After they'd all gone, Orsin grinned and said, "Your words didn't brighten them quite so much as the Oracle's."

"My work isn't to brighten their spirits, but to keep them, and you, alive."

Orsin shouldered on his pack. "Very good. I guess we'll soon know how well you do your job."

Gerak approached the campsite in a half hunch, an arrow nocked, senses primed. The ground all around showed pits from the creature's heavy tread. The creature had flattened his tent, tore the tarp, scattered the logs from the fire. Fitful streams of smoke leaked from the spread embers. With almost no light to work by, Gerak fumbled through the mess of the campsite and sought his cloak. He found a shred of it stomped into the muck, another shred elsewhere, and his heart fell. The creature had torn it to bits and trod it underfoot. He found a few more bits of it but not the part with the pocket, not the part with the locket.

He sank to the ground near the remains of the fire, put his hands on his knees, and tried to figure out how he'd tell Elle about losing it.

"So much for good luck," he muttered.

He'd spend the night hungry and cold. He never should have ventured out of Fairelm. Instead, he should have packed up with Elle, left the damned village, and headed for the Dales.

He felt the vibrations in the ground at the same time the creature's roar split the night. Adrenaline had him on his feet in a heartbeat, an arrow nocked and drawn. The creature barreled out of the darkness, all flabby bulk and sour stink and ear-splitting roars. He fired, and the whistle of his arrow was answered with a satisfying thunk and pained shriek as it sank to the fletching in the creature's flesh.

But the bulk kept coming. Gerak backstepped, dropping his bow and trying to draw his sword, stumbling on the broken, muddy earth. His boot stuck in the muck, tripped him up. He fell onto his back as he pulled his blade free.

The creature rushed him, snarling, slobbering, arms outstretched, clawed fingers reaching for him. Shouting with fear, he stabbed his blade at its midsection as one of its hands slammed into the side of his head.

Pain. Sparks exploding before his eyes. He flashed on the creature devouring the pheasants, bones and feathers and all, and imagined himself consumed entirely, clothes and bones and flesh.

Instinct and adrenaline kept his hand around the hilt of his blade even as his body went numb and the creature's bulk fell atop him and drove him a hand span into the soft earth, a grave of his own making. His breath went out of him in a whoosh. The creature spasmed atop him, a mountain of stinking flesh, its bulk crushing him. A huge hand closed over his face and shoved his head into the sodden ground. Water from the saturated earth got into his eyes, nose, his mouth. Panic seized him as he inhaled water. Desperate, terrified, he stabbed and stabbed with his blade. Distantly he was aware of warmth, the pained snarls of the creature, its shifting bulk atop his body. He couldn't breathe. More sparks, his field of vision fading to black. He was failing, dying. He blacked out for a moment; he didn't know how long, but when sense returned he realized that the creature was no longer moving.

He'd killed it?

He was too exhausted and pained to feel much relief. Its stink filled his nostrils; its weight made it hard to breathe. He was face to face with its bloated countenance. Its eyes were open, thick black tongue lolling from its mouth. The brown eyes gave Gerak a start.

They looked entirely human, almost childlike.

Squirming to the side, he maneuvered himself from under the creature and stood, covered in mud, blood, and stink. He stared down at the creature's bulbous form, the folds of flesh, the network of burst veins on the surface of the skin. The tip of his sword stuck out of its back.

With a grunt, he rolled the creature over so he could retrieve the blade. The rags it wore were the muddy, torn remains of a homespun and trousers. He pulled his blade free, wincing at the stink it freed. He remembered the lanyard he'd seen, and used his blade to lift a fold of flesh at the creature's neck.

Hung from the lanyard was a charm, a dirty cube of amber.

At first his mind refused to draw the conclusion. He stood perfectly still, eyeing the charm, the clothes, insisting that it wasn't what he thought it was.

But it was. He knew the charm. It had belonged to a little girl from Fairelm, Lahni Rabb.

But her family had left Fairelm days earlier. Had it killed her and taken the charm? Or. . . ?

He stared at the creature. Its hair. The brown, childlike eyes. The torn homespun.

The reality hit him and he vomited into the grass until his stomach had nothing left to give. He sagged to the ground.

"Lahni," he said. It seemed obscene to connect her name to the bloated, twisted form before him, but it was her. He was sure of it. And he'd killed her. Some magic or curse had changed her into something awful and then he'd killed her.

"Gods, gods, gods," he said.

He tried not to think about what might have happened to the rest of her family.

Sickened, he cast his blade away and kneeled beside her-the tiny, waifish young girl he could still picture running and laughing in the village commons. He reached out a hand but did not touch her.

"I'm so sorry, Lahni."

What could have done this to her?

Thunder sounded. A trickle of rain started to fall.

He sat there for a long while, engulfed in night, wrapped in a sense of grief not just for Lahni and her family but for himself and Elle and the baby, for all of Sembia. The land itself was corrupted by darkness. He had to get out, get Elle out, but he could not just leave Lahni there. He had to do something with her body, burn it. It was the least he could do.

He found his wood axe amid the scattered debris of the camp, split some dead broadleaf limbs he found nearby, and started to build a pyre around Lahni's body. He took her by the wrists to move her a bit and get some of the logs under her. As he did he realized that she was holding something in her closed hand.

He uncoiled Lahni's swollen, misshapen fingers, already stiffening in death, to reveal Elle's locket-a bronze sun. Of all the things in the campsite, she'd taken Elle's locket. He remembered once, long ago, Lahni telling Elle how beautiful the locket was. Elle had mussed her hair, thanked her, and Lahni had run off.

Emotion bubbled up in Gerak, raw, bitter, and he couldn't swallow it back down. He wept as he worked, and in time had built a serviceable pyre. A pyre for an adolescent girl that Sembia had turned into a monster. He gently placed Elle's locket back in her hand.

"I'm sorry," he said to her again, and worked on the kindling. When it took, he tended the logs until the fire was going strong. He thought he should say something, a prayer, but he could not manage one.

"The gods damn this place," he said softly, as the flames darkened Lahni's bloated body. "The gods damn it all."

He watched for a while, until he was sure it was going, then gathered what he could find of his gear and headed back out. He had to get back to Fairelm and get Elle away.

He walked with his bow in one hand, his sword in the other. He had no intention of stopping, and he put leagues behind him before exhaustion made his vision blurry and caused him to stumble. Still he pressed on. His purpose compelled him, a fishhook of fear set deep in his guts, pulling him back to Fairelm and Elle.

After two hours, he was blinking so much with fatigue that he could hardly see. His legs felt as if they were made of lead, slabs of meat attached to him at the hip. He stumbled, fell, crawled, and finally collapsed. He attempted to stand but couldn't. His face hit the wet ground. His strength went out of him, drained away into the ground. Shivering with cold and exertion, he decided he'd rest for just a moment. Just a moment. . .

Rain fell as the pilgrims gathered on the high rise that overlooked the valley. They stood in a huddled, sodden, miserable mass, hoods pulled over their heads. All but Orsin. He stood apart from the others, dressed only in his tunic, trousers, tattoos, and boots. The rain seemed not to bother him. The pilgrims gave him a wide berth. He was not one of them, and they must have sensed it.

The deva caught Vasen's gaze, nodded.

The pilgrims stared down at the valley, its towering pines backed by the teeth of the mountains, the vein of the river, the pitted stone walls of the abbey nestled among the greenery. Not for the first time, Vasen wondered what the valley would look like bathed in sunlight. He imagined the river flecked with silver, the bits of mica in the walls of the abbey glittering like jewels, the snow caps of the mountains shining like lanterns. It saddened him that the valley would never see unadulterated sunlight. He vowed to himself that when he saw the pilgrims to the Dales, out from under the Shadovar's shroud, he would allow himself a few hours of sunlight before returning to the darkness.

"Your thoughts wander, First Blade," said Byrne, standing beside him.

Vasen turned to look into Byrne's heavy lidded eyes, overhung by thick brows. A jagged scar marked Byrne's temple. Vasen sighed.

"My thoughts seem to do that a lot of late."

"It's the time of year," Byrne said, gesturing at the sky with a gloved hand. "Winter approaches. The mind wanders in hopes of finding spring. But soon we'll see the sun."

"We will," Vasen said with a firm nod. "The pilgrims are ready? You've done a head count?"

Byrne nodded, his conical helm falling over his eyes. He seated it more snugly on his head and said, "Twenty-three, plus the four of us."

The four of them. Four servants of Amaunator would lead the faithful through the Shadovar's perpetual night. Eldris, Nald, Byrne, and Vasen, the first blade. Veterans all, good men. Each of them knew the markers to follow across the plains to the Dales, to safety, to the sun.

"Take position, then," Vasen said to Byrne. "A prayer, and then we move."

"Aye."

Vasen pulled his long hair back into a horse's tail and secured it while Byrne, Eldris, and Nald took position around the pilgrims, shepherds ringing their flock. When they were ready, Vasen ran his hand over his beard and addressed the pilgrims. He saw the fear in their eyes and did what he could to dispel it.

He drew his blade and held it high. Byrne, Nald, and Eldris did the same. Shadows snaked from Vasen's flesh, spiraled around his forearm and hand, but he channeled the power of the Dawnfather, and his blade glowed with a bright, rosy hue. It fell on the pilgrims, on the Dawnswords, its power steeling their spirits, amplifying their hopes, even while painting their shadows on the ground. Vasen felt both the warmth of the light and presence of the shadows. The glow elevated the pilgrims' expressions. Many made the sign of the rising sun and bowed their heads.

"We walk now into darkness on a journey toward the sun," Vasen said. "A common faith binds us, a common purpose. We are each warmed by the light that's in our fellows. In faith we'll hold the darkness at bay. His light keep us."

"And warm us," the pilgrims answered.

Vasen and the Dawnswords lowered their blades, the glow faded, and Sembia's darkness once more crept close. Everyone awaited Vasen's order to begin. Before giving it, he turned and called Orsin to his side.

The other Dawnswords eyed him strangely, but Vasen did not care.

"Vasen?"

Vasen raised his eyebrows, nodded at the ground, at Orsin's staff.

"Lines signify new beginnings, you said. Maybe draw one?"

Orsin smiled. "Very good. Very good, indeed." He dragged a line in the mud.

"We go," Vasen called, and the column moved, crossing the border Orsin had drawn.

The sky relieved itself in a drizzle as they walked the labyrinthine pass, navigating its switchbacks, its hidden paths, its deadfalls. Orsin hovered near the front of the column, near Vasen. The other Dawnswords assisted those who stumbled or bore the packs of those who sagged under the weight.

The air thickened with moisture as they moved. Mist gathered around their feet, rose to their knees. Ahead, a wall of swirling gray, within which lived the spirits of the pass. Vasen did not understand what the spirits were. He only knew they had been harvested from elsewhere by the blue fire of the Spellplague and deposited in the pass. Perhaps they couldn't leave. Perhaps they didn't wish to. They seemed to answer to the Oracle in some way that Vasen did not comprehend. They let Dawnswords and pilgrims pass unmolested. Others, they led astray. From time to time through the years, the Dawnswords had found errant wanderers in this or that switchback, dead for lack of food or water, their eyes wide with fear.

The mist swirled around him as they neared the fog, climbed up his thighs. His flesh answered with shadows. Muttering filled his ears, whispers, a meaningless chatter that threatened to cloud his thinking.

He touched the holy symbol at his throat, uttered a prayer, drew upon Amaunator's power, and channeled it into his shield. Energy charged the metal and wood. It began to glow with light, grew warm in his grasp. The voices in his head fell back to distant whispers.

Behind him, Nald, Eldris, and Byrne did the same, and soon Amaunator's light hedged the pilgrims.

"Stay within the glow," Vasen said. "It will be as it was when you came through the first time. You'll hear the spirits, perhaps even see them, but heed nothing. They won't harm you directly, but if you wander in the pass, it will be hard to find you again. We won't stop until we're through. Hold hands with the person nearest you. If one of you stumbles or cannot keep up, shout for aid immediately."

Grunts and murmurs of assent answered his words. A child whimpered. A cough, cleared throat.

Vasen led them into the wall of the fog and it enveloped him immediately, deadened sound, attenuated his connection to the world, to himself. He felt cocooned in it. Even with the light from his shield he could see only a few paces. But he'd known what to expect, so he kept his wits.

"Stay together," he called over his shoulder.

Behind him he heard the footsteps of the pilgrims, the soft crunch of sandal and boot on rock, but the sound seemed distant, and he seemed separated from them by more than mist. The reflected light of his shield glowed white on the whorls and eddies of the mist. He sought the markers as he moved, boulders with glowing sigils etched into the base. He found the first, the glowing rose of Amaunator's dawn incarnation scribed into the stone.

"We're at the first marker," he said. "Nald? Byrne? Eldris?"

"With you," they all answered.

Two more markers and they'd be clear, the way etched into Vasen's memory as clearly as the markers were etched into rock.

In the churn of the mist he saw ghostly faces outlined, mouths open and full of secrets, eyes that were holes into which one could fall forever. Whispering from all around him, the sound like the hiss of falling rain, the words hard to distinguish, an eerie sibilance.

A bearded face before him, mouth open in a scream.

A woman's visage to his left, eyes wide with terror.

A child's gaze, forlorn, lost.

He kept his mind focused, his feet on the path, same as always.

Snippets of phrases rose out of the inchoate storm of whispers.

"The City of Silver," said a man's voice.

"Elgrin Fau," hissed a woman.

Vasen ignored them, as he had countless times before.

"You must free him," said a boy's voice.

"You're the heir. Write the story."

The words halted Vasen in his steps. They recalled to his mind the dreams he'd had of his father, the words of the Oracle.

"Byrne?" he called. "Nald?"

No response. Had he gotten separated? Had he lost his charges?

"Eldris?"

He turned a circle, realizing immediately that he'd made a mistake. The mist had scrambled his senses. Dizziness seized him. The world spun and he stumbled on a boulder, nearly fell. The light from his shield dimmed. Shadows poured from his flesh, mixed with the mist. He put his hand on the holy symbol at his throat, held onto it as if his life depended upon never letting go.

The whispers intensified. The mist closed in on him, a funereal shroud. He muttered a prayer, tried to drown them out, but they grew closer, louder, a rush in his ears, the cascades of the valley falling all around him in a foam of voices.

"Save him," said a deep voice.

"You must."

"Save him. Then write the story."

"Save who?" he shouted, but he already knew the answer.

The air around him grew cold, freezing, knives on his flesh. His teeth chattered. He tried to speak, to call for his comrades, but frost rimed his lips and prevented speech. The wind picked up, pawed at his cloak with frozen fingers. The whispers of the spirits gave way to screams, prolonged wails of agony. He smelled brimstone, the stink of burning flesh.

"What is happening?" he tried to shout, but no words emerged, just a croak and a cloud of frozen breath.

The mist parted before him to reveal distant mountains larger than any he'd ever seen, jagged ice-covered towers that reached to a glowing red sky. Smoke poured into the sky in thick columns. He stood on a precipice overlooking a plain of ice. Below, he saw a mound of ice, like a cairn, alone in a flat frozen plain. Shadows curled out of cracks in the mound. A river of fire cut through the plain, veins of red in which, in which. . .

"By the light," he whispered, and sweated darkness.