He turned his head to glare at me. “You say nice words. But I know what you are thinking at me. Like knives and rocks and big knobby sticks. Well, you made me come here. And if you try to hurt me, I'll hurt you back even worse. Because I'm stronger than you. I'm stronger, and I don't have to obey you.”

Foolishly, he had warned me: I threw up my Skill-walls as I readied my own strength against him. In the moment before Thick's Skill-blast hit me, I became aware that all my animosity toward him had died, like a fire suddenly smothered under a wet blanket. His attack hit me, an iron hammer on an anvil of cheese. He had not touched me, and then I felt as if he had crushed my body in his grip. I staggered and then fell into the snow, feeling that the very blood must burst out through my skin, as Thick suddenly demanded, “Why are we mad? What are we doing?”

It was a child's wail of dismay. He must have thrown up his walls against me, and experienced the same loss of anger that I had. He waddled through the snow toward where I had fallen as the long-threatened rain began to pelt us. I rolled away from his touch, knowing that he meant well, but fearful that if he touched me, my walls would fall before him. “I'm not hurt, Thick. Really, I'm not. I'm just a bit sick.” And stunned. And rattled. And aching as if I'd been flung from a horse. I got my knees under me and lurched to my feet. “No, Thick, don't touch me. But listen. Listen. Someone is trying to trick us. Someone is using our own magic to put bad thoughts in our heads. Someone we don't know.” I knew it with sudden certainty. Someone was employing the Skill against us.

“Someone we don't know,” he said dully. Dimly, I was aware of Dutiful trying to Skill to me. Doubtless they had felt some shadow impact of Thick's attack on me. I ventured to drop my walls for an instant, to Skill to them, Be wary! Guard your thoughts! And then I slammed my defenses tight against the insidious fingering of Skill that had attempted to once again infiltrate my mind. I knew that I should try to strike back, or at least follow the Skill-thread back to them. It took every bit of courage I possessed to drop my walls. I reached out wildly, Skilling in all directions to see who had been poisoning my mind against Thick.

I felt nothing and no one. Chade and Dutiful and Thick were there, walled against me. I thought of groping toward Nettle, and decided against it. My attackers might not know of her; I would not show her to them. I drew a shuddering breath, and then once more threw up my Skill-walls. I felt only marginally safer. We had an unknown enemy. I would not rest until I had uncovered all I could about them.

“It's the same ones that made my bad dreams, too,” Thick announced decisively.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“I know. Yes. It's them, the bad-dream makers.” Thick nodded emphatically.

The rain was coming down steadily, shushing against the snow around us. I hoped the others had already put the tents up and that there would be some sort of dry shelter awaiting us when we arrived. All day long, the wet had crept up me from the damp snow. Now it drenched down on me, completing my misery. “Come on, Thick. Let's get to the camp,” I suggested, and we lurched forward through the snow that packed unevenly under our feet. “Keep your Skill-walls up,” I cautioned him as we slogged along. “Someone was trying to make us think bad thoughts about each other. They don't know that we are friends. They tried to make us hurt each other.”

Thick looked at me dolefully. “Sometimes we are friends. Sometimes we fight.”

It was true. Just as it was true that I did resent always being his caretaker. They had found my resentment and irritation with Thick and fed it, just as Verity had used to seek for fear or arrogance in our enemies, and feed it until our foes made some deadly mistake. It had been a subtle and well-planned attack by someone who had touched my mind enough to sense the feelings I hid from all others. That was unnerving.

“Sometimes we fight,” I admitted to Thick. “But not to really hurt each other. We disagree. Friends often disagree. But we don't try to hurt each other. Even when we're angry with each other, we don't try to hurt each other. Because we are friends.”

Thick gave a sudden, deep sigh. “I did try to hurt you. Back on the boat, I made you bump your head a lot. I'm sorry, now.”

It was the most sincere apology I'd ever received in my life. I had to reciprocate. “And I'm sorry that I had to make you come here, on a boat.”

“I think I forgive you. But I'll get angry with you again if you put me on a boat to go home.”

“That's fair,” I said after a moment. I tried to keep the dread and discouragement from my voice.