She was tired right down to the bone, and her nerves were like red-hot wire. She started out of sleep lately at the least little sound, but she knew if she didn’t keep herself at this kind of a pitch, she’d lie down one night and wake only with the point of a Karsite sword in her throat.

But worse than the rest was despair, the feeling that she’d never get back, never see familiar faces again, never see home, or what passed for it. And the loneliness. She’d thought she was cold, unfeeling—now she knew differently. She might not need people as desperately as Shallan did, but she needed them all the same.

Usually she could shake the mood after letting it have her for a few moments, but not tonight. Tonight despair followed her down off of the hill to the little valley and the brook she’d left Hellsbane tied beside. It rode as her companion, unseen, but profoundly felt, as she followed behind the Karsite patrol—behind always being the safest place to be, with the Karsites. It covered her with a gloom as thick as the dusk—and it was almost the death of her.

It was only when Hellsbane snorted and balked, and the sword threw a jab of agony into her head, that she pulled up and realized that there were voices ahead of her. She rode Hellsbane off into the forest, and dismounted, leading the horse quietly under the pines and up onto a tiny game trail above the floor of the valley and the road running through it. The crushed pine needles gave off a sharp scent that made her pause for a moment. That scent could disguise the mare’s and make it possible for them to work around the patrol ahead of them without alerting the Karsites’ horses.

She took handfuls of needles stripped from the bough, crushed them between her palm and her armor, and rubbed the resulting mass over Hellsbane’s coat. The mare sneezed once and gave Kero a rather astonished look, but didn’t really seem to object.

That accomplished, she spotted a good place to overlook the road; tethered the mare, and wriggled her way down to it on her stomach.

A rock outcropping offered little in the way of concealment, but the dusk itself provided that. She got into place just in time to see the patrol that had passed her earlier, returning with a prisoner.

A very obvious prisoner; a man, tied to the saddle of a much-abused mule. A man dressed entirely in white.

Thirteen

Thirteen

Something about the white uniform tugged at a half-buried memory in the back of her weary mind. Something to do with a priesthood? No, that can’t be it....