"I would have been happier with fewer people here," the creature told Deirdre, "but things should work out just fine."

The creature, as was his usual, was in a chipper mood, although in the disguise of Reverend Ainsley he continued to hobble along on tender feet as he had been when first she'd spied him in the road before lunch. Such a scallywag.

"Do you think Isabel and Mother Ignatia will have any luck?" she asked. The four had split up earlier to broaden their search.

"Not a chance," said the creature.

"You know where you're going, don't you?"

"Tuppence, I always know where I'm going."

"But are we ...?" She stopped. A distinct sensation ran through her. It was so subtle and so bizarre that she barely had felt it. "We're there, aren't we?"

The creature, who had stopped beside her, touched her shoulder. "We are," was his reply. "What do you feel?"

"Don't you feel it?"

"Darling Tuppence, the subtleties of the magic of this world sometimes are difficult for me to detect."

"Then how did you ...?" she began.

"I found this place through research and careful investigation. The books I read got me in the right area, and then I examined the place I found."

Deirdre looked around. That faint tingle still was with her. And it seemed right now. They were near a mild stream at the foot of a series of hills. She ventured a guess. "There's iron in these hills, isn't there?"

"There is," was her companions reply. "That and other minerals."

"And magic settles hereabouts?"

"You tell me."

She didn't know exactly what to do. This experience was thoroughly beyond her ken. True, she'd walked on pilgrimage before, as everyone did in Albion. Every route was indeed, well ... a route. And hadn't the Fiend once told her that the ancients had walked their paths of power in much the same fashion as the folks of Deirdre's time did? Save one exception, of course: The routes folks now walked were paths with no true power.

But the spot where she stood at that moment? It felt as if .... The Fiend had magicked on her before, and that faint sensation she'd had then was something akin to what she felt now.

Without really deciding on it, she began to walk north along the stream in the direction that they had been travelling. As she moved, that faint sensation grew. It did so only in tiny increments, but after she covered nearly a full furlong there no longer was mistaking the feeling. Something subtle yet powerful was coursing through her slim body, from top to bottom, through her every fiber.

As she walked, she said not a word. She didn't know to do anything else. Pilgrimages on which she walked in the past, both the long and short of them, always involved something: the utterance of prayers, spots of genuflection, the casting of stones, and all manner of other things.

But did such superficialities amount to anything? Or were they merely that, superficialities? If what the Fiend had told her was true—she believed it was—every pilgrimage she had ever walked was a farce.

But that didn't mean this true route of power didn't require some ... something. The creature had even hinted as much.

For now, she just walked. And, after a short time more, she was able to empty her mind of doubts about the situation. For now, she continued to stride forward in an even and measured step.

How long had she travelled? It was difficult to say. Perhaps it was a full furlong? Perhaps longer? And as she continued to move northward in silence, occasionally bending her course to match the meander of the stream, that sensation continued to grow inside her.

Or perhaps the sensation wasn't growing?

That feeling was something she'd never experienced. There was no describing it, no putting a name on it, and no understanding it—as silly as that sounded. Even the word "tingle" was just a word she'd grabbed from the shelf, the first and most convenient expression that came to mind.

This was something else. And it grew, or it didn't grow, with each stride she took. Physically, she felt nothing, nothing at all, but there that sensation was, nonetheless.

After a time, she thought she might burst, so completely did that phenomenon surround and engulf her.

But she didn't burst. She merely continued to walk forward in the same steady and even gait, her head held erect and her eyes straight forward. She totally had forgotten about the Fiend, so focused was her attention on what was going on inside her and so clear was her gaze on the stream bank upon which she walked. Her senses were never so keen, but she hardly noticed them at all.

That feeling, which threatened to engulf her, grew with each steady and plodding stride. But there was no stopping.

It was only after she'd walked for ... well, she knew not how long, after she was sure for the fourth time that she couldn't take it anymore, that something seemed to pop inside her. At that precise instant, the tingling sensation that had delighted her and abused her dissolved, and a high and faint ringing sounded in her ears.

After but a few heartbeats, even that sound was gone. And she found herself standing along the stream bank, aware for the first time, in what felt like forever, of the sounds of nature around her.

The Fiend was standing a few paces behind her, a curious and delighted look on his face. "Was it all you hoped?" he asked in a friendly and gentle voice.

It took Deirdre some time to find her voice. When she did, it required several efforts to clear her throat before she could squeak out, "I'm not sure."

"You walked quite a way," were the gentle words of Moorcroft Ainsley.

"Yes," she said, "but it wasn't a long one." A tremor ran through her.

"Not that short. I figure you walked nearly a full bell, what with the stopping and genuflecting."

"I ... I don't remember doing anything of the kind."

"Sometimes walking the ways distorts a person's perceptions. ... Or so I've heard."

"Well, it didn't feel that long, or that hard. Just a faint tingle and ...." As Deirdre spoke, she began to move. On her first step, her right leg gave out entirely. It was as if she'd run all day, so great was her exhaustion, and she soon was cradled in Moorcroft's boney arms as he carried her back in the direction from which they'd come.

Heavens, she was fatigued. Without her knowing, her eyes drooped and closed. And over what seemed like forever her eyes opened and closed a dozen or more times. She had no control over the process or over any part of her body.

My heavens, she'd never been so tired.

***

A bolt of terror went through Isabel's heart when she saw Reverend Ainsley carrying Deirdre late in the afternoon toward the spot at which they'd agreed to rendezvous. During most of the day, she and Mother Ignatia had made their way through the forest and underbrush looking for what Isabel knew not ... some religious relic or the other. Such an escapade was far too familiar to Isabel and far too like their earlier adventure in Transom. She wanted nothing to do with anything else religious, but it was Moorcroft at the helm. There had to be something to what they were doing.

Now the reverend had returned with Deirdre, and it looked very much like the young woman had succumbed to the heat. It wasn't a terribly warm day, but heat injuries could be tricky. Isabel treated her beloved young friend as best she was able, cooling her brow with a damp cloth and inducing her to drink water whenever the lass opened her eyes enough to demonstrate she was able to take liquids. It was an abrupt and frightening several hours.

It comforted her somewhat that Reverend Ainsley and Mother Superior Ignatia expressed no particular urgency over Deirdre's condition. Such things happened sometimes, and a spot of the heat wasn't something over which a person needed to fret.

But the two did show some concern. It was only about an hour after Deirdre's return that Isabel discovered that the concern was more for Isabel than it was for Deirdre. It was another awkward discovery that left her feeling somewhat embarrassed. She hated feeling like a useless accoutrement for whom others needed to care.

Isabel promised herself not to engage in any further theatrics, but it was a difficult vow to keep. This land, Albion, was so full of perils and potential dangers. How could a person know what a threat truly was?

On the good side, the three soldiers that the chancellor had left behind to look out for their safety seemed at least somewhat competent. One of them was an older sergeant who made sure at least one of the men was ahorse and riding a circuit in the woodlands around them. The men seemed watchful enough and were polite when they were in camp to eat or to warm themselves by the fire.

It otherwise was a pleasant evening. The guards were vigilant, the reverend and the nun engaged in a pleasant and animated discussion of some subject of theology Isabel did not understand, and Deirdre slept peacefully in the tent the two shared. It seemed the young woman suffered from a bit of heat exhaustion, and Mother Ignatia assured Isabel that her friend would be right as rain in the morning.

That evening, after their super and some more talk, Reverend Ainsley took up a place just outside the light of the fire and knelt in prayer. The man's feet looked terrible, all scrapped and blistered.

The fellow had a perfectly good pair of walking shoes that he had forsaken some days before. It was yet another peculiar custom of the religious in this land that they oftentimes would go barefooted on pilgrimage so as better to experience their link with the divine. Isabel thought it was madness.

No less mad was the way Moorcroft abused himself. The man seldom ate, rarely slept, and, according to Deirdre, often spent his nights in study or prayer. So it was now. Mother Ignatia joined him for a time, but even she soon was abed, and Reverend Moorcroft Ainsley kept a careful vigil over their camp with only the occasional whisper of his prayers audible in the night.

Such a man.

That very man was still at his prayers when Isabel awoke the next morning. She checked on Deirdre, who was just cracking her eye to the early morning light, and then wandered out to confront the clergyman.

"Did you get a wink a sleep last night?" Her words weren't delivered in a scolding tone, and it was clear the reverend didn't take them as such.

"The Walking God gives me all that I need," was his sweet reply. "And He never burdens me with more than I can shoulder."

"Everyone has to sleep from time to time, reverend ... even the pious."

"Oh," he said, "it's true. I'll grab a wink or two in the afternoon. I just felt so overwhelmed by the solemnity of this forest. I feel His presence all about us."

It really was moving when he spoke that way, but Isabel decided to give no quarter. "Sergeant Eaton is preparing some biscuits and salt beef at the fire. I would like your presence at the breakfast table for a few bites."

Another sweet smile followed as the angular cleric rose to his feet. "Of course, but only a nibble. We have much to do today."

"Are we still searching for this new pilgrimage route?"

"Oh, no, my child. I believe we've been sent to find something even more profound!"