Assassin's Quest

"I would not expect you to. It was in a far place I first studied such things. There they held that if such prophets fail, again and again, the repeating history of the world will grow more and more evil, until the entire cycle of time, hundreds of thousands of years, becomes a history of misery and wrong."

"And if the prophet is heeded?"

"Each time one succeeds, it is easier for the next one. And when an entire cycle passes in which every prophet succeeds, time itself will finally stop."

"So they work for the end of the world to come?"

"Not the end of the world, Tom. The end of time. To free humanity of time. For time is the great enslaver of us all. Time that ages us, time that limits us. Think how often you have wished to have more time for something, or wished you could go back a day and do something differently. When humanity is freed of time, old wrongs can be corrected before they are done." She sighed. "I believe this is the time for such a prophet to come. And my readings lead me to believe that this generation's White Prophet shall arise in the Mountains."

"But you are alone on your quest. Do no others agree with you?"

"Many others. But few, very few, go to seek a White Prophet. It is the folk the prophet is sent to who must heed him. Others should not interfere, lest they set all time awry forever."

I was still puzzling over what she had said about time. It seemed to make a knot in my thinking. Her voice fell silent. I stared forward between the mare's ears and pondered. Time to go back and be honest with Molly. Time to follow Fedwren the scribe instead of being an assassin's apprentice. She had given me much to think about.

Our talk lapsed for some time.

Nighteyes reappeared shortly after noon. He came trotting purposefully out of the trees, to fall into place beside our wagon. The mare gave him several nervous glances as she tried to puzzle out wolf smell and dog behavior. I quested toward her and reassured her. He had been for some time at my side of the cart before Kettle caught sight of him. She leaned forward to look past me, then sat back again. "There's a wolf beside our cart," she observed.

"He's my dog. Though he has some wolf blood in him," I admitted casually.

Kettle leaned forward to look at him again. She glanced up at my placid expression. Then she sat back. "So they herd sheep with wolves in Buck these days," she nodded, and said no more about him.

We pushed on steadily for the rest of the day. We saw no folk save ourselves, and only one small cabin sending up a trail of smoke in the distance. The cold and the blowing wind were a constant, but not one that became easier to ignore as the day went on. The faces of the pilgrims in the wagon in front of us became paler, noses redder, lips almost blue on one woman. They were packed together like fish in brine but all their closeness seemed to be no protection against the cold.

I moved my feet inside my boots to keep my toes awake, and shifted the reins from one hand to the other as I took turns warming my fingers under my arm. My shoulder ached, and the ache ran down my arm until even my fingers throbbed with it. My lips were dry but I dared not wet them lest they crack. Few things are as miserable to confront as constant cold. As for Kettle, I did not doubt it tortured her. She did not complain, but as the day went by she seemed to get smaller within her blanket as she curled closer on herself. Her silence seemed but further evidence of her misery.

We were still short of darkness when Nik turned our wagons away from the road and up a long trail nearly obscured by the blown snow. The only sign of it I could make out was that less grass stuck up above the snow, but Nik seemed to know it well. The mounted smugglers broke trail for the wagons. It was still heavy going for Kettle's little mare. I looked back behind us once to see the sweeping hand of the wind smoothing our trail out to no more than a ripple in the snowy landscape.

The land we crossed seemed featureless, but it undulated gently. We eventually crested the long rise we had ascended, and looked down onto a huddle of buildings that had been invisible from the road. Evening was drawing on. A single light shone in a window. As we wended our way down toward it, other candles were lit, and Nighteyes caught a trace of wood smoke on the wind. We were expected: