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hoping for any other detail that might clarify their purpose. Nothing came forth. Due west it was, and hopefully whatever power granted him his premonitions—the gods or the Anreulag watching over one of Her Hawks—wouldn’t make him search every ridge and incline for ten miles before showing him what he apparently needed to seek. “Why?”
    “The Duke of Shalridan’s summer home is up there. He owns that entire slope, most of the town we’re standing in and half the bloody province to boot. If you’re sure about this, we’d better have something more substantial than a dream to go on if we’re riding up his mountain in the middle of the night.”
    “If there’s magic being worked up there, our authority takes precedence over any secular ranks, even dukes,” Kestar said, but the words sounded tentative even to him.
    “ If being the crucial word.”
    Crucial enough to mean the difference between riding as active Hawks and being drummed out of the Order in disgrace, if they angered a powerful nobleman like Holvirr Kilmerredes by intruding upon his estate without just cause.
    “I’m sure,” Kestar said at last. His certainty was ethereal, likely to fade into mist if he explored it too closely. But it was there. Something within him that he trusted, dreaded and couldn’t name wanted him to go up that mountain. “We’ll ride up only as far as we must, and avoid the duke’s home unless we have no other choice.”
    Slowly Celoren nodded. “All right, but for gods’ sake, Kes, let’s be careful.”
    Celoren appropriated a lantern from its hook by the stable door to light their way. Celoren’s chestnut Pasga took being roused and saddled in genial stride, but Kestar’s blood bay Tenthim was no more pleased than his rider at the prospect of a late-night excursion. It showed in the set of his ears and tail as Kestar coaxed him awake, and only a sugar cube convinced him to accept bit and bridle. He was too well trained to balk more than that, but Kestar wouldn’t have blamed the beast for shying away when he tried to mount, or refusing to be led out of the stall.
    After all, he was being asked to carry his rider to look for something that might be only his imagination. If he’d been Tenthim, he’d have been angry too.
    They rode for the town’s western reaches, the lantern glowing wanly against the night, flickering with the rhythm of Pasga’s trotting and the breeze that skittered down from the nearby slopes. The oddly familiar feel of the rainwashed wind, bracing against Kestar’s cheeks, pulled him a little straighter in the saddle. They were riding in the right direction.
    But to what?
    * * *
    “Halt in the name of Holvirr Kilmerredes, Duke of Shalridan! Halt and state your business!”
    The voice hailed them out of the darkness, accented by the clattering hooves of three approaching horses. As Celoren pulled Pasga back along the sloping mountain road, taking the lantern out of his line of sight, Kestar spotted the leader of the trio of guardsmen. He was a big burly fellow with red hair and beard, clad like his fellows in the livery of Lomhannor Hall, and sitting a horse that stood two hands over Tenthim. Scowling, he hurled a glare like a gauntlet at the Hawks.
    Kestar nudged his stallion forward and lifted his empty hands. “The business of the Church, sir. We are Knights of the Hawk riding in the name of the Blessed Anreulag. We ask your leave to pass.”
    Squinting, the man who’d hailed them gestured toward Kestar’s neck. “Your amulets then, if you would. If you’re who you say, show us.”
    Though he was unaccustomed to being challenged for his rank, Kestar couldn’t deny the request—anyone in the right clothing could claim to be a Hawk, but the amulets would show their power only for true members of the Order. Nodding back at Celoren, he drew his forth. Then he cupped it within his palm, dipped his head and breathed the prayer that was the sign the guardsmen sought.
    “Holy Voice of