Cassandra woke to sand that had invaded every possible crevice. Never again. Damon was already rolling up their makeshift camp with an unreadable expression.

  "Time to move," he said suddenly, shouldering his load. "Long day ahead."

  The coastal road turned out to be little more than a goat track carved into the cliffs, but it offered two advantages: it was headed north, and it was rugged. After half a day of walking, Cassandra's body understood the second part.

  Her feet were actively murdering her. Penthesilea's pack was directing her back into the afterlife. Every hilltop, she checked behind them. Still no torches? She was ready.

  "How much farther?" she asked.

  "To the trading post? Another day, maybe two if we keep stopping every quarter mile." Damon adjusted the pack's weight on his good shoulder. "You need to rest?"

  "No." She did, desperately. "I'm fine."

  "Course you are. That's why you've been limping for the last hour."

  "I'm not limping."

  "Right. And I'm not bleeding through my stitches." He pointed to a cluster of rocks that offered some shade. "Five minutes. Drink some water."

  They settled against the stones, and Cassandra pulled off her borrowed shoes to examine her feet. The leather had rubbed raw spots on both heels. Her toes emerged, blistered beyond recognition.

  "You know," she said, poking gingerly at what might have been a toe, "I'm really not designed for extended walking."

  "Most people aren't. You get used to it." Damon passed her the water skin. "Or you die."

  "Encouraging."

  "I try."

  They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, listening to the waves crash against the rocks below. It was peaceful, almost pleasant. Which was probably why Cassandra should have known it wouldn't last.

  The sound of hoofbeats reached them first. Multiple horses, moving fast along the road behind them. Damon was on his feet instantly, pulling Cassandra deeper into the rocks.

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  "Stay down," he whispered. "Let them pass."

  But the riders slowed. Four of them, well-armed, well-mounted. Searching.

  "We're looking for the foreign prophet!" the lead rider called. "The one who exposed the grain merchant! There's silver for information!"

  Cassandra pressed against rock. Through a gap, she could see them clearly. Professional soldiers with clean armor and patient eyes.

  "Silver?" Damon mouthed silently.

  The riders had stopped directly below their hiding spot. One of them dismounted and began examining the ground.

  "Fresh tracks," he announced. "Two people, heading north. Recent."

  "How recent, Theron?" the leader asked.

  "Hour, maybe two. Sir."

  Cassandra's heart sank. They were going to be caught, probably killed, and all because she'd had to play prophet in front of half the village.

  That's when the voice called out from further up the road.

  "Prophet? Did someone say prophet?"

  A figure appeared from behind a bend in the path. An elderly man with wild gray hair, wearing handmade robes. He was accompanied by a donkey loaded with mysteriously stained bundles.

  "I am the Prophet Democritus!" he announced to the soldiers, spreading his arms wide. "And this is Athena." No further elaboration.

  The soldiers exchanged glances. Their leader spurred his horse closer to the old man.

  "We're looking for a specific prophet. A foreign woman. Young, with pointed ears."

  "Ah!" Democritus nodded vigorously. "You mean the amateur! Yes, I know her work. Completely reckless. Just the other day she told a fisherman he would find something lost, and he came back without his partner! Terrible technique."

  Cassandra watched as the old man rummaged through his donkey's packs and pulled out a collection of bone fragments.

  "The spirits have been most chatty about her recent blunders," Democritus continued, casting the bones onto the ground with ceremony. "Let me consult them about her whereabouts."

  He studied the bones with intense concentration.

  "Ah yes, very clear. She went south, definitely. The bones are quite specific about directional matters." He looked up with complete confidence. "She's probably halfway back to wherever she came from by now. Gets confused easily, that one. No sense of astral navigation whatsoever."

  The lead soldier leaned in. "South. You sure?"

  "Oh yes, the spirits are never wrong about directions." Democritus gathered up his bones. "Well, except during thunderstorms, but today's quite clear."

  "We came from the south," one of the other soldiers pointed out.

  "Exactly! Which proves she's behind you now, getting more lost by the moment. Probably asking for directions as we speak."

  They actually seemed to be considering this advice.

  "There's copper in it for your help, old man," the leader said.

  "Most generous! Though the spirits prefer payment in bread, if you have any. Proper offerings and all."

  Theron tossed him a small loaf. Democritus caught it with surprising dexterity and immediately began feeding pieces to his donkey.

  "Athena appreciates the gesture," he said solemnly. "She'll put in a good word with the cosmic forces."

  The soldiers held a brief conference in low voices. Finally, their leader called out: "Our thanks, wise one!"

  They wheeled their horses around and thundered back down the coastal road.

  Democritus waited until they were completely out of sight, then called out: "You can come out now!"