They looked at him as if he’d just suggested that the Horde were figments of their imagination and that the Forest Guard had been mistakenly fighting sand all these years. Even Silvie showed no belief. But she did give him some benefit of doubt. “Really? How so?”

He told them the whole story, everything except the fact that he was marked with a circle with two slash marks and chosen for this mission—because he didn’t believe that himself. That and the bit about the book’s reaction to blood.

When he finished, they just looked at him with eyes that made it clear they were convinced they were looking at a lunatic.

“I know, it sounds crazy. But I think there might be something to it.” As he said it, he realized he was arguing for something that just minutes ago had sounded as absurd to him.

“You’re trying to tell us that a fuzzy white bat told you to take us all on a quest to find the six lost Books of History?” Billos demanded. “Do you realize how absolutely mad that sounds?”

He looked at Silvie, but she wasn’t defending him now.

“Yes, I realize that. And do you realize that I’ve just rescued you?”

“Have you, now?”

“We’re standing in a bowl carved from the canyons, for the sake of Elyon!” Johnis said. “How else could I have found it?”

“You stumbled on it, obviously. The Horde is gathering on the east, you fool! You think we should desert the Guard on account of this nonsense? It would be treasonous!”

Johnis tossed open his saddlebag and pulled out the bound Book of History, careful not to touch it with his bloodstained finger. He shoved it at them. “And what about this?”

Their eyes settled on the black leather book.

“Tell me where I found this,” Johnis demanded.

Silvie stepped up and took the book gingerly. Her finger traced the title etched in leather. “Stories of History,” she said softly. “I think this is real.”

“It could be one of his books,” Billos said. “A book of poetry. Open it.”

Johnis took the book back. “You can’t. The book has too much power. They warned me against opening it. They also claimed that if I wasn’t able to convince you to follow me, something terrible would happen. Immediately.” He wrapped the book in a cloth and set it back in his saddlebag.

“This is all fine and well,” Darsal said, “but are you ready to take off into the desert, directly west, without water for your skin, to take on the Horde because two fuzzy white bats told you to?”

“Do we have a choice?”

“There are no fuzzy white bats!” Billos cried.

A distant horn moaned through the desert. They glanced west.

“There you have it,” Darsal said. “Going west is suicide.”