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sleep.
    The Onyx knights were not the only peril they encountered on the road. Sometimes, those first few nights after they left the Black Tower, whoever was standing watch—Beltan or Durge or Vani—would see a pale glow atop a distant hill or ridge. The Pale King had failed to gain Sinfathisar and Krondisar at the Tower of the Runebreakers, but his minions still searched for the Stones.
    However, before they left the tower, Travis had taken a rusted iron pot he found—their old cooking pot from a hundred years before—and had held it in his hands while he spoke the rune
Dur
. The pot shone with blue radiance, and when the light dimmed, in its place was an iron box. The box was surprisingly delicate and perfectly formed; whether or not he cared to use his power, his ability was growing. Travis slipped the Stones into the box and shut it. On its lid were angular symbols.
    “What are they?” Grace asked, touching the runes on the box.
    “A warning,” he said, and tucked the box inside his tunic.
    The Pale King's wraithlings could see the trail of magic the Imsari left on the air—but not if the Stones were encased in iron. The eerie glow never drew close to their camp, and after a few nights they did not see the lights again.
    At last they crossed the headwaters of the Dimduorn and entered into Calavan. They saw no more Onyx Knights, and when they came to a town, they dared to stop and buy horses with some of the gold Grace had left. After that, the leagues had flown by more quickly yet.
    “Our journey's almost over.” Grace only realized she had said the words aloud when Travis gave her a sharp look.
    “Is it really over, Grace?” He reached inside his cloak, as if for the iron box he kept hidden there.
    Grace touched the sword belted at her hip. Fellring. It felt heavy and good at her side, as if she had always worn it. “No, I suppose it isn't.”
    “Well, at least we've made it this far.”
    They rode in silence until they reached the track that spiraled up the hill toward the castle. Falken and Durge still rode ahead. Grace turned in the saddle to see how the others fared.
    Lirith and Sareth rode not far behind, their horses close, their heads bent toward one another. As she had many times on the journey, Grace found herself wondering what exactly had happened to Travis and the others in Castle City. They had told the story of course—how they had found themselves in the Colorado town in the year 1883, and how a sorcerer had followed them through the gate—but Grace suspected there were some things they didn't speak of. For one thing, Lirith and Sareth's love was clear; they made no attempt to hide it anymore. Yet it was fragile, like a bauble made of spun glass.
    We can never be as one,
Lirith had told Grace. But was the witch talking about the laws of Sareth's people—the Mournish—which forbid a man to marry outside the clan? Or was something else keeping her and Sareth apart?
    Behind Lirith and Sareth, Beltan and Vani brought up the rear of the party. Here was another mystery. While there was still an uneasiness between the blond knight and the golden-eyed assassin, they had left their animosity behind on Sindar's ship. Something had happened to them there. Only what?
    On the voyage to Toringarth, it had been all Grace could do to keep Beltan and Vani from throttling one another. Now the big knight seemed curiously, awkwardly protective of her. More than once Grace had seen him bring Vani a cup of
maddok
when he thought the others weren't looking, or lay a cloak over her as she slept. Nor did she seem to resist such gestures.
    After a while, it occurred to Grace that Vani might be ill. While the rest of them were always ravenous after a long day of walking, devouring what scant foodstuffs they had scrounged, the
T'gol
seemed to have little appetite, and often her coppery skin was tinged with green. However, one night when she asked Vani if she could examine her, the assassin had stared, a look of