The innkeeper had gone to the kitchen to bring food for the messenger. Shurik wasn’t hungry anymore, nor was he tired, though he knew he would have to sleep soon so that he could ride south with first light.

“Are they letting people in and out of the city?” he asked the man.

“They have their murderer. They have no need to lock the gates.”

Of course. The guards wouldn’t bother even a Qirsi traitor. In spite of his concern for Yaella, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if the Weaver had been behind this as well. It sounded so much like something he would do.

“The castle might be another matter,” the messenger went on a moment later. “Though if you’re one of Mertesse’s ministers, I’m certain they’ll let you in.”

Shurik nodded. It would be a problem, but one that was best dealt with in Solkara. For now, he needed only to ride.

“Have the boy saddle my mount at dawn,” he told the woman as she returned from the kitchen. “Instead of that breakfast you promised, you’ll have to pack me some bread and cheese.”

“All right. I might have some salted meat, as well.”

He started up the stairs. “That would be fine. My thanks.” He looked at the messenger. “Ride well, Solkara. I’m grateful for the tidings.”

“Ean guard you, Minister,” the man said.

Shurik felt his pulse quicken. Minister. If the duke or his mother learned of this, he’d never be able to return to Mertesse. For now, though, that seemed the least of his concerns.

He slept poorly. It was still dark when he awoke to the keening of the frigid wind and the pounding of his heart. He should have been tired, but he felt restless and eager to be riding again.

Dressing quickly and closing his satchel, the Qirsi descended the stairs expecting to find a pouch of food on the dining table. Instead he found the innkeeper waiting for him, with the food she had promised and a piece of fresh bread covered with melted butter. Shurik wondered if she had slept at all.

“I still wake early, even though we haven’t farmed in years,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “The old ways die hard, especially when you’ve lived as long as I have.”

“You have my thanks,” Shurik said, pulling out his pouch of money and offering her five qinde more.

The woman shook her head and grinned. “I asked too much for the room. We both know it. See to your duke and that minister you were asking about.”

He bowed to her and saw her blush in the candlelight. “Again, my lady, you have my thanks.”

He put the food in his satchel, ate the bread without bothering to sit, and stepped out into the storm.

Neither the wind nor the snow had abated during the night. Indeed, the snow seemed heavier than it had when Shurik reached the inn the day before. Still, the boy was standing in front of the inn with Shurik’s mount, waiting for him much as his grandmother had. The child looked cold and small in the murky grey light as he handed the Qirsi the reins. Shurik gave him the five qinde.

Swinging himself onto the mount, he steered the horse to the edge of the road. He paused there long enough to remind himself of which way he had come the day before, then started south toward Solkara.

The wind cut through his cloak and clothes like a scythe through young grain, and the snow stung his eyes and cheeks until he had little choice but to cover his face with a tippet and trust that his horse would keep to the road. He didn’t drive the mount too hard, but neither did he take much time to rest along the way. When he was hungry, he reached back into his satchel and ate in the saddle. When he needed to drink, he stopped only long enough to eat some of the newly fallen snow and to allow his mount to do the same. The muscles in his back and legs were screaming for a respite by midday, but Shurik rode on, drawing on strength he hadn’t known he possessed. Late in the day, the snow finally slackened, though not the wind. Still he didn’t stop. The Great Forest of Aneira loomed before him like a dark mist, and he swore silently that he wouldn’t stop until he had entered the wood and found a village in which to pass the night.

He reached the great trees of the forest just as daylight began to wane. Even with their limbs bare, the trees offered shelter from the wind, and without the gale, the air didn’t feel nearly as cold. Shurik was so relieved to be out of the worst of the storm that he continued past the first village he encountered. When it grew too dark to see, he raised his dagger and summoned to its blade a small, bright flame by which to ride. Coming at last to a second village, he dismounted, leading his horse on foot past a few modest shops and a small, empty marketplace. He soon found a small inn, rented a room, and, after a supper that left him longing for the food of the old woman, climbed the stairs to his room. His mind was still filled with thoughts of Yaella, but after riding the entire day, he fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as he lay down.

The next two days went much as this one had. Shurik rode from dawn to nightfall, stopping only briefly, and finding a small village in which to rest at the end of each day. The skies remained a somber grey, but this far south, the snows gave way to a frigid, soaking rain that left him even more miserable than had the snow. Still, by the time he stopped on that fourth night in a small town by the banks of the Kett, Shurik hardly noticed. He was less than two leagues from the walls of Solkara. He would have ridden through the Weaver’s fire to reach Yaella’s side.

He awoke early again the next day and followed the river road to the Solkara bridge. Crossing over the roiling waters of the Kett, Shurik soon came to the east gate of the royal city. The guards there let him through without so much as a question. In fact, they barely looked at him. Glancing around, Shurik saw that there were a great many of his people in the city, more than one might usually find in even the southernmost cities of the Forelands. It took him several moments to realize why.

In his single-minded haste to find Yaella, he had lost track of the days. Tonight would be Pitch Night, the last night not only of this turn, but of the year as well. Tomorrow began the turn of Qirsar, god of magic and creator of the Qirsi. Few cities in the Forelands honored Qirsar with a sanctuary-Adlana in Caerisse, Listaal and Prentarlo in Sanbira, and Olfan in Wethyrn-but on the first day of Qirsar’s turn, Qirsi flocked to whatever sanctuaries they could, to pay homage to all the gods, and to Qirsar in particular. A Qirsi hoping to slip unnoticed into one of the kingdom’s walled cities could not choose to do so on a better day. Truly the gods were with him.

Shurik rode through the marketplace, but soon decided that a Qirsi on horseback was more likely to draw someone’s attention than one on foot. There was a good chance that Grinsa was here, not to mention the company of soldiers who had ridden with Yaella and Rowan to the king’s funeral. He had already taken a terrible risk by coming here. He might be able to convince his duke that he had left Mertesse only after hearing of the poisoning, but he hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. Glancing about to see if anyone was watching, he dismounted and led the horse the rest of the way to the castle.

He found a smithy just outside the castle walls and offered the man seven qinde to shoe the beast. The horse probably didn’t need to be reshod, but this way Shurik could leave the animal with the smith and enter the castle alone.

As he expected, the guards at the castle’s outer gate stopped him before he even reached the wicket door.

“Where do you think you’re going, white-hair?” one of them asked.

Shurik briefly considered saying that he had been summoned by the castle’s master healer, but he remembered at the last moment that Carden had no Qirsi healers. He shivered at the thought. Let her be alive.