The others looked at him expectantly. He stared past them into the haze of rain and darkness, drew his legs up to his chest to ward off the growing chill, and tried to come up with something. “Find Willow,” he said finally. “Protect her.”

They stared at him voicelessly.

“Look. The third dream is the key to everything that’s happened, and the bridle is the key to the dream. Willow has the bridle now—we know that. Strabo gave it to her. She has it, but what will she do with it?”

“What, Mighty High Lord?” asked Fillip eagerly.

“Yes, what?” echoed Sot.

“She will take it to you, High Lord,” Questor answered quickly. Then he paused. “Or at least to the one she believes to be you.”

“That’s right, Questor,” Ben whispered. “That’s what the dream told her she must do and that’s what she’ll do. She’ll take the bridle to me. But I won’t be me. I’ll be Meeks. Or he’ll be Meeks—the one she’ll run to. And then what happens to her?”

“We have to reach her first,” Questor insisted quietly.

“As soon as it stops raining,” Abernathy added.

Ben nodded. “Six of us will have a better chance than one.”

“Bunion will have a better chance than ten times six,” Abernathy interjected, sneezing again. “I think I am catching cold,” he muttered.

“For once, Abernathy is right!” Questor exclaimed, ignoring the reproving look the dog gave him. “A kobold can track faster and farther than any human. If there is any sign of the girl, Bunion will find it.” He looked over at the kobold, who showed all of his teeth in response. “Indeed, Bunion will find her for us—you may depend upon it.” He shrugged. “As soon as it stops raining, of course.”

Ben shook his head. “We can’t wait that long. We don’t have …”

“But we have to,” the wizard interrupted gently.

“But we can’t …”

“We must.” Questor took his arm and held it. “There can be no tracking done in a storm such as this one, High Lord. There would be no signs to follow.” His owlish face bent close and there was sudden warmth in his eyes. “High Lord, you have come a long way since Sterling Silver. You have clearly suffered much. Your physical appearance, however distorted it might be, does not lie. Look at yourself. You are worn to the bone. You are exhausted. I have seen beggars who looked healthier than you. Abernathy?”

“You look a wreck,” the dog agreed.

“Well, bad enough, at any rate.” The wizard tempered the other’s assessment with a smile. “You need to rest. Sleep now. There will be time enough later to begin the hunt.”

Ben shook his head vigorously. “Questor, I’m not tired. I can’t …”

“I think you must,” the wizard said softly. A bony hand passed briefly before Ben’s face, and his eyes grew suddenly heavy. He could barely keep them open. He felt a pervasive weariness slip within his body and weigh him down. “Rest, High Lord,” Questor whispered.