The sound of arguing reached Tris as he arrived to take over Vahanian's watch. Sure enough, as Tris rounded the corner, he spotted Vahanian and Carina locked in a pitched argument that seemed to stop just short of a toe-to-toe confrontation.
"He was one of my patients!" Carina defended hotly.
"He wasn't too sick to loot the other poor bastards' pockets," Vahanian retorted. "Look, lady, when I'm on watch, I watch. And when I see something, I take care of it."
"That doesn't include dragging a man out of his sick bed and hauling him over to Linton!" she snapped. "He had a fever."
"He felt pretty cool when I grabbed him," Vahanian replied. "Bit of wormroot under the tongue can give you hot flashes. So can a little dryfleck in a glass of wine. Ask Linton. He spent time in Noor. He knows all about drugs... and poisons. Takes a little widow's heart each day, mixed with brandy, to make him harder to poison. Builds resistance."
"That doesn't change anything," Carina argued stubbornly. "You hauled a sick man out of my hospital, dragged him across camp, and accused him of stealing. When something concerns one of my patients, I want to know about it, before you toss him out on his ear on the road and send him packing."
Vahanian swore and rolled his eyes skyward. "I caught him wrist-deep in one of your other patient's pockets. All due respect, priestess, but why don't you do your job and let me do mine?"
"I'd be happy to," she grated, red-faced, "if doing your job didn't make more injured patients for me to fix." She threw her hands in the air in resignation just as Tris came within a few steps of the pair. "I don't know why I'm bothering. You won't listen. And I'm not a priestess," she added. Shaking her head, she turned back toward the makeshift building that served as her healer's shelter.
"Don't disillusion me," Vahanian called after her. "You're so sure you're right, I figured you heard it from the Lady herself."
In reply, a crockery mug flew from the shelter's door, sailing close enough to Vahanian's head to make the mercenary duck.
"You have a real way with women," Tris observed dryly.
Vahanian chuckled. "I don't think Carina likes any man who isn't on a stretcher."
"You really caught a thief?"
Vahanian shrugged. "Yeah. That's not what worries me. I think it might have been the prowler I tackled snooping around our camp on the way here. He had an old bruise exactly where I thumped that guy on the jaw. Can't say for certain."
"Why would the same prowler be here?"
"Good question. All I can come up with are ugly answers. Maybe he's found what he's looking for, and he's keeping an eye on it," he said with a pointed look at Tris. "Or maybe he's not interested in you at all. Maybe he's scouting the caravan and other travelers for bandits. He might have just gone looking for an easy purse to cut when he found us."
Tris was quiet for a few moments. "I'll be extra careful," he said finally. "You look tired. Go get some sleep."
Vahanian cracked a smile. "First some ale and chow, then some sleep. But you've got the right idea," he said veering off toward the cook tent. Despite Vahanian's foreboding, Tris's watch passed uneventfully, and he was happy to pass the shift to Harrtuck as evening fell.
"Heard Vahanian had another run-in with the healer," Harrtuck observed.
Tris shrugged. "I'm not sure it upset him as much as it did Carina," Tris shrugged. "I rather thought he was enjoying the whole thing."
Harrtuck chuckled. "That's Vahanian. He can be a real pain in the ass when he feels like it." He lifted his face to the wind and fell silent for a moment.
"What's wrong?" Tris asked.
Harrtuck shook his head, frowning. "Can't say. Just a feeling. Something's not quite the way it should be. Eyes on us, watching." He shrugged. "I think I'll make an extra pass along the perimeter tonight." He paused. "In fact, why don't you send Soterius out here? Might be nothing, but I'd welcome an extra sword tonight."
Tris nodded. "Sure. I'll get him." What he didn't add was confirmation of the same groundless foreboding. He had dismissed it as nerves before Harrtuck's observation, but now he was not so easily persuaded. Still, he thought, looking around at the fires that glowed against the cold autumn sky, there was nothing of concern... yet. But he did not expect to turn in early tonight—just in case.
The sound of hoofbeats thundered from the forest just as the supper fires burned low. Breaking from the woods at a headlong pace rode more than two dozen tattered riders, screeching a bloodcurdling battle keen, their battered weapons raised. The camp erupted in confusion, as men and women fled the attackers or ran for their weapons. Caught unprepared, the caravan cook hoisted what remained in his kettle of soup and with an oath, let fly the steaming liquid, scalding the nearest rider who flailed madly and dropped from his bucking mount.
"Bandits!" Vahanian shouted, drawing his sword. From out of the night came a hail of flaming arrows, and around them, the caravan tents and wagons burst into flames as the wagoners ran cursing to extinguish the fires.
Men on horseback ringed the camp. From their motley armor and the haphazard tack of their horses, Tris guessed that their attackers came together by chance more than design. No doubt more ranged in the forest, responsible for the hail of arrows. As the bandits charged, Tris ran for a place on the line, sword drawn and ready.
An arrow grazed his shoulder. Some of the car-avaners charged forward with a cry, while others began to pull the wagons together for defense or ran to protect the horses. Just at the edge of his sight, Tris glimpsed a fleeting spirit, and a moment later, another and a third.
Sweet Chenne, I can see them dying! he thought, fighting down panic. As his gift had strengthened in the weeks since they fled the palace, sighting the spirits came easier and easier, until now it was almost impossible for him to block out the hum of the revenants that invisibly surrounded the living. But even that, outside the heat of battle, was far different from sensing spirits fresh-torn from their bodies, feeling the sundering of soul and body.
One of the bandits was riding right for Tris, his foam-flecked horse wild with battle. Struggling to keep his wits about him, Tris ducked under the rider's swing and parried as the horse nearly rode him down. The attacker wheeled and charged again. This time, Tris stood his ground, dropping low and scything his sword along the grass to catch the rider's mount.
The screaming horse flailed to the ground, throwing its rider clear. With a sword's stroke, Tris dispatched the hapless beast, then closed on his rider as the bandit climbed to his feet, eyes dark with rage. With a cry and upraised sword, he ran at Tris. The prince lunged, slipping inside the man's guard and sinking his weapon deep into the man's chest. The bandit gasped and fell to his knees, clutching his chest. His eyes widened as he cursed in surprise and then, blood flowing from between his fingers, fell over dead.
Tris felt a sudden, disorienting lurch as if he had been slammed hard from behind. He shook his head to clear it, and stared at the dying bandit. As he watched, the man's form shifted, and two identical bodies lay one on top the other. The second form grew more and more transparent, then rose, barely visible, and fixed Tris with a sad and knowing gaze before fading into the air completely. Before Tris could shake the image from his mind, he heard the rush of hoofbeats behind him and a sharp, heavy thump on the side of his head sent him reeling, then turned the world to black.
When he came around, the situation did not look good. The bandits fought like men possessed. Vahanian waded grimly into the battle, cursing as he swung his sword. Being on horseback gave the bandits an edge they did not deserve, and made the raid doubly costly for the caravaners. Watching Vahanian and Harrtuck, Tris knew their first priority was to take down as many of the bandits' mounts as possible. As Tris staggered to his feet, his head pounding, steel clashed and axes swung as the caravaners held their ground. The clamor of the spirits around him threatened to crowd all reason from Tris's mind, and he murmured a warding spell Bava K'aa had taught him. It did not silence the spirits, but it pushed them just far enough from his thoughts to make action possible.
Tris could see that Vahanian's opponent was fixed on reaching the centre of the battle, and worse, the bandit was damnably skilled with his weapon. Flames rose at the centre of the battle, diverting at least half of the caravaners from defense as they ran to save the tents and wagons. A glance told Tris that the bandits chose their targets well, setting ablaze the tents and wagons least likely to contain booty. He reclaimed his fallen sword and headed toward the action.
To his right, Tris could see the old grannywitch swinging an axe with two-handed determination. Wild-eyed, with her gnarled hands white-knuckled on the axe's handle, her lips moved in arcane verse as she kept her opponent at bay. Suddenly, the bandit dropped his sword as if stung, and the pommel of the weapon glowed red hot. The bent old crone seized the opening her spell made to swing her axe without remorse.
Tris headed for the battle at a run, resolutely ignoring his pounding head and the revenants rising from the newly dead on the battlefield. Carroway joined him halfway across the open area, appearing from the smoke that shrouded the burning camp. "Look there!" Tris said, pointing.
The shell of the house Carina had converted into a makeshift hospital attracted the attention of one of the brigands, who was single-mindedly attempting to enter. Carina, armed only with a long stave, barred the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Tris saw Vahanian dispatch his opponent and head for the healer's shelter at a dead run.
"Maybe I can help," Carroway muttered, digging into the pouches at his belt for one of the pellets he used in his storytelling. A flare of green light startled the bandit, giving Vahanian an opening. As Vahanian cut down the bandit, Tris looked up to see another streak of green light rise in a flare from the minstrel's hand.
"Parlor tricks," Carroway said with a wicked grin. His right hand twitched and a blade flew, dispatching one of the bandits as it stuck neatly between his shoulder blades. The bard's tunic was soot streaked and bloodstained. Carroway ran over to the fallen bandit and matter-of-factly retrieved his blade. Tris staggered, feeling the sundered spirits wrench free of their dying flesh. Lady save me, there are so many! he thought, struggling to renew the warding that offered some protection for his sanity.
Carina was still engaged grimly in protecting the patients in her sickroom as another bandit charged. The bandit slashed at her and Carina parried his blows with the stave, but it was obvious that she was tiring.
"You don't get in without the price of admission," Vahanian called to the bandit from behind and the brigand turned.
"And what might that be?" the bandit sneered, his blade raised.
"You've got to need a healer," Vahanian returned, swinging his blade hard. He cut through the bandit's parry as Carina swung her stave, full force, at the bandit's knees. Cleaved shoulder to hip by Vahanian's blade, the brigand fell to the ground just as Tris and Carroway arrived, swords raised. Tris stumbled at the jarring impact he felt in his mage senses, caused by the bandit's swift death, and he clung to the warding with all of his waning might.
"That was a fair defense you put up," Vahanian said to Carina. Carina was breathing hard and her tunic cfung sweat-soaked to her form. Her short, dark hair hung in her eyes and as she pushed it back, her hand trembled. "Are you all right?"
"I'll be fine," she assured him, although her words sounded more certain than her tone. Footsteps from behind gave him no time to argue, and as Vahanian turned to meet his next opponent, Carina retrieved her stave and withdrew into the shadows of the ruined building. Tris took up a guard post outside.
A crash like thunder sounded behind Tris. One of the main caravan tent posts snapped and fell across the roof to the makeshift hospital, dragging the burning tent with it. He wheeled in time to see the blazing tent set the roof of the healer's shack afire.
"The roof's on fire!" Tris shouted above the fray.
Vahanian and Soterius were close enough to hear. "Leave the bandits, come with me," Vahanian shouted to Soterius as Tris covered his face with his tunic and ducked inside.
The sagging canvas of the ruined tent crackled with flames. Fire spread quickly to the dilapidated thatch of the building's roof, and smoke billowed from its doorway. As Tris fought his way through the smoke, Carina was already dragging one man from the burning building, though it took all her might to move his heavy body. Although the smoke made his aching head even worse, Tris helped Carina drag the man to safety.
Vahanian and Soterius pounded up as Tris and Carina reached the open air, and Vahanian caught Carina's shoulders as she turned back toward the burning building.
"Stay out here," he shouted. "We'll get the rest."
"My patients, my risk," Carina snapped back, shaking free. "There are still more in there." Before any of them could stop her, Carina shouldered past and headed at a dead run back for the smoking building. Soterius charged through the doorway, only to retreat gasping for breath. Ripping the cloak from the injured man, Vahanian plunged the cloth into a nearby bucket and ran with the soaked rags to the doorway.
"Here, use this," Vahanian said, as he the tore the sopping cloth in broad strips. Tris and Soterius snatched them from his hands.
"We're only going to get one chance," Soterius said, muffled through the rag.
"Let's go," Tris agreed, pressing the soaking cloth against his face.
The three men charged into the smoke together then dropped to their knees, nearly blinded. Soterius crawled toward the back corner, where the outline of a patient was barely visible. Not far inside the opening, Vahanian's hand connected with a pant leg. Tris saw Vahanian feel for the man's shoulders and heft the injured man onto his back. Gasping for breath, his eyes stinging with the smoke, Vahanian crawled as fast as he could, trying to balance the helpless man. Heaving his burden just beyond the doorway, Vahanian turned back into the smoke as Tris crawled on, and in the near darkness, he could see Carina struggling with her patient. A crack like thunder sounded overhead, and Tris turned in horror.
"Carina!" Vahanian shouted, diving toward the healer as the beam above Carina's head gave way in a shower of sparks. Tris saw the beam begin to break, felt Carina's shock and terror, and reacted as power and fear filled him.
"No!" The rasped command tore from his throat as Tris struggled to his knees, one hand outstretched toward the beam. Tris felt his power rise, felt it strike from his hand to throw the beam aside.
"Run!" Vahanian panted as he pushed Carina toward the doorway, dragging the last patient toward the door. Tris started toward them and fell forward, gasping for breath in the searing heat. Just as Tris felt the world around him begin to darken, strong hands gripped his shoulders and half carried, half-dragged him, pulling him out onto the grass. Behind him, the building's timbers groaned like a dying man, and then collapsed with a burst of flame and sparks.
Someone pitched a bucket of water onto him. Slowly, Tris roused, his lungs aching, hacking and gasping. He was dimly aware of the burns on his arms and calves. He struggled to see, blinded by the ash and smoke.
The hospital building lay in ruins, burning fast. Along the perimeter of the camp, the screams of horses and the clash of blades rang in the night air. But the fight was further away, no longer in the heart of the camp, and as Tris gasped for breath, he saw Vahanian nod.
"They've pushed the bandits back. Good thing. I can't breathe, let alone fight," Vahanian rasped.
At Tris's elbow, the old grannywitch emerged from the smoke bearing a rough-hewn cup. "Drink this," she said, pressing a mug into his hands. Tris drank it gratefully, feeling the liquid burn down his raw throat. Whatever the potion was, it began to work immediately, clearing his head and fortifying him enough to stand.
Carina dragged herself to her knees and bent over one of the patients they had pulled from the burning building. She hammered on his chest with all her strength. "By the Lady, breathe, damn it, breathe!" she sobbed.
Vahanian made his way over to where she knelt. "Carina—"
"He was breathing fine just before the fire," Carina argued with no one in particular. Her soot-covered robes were scorched and her arms were dotted with burns from falling embers. Tears streaked through the ashes on her face, and her hair fell limply into her eyes as she bent across her charge. "Breathe, dammit!"
Vahanian reached down to take her by the shoulders, but she struggled free. "No!" she cried, reaching toward her patient. "I have to help him."
"He's gone," Vahanian said gently. "Look at him. It's too late."
Carina sat back on her haunches and buried her face in her hands. "It's not your fault," Vahanian said quietly. "Look at where his wound was, right through his ribs. Would have been hard for him to breathe anyway, even with healing, but then the smoke..."
She lifted her head enough to glare at him. "You don't understand what it is to lose a patient."
"No," he conceded quietly. "Just soldiers under my command."
"You must have the eye of the Lady on you, to have made it out alive," the grannywitch observed, taking the cup from Tris. She filled it once more and offered it to Soterius, who accepted it gratefully. Tris could see the burns that peppered Soterius's arms and face, and imagined he was in no better shape himself.
"Thanks for dragging me out of there," Tris said.
Soterius looked at him for a moment without saying anything, and Tris knew his friend saw him use magic to hurl aside the beam. "Glad to do it," Soterius said, and while his tone was sincere, he looked away. He doesn't know what to think of me any more, Tris thought, still feeling the witch's potion burning in his throat. He never bargained to be liegeman to a mage.
The old crone took back the cup and offered it to Vahanian, who waved it away, gesturing for her to attend to Carina. The crone knelt beside Carina and took her in her arms, letting the healer sob against her shoulder like a brokenhearted child.
Vahanian was looking at Tris. Ashen and shaking, Tris met his eyes. They both knew the beam had changed its course at Tris's command. He hates magic even more than Soterius does, Tris thought at the look in Vahanian's eyes. His outlaw prince is an untrained mageling. One more thing to worry about.
"If you'd have taken my advice, none of this would have happened," a voice cut caustically through the smoke. Tris looked up to see Kaine dogging Maynard Linton as the caravan master picked his way through the ruins.
"Where's the healer?" Kaine demanded, stopping where they rested. "I've been wounded."
"The lady's busy. Go away," Vahanian said, interposing himself between Kaine and Carina.
Kaine moved to shoulder past him. "She's a healer, let her heal," Kaine snapped. This time, Vahanian's blade blocked Kaine's path.
"I said, the lady's busy," Vahanian rasped. He looked as if he were beginning to feel the day's battle in every aching muscle and was considering taking it out on Kaine. "Go away."
"You're a fine protector, Jonmarc Vahanian," Kaine shot back. "Like as not 'twas bandit friends of yours what did this," Kaine sneered, but he backed up a step from the glinting blade. "I told Linton that taking you on would mean trouble. None of this would have happened if we hadn't taken on your thieving hide."
Vahanian took a step toward Kaine, his blade raised higher. "I still have the strength to run you through, Kaine, and I'll do it if you're here by the time I count to five. One..."
"See what I mean?" Kaine whined, taking another step back. "Cut me down in cold blood, he would—"
"Two..." Vahanian growled, advancing.
"I've no desire to be run through, Vahanian," Kaine retorted, licking the blood from his split lip. "But mark my words," he said, looking to Tris and the others, "we won't be rid of bad luck until we're rid of him."
"Three..."
With an uncertain glance at the mercenary and his sword, Kaine raised his hands in surrender and backed away, disappearing in the throng as the caravaners returned to their ruined camp.
"I wouldn't have minded seeing that troublemaker run through," Soterius remarked darkly as Vahanian sheathed his sword.
"Not worth the effort," Vahanian replied. Tris glanced back at Carina, who still sobbed in the crone's arms.
"I'll see to her," the old grannywitch said, patting Carina's back. "Be about your business."
Vahanian walked a few paces and stopped. Tris caught up to him and looked down at the dead bandit at Vahanian's feet. Vahanian looked from the dead man to Carina and back again. "That's the same thief I ran out of camp yesterday, the one I thought was our prowler," Vahanian said tonelessly. "Looks like we got him." He swore. "I hate being right some times." Vahanian started to turn away, only to see Carina watching them. The look of loss and regret in her eyes silenced any comment he might have made. "Come on," he said tiredly to the others. "It's clean-up time."
By sunset, the ruined camp was quiet. Groggy with fatigue and still feeling the effects of the smoke, Tris kicked at a charred scrap of wood as he headed up the slope toward the caravan from the worker's tents. His head itched below the bandage that covered his scalp wound, and the wound itself throbbed. Soterius and the others piled the bandits' bodies to burn. The smell of burning flesh made Tris want to retch.
The caravan lay in complete disarray. Charred heaps were all that remained of many wagons. In the center of the clearing, the main tent smoldered, its remaining posts like burned bones thrusting up from the ground. Maynard Linton was wandering among the ruins, shaking his head.
"They cost us most of a season's profit," Linton said sadly, his jowled face the picture of misery. "Whole wagons gone. I don't know how many dead or injured. All this and winter coming on." He shook his head once more. "Not good," he said, worried. "Not good."
Tris spotted Carroway, weighed down by two buckets of water. His tunic was torn, one sleeve ripped shoulder to wrist. Soot-streaked and splashed with blood, the bard smiled tiredly as he spotted Tris. "Good to see you in one piece," Carroway hailed him, stopping. "Why don't you come with me? Carina needs all the help she can get over at the tent."
Tris accepted one of the buckets and headed toward the largest remaining tent. Burns in its roof opened it to the sun. Tris ducked under the sagging tent flap. The tent was a sick ward, with the injured laid out in neat rows on blankets. Of the nearly one hundred caravanners, it appeared that nearly half awaited Carina's ministrations.
Night fell. Tris and Carroway brought in torches to light the healer's work. The old hearth witch, Alyzza, worked alongside Carina, making poultices and mixing healing teas. Both Cam and the old lady kept a protective eye on Carina, forcing the healer to rest, eat and drink. As Tris watched Carina, he realized that she and Cam shared an uncanny resemblance. Brother and sister, perhaps, he thought, not lovers?
By the time the night was well spent, Tris decided that an impromptu healer's lot was nearly as exhausting as a fighter's. Carroway stepped assuredly into the chaos, carrying the wounded, directing others who brought their comrades for healing, splitting wood for splints and crutches and ripping large pieces of cloth into bandages. In the center of the tent, a fire gave Carina the boiling water she required for potions and poultices. Tris followed Carroway's lead, trying not to focus on his own throbbing head, or, in the moments when his head did not ache, on the questions that his battlefield vision raised.
As the first light of dawn streaked above the hills, Carina reached the last of her patients. Her face was drawn with exhaustion and dark circles rimmed her eyes. Tris surmised she was moving on sheer willpower, and his opinion of the healer doubled. Gently, Carina placed a hand over her patient's wound and closed her eyes, leaning against Cam for support. In a few moments, the patient smiled in astonishment as Carina lifted her hand to reveal a wound that was well on its way to healing, normally the work of several weeks. As the man expressed his gratitude, the healer sagged against Cam, utterly exhausted.
A few stragglers pressed forward with minor injuries. "Come back tomorrow," Cam barked, folding Carina in his arms protectively. "She's done everything she can tonight." With a whispered word to Carina and an answering nod, the fighter lifted the healer like a child and with a grim expression that dared anyone to attempt to stop him, strode from the tent.
Maynard Linton followed Cam and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Will she be all right?" Cam nodded, gently rocking the healer in his arms like a tired child. "Almost good as new. Can't say the same for all of them," he said with a jerk of his head toward the tent.
Linton stretched out a hand and gently brushed back the dark hair from the healer's eyes. "Thank her for me when she wakes up, please," he said quietly.
Cam nodded. "That I will," he promised, then shouldered his way through the crowd to the tent opening and disappeared.
Harrtuck and Soterius found Tris and Carroway a few moments later. Soterius offered them both trenchers laden with food. "Here. Eat. No matter how interesting it's been, it doesn't justify missing a meal," Soterius said. For a moment, they were silent as they wolfed down the food.
"Linton always hires on the best cooks he can afford," Harrtuck said, his words slurred by a full mouth. "Looks like it might be the only good thing about this trip," he said, cleaning up the last of his food with a thick slice of bread.
"He must be doing very well to have a first-class healer travel with them," Tris mused. He looked around. "Where's Vahanian?"
Harrtuck shrugged. "Last I saw he was helping burn the bodies. Wouldn't be surprised to find him drinking with Linton in his tent when this is all over."
Tris looked down the caravan midway toward the far end of the fields, where a pyre burned. The dangers of the road were becoming painfully clear. It would take more than a little luck for them to reach Dhasson alive.
Alone in his tent, exhausted and sore, Tris was too tired to sleep. He watched the flickering candle flame. The visions that came over him on the battlefield were disquieting and clear. By the Lady, he thought, if I can't do better than that, I'm no use to anyone. I won't live to get to Dhasson, let alone take back Margolan if I see every ghost on the battlefield! His stomach churned as he thought about his failure. He froze, making himself an easy target. Worse, he was barely useful defending the camp. His mage power seemed more dangerous than defensive.
"Don't be so hard on yourself, Tris," came a voice, and Tris startled, looking around the small tent. Flickering and barely visible, was the image of Bava K'aa. "My time is short," she warned. "I failed to prepare you for the time the power would come upon you. I should have expected... circumstances like these... might have triggered the power. Forgive me."
Tris held out his hand to the apparition, who glided closer and reached out for him. Tris felt a tingle as her insubstantial hand brushed past his outstretched fingers, and he closed his eyes, squeezing back tears. He felt the tingle through his whole body, and the overwhelming sense of his grandmother's presence, as if, for an instant, she shared his mind. He opened his eyes and stared questioningly at the ghost, who smiled sadly.
"I cannot stay," the spirit said regretfully. "Even now, dark power searches for you. Listen well, Tris. You have the power to become a great Summoner, more powerful even than I. But you must learn control." She hesitated, and the image flickered and dimmed. "Already, Jared seeks a way to banish my spirit forever; else, I would train you myself. Go to the Library at Westmarch. There, you will find a teacher for your training." '
"But the Library at Westmarch was destroyed in the Mage Wars," he protested. "It doesn't exist anymore."
"So we permitted people to believe," Bava K'aa said with a knowing smile. "For those whom the Sisterhood vouchsafes, the Library will yield its secrets."
"Show me how to control what I see," Tris begged, his fears rising in his throat. "I'm no use to my friends if I can't protect them."
"I must go," the spirit said. "I do not know if I can come again. At Westmarch, you will find a beginning to all that you seek. Ride with the blessing of the Lady," she said, raising a hand in farewell.
"Please, wait," Tris called.
But by then, the ghost had faded to mist and then to nothing at all. Tris stared at the air where the spirit had been for a long time, until the guttering candle reminded him of the hour and he sought fitful sleep as the dawn began to light the sky.