At the Queen_s command

"A few ways, if you choose carefully. If you remember what you truly are. But you won't. It is that friction, between what you want to think you are and your true nature, which will be the source of your misery." Laughter trembled up through the earth and snow. "You torture yourselves so well."

The creature pointed along the path. "Go. You will find your world different, but much the same. Go, sons of Mystria, knowing your future has earned your freedom."

Owen threw an arm around Quarante-neuf's waist and led the pasmorte up along the path. He didn't see any other dryads lurking around trees, and did not bother to look back. The creature would be gone, all traces of the Tharyngians would have vanished. All he had of the winding path was its truth-misery-not the illusion of peace.

"What did it do to you, Quarante-neuf? What did you see?"

"It does not concern you, Captain. As it said, it made faster what you had started."

"Are you dying?"

Quarante-neuf managed a short laugh. "Not a task that requires doing twice. No, my vitality is not ebbing."

"Good." Owen stopped and hunched over. "I'm afraid mine is."

The pasmorte straightened up. "I can carry you."

"No, my friend, just let me rest. A few more steps. Let us crest the hill and then I shall rest."

Quarante-neuf threw his left arm around Owen and looped the man's right over his shoulders again. The pasmorte 's steps remained strong. He held Owen up easily. With each step it seemed as if he was becoming stronger, showing no fatigue or consequences of having been shot.

Then Owen laughed. It is because you are becoming weaker.

They crested the hill and everything changed again. An east wind blasted them full in the face, driving wet snow. Owen staggered back a step, hoping to return to the winding path's sanctuary, but it no longer existed. Instead of being on the side of a hill, they had just emerged into a meadow.

"I don't understand." Owen shielded his face with a hand. He had to scream above the shrieking wind. "This can't be."

Quarante-neuf laughed. "Where we just were could not be, Captain. This place is. Luckily, I know where we are. Come."

They kept walking. Quarante-neuf, anyway, walked. He dragged Owen through drifts and kept him moving when Owen wanted to stop. "You cannot, Captain, you'll freeze. You will die if you do not keep moving."

"That's better, my friend, than causing what I saw. My wife hating me."

"Is that truly what you saw?"

"The expression on her face. My fault."

"But you can change it. He said that."

Owen collapsed, curling into a ball. "I can't take another step."

"And I can't let you come to harm."

Owen patted the pasmorte' s leg. " That is du Malphias' magick speaking. Save yourself. If you save me, I will kill him."

Quarante-neuf knelt, and gathered Owen into his arms. "What I feel is not his magick. It is the magick of what a friend feels for a friend."

How long he traveled in Quarante-neuf's arms Owen could not say. The blizzard had made the world a timeless, silver-grey tunnel. When night fell it became colder. He would have frozen to death, save for the pasmorte 's warmth.

Finally Quarante-neuf set him down. Owen opened his eyes and found his surroundings vaguely familiar. This place. This is the Frost house. "How did you know?"

Quarante-neuf did not answer. He stood over Owen and pounded on the door. He waited and pounded again, then backed down the steps.

Owen reached out even as he heard footsteps on the other side. "No, you cannot go."

The pasmorte shook his head. "I am dead, but I remember. For this reason, I must go."

The door cracked open, yellow light pouring into the storm. Of Quarante-neuf, Owen could only see a dim silhouette being devoured by the storm. Snow had filled his footsteps and, by the time Owen had been stripped of his clothes, bandaged and lowered to bed, there would be no sign of Quarante-neuf's passing.

1764 Chapter Forty-Five

May 13, 1764

Government House, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

P rince Vladimir had always found the long delay in communications with Norisle to be a blessing. The swiftest response he had ever had to a missive had been three months, and that was on a matter of no consequence. In general, the more serious the request, the slower the response. And while that suggested due deliberation at the highest levels of government, the replies most often had an offhand quality that suggested no one read his reports nor did any sober thinking on the problem.

Within a day of Captain Strake's miraculous return, the Prince had interviewed him. Within a week, Owen had come to the estate and helped update the model of du Malphias' fortress. The Prince had written a fully detailed report with all cogent facts included-he left out specifics of Owen's escape since that would have undercut the reliability of his testimony-and sent it with Colonel Langford back to Launston on the tenth of December.

And then he had waited.

And waited.