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The brook narrowed as we continued and angled more to the left, southward, than I would have liked; but most of the space was open meadow, rather than brush or straggly cedars.

Another kay and the brook was barely a cubit wide, and angling back toward Hrisbarg.

“All right, we go over the hill.”

Gairloch shook his head, spraying mist on me, and we started up the gentle slope, taking less time to reach the crest than it had to circle the second hill, even though Gairloch’s steps grew edgier and edgier as we neared the crest.

I could sense nothing—neither heat nor cold, but an emptiness, a lack of even nothing.

Wheeeeee…

As we came through the mist to the hilltop, I shivered.

A pile of whitened and glazed stones graced the hilltop. Two of the pale white-granite monoliths remained standing, although their crowns were melted like candles left in the sun. Surrounding the chaos-circle was dead-white bleached gravel. Outside the gravel was a whitish clay that slowly darkened until it merged with the scraggly grass.

Wheeeeee…Gairloch shied from that whiteness.

Less than a handspan from my face, my own staff began to glow with a black light that urged me away from the stones.

Even with the age of the destruction, even after all the years that had passed, I didn’t even look at the twisted patterns, but edged Gairloch around the dead-white stones.

Beyond the hilltop, north and west of us, I could see the hilltop where the border station lay, and the angle of the road descending toward Howlett—away from us, of course.

Not until we reached the bottom of the hill and turned back west did I remember taking a breath.

“Whuuuuuuhhh…”

My knees were shaking. For someone who had questioned magic and chaos, that ancient structure had been pretty convincing. The whole hill had radiated destruction. No wonder people didn’t live nearby.

That was the worst. After that, the scattered brambles, and the wind that got steadily colder—all those seemed merely natural. The road itself was also a natural disaster, churned half-frozen mud, but somehow Gairloch mushed on.

Someone had to have seen us, but we saw no one, not until we were back on the road to Howlett, watching the scattered flocks of black-faced sheep, and their shepherds bundled against the cold. Then we passed a slow-moving wagon heading in the same direction, and an old coach headed toward Hrisbarg.

Neither driver gave me more than a passing glance.

XXIII

DUSK WAS FALLING by the time we struggled—with stops for water for Gairloch, and vain attempts to stretch out the permanent cramps in my legs—along the quagmire that was called the road to Howlett. Even from the outskirts I could tell that Howlett made Hrisbarg look like Imperial Hamor. Hrisbarg had rough wooden sidewalks; Howlett had none. Hrisbarg had defined streets; Howlett had a rough clump of structures. Hrisbarg’s buildings had peeling paint; Howlett’s had none.

But the rain had begun to fall as ice-needles, and the wind howled in from the north, freezing my cloak as solid as plate armor.

Almost at the edge of Howlett was a careless building, accompanied by another not much better than a large shack—the Snug Inn and its stable.

Wheeee…eeee, was Gairloch’s only comment as I led him inside the stable.

“Three pence, and he’ll share a stall with the other mountain pony,” commanded the heavyset man by the sliding stable door.

I looked at the small stableboy racking a saddle while the big man collected. The stableboy shrugged.

In the open space to the right stood an unhitched wagon and a coach—that same golden coach that I had seen on the road to Freetown. I looked back at the heavy man to catch what he was saying.

“You stable him…” added the man. “…damned ponies, kill anyone not their master…”

I handed over the three pennies.

“At the end. There’s another one like him there.”

I led Gairloch along the narrow way toward the back, and eased open the stall door, holding it so that it didn’t fall off the