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my hands.
    â€œThis is old land power. ’Tis an earlier training than what is given to current initiates o’ the Order.” He held the vial to my lips, and I tipped my head and took a long swallow. “Now ye, lass. It tastes awful, but its properties will astound ye.”
    He put a hand on each of our shoulders. “Stay together. Keep yer hands locked or ye will lose the link between ye. D’ye understand?”
    As we grasped hands, Aine’s memory was suddenly painfully my own, and I saw images of the bairn lying still and broken in the dust of the road. I wanted to drop the link — the images were too raw and painful — but I could not. Torquil needed us, and we needed to be as one for this. It’s all right, I mindspoke. We will make no mistakes this time.
    â€œI will provide the ground. When ye are ready, focus on Gaston,” Bertrand instructed.
    And it was as easy as that. There was no ripple to the power web, though I was not at all sure how Bertrand managed it. I was instantly beyond the shields of Gaston’s mind.
    The room came sharply into view. Tallow candles burned dimly from a large table set with a number of goblets and trenchers. Eight heavy chairs were crammed around the table, and a small, single pallet was set against the far wall.
    As Gaston turned his head, Aine subtly expanded my view of the room. The Templars were young, as Gaston had said. Although he avoided looking at them directly, Aine’s hum gave me the ability to provide the suggestion that he glance their way when no one was paying him heed.
    The voice who had requested the tea was a man of mid years, tall and dressed in clothing that was several cuts above what we had seen in the streets. His brown hair was tucked back behind his ears and brushed the collar of his doublet. A soft cap flopped low over his forehead, and his oddly long and delicate fingers wrapped the mug of tea that Gaston placed before him. I recognized the face from Gaston’s memories. It was de Nogaret.
    â€œI don’t have all night to wait,” he snapped to the nearest Templar.
    â€œHe said he would meet us here. He does as he wishes,” mumbled the soldier guarding the door. He was small and wiry thin, his face sharp like a weasel, with wary, dark eyes that passed over the room and its inhabitants in a constant sweep. I noticed that his hand often strayed to the sword at his side.
    Gaston moved silently, pouring ale into each of the cups set out on the table. The pitcher was large and awkward in his small hands, but he moved about the room as if he were a shadow. None of the men there paid him heed.
    Impatient, I tried to look at each of their faces. Gaston was not of a mind to do that, though, and as I exerted a tendril of pressure, the pitcher tilted in his hand. Only quick movement on his part sent the wash of ale to the floor and not onto the Templar for whom he’d been pouring. I felt his confusion as he wondered what had happened.
    â€œHave a care. If you wet my boots, you’ll pay heftily.” His meaty fist rose with menace. A tremor of fear went through the boy.
    Aine spread my view of the room so that I could see the men I had been trying to get Gaston to look at. I didn’t recognize any of the faces. All were intent on the food and drink laid out on the table. Eggs, fish, cheese, and sausage were arrayed with several loaves of bread and a jar of honey. Although the establishment was rough, these men were obviously treated with deference.
    The strange drink in my body had an odd, calming effect. Normally, this type of read would open my mind to the emotions of all of the room’s occupants, but it was not so this time. As I was marveling, the door to the hallway opened, and all eyes seemed to turn in that direction. When at last Gaston lifted his gaze to take in the newest arrival, I was struck a near physical blow. Without the benefit of time to recover, I was hit again.
    â€œGet