South of Mount Alban, the damned horse slowed again, stumbling, ropes of bloody lather hanging from its lowered muzzle. Kallystine kicked at it savagely.
"Lady, ease up," warned the captain of her guard. "It's nearly spent."
M'lady cursed behind her mask. Damn Torisen anyway, for grabbing all the remounts between Gothregor and the scrollsmen's college, as if that would stop her. One by one as their horses failed, she had lost all her escort except its captain. She wouldn't catch the Highlord with a force behind her, but by God she would catch him, if she had to kill every horse in the valley.
A breath of wind teased her heavy travel mask awry. She jerked it back into place. Not since the assault by that Knorth bitch had she dared to look in a mirror, not that she had one left intact, but the potion's effect was only temporary. It must be.
. . . don't think about the maid's withered hand, clawing at the braid twisted around her neck, don't think . . . .
What did she have but her lovely, lovely face? What else was she? A glittering gown, a hollow mask . . . .
No. She was and always would be beautiful, beautiful—which was more than could be said, now or ever again, for the Knorth Jameth.
Remembering that, Kallystine smiled.
"Weirding coming up fast behind, lady," said the captain, looking back. "Another bank that should pass well overhead and a smaller patch at river level."
"Shut up. How far to Mount Alban now?"
"After the weirdingstrom, lady, that's hard to say. I haven't recognized half the land we've travelled through today."
"Damn you, how far?"
The randon sighed. "With luck, around the next bend."
Kallystine set her eyes on it and her heels to her horse.
Soon, she thought, with a hidden smile less pleasant even than the first. Very, very soon.