It was not for many hours later that the assassin stopped the horse.  By then, his furious, reckless pace had placed many long miles between the two of them and Brakensburg, and the first mountain of the range bordering the two nations had been climbed.  He brought his stallion to a halt on a plateau above the foothills, spinning from his saddle with a determined flourish and taking spyglass from his saddlebag.  Lying flat on his stomach, he extended his head over the edge of the plateau, and studied the crooked mountain paths that they had climbed.  For many long minutes, he watched, catching his breath and steadying his hands after the exertions of the long ride, watching the way behind them carefully.<br/><br/>Blue Stones did not see a single pursuing figure.  A plume of smoke rose in the sky, some miles behind and beneath, and he figured that the fire had been more effective than he'd thought, and the village could not spare a soul to lend to the pursuit until it was contained.  Which meant, of course, that he would be long gone by the time they even began trying to locate his trail.<br/><br/>"Excellent," he said to no one in particular, folding his spyglass and turning to his horse.  The ride had not been kind to the poor creature.  Its eyes were wild and bloodshot, and flecks of foam stained his lips.  He would need to give it water, let it rest free of his burdens.  Only after brushing his horse's neck to calm and reassure the animal did he consider the other, by far more important, creature on the plateau.<br/><br/>Sybille had regained consciousness some time ago, but her cries had been cut by the undignified position in which she had been tied, and the uncomfortable, vertigo-inspiring jostling of her head and stomach.  She sensed the man approach her, and she looked up from the ground, uncertain and fearful.  "Who are you?" she asked in a timid voice.  "Where are you taking me?"<br/><br/>Blue Stones filled his pipe with leaf and lit it with a small burst of flame from one finger, a minor talent and his only flare.  He took a long moment, studying the blonde girl's wide, frightened eyes before he answered, blowing out a cloud of smoke.  "I am no one you wish to anger, child.  That is all you need to know.  If you behave yourself, if you treat me with respect and obedience, I shall not harm you.  If you defy me, I shall correct you most severely.  And as for where we are going..."  He shrugged.  "You do not need to know that.  Would you like me to let you down?"<br/><br/>Sybille blinked, trying to understand the reason he would ask that question.  "I...yes...I would, but..."<br/><br/>"All right," Blue Stones interrupted.  "I will untie you and take you down.  But if I do so and you attempt to run, I assure you that you will find no success in the attempt, and I shall be forced to correct you for it.  You will not enjoy it, child."<br/><br/>Sybille had no idea what it would mean for the small, compact man to "correct her," but she was by far too afraid to wish to find out, at least for now.  Which was, after all, exactly what the assassin had been trying to create in her mind, further fear and uncertainty that would keep her obedient, keep her moving along.  Because, really, he could not simply keep her bound over his horse's saddle for the few days it would need before he could send Prince Konrad a message and arrive at the Black Fortress.<br/><br/>His ropes showed signs that she had tried to slip free, but his knotwork was expert, and she'd only succeeded in making the bonds tighter on her wrists and ankles.  The knots were so tight that he could not untie them, and had to cut the rope, which made Sybille cry out as feeling suddenly returned to her hands and feet with the painful pins-and-needles sensation.  Blue Stones sat her down, and she lay on her side miserably, massaging her limbs to ease out the ache, unable to even stand, let alone flee.<br/><br/>With the girl down, the assassin removed his horse's saddle and brushed out its sleek, shining sides with a curry brush.  Only after he had tended to his horse, slipping a feedbag over his bridle, did he take out foot and drink for Sybille and himself.  It was lunchtime, and neither of them had eaten breakfast.<br/><br/>Sybille ate the bread and dried meat, drank many mouthfuls of the water he offered her, and studied the assassin from the corner of her eyes.  Her one attempt to speak brought a sudden, stern rebuke in the form of a cruelly twisted ear, making her cry out in surprise and pain, but he did not otherwise address her, either by looking at her or speaking.  After he had tended to his meal, he sat against the rock from which they had eaten, smoking and watching the horizon quietly.<br/><br/>He was different from most of the people she had seen.  Whereas almost every man in Brakensburg had been clean-shaven, the assassin wore a thick beard, the hairs of which were thicker even than the closely shaved those on his head.  He was dark of eye and hair, too, whereas her coloring had been far more typical of the person in the village.  He was no larger than a boy in adolescence, with slim shoulders and hips, but she remembered how swiftly he'd moved, how much power there was in that lithe body, delivered in the force of his blow.  And Sybille suspected that he'd held back for fear of harming her.  No, he was not a man she wished to cross; for all that he seemed small and unfinished.<br/><br/>After an hour, Blue Stones tapped out his pipe and tucked it back into his pouch.  "That's enough," he said as he slid the saddle back on his horse, fastening it.  Though he appeared to be absorbed in his task, his body was live as a coiled spring, ready to leap out to prevent Sybille from fleeing.  She did not do so, which pleased the man.  He was not cruel, and the act of punishing for the sake of punishment did not please him, and he would have punished her harshly for an escape attempt, but not happily.  Fortunately, it did not come up.<br/><br/>Sybille was reluctant to approach the horse, fearing a repeat of the nauseating ride up the mountain, but that was not to be.  Blue Stones seated her in front of him on the saddle, where his arms circled her hips gripping the reins.  She had never ridden before, and took no more comfort at being astride the great warmount than across it, but it was infinitely better than the alternative.<br/><br/>They rode all day, into the evening, when the cold mountain air froze the breath from their noses into puffs of steam with every exhalation.  Blue Stones made camp, once more warning her not to attempt to flee or cross him in any way.<br/><br/>The full details of the journey of Sybille and Blue Stones across the mountains and into Ribenheim are largely inconsequential.  At night, a rope was tied around her ankle and driven into the ground by a tent peg that she could not pry loose.  By day she rode in front of the silent, watchful assassin, save when they took a break to rest the horse and eat.  Only once did Stones have to “correct her” when she failed to obey his command to remain silent, and Sybille spent the next five hours bound across the saddle of the horse, her head bouncing with every trotting step.  She was nauseated for the rest of the day and slept poorly that night, with a constant feeling of sick that made her refuse anything but a sip of water the next time they made camp.<br/><br/>Time passed, the two traveled, and crossed the border, and when they did so Blue Stones put a simple wooden flute to his lips and blew, sending a clear signal that rung every bell in the Castle-Palace simultaneously, and signaled to the wizards and priests that he had found the girl, and requested transport back to the home of the Iron Fist.