Wilke put some effort into appearing to ride next to Marin. It would be a highly clever ploy if it worked, and also a complete waste of energy if it was unnecessary. As a five-element mage and a third-order martial artist, however, he had some pride, and his intuition told him that illusions were perhaps the best way to avoid being assassinated in the way that he and Marin both suspected that Melthius and Ninama had been.

By far the hardest part was keeping up the conversation with Marin, or at least appearing to, because while she knew that he wasn’t there beside her, she chose (with some satisfaction it seemed) not to raise her voice so that he could hear her. He was certain, if he were to complain later, she would say that it was all part of the act. By the third or fourth time that she leaned over conspiratorially to the illusion and whispered something, he had given up on even trying to figure out what she was saying. In fact, he suspected she had been whispering nonsense specifically to drive him crazy.

To her credit, nothing she said was consequential, and he got through his part of the conversation with noncommittal “Hum”s, “Yes”es, “No, I don’t think so”s, and one “That’s not really fair, though, is it?” Although Wilke had never been one for gossip or idle conversation, he knew Marin well enough to know that she knew, that he could barely make out what she was saying. More than half of the chatter was clearly a dig at him for having come up with this fool idea in the first place.

And in the end, he didn’t mind. Either his idea truly was silly--in which case he would gladly laugh with her about it, later--or it wasn’t, and he would get to rub it in her nose for having doubted him. A man must maintain his humor, Wilke had been taught, to survive the horrors of the world. His life had borne that out, and it seemed likely it soon would again.

Once they reached the point where the attack happened, however, even Marin felt strained. Wilke was sure that they were being watched, and said so, but that certainty was more a matter of paranoia than magic.

Marin, still on her horse, paced back and forth around the small patch of bloodstained dirt. Neither she nor Wilke was truly a Void user, not like Melthius, but her senses were keen enough. Far more importantly, she was also a magical jack-of-all-trades, with quite a bit more experience in these types of magical dealings that he was.

Granted, he was something of a combat specialist, and getting to that point had taken up nearly all of his youth and a good portion of his next two decades. It was not easy to get the Order to declare you a combat master. By the same token, for a generalist mage like her to be accepted into the Order was high praise.

Marin positioned herself and turned so that she was facing both Wilke and his seeming. “Melth was not dying yet, when he was taken. A powerful sleep sorcery, tinged with dark magic, made sure he would not wake. Nina almost certainly is dead. Dark magic tends to keep wounds open.”

Wilke made an appearance of examining the tracks in the ground. In truth, he’d been mostly watching the nearby hills and treelines for any sign of an ambush, but the illusion should have been watching Marin up until now. Ideally, he wanted to be thought of as an idiot. “How far do you think they went?”

“It’s been days. With the wind out of the north, I can’t use magic to track them.”

Wilke frowned. He knew a magic that would work to track them--assuming the bloodstains were at least halfway viable after a couple days. Marin must have known the same; the look on her face was intense concentration, perhaps holding a barrier, or… perhaps she was just using her senses, currently, to keep an eye on someone else. “Is the area secure?” He felt it wasn’t, but he couldn’t see anything out of place.

“Not a chance.” Her voice was lower, not that it would help if anyone could scry them at this distance. “At least three on the northwest hill, one wind mage watching us, one messenger ready to ride if they are discovered. He’s not probing closely, but they are watching what we do next.”

Wilke considered it for a long moment. A wind mage, if that’s all he was, wouldn’t be able to see through his illusion unless Wilke ran straight into his sensory threads. However, if he did anything funny, and his actions didn’t match up with the location, it would be pretty clear. Worst come to worst, he might sense the extra tracks in the dirt, but only if he was really looking for them.

So, although the effort seemed about ready to kill him, he dismounted his horse, having the illusion do the same, and timed his walk so that both he and the illusion reached the bloodstain at the same time. Carefully, he retrieved a sample of the dried blood in a tiny copper vial, then turned and remounted.

“Almost perfect,” admitted Marin, very quietly. “Though I think he sensed something was wrong.”

“As long as he doesn’t know what.” Wilke pushed enough energy into the illusion that it would remain, fixed, for a short time. Then, drawing deeply from his yellow Spark, he pushed a bit of energy into the dried blood. When it reacted, he twisted gently, trying to connect to things the blood had known in its past--hopefully, the rest of Melthius’ blood. It took some effort, since most of what the blood knew now was open air and dust, but the connection formed, and it pulled taught, gently, telling him in which directions he would find that blood.

It told him two immediate things.

First, more of Melthius’ blood had been spilled. Ignoring the blood along the path leading east and north, when it got to its final destination, there was blood spread out over entirely too large an area. Second, he got glimpses through the connection, glimpses of darkness, torches, and servants in blue silk.

He didn’t recognize the livery on the servants, but he knew Torit would.

“Let’s go back.” He turned his horse, then paused. “You lead. I don’t want the dust to… bother you.”

Marin brought her horse to a trot and, as she passed, she said quietly, “They’re coming. Ride hard.” Then, she kicked the horse into a gallop.

Cursing, Wilke followed. His horse was not eager to gallop, and he had to struggle to match the pacing of the two horses, but--

Wilke gave a satisfied laugh as his illusion tore apart. Somewhere behind him, a crossbow bolt slammed into the dust. Marin, ever cautious, waved her hand behind them vaguely, creating (he assumed) some form of air shield. Whatever it was didn’t stop the next few crossbow bolts, but neither did any of them hit.

Now free of the mental burden, if unprotected, Wilke looked back over his shoulder as his horse galloped away. He couldn’t see exactly where the bolts were coming from, but then, he was lucky to see anything through the dust and the jolting ride.

So he put up his own barriers behind the two of them and then focused on catching up to Marin.