What's the point of counting days anymore? I'm no longer a captive, so it makes little sense to still count the days of my captivity. Meanwhile, I can count on one hand the number of morphs who remain free in the fort. And by now, that number may have fallen to zero.

It took Mark a good ten heartbeats to register what Gavin had said. It only took five for Gavin to appear at his side, grabbing his arm. "What are you waiting for?" he growled, glaring at Mark. "We need to go before—"

He suddenly yanked Mark's arm, sending the tactician stumbling toward the window—just in time, as Mark felt his trousers catch on the tip of a blade. He looked over his shoulder to see Luther striking from where they knelt on the ground, the morph's face impassive. Gavin glided behind the rider, flipping his blade over in his hand, and struck Luther in the back of the neck with the handle. Luther collapsed again, this time without a sound.

"—Before that happens," Gavin growled. He knelt, checking Luther's pulse. "They'll be all right. At least they won't be raising the alarm this way."

Mark finally gathered enough wits to shut his mouth, which had been hanging open since Gavin threw the first knife. "What are you doing?"

Gavin glared at him. "What kind of question is that? I'm trying to save you. Do you want to argue about it, or do you want to survive?"

He didn't exactly want to argue about it. He quickly joined Gavin, who was already starting back toward the window. "Sorry," he said. "I'm just… confused."

Gavin grunted. "When I realized nearly everyone in the fort had reverted, it didn't take long to figure out Peleus was causing it. I listened in to discern his plans. I was hoping to figure out a way to stop him, but when I heard him say it was time to move on Cassandra, I knew you'd be in danger. I had to get you out." He glanced at Mark. "Not to sound prudish, but if you'd slept in your own quarters last night, we'd be riding out the gate by now."

Mark barely remembered to blush. "But why save me?"

"Because we're friends, you blistering idiot."

Mark could only gape at him once more. Gavin leaned out the window, glancing around. "Street's clear, for now. Peleus and his entourage will be heading in the opposite direction. This is our chance." He glanced back at Mark. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Mark replied, forcing his jaw to close. "I just… thank you."

Gavin went first, showing Mark the handholds he used on the way down. It was slow going for the tactician to scramble down the stones of the wall, but it was quieter and less painful than just jumping would have been. He wondered belatedly if he should have left his bag behind, but the idea of leaving his diary when he was already losing everything else seemed unthinkable. By the time he reached the ground, Gavin had already scouted the surrounding alleys. "This way," he said, motioning down a path.

Mark followed after. They reached the end of the alley, and Gavin held up his hand. "Street's not clear," he muttered, peering around the corner.

Mark pursed his lips. "I wish I'd grabbed my cloak. It'd be easier to move around if—"

Gavin was already gone. Mark barely had time to be surprised before he heard a distant thud and a muffled cry. Gavin reappeared, tossing a black cloak at him. "I know it's not your color," he whispered, "but it'll be harder to recognize you this way. You're lucky most of us wear cloaks."

Mark stared at the cloak uncertainly. "Whose..."

"You're better off not knowing."

That was probably true. Mark pulled on the cloak, and the two of them moved out into the street. After getting used to the bustle of the fort, the street seemed shockingly empty. No morphs going about their daily business, no circles of gossip, no carts trundling through. He wasn't sure why Gavin had said it wasn't clear, until he spotted the guards at the end of the street. He didn't recognize their faces from here, and hopefully they wouldn't recognize him. He could still feel their gazes drilling into him until Gavin gave him a surreptitious nudge and they started down another side street.

"Your walk is all wrong," the assassin hissed.

Mark almost stopped in the alley. "My walk?"

"Shoulders square, long strides, eyes forward. A morph moves with purpose, only looking around as needed to avoid obstacles and evaluate potential threats. If they see you glancing around like a nervous squirrel, they'll know you're not one of them."

Mark didn't dare argue. He did his best to emulate Gavin's stride, keeping his directions in mind as they continued down the street. "What's the plan?" he asked quietly.

"Rescue the tactician and have him figure something out," Gavin replied. He glanced at his companion with a shrug. "That's as far as I got."

"Of course." Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right. We don't stand a chance against Peleus if we don't—"

A fireball exploded against the bricks on his left. Mark instinctively threw himself to the ground, looking up to see Gavin drawing blades and whirling around. A silhouette stood at the street's entrance, a figure with one arm extended and a tome held open in the other. Wind whipped at the bottom of the morph's cloak—no, not a cloak; a dress.

Gavin went still. "No."

Ellain strode forward, holding out her arm. The scowl on her face sent ice shooting through Mark's veins. "Surrender, Gavin," she called. "Hand him over."

Gavin positioned himself between the Mark and Ellain as the tactician scrambled to his feet. "I can't do that," he called. Mark noted the waver in the assassin's voice.

Fire blossomed to life around Ellain's hand. "Last chance," she said warningly. "I don't want to hurt you."

Gavin paused at those words. "You don't?" he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

Her brow furrowed. "Of course I don't. But I can't let you hurt Mark, either."

Mark could almost see the tension slip from Gavin's shoulders. The assassin slipped his blades back into their sheaths. "You're still you," he said in a cracked voice.

Ellain wavered, and dropped her hand. "You're… still you?"

He nodded, and she was upon him an instant later, arms around his neck, body trembling. "I thought I was the last," she sobbed. "I thought..."

Mark felt the urge to look away as Gavin gingerly returned her embrace. "You're not," he whispered back. "You're not the last." He looked over at Mark. "Now we are three."

Nobody else seemed to have heard the brief confrontation with Ellain, nor the tears shed afterward—even Gavin couldn't help a few sobs. Mark leaned against a wall, considering the situation, as Gavin and Ellain spoke nearby in hushed tones. Mark couldn't help but steal the occasional glance at them; it was obvious Gavin was besotted with Ellain, but her feelings toward him were harder to pin down. She had her hands on his shoulders, looking down as she spoke. Whatever she said made Gavin stiffen, eyes wide. "No," he said, loud enough for Mark to hear. "No, I won't—I can't—"

She put a hand on his cheek, and he stilled. She whispered to him, tears forming in each of their eyes. Mark suddenly realized he'd been staring, and forced himself to look away—but not before he saw Gavin give a slow, reluctant nod. When he looked back, they were approaching him, hand in hand. "Sorry for the delay," Ellain said, wiping away a tear. "We're ready."

As much as Mark wanted to know what they'd discussed, they had more pressing matters. He immediately pushed for rescuing Cassandra, both for emotional and practical reasons; freeing her was the fastest and surest way to undo Peleus's entire plan. Unfortunately, he eventually had to admit it was beyond them. "Peleus will have her heavily guarded," Gavin pointed out. "Even if he doesn't know you escaped, he'd still want to ensure Cassandra couldn't break free."

"We have to save her," Mark replied, even knowing he was losing the battle.

"We will," Ellain promised. "But not right away. We need help first."

Fortunately, there was help to be found. As Mark had surmised, Peleus's morphs had been reverting others, continuing his work even as he rested. There was nobody left but Gavin, Ellain, Cassandra—and Grace.

"Peleus has had full access to Grace," Mark said slowly when Gavin first brought it up. "Do you really believe he hasn't turned her yet?"

"I know he hasn't." Gavin resumed walking, heading back toward Mark's building. "I overheard him talking to the other healers; he'd already reverted them, but still needed to draw on their knowledge. Since morphs were never able to conceive until after Cassandra freed us—years after, for that matter—he believes the same thing you do, that freeing our minds must have affected our bodies."

Ellain gasped softly. "And if he reverts Grace while she's pregnant..."

Gavin nodded grimly. "There's no telling what would happen to the child. They talked over a dozen potential outcomes before Peleus decided it wasn't worth the risk. He intends to keep Grace under guard until she delivers."

"But… why does Peleus even want the child to live?" Mark asked. "Doesn't pregnancy go against all the 'true purpose' stuff he's going on about?"

Gavin shrugged. "I don't know. And I don't think we want to know."

Ellain nodded grimly. "I can get us into the infirmary. Pregnant or not, Grace is a powerful magician. She can help us—and whatever Peleus's plans, we certainly can't let him have her."

Mark's hands curled into fists. "If she's also under guard, then—"

"I know what you're going to say," Gavin said softly, "but the situation's different. Peleus has underestimated Grace. He has guards on the infirmary, and healers keeping an eye on her inside. Cassandra is guarded by some of the strongest morphs in the fort."

Mark squeezed his eyes shut. The tactical decision was obvious, and even he had to admit it.

Saving Grace didn't make up for not being able to save Cassandra, but it was at least something they could do. Still, there was one more target they needed to acquire if they were going to save everyone.

"We can't do a thing without the red book," Ellain murmured.

"We can't do a thing with the red book," Mark pointed out. "Only Cassandra knew how to read the code."

Gavin pursed his lips. "True, but she learned on her own. With time, we could do the same."

"Perhaps," Ellain ventured, "we could even seek a little scholarly help?"

Gavin stiffened, and it took Mark a moment to understand why. "Wait," the tactician said, "are you saying we should go to Ostia?"

"I'm saying we must go to Ostia," Ellain said. "Besides the three of us and two captives, Peleus has the entire fort under his thumb. Even with the book, we're not going to be able to free everyone without help."

Mark nodded. "My letter's due today. Whoever Hector sent as a messenger, we can meet up with them, enlist their aid, and at least make it to the outpost, if not Ostia proper."

"The humans will kill all of us first," Gavin muttered.

"No," Mark replied firmly. "I won't let them."

Gavin met his gaze. "Do you really think you can stop them?"

"Yes." The conviction with which he spoke surprised even him. "If I promise you protection, Hector will honor it. I swear."

Both morphs looked at him a moment, then at each other. "All right," Ellain said softly. "Then we have our targets."

"All we need is a plan." Gavin turned to look at Mark.

They both did.

"Right," he muttered. "Tactician." He cleared his throat. "Here's what I'm thinking..."

Ten minutes later, Ellain hauled a bruised and bloodied Mark up the steps to the infirmary. He stumbled along after her, wincing at the rope bound tight around his wrists. Two guards stood by the infirmary door, members of Amora's squad. They drew their weapons when they spotted Mark—and immediately sheathed them when they met Ellain's eyes. Mark couldn't blame them. The few glares she'd shot him on the way over had been searingly cold; her eyes were like twin golden daggers, with no sign of the woman he once knew reflected in their blades.

Ellain stopped a few paces before the door, tugging on the rope to make Mark trip up the stairs. "I've caught the human," she sneered. "He needs healing. I was a little… rough with him."

The guard on the left frowned. "Peleus said to kill him."

"Peleus!" Ellain snapped. "Peleus is—" She paused, taking a breath, and put on a sweet smile. "Peleus has his heart in the right place, but he's exhausted after restoring morphs all night. Not thinking straight. This human presents the same problem he always has: killing him means bringing the Lycian League down on our heads."

"But Peleus wants—"

"He wants to fight them, of course," Ellain replied, waving her hand. "But not before we're ready. Don't worry, I'll straighten it out with him when he wakes." She glanced at Mark, and her smile vanished. "In the meantime, I'm taking him to be healed. His face is offensive enough without blood smeared all over it."

Mark withered under her gaze. The morphs cast a glance at each other, then stepped aside, the one on the left opening the door for her. "As you command," he said.

Ellain strode through, tugging Mark along behind her. They swept through the darkened hallway; only when the door slammed did Ellain drop the rope, falling to her knees and hugging herself tightly. "Gods," she whispered, body shaking. "I hate this part of myself."

Mark wrested his hands free of the bonds, which Ellain had tied to look convincing, but come free easily with a good twist of the wrists. He laid one hand on Ellain's shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to do that," he whispered back.

She looked up at him, and forced a smile onto her face. He felt a surge of relief at seeing her eyes back to normal. She's so good at playacting, she could very well be reverted already. She could be steering Gavin and I into a trap.

He didn't believe the thought, but he couldn't dismiss it either.

"Well, I suppose I shouldn't be complaining," Ellain said, brushing herself off and starting to rise. "You're the one who had to get punched."

Mark grimaced. "True," he said, gingerly touching his face. "I didn't think you had to make it quite so hard, though."

"Sorry," she said, checking his face. "Gavin could have probably done a better job, but he made it clear he didn't want to hit you." She patted his cheek. "Guess he likes you."

Because we're friends, you blistering idiot.

"Guess so," Mark said with a grimace. "Maybe Grace will heal me after we get out of here."

Ellain squared her shoulders. "Then let's get to it."

Mark remained hidden in the doorway, watching quietly as Ellain marched into the infirmary proper. There were five healers, all reverted, clustered in the corner of the room. Two of them had light tomes tucked under their arms, keeping one eye on Grace in case she tried to escape. Grace herself was lying in one of the beds, unrestrained, but the way her eyes darted around the room told Mark she was on the lookout for any means of escape.

Each pair of golden eyes snapped to Ellain as she entered, but she waved them away. "I need to interrogate her," she said briskly.

"About what?" one of them asked.

Ellain glared at them. "If you needed to know that, you would." She snatched a handful of staves off the rack on the wall, seemingly at random, and crossed the room to Grace's bed wearing her sweetest, deadliest smile. "And how are we today, dear?"

Grace sat up a little, eyeing both Ellain and the fire tome she still carried. "Ellain," she said softly, "this isn't you. Fight it." Mark flinched at the hoarseness in her voice; she must have been making similar arguments all day.

"Oh, but it is me," Ellain said, raising her nose. Mark only caught the waver in her voice because he was listening for it. "The real me. The me I was always meant to be." She positioned herself between Grace and the other healers, shielding her from their view, and carefully held out one of the staves. "I think you know what to do with this," she whispered.

Grace's eyes widened a hair; she didn't look down at the staff, nor did she ask what was going on. Mark let out a relieved breath as she took it and gave Ellain a slow nod. The other woman returned the nod, then spun, thrusting an identical staff toward the cluster of healers. "Sleep!" she commanded.

"Sleep," Grace rasped at the same time, her own staff glowing to life alongside Ellain. The two morphs holding the tomes dropped immediately. Mark's fists clenched with triumph. Sleep staves were notoriously unreliable when used on an unwilling target, but in the hands of users as skilled as Ellain and Grace, they still packed a punch.

The three remaining healers sprang into action almost immediately, two of them diving for the fallen tomes while the third ran for the door, already shouting for the guards outside. The sleep staves flared up again, but only one morph fell, the other managing to scoop up a tome and flip it open. Ellain twisted out of the way of a burst of concentrated light; Grace could only roll to the opposite side of the bed.

The morph running for the entrance reached the doorway, where he met Mark's fist. The healer stumbled back, nose bleeding. Mark cracked his knuckles, grinning; it felt good to finally, finally draw blood from an opponent. "That's right," he said, raising his fists once more. "Try calling for help with a broken nose."

The morph swung a staff at him, and Mark barely jumped back in time. "Or you could do that," he admitted.

Across the room, Ellain had dropped the staff and snapped open her own tome. Fire balls and light beams streaked across the room at each other. Grace, cowering behind her bed, raised her staff once more. "Sleep," she growled. "Sleep already." At last, the morph crumpled, tome spilling to the floor. Grace spun toward Mark, and the staff flared one last time; the morph he was fighting fell to the ground mid-swing, staff clattering away on the stones.

Mark slowly lowered his fists, finding he was panting. "Thanks," he said to Grace.

She cast the staff aside; its gem had gone dull, indicating its charge was spent. She rose to her feet, one hand under her swollen stomach. "I didn't think anyone would come," she whispered.

Ellain seized her in an embrace, maneuvering around her belly. "Then you don't know us very well."

Grace pulled away, looking over Mark. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, actually," Mark replied, rubbing his bruised cheek. "This is from Ellain."

Grace frowned, going to get a heal staff from the wall. "What did he do?" she asked as she began healing his face.

"Nothing," Ellain laughed. She went to the cabinet, taking out a few bottles. "But I had to rough him up a bit to convince the guards I was on their side."

Mark nodded, lips pursed. "Peleus seems to think I've outlived my usefulness."

"Whereas he seems to think mine's just beginning," Grace growled. "I've no idea what he wants with my baby, but I'm not letting him have it."

"We all feel the same, dear," Ellain said, picking up one of the fallen light tomes and handing it to Grace. "Come with us."

Grace took the tome, sparing a glance for the unconscious healers—people she'd called colleagues until a day ago—before following them toward the back door. "You have a plan?" she asked.

Mark nodded. "We do. As long as Gavin—"

He pushed open the back door, and found himself staring into the silver glint of an arrow. Denning stood there, hood up and bow drawn, lips quirked in a smile. "This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you at the Dread Isle.'"

Ellain seized Mark's arm and yanked him away. "Behind me!" she shouted, opening her tome. "Both of you!"

"No!" Grace lunged forward, placing herself between bow and tome. She raised a hand to each of them. "Stop!"

Denning's eyes narrowed, and his smile vanished. "This is a message from Lord Nergal."

Grace's eyes teared up as she turned to him. "Denning? Denning, love, it's me."

The arrow shifted to point at her head. "'I await you at the Dread Isle.'"

Ellain and Mark both moved forward, but Grace held her hand up higher, not turning from her husband. "Denning. I know how awful it is. Not only is your mind no longer your own, you can't even speak your mind anymore." She slowly lifted a hand, cupping is cheek; he flinched, but did not move away. "But I know you're still in there," she whispered. "We'll save you. I swear, we'll find a way to save you."

"This is a message..."

Mark eyed the bow. Peleus said he was experimenting on Denning. If he was fully reverted, shouldn't he have fired by now?

"I have to go," she went on, voice breaking as tears rolled down her cheeks. "I want to stay with you, but I can't. My baby… our baby..." She looked down, placing a hand on her belly. "I have to get to safety. Then we'll come back for you. I promise."

The arrowhead wavered. "The… dread..."

"Denning?" Mark stepped forward.

The morph lowered the bow, trembling all the way. His gold eyes fixed on Grace's. "This is a message," he croaked. He put a hand on her cheek. "I await you."

Grace's body shook with a sob.

He knelt down, placing his hand over hers. "I await you," he whispered to her belly.

He stood and pressed himself against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. Grace stood petrified for a moment, then rushed past him, stumbling out the door. Ellain followed, Mark bringing up the rear. Denning's grip on his bow tightened as the human passed, and Mark hurried on.

"Can't he come with us?" Grace sobbed.

"Not like this," Ellain whispered, hurrying down the street. "He's still struggling. You saw it."

"We'll come back for him," Mark said, surprised at the thickness of his own voice. "Just like you said. We'll come back and save him."

Grace nodded.

Ellain met his eyes. "We'll come back for Cassandra, too," she promised.

Mark turned away. "Keep moving," he said, ignoring the press of tears at his eyes.

Gavin slithered through the window to Peleus's room, pushing apart the shutters with barely a rattle as he slid between them. His eyes fixed on Peleus's sleeping form. Letting more light into the room was a risk, but as Peleus had said himself, the healer-turned-tyrant was exhausted. He slept right through Gavin's entry, softly snoring on his simple bed. Gavin slid to the floor, rolled onto a woven rug, and rose silently to his feet, glancing around. The room was no bigger than Gavin's own, which was no bigger than Mark's new accommodations. There was a cloak rack in one corner; some staves scattered about the floor; a bookshelf sagging under anatomy texts and magic tomes. No sign of anyone else in the room.

He slid the shutters closed again, drowning the room in darkness. He waited a moment, keeping one eye on the sleeping Peleus and the other eye on the door, before creeping toward the desk. The satchel was hanging off the back of the chair; the corner of the blue book peeked out of it, while the red book was open on the table. Gavin gently closed the red book and slid it into the satchel, carefully lifting it from the chair and pulling the strap onto his shoulder. He allowed himself a satisfied smile before starting back toward the window.

Muffled voices and distant footsteps sounded in the hall. Gavin's eyes snapped to the window. Opening the shutters and closing them behind him would take too long, and if he left them open, whoever came in would know he'd been there. He slid the satchel under the bed, rolling after it a moment later. Holding onto it was a risk; if Peleus noticed it was gone, he was good as caught. But they needed the red book to have a hope of saving everyone. He didn't dare let it go.

The voices arrived outside the door and fell silent, replaced by a sharp rapping. The bed above him creaked as Peleus stirred. "What?" the healer groaned.

The door opened. From beneath the bed, Gavin could see two pairs of greaves enter the room. "Forgive me," someone said—Amora? "But we may have a problem."

"What is it?" Peleus's stockinged feet appeared on the floor.

"Ellain just arrived at the infirmary. She had the human prisoner with her."

"Mark?" Peleus rose and moved over to the rack. "I told Luther to kill him."

"Yes. Ellain claimed she'd intervened to prevent an attack from Ostia."

Peleus stopped. "Has she been restored?"

"She seemed to be."

Gavin held his breath.

"But none of us know who restored her, or when," Amora finished.

Peleus cursed. "Then she's acting against us. She must be stopped."

Gavin squeezed his eyes shut. Damn it. They kept better track of who they'd reverted than we hoped.

"Did Ellain rescue Mark herself?" Peleus asked.

"Doubtful. We went to check Cassandra's quarters after the infirmary guards reported their arrival. Luther was unconscious, and had a knife wound."

She maintained a flat tone as she delivered her report. Damn you, Amora. Be angry. Be excited. Be anything!

"Gavin," Peleus sighed.

"He and Ellain are the only ones unaccounted for," Amora confirmed. "He must have snuck by us somehow."

"The thief and the whore," Peleus muttered. Gavin felt his bile rise. "They deserve each other."

"They must be trying to escape, but even if they got out the front gate—"

"They'd need horses to make it anywhere." Peleus's cloak swept around his feet, and he began pulling on a pair of boots. Gavin could just glimpse his face as he bent down to fasten the buckles. "Send extra guards to the gate and the stables. We'll catch them before they even mount up."

Boots and greaves marched toward the door, which slammed shut. Gavin slowly slid out from under the bed, careful not to make too much noise, pulling the satchel out after him. He started toward the window once more. Gods willing, the others will have made it to the stables before Peleus can set up his ambush. But I still need to get to the gate and somehow evade capture until—

He somehow missed the steps right up until the door opened. "Forgot my satchel," Peleus said over his shoulder as he entered the room. "I shouldn't let those books out of my—"

He froze the moment he spotted Gavin. "You."

Gavin's hands clenched into fists. "Me," he hissed back.

He leapt out the window before Peleus could call for the guards. He tucked the satchel under his arm and struck the ground hard, rolling to disperse the impact. He ended on his feet and sprinted down the way, cloak whipping behind him. Stealth had failed. Now he could rely only on speed.

Ellain marched up to the guards standing in front of the stable entrance, and thrust forward an open bottle of purple liquid. "Smell this," she commanded.

The two morphs—one man, one woman—looked at each other.

Ellain stiffened. "Have you forgotten where I fall in the chain of command? I told you to smell this, and you will smell it."

The morphs should have been incapable of fear, yet Mark almost thought he saw them flinch at her tone. They leaned forward, carefully sniffing the bottle. The man fell first, the woman collapsing on top of him a moment later.

"Excellent," Ellain said, recorking the bottle. "Still potent." She smiled down at the unconscious morphs. "Thank you for testing it for me."

Mark and Grace emerged from where they'd been hiding, carefully crossing the street to the stable. Mark and Ellain dragged the unconscious morphs inside, hiding them in an unoccupied stall, as Grace checked the building for more guards. The stables were small compared to the ones at Castle Ostia, and only half the stalls were currently full. There were two wyverns and three pegasi, and a handful or horses besides. Once they'd confirmed they were alone, the three of them began looking for viable mounts. Ellain stroked Percy's mane. "I'm sorry about Moriel," she whispered to him. "I swear to you, I'll get her back."

Mark looked over a horse, recognizing the markings. This was the one who'd nearly thrown Ellain while he was delivering his first letter to Matthew. "Maybe not this one," he muttered.

"No," Ellain called, flouncing over. "I'll take him." She smiled at Mark as she patted the horse's nose. "We actually work quite well together, now that he's gotten to know me."

Grace was eyeing the horses with trepidation. "Should I even be riding?" she asked, looking at her belly.

Mark grimaced. "Probably not. But honestly, we don't have a choice. We can't hope to escape on foot; they'll run us down as soon as they realize we've gone."

"You'll be all right, dear," Ellain said, taking Grace's hand and guiding her to a large brown horse. "Here. This one's not the fastest, but he rides smoothly. He won't let anything happen to you or your baby."

"Do you know how to ride?" Mark asked as Ellain helped Grace up.

"Not as well as how to heal, but better than how to fight," Grace replied. "What about you?"

Mark turned to the black horse Ellain had directed him toward. "It's ride or die, right? I'll figure something out."

Grace seemed unconvinced, but they didn't have much time—or any other options. They tacked up the chosen horses, plus one for Gavin that they hitched to Mark's. Mark hauled himself up onto his horse's back, taking the reins. "Ready?" he asked.

"Gavin should be in position by now," Ellain mused. She was still on the ground; she'd have to open the doors before mounting up for them to escape. "If nothing went wrong."

"I'm sure he's fine," Grace said, reaching down to pat the other woman's shoulder.

Ellain looked up at her with a smile. "You're pregnant. Shouldn't I be comforting you?" She nodded at Mark. "Yes, we're ready. It's now or never."

She started toward the front doors, only to stop. "Footsteps," she whispered.

The doors were ripped open from the outside. Ronic and Bennet strode into the stables in full armor, with Deichtine, Moriel, and—Mark flinched—Luther behind them. "Surrender," Ronic said, leveling his lance at them. "The morphs won't be harmed. The human—"

Ellain's fireball caught him full in his armored chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. "Go!" she screamed as she readied another spell. "I'll hold them off!"

Grace shook her head. "We can't leave—"

"Go!"

Mark hissed out a curse, and spurred his horse on with a shout. The black beast surged forward, jumping over the fallen Ronic and staying just out of Bennet's reach. Hoofbeats started up behind him, and he turned to find the extra horse following closely, with Grace right on their tail, looking back at Ellain with sorrow in her golden eyes. He couldn't keep his eyes off the road long enough to see how the fight was going; he steered hard to the right, taking them down a side street instead of going straight for the gate, plotting their course on his mental map of the fort. "Come on," he shouted to Grace. "We're almost there."

A few turns later, they emerged from the shadows into the open area in front of the gate. A company of morphs had gathered in the main thoroughfare, expecting them to come from that direction, but Mark's roundabout route had put them well out of reach. The morphs still rushed forward, but Mark and Grace were halfway to the gate before they could even draw their weapons. Mark spurred his horse even faster. Come on, Gavin, he silently pleaded. Come on…

As they approached the gates, Mark spotted unconscious morphs lying before them—and Gavin in their midst, a swirl of cloak and daggers. The instant he saw the horses, he sheathed his weapons and dashed to the gate, pulling with all his strength on one of the heavy wooden doors. Mark let out a shout of victory as it swung slowly open. He and Grace leaned into their steeds, pounding forward until they passed through the gate. He quickly pulled back on the reins, bringing his horse to a stop, and looked back at the gate. Gavin's silhouette appeared there, with a familiar-looking satchel over his arm. Mark waved to him. "Come on!" he shouted, motioning to the extra horse.

Gavin stepped forward—and stopped. "Where's Ellain?" he called.

Mark's blood froze. "She's still at the stables," he answered truthfully. "She distracted them to—"

Gavin turned away, facing the morphs rushing toward them. Mark's eyes widened. "Gavin!" he called. "There's no time!"

"She stayed so we could escape, Gavin!" Grace added. "It was her choice!"

"And this is mine!" came the reply. Without turning to look, Gavin flung the satchel toward them, its strap trailing behind as it arced through the air. Mark's arm snapped up, and he somehow managed to grasp the strap before the bag struck the ground. Glancing down, he saw the two books, blue and red, sitting securely in the bag. He looked back at the fort; past Gavin, the oncoming group of morphs had been joined by Deichtine and Luther, who were astride their own horses. No. Ellain…

Gavin vanished, and the gate began to grind shut again a moment later. Mark started for him when he felt Grace's hand on his sleeve. "We have to go," she said. "They'll be on us in moments. Gavin, Ellain, Denning, Cassandra—they're all counting on us. We have to go!"

He knew she was right. That didn't help the pit in his heart as he turned his horse away. They rode as fast as they dared, the gates finally slamming shut behind them.

Ellain could barely feel Peleus's hand as he lifted her chin, examining her bloodied face. "You didn't have to hit her so hard," he chastised.

"She didn't have to cast so many fireballs at us," Bennet growled from behind her. He tightened his grip on her shoulder, keeping her on the ground. Her tome lay on the other side of the stable, Ronic standing over it with a glower.

Peleus tilted his head. "I suppose that's true," he said.

Ellain spat blood onto his feet. "And you didn't have to enslave everyone I care about," she said. "I guess we've all made mistakes today."

Peleus's gaze hardened. "I tire of this," he said, releasing her face and standing up. "Grace, Cassandra, Luther, and even you. Can none of you see I'm trying to help you? I'm returning what Cassandra took from us, giving her what she was denied all along. I—"

Another glob landed on his boots. "I've plenty of blood and plenty of spit," Ellain growled. "Let's see if I run out before you run out of breath."

He was actually trembling now. "You don't deserve my help," he hissed. "None of you do." He waved a hand. "Take her."

Bennet hauled Ellain to her feet. Her eyes flicked to the shadows of a nearby stall. "I won't go back," she said.

Peleus shook his head. "Whether you do or don't, you have no choice in the matter." He turned to leave as Bennet dragged her after.

She ignored him, keeping her gaze fixed on the shadows. "I won't go back," she said again. "I'll die first."

The shadows began to quiver.

"Please," she whispered. "You promised."

Peleus stopped at last, turning to her with a frown. "What are you—?"

Gavin sprang from the stall, dagger drawn. Ellain twisted away from Bennet, flinging herself toward Gavin, chest out.

He shut his eyes as his blade slid into her heart.

The pain slammed into her, searing fire rushing through every vein and artery. She managed not to scream, and forced herself to keep her eyes open. "Thank you," she whispered to Gavin.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm so—"

A gauntleted hand descended, yanking him into the air and tossing him across the stable. Ellain's vision blurred as Bennet crossed over to the struggling assassin, and Peleus's boots appeared in front of her. "Finish him," came the growled command.

Her eyes widened as darkness descended. "No," she tried to scream, though only a hoarse whisper came out. "No..."

The last thing she saw was Bennet lifting his blade, as Peleus stood over both of them, staff in hand.

Florina was just barely able to hear her sisters over the sounds of wind and wings. "I'm just wondering," Fiora called. "You never showed any interest in Raven five years ago. What changed?"

"Hey, just because I wasn't fawning over him doesn't mean I wasn't interested," Farina replied. She steered her pegasus closer to Fiora's, making it easier to talk as they soared across the Lycian sky. They'd passed Sanders's outpost not long before, and the fort had just appeared on the horizon. "We were just a little busy fighting an insane, immortal druid, that's all."

Fiora smirked. "Didn't stop our sister."

Florina blushed, despite herself. In truth, she and Heath had mostly fallen in love after Nergal's defeat, when he joined the Caelin knights with Kent's sponsorship. No point in arguing that, though. "Well, now's probably not a great time either," she called, "with Lucius away, Priscilla pregnant, and Mark in captivity."

"Or," Farina replied with a grin, "now's the perfect time for someone to swoop in and help him deal with his issues." She snapped the reins, coaxing her pegasus into a mini-dive to emphasize her point.

Fiora laughed. "That's not what 'swoop in' means."

"That's exactly what 'swoop in' means."

Florina glanced at her sisters. "Well, if you're sure..."

"Who can be sure of anything with men?" Farina shrugged. "But you're both married, and I'm not getting any younger. It might be time to think of settling down."

"With a mercenary."

"Well, being able to take high-paying jobs together would be nice, too." She ran a hand through her short blue hair. "Besides, red's a good color on me."

Florina found herself cringing, but Fiora just laughed. "You never change, sister. I—wait." She leaned forward in her saddle, peering at the distant ground. "What's going on down there?"

Florina immediately directed Huey downward, following Fiora's gaze. She could see the fort clearly now—as well as a number of shapes speeding away from it. Riders, she realized; four of them, two about a quarter mile from the gates, two who were just leaving, plus another horse with a lead line dangling from its reins nearby. Motion caught her eye, and she looked up to see a fifth rider—a pegasus knight, taking off from the middle of the fort and flying after the others.

"We need to get a closer look," Farina said sternly, the levity of moments ago forgotten. The others nodded their agreement, and Florina spurred Huey to full speed, taking up Farina's left flank across from Fiora. She peered closely at the figures on the ground, until she could make out details about the riders. The one in front was—

"Is that Mark?" Florina squeaked, eyes widening in shock. "Isn't he supposed to be a captive?" The tactician was wearing an unfamiliar black cloak rather than his usual brown, a cloth satchel over one shoulder, and a leather one on the other, but Florina would have recognized him anywhere.

"It's definitely him," Fiora cried. It was getting harder to hear each other as they sped up, sending more wind rushing past their ears. "He must have escaped. But who's that with him?"

"Is that a morph?" Farina said, squinting. A moment later, her jaw dropped. "Is that a pregnant morph?!"

Fiora looked equally shocked. "Is she chasing him? No—they're riding together. Then who—?"

Florina squinted hard at the other riders. They were also morphs; one a muscular woman with short-cropped hair, the other a thin, wiry, androgynous figure, both carrying lances. While Mark and the morph woman with him looked terrified, these two looked… well, she couldn't tell. Their faces were devoid of all emotion.

She shivered. "I don't know what's going on, but we have to help Mark," she said. "Those riders are gaining on them." She looked up at the approaching pegasus knight—clearly also a morph, but still a way off. "We'll have to do this carefully and quickly. Ready?"

Her sisters both shouted their assent, and the three of them dove, unstrapping their lances from their backs. Mark had spotted them by now, and took one hand off the reins to wave frantically. The pregnant woman was also looking up at them with trepidation, but she too reached for them as they approached. They didn't have long, though; either by virtue of experience, the woman's pregnancy slowing her down, or merely pushing their horses harder, the pursuers were riding much faster than their quarry, and were upon Mark and the woman before the sisters could reach them. The female rider thrust her lance at Mark; she missed, but the sharpened tip sliced through one of the straps on the leather satchel, sending it falling from his shoulder. He cried out in dismay, reaching for the fallen bag, but another strike from the woman prevented him from going back for it. The wiry one leaned down, deftly snatching the bag from the ground and securing it to their own saddle.

Florina cursed. "I'll distract the riders!" she shouted, hoping her sisters would continue to follow her lead. "You get Mark!"

She didn't dare glance back, but Fiora and Farina again shouted their agreement. Florina gritted her teeth and leveled her lance, urging Huey into a dive at the last possible second. Mark ducked as she swooped down on him, leaving her path clear to the woman. The rider looked up, eyes flashing a chillingly familiar gold, just as Florina struck. The rider swerved, but Florina's lance slammed into her armor, the impact enough to send her tumbling from her saddle and rolling across the ground.

Shouting with delight, Florina glanced over her shoulder. Her sisters were flying alongside Mark, their pegasi flanking his horse. They each reached down and took one of his hands, then pulled up, lifting him from his saddle. Farina rose higher, lifting Mark up and around until she was able to set him down behind Fiora. He clung to the saddle, looking back down at the pregnant woman below. He shouted something, and Farina nodded; the sisters then began to move into position again, ready to repeat the process.

Florina glanced back forward, just in time to see a javelin hurtling toward her. She yelped and swerved to avoid it, the tip glancing off her armor. The other rider came thundering past a moment later, readying another javelin and taking careful aim at Fiora's mount. Cursing, Florina pulled Huey into a tight turn, readying a javelin of her own. She wasn't going to be able to stop the morph from throwing, but maybe…

They threw the javelin with inhuman force. She threw hers an instant later, arcing it directly into the path of theirs. The two collided in the air, knocking each other off-course and falling well short of Fiora, who was now rising out of range. Farina ascended as well, casting an uncertain look at the morph woman clinging to her waist.

Florina readied her lance to attack the morph, but rather than pursue or try to throw another javelin, they turned away from the fleeing pegasi, riding over to their fallen comrade. Thank goodness, they're giving up. That just leaves…

She looked up at the approaching pegasus knight, who was closing fast with lance drawn. Florina rose to intercept, drawing her blade instead, and the two pegasi met in a flurry of wings and steel. Cold golden eyes pierced Florina, as the morph—this one surprisingly small, with neck-length hair held up by a feather pin—tried to bring her weapon to bear. Florina beat her back, using the sword for close-quarters combat as the two pegasi struggled to remain airborne.

It had been five years since she'd fought a morph, a being created to do nothing but fight; and while Florina had continued to train and fight for Caelin in that time, she'd never again faced an opponent quite as fierce. The lance jabbed at her unrelentingly, getting closer each time and even managing to parry her own swings, until finally—

Huey screamed. No—it was the morph's pegasus that screamed. A silver arrow had appeared under its wing. The morph lurched in the saddle as the pegasus suddenly dropped in the air, just barely managing to spread its wings and glide back toward the fort. Florina tried to shake off her shock, scanning the ground for the archer. All she could see was a figure standing on the wall of the fort—another morph, bow drawn, hood up. She peered at him, trying to get a closer look—

I recognize him! she realized with a start. From Ostia! He was the one who—

"Florina!" came the shout from behind her. She turned to find Fiora hovering some ways away, Mark peering over her shoulder. "We should go before they regroup!"

"Wait!" Mark cried, reaching toward the retreating riders. "We need that satchel!"

Florina turned just in time to see the riders vanish back into the gates. "Sorry, Mark," she replied. "Fiora's right. We have to go."

Mark looked devastated, but he nodded nonetheless. Florina cast one last look back at the morph—the one who'd smiled at her five years ago—before turning to join her sisters. There was still activity in the fort, but no more riders came after them, and the lone archer didn't loose any more arrows before disappearing behind the wall. With no visible pursuers, they flew toward Sanders's outpost as fast as their pegasi would allow.

Farina cast one last dubious glance at the morph woman. "Mark," she called, "you'd better have a damned good explanation for this."

"It's a long story," Mark sighed. "But I promise—I'll tell you everything. I'll tell everyone everything."