Tristan dreamed of pain, and that pain came in the form of memories. No memory pained him more than that of his father’s death.

  He rode a skittish horse around the lower slopes of the hill leading up to his family’s fortress, a group of distrustful young men in tow. They traveled around and through thick brush that had grown lush from recent rains. His fears threatened to come up as vomit in his throat as he listened for signs of impending threat.

  It was his first command, and it was not going well. The other boys thought him a child leading men. He was still small for his age, and though he should be old enough to grow a beard, his face had refused. Only his name to give him any authority. He prayed to Vor that they would obey his commands when needed.

  Though all had been quiet that morning, reports of the Emperor’s scouts in the woods kept them wary. His father had refused to kneel to the will of the Emperor, making an enemy of the growing Vorashan Empire. It was just a matter of time before the Empire moved against them.

  Tristan could feel something was wrong, as could the others. Every shadow seemed to hold some unseen danger, the silence eating at them like a festering sore waiting to burst.

  When three quick bursts of a horn sounded from up the hill, they all jump in their saddles.

  "That’s the call home!" said Kregor, his Second for the day.

  "Shush! Everyone be quiet and stay put,” Tristan said firmly. Despite their reluctance, they held their horses steady, patting them to keep the beasts calm.

  Tristan listened between the thuds of his heartbeat. The breeze carried to him a faint clacking of hammers against anvils, as if a hundred smiths were busy working their trade on the other side of the hill. Lavignal only had one smith in residence.

  "Fighting. I hear fighting. Quick, to the road, but stay to the trees until we know what we’re up against." The entire group, their restraint stretched thin, jumped at his order, taking their mounts as quickly as possible through the dense foliage.

  Tristan wished he could avoid the main road, but with the hill steepening toward the crest, there was only one way to the gate. As they neared the road, Tristan called out for the others to slow their approach. However, the sound of fighting was now clear to everyone. Kregor brushed aside the order and let his steed break from the trees. He charged up the path at full gallup. The others followed as well, leaving Tristan behind.

  "Fools!" Tristan cursed aloud. He paused at the edge of the road, but as he watched the others race away, he knew there was little he could do by himself. With a kick of his heels he urged his steed forward and gave chase.

  A little ways down the path, Tristan’s horse leapt over a fallen body. More littered both sides of the road. He recognized them as the remains of another scouting party. He had known some of those men, trained with them, ate meals with them. Now they stared at the sky with dead eyes. Looking ahead, Tristan could see a line of mounted men blocking the road, waiting for the rest of his group that still galloped recklessly toward the fortress. Their livery of gold on black showed them to be men of the Empire.

  As one did in dreams, Tristan knew what was coming, but he felt helpless to stop it. Kregor reached the line first, prodding his horse onward to force it apart, but it did him no good. One of the men caught Kregor with a sword beneath the chin. The momentum of his charge sent his head twirling into the trees.

  The charge of Tristan’s party broke at that line, horses whinnying in panic while the boys waved their swords about in chaotic desperation. Before Tristan arrived several of them had already been cut down.

  Stopping his mount just short of the battle, Tristan leapt off and dove between men and stomping hooves. He felt his way between the crush of armored bodies and animals, dodging and weaving among them, avoiding swipes and cuts by less than a hand span. Miraculously he managing to be touched by none.

  As he went, he darted his sword in and out, swiping at the bellies of enemy horses. He hated doing it, but had little choice. They toppled with each cut, sending their heavily armored riders clattering to the road like overturned turtles. Many of them were quickly crushed as their steeds fell on top of them.

  In moments it was over. Those who did not die when they fell were helpless as Tristan walked among them. He stabbed between the seams of their armor, turning their final pleas for mercy into bloody gurgles.

  Only two of his own had survived the onslaught. They sat their mounts, their clothing splattered in blood. They stared at him in awe and newfound respect.

  "By Kurn, I’ve never seen such a thing," said one while the other’s jaw hung open in surprise.

  "This is why I told you to stop at the road." Tristan could not help but jab at their pride. Five of them lay dead thanks to their foolishness.

  "I… forgive us, sir. Please forgive us."

  "I’ll leave forgiveness to the dead,” Tristan said as he returned to his horse and climbed awkwardly back into the saddle.

  Following the combat, the forest fell into an eery silence. Tristan could no longer hear the sounds of clashing metal. "No use waiting now. Let’s go. But stop when I say."

  The two nodded in submission, eyes still wide. They allowed Tristan to take the lead again as they kicked their horses forward.

  At the top of the hill, the road leveled and straightened as it approached the front gates of the fortress, giving them a fair view ahead. Tristan could see more horses and a number of armed men gathered in a cluster out front. Still more came out from between the large double doors of the gateway. Gold and black were the only colors to be seen. Those coming out of the fortress pushed forward a number of stumbling men and women, their hands bound behind their backs. Among them, Tristan thought he saw the distinctive clothing of his father, the colors of Lavignal crimson among the pale browns of the commoners.

  As he came closer, he saw his father stumble to his knees from a blow from behind. Tristan’s heart raced as the surrounding men drew swords. Despite his earlier command to his companions, he put spurs to his horse in fear for what he was witnessing, drawing his sword in preparation.

  The Empire’s men noticed his coming. Several of them raised bows with nocked arrows. The one who stood behind his father, grey hair and long face clear as Tristan rode forward, turned to watch his charge. That man raised a hand in command, then let it fall.

  Tristan gasped as his chest erupted in chilled pinpricks like hives along his skin. He knew what was coming. Yet he hesitated. Caught between the blur of the ground beneath his charging mount and the oncoming arrows, he froze in indecision. That was all the time needed for the arrows to find him.

  One pierced the left side of his chest. In response his entire body filled with fire, taking away all reason. If there was more, he did not feel it. One was enough. Tristan lost all sense of the world around him. There was no fortress, no enemy, no father. Only excruciating, undeniable agony. If he screamed he did not hear himself. He was lost in a land where only the pain was real.

  That pain ebbed and flowed inside him for an eternity. Forever came and went and came again until the pain abruptly stopped. His senses returned. First came the chirping of birds, then the scent of burnt wood with hints of blood. Tristan felt starved for breath, making him gulp in smoke tainted air.

  He opened his eyes, ready for another attack, but found himself alone. He was lying on his back beside the road.

  The fletching of an arrow tickled his chin when he moved, the shaft burnt to a stub. He was covered in old blood and soot, his clothes dotted with holes surrounded by rings of ash. Dried, dark brown flakes fell from around his throat as he sat up. He felt his neck. It was whole and unmarred, but the collar of this tunic crumbled at his touch.

  Recoiling at the thought of what it meant, he looked around. The sun was already drifting toward dusk, the shadows of the forest stretching over him like searching fingers. He lay in a bed of leaves and caked blood. The leaves were charred as well, with tendrils of smoke drifting away like sparse fog in a breeze.

  His horse lay nearby, dead from arrows in the head and chest. A member of his squad lay just beyond it, an arrow jutting through his throat, eyes glazed and lifeless. Closer to the fortress gates lay the other, chest slashed open. His sword laying besides him in the dust, clean metal glinting in the late day sun.

  Fighting against a driving hunger and thirst that made his stomach ache and lips stick together, he pushed himself upright and stumbled to the fortress gate. He walked between rows of corpses where servants and vassals were neatly laid out in pools of their own blood. Not far from them was Tristan’s father. his head rested an arm span from his crumpled body. Tristan could not find his mother another them, but the silent fortress told him all he needed to know.

  A scream ripping from his throat, Tristan jerked back to consciousness. He was no longer on that forlorn hill. He found himself sitting upright on the floor of a tiny room, warmed by a pile of blankets and the flames of a small stone fireplace. A woman sat on the hearth, smiling at him from her perch. This was not the malicious grin of Neila, but one of sympathy and kindness. She gazed at him with soft green eyes framed by long, raven black hair.

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  Tristan felt weak. Just sitting up took tremendous effort, but his stomach growled as it often did after trauma, giving him comfort that his body’s healing powers had returned. When he tried to speak, however, he found his voice absent. His throat was dry and hoarse, the sound coming out a faint hiss. Coughing to clear his throat, he tried again, managing only a harsh rasp.

  "Who are you?" he croaked.

  Her smile broadened as she reached over with a cloth to wipe the sweat from his face. She held a finger to her mouth as if shushing him, saying nothing. Instead she rose and went to the door.

  His eyes followed her as she went. She was tall and thin as a reed, her movements easy and graceful. She wore a white linen dress that suggested her form more than showed it. It had been some time since he had seen anyone so beautiful.

  Tearing his eyes away, he examined the small room. It was not so much tiny as it was crowded. His own body took up most of the floor space. He laid on a brown, bear skin rug that nestled between the fireplace hearth and a tiny bed, his blanket the mottled skin of a grey wolf. The bed was neatly made and covered in a quilt stitched from vibrant cloth of every conceivable color. The space on the bed was covered with stuffed toy animals, each made from the fur of the beast for which it was made. Tiny wolves, deer, and even a bear was displayed in various poses, their small glass eyes glinting at him in the fire’s light.

  At his feet was a small mahogany table, covered in another quilt as a tablecloth. It was weighed down by several large books and sheaves of paper. In fact, there was a lot of paper, stacks of them, all neatly piled around the table and the room’s only chair. The chair itself was made of mahogany to match the table, but covered in ornate carvings of intricately twined knots.

  Above him was a single, continuous shelf than ran around the room. It extended over the bed and fireplace, as well as the door. Jars of preserves lined the shelf, complimenting bundles of herbs and plants that hung from the ceiling by nails and twine. The door was the only exit. No windows at all, the fire its only source of light. The room was not stuffy, however. It smelled of cinnamon and spice, sweet and comforting.

  The woman opened the door and waved to someone outside. Tristan could see the dim sky of early evening beyond. He wondered how long he had been unconscious, but was given little time to think on it. Into the room came two faces he was delighted to see. Master Ruel was first, followed by Brien’s wide grin. She and the monk filled the remaining space inside the cabin.

  "Glad to see you alive, sir," Brien said in her lilting accent.

  He cleared his throat again before speaking. Whatever had bothered in his throat had faded, however, allowing his voice to come through clearly. "Glad to be alive, and so glad to see you both."

  Being only covered from the waist down by the wolf skin, he adjusted himself out of embarrassment, tugging the wolf fur up to cover his belly. That is when he noticed the cloth bandage around his right shoulder. It bulged over a poultice which was held tightly against his chest. The bandage was soaked a deep crimson turned brown at the edges.

  Considering how he normally healed, he was glad he would not need to make any excuses. He only hoped he had healed after the graceful woman had wrapped it in place.

  He looked up to see her standing behind his comrades. If she had seen anything, she did not show it. She just stood back in amusement as she watched the reunion. She smiled softly, showing a hint of teeth from a slight overbite. It made her look younger than the twenty winters he initially guessed.

  "I see you met Ruel,” he said to Brien. “But I assume I need to thank the lady for my life?" Tristan suspected that his natural healing ability had returned of its own accord, but he needed to carry on with the charade for the sake of his friends.

  "It's a miracle you're alive, Tristan,” said Ruel. “But miracles seem to follow you. Yes, indeed they do, don't they?" Realizing he had not answered the implied question, he gestured to the woman. "Oh, yes, this dear is Illa," he said, his deep voice resonating inside the tiny space. "She can’t speak, poor girl, but is quite a healer if I do say. Don’t you agree?” He gestured to Brien, but didn’t give her much chance to answer. “The villagers in Yushan sent us to her.”

  He paused then to take a breath. After a moment he continued, sounding more subdued. “We were chased the moment we left Nassir. Brien here saw the dust of their horses whenever we crested a hill. We dared not stop. Well, we did once to make a fire. You were still bleeding so we tried hot coals to burn the wound. But it kept seeping and you wouldn’t wake. We feared the damage too much. Thank Yu, though, we finally lost them and were able to ask for help."

  Brien wedged herself into the conversation. "That was pretty much the way of it, sir. It's been four days since Nassir. We just arrived here this afternoon. We haven't slept a wink the entire way." Tristan could see the dark circles around Brien’s eyes as proof. "We kept to back trails where we could, though it’s hard to hide a wagon’s trail. Could not carry you any other way, though. Had to double back a few times, even crossed the Uphret twice, riding downstream in the shallows. We have not seen hide nor hair of them since yesterday night, thank Kurn. We are currently outside the village of Yushen, not far from the mountain pass to Elahn."

  She stopped to scratch at a scab that ran above one eye. Besides exhaustion, Tristan could see the remains of bruises around her face, hiding among the dancing shadows of the room’s firelight. One eye was circled in yellow and green. Her clothing was splotched with the brown of old blood. She looked a wreck, yet somehow still managed to keep a grin on her face.

  "Thanks for the report. And thank you, my lady."

  Illa smiled shyly. She mouthed the words "you’re welcome" to him.

  Tristan turned back to his companions. "Now I would love to hear how you got me out of there, but right now I’m tired and very hungry. Is it possible to get some food?"

  Before Brien or Ruel could speak again, Illa shooed the two of them out. She pushed at the large monk, and though dwarfed by his bulk, he did not resist. His friends bid him a good evening. “We’ll be nearby,” Brien said. “I promise to tell you the rest of the story in the morning.”

  Once Tristan and Illa were alone, she attended to a pot hanging over the fire by an ironwork crane. The aroma of beef, carrots, and potatoes made his mouth water. She served him in a small clay bowl along with slices of dark rye bread.

  "Thank you," he said. He practically inhaled the food, and asked for seconds before he realized how rude he was being. She did not seem to mind. In fact she appeared to expect it. A second bowl was already in her hand as he spoke. For herself. she seemed content to watch.

  When he was done, he thanked her for her hospitality. "I do appreciate what you’ve done for me. Thank you. I assure you we’ll be on our away first thing in the morning. I don’t want to impose on you any more than we have."

  Her forehead wrinkled in annoyance at the suggestion, putting a finger to his lips to quiet him. Then she turned to his bandages. She unwrapped them carefully as if to change them.

  Fearing for his secret, he tried to wave her away. "No, really, there’s no need to clean the dressing. It looks just fine. And I’m tired. Why don’t we wait till morning?"

  She ignored him. He wondered briefly if she was mute as well as deaf, but Illa let him know she heard him just fine. She slapped his hand away with an audible smack, forcing him to withdraw in resignation and submit to her ministrations.

  Unwrapping the last of the bandage, she removed the poultice and tossed it into the fire. It crackled and smoked as it burned, quickly disintegrating into ash. Then she wiped away blood from his shoulder with a damp cloth, revealing smooth skin beneath.

  Despite a spear through the joint and being burnt to stop the bleeding, the skin was smooth and unmarred. Illa traced the spot with a finger, nodding to herself in approval. She did not appear at all surprised by the lack of wound.

  "You knew there wouldn’t be a wound?" he asked.

  Illa nodded. Then she brought out another set of bandages and began to rewrap the shoulder. Knowing that his friends would wonder about the lack of wound, he nodded his approval. Afterward she picked up the bloody cloth she had used to wash him and threw that in the fire as well.

  Curiously ate at him. "How? How did you know?"

  She looked at him thoughtfully, then let out a sigh and shrugged. Then she turned her back on him, instead cleaning up the remains of his meal.

  He stared at her as she went about her work. Her reaction disturbed him more than anything. Only one other person knew his secret and was alive to tell it, and she was an enemy. He did not know who this woman was or what she would do with this information. He thought getting up and confronting her, but being naked with only a blanket to cover him, he let modesty get the best of him. He decided that being reasonable was better than threatening.

  "Illa, I need to know how and what you know about me. I thank you for not telling my friends, but there are others who would harm me if they knew. Keeping my secret is my only defense. It will likely bring you trouble too if you’re not careful."

  She continued to ignore him, putting jars of herbs she had used for cooking back in their places on the shelf.

  "I thought you were mute, not dumb."

  Her head snapped around to glare at him, her eyes reflecting the flames of the fireplace. Then she took a deep breath to calm herself. Putting away the last jar, she returned to sit besides him. She reached out to tip up his chin, making sure he was looking her in the eyes. She shook her head emphatically, lips purposely pressed together so he would understand. Though she could not talk, she let him know her lips were sealed. She would not tell anyone.

  "Why not?"

  She frowned and shook her head again. Tristan realized that this was getting nowhere quickly. He pointed over to the table.

  "You can write? Why don’t you tell me that way?"

  With a heavy sigh, she tucking a stray bit of hair over one ear and went to the table. She dipped a pen into an inkwell and put it to a piece of paper, her hand flowing across the sheet. Then she lifted it so he could see. It was only one word, written in intricate, flowing calligraphy. It was enormously expressive for being such a short word. No.

  "You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t think that is much of an answer."

  She turned and scribbled some more. Only I know. I will tell no one.

  Now it was his turn to frown. "Even if that’s true, you don’t know the person who’s chasing me. I don’t think she would hesitate to skin you alive to get what she wants. And she can do something…" He recalled the moans of those who drank from the bloodied fountain in Nassir and shivered. "Let’s just say I don’t think she would have to work hard to get you to talk."

  Her eyes narrowed at his words. He laughed. "I mean write," he corrected.

  I can take care of myself, she wrote. Looking at the slip of a woman, it was hard to imagine Illa being able to defend herself from the likes of Neila. Still, she looked at him in a way that spoke of confidence.

  "How?"

  She looked down thoughtfully and rather than write she put down the paper and sat by the bed. She pulled a metal box from beneath the bed frame. Thumbing open the latch, she pulled out a leather bag. She hefted the bag in one hand and showed him. Tristan was not sure what it was, but before he could ask, she tugged on the drawstrings, reached in with two fingers, and presented the black dust pinched between them.

  It did not look like anything to him, so he shrugged, wondering what she meant by this. Smiling knowingly, she moved to kneel beside him and reached out to the fire with her blackened fingers.

  She was leaning over him to do it, making Tristan overly conscious of her proximity. She smelled of spice with a hint of sweetness that reminded him of fields of mountain flowers. Her dress draped lightly across his bare chest as she reached across him. The hairs on his chest prickled at the touch. Then she blew on her finger tips.

  A flurry of pops and sparks erupted from the fireplace, making Tristan jump. The sweetness of Illa’s scent was driven away by the strong odor of sulfur. His jump unbalanced Illa, making her fall onto his lap.

  The door banged open. Brien burst in with sword drawn, followed quickly by Master Ruel. Seeing the two of them, they both stopped and stared with gaping mouths. Illa rolled on his lap, making the only sound he had heard from her so far. She made a series of low, gruff barks that could not be mistaken for anything but laughter. It was contagious. Both his friends smiled, though they could only guess at what was so funny.