“Enough! I have heard your warning and made my decision.” Lady Penburn’s expression brooked no argument. “We’ve much to accomplish before nightfall. I will hear not another word of superstition or bad feelings. Captain Ansible, I want you to get this delegation moving. We’ve long hours ahead of us.”

As the group dissolved, each to his or her own duty, Karigan grabbed Ty’s arm. “Are you sure you didn’t feel anything in that clearing?”

“I’m sure.” He tugged his arm free of her grasp and straightened his sleeve. “Karigan, I honestly think you ought to heed Lady Penburn’s words about superstition. People are worried enough by the threat of groundmites. Whatever lies beneath that cairn is dead and buried.”

Karigan watched his back as he strode off, feeling somehow betrayed. Maybe he was right, and maybe she was suffering from nerves. But still . . .

Brogan sidled over to her, perhaps finding in her a kindred spirit. “I don’t like this one bit.” Worry lines furrowed across his weathered features. “If people were meant to be near that clearing, why place stones of warding around it?”

A CAMPFIRE, A NIGHTGOWN, AND A SONG

Karigan watched in dismay as Lady Penb urn’s tent went up beside the cairn, soon followed by those of the other nobles. The entire delegation could not fit within the clearing, so the rest set up nearby in the surrounding woods.

I am not superstitious, Karigan kept telling herself as she walked away. I am not superstitious . . . And she was not—far from it in fact, but the sensation of dread had come over her again when they arrived at the clearing, and she found it rather disturbing to be the only one bothered by it. Not the only one, she amended. Brogan the bounder stayed well away from the clearing, making the sign of the crescent moon before disappearing into the woods to find his own camping place.

She carried her gear as far from the clearing as she dared, while still remaining within the guarded perimeter. She chose a place considered undesirable by most near the horses and pack mules. It might be smelly, she thought, but it was far more comfortable than being next to the clearing.

She started a cheerful little fire for herself. Others sparked up around the encampment as dark settled in. One fortunate aspect of the whole undertaking was the availability of deadwood so that no one in the delegation was deprived of warmth and light during the night.

“Not a bad fire for a merchant.”

Karigan looked up surprised and pleased to see Bard with his bedroll slung over his shoulder, bearing two steaming bowls. “Mind if I join you? I bring food—if you can call it that.”

“Yes, please,” Karigan said, gratified by his show of support.

Bard passed her a bowl. She peered into it and sniffed dubiously. “Gruel. Again.” And with a burnt wedge of pan bread sticking in it. She nibbled on the coarse bread, frowned in distaste, and set the bowl aside.

Bard dumped his bedroll on the ground and sat across the fire from her. “Lady Penburn’s people talked about doing some hunting for fresh meat tomorrow morning, though as far as I can tell the nobles are eating well enough.”

Karigan had been under the impression that on a well provisioned delegation the meals would prove far better fare than what she was accustomed to when on an ordinary message errand, but she’d been wrong. The Green Riders, the king’s own special messengers, had been lumped together with common soldiers and servants, and were served accordingly.

The two Riders spoke quietly of inconsequential things while Bard ate his gruel. Karigan itched to ask him what he felt or did not feel about the clearing, but she gave him his peace while he ate. When he finished, he took out a sewing kit and attempted to thread a needle by firelight so he might fix the rip in his sleeve.

“You’re going to burn off your eyebrows if you get any closer to the fire,” Karigan warned him.

“Match the top of my head then, I expect.” He patted the thinning spot at his crown and smiled.

“Bard,” Karigan said, deciding to broach the subject that had been plaguing her, “what do you think of the clearing?”

It was some moments before he spoke, so focused was he on trying to find the eye of the needle with his thread, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. Karigan waited in suspense, seeking some validation of her feelings.

“Can’t say I much care for the idea of camping next to some old tomb, though I’m sure it would make for a good embellishment in our report.”

Bard, Karigan knew, tried to make all his reports as entertaining as possible for Captain Mapstone. His philosophy was that since the captain rarely left the castle grounds these days, she ought to at least have the vicarious experience of being on a message errand. Karigan wondered if it had the intended effect, or made the captain miss the open road all the more.

Lines formed across Bard’s forehead and he squinted at the needle. Suddenly he smiled in triumph. “I did it!” He showed her the threaded needle to prove it, then took up his shortcoat and jabbed the needle into the sleeve. “As for my sensing anything about the clearing as you seem to, I don’t know. I don’t like it, but I don’t feel it as strongly as you do. That doesn’t mean your feelings are wrong about this place.

“I’d guess,” he continued, “that there are all manner of strange magical relics like the clearing throughout the lands, and maybe Lady Penburn was onto something when she brought up your ability. Maybe the wards resonated with your magic for some reason, the way the wards around Rider waystations dampen our magic.”