For the third time, Jhessail Silvertree lost sight of everything but moving black-armored bulks and a forest of lances. She studied the small circle of blue sky visible above her-all she could see of the world around-sighed, and decided she'd had about enough. From the mutterings behind her, she could tell that her apprentice, Illistyl, whose tongue was apt to be sharper than that of almost anyone else, was clinging to her temper with grim talons. Jhessail smiled tightly, thanked Torm for his work in outfitting her with riding breeches-though her lack of armor was why the Riders were treating her this way-and swung her legs suddenly up underneath her.

She heard a startled, wordless exclamation from a Rider on her right as she spread her hands for balance and stood up on her saddle. She had time for a good look around before the Riders on either side of her were extending their lances around her like the bars of an upturned portcullis and crying out:

"Lady, get down!"

"Catch hold of my lance!"

"Careful, Lady!"

She folded her arms across her breast and waited for them to fall silent-and soon enough, uncertainly, they did. "Thank you for your kind concern, Gentlesirs," she said as the horses slowed to a rather jarring trot, "but both Illistyl and I find it rather hard to do any scouting or become familiar with the land around us-land you gallants already know well, but which we've seen only once or twice in passing-through a solid wall of plate armor."

"That's just it," the leader of the patrol rumbled, his deep voice sounding almost scandalized. "You wear no armor! What if a Zhent arrow came from the trees? How could we shield you better than we have been?"