After their spare breakfast, Isabel spent the morning meandering the forest south of where they had searched the previous day. On this day, though, her traveling companion was Reverend Ainsley.

Deirdre had woken that morning looking fit as a fiddle, if only a little sleepy-eyed, and Mother Ignatia had insisted that when they conducted their search that morning that she should be paired with the Surrey lass. None had protested, least of all the broadly smiling Deirdre. The young woman had taken to the tall nun in the sweetest sort of way.

So, Isabel had the chance to spend the morning with the good reverend. It was such a delight. Moorcroft Ainsley was kind, thoughtful, and learned, and he had this incomparable gift when it came to listening to her with the greatest care, giving her every question the sincerest regard.

What a heavenly man. She and Moorcroft whiled away the day, walking and talking, discussing all manner of things. They spoke of science, philosophy, and religion, and much of what he said soothed the worries and doubts that had grown inside Isabel these last months as they traveled in search of the Glaive, a holy relic that they had found and recovered in the distant north. Her time alone with him, brief few hours that they were, was a tonic to her.

And the things he told her! His every word was so simple yet so profound. They stilled her heart and left her feeling steady and grounded for the first time since she could remember.

"How could you possibly say that?" asked a shocked Isabel as she and the reverend rested at a clear spring. They were talking about her recent perilous adventures in Proxima Thule. "Isn't that your business?"

"Dear child, I didn't suggest that you not believe in the Walking God and his angels. All I'm saying is that you'd be well advised not to take religion too seriously."

The clergyman had a lovely accent, and he spoke with a buttery lisp that Isabel had come to identify with the minor gentry who wished to sound citified. It was elegant and learned at the same time.

"What's the difference?" she asked.

"Oh, the Church is such a feeble thing," said Moorcroft. "What chance does anything forged of mere man have of encompassing the divine?!" He lifted his battered right foot from the water of the pool and gave it a half-hearted look. "Trust your heart and the compassion of the Walking God in all things. He will speak to you, and you will know."

Such words thoroughly took her aback. The reverent was such a bookish man. He seemed to have a tract, tome, or treatise tucked in every pocket of his frock coat and britches. But several times she'd heard him speak of this world's deity, the Walking God, as if the god was the reverend's close personal friend and dearest intimate.

It wasn't like that with other clergymen that she'd met in this benighted land. The lovely nun, Mother Ignacia, was the closest that she so far had met. What tremendous companions they were.

"But how do I know whether any of the visions that I had on our trip were real?" she asked. "They felt that way then ... but the more I think of it, the more I'm certain Sir Alexis was right. I wasn't having any sort of prophetic visions this last month. It was just the aftereffects of my illness and the fever that came with it."

"Did you not say that many of the things you imagined later came to pass?" asked the clergyman with the greatest care.

"Yes ... but maybe those were just coincidence ... or déjà vu of some sort. Or maybe they were both. I don't know."

"Why do those thoughts trouble you so?" asked the reverend.

"I just ... I don't ...." She wasn't certain what to say. "I don't want to think that I'm going crazy."

"Dearest Lady Isabel, certitude is a wonderful thing. It appeals to the scientist and the scholar in me in ways that I cannot fully express."

"But?"

"But there is more to life and happiness than certitude. You went on a great adventure and discovered a remarkable artefact from ages past, one that might help this world in its fight against evil. What does it matter how you came to guide your companions to their goal? It was a just and righteous goal."

Isabel let out a long breath. "But so many people suffered, and so many fell along the way."

"Your companions, or so you have said, were Gheet and Surrey fighting men. Such men live for such reckless escapades. The loss of those who sacrifice their last measure for the good of others, for such a lofty goal, should be honored not lamented."

And there it was in a nutshell, that notion, that idea, that separated the people of Albion from the folks in Isabel's own land. Sacrifice. That idea was something that was widely abandoned where she was from, the idea that one might lay oneself down for a cause larger than themselves.

Over her last two years in Albion, she'd heard oh-so many people say such things. But coming from the scholarly cleric, those words had great meaning and authenticity. And then it dawned on her.

"I will honor their sacrifice," she said with new resolution. Those words felt good coming from her mouth. "But we should get along and find that holy trace that you've been seeking. If the Glaive is important, so is this."

"We need look no further," was the reverend's simple reply.

"What?"

"We've found what we're looking for," said Moorcroft, several times paddling his feet in the clear waters of the spring as he did.

"What? ... This pond?"

"Indeed, dear lady. Every impression that I've taken of this area has led me to believe a sacred path, one long lost, is located hereabouts. But now I am as certain as I've ever been that it was this very spring to which I have been draw."

Isabel, whose own hot and tired feet now dangled in the quaint pool, gave the body of water a hard look. She needed to fight the urge to pull her feet from the water.

"What ...?" she began. "It looks just like any pool of water."

"As it would," said the reverend. "Look closer. Open your heart and your mind."

Was there something there? Isabel regarded the pool with the greatest care. Something gripped her. The spring was no more than 35 or 40 feet across, a languid pool half shaded beneath the branches of the surrounding forest. Its overall effect was idyllic. It was a beautiful spot.

But was it a blessed place? How had she not seen it? Did such places truly exist in Albion? She had seen so much in this land, most of it mundane, but some of it? Some of it felt truly magical.

Without thinking, though under her own power, she felt herself sliding from her seat on a stone bank beside the pool. She hadn't even thought to remove her clothing and soon was shoulder-deep in the spring and moving in a graceful breaststroke through the water. It was cool but bracing. And she felt not the least griminess or grittiness in the water that she imagined that she would. It was like floating in the merest silvery gossamer.

What a wonderful sensation. It was a warm day and somewhat humid. In the water, clothed though she was, it felt like heaven.

Her foot found a stone near the middle of the pool, and she rose to stand in waist deep water. Again without thinking, she cupped her hands and drank deep of the cool waters. The water was clear and perfect and tasted sweet and refreshing.

How could this possibly be? To what type of place had Reverend Ainsley led her? Isabel knew nothing at all of magic—it wasn't clear if she even believed in such things—but there was something decidedly magical in what she now was experiencing.

Before she could ponder further, the voices began, strident and panicked voices raised in fear and anger. They sounded far off, just far enough so the words were unclear. Then the screaming began.

It was then the spell was broken.

Isabel was again aware of Moorcroft, who now was standing facing south and looking into the distance. As easily as she had slipped into the spring without thinking, she now found herself climbing out of the water, her dress dripping, and she grabbed up her boots.

"What is that?" she demanded of the reverend. "It sounds like someone is in trouble. ... Is it Deirdre!"

"No, darling child," was the firm and soft voice of Reverend Ainsley. "Someone else is nearby." There was no hesitation in the man. "Stay here, Lady Isabel, while I investigate."

The reverend strode off to the south at a great pace, and Isabel followed, hopping the first dozen strides as she wriggled her boots onto her feet. Soon she was running in her sodden garments to catch up to the retreating cleric. They were up a hill, down the opposite side, and around a curve on a rough trail on the flats below before they found the source of the cries.

In the opening beyond, a young woman sheltered two howling youngsters with her body as a tall young knight battled a dragon in the field beyond!