At the Queen_s command

The wind hit them immediately, driving them south toward the shore and the fortress. Owen had intended to go north and cut around the same route he'd taken to reach the fortress originally, but the wind made that impossible. They turned the canoe to the southeast and paddled hard. They heard nothing but the wind, which is why when the first cannon ball splashed beside them, it came as a complete surprise. Only after the second and third hit did a momentary lull in the wind let him hear a cannon's dying roar. They had drifted perilously close to the fortress.

Du Malphias does have a way to track me. His mind immediately flashed to the symbol du Malphias had cut into his shackle's bronze bolts. It had not been to mark Owen as chattel. It had been to allow du Malphias to locate him.

Owen looked back over his shoulder. "We have to go out and get past the river. We have to do it now. He knows where we are."

Quarante-neuf dug his paddle deep. The canoe surged forward. Another cannon ball sprayed water over them, but the pasmorte ignored the danger. Owen bent to the task of paddling, trying to match the pasmorte 's strength, but it took his utmost to keep the canoe headed deeper into the lake.

As the cannon balls splashed behind them, Owen surrendered a little to the wind and sent the canoe toward the southeast shore, just beyond the Roaring River outlet. The wind began to slacken, and Owen laughed aloud. "Just when we could use its push!"

Quarante-neuf laughed as well, for the very first time in Owen's memory. An aborted sound, like a burp from a child who has realized that burping was not allowed in polite company. The pasmorte broke his paddling rhythm, then laughed again, a bit longer. Owen looked back, reading surprise and a hint of delight on his companion's face.

"It's a good laugh, my friend. Let it out."

"I will. I remember laughing. I liked it."

Suddenly the wind died. Clouds cracked enough to allow moonlight to ignite the snow. The fortress menaced from atop its hill. Owen swore he could see a tall, slender man pacing the walls, but something else urged him to paddle with renewed vigor.

Behind them, in two large, broad boats the Tharyngians called batteaux, two dozen soldiers pursued them. A man in the lead boat stood and shouted, then raised a musket and fired. He moved too easily to be a pasmorte, but the tireless repetition of the oarsmen's strokes suggested they were.

"Make for shore. We need cover."

The two of them paddled harder, fervently wishing the wind would rise again. It didn't. Their hunters took turns shooting. As the two of them reached the shore, one ball skipped off the water and holed the canoe. Water gushed, but it didn't matter. Quarante-neuf's powerful strokes drove the canoe up onto the shore with such force that stones ripped the bottom out.

Another ball ricocheted off a rock as Owen scrambled to the treeline. Tharyngians shouted orders, looking for a place to beach their boats. Quarante-neuf shot past Owen, then grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him further into the woods. Keeping the lake on their left, they plunged into the forest, seeking hollows to work their way up and in while remaining hidden.

They fought through deep drifts. The sound of pursuit came quickly. "They must have snowshoes." Quarante-neuf shoved Owen up to the crest of a small hill. "Go, I will delay them."

"No, I can't make it without you." Owen stood and turned, then a musket barked. A ball caught him in the left flank, pitching him backward. He spun, slammed into a tree, then started tumbling down the hillside.

Owen reached the bottom, new pain rippling through him. The bullet had only caught flesh and maybe a little muscle, but smashing into the tree had stunned him. Stars evaporated from his eyes, but the forest took on an odd quality. The snow had tinges of green and hints of deep blue. Stones began to shift shape and trees began to part. To the south a whole avenue opened, welcoming him.

Two more gunshots and Quarante-neuf crashed down beside him. "How bad, Captain?"

"I will live. Did they hit you?"

"Once, in the stomach." The pasmorte spasmed, as if to vomit, then spat the bullet into his hand. "It is nothing."

"We have to go." Owen struggled to get up. "South, there, can you see it?"

The pasmorte nodded. "The winding path. It will kill us."

"But it will not return us to du Malphias."

Quarante-neuf pulled Owen up. "Then the winding path it is."

Chapter Forty-Two

October 15, 1763

Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia

N athaniel would have laughed had the situation not been dire. With snowshoes strapped to his feet, Makepeace sailed down the hillside, taking huge long steps and leaps. His bear robe, which he'd peeled down to the waist, had sleeves flopping, making the man look like a four-armed nightmare creature.