"Yes, of course," Gerak said, and pointed. "There's our home that way. Come."

Gerak averted his eyes from the dead and led them into a one-room cottage that smelled faintly of vegetable stew. A large carpet covered the wood floor and modest, homemade furniture afforded seating.

While Orsin started a fire, Vasen and Gerak placed Elle in the bed and covered her to the chest in a quilt.

"You're home now, Elle," Gerak said, and smoothed her hair. He bent and kissed her brow.

Gerak pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat. Vasen remained standing, conscious of his shadow thrown on the wall by the fire.

"What happened here, Gerak?" he asked.

While holding Elle's hand, Gerak told them his story: how he had left Fairelm a few days earlier to hunt, how he had been attacked by a creature that had been Lahni Rabb.

"You mean she had been transformed into something?" Vasen asked, eyeing Elle and making connections.

Gerak swallowed, nodded. "A horrible, twisted form. The poor girl." "Go on."

Gerak explained how he had hurried back to the village to find almost everyone slaughtered, save his wife. He told them of the two men, one deformed and scarred, the other huge and unkempt. He told them about Minser, about the cats.

"Cats?"

"Yes. Lots of cats lingered around him. They weren't from the village. They looked feral, larger than normal. I had an arrow on the skinny one but the bigger one took me unawares, gave me this." He indicated the purple bruise on his brow, the ruin of his nose.

Vasen took it in, turned the information over in his mind.

"Why?" Orsin asked. He sat in the chair with his hands crossed in his lap.

Gerak looked at him as if he had spoken another language. "Why what? Why did they do it? I don't know. How could I know?"

"Men always have reasons," Orsin said.

"Men could not have done this to the village," Vasen said.

"Not alone," Orsin agreed.

"Her fever is not breaking," Gerak said, indicating Elle. "How long before she improves?"

Vasen stared at him, saying nothing, saying everything.

"She . . . will improve?" Gerak said, haltingly.

Vasen spoke in a low tone. "I don't think her sickness is one of body. It's in her soul."

"Her soul? What are you talking about?"

"Gerak, I believe they put something inside her. . . "

Gerak might have surmised what Vasen had already guessed. He shook his head. "No, no, no."

"I felt it. And . . . it's growing. . . "

"No, no."

" . . . and I fear that what happened to Lahni. . . "

Gerak's voice grew louder and he slammed his palm into the arm of the chair. "No!"

" . . . will happen to Elle. I can't stop it."

There was silence but for the crackle of the fire and Gerak's heavy breathing. He stared at Vasen for a time, wide-eyed, as if stricken dumb by the words. He shed no tears. Perhaps he had already shed all he had. He pressed his hands together, as if in prayer, and placed them under his chin. "Not my Elle," he said, as soft as satin.

Vasen said, "If the transformation runs its course-"

Gerak held up a hand. "Do not dare to speak what you're thinking in my house, in her house. Do not dare."

"That's not what I was thinking," Vasen said.

Gerak's eyes widened, as if he were surprised that it was what he was thinking. "Who can heal her? Another of your order?"

"There isn't time-"

"You don't know that!" Gerak said, half rising from his chair; then, more quietly. "You don't know that."

Vasen conceded the point with a tilt of his head. He did not know.

"She's pregnant with our child," Gerak said, his voice breaking. He looked at Vasen as if the words were an accusation.

Vasen did not wilt, and he knew he would not turn his back on Gerak, on Elle, on their child. Perhaps Elle and the child could fight on long enough for them to get her back to the abbey.

"The Oracle might be able to help her," Vasen said.

Gerak stared at him as if he did not understand. Finally, he said, "Oracle? The Oracle? The Seer of the Vale?"

Vasen nodded.

"Then . . . you two are from the Abbey of the Rose?"

Again, Vasen nodded. Orsin held his peace.

Gerak sat back in his chair, his exhalation audible through his teeth. "Minser."

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Vasen but he could not place it.

"Minser?" Orsin asked.

"A peddler. He-"

"Fat with a moustache and ready smile," Vasen said, placing the name. "He made the pilgrimage to the abbey once. His aunt was ill."

Gerak nodded. "The two men took him prisoner. They wanted him to lead them to the abbey."

Vasen half rose from his chair. "What? Why?"

"One of them was seeking the Oracle, Minser said."

Vasen stood fully, shadows swirling around him. "What would he want of the Oracle?"

"I . . . don't know."

"I need to get back to the abbey," Vasen said. "Quickly."

"I'm coming, too," Gerak said, standing. "And Elle."

"Gerak," Vasen said, trying to phrase the words gently. "I must move very fast."

"So we'll move fast. I know the terrain better than anyone."

"Gerak. . . "

Gerak's expression turned vacant, as if he were anticipating a blow. "Don't you dare say it. Don't. You are a servant of the light. Don't say it."

Vasen felt Orsin's eyes on him, felt the weight of his words to Byrne before he had come to Fairelm-his calling was more than escorting pilgrims.

"I'll help you bear her," Vasen said. "And we'll move as fast as we can."

"I'll help, too," said Orsin, standing.

Together, the three men hurriedly built a makeshift litter for Elle and pulled her along behind them.

"These were good people," Gerak said, as they picked their way through the streets, through the dead.

"We have no time to tend to their bodies," Vasen said. "I prayed over each, if that's any consolation to you."

To that, Gerak said nothing, and Vasen could not blame him. There was little consolation to be found in the destruction of Fairelm.

Chapter Nine.

They dragged Elle's litter behind them, moving as fast as they could. Byrne saw them coming and raised his arm in a halting hail. Vasen waved in return and Byrne hurried out to meet them. His eyes went to Gerak, the sick woman, Elle, and questions raised his eyebrows.

Vasen did not waste words. "Everyone in the village is dead save these two."

Byrne's expression fell, although he did not look surprised. "Darkness falls. I am sorry," he said to Gerak. "The woman?"

"My wife," Gerak said. "She's . . . ill."

Vasen said, "The attackers are headed to the abbey."

That brought Byrne up short. "The abbey? Why?"

"They seek the Oracle. I don't know why."

"If they get to the pass, the spirits will stop them."

"Maybe," Vasen said, "But I'm taking no chances. You didn't see the village, Byrne. These are not ordinary men."

Byrne looked Vasen in the eye. "Well enough. Then we'll stop them together. Come on."

Byrne turned to go, but Vasen grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him around.

"We'll stop them," Vasen said, nodding at Orsin. "You have to stay with the pilgrims, Byrne."

Byrne's eyes narrowed. He chewed his moustache, spit it out, and said, "I swore to protect the Oracle, the same as you, First Blade."

"And we also took a charge from the Oracle to protect Amaunator's pilgrims. Would you abandon them to Sembia's plains? Let them try to find their own way through the battle lines drawn across the Dales?"

Byrne colored, masticated his moustache anew, shifted on his feet.

"Say it," Vasen said, and Byrne did.

"You stay with the pilgrims, then," Byrne said. "You're a creature of darkness, First Blade. You can lead them better through this. Even now you sweat shadows. Even now you-"

Too late Byrne realized what he had said. His eyes widened.

Shadows coiled around Vasen but he kept his face expressionless. He'd heard the words, or read them on the faces of his fellow Dawnswords, many times. He was the first blade, but he was apart from his fellows and always would be. Like Orsin, he was a congregation of one.

"I stand in the light, Byrne Neev. The same as you."

"I'm sorry," Byrne said, flushing, but Vasen ignored him and continued: "Faith defines me, not blood."

"I know, First-"

"And I've been in service to the abbey, and the Oracle, for much longer than you."

"Yes-"

Vasen's voice was rising as he spoke. "This decision is mine and you will abide by it."

"Of course."

"You will remain with the pilgrims."

"Yes, First Blade," said Byrne, chastened.