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I love you. But you will always be in my heart, my boy. And you will never be alone...."
    Closing his eyes, Gianavel shook his head—a hope, a prayer. "You will never be alone ..."
    Jacob said nothing, and in the silence that followed, Angela stood in the door of their room, smiling. She rubbed her shoulders as she walked forward and kissed Gianavel, then Jacob, and settled in close to them both. And together they were silent as the windows whitened with day, and Gianavel rose and walked quietly, solemnly, to the wall. He lifted his coat and heavy cloak and wide-brimmed, Puritan-style hat. Then he looked back to see them where they had been, watching his every movement. He smiled as he lifted his musket and weapons, winked at Jacob.
    "Remember what I promised we'd do today?"
    Jacob nodded eagerly. "Barrel slip."
    "That's right," Gianavel laughed.
    "Joshua ..."
    He waited.
    Angela's eyes spoke more eloquently than words ever could. "Be careful, my love."
    With a quiet nod, Gianavel walked out. He ignored the frost that crunched beneath his steps and the cold that lifted his cape as he bent into a long, loping run that he could hold for miles and miles. Trees grew nearer and nearer and passed, and the slope rose before him until a lonely, vigilant rock stood alone against the distant blue-rimmed cliffs—the Roc de Doc, where he could observe every approach into Rora.
    He climbed to the crest and searched the valley but saw only orchards and empty roads. The land was without danger, the people were safe, and yes, he would remain here until nightfall—watching, always watching, until the people were safe for the night.
    Knowing it in his heart and soul—in what was deepest within him, the place where his deepest strength was born, Gianavel knew he would never move. No, as long as the Lord called upon him to stand upon this hill, he would never move.
    Nor would he be moved.
    * * *

     
    Chapter 2
     
    N ight passed, and morning came again ... And Gianavel returned to his place, watching.
    He was weary as he gained the height once more, a fatigue greater than what was physical assailing his limbs because the strength to endure vigilance now was worn by worry and fear. He knew what was coming, and his hands were solid as they gripped the rocks as he climbed. But the grim-ness that marked his grip was also light with the touch of battle—battle dreaded but no longer denied.
    No more than sixty miles in circumference, the valley of Rora was thickly fielded with orchards and vineyards that prohibited view from the ground, but from the Roc de Doc, Gianavel could gaze over the verdure to view the entire valley.
    There were only two entrances through the encircling walls of sheer white cliffs that stretched thousands of feet into the sky. The first, and most difficult, was a deep ravine that broke through the mountains toward Turin. Climbing the ravine was not perilous, but descending in foul weather or in haste was a treacherous affair.
    The second entrance was the Pass of Piedmont itself, which cut across the summit of El Combe after rising from the valley of Lucerna. It began with a long climb from sea level, swung left past the jagged cliffs of the Castelluzo, then down and across the Pelice by way of a single, narrow bridge before rising again through the mountains that formed the wall of Rora. Only a four-hour walk for a strong man, it required a day's travel with oxcart or herd.
    As a consequence, the inhabitants of Rora had become almost entirely self-sufficient with cattle, sheep, crops, and an abundant water supply channeled past brownstone chalets that were exactingly maintained by craftsmen, farmers, and townspeople. Nor was the valley considered a poor slice of Charles Emmanuel s kingdom. Rather, because of its agricultural exports, it maintained widespread wealthier quarters.
    Rora was ruled by a civilian council, and disputes were settled by moral laws and codes founded upon precepts of the Lingua Romana, a translation