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rest.
    Over Shazad, a great red eye shimmered briefly, searching the city for the Book of the Last Battle or for an aura only dimly perceived in the Great Forest.
    In a small inn it found a lingering trace of that aura clinging to a shield of Esgarian manufacture .
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    Chapter Three
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    Snug in her cloak, she stared at the wildly flickering campfire. A harsh, biting wind snatched away sparks and hot ash, sending them swirling into the night. Her own raven hair lashed her eyes.
    She had never felt so weary, yet she could not sleep. Faces haunted her dreams, nightmares tormented her. She looked at the dark stains that spotted her sleeves. Asleep or awake, what did it matter. Visions of death pursued her.
    In the distance, her companion stood at the edge of the high plateau where they were camped, keeping watch on the plain below. His tattered garments flapped noisily in the wind, and he hugged himself for warmth.
    Perhaps it was some remaining vestige of her witch's instinct that told her they were being pursued. It was too dark to see though, and too cold for the old man to keep watch alone. She called him back to the fire.
    â€œHow's the shoulder?” he asked, settling down by the fire's warmth.
    She touched the place where Than's sword had cut her and winced. It ached like hell, and she could feel the crusted blood crack when she moved it. “I'll live,” she announced, “no doubt to experience worse."
    She studied the old man in the uncertain light. He wasn't really so old. Though gray at the temples, his face was just beginning to show the tracks of time. There was still vitality in those dark, deep-set eyes. She looked at his hands. Dirty and rough, but unwrinkled.
    â€œHave you a name?"
    He shrugged, peering into the flames. “I've been called many names since I left my homeland, not all of them complimentary. Old man will do awhile longer."
    A silence broken only by the wailing wind hung between them. The fire began to dim and she added the last log to it.
    â€œI thought Esgarians forbade their women to handle weapons,” her companion remarked casually.
    She smothered her surprise with an effort. “How do you know I'm Esgarian?"
    â€œYou speak the Rholarothan tongue well, and almost without accent.” The old man smiled. “But only almost ."
    â€œFor an old man you have keen ears."
    A sudden wind fanned the campfire, sweeping smoke and glowing sparks beyond the plateau's edge. The old man shifted away from the flames, moving closer to Frost. She hugged her knees to her chest.
    â€œTo repeat, if I may—what makes an Esgarian woman take up the sword, contrary to the laws and customs of her people?"
    She turned her eyes away. “It's not something I care to talk about."
    â€œI sense pain in your heart,” he said softly. “Talking might ease it a little."
    She slammed her fist on the ground, wincing at the jolt to her injured shoulder. “There is no pain,” she hissed, “and nothing to speak of, least of all to a stranger who won't give me his name!"
    A shadow passed over the moon, causing her to glance upward. The sky was cloudless.
    â€œThe third one I've seen tonight,” the old man commented darkly. “By my soul, something searches for us, and I don't think it's Shazad's governor ."
    She nodded. “I've seen it, too. It's only a bird."
    He shook his head. “More than a bird—an emissary. It will scour the land until it finds what it seeks, then report to its master."
    â€œWhat do you know of such things? Are you a wizard or sorcerer?” She regretted the note of scorn in her voice, but a man who had permitted himself to be abused by the likes of Lord Rholf's sons was surely innocent to the ways of magic.
    â€œI've traveled a few roads in my lifetime,” he answered evenly. “An old man with sharp ears can pick up bits and pieces of knowledge along the way."
    His eyes reflected the firelight,