Miroslas wasn't easy to reach. It lay several days' ride past the nearest village. If I'd been on foot, I might have given up. There had been heavy snowfall, and the path-it wasn't even a proper road-was nearly invisible. If it hadn't been for the peaks of the Narodin Mountains visible toward the east, I would have gotten lost. I spent half my time making camp; trampling snow before I could built a fire, breaking off pine branches to build a makeshift pallet, rigging windbreaks for my stolen mount, melting snow in a small iron pot I'd purchased from a family wealthy enough to have one to spare.

When I did find Miroslas at last, it seemed almost a mirage. A yeshiva of sorts, Ethan had called it, but it looked more like a castle hidden in the woods; except that there were no walls, no defenses. Only an open courtyard, where an elderly man was sweeping snow.

Somehow, it seemed disrespectful to ride. I dismounted and approached on foot, leading my horse. The man paused, leaning on his broom and watching. "Shalom, father," I said in Habiru. "I'm seeking-"

"So the avenging angel has arrived," he interrupted me.

I said nothing.

"It is the wise man who knows the value of silence," he observed. "It is our policy to welcome all travellers. Yeshua's mercy knows no bounds." He pointed. "You may stable your horse there, poor beast. When you have finished, come find me. I am Avraham ben David, the Rebbe of Miroslas."

I inclined my head. "Imriel no Montreve de la Courcel."

"I know who you are," he said.

I led my horse to the stables. There were no other horses there, only goats. A young Vralian man was there, milking one of them. He gaped at me, but said nothing, only pointed to an empty stall. I found the hayrack and a bucket. The Vralian pointed to a tub of water, already beginning to ice over. I lugged an armload of hay into the stall and filled the bucket with water for my grateful mount, then unsaddled him and rubbed him down with a handful of straw, trying to think what in the world I would say to the Rebbe.

It was a quiet place, Miroslas. A place where men go to think and be quiet, Ethan had said. It was true. As I learned later, many of the men there had taken an oath to dwell in silence, contemplating the glories of Yeshua. When I entered through the unguarded main door, the sound of my boot-heels on the flagstones seemed very loud. A fellow of middle years, clad in plain black robes, approached me with a wondering look.

"Rebbe Avraham told me to find him," I said softly in Habiru. He shook his head, uncomprehending. I repeated myself in Rus.

His eyes lit. He touched my arm and beckoned. I thought he would lead me to the Rebbe, but instead, he led me down a long corridor to a dining hall filled with long, empty tables. There I sat while he served me a dish of meat dumplings so good I nearly groaned aloud. If it hadn't been for all the silence, I would have.

When I had finished, he touched my arm again, motioning for me to leave my pack and follow him. It was a good thing I'd had practice in unspoken communication with Kebek. I followed him down another long corridor. We passed other men in plain robes. All of them looked curiously at me. None of them spoke.

He led me to the temple proper. It held the Yeshuite accoutrements with which I was familiar: the khai symbol inlaid in mosaic on the floor, the ever-lit lamp of the Ur Tamid. The ark containing the sacred scrolls; a replica of that original ark described in the Tanakh. I hadn't read the Tanakh. But I knew where it was, that ark. It was in Saba, on an island called Kapporeth, in the midst of the Lake of Tears. I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but I knew. I'd been there. It was where Phedre had found the Name of God.

And there was one thing here that was not there.

A great cross of rough-hewn timbers, lashed together and bolted to the wall. The Rebbe lay prostrate before it, his arms spread wide. My guide touched my arm a final time, nodded, and departed. I waited.

After a long time, Rebbe Avraham rose. He sat on a wooden bench and beckoned to me. I joined him.

"What do you see?" he asked me.

"A cruel way to die," I said.

"You find it barbaric." He nodded. "When Tadeuz Vral seized upon it as a symbol, I did, too. And yet, he is right." He turned a deep gaze on me. "Yeshua ben Yosef chose this. To subject himself to every humility mortal flesh might bear, to offer up his suffering, to make atonement for all of mankind. On his own shoulders, he bore this cross to the place of his own death, bloodied by the lash, enduring the jeers and spittle of an ignorant populace filled with fear and hatred. Should we not be humbled by this?"

I thought about Phedre and Daranga. "Yes, of course."

"And yet you are not," the Rebbe said. "Not enough to accept his sacrifice with gratitude."

I spread my hands. "My lord...I am D'Angeline."

"D'Angeline," he mused. "What does that mean? Elua ben Yeshua was born of the blood of the mashiach. And yet he rejected his birthright when it was offered to him."

"Blessed Elua had more than one birthright, Father," I said. "The one he chose was love."

"Carnal love," he said. "Not divine love."

I shrugged. "We are mortal flesh, my lord. How can we separate the two?"

The Rebbe sighed. "Here in this place, I seek understanding. I seek to understand Yeshua's will; Adonai's will. I seek to reconcile the Yeshua-that-was, the gentle philosopher, with the Yeshua-who-comes, the warrior. To reconcile the long history and traditions of my people, the Children of Yisra-el, with this fierce new faith of Tadeuz Vral. But I do not think I will ever understand D'Angelines."

I smiled wryly. "Nor I Yeshuites."

He was silent for a long moment. "I know why you have come. And I would ask you to find it in your heart to leave."

"Do you know what he did?" I asked.

"Yes." Rebbe Avraham's face looked old and tired. "Yes, I do. Many of the men who come here seek solace in silence and thought. Berlik did, too. But not all who come vow themselves to silence. Berlik spoke to me. We spoke at great length. I know what he did."

"Then how can you ask?" I said.

"Because it is my duty," he said quietly. "Because I have seen the depth of grief in his heart at his own actions. Because Yeshua's death granted all men the right to repent and atone. Is your Elua, your god of love, so merciless?"

"No." I gazed at the cross. The blood stirred in my veins, whispered in my ears like the distant rustle of bronze wings. "But I am not here on Elua's business, Father. I am here on Kushiel's. And his mercy is just, but it is stern."

"God's punisher," the Rebbe said. "He who loved his charges too well."

"Yes."

Another silence passed between us. "If this is love at work, it is no kind I recognize. Berlik is not here." Rebbe Avraham ben David squared his shoulders. "I sent him away. I could not allow this to happen under my roof."

"Where?" I asked.

"Do you know," he said without answering, "he sought to extract a promise from me. That I would tell you, if you came. You and you alone." His wrinkled lips twisted. "I wouldn't give it. I didn't want to know."

"Where?" I repeated.

His voice rose and cracked. "I gave no promise!"

I said nothing.

"I don't know," the Rebbe said at length. "Truly. It is a sin for a man to kill himself, even though he use another man's hand to do it. Berlik ...Berlik believed he could see the future. That certain things were foreordained. I will not abet his madness."

"Berlik did see the future," I said. "Too much of it. I know, I saw it, too. That's why he killed my wife and our unborn child, my lord. And if he had to do it again, he would, no matter how deeply it grieved him. Again and again."

"I do not believe that," he said.

"Then let him convince me," I said. "Berlik has a right to his wishes. Mayhap this quest is not what I believe it to be."

Rebbe Avraham lifted his gaze to the cross. His lips moved as he prayed in silence. I waited. Watched his shoulders slump in defeat. "Betimes there are no easy answers, are there?"

"Not always," I said. "No. We try to be good. But the way is seldom clear."

"Berlik spoke of continuing," he said heavily. "Of going northeast. Of crossing the mountains. Onward, always onward. I begged him not to risk it, not with winter coming. To wait for spring. Miroslas..." He paused. "We have a writ from Tadeuz Vral himself. This land that lies northward under the shadow of the mountains-a great deal of it is set aside for our usage. Leagues and leagues, for silence and contemplation. Berlik needed solitude. I begged him to avail himself of the quiet spaces Miroslas has to offer; in the woods, alone. To hide. I do not know if he heeded me. I know only that he left."

"How long ago did he leave?" I asked.

"Six weeks ago, perhaps," the Rebbe said. "Before the heavy snows fell. There has been no word of him since. I cannot say if he stayed or went. I have told you all I know."

I took a deep breath, feeling a new burden settle into place. "Thank you, Father."

The Rebbe rose. "Don't."

It was the last word he or anyone else spoke to me in Miroslas before I departed. In fact, it was the last word I was to hear spoken by any voice not my own for a long time.

I left Miroslas in the morning. Like the people I'd met elsewhere in Vralia, the silent priests and acolytes had been generous. I was given a chamber with a hard cot on which to sleep, a basin of water for washing. I was fed another meal of plain, hearty fare. My bags were packed with a sack of pottage grain and a heavy parcel of dried, salted meat I couldn't identify. When I went to the stable to retrieve my mount, I found another sack of coarse grain, large enough to last a long time.

The same young Vralian was there milking the goats. "Why?" I said aloud to him. "If the Rebbe disapproves, why aid me? Wouldn't it be better to let me wander in the wilderness without succor and let God's will decide?"

The Vralian didn't answer; I wasn't even sure what language I'd spoken in. But he looked at me with grave eyes and offered me a dipperful of warm goat's milk. I sighed and shook my head. I could guess how the Rebbe would have answered my question.

It is my duty.

As I had mine, more arduous and distasteful with each day that passed. I led my horse into the courtyard. It was a clear day. The courtyard hadn't been swept yet, and the sun was bright on the new-fallen snow. Beyond lay a vast tract of woods, dense and pathless. I stooped and touched the ground.

"Blessed Elua, Mighty Kushiel, hear your scion," I murmured. "I cannot search forever. If it is your will that I find him, let it be swift. And if it is your will that I spare him, I pray you make it known to me.

There was no answer, but then, there seldom was.

I rose and continued my quest.

Chapter Fifty-Seven.

I didn't count the days.What was the point? I had no fixed destination. I rode back and forth across the cold, snowy land, seeking any sign of Berlik; any sign of human habitation. I measured the passage of time by my dwindling supplies. I gauged my position by keeping sight of a particular peak of the Narodin Mountains, hook-shaped and distinctive. There would come a time when I could simply search no more, and would have to seek civilization or starve.

The sun rose and fell.

I kept searching.

I ate as little as I dared, but I had to be careful. If I was too weary at the end of the day to make a proper campsite, I ran the risk of freezing. I could hunt if it came to it, but I was short of arrows and hunting wouldn't feed my mount.

He was a good horse, patient and willing. I doled out grain in handfuls. I could abandon him, I supposed, and continue on foot. I wasn't sure I had the skills for it. I wasn't sure I had the heart for it. It wasn't just the cruelty. It felt like I'd been alone for a long, long time. Without the company of one single living creature, I wasn't sure I could continue.

There was a certain peace to it, though. The Vralian wilderness was rugged and gorgeous. My nameless mount and I plodded through pine forests, breaking a trail through deep snow. We scrambled up rocky inclines, and I caught my breath at the splendor of the vistas revealed at the tops. Pine forest spread like an endless carpet, the temple of Miroslas long ago swallowed by it. The tall, jagged peaks of the Narodin Mountains in the background. Frozen lakes, windswept and serene.

There was a good deal of wildlife in the wilderness. I saw foxes and rabbits, their pelts turned a snowy white for winter. Other animals I couldn't name, low and quick, with dark, luxurious fur and bright, curious eyes. Twice, a herd of deer like no other deer I'd seen, tall and deep-chested, with splendid antlers.

No Berlik.

Days passed, one after the other. Sunny days, cloudy days. Betimes it snowed too hard to see, and we were forced to hunker down and wait until it passed. I grew skilled at building windbreaks and shelters dug into deep snow to hold my body warmth, and learned to carry my waterskin filled with snowmelt inside my clothing so it wouldn't freeze during the day. My stolen mount grew shaggy. We slogged through snow and clambered over rock. Uncounted days turned into weeks. I don't know how many leagues Miroslas' holdings encompassed, but they were immense. And aside from the wildlife, they were utterly uninhabited.

There was no sign of Berlik anywhere. There was no sign of anything human in this emptiness save me, and there were days when I wasn't too sure about myself.

The days grew shorter.

The nights grew longer, so long they began to seem endless.

I tried to keep the flame of hope alive in my breast; Elua knows, I did. But the place was simply too vast, the task too hard. The long hours of darkness, the eternal loneliness, took their toll. Bit by bit, the flame guttered.

My supplies were running low the second time we encountered the big deer; low enough that I reckoned I'd have to turn back within a day. The first time, I'd seen the herd at a distance. This time, we came upon them at close range. The herd weren't scared of us, but only watched us with mild gazes as though wondering what strange manner of deer this was with a second body sprouting from its back. My horse stood patiently as I took off my fur mittens and reached for the hunting bow. I nocked an arrow and drew, aiming at the nearest.

The deer watched me, brown ears pricked.

It was an easy kill. In this cold weather, the meat would freeze, so I wouldn't have to worry about it spoiling. I wouldn't even have to dry and smoke it. Now I could keep searching longer. Weeks, mayhap. It was a very big deer. Of course, my horse would starve. But mayhap if I turned it loose, it would find its way back to Miroslas. And I could continue alone, on foot, lugging my packs and pounds and pounds of frozen meat. Tramping through the Vralian wilderness and searching for Berlik, who might well be on the far side of the Narodin Mountains, a hundred leagues from here.

I couldn't do it.

The flame of hope was extinguished.

I lowered the bow. "Blessed Elua forgive me," I murmured. "I don't want a reason to keep going."

The deer walked calmly away toward the herd, its tufted tail flicking. I took a long, shuddering breath, releasing it in a sound that was half laugh, half sob. Tears stung my eyes, threatening to freeze on my cheeks. I swiped roughly at them with one hand, then stowed my hunting bow and put on my mittens, turning my mount's head.

"It's over," I said.

There is a certain peace that comes with accepting failure, too. It settled into me like a stone. I accepted it. Accepted the knowledge that I had failed.

I had given up.

There are people in this world whose wills are capable of exceeding the limits of mortal flesh. I wasn't one of them. I was lonely and hungry and tired, and so cold that I'd forgotten what it felt like to be truly warm. I had failed, and nothing in my life would ever be quite right again. But I simply didn't have the will to continue.

I made camp that night thinking about all the people I had disappointed. About Urist and the men of Clunderry. Drustan, Breidaia, Sibeal, Talorcan...all of those who had loved Dorelei. Alais, and ah, Elua! I was ashamed to face Sidonie, knowing that the shadow of Dorelei's death would always lay between us. I had tried to atone for our guilt and failed. And Phedre and Joscelin ...the thought of the compassion and understanding they would extend made me cringe inside.

They'd never given up. Never.

But even the mortification of that thought wasn't enough to force me to keep going. The prospect was like a blank wall, unscalable and daunting. I could trek through this trackless wilderness for months. If Berlik was hiding here, I could miss him by a matter of yards. Then spring would come, and he would move onward into even vaster territories. And it wasn't just the sheer difficulty of it. Every step of the journey had chipped away at my will, ever since I arrived in Vralia. Micah ben Ximon, Ethan of Ommsmeer, Rebbe Avraham, my own doubts...all of them had led me to question the merits and cost of this quest.

In the end, it wasn't why I'd chosen to give up.

It just made it easier.

"I'm sorry, love," I said aloud to Dorelei's spirit. "You deserved better. You always did deserve better from me. But I did my best."

She would have understood, I thought. Truly understood. Dorelei had never expected the sort of heroism from me that I expected from myself. That the examples of those I loved demanded. All she'd ever wanted from me was honesty and a measure of kindness. And in that, at least, I'd succeeded.

The thought comforted me as I lay down to sleep in my snow wallow, blankets wrapped around my clothing, the farmer's widow's fur hat snug on my head. I watched sparks drift upward from my campfire and listened to my horse snuffle and snort behind the windbreak a few yards away. In the morning, I would think about the rest of my life and how I would begin to live it. Tonight, I didn't.

I fell asleep and slept without dreaming.