Time passed, and she became aware of other thoughts, other emotions impinging on her homesickness: anger, fear, doubt, reproach. The feelings weren’t hers. They came from outside. At first, she thought they were A’stoc’s. She could easily imagine them pouring from the turmoil of the wizard’s heart. But he was too far away, and shielded from her Gift by a wall of cold stone. The emotions came from Father Marcus.

  Her eyes snapped into focus. The priest still sat against the wall, but the aura of peace had disappeared.

  “Father Marcus,” she said softly, kneeling down beside him. “Are you all right?”

  “Eh?” He jumped, as if he had not seen her approach. “Oh, Chentelle, I’m fine. I was only lost in thought.”

  “But they were dark thoughts,” she said. “I can feel how heavily they weigh on your spirit.”

  He smiled wearily. “Bless you, child. Yours is such a precious Gift. The knowledge I carry gnaws at me. I feel the evil stirring, just below the level of thought. I can’t understand it yet, but it frightens me. I know that if I fail Infinitera will die, but I am worried that even if I succeed, the seeds of destruction will find life in my own mind.”

  “But you are the High Bishop,” she said. “Surely, your faith can contain the evil.”

  “Perhaps, but I am also a man, and I have all the frailties of men. Sometimes I am plagued by doubt, and I wonder whether I have the strength my task requires. Already, so many people have paid the price for my mistakes. So many have died.” He stopped, reacting to her expression of shock. “No, I have not surrendered to despair, Chentelle. My faith is still strong. But these thoughts are in my head, and I dare not ignore them. Faith in ignorance is a brittle thing. Only by facing our doubts can we move beyond them.”

  She sensed the steadiness return to his spirit. “You are a good man, Marcus Alanda. Without you this quest would have been lost long ago. Your wisdom has been our guide, but it is your faith that holds us together. No one else doubts your strength. Remember that when your thoughts grow dark.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I will. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I could use some sleep.”

  Chentelle watched him leave, a slow smile building on her face. When the time came to exchange sleeping shifts, she made sure the priest was not disturbed. There was an extra bed anyway, since A’stoc still refused to rest.

  Chentelle woke to the smell of roasting oats and nut muffins. A quick glance told her that everyone else was already up. Only Sulmar was still in the room, standing alertly beside her bed. The others were waiting for them in the common room.

  After the morning meal, Hammond took them through the barred door into the boathouse. A pair of sailboats floated in the water, as did several small rowboats. The Elder pressed on the rock facade opposite the door, and the stone wall pivoted around its center line. “The sailing skiffs are yours for as long as you need them. I will leave these doors unlocked. When you return, simply press on the cliff face near the water.”

  The dwarf swept off his cap and bowed deeply. “I wish you fortune on your quest. You will always be welcome in Marble Falls.”

  Father Marcus returned his bow. “We are grateful for your help, and for the help of your people. But most of all, we are grateful for your friendship. Thank you, Hammond, and may the Creator smile on all of your days.”

  The company quickly removed the nets and fishing tackle from the sailboats, replacing them with their own supplies. The boats were built for dwarves, but they were sturdy and had room enough for the party. Chentelle and Sulmar boarded one boat with A’stoc, Drup, and Thildemar. Father Marcus and Dacius rode in the other with the brothers Leth and Gerruth.

  They used paddles to push themselves out into open water, then raised the triangular sails. The water was calm, but a light wind from the east drove them steadily across Long Lake.

  Father Marcus glanced at the sky. Ellistar was well above the mountains, and the first rays of Deneob’s red dawn were already poking over the peaks. “Wizard A’stoc, can you increase our pace?”

  “Of course.” Standing in the small boat was precarious, so the wizard knelt in front of the mast. His face relaxed into an easy smile as the Thunderwood Staff melded into the wood. He began a soft chant, and the boats darted forward on a strong wind.

  Chentelle trailed her fingers in the water, watching the tiny wakes swirl around each other. Before long, the far shore came into view. A long line of gray clouds hung in the distance behind it. No, not clouds, it was a line of snow-covered mountains that stretched the length of the horizon.

  She let her eyes shift to the other boat. Father Marcus looked better after a good night’s sleep, but he was still a worn shadow of his former self. Deep hollows ringed his eyes, and his tattered robes reflected the ragged emotions that she knew still raged within him. In many ways, he looked more like the A’stoc who had confronted her near the Quiet Sea than the solid priest who had first greeted them in the Holy Land.

  “Alert!” Dacius jumped into a crouch, causing the other skiff to rock perilously. His eyes shifted back and forth, scanning the horizon.

  Chentelle stared. What was he doing? Then she saw it. Faint blue light shimmered around the human’s armor. Ill-creatures were near. But where? And how? The twin suns were both high in the sky. The icy water tickled her fingers. Of course! She extended her Gift into the lake, searching beneath the surface. Something was coming toward them from the dark depths. Something large. “Behind us! It’s in the water.”

  Vorpal swords sang from their scabbards, glowing fiercely even in the light of day. But the tiny boats were too unsteady for the Legionnaires to stand securely, much less fight.

  “A’stoc,” Father Marcus called. “We need more speed. We have to outrun it.”

  The wind gusted ferociously. The little skiffs leaped forward, tilting dangerously to starboard. Swords slammed back into sheaths as the Legionnaires rushed to find secure holds. They threw their weight to port, trying to balance the force of the gale.

  Chentelle thrust her Gift back into the water. It was working. The follower was falling behind.

  “Brace yourselves!”

  The skiffs slammed into the far shore, driving far up the rocky beach. Chentelle was thrown forward, clearing the low rail and landing roughly on the hard ground. Before she could recover her feet, strong hands captured her arms and lifted her into the air.

  Sulmar carried her well away from the water, then set her gently on her feet. The rest of the company was just behind them, scrambling for the safety of solid ground.

  A wake appeared on the surface of the lake, following behind a huge swell of water. The wave rushed toward them, growing larger as it neared. Finally, it crashed against the beach, lifting the boats off the beach and throwing them several cubits inland. Water splashed violently through the air, then ran quietly back into the lake. Then everything was calm again.

  “Is that it?” Chentelle asked.

  Dacius shrugged, his eyes never leaving the water. “You tell me. Can you still sense it?”

  She extended her Gift toward the water, but she felt nothing out of the ordinary. “No. It’s gone. It must have retreated from the light.”

  “Perhaps, but it didn’t go far.” Dacius tapped his breastplate meaningfully. The vorpal steel still glowed.

  It didn’t make sense. If the Ill-creature was that close, she should be able to sense it. But there was nothing active in the shallows, not even a school of fish.

  The ground exploded under their feet. A giant hump of slimy flesh burst into the light, driving them backward with a shower of rocks and flying sand.

  Father Marcus was closest to the eruption, and he was tossed high into the air. He landed badly, falling flush on one shoulder and the side of his neck.

  “Mikahi!” Thildemar shouted. Mudworm.

  Normally, mikahi were harmless creatures, scavengers of refuse and decay. They ranged throughout Infinitera, delving through solid rock and soft silt with equal ease, but they preferred to stay in deep waters. They usually came to the surface only during the Seasons of Light, to mate and lay their eggs. But this worm was driven by other needs. Its liquid eyes gleamed with malignant intelligence, and the red skin peeled back from its face, revealing a circular mouth rimmed with razor teeth. The mudworm’s head reared more than twenty cubits into the air, then lurched for the High Bishop.

  Father Marcus was too stunned to react. He screamed as the mouth closed around his leg and lifted him into the air.

  Dacius jumped forward, thrusting his sword at the worm’s neck. The vorpal blade sliced easily through the soft flesh, burying itself to the hilt.

  The worm screamed, dropping the priest from its gaping mouth. The dark shadow of a wraith oozed from the worm and crackled into smoke under the light of the suns.

  The mudworm thrashed wildly, slamming Dacius to the ground. Only the binding force of A’kalendane’s gauntlets kept his vorpal blade from flying out of his grasp.

  Leth and Gerruth stepped forward, driving the worm away from their commander with a series of deep cuts.

  The mikahi writhed under their assault, its vast body tearing up great chunks of earth.

  “Stop it!” Chentelle yelled. “You’re killing it. Look at your swords!”

  The Legionnaires paused, and comprehension came to them suddenly. The blades no longer glowed. The Ill-creature was destroyed; only the natural worm remained.

  But the pain-maddened beast was still a danger. Chentelle sang out with her Gift, soothing the terrified creature. There was little intelligence in the worm, only a driving instinct for self-preservation. She nudged at that instinct, guiding the animal toward flight. The mikahi dived back into the earth, burrowing toward the safety of the lake. In seconds, it was gone.

  She let her enchantment fade.

  “Chentelle, come here.” Dacius was kneeling beside Father Marcus, cradling the High Bishop’s head in his lap.

  She ran to the priest’s side. He was still conscious, but his eyes were glazed with pain and shock. She placed a hand on his chest, reaching into him to inspect his injuries.

  His shoulder was badly bruised, but the injury was not great. She was able to soothe the nerves and adjust the flow of blood to the area, bringing at least a little relief. She did the same for the contusion on his neck, but the damage to Marcus’ right leg was more serious. The force of the mikahi’s bite had broken both of the bones in the lower leg, and the sharp teeth had lacerated the flesh of the calf in a dozen places.

  “He needs a healer,” she said. “This is more than my Gift can handle.”

  Father Marcus placed his hand over hers. “You must do what you can. I can’t heal myself, and there is no one else.”

  She nodded. He was right. “This is going to hurt,” she told him softly. Then, louder, “Sulmar, help me. We need to set his leg. Drup, bring me something clean to bind his cuts. And splints, we’ll need splints. Scavenge something from the boats if you have to. Hold him steady, Dacius. Thildemar, give him a hand.”

  She reached into the priest once more, using her Gift to pinpoint the location of the breaks. “Now.” Sulmar pulled on the leg, stretching the bones apart. As he released the pressure, Chentelle made minor adjustments to the angles, making sure the breaks set properly.

  “Good, now hold the leg steady. Drup, where are those splints?”

  The young Legionnaire placed two sections of oar and several strips of cloth into her hands.

  She used the cleanest of the cloths to cover the lacerations. Then she placed the splints and tied them into place. “That’s the best I can do for now. How does it feel?”

  Father Marcus’ face was flushed with pain, but he managed a thin smile. “It hurts. But it would be much worse if not for your ministrations. Thank you.”

  “We should return to Marble Falls,” Dacius said. “They will certainly have a healer.”

  “No.” The priest’s voice was faint but firm. “There is not enough time. We must continue the quest.” His tone admitted no argument.

  Dacius’ eyes turned to the boats. “Chentelle, can you use your wood shaping to turn the oars into stretcher poles? Good. Drup, take down one of the sails. We’ll use it for a sling. Leth, make sure that both boats are tied down and secured for our return.”

  The oars were sized for dwarves, so Chentelle blended two of them together to form each pole. It felt good to use her rillandef again. The simple act of wood shaping reminded her of gentler days.

  In less than an hour, the stretcher was complete, and they were on their way. They all took turns bearing the stretcher, rotating positions frequently. Though they were still leagues away, the massive wall of the Barrier Ridge dominated the horizon. Fortunately, the terrain between the ridge and Long Lake was a plateau with only the gentlest of upward slopes.

  They made almost five leagues before Deneob’s disk vanished behind the massive stone cliff. Darkness came quickly, and with it a sudden drop in temperature. They searched for some shelter from the driving wind, and at last settled on a small clutch of boulders. It was not a perfect windbreak, but it was the best available. Even if they had chosen to risk a fire, the barren plain offered little in the way of usable wood. So they huddled together around the priest’s stretcher, faces turned inward, backs to the wind.

  “Father Marcus?” Drup said. “What are we going to do when we reach Karsh Adon? We can’t carry you up it, and you’ll never be able to make the climb with that leg.”

  “You are right,” the High Bishop said. “But it was never my intention to climb the ridge. Hammond was correct; we do not have the necessary skills or equipment. Luckily, the Creator has provided us with another way.”

  “What do you mean?” the Legionnaire asked.

  “Is it not obvious?” A’stoc said. “He means me.”

  “Of course!” Chentelle exclaimed. “A levitating platform, like the one at Tel Adartak-Skysoar.”

  “I am glad you remember,” the wizard said, “because I will need your help. Integrating the wood to contain the power of the spell is a simple matter. Constructing the platform itself is not. It takes great skill in rillandef.”

  Chentelle nodded thoughtfully. The disk at Skysoar had been shaped into a single mass, even down to the level of the wood fibers. She wouldn’t have the time to do something like that, but she had to make it solid enough to both contain the spell and support their weight. “I can make the platform. Can you really levitate us all so far?”

  A’stoc smiled. “It has been decades since I tried to move anything larger than a jug of wine, but what I lack in finesse I make up for in power. If we leave the ground, then we will make it to the top.”

  “I do not doubt it,” Father Marcus said. “We have come too far to be turned back by a wall of rock. The Creator is with us. We shall not fail.”

  They huddled together through the night, grabbing what fitful sleep the biting wind allowed. Dacius ordered double rotations of the guards, so that no one had to stand exposed to the cold for too long. Shortly before dawn, a distant roar rumbled across the plain.

  “Kaliya,” Sulmar hissed, waking from a sound sleep. He jumped away from the others, drawing his black blade in a lightning motion. “I am here, dragon! I am here!”

  “Sulmar,” Dacius growled. “Be quiet.”

  But the Tengarian’s eyes gleamed with madness. He opened his mouth to scream another challenge.

  Chentelle grabbed her liegeman’s arm. “It’s all right, Sulmar. The dragon is out there, but now is not the time. Don’t let the rage consume you. It only makes you careless.”

  He hesitated, sanity slowly returning to his eyes. “Yes, mistress, I beg your forgiveness. I will be patient. The dragon will come to me. Our destinies are joined.”

  Dacius scanned the eastern sky, where the pale hints of first-light were already beginning. “Well, since we’re all awake anyway, we may as well get moving. We can cover a league or more before stopping for breakfast.”

  No one argued the point. The dragon’s roars were still audible in the distance.

  They made good time through the early morning, but after breakfast they met increasingly difficult terrain. The slope was steeper, now, and the ground wildly uneven. Concealed holes and loose rocks made the footing difficult, and more than once a stretcher bearer’s stumble nearly dumped the High Bishop on the ground.

  Karsh Adon loomed ever larger before them, always seeming to be just past the next rise or around the next hill. But this was an illusion of scale. The Barrier Ridge towered over the landscape, reducing everything else to comparative insignificance. At Father Marcus’ insistence, they pressed on without stopping for a noon meal. But it took the company three more hours of marching to reach the massive cliffs.

  They stopped inside a cluster of rocks just a few cubits from the ridge. Some of the boulders were as tall as A’stoc, but they seemed mere pebbles beside Karsh Adon. Chentelle tilted her head back until it seemed she was looking straight into the sky. Still, she could not see the top of the cliffs.

  Dacius gave them scarcely a minute to rest before setting them to work again. “All right, we need wood for the platform, and this land isn’t exactly rich in timber. Everyone split up and search, but stay within earshot of each other.”

  It took Chentelle several minutes of wandering to collect her first armload of deadwood. When she returned to the camp, she saw that several of her companions had had better luck. A pile of wood awaited her, containing several fine pieces, including a large section from a lightning-struck tree.

  She immediately started sifting through the pile, arranging branches in an approximation of the disk she would try to shape. The lightning section was her center, and she laid the other boughs around it like pieces of a puzzle. When the rough outline was complete, she called upon the Lore of rillandef. She sang softly as she worked, using the music as a focus for her will. The wood melded together under her sure fingers. The first joinings she created were artless, crude welds of bark to bark useful only for maintaining the form. Once she had fit together a basic framework, she retraced each seam.