound the Master of the Straits-and how he had sent his son Yeshua ben Yosef to earth during the time of the Tiberian Empire. How the Habiru had hailed him as their savior, their mashiach. How the Tiberians had feared an uprising and convicted Yeshua, hanging him on a criminal's cross. How Blessed Elua was born of his blood, mingled with the tears of his beloved, Mary of Magdala, nurtured in the womb of the earth.

"But you said they weren't D'Angelines," Selwin said, bewildered.

"They're not," I said. "We share a point of origin, but little else." And so I explained how while Blessed Elua wandered the earth, causing rebellion in heaven, and came to be joined by his Companions and founded Terre d'Ange, the Habiru reckoned him misbegotten and followed their own course, revering Yeshua, and came to be known as the Yeshuites. Like the Tsingani, they had no fixed realm of their own. Unlike the Tsingani, they aspired to one. "There's a prophecy in their sacred books that says Yeshua will return to raise his people to greatness," I said. "And that they should make a place in the cold lands to await him."

"Reckon it's true?" Kinadius asked.

"I don't know." I propped my bedroll against the Bastard's saddle and reclined, easing my sore body. I thought about Morit and the scholars who had visited Terre d'Ange, spending so many hours in Phedre's salon discussing these very matters. They came from distant Saba, where the lost Tribe of Dan maintained the old ways of the Habiru. They'd reckoned the entire notion madness, and of a surety there was great power and wisdom held in trust by their priests. But then, they knew little of Yeshua. "The wisest Yeshuite I know, a man named Eleazar ben Enoch, said some passages suggest it's true, and others do not. The Yeshuites themselves are divided on the matter."

Urist snorted. "You see? That's the trouble with trusting to written words."

I smiled. "You have a point."

It was growing late. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what else Eleazar ben Enoch had said. He was a scholar and a mystic, a good man, gentle and kind. Phedre admired him greatly. Something about believing that the mashiach spoke in parables, that the cold land was the empty places of the human heart. I didn't share his faith, but I could appreciate its beauty when he spoke of it.

All of that was true. And I could imagine it might be true of Berlik, too. I would be unwise to let my grief and hatred blind me. I couldn't imagine that he would ever forsake his own faith any more than I would, but he had struck me as a man who thought and felt deeply. I didn't believe he'd acted out of malice. I understood what the tanner and his wife had seen in him, and I was willing to believe he was filled with sorrow at what he perceived was the necessity of his actions.

It didn't matter. He had done it anyway. If the Maghun Dhonn had spoken openly of their visions, mayhap it all could have been different. Mayhap there was somewhat that could have been done. If I'd known they'd seen Dorelei's death in childbirth, I could have insisted that she be attended by a trained chirurgeon. Mayhap that alone would have been enough. But the Maghuin Dhonn hadn't trusted us with their truths. They'd simply tried to alter fate on their own. Berlik had slain Dorelei in cold blood, slain our unborn son in the womb. And for that, I would kill him. Kushiel's justice demanded it. The gods are merciful, but they are just, too. There was no repentance, no atonement that could ever suffice.

All of that was true, too. And I daresay in his heart of hearts, Berlik knew it. He was a murderer, and forsworn. There was no redemption for him, not in this life.

So what in Elua's name was he doing travelling with Yeshuite pilgrims?

Chapter Forty- Six.

Urist came up with a theory the following day.We rode east along the Voorwijk River, stopping to make queries at farmsteads along the way. The drawing of Berlik elicited blank stares and shaking heads, but pelgrims got cheerful ja, jas. Everyone had seen pilgrims passing. In fact, we saw a group ourselves, travelling with a canvas-covered wagon. Their olive-skinned features stood out among the fair Flatlanders, as distinctive as Tsingani or Cruithne.

"Cover," Urist said simply. "Disguise."

"He's a big man, Urist," Kinadius said doubtfully. "With tattoos."

Urist pointed at the wagon. "Aye, and the tanner's wife said the pilgrims had a wagon. Easy enough to hide a man in a wagon, even a big man."

"Why would they do such a thing?" Kinadius argued.

"Money?" Urist suggested. "He traded his robe to buy goods for them."

"There was a Yeshuite family hid Phedre and Joscelin in a wagon, once," I said slowly. "They might do it out of kindness."

Domnach spat on the ground. "For that one?"

"They don't know what he's done," I said. "The tanner's wife liked him well enough."

"Aye, and he showed his face at the tannery," Kinadius observed. "Why? Makes no sense if he's trying to pass unnoticed."

"Mayhap he reckoned there was little risk," Urist said pragmatically. "Outside of leather merchants and folks in dire need, who in their right mind visits a tannery?"

There was no way of knowing for sure. By midday, when we'd failed to encounter any definitive sightings of Berlik, Urist and Kinadius conferred and called a halt. We made camp and split our forces, riding out in pairs. Doubling back, riding forward, casting a wider net toward the north. For all we knew, Berlik and the pilgrims had parted ways shortly after leaving the tannery.

I rode with Cailan, the wise-woman's son. The course we were assigned lay due north. We stopped and made inquiries at every farmstead and hamlet we encountered; asking at every mill, of every drover and goatherd. Over and over again, we showed the drawing of Berlik. Der Bar-Mann, I asked, remembering what the tanner had called him. Heads shook. I asked about pelgrims, too, to no avail. It seemed the tanner's wife was right on that score. The pilgrims' route lay east, heading toward Maarten's Crossing.

It was a tedious business, and it filled me with new admiration for Kinadius and his men, who had already put in so many long, tireless days. I hadn't reckoned until now what a truly daunting task it was, seeking a single man in a strange land. By the time Cailan gauged the angle of the sun and reckoned we'd best turn back, I was filled with relief.

There was a good stretch of empty meadow we'd crossed on our outward journey. I gave the Bastard his head there, letting him stretch his legs. Cailan's grey worked hard to keep the pace, sides laboring, hooves pounding. I took pity on him and slowed.

Cailan came alongside me, smiling. "You're feeling better."

I hadn't thought about it. "It still hurts, but it doesn't pull like it used to."

He nodded. "That's good."

Unfortunately, it was the best news of the day. We straggled back to the campsite in pairs, everyone tending to their own mounts. I led the Bastard to the river and let him drink his fill, walking him for a while before picketing him. There was good grazing here, and although we carried grain, we doled it out only as necessary. I checked his striped hooves, peering at them for stones. He snorted, snuffling my hair.

One by one, everyone reported.

Nothing.

No sightings of Berlik, not anywhere. No sightings of pelgrims, either, except along the eastern road. We sat around the campfire, discouraged, eating stewed peas and salt pork with stale biscuits.

"So!" Urist slapped his knee and glared at us. "We have a choice."

I listened to them argue. In the end, it was simple. If Berlik had stayed with the pilgrims, they were bound for Maarten's Crossing. We were travelling light. We could make up days riding there straightaway. And if we were wrong, we'd have to double back. All the way to the tannery to begin the process over again.

"What do you choose?" Urist asked me.

I spread my hands. "As I said the other day, you're the tracker. I'm willing to defer to your judgment, Urist."

"You know what I know." His face was implacable. "Either way, we gamble. This choice lies with the lord of Clunderry"

I tilted my chin, gazed at the emerging stars. Somewhere, mayhap not very far, the same stars looked down on the magician. I wondered if Berlik knew we were after him. I wondered if he'd already seen how it ended, there in the stone circle. I thought about the glimpse of the future that Dorelei had seen during the early days of our marriage. Hyacinthe had seen it, too. A snowstorm, a barren tree. Me, kneeling, sword in hand.

Weeping.

I wondered why.

"He's bound for a cold land," I said. "Mayhap the pilgrims' route suits his purposes as well as any. Let's try it."

Urist nodded. "So be it."

With the decision made, we turned in, wrapping ourselves in our bedrolls. Urist hadn't said it, but all of us knew he'd drive us hard on the morrow, and the next day and the next, as long as it took to reach Maarten's Crossing.

I slept soundly and rose early enough to perform my Cassiline exercises. Cailan was right, I was feeling better. I concentrated on ignoring the pain, and for the first time in weeks, the movements felt smooth and natural. Not effortless, not anywhere near it, but my body was remembering what it was like to be whole. When I finished telling the hours, I wasn't trembling. Urist eyed me without comment, then gave the order to break camp and saddle our mounts.

We rode to Maarten's Crossing.

It took five days, during which time the terrain grew wilder and less domesticated. Our road followed the Voorwijk, and it was still fairly well travelled by merchants, but to the north, we began to pass forests instead of farmsteads. It made me uneasy. I daresay all of us had the same thought. If Berlik was minded to part ways with the pilgrims, he could have done it anywhere. And once the magician plunged into the forests, there was little hope of finding him. The Maghuin Dhonn were at home in wild places, more so even than the Cruithne.

Although it was a futile task, Urist kept his eyes sharp as we rode, his gaze fixed along the roadside for any signs of a big man's tracks breaking away and heading north. If anyone could spot them, it would be Urist. He didn't, of course. If we'd been a day or two behind Berlik, he might have had a chance. Not after three weeks, not along a well-trodden road.

Still, he tried.

For my part, I prayed. The responsibility for the decision weighed heavily on me. I held rank here and I'd claimed this quest for my own. Urist had been right to push me into making the choice. But I couldn't help fearing I'd chosen wrong, couldn't help fearing we'd lost Berlik's trail. And I was acutely aware, the farther we rode, that we were headed for the border of Skaldia.

On the sixth day, we reached Maarten's Crossing. It was a big place, bigger than I'd reckoned. Once, I daresay it hadn't been much more than an outpost in the woods, but like Zoellen and Bryn Gorrydum and so many other places, it had grown a great deal in the last decade. Unlike other places, its growth appeared planned.

We'd thought to make camp on the outskirts, but the entire town was enclosed in a vast wooden palisade with guards posted at the gate.

Skaldi guards.

There were only two of them, but there was a gatehouse above the entrance, and I'd no doubt other guards were within shouting distance. Our company drew rein, eyeing the guards. They regarded us with sharp interest. Not hostile, but not welcoming, either. There was nothing to do but present ourselves.

"They might grant you a warmer welcome," I said to Urist. "Terre d'Ange isn't trading openly with Skaldia yet. There's a lot of bad blood lingering."

He grimaced. "It's not like we can hide your pretty face, lad! You should have listened to me and gotten your warrior's markings. Besides, I don't speak a word of Skaldic."

I sighed. "Right."

Urist deigned to accompany me. We dismounted and approached the guards on foot. Tall and strapping, the both of them, one blond and one ruddy-haired. They towered over wiry Urist, and stood a half-head taller than me. Small wonder Eamonn had been able to pass himself off as a Skaldi. The blond folded his arms across his chest and stared down at me.

"D'Angelina," he said with distaste. "Was wunschen Sie?"

At least it was a familiar dialect. I explained in my mangled Skaldic that we were following the pilgrims, hunting for the bear-man. I showed them the drawing of Berlik. The blond laughed and bracketed his eyes with splayed fingers, then nodded and with one hand indicated a big man, a few inches taller than he was. A profound wave of relief swept over me.

"Is he here?" I asked. "Ist hier?"

They shook their heads and conferred, looking amused. The ruddy-haired one pointed at the sun and held up both hands, twice. Ten fingers, twice. Twenty days. He made a dismissive gesture and said something that clearly meant, Go away, D'Angeline.

"Adelmar," Urist said slowly and deliberately. "A-del-mar." He pointed at himself, then me, then the other Cruithne, making a sweeping gesture toward the west. "Alba. Cruarch. Adelmar."

The blond cast a dubious eye over us. "Cruarch?"

"Do you see this, you hulking idiots?" Urist said in a firm, reasonable tone. While I prayed silently that neither guard spoke a word of Cruithne, he tapped the golden torc around my neck. "Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba, gave this to him with his own hands. He's a Prince of Alba, and he's here on the Cruarch's business. And if your sodding Adelmar wants to continue enjoying trade rights with the Cruarch of Alba, believe me, he will see us."

I glanced at Urist. He gave a slight shrug.

And against all odds, it worked. After a good deal of rapid deliberation, the guards admitted us. The blond pointed in several different directions, giving me information I could only guess at. I thanked him graciously.

"What was that all about?" Urist asked.

"Damned if I know," I said.

Inside the palisade, I began to piece it together. There was a large cleared area where pilgrims and merchant caravans alike were encamped. Beyond lay the town proper, timber-built, laid out in a neat grid. It looked to be bustling, filled with Skaldi and Flatlanders and wealthier Yeshuite pilgrims. Many of the latter were wearing caps of bleached muslin embroidered with a flared crimson cross. Somewhere near the center, a great hall loomed. Adelmar, the guard had said, pointing toward it.

I explained what I thought the guard had meant. "We can camp freely or seek lodgings at an inn. The great hall, that's where we petition for an audience with Adelmar."

Urist shrugged. "Why waste time?"

I glanced around at our company. "We don't exactly look like a delegation from the Cruarch of Alba, Urist. We look like twenty-odd men who've been riding hard and living rough."

He snorted. "You just want a bath."

"It wouldn't hurt you, either," I retorted.

In the end, we decided that the bulk of our company would make camp, while five of us lodged at an inn. I picked Urist and Kinadius to accompany me, while the others drew straws for the privilege. A smug Deordivus drew one, while the other fell to one of the older veterans, a solid fellow named Brun. A good balance, I thought.

We left our mounts in the picket-line at the camp and entered Maarten's Crossing on foot. I felt pricklish and wary. Skaldi sauntered along the streets, longswords strapped to their backs, staring openly at us.

Get used to it, I told myself.

We were in Skaldia.

There was no trouble finding an inn. I picked the place at random, simply because the sign above the door-a proud rooster-reminded me of the Cockerel at home. It was run by a heavyset blonde Skaldi woman who took one look at me and beamed. "D'Angeline!" she cried, with considerable more enthusiasm than any of the men had showed.

"D'Angeline," I agreed, ignoring my companions' snickers.

I was just glad to be ensconced peaceably. The proprietress, Halla, had no husband in evidence, but several tall daughters, ranging in age from some sixteen years to a few years older than me. They were fresh-faced and bright-eyed, eager and curious, and uncomfortably attentive. When I pantomimed filling a tub and bathing, they laughed and led me to a small room with a wooden tub, bringing buckets of cold, clean water.

"Baden?" one asked hopefully, holding a sponge.