They were skirting around the road that led directly from the gate into the bustling town when Tarrant fell off his horse. Follett had been talking about how to divide the bounty they would receive when they delivered the Oracle, and how it would be best done quickly, although they might have to stay for a week or so inside the monastery. The men had been riding single file, keeping their attention individually locked, while allowing their voices to travel along the plodding line. Tarrant had been speaking the most, wondering about the monks’ possession of their prize.
“What will be their purpose?” he continually asked.
Follett was becoming annoyed. The sudden joy of a perfect conflict was being tarnished by this conversation. There was no point to it. They were completing their task, coming to its conclusion, and now that they had lost half their party, the spoils had doubled. The calculation of the exact amount he would pay each man kept changing as he tasted the possibility of keeping it all. He had already decided that even if the Calcas came back, they would get nothing. He was rehearsing telling them that they had broken the contract by going about their own business rather than following orders. Pearlbinder, Tarrant, and Alvarez would back him. He could deal with them later.
Tarrant’s words were having the greatest effect on Alvarez. He had spent the most time with the Oracle, and, even though it still made his flesh creep, a bond had grown between them. He was beginning to agree with Tarrant’s doubt and to think that maybe they should wait and discuss the matter before handing over the prize.
“Maybe we should make camp now and have one last Scry before meeting these wretched monks?”
Pearlbinder turned in his saddle to look into Alvarez’s face, while Follett took a deep, enraged breath.
“We are not making camp, and we cannot make another Scry. We have just slaughtered a clutch of caballistas, which will stir up a hornet’s nest. It will soon be Lent. We need to be inside the monastery now.”
His word was law. No one spoke until Tarrant hit the ground.
Pearlbinder was off his horse first, crouching beneath it, using its thick body like a shield, looking in all directions for archers or crossbowmen or anyone who might be responsible for unseating a fellow rider. When no arrows flew, he came out and joined Follett, who was standing over Tarrant’s body.
“He’s dead,” he said in total disbelief.
Pearlbinder knelt to watch Follett touch the fallen man’s face and lift his stiff arm. He froze for a moment, and then pulled his hands away, wiping them with disgusted confusion on his tunic sleeves.
“He’s stone-cold, like he’s been dead for days.”
The others shivered.
“How is this possible?” asked Follett.
Pearlbinder answered cautiously, “Because all of him was never really here. There was a distance in this man, as if he lived elsewhere while riding with us.”
“You mean he was a ghost?” asked Follett.
“He had a likeness to Scriven,” said Alvarez.
Then Tarrant’s voice said, “Verily, he was the wisest of us all.”
Pearlbinder swung around, dagger in hand, to find the origin of the voice, which was not coming from the corpse at his feet. He looked up at Alvarez.
“Alas,” said Tarrant’s voice again.
Pearlbinder and Follett lowered their eyes from the terrified Alvarez to the crate slung on his mount’s side. A great terror overcame the party, each man frozen to the spot, waiting for the hideous voice to speak again. With a shuddering moan, Alvarez pushed himself from the horse, slithering backward so as not to touch the “prize.”
“It has stolen Tarrant’s soul,” he warbled as he scurried away from his horse.
“No, I think it’s just copying him,” said Follett, who wanted nothing to do with any unforeseen manifestations so close to the completion of his quest.
Alvarez shook his head. He was having none of it.
“It’s just another of its voices,” placated Follett.
Meanwhile Pearlbinder was examining the dead man, turning him this way and that, roughly undoing his tunic and breeches. He finally exhaled, taking his hands away in a theatrical gesture of disgust.
“There’s not a mark on him, not a single wound.”
Follett looked at what was left of the crew and gathered the remnant under command.
“Leave him by the roadside, we have work to finish here. The conclusion is in sight and our reward awaiteth. Alvarez, make haste with thine horse. Now!”
Then the Oracle spoke again in the unmistakable voice of Alvarez: “Forever will I tether thee, forever I, will I tether thee, forever I, forever will I tether thee.”
The sound in the box changed into a small crackling noise, like dry leaves under an empty wardrobe; it was the sound of human laughter, but physical, nonverbal, without emotion. Alvarez had regained his feet and was walking away backward, his eyes locked on the box.
“Alvarez, I said now!” shouted Follett. “You have come all this way, don’t give up now.”
Alvarez just shook his head.
“It’s an order.”
“I cannot, Captain. This is wrong.”
Realizing that his command over this man had vanished, Follett tried another tack. “But your share is now a third.”
“This is wrong; there is a taint of evil here. I don’t want the money; it stinks of witchcraft. I was never here.”
The now-insensible nature of their conversation was interrupted by Pearlbinder, who mounted and then grabbed the reins of Alvarez’s horse, leading it out of the discussion. Alvarez strode quickly away without looking back, leaving everything he owned behind him.