Osric laughed aloud as the novice started from his slumber, and the mention of Father Keiler jogged his memory; of course this was Andrew, the lad who was always getting himself into trouble. He wondered briefly why Keiler would be willing to send a half-trained neophyte off to join what might very well prove to be a suicide mission, but quickly came to the conclusion that it must have been because he saw no further use for him. There was a certain logic in that, but it struck Osric as terribly cold. Monstrous, almost. Could there have been something else to it?

His train of thought was interrupted by the rather absurd form of address the novice chose for him. He couldn't help but smile at being called [i]your Grace.[/i]

“I am grateful for your additions to the supplies, Brother,” he said, suppressing chuckles, “most of what we have already is rather less palatable. Dried meat, hardtack, and other such things. But I am no King. [i]Brother Osric[/i] will do just fine.”

He returned to his previously intended task of loading the wagon, but he paused, eyebrows raised, when he saw the prayer book drop from Andrew's pocket.

“Well, no harm done, I should think,” he said, “you can always return it when we come back.” Of course, there was no need to mention the fact that, should they [i]not[/i] come back, it would make little difference whether or not the little book was in its proper place. The Order would have far more pressing matters to attend to then. The end of the world, for example.

Osric was surprised when Katrina appeared, and doubly so when she began to help them with loading the wagon. Then she went further, offering practical advice for the road ahead and the suggestion of a camping spot for the coming evening. Astounding! Naturally, he chose to interpret these entirely practical actions as an apology for the unconscionable rudeness she had earlier displayed. So of course he readily agreed with her assertions.

“A wonderful idea. Your first-hand experience will no doubt prove a boundless blessing in our endeavor.” he said, nodding amicably.

By the time the wagon was fully loaded and his horse, Miracle, was properly harnessed to pull it, Osric realized just how much daylight they had wasted already. The morning was passing quickly, and that was ill news if the road was dangerous after nightfall.

“If we are all quite prepared,” he called as he mounted the wagon and took the reins, speaking loudly enough to be heard by the whole group, “then let us make haste!”

Checking one last time to be sure he hadn't misplaced the precious leather case – which, indeed, was still hanging from the strap on his shoulder – he bumped the reins. Miracle set off toward Lastbridge at a steady gait. Osric only wished he had thought to prepare a speech. A quest this important really demanded a good speech.

No matter. Perhaps he could give one when they made camp for the evening.

[hr]

[b]The King's Road, near Moonhorn Ridge[/b]

The day was grown old by the time the soaring heights of the Silverpeak Mountains were behind them for good. Nightfall was not far away, so Osric worked the reins and urged Miracle to make haste. The blighted land that lay ahead only increased his agitation. Katrina had not exaggerated; there was little sign of life here. Even the grass seemed to give way as the wagon rumbled on down the King's Road toward Moonhorn Ridge.

He wanted to pray again, but he had been praying under his breath a great deal since they had passed the Barrier. He wondered if anyone else had felt it. He couldn't bring himself to ask them, chiefly because he couldn't find the words to describe the feeling. It was like jumping into a frigid stream too early in the year... No, that wasn't quite right. It was more like standing in a warm, inviting room filled with friendly conversation, before stepping out into the wordless, biting cold of a winter's night.

Perhaps he had imagined it. Perhaps his nerves were just getting the better of him.

Osric knew he should have been pleased. Nothing had gone wrong yet, and the group seemed to be getting along for the most part. Yet he couldn't escape the unease he felt, and his weary mind wandered down strange and crooked paths. Far too often these led him back to Sister Maire: He recalled her teasing, swaying walk; the mischievous smile so often on her delicate face; hair like black silk peeking out from under her headscarf. And the dark habit sliding from off her shoulders, the hands drawing him toward her shapely, unclad body.

Desperate to drive out these invasive memories, Osric briefly considered screaming at the top of his lungs. He decided against that course of action, reasoning that it might worry his companions. Instead, of all things, he softly sang:

[i]“On hills that are by right his ain
he roams a lonely stranger.
On ilka side he’s press’d by want,
on ilka side by danger.
Yestreen I met him in a glen,
my heart near bursted fairly:
For sadly changed indeed was he,
O wae’s me for Prince Charlie.

Dark nicht cam on, the tempest roared,
loud o’er the hills and valleys;
and where was’t that your Prince lay doon,
whose hame should be a palace?
He row’d him in a heelan plaid
that covered him but sparely,
and slept beneath a bush o’ broom.
O wae’s me for Prince Charlie.”[/i]

His tenor voice was pleasant, if not melodious, and his ear for pitch was keen from long practice in the choir. The song was a well-known lament for the last scion of the Pendish royal clan, rendered in the odd dialect once spoken in the lands they were currently passing through. Was that why he had thought to sing it, rather than the scores of hymns he knew by rote? Whatever the case, it did break Osric's unpleasant reverie. He glanced about at the others, suddenly embarrassed by his seemingly-unprovoked outburst.

[i]”Hmm,[/i] Katrina?” he asked sheepishly, “Do you suppose we're near the site you mentioned?”