A/N: Okay… sorry this took a bit longer than the others, but I didn't have it started before I finished the last chapter—which is how I was doing the last ones, like before I uploaded Chapter One, I already had a few pages of Two, and so forth and so on. But you don't care how I write these bloody things, do you? You just care that I do. Or… not. shrugs Hey, at least I like it, and that matters. Well… it matters that you guys—and lassies—like it too. I love it when people review my stories, and they like it too. They feel loved then. Oh, and Ara, thanks for pointing out my stupidity—no, I'm actually not being sarcastic here—about Abriel… but that's why I set it after the Sapphire Rose and before the Tamuli.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of David Eddings characters. I own, in some sort of strange way, perhaps, Bevier's mother, Tsaran, Caedryn, and whoever or whatever may appear in this story that isn't found in those wonderful books.

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Chapter Three

It was a week and a half into his ride to Pelosia, Bevier was startled to see Ulath and Kalten ride up to him, grins plastered on their faces.

"What brings you two out here?" the Arcian asked.

"Someone needs to keep an eye on you," Kalten answered. Bevier's face flushed a bit with anger.

"I can take care of myself quite nicely, Sir Kalten," he said calmly as his rising anger would allow. "The fact that I'm the youngest Champion of the orders doesn't mean a wit. I am the Cyrinic Champion, after all, and I didn't get to be it by hiding behind anyone else," he said, probably more heatedly than he intended.

"What my dim-witted friend here is failing to say, is that we had nothing better to do, and we caught word that you were going to investigate this so called "new order" of knights in Pelosia, so we took it upon ourselves to join you. Kalten was just trying to be clever, and, well, we all know how good he is at doing that," Ulath drawled sarcastically.

Kalten looked hurt. "I was just trying to make a joke," he replied.

"They key word being 'trying'," the Genidian told him.

Bevier's anger faded in an instant, replaced with embarrassment. His face flushed more as he lowered his eyes. "Sorry," he mumbled, but neither of the other two men heard him; they were busy arguing about whether or not Kalten should have brought two flasks of ale or four.

"I'm telling you, if I would have brought only two, we'd be out in a flash!"

"And four's going to make a difference? Two would have been less to carry. If you'd get your mind away from alcohol for even a minute, it might make looking for things easier, and you'd have a whole hell of a lot less headaches," Ulath retorted, the three men urging their horses back into motion once more.

"You drink as much as I do sometimes!"

"Sometimes, Kalten. Sometimes. Besides, I'm bigger than you, if even by a little, and I can take a lot of alcohol. What do you think Wargun did all the time? He was never seen without a flask."

Bevier didn't say anything as they travelled, and Ulath and Kalten kept up a steady stream of words. He had expected to go on this alone. It would have given him time to think—not that he didn't like Ulath and Kalten's company, but he wasn't sure if he wanted it at the moment or not. At least they would keep his thoughts from wandering to his mother's looming death too much. In any case, they were going to accompany him whether he wanted them to or not; he would have to deal with it.

They stopped for the night just outside the Pelosian border. If they had felt like it, the three knights could have gone into Pelosia and camped there, but none of them were in any real hurry. So Bevier and Kalten went about setting up their camp while Ulath went in search of a stream. As they all sat around the fire a bit later, Kalten, before he grasped what he was asking, said:

"Ulath, who's turn is it to cook?"

Bevier busied himself with making a spit to hide his smile. Kalten realised what he had asked and gritted his teeth.

"Yours," Ulath replied with a grin.

"Can't I get out of it?"

"Nope. You asked; you get to cook."

Bevier looked up at gave Ulath a pained look. "Are you sure you want to make him cook?" Ulath thought that over.

"You're right. You can cook."

"Hey!" Bevier and Kalten said at the same time.

The big Thalesian shrugged. "Kalten, your cooking is the worst I've ever tasted, and Bevier, you haven't cooked for a while and you asked. That's the way things work."

"I knew I shouldn't have let you two join me," the young Arcian said grouchily, standing to go hunt for their dinner. Ulath noted that and held a dead rabbit up by its feet.

"I found it half dead by the stream," he explained. "So I finished it and brought it back." Bevier took the rabbit from the Genidian and took out some bread and cheese from his pack, starting to cook their meal. He sighed.

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Darkness shrouds the sky, cloaks his sight. He hears his mother screaming; he hears a man's laughter, joined soon after by other voices. He cries out, grasping blindly in the blackness, trying to reach his mother, but he can't see her. She sounds too far out of his reach, and he can't seem to move. A sharp pain sears through his back, from right shoulder blade to left hip. He feels wetness seep out of his skin, rolling down his back, staining the thin tunic he wears. He calls out "Mother!" again as another piercing sting rips through his body, although he cannot tell from where this time. It feels as though he is made entirely of pain, and therefore is not capable of pinpointing the place of new pain. This repeats over and over as he still cries out for his mother; he can still hear her terrified shrieks. Then, they stop, abruptly. This frightens him more so than her screams. He struggles in vain against the invisible bonds holding him, and—

"Bevier!" Kalten shook him awake. "You were yelling in your sleep." The big Pandion sat back on his heels as Bevier sat up, his breath short and ragged and his body covered in a cold sweat. "Did you have a nightmare?" Kalten asked him.

The Arcian took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Of sorts. I'm fine now." He opened his eyes and looked at Kalten. "I'll take over your watch since I'm already up." He got to his feet and stretched, unwrapping himself from his cloak. "Did you find a good spot?"

The Pandion nodded. "Underneath those branches over there," he answered, motioning. "I made a nice little niche in the ground, and it's actually quite comfortable."

"Kalten?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and go to sleep." Bevier grunted a little and worked his way into the slightly larger niche that Kalten had created in the ground. The Pandion was a bit bigger than himself, so the little hole was roomy, and, surprisingly, as Kalten had said, comfortable.

As he sat and watched the nightly goings of the forest animals, he reflected on his dream. What could it mean? He knew that his mother was going to die, much as he didn't like to admit it. But she was going to die peacefully, her servants would see to that. But… he had been in his dream as well, and he had been tied down and tortured. Bevier shook his head. As far as he knew, he hadn't insulted anyone so much as to make them want to bring him harm lately. But then again, it could be a precognitive dream. The Cyrinic shook his head as the sun started to break through the edge of the forest; they weren't camped too far from the border of trees, so he was able to see through the moderately dense foliage. Whatever reason he had had that dream for, he was in the hands of God, and it was up to Him to decide if the dream meant something significant or not. He would have to meditate on it sometime.

His thoughts turned to Aphrael. She had come to him—rather, he had been summoned to her—to tell him of the rumoured new order of knights, but she hadn't told him very much about them. The Child Goddess had told Bevier that the knights were from a different world—a preposterous idea—and that they were unlike the knights he now knew of. Again, he found that hard to swallow. Ulath stirred behind him, halting any more thoughts on reflecting Bevier might have had.

The young Arcian turned to his companion, who was now sitting and stretching his massively muscled limbs. Bevier smiled warmly.

"Good morning," he said.

"What's so good about it?" Ulath grumbled, glaring at him sleepily. "I've just slept on hard, cold, wet ground, and on rocks, and I don't really feel like moving." Bevier made no mention of the countless other times the Thalesian must have gone through this; it didn't seem like the best idea at the moment.

"Well," Kalten said as he returned from washing up at the stream. Bevier hadn't noticed he was gone. "You're just a ray of sunshine this morning, aren't you?"

"Shut. Up." Kalten laughed at his friend's hostility.

"What's for breakfast?" he asked. Ulath groaned.

"Don't you think of anything but your stomach?"

"Well, there's always pretty girls," Kalten said, implying much more with his tone and expression.

Ulath actually grinned a bit. "You've got me there."

Bevier, who had taken it upon himself to cook breakfast, flushed furiously and kept his eyes trained on the cooking food.

"We need to find him a wife," Kalten said to Ulath. The big Genidian nodded.

"A nice young virgin would do him a world of good."

"Are you sure you want to give him a virgin? Neither might not know what to do," Kalten mused.

"You're right." Ulath paused to think on this. "Maybe a nice, young… worldly woman instead."

"Didn't Sparhawk meet one in Cimmura?"

"Why, yes, I do believe he mentioned something of the sort at one point."

Their conversation stopped as Bevier cut it, red to the roots of his hair.

"That's quite enough," he said shortly. "I am right here, you know."

"Oh, why so you are," Kalten said, feigning surprise.

"We thought you might get some ideas," Ulath added, albeit innocently.

Bevier was about to retort hotly when all three knights froze. Bevier glanced at Ulath and Kalten, the latter of who mouthed,

'Did you hear that?'

The Arcian slowly nodded, his hand straying to his Lochaber handle, just as Ulath and Kalten reached for their respective weapons, each careful not to make sudden movements.

As if sprouting from the trees themselves, at least twenty men leapt into the knights' encampment. They were armed with battered, second-hand, and entirely deadly weapons, along with mismatched armour. The brigands beset the knights with a battle cry. The church knights whipped out their weapons and counterattacked. It was a bloody battle, as they tend to be, and even though Ulath had seemed half-asleep a mere moment before, he was more than alert now, his great axe felling men with nearly every swing. Kalten was hacking away at two men, and Bevier was kept busy with two or three men who were determined to end his existence.

After the knights had extinguished the lives of at least half of the brigands, the rest turned and fled. Bevier, caught up in the heat of battle, which, stacked upon his fervour, caused him to whistle for Caedryn and swing up in the saddle, brandishing his bloody Lochaber. He didn't hear the calls of his brother knights, and rode off after the fleeing brigands, a war cry of his own in his lips. Ulath and Kalten ran after him a bit, but Bevier outdistanced them quickly.

"Ah, let him go. He needs the release of killing people. Keeps his mind off all that religion," Ulath said, dismissing the young Arcian with a motion of his hand.

"You're right. He'll come back when he's sure they're good and dead." Kalten's face brightened a bit evilly. "Maybe he'll do that praying thing again after. Remember when he did that at the Basilica all those years ago?"

The massive Thalesian nodded, cleaning off his axe. "I remember, though I'm not to sure he will. He's shrewder than he looks, and that was done a lot for show. He just might, however. If he leaves anyone alive," he added a bit darkly, scrutinizing the edge of his weapon. He sighed. "I just sharpened it, too," he said to no one in particular.

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Bevier flew through the forest, chasing the brigands with his vicious axe raised. He didn't see it coming because of his battle-sight, which was focused entirely on the ending of his attackers' lives. Of course, this was the effect they had been hoping for. The young Cyrinic didn't even hear the familiar sound of stone whistling through the air. At least, he didn't know about it until it hit him in the back of the head. If he had been wearing his helmet, it wouldn't have really been a problem—he would have been jarred at most—but he wasn't dressed in his armour; they had just woken up and there hadn't been any time for such precautions. But Bevier was spared such thoughts as his vision flickered in and out, and consciousness slipped from his grasp.

The attackers watched the knight slump over his horse, though the loss of consciousness didn't make him lose his grip on that axe. They closed in on the still-trotting horse—Caedryn knew something was amiss—just before they heard the sound of leathery wings slicing through the air.

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At nightfall, Kalten looked around the camp for about the millionth time. "Shouldn't he be back by now?" he asked, referring to their missing companion.

"Maybe he decided he didn't like your cooking," Ulath said, poking at their food.

"I wasn't even cooking! He was!"

"Maybe he wanted to leave. Stop clucking like a mother hen, Kalten. Bevier's a big boy; he can take care of himself."

The Pandion knight folded his arms over his chest and glared at his Genidian brother.

"You're very aggravating, do you know that?"

"I've been told so a few times," Ulath replied calmly, picking up a small wooden bowl and dumping some of what he had cooked into it. He handed it to Kalten. "Enjoy," he said with a completely straight face.

Kalten looked disdainfully at the brownish-grey lump oozing to fill the bowl in his hands.

"I hate you," he told Ulath. The Thalesian grinned wickedly at him.

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Morning came slowly and haphazardly through the leaves of the canopy above Bevier. It spilled down over his sleeping face, making his olive-hued skin seemed enamelled with gold. He made a noncommittal noise and shifted a bit, his face scrunching with pain. Opening his dark eyes only to squeeze them shut again, he rolled over onto his side and curled up. His mind refused to let him go, however, now that it had been jolted awake by pain and sunlight. It was morning when he had left the camp, but he was asleep again. Was he knocked out? Where were the others? Where was his horse? Where was he, for that matter? He sat up, too quickly, and was forced to lie down again, or pass out from the pain. Blood rushed from his head, blanching his face a bit, and he shivered with the tingling heat the aching hurt caused him. Pushing the torrent of questions the floodgate of his mind had allowed entrance to, he slowly sat up, wincing a bit, and gazed at his surroundings.

He was in a camp of some kind, though not his. There were large marks on the ground across a blackened fire pit that he couldn't figure out the source of at the moment, and scuffs along the ground beside him, as if he had been dragged there. He rubbed the back of his neck tenderly and felt a lump the size of a goose's egg on the back of his head and grimaced, one eye closed. He remembered being hit with something solid—probably a rock—before he had passed out.

Ah, a voice said in his mind. You're awake. It sounded like smoke curling through the air would, if that had a sound, with the gentlest undertone of a rumble.

He glanced around for the source, and his gaze came to rest on a burgundy scaled beast of magnificence. The fact that it wasn't supposed to exist didn't seem to be bothering it. Bevier's eyes widened a bit, and his mouth hung open just before he fell back again, his eyes closing once more. The dragon shook its head a bit, its silvery eyes watching the Cyrinic with amusement as he settled down across the fire from the knight, on the giant marks, evidently made by its claws.