Last among them, a wide-eyed youth, wiry and dark as sin, perched uneasily atop a pony. Something hung about his throat; a flask of fired clay, strung on corded vine. He was the one the Borderguardsman shadowed, unobtrusively wary in his dun cloak.

Small hairs stirred at the back of Carfax’s neck.

He felt a chill, like a wish granted.

“Hunric,” he whispered, his mouth dry. “They’re not following us, and they didn’t come from the Traders’ Road. Or if they did, it was only long enough to buy mounts. They came from the Unknown. This is the Prophecy at work. And whoever sent the ravens, whether it was the Dreamspinner or Lord Satoris, they failed.”

Side by side in the sedge grass, they stared at one another.

“What do we do, Lieutenant?”

It was a gift, an unlooked-for blessing. Malthus’ Company, crossing their path unaware. Three dead ravens, tied by their feet; it meant no one in Darkhaven knew anything of this. Carfax licked his dry lips. There were only seven of them, and two, surely, were no warriors. What about the Counselor? Malthus had fought at the Battle of Curonan, had nearly slain Lord Satoris himself. If the news of Dergail’s fall had not caused the armies of Men to falter, he might even have prevailed.

But he had borne the Spear of Light, then.

He wasn’t carrying it now.

And where was the Soumanië? Mayhap he didn’t bear it, either. It would be foolish, after all, to risk such a treasure on an ill-protected journey. Mayhap, Carfax thought, Malthus had entrusted the Soumanië to the keeping of Ingolin the Wise, who would keep it safe in Meronil. After all, this mission was undertaken in secrecy. And if it were so …

“Regroup!” he hissed to Hunric. “We need to plan an attack!”

USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER GAZED ABOUT HIM as he rode.

It was a wondrous place, the Weavers’ Gulch, though few appreciated it. Everywhere he looked, gossamer filaments were strung, filtering the few rays of cloud-muted sunlight that pierced the gulch with its inward-leaning cliff walls.

And the patterns, ah!

Intricate, they were; and vast. Some, incomprehensibly so. He watched the grey spiders shuttle to and fro, the weavers at their loom. How long did it take for a single spider to spin a web that crossed the Defile? One lifetime? Generations? With delicate thread that broke at a hand’s careless wave. But it was strong, too. Given time, Satoris’ weavers could spin a cocoon that would render a strong man immobile. And small though they were, their sting was paralyzing.

It could be done, in time.

No wonder Satoris was interested in them.