Author's Note: the events of LK make this AU, ignoring the fall of Haven and reconstruction as New Hope. At one point I conceived Mya's story as an epic fic, but since then… much of the ambition drained out of me. So this is it for now. Pathetic, I know. Maybe someday….
Thanks to Candice, as always.
Disclaimer: the premise of Tortall, Scanra, Keladry of Mindelan, and the circumstances of Lady Knight are the creation of Tamora Pierce. Mya is mine, and so is her story.
Haven
September 26, 460 H.E.
As the blanket of gray clouds overhead were starting to diffuse a soft light just enough to read by, as one's breath still laid a soft mist on the air, and the people and animals of Haven were going about their morning activities that just stirred the cool, sleepy air of the camp, a guard's whistle pierced the air. Only a few heads turned and stayed fixed in the direction of the gate for more than a moment; the guards were to handle any messenger or - hopefully - reinforcement that came to Haven. It was ordinary business at the camp, and if it concerned the people, they would find out soon enough. Till then, they had their own work to do.
In the distance, a lone figure approached the camp, in no hurry, but intent on its destination all the same - walking mechanically, heavily, like one at the end of a long journey. As far as Dannen, the guard on morning watch, could see, the traveler boasted only a long brown cloak and a small pack slung over one shoulder. As he - or she? - trudged across the bridge, he could see a pale, blank face, the cloak's hood fallen back from straight brown hair.
"Halt!" he called, his voice unwillingly more gentle than typically accompanied the order. His voice stretched out through the chilly air. "Name yourself."
The arrival's head turned up to look at him at the words - a young girl, hair braided. Her eyes were narrowed, face hard, as though she shielded herself from everything without, put up a stiff mask where an open, friendly face might be. She didn't stop walking or reply to Dannen's command.
"Name yourself!" he repeated more strongly, making sure his crossbow was in full view.
The girl ignored him, closing the distance to Haven's gates with the air of one who has finished nineteen-twentieths of a long, hard task, and anyone to try and stop them from doing the rest of it be damned. Her hunched shoulders straightened a little, as though daring Dannen to take his pleasure and shoot her. He had no intention of doing so. This girl didn't look as though she could take on a rested, well-fed version of herself, let along a single Haven guard. She looked unarmed, and unlikely to be capable of wielding a weapon - though one could have been hidden beneath her cloak.
Her audacity extended to walking up to Haven's entrance and pounding on the gates, slowly - apparently with as much force as her weary arms would allow, but clearly audible - a command for some person within to come to her service.
Dannen glanced down at the ground; below, another guard, Rand, nodded to him and went to answer the banging demand.
"What's your business, lass?" he asked, tone between gentle and defensive.
The girl took her time in replying, looking Rand over as though she were the one fit to judge his worth. Her hand slid down from head level to hang by her fingertips from the gate's bars. Her stony gray eyes had the look of both a hunter and prey, clearly aware of the danger but ready to fight her enemy to the last breath. Her face was pale and thin, skin creased deeply below the eyes, speaking of a long journey and poor food and rest. Her mouth was tight, her chin stuck out slightly, as though challenging an interrogator to elicit more than she was willing to tell. The hand on the gate was rough and chapped, fingernails lined with dirt. Her loose-sleeved cloak was coarse, patched, and made for a larger person, falling to the toes of her scuffed boots. The bag hanging from her shoulder was in a similar condition. She seemed the hollowed-out shell of a person, a human being whittled down to the machine concerned only with surviving.
Her gaze flicked down Rand, then shifted to scan the scene behind him, eyes weary and still guarded.
"What d'you want?" he repeated as a moment passed and she hadn't answer.
She looked back at him, seeming to consider briefly, then jerked her head at the sign above. "You call yourselves Haven." Her voice was low, gravelly, flat. "Are you going to let me in?"
"You a refugee?"
Her features shifted to hint at a sneer. She shrugged one shoulder. "You could say that."
Rand moved to unlock the gate, trying to put a note of welcome into his voice. "Well, Haven's open to anyone in need of food and shelter, long as they're not with those Scanran dogs. We take in those run from their homes in the war, and anyone's welcome who needs a place and won't hurt the camp." He opened the gate enough to admit the girl, and she stepped past him, wandering a few steps onto the open ground with that same weary, directed air. She surveyed Haven impassively, saying nothing.
Olka Valestone, bearing what looked like sacks of flour, had been crossing the camp. She now stopped at the girl's elbow, face soft with kindness. "You're a sight, lass. Is she a new arrival?" The woman glanced at Rand.
"Just set foot inside the gates. Can you settle her in, Olka? Get her a good meal, some fresh clothes, a place to sleep? And she may need a healer."
"Of course," Olka replied, examining her new charge with concern. The girl remained silent, stray wisps of hair blowing over her face in the wind. "Come this way, dear." She turned towards the mess hall; the girl followed.
As they crossed the camp together, Rand was gratified to see one of Haven's clerks emerging from headquarters, engrossed in a stack of papers. "Zamiel?" Rand called; the older man looked up. Rand gestured to the women, indicating that Zamiel should take charge of the newcomer. The clerk hurried to do so.
Striding briskly to the two women, he caught up with the slower-moving pair. "You're new, mistress?" he asked, producing a stubby charcoal pencil. The girl only nodded.
"When did you get in?" Zamiel inquired, pencil poised above a sheaf of parchment.
"Just today," Olka replied. "And she's in a poor state, so if you don't mind I'd like to get the lass something to eat -" she put a hand on the girl's shoulder, steering her toward the mess hall.
Zamiel kept pace with them, tracing neat lines on his paper. "And your name?"
The girl stopped, then turned slowly, eyes coming to rest on Zamiel, as though the question evoked matters she'd rather not address. She took another moment, jaw shifting slightly.
"Mya," she said finally. "Myara Dalkien, age sixteen -" her eyes tightened - "from Birchdale." Her gaze flicked down, and she turned to follow Olka once more through Haven.