Dance of Burning, part 2--Tang of Magic

From her rough estimation, there was about a dozen laying dead on or around the old road. Ayn and the Drmach had taken down five together, it looked about that many down by the wagon, and she and L'jin had taken down at least three confirmed kills, not counting the one she'd killed before the melee. About that many had fled successfully. Why had such numbers gathered on the old road? There wasn't enough traffic down it anymore to warrant a strong presence of banditry, and to attack an armed force consisting of mainly soldiers with nothing but a small wagon to promise goods?

Her suspicions aroused, she began stripping the nearest bodies of anything that might be valuable. There was two gold pieces in the belt pouch of the first—two more in an inner pocket on the next. Bandits with gold in their pockets would be in a town buying Night-flowers and beer, not ambushing small parties of relatively threadbare but heavily armed travelers on a little-used road. Fleeting sat back on her heels, absently flipping a curved dagger she had found in one of the bandits boots around her left hand as her eyes darkened to a deep, thoughtful shade of emerald.

Bandits with gold in their pockets? Just what had Ayn gotten her into this time?



Dance of Burning

Chapter Two: the Tang of Magic

- - -

The dagger was a quick movement of wet steel and dark leather as Fleeting Foreign-born spun it absently back and forth around her off hand where she sat on her heels at the edge of the Old Road. The thin rain was still falling, making the bodies of the half-dozen dead bandits seem all the more lonely where they lay sprawled where they had fallen, either on the wet stones of the road, or on the wet leaves and grass of the byways. They should have known better than to attack, even in such uneven numbers. The Drmach and his two men were clearly solders, even if they did wear no livery, and Ayn, her long-time road companion, and Fleeting herself had openly carried weapons on their persons.

Beside her, L'jin, her mottled stallion, snorted and stomped one foot restlessly; Fleeting ignored him for the most part as her green eyes narrowed. The only reason she could think of for this point in time to come about, was if someone knew Ayn or the soldiers were coming down this road, and had wanted to make sure that they never got wherever they were going. Bandits with gold in their pockets would be in town buying night-flowers and beer, not hanging about an infrequently traveled road most considered ill-luck, attacking small, threadbare but heavily armed travelers. So someone had paid them. The question was, who had paid them, and why had it been worth two gold coins apiece? That was no price for mere disgruntlement, nor even for a trusted agent of an enemy—not unless that agent was very, very skilled, or carrying a very great threat.

Ayn's dealings with the man he called the Kingfisher—Fleeting had known about them for as long as she had known Ayn himself, and had occasionally helped Ayn when he needed a diversion, a ready horse waiting at a dark corner, or an alibi when someone armed and angry came looking for him. Who the Kingfisher was, what his motives or plans were, or what was in the messages he left for Ayn she neither knew, nor cared about. Occasionally, Fleeting would wonder what kind of man the Kingfisher was, to be able to have Ayn so steadfastly loyal to him, but it never went any farther than idle musing when she had too much time on her hands. Ayn was careful in his dealings, and careful not to involve her more than he could help it. She was certain that however the attack had come about, it wasn't because of some slip on his part. He was too canny and careful for that.

There were other ways the information could be found, however. And what about the Baron? Could he had tracked them? There was no reason to suspect they had come this way—it would have been far swifter and sensible to head south, towards the new Imperial Road. And what about the solders?

Pushing her soaked hair off her forehead, Fleeting straightened from her crouch as she heard hooves and the rattle of wagon wheels coming up from behind—the Drmach and the wagon. Leoith was still behind them, professionally stripping the dead of anything valuable. She was just as happy to leave it to him.

Dr'Hansova glanced at her as he came up, his eyes flicking over the mottled stallion standing beside her before moving on to where Ayn was stripping his tack off his dead mare—his hat once again clamped down on his head with apparently no damage done. Ayn glanced up as the wagon rumbled to a stop and gave a pained smile, stopping his efforts a moment to arch his back as if sore. “I had wished this would be a quiet trip,” he complained with a faint thread of laughter beneath his words.

Fleeting snorted, giving the dagger another flip around her hand as her lips curled in a sardonic little smile. “As if such a thing is possible with you and your dealings,” she said dryly, slipping the dagger into the back of her belt. Dr'Hansova's eyes tracked the movement, and noted the worked leather of her belt and the beaded design on the sheath of her long belt knife in the instant they were revealed by her pulling up the hem of her over-large shirt and poncho. She didn't seem to notice, tossing the belt pouch she'd taken off the dead bandit to Ayn, who caught it with one hand. In response to the quizzical lift of one of his eyebrows, she said dryly, “Brighten your day. There were two more on the other.” Glancing down, she toed the corpse with the toe of one boot, her nostrils flaring as if she'd smelled something distasteful despite the little smile still present on her lips. “I'd say someone doesn't like you.”

He looked inside, then tossed it to the Drmach with a drawled, “How pleasant.” The acidic, flat tone in his voice gave lie to the careless nature of his words, showing just how angry he was at this turn of events. The Drmach's lips thinned as he glanced inside the pouch, and they exchanged a look, confirming Fleeting's suspicion as to the reason behind the bandits appearance. Then the Drmach gave her a sideways look, and her eyes narrowed.

It wasn't hard to tell what he was thinking. She was a foreign-born—everyone knew that they were as honest and loyal as a snake. To make things worse, if Ayn and the three soldiers had worked together before, they—or at least the Drmach—probably worked for the Kingfisher too. She was the odd one out.

Raking a hand through her wet hair again, she blinked water off her lashes and composed her thoughts. The rumble of her stomach interrupted her, and she sighed, leaning back against L'jin. “Guess we won't be stopping by an Inn now, are we?” she asked Ayn wryly.

Ayn snorted, then snickered, “No, not likely. Sorry.” Togryd had wrapped the reins around the wagon brake and had climbed down the help the ex-noble pull his saddle out from under the weight of his dead mare. Together, they looked able to manage it.

“Right,” Fleeting said tonelessly, her gaze flicking down the road to where Leoith was just swinging up into his saddle back where she'd made her kills. “Is there reason to expect more of this?”

Ayn shrugged, then lifted his saddle up onto his shoulder, his packs in his other hand while Togryd carried canvas and bedroll. “I have no idea,” he told her, then glanced up at dr'Hansova. “Drmach?” he asked, and the Drmach's eyes flicked to Fleeting and then back to Ayn, clearly reluctant to say anything in her presence.

Fleeting's eyes narrowed, changing to an even darker shade of emerald as anger stirred in the pit of her belly. To hide the suddenly thin line of her mouth, she turned and mounted L'jin smoothly as the stallion snorted, then reared with a last scream of challenge towards the trees. Leoith's gelding shied away with a whinny, but the hard eyed soldier brought him back under control easily before handing several more pouches—undoubtedly containing more damning gold—to the Drmach.

Why was she so angry with his response? It was only expected behavior from an empire-born to a foreign born. She'd gotten spoiled by Ayn treating her as an equal.

Reminded, she spun L'jin around, intending to offer Ayn a seat behind her in the saddle as she would have any time before, but saw Ayn already at the wagon, grinning up at Togryd as the young soldier gathered up the reins. “Ey! Togryd, scoot over; I'm coming up!” he called, and Fleeting looked away with a snort as the soldier did so amenably. As he settled onto the bench seat, Ayn twisted slightly to grin at Leoith, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Eh, Leoith!” he called. “Didn't I tell you my Fleeting was a master of horseflesh even better than I, and had a stud like you wouldn't believe? Bet he made your mouth water, didn't he?”

Leoith gave Ayn a flat, unamused look; the Drmach seemed to sigh a little. Maybe not—a moment later he was wheeling around with a wave. “Come on, we don't have all day,” he said in the perfect, unaffected soldier's voice. Obediently, Leoith wheeled his mean gelding around and started for the rear, his hard brown eyes meeting Fleeting's for an instant before slipping away as he passed. Fleeting's neck prickled, and she restrained the urge to spin L'jin to prevent the veteran soldier from gaining her back. Ayn didn't seem to have noticed the exchange, having already turned forwards as the wagon creaked into motion and was in the process of saying something to Togryd. By the young soldier's grin, it was probably a joke.

L'jin snorted and tossed his head beneath her as she urged him after the wagon; Fleeting reached down to pat his neck reassuringly. “Forrinya, L'jin,” she murmured almost absently, stroking her fingers across his smooth coat. “Quiet.” She didn't much like what was going on, but, well, if she ever had anything, it was time. She could wait.

- - -

Despite her previous decision to wait and bide her time, she found herself mulling over the situation as they continued riding. The Drmach had forged ahead at a pace that forced Togryd to bully the drafter into a surprisingly swift trot. Fleeting was a little surprised that the veteran soldier had apparently chosen speed over stealth. She might have, if she found herself in such a situation, but she had L'jin, and would probably be traveling alone or with just Ayn. With such a small party, their maneuverability would be one of their strongest defenses, and they could quickly loose themselves in the forest. Perhaps even lay a trap of their own.

They did have the wagon though, and it hampered their possible movements, Fleeting thought. There wasn't many places that a wagon could cross through this country off the Old Road, and any of them would be rough roads, and slow going. And they were up against opponents that were more or less unknown—the Drmach must be considering the risks that their attackers, whoever had paid the bandits to ambush them, had more forces lying in wait. In that case, speed might just surprise their foes enough that they slipped by before they were expected to. Except, however Ayn hadn't liked the situation, he hadn't been surprised by it. That said he had prior knowledge that such a possibility had existed, and he hadn't thought fit to warn her.

Her eyes flicked to where Ayn was sitting next to Togryd on the wagon's bench seat, at ease with one boot propped up on the running board and one arm thrown over the back of the bench, one hand moving to illustrate something in the story that he was telling Togryd. It seemed to involve the antics of some off-duty soldiers and a particularly sharp-tongued Night-flower, and Togryd had a half-grin on his face as he listened. Ayn was a good storyteller, and she'd guess that the subjects of the story were known to both of them by the amusement they were showing. Of course, with Ayn, he could have been making it up right then and there.

Fleeting snorted softly, turning away. The prickle on the back of her neck intensified as Leoith's attention was caught by the move, and she suppressed the need to wheel around and—what? Yell at him? Strike out at him? Tell him that she wasn't the one who needed watching, that she wasn't some dirt-blood that would break oath at every opportunity? While all three actions would provide some temporary release from her restless ill-temper, she wasn't foolish enough to think that she could force him to trust her. Why did she even care, anyway? They were only some ill-bred Empire born soldiers. They wouldn't even be with Ayn and her for more than a day or two at the most. Then they would be gone, and she wouldn't have to worry about them again. This wasn't the first time that she and Ayn had traveled with other companions for a stretch of the road. Why was she getting so restless over it?

Taking a deep breath, she forcefully dampened her anger as she let the breath slowly out through her nose, feeling the calm, emotionless face that she'd worn for so long settle back into place. Yes, that was better. She'd gotten spoiled, traveling with Ayn. It was dangerous, this expecting to be treated like an equal. She should know better by now. She'd be a fool to forget.

The Drmach was a dark, straight-backed figure through the thickening rain, riding closer to the wagon than he had before. He'd pulled in their formation to prevent the little group from being broken up in an attack; Fleeting had no doubt that behind her, Leoith had done the same. The Drmach was taking no chances, but from the ease in which Togryd and Ayn laughed softly over Ayn's jokes and stories, the attack was no big thing to the group. Of course, it was Ayn, but even so, she'd have expected something a little more wary. And why had the Drmach chosen speed over stealth? Did they have reinforcements up ahead? The prospect of more soldiers was not a pleasing one, and Fleeting's hand tightened on the reins till L'jin tossed his head inquiringly. If it came to that—if it came to finding herself in the company of Imperial soldiers again—

The tang of mud, blood, and wet steel rose to fill her nostrils for a moment as the memory of old pain twinged her side, then L'jin was rearing under her with an angry snort, jarring her back to the present. “Eh, lafraya, peace,” she told him hastily, and he came back down with a jarring thud, snorting angrily and almost seeming accusatory. “Lafraya, bikele tchou,” she murmured then, smiling a little as she stroked the big stud's mottled neck with one hand and almost not caring that his coat was wet. He snorted, as if to say he doubted she would be fine, then allowed himself a little preen under her touch. Fleeting hid a laugh. It would be so much easier if her world was as simple as his. The fond warmth left by his actions had faded after a moment, though, and Fleeting shivered.

Ayn noticed. “Ah, sorry love,” he called from his place on the wagon, making Fleeting look up at him in surprise as her eyes narrowed at the endearment. He was twisted around in the seat; she urged L'jin up a little farther to prevent him from needing to do so to face her without thinking about it, and he smiled. “I couldn't get those things I said I would,” he told her, that little smile still on his lips but his eyes genuinely sorry. “I nearly forgot to tell you. I know you don't like the rain.”

Fleeting gave him a sideways look, a little irritated that she was apparently so easy to read, then blew water off the tip of her nose with a huff and decided it didn't matter—she hadn't made any secret of that fact, at least. “I'd wondered,” she said shortly, nudging L'jin up a little more so that she rode abreast of the wagon bench and it's two occupants. Then she glanced back at him, eyes narrowed and a deep, irritated green. “And I am not your love,” she snapped.

Ayn feigned a faint, hand going to his forehead as if he was some failing highborn lady with vapors and startling Togryd into a snort of hastily muffled laughter. “Ah, you wound me so! How could you say such things, fairest lady? So cruel! So cruel ...” Ayn sniffled.

Fleeting gave a dry snort and looked away. “'M hardly a lady,” she said, her voice so dry that it nearly sapped the air of any moisture at all. “It's no wonder your father didn't protest your prodigal ways, when you decided to inflict yourself on the world in general rather than just his house.”

Ayn dropped the act and snickered, throwing his arms back behind his head and propping one boot on the kick-board so that he lounged backwards as if perfectly at ease. “Ah, that's true,” he admitted cheerfully. “There were some words about crazy great-uncle Bhern and throwbacks too, but just think how life would be so very dull without me!” he finished with a mischievous, teasing grin in her direction.

“Ah, yes, dull never does happen with you around,” Fleeting replied, tone still dry. “Misery, boredom—chaos perhaps. In fact, didn't that monk sum it all up very nicely that one time? What was it that he said ...” Her voice trailed off as she pretended to think, then gave Ayn a look best described as uncharitable. “Ah, yes. 'A well rounded and consistent state of madness, with a side dish of chaos layered with stark terror, seasoned heavily with panic and destruction'.”

Ayn laughed. “I thought you couldn't stand monks. Something about them being 'unnatural and unfaithful perversions seeped in ...' um ...” his voice trailed off, then his search for the rest of whatever she'd said was interrupted by her snort. Instead of finishing, he smiled up at her. “You do remember that that same monk absconded with all our coin after telling the common guard we were famous assassins from Lujqera, don't you?” he said in a fond tone that said he thought she might have forgotten.

That smile made Fleeting nervous; he looked far too innocent than he had any right to be playing. She eyed him a moment, but couldn't see any hint of what he was playing for—she would have liked to trip up his plans, whatever they were. Deprived of that avenue, she settled for a mocking snort and arch look only somewhat ruined by the rain dripping from her lashes. “Your coin, perhaps. And that doesn't mean the man didn't have a way with words,” she told him dryly.

“Hm,” Ayn murmured, still looking far too innocent and pleased with himself than Fleeting liked. Beneath her, L'jin snorted and gave a playful sideways jump; Fleeting hardly shifted in the saddle as she rode it out with all the ease of someone born there, and the ramhet snorted slightly in disappointment that she wasn't going to play his game. Ayn's continuing silence seemed far too dangerous to be left alone; she eyed him out of the corner of her eye for a moment, debating on the wisdom of calling his bluff and seeing what made him so smug this time, or waiting it out till he was ready to pounce. Either option seemed barely better than the silence.

Irritated, and not sure exactly why, Fleeting gave a little snort, then said, “Stop smirking, Cockroach. I am not pleased.”

Ayn sighed and stretched out even farther, crossing his legs at the ankles. “You so rarely are, my lovely, gloomy Fleet,” he said. He didn't sound very put out, only faintly amused—like a doting uncle regarding the antics of a particularly favored niece. “If it is about the company, they are much better than they look, even smelly Togryd here,” he said, lazily whacking the young soldier in question on the back of his head as he said it and receiving an injured look and mild complaint in response.

“If it's about the rain,” Ayn continued, giving her a look out from under the dripping brim of his hat, his gray eyes gleaming and a small smile curling about the corner of his mouth. “There isn't much even I can do about that.”

Fleeting's eyes flashed in response, and she opened her mouth to snap something, then turned away abruptly before it could escape. A moment of silence ensued, broken at last by her snort. “I wouldn't be out in the rain if it wasn't for you,” she told him, giving him a sideways look out of brilliant crystal-green eyes that were only faintly amused. “Especially not without a hat.”

Ayn blinked, then grinned as he took off his hat and offered it to her. “You can have mine.”

“Thanks,” Fleeting said dryly, snatching it out of his hand before he could retract it, and settling it firmly on her head.

He yelped indignantly, surprise and laughter chasing each other across his face as Togryd choked on a laugh beside him. “You didn't have to take it for real!” Ayn sputtered. “You were supposed to tell me how great a man I was for offering, but that you couldn't possibly put me out!”

Fleeting finally let her smile out to curl her lips as she tugged the brim of his hat further down on her head, then she sent L'jin to surge ahead with a touch. Behind her, Ayn laughed, and when she looked back out of the corner of her eye, he was grinning—as she knew he would be. “Go back to sleep, Green-eyes!” Ayn called up to her, cupping his hands around his mouth even though she wasn't farther away than the head of the big drafter. “Even the most bold of bandits would think twice about attacking again so soon. I'll wake you if anything happens.”

Fleeting snorted, but let the smile continue to curl her lips now that no one could see it. They would be fine, as they always were, and besides, it was good advice. Settling into the saddle, she tucked her chin down, pulled the collar of her worn poncho up to meet the brim of Ayn's hat, and let herself doze.

- - -

They rode through the night. Fleeting dozed restlessly in the saddle, unable to let herself drop into even as sound a sleep as she had earlier, after they'd first reached the Old Road. She woke when dr'Hansova rode back to the wagon and Ayn took his position in the lead on his big gelding so that the Drmach could catch some sleep in the back, then again when Ayn rode back and dr'Hansova resumed his position. Ayn then took Leoith's place as the hard-eyed veteran took his own turn in the covered wagon bed. The exchanges had clearly been decided on before, for each switch was completed with the bare minimum of murmured words and time. Or maybe it just showed the ease with which Ayn and the solders worked together. Whichever it was, Fleeting was at once both glad she hadn't been included in the rotation, and irritated.

The rain continued into the morning, occasionally thinning or thickening but never completely stopping. By the time light began to trickle through the clouds to lighten the shadows beneath the trees, Fleeting had given up on even the restless dozing that she'd been managing, and was staring grumpily out from beneath the brim of Ayn's purloined hat.

After about an hour, Ayn noticed her green eyes glaring at the rain and chuckled, pausing in his efforts to restore circulation to his feet. He'd taken Togryd's place at the reins during the last shift to allow the other man to catch a bit of sleep in the back of the wagon, and was now sporting an oil-slicker draped over his head. “Enjoy your night, my love?” he called to her with a grin.

She glared at him, and tried to hunch a little deeper into her poncho. After most of a night trying to do just that, her effort didn't produce anything, but she did it anyway. “My feet are frozen. I can't feel my fingers. And everything's wet,” she said in a tone meant to be biting, but ended up plaintive.

Ayn snorted laughter, then tried to cover it with a cough and a repentant look when she glared. “I did give you my hat,” he offered.

She gave him a look, and he shrugged. She snorted, and looked away. “I liked it better when you got us lost in Samalli,” she grumbled, trying to find someplace warm to tuck her frozen fingers. The only thing warm was L'jin, and she couldn't really tuck her fingers under the saddle-blanket without feeling guilty. She had warm clothes more suited to rides like this in her pack, but they weren't the sort that fit with the moneyless wanderer seeming she'd been playing. If Ayn had told her what station—other than disliked foreign-born—she was supposed to be acting as, she would have been able to do something. As he hadn't, she was left irritated, ill-tempered, and cold.

“You complained for weeks about that!” Ayn protested in response to her earlier grumble, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth as he flicked the reins and got an malice-filled snort from the drafter for his troubles.

“Because you had to get us lost with that empty-headed chit,” Fleeting said back, giving the black clouds just barely showing above the treetops to the north a baleful look. Her eyes still were a bit lighter when she turned that look on Ayn though, and he let his grin out.

“And I thought it was the sand,” he said, gray eyes gleaming mischievously up at her from under the edge of the slicker draped over his head. “You complained enough about it.”

“That was because it was the only thing I could do to get her to shut up for a moment or two,” Fleeting said disgustedly, then pulled his hat a little farther down over her ears as a biting wind, cold and cutting with moisture, sprang up. “The sand was one of the only nice things. Not to mention that it was actually warm, though still not a decent temperature.”

Ayn laughed in surprise, and grinned at her when she gave him a slightly dubious look of inquiry. “If that wasn't hot enough for you, I'd probably really melt in your homeland!” he told her. “I thought I was going to down there as it was!”

Fleeting gave him a look, but couldn't hide the amusement in her eyes from him. “Ach, poor little wet-lander, thinking he's going to roast in such a minor heat,” she said. The smile faded though as the thought of Ayn among the red stone, cool shadows, and heaven-reaching spires of the city of her birth appeared for a moment in her mind. An impossibility, and her eyes darkened in a pang of loss that made her fingers tighten under her poncho.

“Huh,” Ayn said, amusement flavoring every nuance of his being as he stretched a little, then adjusted the oil-slicker over his head. He didn't seem to have noticed her wandering thoughts, and Fleeting felt a bit of relief. Then she started a little as he looked back at her and gave a slow grin. “Maybe we'll go back there then, since you liked it so much. After this is done,” he said, then laughed. “I'll have earned myself a bit of a free day, don't you think?”

Fleeting's head cocked a little as she looked at him, then a small smile curled the corner of her mouth. “Maybe so, then,” she said. They would go wherever the Kingfisher sent him next, like they always had, but she supposed she should appreciate the sentiment. He'd never ask or demand a 'free day', as he'd called it, from his Kingfisher—he was too devoted for that. But she'd never have stayed with him this long if he hadn't been, would she?

He shot her another grin—one he probably wouldn't have given her if he'd known her actual train of thought—and then leaned around to lift the edge of the canvas covering the bed of the wagon. “Hey, Togryd! You up yet?” he called cheerfully.

There was a muffled groan of profanity, followed by the young solder's red-rimmed and blurry eyes as he stuck his head up through the gap. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and Fleeting couldn't help a wince of sympathy as he flinched at the wet cold, then disappeared back under the canvas as Ayn laughed. A moment later, however, he reemerged, hat planted firmly on his tousled hair. “Do you know what happened to my slicker?” he asked in bemusement, clambering stiffly over the bench and wincing at the rain soaking the wood.

Ayn grinned, slicker still arranged over his head, and Fleeting couldn't help but choke on a laugh as the scowling solder finally recognized it and snatched it back. “Now I know why Tousen was always ready to beat you over the head with a rock,” he grumbled, putting it back on.

“You weren't using it,” Ayn pointed out, then mimed ducking as Togryd glared at him. “Tell him, Fleeting!” he said, shooting her a wide-eyed look ruined by his grin.

Fleeting gave him a look of her own, one much less peaceful. He laughed, and turned to say something to Togryd that had the younger man smiling despite himself. Fleeting listened to their talk with half an ear as her attention lifted to the clouds above the trees. They were thickening fast—she could see that the Drmach had noticed them by the way he was glancing up, and had dropped back a bit closer to the wagon. Lifting her head, she took a breath of rain-tinged air, tasting the cold and the trees on her tongue, and frowned. She should be able to taste the storm, if it was so close. It would be on the air currents, and her father's folk had a particular affinity to storms that she'd inherited.

She took a deeper breath as the air stirred against her face, and inhaled a lungful of bitter stench. Instinctively, she jerked back, her whole body tensing as the scars on her back flared to sudden, icy life. Beneath her, L'jin screamed and reared in response to her sudden change in seat, his ears snapping back as he prepared to fight whatever threat to his mistress had appeared.

“Fleeting?” Ayn asked, his voice concerned as he started to move in his seat, then stopped. Fleeting almost didn't notice as she forced herself to breath again, every fiber of her body dreading another taste of that stench. None came, but she didn't know if that was worse or not. Her hands were trembling on the reins—she curled them tightly and hoped that no one had noticed, not even Ayn.

“Fleeting?” Ayn asked again, making her glance over too-quickly. His gray eyes were level and concerned as they met hers; she looked away again, unable to meet them for more than a heartbeat.

She had to have imagined it. That stench—there was no way that a mage could be here, in the Empire, and especially a mage that dabbled in blood. It was only some trick brought up by her treacherous memory, after traveling with Imperial solders again after so long. That was all. Except that her scars were like cold thorns and writhing under her skin, and old, raw memories that should have never come to the surface again were now close enough she could almost hear them, their screams just beyond the edge of her hearing. She'd scented magic on the wind, the power of a mage touched by blood, and it was in the storm. The storm that was growing too fast, and out of season. The storm she couldn't taste.

L'jin whistled under her, rising a little on his hind legs before jumping forwards, his hooves clattering against the cobblestones. Ayn called her name again in soft, concerned inquiry, and L'jin spun a little to face him. His hand rested on Togryd's crossbow as his gray eyes met Fleeting's, and the young solder beside him no longer looked remotely like a farm boy.

“Get off the road,” Fleeting told him before she was aware she was going to say anything. She knew the words were right as soon as she said them, however, the unfocused need of before clarifying abruptly into a crystal-clear purpose, so she repeated them. “Get off the road. We need to get off the road. Now.”

Ayn's eyes crinkled at the corners in the way they got when he was worried and would have liked to ask more questions, but he didn't. Instead, he turned to give a low-voiced command to Togryd, then gave a short whistle and a wave to the Drmach, who had already glanced back to find out the cause for L'jin's scream. Only after that did Ayn glance back at Fleeting and ask in a even, almost careless tone, “More bandits, love?”

Fleeting heard the endearment, but just as more sound. Her mind was too distracted by the storm, and what her other senses—now that she was paying attention to them—were telling her. “No, not--” her voice broke off abruptly; her thoughts scattered into listening, seeing, and feeling everything at once. “No—re'feh. Storm courida, st'te'kula ...” her voice trailed off as she realized she'd fallen back into her father's tongue, and with a frown, dragged her attention back from the storm enough to find the right words in the Empire's Kushval. “Shelter. The storm is too hard; it's … it doesn't smell right. It's wrong,” she said, the words twisting on her tongue as the wish to not lie to Ayn fought against self-preservation. “We need to get off the road and under cover.”

“The storm?” Ayn asked, sounding as if he would continue. His voice trailed off as he glanced up at the clouds, staring at them for a moment before glancing up the road to where the Drmach was wheeling his gelding around and giving him another wave. With a nudge, the Drmach pushed his gelding into a short canter before reining the beast around at the wagon where, with a few murmured words too quick for Fleeting to catch in her distraction, Ayn relayed the situation and the Drmach returned to the lead. Togryd was eying Fleeting curiously out of the corner of his eye, and she could feel Leoith's gaze on her back like a spot of ice. She ignored them both as she absently rode out L'jin's fidgeting, her own gaze and attention once again focused on the rapidly darkening sky.

Why here, and why now? For that matter, how? This was deep in the Empire—there hadn't been any mages born here for at least two hundred years, probably more. The Empire's folk had spent too long tearing all those with the slightest touch of magic to pieces for any child with the gift to live past their third year, when that magic would begin to show. Magic was like any other blood-born gift—it had to be in the lineage if it was to be possible. It couldn't be a mage born to the Empire, and what foreign mage would be foolish enough to come so deep within the borders? Particularly a blood mage. That was even closer to the Wizard's perverted magics than ordinary mage craft.

At least she knew now why she hadn't smelled the storm growing on the wind, Fleeting thought, and would have laughed if she'd had the breath.

- - -

They made it off the road and into the shelter of the trees just before the storm hit, but even so, it almost wasn't enough. Rain and bits of ice slammed into the ground with the force of a clap of thunder even through the trees, and Fleeting grunted as it drove her down into the saddle. L'jin whinnied with pain, staggering and then righting himself with a lunge. Behind them, Fleeting heard the drafter bellow, and she wondered for an instant if hard-eyed Leoith had made it to the treeline behind the wagon or not.

It was an instant's thought only, a flicker there and then gone in less than a heartbeat. The rough, muddy little track that the Drmach had somehow found was enough to demand even her attention to her mount and seat. The rain was coming down hard enough that she couldn't see more than two meters into the trees on either side—she had no doubt that anything unfortunate enough to be caught unprotected on the road wouldn't make it long. The force needed to shred the thick forest canopy above her so fast would kill an unprotected beast or man within minutes.

From ahead came a muted yell, and L'jin lunged for it. The dark shape of some sort of structure loomed up through the sleet and ice, and Fleeting ducked quickly as L'jin surged forwards into a sudden absence of rain. The stud twisted almost immediately to avoid running down the Drmach as the man dodged, and, for once unprepared, Fleeting yelped as she was forced to fight for her seat in the saddle and her nose came into sharp, abrupt contact with L'jin's up-flung neck.

Eyes watering from the pain, Fleeting grabbed for her nose as L'jin danced to the side with a snort to make room for the dark shapes of drafter and wagon that appeared and were pulled quickly inside by the Drmach. The clatter of the wagon crossing the threshold seemed strangely muted after the roar of rain and ice, and Fleeting steadied herself, letting her surroundings come slowly into focus as the sounds resumed their customary sharpness.

They were in what had once been a sizable way-station or journey-house, its thick stone walls crumbling in places but mostly intact. A tree had fallen through the back of the building at some point in time, but since then, the gaping hole had been filled by the tree's still-living branches and the debris and Lad's-bane that they'd caught. Her eyes were caught by movement in the corners and along the bulk of the tree, and L'jin snorted. The rattling chur of a Pia—a kind of tall, long-legged night bird—answered him. It seemed they were not the only things that had sought out the ruined building for shelter from the storm.

Wiping away a trickle of blood from her nose, Fleeting dismounted as Leoith's dark gelding appeared in the entrance and was pulled in by dr'Hansova and Ayn, who seemed to be the least affected by the storm. The two of them managed to pull a stunned and bleeding Leoith from the saddle as Fleeting began stripping L'jin of his tack. Pulling the first rough-woven item she found from her pack—a pair of homespun boy's trousers—she then gave the stud a quick rubdown and a cursory check for injuries from the ice. Behind her in the darkness, Ayn and the Drmach were doing the same to the Drmach's and Leoith's geldings, as a slow moving Togryd and a shivering Leoith stood and tried to regain the use of their wits.

L'jin snorted and stomped under her hands, then craned his head around to nibble at the brim of Ayn's hat, and Fleeting smiled as she gave him a fond scratch under his chin, then turned him loose to wander back into the darkness in curiosity. Other than a few small cuts too small to need treatment, his tough mountain-bred hide seemed to have protected him from damage.

Glancing back towards the others, she saw that Ayn had finished with Leoith's gelding and had moved on to the big drafter, helped by a clumsy Togryd, and the Drmach was just finishing up with his own. They seemed to have the situation with wagon and beasts well in hand, so Fleeting turned her attention to other things, shrugging out of her poncho and let it drop to the ground beside her tack. Its absence made her shoulders feel light and exposed, but no more or less cold than before. She'd long since become soaked through—the heavy garment had served well in protecting her from the ice, but was of no use now. Ayn's hat she left on her saddle.

Bending down, she began gathering some of the fallen branches and leaves on the floor to make a fire with, hoping to have it finished and lit before any of the others turned to aid her. Unfortunately for that, Togryd's clumsy attempt to help Ayn with unharnessing the drafter had been waved off as more of a hindrance than an aid, and so the young solder dazedly moved to help her after a moment. He did little but stumble about, and Fleeting could have gathered as many leaves and twigs without him in less time, but she said nothing. She could understand the need to move and be useful, and there was little to gain by refusing him anyway.

Thankfully, he stopped moving when she knelt to arrange the sticks and leaves into a pile, or she'd have been afraid that he would trip and fall on her. He was still close, and Fleeting eyed him a moment from where she was crouched, wondering if he was dazed enough he wouldn't notice if she didn't use a striker to light the fire with. The dry tinder would catch fast, but Ayn's comment about him being good at cards stuck in her mind. Dared she risk the chance he might be more alert than he seemed?

Reluctantly, she decided against it and dug the striker she carried for appearances sake out of the small belt-pouch she wore. It took only one try with the coaxing touch of her magic to parch the air for the stones to spark, and the tiny heart of flame fell eagerly to light the dry tinder. Gently, she built it up, adding bigger branches as it grew and only leaning back once it was a cheery, if small blaze radiating warmth.

A small sigh escaped Togryd, and the young solder shuffled closer, wobbling unsteadily and prompting Fleeting to rise quickly in concern. “There's no need to kiss the fire, sighami,” she told him, stopping him with a hand when he would have moved even closer to the small nest of flames. “Get your wet clothes off and you'll be warmer.”

Obediently, he started fumbling at his slicker with fingers clumsy and blue from the cold, and she left him there to gather more wood for the fire. By the time she returned from the darkness at the back of the building with an armful of sizable branches from around the fallen tree, Ayn and the Drmach had finished caring for the beasts and all four men were gathered around the fire. Togryd had apparently taken her quite literally, for his clothes were a sodden pile by the fire, and a blanket—presumably from the back of the wagon—swathed him from head to toe. Another was held by Leoith, whose hard eyes were angry. He looked like a man who had just learned that his most hated enemy had outmaneuvered him, and Fleeting eyed him warily as she returned to place the wood within handy reach of the fire.

Ayn looked up from his soft-voiced conversation with dr'Hansova as she approached, then frowned. “Fleeting! You're hurt,” he exclaimed, stepping around the Drmach to stride quickly towards her.

Fleeting eyed him dubiously, then remembered her nose. “Oh,” she said, raising a hand to touch it and finding it sore, but no longer bleeding. “It's nothing. What of you? You were out in it longer than I,” she asked, glancing towards the entrance and the dark, vaguely moving blur beyond.

He looked like he wanted to argue with her, but didn't. Instead, he shrugged, rolling the muscles in his shoulders as if to prove they didn't hurt. “I'm fine,” he said, then glanced over at the others. “Leoith's the worst off, I think. He got knocked around more than the rest of us, and he doesn't do well around ice. Togryd should be fine by the morning—or at least once he thaws out,” he added with a bit of humor. Then his eyes narrowed as he looked back at her nose, one hand rising as if to brush at the drying blood. “You should get that washed off,” he told her in a serious tone broken only by the mischievousness in his gray eyes. “It doesn't go with your hair at all.”

Fleeting gave him an unamused look, and from across the fire, Togryd laughed, then coughed. When Fleeting glanced over at him, he was grinning, if holding his ribs a little painfully. From his place beside him, the Drmach frowned and then said, “If you're well enough to laugh at Ayn's foolery, go and get into your spare set before you catch a fever."

With a shrug and a wry little smile in Fleeting's direction, Togryd turned to go. Then he reeled, nearly overbalancing and falling flat on his back in the fire. The Drmach caught him with a startled sound, nearly tripping over Togryd's sodden clothing and falling into the fire himself, and Ayn laughed. “I'll go get his set, Drmach.”

Glancing down at Fleeting, he gave her that familiar crooked grin, his eyes dancing merrily. “You might do well to follow his advice too, love,” he told her, reaching out to pluck at her wet shirt.

With a scowl, she swatted his hand away, wishing she still had his hat so that she could whack him with it. “I am not your love.” He only grinned at that, so with a soft snort, she turned away. It wasn't bad advice, and besides, she was sick of being wet.

- - -