Now Cyrene was coming back, he saw, and not alone. For a moment he had the optimistic thought that this newcomer was a threat of some sort, and that, for once, setting the man on fire would turn out to be the proper course of action. He reluctantly had to concede, though, that Cyrene seemed easy in his company, and there was no suggestion of coercion or enchantment. Still, he glowered at the stranger, purely for form’s sake.

He was a tall, lean, weathered man in a gray-green cloak, with a longbow slung over his shoulder, and he bowed respectfully before Dion.

“This is Lothern,” Cyrene introduced him. “He’s a Ranger of Elwer.”

They were some wandering order of Dark-hunters, Penthos recalled vaguely: not followers of Armes, but border skirmishers constantly on the watch for incursions of evil. The odds of being allowed to incinerate the man were receding swiftly.

“You know him?” Dion pressed.

“We’ve worked together before.” Cyrene put a companionable hand on Lothern’s shoulder, and Penthos noted with interest that Harathes was instantly standing differently, making himself look bigger, muscling closer to the man. In a rare moment of insight the mage wondered if there was some manner of jealousy at work.

“Lothern has been abroad in the mire this last month,” Cyrene told them. “He’s agreed to lead us on the best hidden paths to Ening’s Garth.”

“You told him what we’re about?” Harathes growled.

Cyrene frowned at his tone. “Just where we need to get to.”

“I have faith that Armes guides you.” Lothern’s voice was musical. “I shall but play my small part in your venture, and aid you in any way I can.” His arm slipped about Cyrene’s waist rather familiarly, and she smiled at him—perhaps a little fixedly—and disentangled herself.

“Well, then, your help would be welcome,” Dion pronounced, sparking a fresh scowl from Harathes.

“Moreover,” Lothern went on, almost speaking over her, “I am so fortunate as to carry a blessed lodestone that glows when agents of Darkness are near. So, we may be forewarned of any ambush!” He looked terribly pleased about that. Penthos, for whom that sort of thing was a parlor trick at best—albeit one he seldom remembered to perform—found himself siding with Harathes in his apparent assessment of the woodsman as an annoyingly smug prick.

But now there was nothing for it but that Lothern must get out his magical lodestone and show them it, and…

The ranger’s eyes went wide. “Beware!” he hissed. “Evil is near!” for the lodestone was glowing with an eerie greenish light, such as was known to Penthos as “ghostlight number seven,” a favorite with the magical artificers and gimickers of Ening’s Garth who so overcharged him on every visit.