At the Queen_s command

"That does not mean your Bethany will not be pleased to see you. I shall get you to her." Quarante-neuf dragged him through another drift, then they began the long, slow trek up a half-carved hill. They cut toward the lake halfway up and around into the forest, then started working down again.

Owen began to shiver. He tucked his hands up under his armpits, seeking some warmth, and feeling the lump that was Agaskan's doll. I have more friends to see when I am safe.

Already his nose and ears had begun to burn. He'd lost feeling in his cheeks for the most part. The wind whipping through the trees lost some of its intensity, but dumped snow from high branches that drifted down to coat his hair, melt, and freeze eyelashes together.

They crested the hill and Owen sagged against a tree. "Just a moment's rest."

"Be quiet, Captain." Quarante-neuf shucked his pack and leaped to the right. Snow half-blinded Owen, but could not hide three forms looming from within the woods. Quarante-neuf pounced upon one and bones cracked. He lunged at another and vanished into the storm.

A pasmorte appeared at Owen's side, reaching for him with boney fingers. The Norillian lurched forward. A branch lashed him across the face. He twisted, his knees buckled. He went down and began sliding across the frozen snow on the hill's windswept face.

Owen could do nothing to slow himself. Snow sprayed into his face, then he barked a shin against a sapling. He spun and slammed his shoulder into another tree. Twisting forward and back, spinning helplessly, he caromed from one tree to another and finally, battered and aching, slid into a deep drift at the hill's base.

He huddled there, his hands drawn in. His body ached from the collisions, but he forced that away. He listened, waiting for sounds of an enemy's approach. He slipped one of the cloak-clasp nails into his right hand. Crush the skull with a shackle or stab it with this nail. That has to work.

The snow and howling wing mocked him. He couldn't have heard a cavalry charge above the wind. Anyone coming downhill for him would have the wind carrying away the sound of their approach. But if he moved he would give himself away. He shivered, despair seeping into him.

A hand grabbed his ankle.

He kicked at it, but it held tightly. "Captain Strake, I have found you."

"Quarante-neuf?"

The pasmorte dragged him from the drift and rolled him over. "Are you hurt?"

"Banged and bruised. Ready to go on." He looked to the north. "There has to be a canoe here. There must be."

Quarante-neuf smiled. "There is, my friend. We will find them closer to the lake."

Owen looked up at him. "You sound happy."

The pasmorte 's gaze drew distant. "Happier, I think. I am free. Destroying the others I did because I wanted to, not because I was compelled to."

"Good, my friend." Owen nodded, fighting against dread. How long will you remain free? Owen could not forget the first pasmorte they had found, all curled up and chewed, the journal showing evidence of deterioration. Quarante-neuf might be free, but there would come a point where the magick would run out.

"Tell me you have some vivalius."

"I chose not to steal any."

"What? The Prince could re-create it from a sample. He could keep you alive."

"Not possible, my friend, for I am dead." Quarante-neuf helped him over a fallen log. "I shall not fail you. But I would not have anyone else know what I know. The emptiness. Memories that hover just beyond remembering. I feel as if I am waiting, always waiting, but for what I do not know."

Owen grabbed him by the shoulder. "But…"

"I will return you to your Prince and your Bethany." The pasmorte smiled. "Then I shall return to the grave in peace."

The wind's shrieking and a blast of snow silenced any counter-argument Owen would have offered. As they struggled toward the lake, an emptiness grew in Owen. He did not want Quarante-neuf to die. But if this is a fraction of what he feels, I understand.

After a short time, Quarante-neuf leaned against a tree, letting the storm rage around him. The pasmorte slipped down into a small depression and drove his hands into the snow. He grunted, then straightened, flipping over a canoe. Two paddles lay in the hollow beneath it.

"Come, Captain Strake, get the paddles."

They put the canoe in the water. Owen got in the front. He knelt, sitting back on his haunches, which, oddly enough, quieted the lingering pain. Quarante-neuf launched the canoe, then waded out and climbed in.