A/N During the early stages of this story, I knew where Kyminn's Gifts would eventually take him. The next steps where to figure out the "how" and "why" that would get him there. Now that I have those two points pinned down, I had to go back through the canon timeline and figure out the "when." This step happened while I was writing Chapter 20 (which is why this message is repeated there!)

I've been able to be very definite with respect to the "when" of this story. It takes place in the year 1371 A.F. The ruling monarch is Sendar, the King's own is Talamir (Companion Taver). In just under a year, a Companion named Kantor is going to choose a Karsite captain and turn the Herald's Collegium on their collective ears.

All rights to Mercedes Lackey

By Raelynn Daria Mayne

Chapter 1

"Spider Web moss:

Season – Harvest during the spring rains, after the sleet and before the catkins fall. If the moss is brown and has a foul odor, it is past harvesting.

Look for it in mature forest, under fallen trees. It is often found in company with skunk cabbage and false strawberry. The moss grows very slowly, so take only one part in three and harvest every other year. The moss never returns to a spot if it has been over-gathered.

Kyminn knelt in the cold, clammy leaf mold, his numb fingers gently extracting the precious bounty. As he separated the pale green strands and folded them into his carry bag, he repeated the section on Spider Web moss to himself, reminding himself why this harvest was so important.

Spider Web is strongest when fresh, but can be dried for future use. Dry flat and twist into strands. Keep cool and dark.

Steep the Spider Web in hot water with one-part valerian root and two parts willow. Pack the cleaned wound with the hot strands of Spider Web, then bind the wound tightly. The wound will seal and the body will take the Spider Web into itself, leaving no fever behind.

There was more of course. You couldn't just stuff the moss into an open gut wound and expect it to heal, or expect torn veins to grow back together, but for deep gashes that might otherwise cause someone to bleed to death or develop wound fever, the moss saved limbs and lives. And in a timbering village like Oakden, that meant families saved from poverty.

Which was why Kyminn was kneeling in the cold, teasing it out, piece by treasured piece.

Kyminn tucked the last strands into his bag and straightened his aching back. Spine popping, he pulled out his knife and carefully added this year's mark to the tree that sheltered this clump. This year's sign was the right leg of an upright triangle. Last years had been the left leg. This tree had no triangle mark, only a weathered square. That mark was from two years before, which told Kyminn the last time this moss had been gathered. One glance to make sure everything was proper, and Kyminn headed deeper into the forest.

Count out the one strand in two, tease out the fragile web. Gather, fold, tuck away. So focused was he on his task that the insistent scratch, scratch at the back of his mind went unnoticed for quite some time.

The scratch intensified, becoming a hammer at his consciousness, an urgent demand to Run, Run! Hurry! Soonsoonsoon!

Kyminn swallowed bile and fought with his shields, trying to keep his Gift from overwhelming his senses. Fumblingly, haltingly, he pushed it back, back and back some more, until at last he could breathe. He reached out carefully, the way his grandmother had shown him, trying to make sense of what his Gift was telling him. Instead of answers, his shields crumbled. His Foresight slammed into him again, driving him to his feet, eastward, towards the river. Harvest forgotten, he ran, flogged by his gift and a terrible fear.

Branches welted his face and arms as Kyminn plunged through the forest. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Run! Fastfastfast! The Foresight was a goad in his mind. Falling, twisting, crushing, drowning. Images of a place he'd never been, things he'd never felt – all of it a tangled clamour, sweeping him away from his center, his self.

He crashed to a halt in a birch grove, clinging to a tree to hold himself upright, shocked into stillness by an instant, oppressive silence. Whatever his Gift had been trying to warn him about had happened.

With a groan, he dropped to the earth, sucking in lungsful of air, grasping again at his shields, waiting, dreading what was coming.

PAIN!

He battered back at the waves of pain and nausea that threatened to overwhelm him again. Somewhere, not far away, something was badly injured.

Like many Gifts, Kyminn's were capricious. He had Foresight, but only as it related to the injury of an animal. The autumn swine harvest had been a horror the first time his Gift manifested. The villagers at first thought he had gone mad when he'd started screaming incoherently during breakfast one morning.

By the time anyone could make sense of his raving, his grandmother had realized that he had some kind of Gift and that it was wildly out of control. Being a practical Healer, she'd promptly dosed him into oblivion until she could manage to shield him.

For the next few weeks, they explored the extent of his Gifts together. She herself had only a very modest Healing gift and had instead focused on her training on herb healing, bone-setting and surgery. But she knew enough to show him the basics of "ground and shield" and that stilled the clamor in his mind.

As a Healer, his Gifts were…disappointing. He had Empathy, Mindspeech, Foresight and a strong Healing gift. Just…not for people.

As far as his Gifts were concerned, people were about as interesting as a rock or a tree. His Gifts only responded to animals, and the smarter, the better. That last was a relief – although he could make sparrows and other small animals Hear him, it was a strain to do so. That meant it was easy to filter out the background chatter of minds in the forest. It also meant that when a fox stalked a rabbit, his Foresight didn't torment him about the harm about to befall the hapless dinner-to-be. And while he generally took himself elsewhere during slaughtering, he was still able to enjoy a roast chicken from time to time.

As Kyminn had learned to master his gifts, he had carved out a place for himself in the village. His grandmother, long retired from active duty as a Healer, had passed her skills – if not a Gift – to her second daughter. Between them, mother and daughter cared for the village and surrounding farms. When Kyminn's Gifts appeared just before he turned twelve, he joined them as an apprentice herbalist. Now, six years later, he was a respected healer of both humans and animals.