e need to set up camp while we still have some daylight,” Ronan repeated.

Mog did not want to admit defeat. The first stars were beginning to glisten upon the deepening blue bowl of the sky. The monk had made the mistake of telling him they were close to the village of Harnavi. Mog’s pace had not slowed since breakfast and he fidgeted restlessly whenever Ronan had begged him for a rest in sparse shade.

“Mog, there are centaur out here and, trust me, they do not like humans. We will not make it until well after dark and I really don’t want to run into an angry pride.”

“How far?” Mog demanded, the first words he had spoken since that morning when they had finally climbed free of the clinging jungle and emerged among the red limestone escarpments of the sage lands.

“At least another four hours at this pace. Please stop.”

Mog drew to a halt on the dusty track, facing Ronan while concealing the disappointment percolating within him. He had hoped to see Maeve that evening. It had spurred him on despite hunger and exhaustion. But the monk was right. They needed to find a good camping place sheltered from the wind and unfriendly eyes.

“Alright, let’s get busy then,” Mog said grumpily. He left the track and nearly stepped into a semi-dry pile of centaur dung, only serving to emphasize how sensible Ronan was being. The centaur had come through here recently and that meant there was a good chance they might be back.

“We need to keep going. I’m not keen on staying in a centaur latrine.”

Ronan frowned as his gaze fell upon the offending spoor.

“Alright, another quarter mile maybe. But we need to hole up soon and I want a chance to chase off the snakes and scorpions before it gets dark.”

Mog nodded and hurried onward, one long stride for every two of Ronan’s. The poor monk huffed and puffed behind him but made no protest. The path narrowed as they wended between the rocky bluffs of a canyon. The air was heavy with moisture and foliage drew in close to their path. Water was a welcome sign after their dusty march.

In the last hour of sunlight they scouted the little canyon. There was a small pool and Mog noted that the cracked mud did not show any fresh signs of centaur or large predators. He resisted the urge to wade into the shallow. Ronan wisely refilled their flasks by dangling them from a long cord into the water while standing on a dry tussock of reeds. With only the two of them, it was important to leave no obvious signs of their presence that sentient creatures might use against them. They made a crude shelter behind a clutch of boulders. He helped Ronan create a screen of dry rushes that would hopefully camouflage them.

“Enjoy, this is the last of it,” Ronan said, his voice low as he handed Mog a few scraps of salt pork and a wedge of hard goat cheese. The two of them ate in silence as the sun retreated and left them in complete darkness. Mog stretched out on his back, his feet still within his boots and throbbing after the day’s long march. Ronan tossed and turned beside him, apologizing once for accidently kicking Mog. There was precious little space in their hiding place and now that it was dark, Mog felt mildly claustrophobic.

He would have preferred to lie beneath the stars. At least the beauty of the night sky might keep his thoughts from wandering to Maeve. Who was he kidding? Mog scowled and tried unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position on the stony ground. What if she was not at Harnavi? How would he ever find her? What if somehow word of what had happened had reached the village ahead of them? It was unbearable to imagine that his opportunity to be with her was slipping away. He hated feeling so powerless.

“Are you still awake?” Mog whispered.

“I would have thought after not sleeping the last couple nights you’d pass out.”

“Do you know anyone at Harnavi?”

“Yeah, I don’t think they’ll harm us if that’s what is troubling you. Now get some sleep,” Ronan said pointedly.

Mog fell silent. It was almost painful to think he was so exhausted. Even before he had started on this journey with Ronan he had not slept well. Come to think of it, he could not remember the last time he had laid in a proper bed with actual blankets and a pillow.

“Ugh, the last thing I need is to be homesick on top of everything else,” he thought miserably. Ronan stirred, sitting up to rummage through their bags in the dark. He heard what sounded like a cork being removed from a bottle.

“Take a couple swigs of this, it’ll help you sleep. And if it doesn’t I’ll knock you on the head with it. Either way, you’re sleeping tonight,” Ronan said peevishly.

Mog sat up and reached for the jug in the dark. It was the brandy he had purloined from the mess tent.

“I thought you poured it out to make way for more water.”

“I figured it would be a good bartering tool and I was not about to go marching beside a drunkard.”

“I’m hardly a drunkard for wanting a little brandy,” Mog pointed out angrily, “There’s not even enough in here to make me tipsy let alone knock me out.”

“Prove it.”

Mog tipped back the jug and took a long pull of the potent drink. It was unlike the fine brandies that Master Bei had treated him to. This had an almost syrupy quality and his first instinct was to spit it out. However, in his weariness, a more foolhardy and prideful part of him had taken control and he swallowed it. Almost immediately his face flushed and he felt giddy.

“It’s not exactly brandy,” Ronan said, “I’m not sure what’s in it, but usually it’s watered down first.”

“I see.”

“Well, good night,” Ronan whispered cheerfully as he corked the bottle and moved it aside.

~ *** ~

“Wake up! Come on!” Ronan whispered frantically, shaking him.

Mog peeled one eye open. His mouth tasted like an orchard had crawled inside it to die. He ground his teeth against a horrendous headache made worse by the bright light of late morning shafting down into their shelter. The terrified expression on the monk’s face was not improved by Mog’s condition. Mog swore at him. Of all the stupid things Ronan could possibly do, why in the name of the Five Gods had he convinced him to drink that horrible swill?

“White Mantle!” Ronan said, keeping his voice low, “They’re coming.”

Mog sat up as Ronan frantically gathered their few possessions.

“How far off?”

“We’ve got maybe a quarter of an hour. If they stop to replenish their water supplies we may be able to get a good lead on them. Come on.”

Mog seized his pack and hurried after Ronan. Why had the monk allowed him to sleep when they should have been away during the coolness of dawn? Even as they climbed out of the canyon and abandoned the lush foliage, he could hear the tramp of feet and the low murmur of conversation.

“Idiot monk,” he thought as he galloped after Ronan’s stout form. He barreled past the monk, heading for the shelter of scrub and boulders. His dark Tenebrae gear soaked up the searing heat of the sun and he was sweating profusely as a result. Ronan puffed loudly behind him, struggling to keep up and nearly slamming into Mog when he had reached the dense thicket of sage and madrone. The two of them moved at a half-crouch, threading between the snatching branches and rocks, glancing behind them to see if the White Mantle were in pursuit.

“Don’t suppose you can open a portal now?” Ronan wheezed when Mog paused to catch his breath after staggering down into a sage-choked arroyo. He glared at the man for making such a foolish comment only to follow his gaze down the dry water-course where the passage broadened. A small pride of centaur was drowsing in the shade of some tamarisk trees. In the dappled shade of the little thicket they formed a deceptively peaceful tableau. A pair of the muscular creatures was meditatively polishing their swords while another was examining its quiver of arrows. A jug of water or spirits was being passed between them. Two others were kneeling on the ground snoozing.

Mog swore and dropped slowly to his knees. Fortunately they were upwind of the centaurs. Each twitch of their large ears gave him pause and if the wind shifted they were doomed.

“They haven’t seen us,” Ronan whispered. Mog nodded, gesturing for the monk to be quiet. There was barely twenty paces of open ground between them. The best they could do was withdraw slowly into the brush clogging the mouth of the arroyo and hope their foes passed them by.

Slowly the two of them inched backwards like tortoises retreating into their shells. The only saving grace was that they were out of the sun and the increasing heat of the day was causing all creatures to slow down and hole up. Mog watched as the warm wind occasionally gusted to form little gyres of red dust. The hot breeze remained in their favor as the shrill of cicadas filled the air.

An hour passed. In silence the two of them watched the shadows lengthen as the sun rolled west. The wind died and the open space between them and the centaur shimmered with heat. Ronan pressed a water flask into Mog’s hands and he took a long pull from it.

“They’re moving,” Ronan whispered.

Mog idly wondered what would drive the creatures to leave the shade of the tamarisk grove. The hottest time of day was upon them. The centaur were all standing and facing toward Ronan and Mog.

“Pray they haven’t detected us,” Mog murmured. He felt naked under the animal gaze of the centaur. Their broad ears twitched and even though the air sizzled with heat, Mog could not help but notice how sharp their spikes, horns and weapons appeared. Anger vied with fear. He was so close to finding Maeve and it seemed an injustice to meet their end to a herd of savages.

One of the centaur raised its sword and bellowed a battle cry. As one, the creatures pounded over the hardpan, their hooves beating a staccato rhythm of dread. Mog braced himself, his mind instantly latching onto the nearest warrior, probing for weakness as a spell prowled behind clenched teeth. Then Ronan pressed down on him and the two of them lay on their bellies in the dirt as the centaur thundered past. Mog struggled to rise to meet his attackers but Ronan redoubled his efforts and lay on top of him, pressing Mog to the ground with sheer weight and determination. It was only then Mog realized the centaur had not seen them. They both choked on the plume of red dust as the creatures flew past them. Then, rising slowly to their feet to gaze over the lip of the arroyo, Mog saw that the creatures were galloping toward the approaching column of White Mantle.

“Thank you, Lyssa,” Mog whispered.

“And Dwayna,” Ronan chuckled, “I’m pretty sure she heard my prayers first.”

Mog smirked and picked up his pack. Ronan followed his example and the two of them trotted free of the arroyo. They crossed the sage specked plain, pausing only for a few moments to take water in what little shade they could find. The air boiled around them and at times it seemed that they were surrounded by wide expanses of lake as the sky was reflected in the eddies of heat. The only saving grace was that there was very little stirring at that time of day and their foes had clearly not noticed them slipping away. They walked slowly, each step exhausting, each step leading them closer to the welcoming shelter of hills and canyons. Remember Maeve, he told himself. He just had to keep moving.

There was no wind and even the cicadas had given up and grown silent. There was only the crunch of red dirt beneath their boots, the dry rasp of their breaths. Sweat streamed down his face and he blinked it away, never sparing a backward glance. Ronan staggered once beside him and he paused as the man rose miserably to his feet and drove himself onward. They both knew that staying put was not an option.

“Only a little further,” Mog coaxed, his voice no more than a rasp.

They reached the foot of the red sandstone cliffs after an hour or more of hard toil. Mog dropped wearily into the shade of some hoary old tamarisk trees and moaned. He was faintly aware of Ronan plopping down beside him as he panted, the world before his eyes swimming with dazzling colors. Gods, he would give anything for a pool of icy water. He closed his eyes as his heart thundered in his breast. Ronan nudged him.

“Drink,” the monk insisted.

Somehow he sat up with Ronan’s help and drained the stale water in the flask. It did little to quench his thirst.

“You look awful,” Ronan muttered. Mog looked blearily at the man with his matted fringe of black hair and beard and the peeling remnants of a sun burn on his tattooed pate.

“At least I wouldn’t scare small children.”

“Ha, you’d scare them and their mothers.”

“Got any other complements for the man who just saved your butt?” Ronan grumbled.

“Eh, thanks. I think.”

Ronan chuckled.

“It’s not far now. Unfortunately, we’re out of water and you should stay put until you’ve had more.”

“How far?” Mog demanded.

“A mile, maybe two. They’re on the other side of this ridge. If we are where I think we are, there’s a spring about a quarter of a mile off.”

Mog wanted to protest but his ability to think straight was severely hampered by a monstrous headache. Ronan opened the jug of spirits and poured some out on a rag.

“Put this on your head to cool you.”

Mog obediently did as he was instructed even though he was not keen on smelling like rotten fruit. Ronan uttered a prayer to his matron goddess and grew calm, his face placid as his body was suffused with the azure glow of healing energies. He laid a hand on Mog’s shoulder and repeated the prayer. In an instant the pain was gone.

“Thanks.”

Ronan nodded and rose to his feet.

“Think you can walk?”

“Yeah,” Mog said, clambering to his legs stiffly to prove that this was so. The two of them plodded along between steep walls of stone, grateful for the shade but worried about what might lie ahead. With so many twists and turns it was difficult to see what awaited them and neither of them was in any condition to flee. The narrow path curled down into another oasis. A faint odor of wood smoke sullied the air.

“Cook fires,” Ronan murmured, “We're close. Let me do the talking. They’re mistrustful of strangers, but Xian knows me. And let me handle asking them about Maeve.”

Mog nodded. The edges of the pool was pocked with tracks, betraying the visits of people and their livestock. There was even a little shrine carved in the red limestone near the shore. Within there was a crude figure made of reeds which he knew to represent Melandru. Nearby there was an offering of food that some ants were enjoying on the goddess’ behalf.

They must have looked like beggars as they emerged from the canyon and approached the rickety stone fence that enclosed the yard of the cliff dwelling villagers. Mog’s eyes followed the lines of the ladders trailing up mud brick walls one after another. Layer upon layer the homes were stacked up upon one another, clinging to the raw stone of the cliffs like swallow nests. The yard was swept but a small flock of fowl peck and scratched in the dust after scraps. Six grim figures strode slowly toward the gate with swords and bows drawn.

“We come in the spirit of friendship. In the name of Dwayna, let peace be between us,” Ronan said calmly, holding his palms open at his sides to show he had no weapon. Mog followed his example, “Please give my regards to Xian. Tell him that Brother Ronan seeks shelter under his roof.”

At the mention of Xian, the scowling figures relaxed and Mog sensed a shift in their psyches from fear to cautious relief. The gate was opened while one of the men departed to find Xian.

“Welcome, Brother Ronan. Who is your friend?”

“Mog Ruith,” Mog said when Ronan glanced at him and nodded.

“Ronan! You rotten excuse for a friend, where have you been?” said a voice in mock disappointment. Mog watched as a bony figure shambled toward them, his narrow arms held wide to embrace the monk. Xian’s pale flesh gleamed with the proud scars of a long ago injury. What little remained of his black hair stood up at an odd angle like ruffled feathers. The left side of his face remained almost untouched, adorned with an intricate tracery of old necromancer scars.

“Hello Xian,” Ronan said with genuine warmth. The two men withdrew and gazed upon one another thoughtfully, “How are you doing, my friend?”

“Better, but please, let us not waste time on idle pleasantries. I see you have come to us worn and weary. We’ll feast in your honor, but not until you’ve had your fill of water and a rest.”

Xian gazed upon Mog with his one remaining eye and offered a friendly bow which Mog returned in kind.

“Welcome, Mog Ruith. Any friend of Brother Ronan is a friend of mine.”

“Maeve?” Mog croaked despite the look of warning from Ronan, “Is she here?”

“Did Akemi send you to fetch her? We’ve been keeping her hidden and safe.”

“Yes,” Ronan replied quickly, “but first we need rest and I would beg a word with you alone.”

“Whatever you wish, my friend.”

Mog opened his mouth but Ronan’s expression caused him to remain silent. He would have to be content that Maeve was indeed here and hopefully comfortable and safe. And he would have to trust Ronan. Mog submitted to the kindness of the villagers, suffering himself to be led away to a little room on the ground floor of Xian’s house. A large basin of water was delivered for him to wash the filth of travel away and a pitcher was provided to slake his thirst. A plate of flatbread, goat cheese and fruit arrived and he ate it immediately, the cool water having awakened his hunger. Clean and clothed in the simple garments of his new allies, Mog lay back on the soft feather mattress and immediately slept.

After a while he fell into the sweetest of dreams. He was lying on his back beneath the dappled canopy of oak and birch. Moss was soft and cool beneath his back and there was a distant drone of festival pipes. He was in the walled garden of the temple were only the anointed were allowed to roam. He gazed up into a pair of beautiful gray eyes, intense with concern and love for him.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered as he extended his hand toward her. She closed her eyes and smiled, lowering her face so that her glossy black hair cascaded past her shoulders and brushed his arm. Her full lips kissed his fingers and she took his hand and pressed it gently against her cheek.

“Sleep, my love, you are weary and your journey has been difficult.”

“My journey does not end until I find you.”

He did not want to lose the dream and he clung to her hand, drawing her back to him as she attempted to rise.

“Stay with me, please,” he pleaded. Maeve smiled serenely and sat down beside him. With her free hand she stroked his face slowly, her fingers dancing through his hair. Mog stared up at her, trying to remember every detail of a face known only to his fingers and lips. She was a vision of perfection, a goddess and queen.

“O Lyssa, I would willingly die of happiness gazing upon you.”

Maeve laughed, a sound so pure and tender, he felt a pang of grief knowing he might never hear it again.

“It’s alright,” she soothed, then lowered her face to kiss his forehead, “You’re exhausted, my love. Let sleep restore you.”

“Don’t leave,” he pleaded when she tried once more to rise.

“You drive a difficult bargain,” she chided gently. To his delight, she nestled beside him. Mog closed his eyes to revel in feel of her warm and vital beside him. He clung to her as if she might vanish, as if the beautiful dream would end. Once more he whispered words of adoration into her ears, nuzzling her cheek and neck until exhaustion and happiness vied for his attention.

Mog finally awakened in the quiet before evening. There was a toothsome aroma of roasted meat and freshly baked bread mingling with the sharp tang of the native sage and brush. He opened his eyes to the placid duskiness of his little room, aware that he was not alone.

“Maeve?” he whispered, afraid to disturb her while she slept so peacefully beside him. He rolled slowly onto his side to spoon her, his cheek pressed against the silky fineness of her long black hair. He began to doubt that he was awake as he recalled the dream.

“Good evening, my love,” she replied sweetly. He could not help himself. Overwhelmed by gratitude, joy and sadness, he squeezed her tightly and rained kisses upon her shoulder. He had no words for how badly he had missed her, how their time apart had been an eternity of despair. Slowly she rolled over to face him and her hand entwined his fingers.

“Don’t be sad,” she whispered as she dried the tears from his face, “We cannot change the past no matter how it pains us.”

“I thought I had lost you again,” he stammered, “All this time and you were alive and I never sought for you, did not even realize it was you when we were together once more. I feel like a fool.”

Maeve hushed him and laid a kiss upon his brow.

“You knew it was me all along,” he continued, the words tumbling from his mouth unbidden, “Why did you never tell me?”

He looked away, realizing he was afraid of the answer.

“You had moved on, you were happy, that was enough for me. I was from another world. I loved you during a time of innocence. How could such a delicate thing have survived into these times?”

“But I vowed always to return to you.”

“And you have,” she whispered.