“Ah, Hîr i Dúnedain . . .” Ritva said. “If he says he can do something, believe him. Really.”

“I agree with you, roquen,” Alleyne said. To Dorje, in English: “Certainly you won’t slow us down more than a two-year-old, sir.”

Another of the Sun Valley folk leaned forward. He had an Eastern face too, but of a different stamp than Dorje’s, smoother and the color of pale ivory, and he was about a generation younger, in a lean fit middle-age where every visible muscle showed like an anatomical diagram beneath the skin. He was clad in a set of lamellar armor linked with cords, a dao saber at his belt and a bowcase and quiver beside him.

“This is Master Hao,” Dorje said. “He will make the practical arrangements. He is one of our brotherhood who has sought Enlightenment through the development of certain skills of mind and body.”

Eilir Signed, and Ritva translated automatically: “You don’t look much like my idea of a Buddhist monk, Master Hao.”

She smiled when she Signed it. Hao didn’t, but there was a knowledgeable respect in the glances he gave all the Dúnedain, and in the ones that returned. Ritva’s muscles twinged as she recalled the months they’d spent in the Valley of the Sun; to let Mary and Rudi heal from their wounds, but they’d all trained under Master Hao and his acolytes as well. It had been . . .

Somewhat rigorous, she thought. And the Pacific Ocean is somewhat large, rather wet and a bit salty.

“Mine was a different path along the Way than the Rimpoche’s,” Hao said.

Dorje chuckled. “Many different schools came to that convention on Buddhism on the World Wide Web. This has made life more . . . interesting . . . since, after the Change converted our hotel into a monastery.”

Hao snorted. “I must remain with the army, of course,” he said.

Well, alae, duh, Ritva thought. You’re the commander, Mr. Shaolin.

“However, we have a very large selection of horses and gear,” he went on. “You may of course take your pick.”

Ian gave an almost inaudible whimper, and she elbowed him discreetly.

Another relay race on horseback, she agreed. Then: It’s going to be hard on Cecile and the girls. And Juliet. Good thing we’ll have liniment and some experienced fieldmasseurs, like me and Aunt Eilir. We can rig a carrier cradle for Lawrence Jr., but he’s not going to be a happy camper after a while either, poor little guy.

Alleyne brought out a map. “We’re here,” he said, pointing to a spot near Winnemucca. “We need to get here.”

His finger came down on Ashland, in the Rogue River Valley south of the Willamette.