Down the slope, through the rough, across the open fields in the clear once more, the hunt was off at the gallop.

In the ensuing excitement of the chase, no one would notice when one rider at the rear dropped back and made his way to the edge of the forest. Indeed, he would not even be missed.

IN the stillness of the forest, Yousef the Moor stood motionless at the edge of a small, dim clearing, his slim brown hands light and sure on the reins he held, the four horses quiet behind him.

All around, the leaves of an early autumn blazed with color, seared to gold and red and brown by the past week’s frost, yet muted here by the play of shadow and darker gloom among the tree trunks.

Here, beneath tall, dense trees where sunlight rarely penetrated save in deepest winter, Yousef’s black robes merged and blended with those shadows. Black eyes beneath black silk darted swiftly about the clearing, seeking, scanning, yet not really noting what they saw. For Yousef was not watching so much as he was listening. And waiting.

In the clearing itself, three others listened and waited. Two were Moors like Yousef, their dusky faces muffled under the hoods of black velvet jubbas, eyes dark, restless, ever vigilant.

The taller of the two turned slightly to glance at Yousef across the clearing, then folded his arms across his chest and turned back to repeatedly scan the opposite side. The movement parted the black velvet slightly, and the silver of a richly embossed baldric of command glinted briefly beneath the cloak. At his feet, on a cushion of gray velvet, sat the Lady Charissa, Duchess of Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists—the Shadowed One.

Head bowed, heavily veiled and cloaked in silver-gray, the lady sat motionless on the pillow, a slight, pale figure shrouded in richest velvet and fur, delicate hands encased in jeweled doeskin gloves and folded primly in her lap. Beneath the gray silken veil, pale blue eyes opened abruptly, searched serenely across the clearing, noted with satisfaction the black-robed Yousef standing guard over the horses.

Without turning her head, she was able to discern the vague, dark shapes of the other two Moors standing behind and to either side of her. She raised her head and spoke, a low, musical voice.

“He’s coming, Mustafa.”

There had been no warning, no rustling betrayal of dried leaves underfoot to announce any approach to the clearing, but the Moors would not have thought of questioning their lady’s word. A brown hand in a flowing black sleeve reached down from the right to help her to her feet. And he who had been to her left moved to a strategic position midway between his mistress and the horses, there to stand vigilant guard with his hand on the hilt of his sword.