The Masur Delaval was exceptionally bright this day under a gentle sun. Whenever a puffy cloud covered that sun, Roger and his five companions were reminded that winter had just begun. The air was not warm - and neither was the spray kicked up by the huge ferry, its square front slapping hard against the waves.
The group had taken a roundabout route to get to this point, fearing pur-suit from St.-Mere-Abelle, and also wanting to change their appearances - grow some facial hair and acquire clothes other than their telltale brown robes. Now, finally, they had Palmaris in sight, and it was with more than a little trepidation that they approached the city of Marcalo De'Unnero. No doubt the abbot of St. Precious had been informed of their desertion by now, and despite their best efforts at disguise, Braumin and the others did not doubt that the dangerous man would recognize them if he saw them.
So, despite Roger's desire to look in on some of the companions he had known in the northland who were still, presumably, in Palmaris, the group came off the ferry on the Palmaris wharf intent on moving straight out to the north. They found little trouble navigating the quiet streets, having only occasionally to turn down an alleyway to avoid some marching soldiers.
After less than half an hour, in sight of one of the northern gates, they found another problem, though, for no one was getting in or out of the city without a complete inspection by the grim-faced city guard.
"Perhaps we should have taken a stone or two," Brother Castinagis offered, "amber, at least, that we might have walked across the river north of the city."
A couple of the others - most vigorously, Brother Viscenti - nodded their heads in agreement.
"Any theft of stones would have ensured that Markwart would have hunted us relentlessly," Brother Braumin reminded them. Viscenti's bob-bing head immediately started shaking side to side.
"Then how are we to get out of here?" Castinagis asked.
Braumin had no answer, and so he looked at Roger.
Roger accepted the responsibility without complaint; in fact, he took it as a great compliment. Now that his reputation had been put on the line, the young man began to assess the problem. In the end, his plan was really very simple. Since the weather had held fairly mild, many wagons were roll-ing out of the gates. Farmers from south of the city were rushing through Palmaris northward, bearing hay and other supplies to farmers who had recently reclaimed their lands from the monsters.
Roger guided the five monks along to a street lined with taverns - and filled with the wagons of farmers who were inside, getting one last drink before heading north.
Into the hay they went, two men to a wagon. It was stuffy, damp, and uncomfortable; but soon enough the wagons were rolling along, and they were safe from any casual inspection. They heard the guards at the gate questioning the farmers, but they were interrogated perfunctorily.
The first wagon out on the road north of the city held Brothers Castinagis and Mullahy. They crawled from under the hay as the oblivious farmer drove along, and they dropped out of the wagon and trotted behind it for some distance, then moved to the side of the road and waited.
Several wagons rolled by, some going north, some back to the city. Then the pair spotted Brothers Dellman and Viscenti walking quickly down the road, and soon after, the four met with Roger and Braumin Herde.
"Once again you have proven your resourcefulness," Brother Dellman congratulated Roger.
"Not so much, really," Roger replied, though he was thrilled by the com-pliment. "The road should be easier the rest of the way. The first few miles will have the eyes of many farmers upon us, I am sure, but after that, the houses are sparse and widely spaced, and we should be able to get all the way to Caer Tinella without answering too many questions."
"And there we will find the friends of Avelyn?" Braumin asked.
It was a question Roger had heard a hundred times since their depar-ture from St.-Mere-Abelle, and one that he had not been able to answer. He could guess that Pony and Elbryan had gone back to Caer Tinella, espe-cially since they had Bradwarden in tow, but he couldn't be certain. He looked around at the five monks, every one of them hanging hopefully on his answer, as they always were when this question was posed. Their expressions reminded Roger of just how desperate these men had be-come. They were intelligent, and every one of them had lived for at least twenty years, Braumin Herde for more than thirty. Yet on this issue, they seemed almost like children, needing the guidance of a parent - in this case, Roger.
"We will find them, or we will find the way to them," Roger offered. The monks' smiles widened. Brother Viscenti immediately began spouting hopeful possibilities, surmising how the friends of Avelyn might help put the world in order.
Roger allowed him his ridiculous fantasies without question. He pitied this man, and all of them, or at least sympathized with them. They had thrown away everything, had branded themselves heretics - and they all knew the punishment for that! All they had now were their principles. No small thing, Roger knew.
But you couldn't eat principles.
And principles wouldn't stop the thrust of a sword. Or cool the heat of a burning pyre.
They walked until late that night, putting as much ground between them and Palmaris as possible. Still, when they set their camp on a quiet and lonely hillock, the lights of Palmaris remained in sight, across the miles.
Roger stood looking southward at the last few of those lights, late in the night, when Braumin Herde joined him. The two stood silently for some time, two lonely figures in a world gone crazy.
"Perhaps we should have chanced a stay in Palmaris," Braumin offered. "You might have found some of your friends."
Roger was shaking his head before the man even finished. "It would have been a pleasure to see some of them again," he said, "but I approve of the decision to strike out of the city immediately. I do not trust that place."
"You mean that you do not trust those who rule that place," Braumin said with a chuckle. "Yet they are the same as those who rule St.-Mere- Abelle."
"I was with Baron Bildeborough when he was murdered," Roger admitted, staring at the distant lights, not even turning to face Braumin when he heard the monk gasp.
"We were going south to Ursal to speak with King Danube about the murder of Abbot Dobrinion," Roger explained.
"Murdered by a powrie," Braumin said, repeating the commonly ac-cepted story.
"Murdered by a monk," Roger retorted gravely. Now he did turn to face Braumin. "It was no powrie, but a monk - a pair of monks, actually, men your Church name brothers justice - who murdered Dobrinion." Roger watched Braumin's expression shift from bewilderment to denial to some-thing bordering on anger.
"You cannot be certain of this," Braumin said, obviously fighting hard to sound as if he was speaking with conviction.
"Connor Bildeborough, nephew of the Baron, discovered the truth," Roger replied, turning back to the distant lights.
"But young Bildeborough was taken and questioned by Father Abbot Markwart," Braumin reasoned. "He had reason to hate the Church."
"His evidence was firm," Roger answered calmly. "And to lend it credence, those same two brothers justice chased him out of Palmaris, intent on murdering him. That was where they met me and Nightbird and Pony, and that was where they both met their end, though not before one man-aged to murder Connor."
"Describe them," Braumin Herde bade him, a distinct tremor in his voice.
"One was a huge and strong man," Roger replied, "and the other, by far the more dangerous, by my estimation, was small of frame but quick and deadly."
Braumin Herde rocked back on his heels at this confirmation, for he had been with the caravan when it had met Markwart in Palmaris, when Connor had been taken prisoner, and then subsequently released. Along with Markwart were two very dangerous men, Brothers Youseff and Dan-delion, and those two had left the caravan on the road east of Palmaris and had not been seen since.
"Connor's evidence was enough to convince the Baron," Roger went on, "and when Rochefort Bildeborough could not gain any satisfaction from the new leader of St. Precious, he decided to take his case, with me as his witness, to the court of King Danube Brock Ursal. On our first night out, the carriage was attacked, and all were killed except for me."
"And how were you so fortunate?"
"I was out in the woods at the time the great cat attacked," Roger explained. "I saw only the end of the fight - more a slaughter than a fight, actually."
"Describe the cat," Braumin prompted, a sinking feeling washing over him.
"Not so large," Roger replied, "but fast and vicious. And moving with a purpose - of that I am sure."
"You do not believe it to be the random attack of a wild animal?"
Roger shrugged, having no practical response. "It seemed more than that," he tried to explain, "and I am familiar with the great cats of this region - tawny panthers mostly. But this cat was orange with black stripes. A tiger, I believe, though I have never seen such a cat, and have only heard of it from travelers who dared the western Wilderlands." Roger stopped abruptly as he looked over at Braumin, for the man stood with eyes closed and fists balled by his side, trembling.
For it all made sense to Braumin Herde now: terrible, brutal sense. He knew well the new abbot of St. Precious, the new bishop of Palmaris, and knew the man's favored stone, the tiger's paw, with which he could trans-form parts of his body into those of the great cat.
"There is a great darkness settling on the world," Braumin remarked finally.
"I had thought one just lifted," Roger replied.
"This one may be darker yet."
Roger, who had witnessed the murders of Connor Bildeborough, Baron Bildeborough, and Jojonah, could not find any logical argument against the reasoning.
The fire had burned to embers. The wind blew cold, and the four sleep-ing monks were huddled close to the fire, wrapped tightly in blankets. Brother Dellman sat a short distance away, quiet and calm, with Roger, for it was their turn on watch.
Several times, Roger tried to strike up a conversation with the earnest, sensible young monk, but it was obvious that Dellman wasn't in the mood for talking. Roger understood the man's turbulent feelings, and so did not press him. But sitting there quietly as the minutes turned into an hour, and that to two, had Roger fighting to keep his eyes open.
"I'll not last the watch," he announced, pulling himself to his feet and briskly rubbing his arms and legs. "The fire invites me to sleep. A walk will help."
"In the forest?" Dellman asked skeptically.
Roger waved the monk's concern away. "I spent months in these for-ests," he boasted. "And at that time they were thick with powries and gob-lins, and huge giants." He was hoping to see some hint that his words had impressed the young monk, but Dellman only nodded.
"Do not go too far," he bade Roger. "We share the watch, and thus, share responsibility."
"I will find no trouble in the open forest," Roger replied.
"I do not doubt your abilities, Master Billingsbury," Dellman answered. "I only fear that I might fall asleep, and that Brother Braumin will waken and find me such." He ended with a smile, and Roger returned it.
"Not far," Roger promised as he moved down the side of the hill, pausing as soon as he was out of the direct light of the low fire to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then he pressed down into the shadows, for Roger did indeed feel safe out here. He trusted his senses, and he was confident that he could blend into the shadows and avoid any enemies.
Except Craggoth hounds, he quietly reminded himself, remembering the huge, terrible dogs the powries sometimes kept, the wicked creatures that had tracked him on one excursion through powrie-occupied Caer Tinella. Roger still carried many scars from that capture and imprisonment, mostly from the bites of the savage hounds.
Still, he felt safe as he made his way from the hillock into the forest. He was in his element out here, a part of the landscape. Within a matter of a few minutes, the distant campfire seemed but a spot of light. Roger finally settled on a large boulder, staring up at the stars. He wondered about Elbryan and Juraviel, and mostly about Pony. How he missed those special friends, the first real friends he had ever known. Not only did they support him when he needed them but also they were not afraid to point out his faults and to help him learn to overcome them. Because of those three, Roger had learned to truly survive, had learned to temper his anger and his pride, to keep a clear head no matter how desperate the situation seemed.
A shudder coursed through him as he considered how he might have acted when Bildeborough was being murdered if he had not learned so much from Nightbird and his friends. His pride might have drawn him in, and then the cat would surely have killed him. Or, if he had run away, he would have likely gone to Palmaris, screaming his wild tale, making enemies far too powerful for him to defeat. Yes, because of the work of his dear friends, Roger had learned to consider the greater good before acting.
And now he wanted to see those friends again, wanted to tell the ranger all that he knew and show Nightbird the man he had become. He wanted to see Juraviel again, for he knew that the elf, too, would approve of him, and Roger desperately wanted that approval.
But most of all, Roger wanted to see Pony again, the flash of her blue eyes, the flash of her beautiful smile. He wanted to watch the hair bounce about her shoulders and to bask in the flowery smell of that lustrous mane. Roger knew that he could not have her as his own. Her love was for Elbryan, and for Roger she held only true friendship. But that didn't matter to Roger somehow. He wasn't jealous - not anymore - of Elbryan, and took deep pleasure merely in being around Pony, in speaking to her or watching her graceful movements.
He lay on that boulder for a long time, staring absently up at the stars, but seeing only beautiful Pony. Yes, Pony and the others would help Roger put the world, or at least their little corner of it, aright.
He took comfort in that notion, in the belief that he would be among powerful friends soon enough, but then he remembered his present respon-sibilities. He sat up on the boulder and looked back to the distant hillock. All seemed quiet and calm, so Roger started off at a casual pace.
Just a few steps along the path back, though, Roger stopped and glanced all around, an uneasy feeling creeping over him. Perfectly still, perfectly quiet, the alert man shifted his eyes slowly, moving from shadow to shadow, trying to pick up some sign of movement.
Somehow he knew that something was out there, watching him.
Roger could feel his muscles tightening, could feel his heart beating faster suddenly. He couldn't shake the image of Baron Bildeborough's slaughter, and feared that the same great tiger was watching him now, poised behind a bush or up in a tree.
It took Roger a long time to take another step. He eased his toe down and gently shifted his weight, trying to make not a whisper of noise. Satis-fied, he took another step.
A movement at the side caught his attention, some creature swift and stealthy.
Despite his intentions, Roger let out a cry and sprinted away.
Something shot past him, startling him, making him stumble. He didn't fall, though, for a slender but strong, sticky line held taut before him, sup-porting him. Another dart shot past, then one across his back. Roger was spun around frantically, trying to make some sense of it as more and more filaments crossed him from every conceivable angle. His movements only tangled him all the more, and soon he was hopelessly stuck.
Now Roger's training came into play, that cool and clear thinking in an apparently desperate situation. He righted himself and set his feet firmly, then sorted out one filament and started to tug.
Even as he began, there came a movement from the side and above. Roger froze, expecting an enemy to jump down. After a few seconds passed, the young man dared to look back over his shoulder, and he nearly slumped with relief to see - not a tiger or some giant spider - but a familiar form, sitting on a branch, looking down at him.
"Juraviel," he breathed.
"Where is he?" asked the elf. From the voice - a female voice - Roger realized that this was not his elven friend but another of the Touel'alfar.
"W-where is who?" he stammered. Then he turned and stumbled as more elves appeared all around him, some on the ground, some on branches.
"You just named him," the elf said impatiently. "Belli'mar Juraviel."
"I - I do not know," Roger stammered, overwhelmed and more than a bit fearful, for these elves did not seem friendly, and every one of them held a small bow. Roger knew better than to take any comfort in the size of those bows, for he had many times seen Juraviel put one to deadly use.
"You are Roger Billingsbury," another elf stated. "Roger Lockless."
The young man started to respond, but was cut short by another elf. "And you search for your friends, our brethren Juraviel and Nightbird the ranger."
Again Roger started to reply, but another of the elves interrupted. "And the woman Jilseponie Ault."
"Yes, yes, and yes!" Roger cried. "Why do you ask if you do not want - "
"We do not ask," the first elf remarked. "We state what we know."
Roger didn't try to respond, expecting that the elf, or another, would interrupt him.
"We suspect that Belli'mar Juraviel went to the east," the elf on the branch added, her voice the most melodic of all, "to the great monastery."
"To St.-Mere-Abelle," Roger agreed. "I mean, I do not know if Juraviel was there, but Nightbird and Pony - "
"Tell us all of it," another elf said curtly.
"Everything you know," another chirped in.
"I am trying to do just that!" Roger cried in exasperation.
The elf on the branch called for quiet, from him and from all the other elves. "Pray tell us the complete tale, Roger Lockless," she bade calmly. "It is very important."
Roger looked down skeptically at the practically invisible strands, then held up his hands helplessly.
On a nod from the elf on the branch, apparently the leader, several others scrambled to Roger's side and helped free him.
Then Roger was more than happy to comply with the request for the story. He knew from his dealings with Juraviel that the Touel'alfar were not his enemies, and could certainly be powerful allies. He relayed everything he had learned during his time in the abbey: how Bradwarden the centaur had apparently been rescued in the bowels of the blasted mountain home of the dactyl demon and then taken prisoner; how the ranger and Pony, and possibly Juraviel, had later slipped into the great abbey and rescued the centaur. Then he told of Jojonah, a monk who had helped the rescuers, and the grim fate his actions had brought upon him.
"Who are your companions?" the elf asked him. "They are also of St.- Mere-Abelle, are they not?"
"Disciples of Jojonah," Roger explained, "and of another monk, a Brother Avelyn, before him. Avelyn was a great hero, a friend of Nightbird and Jura - "
"We know of Brother Avelyn Desbris," the elf assured him. "Another of our brethren journeyed with him to Aida and willingly sacrificed her life that Nightbird and Avelyn and the others might destroy the demon dactyl."
"Tuntun," Roger exclaimed, for Pony had told him the entire tale. His smile went away at once, though, seeing the grim expressions of the elves.
"Your friend's assessment may prove painfully accurate," the elf went on gravely.
Roger looked at him curiously.
"The monk," the elf explained, "Brother Dellman - his assessment of the dark road may prove prophetic, for the events in Palmaris are unsettling."
"How do you know about Dellman?" Roger asked, but when he thought about it, when he considered the scouting prowess of the Touel'alfar, as exemplified by Belli'mar Juraviel, he realized that he should not have been surprised to learn that the elves had been watching him. "You know of the changes in Palmaris?" Roger asked.
"We know much, Roger Lockless," the elf explained. "We know of your fateful ride south with Baron Bildeborough, and we know of De'Unnero, who is now bishop of Palmaris. The Touel'alfar do not often concern them-selves with the affairs of humans; but when we do, I assure you, we have the means to learn what we desire."
Roger didn't doubt that for a minute.
"Go back to your friends," the elf instructed. "You are heading north to find Nightbird?"
"I believe that he will be somewhere around Caer Tinella," Roger replied.
"And what of our brethren Juraviel? "
"As far as I know, he is with Nightbird," Roger answered.
The elf looked around at his companions, all of them responding with an assenting nod.
"Travel with the knowledge that the Touel'alfar are not far away, Roger Lockless," the female elf on the branch finished.
Roger watched as several of the elves silently faded into the shadows. One by one, they simply disappeared, and then Roger was alone. He went back to the encampment, to find Brother Dellman sitting in the same posi-tion as when Roger had left, except that his eyes were closed.
Roger moved to wake him, but then changed his mind. He had felt secure before, enough so to wander out into the forest. Now, knowing that the Touel'alfar were near, Roger understood that there was no need for any watch. He moved to an empty spot near to the fire, lay down with his hands behind his head, stared up at the stars, and did not try to resist when sleep beckoned.