He could not afford to be held up, not even for a moment. Whistlers Pass was no place to be caught after dark. He studied the sky. The westering sun was already out of sight behind the mountains and shadows crawled from behind the rocks onto the road below. In the height of summer it was possible to ride the length of the pass between dawn and dusk. This late in the year, there was simply not enough daylight. He had set out southeastwards before first light and ridden as hard as he dared, but a third of the journey still lay ahead and he would not even have the benefit of a moon. Miriel was barely new and would not rise high enough to clear the mountains; Lumiel would not rise at all until well past the time he might need her. Damn his luck. The Goddess must surely be laughing at him, to send him through one of the most unquiet places on earth at the dark of the moon, with the Veil as threadbare as an old sock. All he could do was put his trust in fire, and his mare’s swift feet. Masen picked up the two oil-soaked torches.
