Islif shrugged. Dirt had been their constant companion growing up in Espar-dust when dry, and mud when wet. Grime bothered her not at all. Little crawling insects, now, itching in intimate places…

Under the hooves of their patient mounts, the Moonsea Ride ran tirelessly on northeast, rising and then falling away again over gentle hill after gentle hill. Around it, as they rode, steadings grew fewer and fewer, and the scrub of abandoned fields and forests ravaged by woodcutters gave way to darker, deeper woods. Cormyr this might still be on maps, but much of it seemed unbroken wilderland, the road spawning small campsites at every trickling stream, but the trees otherwise standing dark and unbroken.

Pennae and Florin rode at the head of their band of six, peering watchfully into the forest shadows on either side. Florin's searching gazes were almost hungry.

Yet Vangerdahast's order had been both curt and clear. "Tarry within Cormyr no longer!" The Royal Magician wanted them gone out of the realm before anything else befell them and hurled trouble across Cormyr-or as Pennae had put it, "Gave us a chance to save the Forest Kingdom from itself, while nobles aad war wizards dither, again."

That sentiment had earned her one of the wizard's coldest, darkest looks and a slowly rising, menacingly silent finger pointing at the doorway beneath the risen portcullis-not to mention Purple Dragon patrols following them along the road, so far back as to be just clearly visible, for the first few days.

"Subtle, isn't he?" Semoor had asked everyone then. Several aching days in the saddle later, he stirred himself to ask, "So, are we fated to spend the rest of our lives riding out of fair Cormyr and not making it?"