A/N: And I thought I was having a hard time with book two. So this one is taking a really long time because basically all I have is an ending and a character. So be patient and I hope it doesn't let you down.

Chapter one

Eothen opened her eyes slowly. She was hoping that the light shining on them was just a part of her dream, but she was not so lucky. It was morning, sure enough. She sat up in her bedroll and groaned; the previous day had been a long one. Her troupe had just finished defeating the enemy lord; today was payday. She was a member of the Fire Eagles, a very old troupe that had once had an excellent reputation. She joined it because she had been told that one of her long-dead relatives had once been Captain; she found that hard to believe. Her great-grandfather had told her the stories he had heard from his grandfather, a man named Kurien, about a beloved aunt of his who had apparently been quite the character. She wasn't sure how much she believed, though; she knew enough about the bards to know that there was a great deal of exaggeration in their tales. In any case, however, the troupe as it was now only hired the finest fighters, but they were unscrupulous in which battles they fought; they fought for whichever noble paid the highest purse. Eothen had decided that heroic relative or not, she wouldn't return when her contract was up. She didn't want to fight for a troupe that had no morals.

She supposed, though, she was being too hard on her troupe leaders; it wasn't as if there actually were any ethical battles anymore. They came about, sure enough, every now and then; and when they did, her troupe was always on the right side. But mostly, the battles were one despotic noble against another, and if they were going to be fighting the battle anyway, they may as well get as much pay for it as they could. She sighed, uttered a particularly vile Shin'a'in curse and rolled out of her bedroll. She pulled her leathers on over her shift and began packing up her things for the journey back to the Fire Eagles' stronghold; the season, at least, was over. She had one more to survive before her contract was up. She didn't know what else she could do; she was a warrior, a member of a people who used to be warriors and were now just nomadic horse breeders. She wondered what it had been like for her ancestors; she was told that they had once lived on land specifically created for them by some powerful woman with eyes like stars, but she wasn't really sure if that was true. They didn't live anywhere in particular, anymore; they just wandered from town to town, selling their horses and their goods in exchange for the things they didn't make for themselves.

That wasn't much, actually; they made weaponry, and weavings, and all manner of leather goods. They trained in that weaponry as well, but for their own defense – not in defense of any particular land. They hunted for most of their food, scavenged what fruits and vegetables they could find and cooked over an open fire for their meals. They offered services as horse trainers, at least in her Clan; other Clans didn't breed horses, they did shows with large birds to entertain people instead. Her people trudged from town to town, with wagons laden with their belongings and their wares to sell. It wasn't a prosperous life, but it was an adventurous one; they got to see the country and meet all sorts of people. But Eothen had this unusual desire for more – she enjoyed her swordwork, and was good with a bow. She wanted to do more than roam the countryside weaving rugs and selling silver jewelry. Although, this particular morning, she wasn't so sure she wouldn't rather be traipsing along with her sisters and brothers, dancing and singing to attract the townspeople in order to sell them….whatever they could sell them.

This particular morning, she was just tired. Her muscles were sore from overuse, she had a few nagging injuries from the battles – a laceration here, a contusion there – that hurt. She wondered if spending a season or so dancing around a wagon with her family wouldn't be a good idea. Reconnect with her roots. Except, they never really felt like her roots. From the stories she'd been told, her people had been more than just the pathetic horse breeders they were now, wandering the villages trying to sell trinkets. There were many that kept trying to say that no, those were just stories, just legends, but she didn't think so. She thought they were true, or at least partly true. She wanted to go somewhere where she might be able to find out for sure. But for now, she finished loading her belongings onto her packhorse, a paint gelding named Inger, and loaded herself up onto her regular mount, a jet-black stallion named Orin. She was proud of Orin; he was a beautiful horse, and incredibly smart. He fought well on the field as well, which was not something that could be said of most of their horses; he seemed to have it in his blood as much as she had it in hers. She rode over to where the rest of the troupe had gathered and prepared for the long march back to the stronghold.

"Howdy, lass," said Rozem, a man from so far north and west no one had ever heard of his land. He described it as an island so green a person hardly knew another color existed, and his accent was so enjoyable that Eothen spent a lot of time listening to him tell stories about his people. "How ye be this fine mornin'?"

"I'm about as sore and tired as I've ever been, but I suppose that beats the fate of our comrades left behind," she answered.

"Aye, that be sure," said Rozem. "They be waitin' for their flowers to bloom above them wishin' they be on this journey home instead."

"How are you, Rozem?" she asked him.

"Methinks this be my last season, lass," said Rozem. "I had sure intended on stayin' on, but this last battle took more of me than I intended to offer."

That was certainly true. Rozem had taken an axe to the thigh that it was a miracle he had lived at all, much less kept the leg – but he would never walk the same again. He didn't own a horse, or at least not one that could fight; he had a pony, one from a breed from his land. Sturdy thing, for sure, and smart, sure-footed; but no fighter. He served as reliable transportation to and from a battlefield and was occasionally utilized to scout a difficult trail; but Rozem's injury would affect even the way he rode, and so even had his pony been appropriate to use in battle, it would not have been a good idea to try.

"Could you stay on and teach, perhaps?" asked Eothen. She hated to lose her friend; she didn't have many, to begin with.

"Perhaps, lass, perhaps," said Rozem. "But me bones be creakin', and I'm not bein' too sure I can move well enough to teach them young 'uns right. I be thinkin' on it, though."

As much as Eothen hated to admit it, Rozem was probably right. He had the knowledge to teach the new recruits, but the lack of flexibility he would have from now on would be a hindrance. She sighed. Maybe her friend wouldn't be fighting at her side anymore, but at least she didn't have to stand at his pyre.

"What will you do, then?" she asked, hoping the answer wouldn't take him too far away.

"Well, me ponies be right well respected around here," said Rozem. "I have me a few little mares, and a stallion, thought I might breed a few and sell 'em."

"Well, that's not a bad idea, but how will you make a profit at that without inbreeding?" she asked.

"That be my problem, for sure," said Rozem. "I don't suppose I could cross breed 'em with yer Orin, there?"

"Well, I don't see why not," said Eothen. It had once been true, she had been told, that her people did not crossbreed with horses of other peoples. But that had not been true for her lifetime, at least. They were selective, sure, but it was not forbidden.

"Then I might jest make me a go of it," said Rozem.

The ride back to their stronghold was uneventful, for the most part. There were the usual bandit attacks, which the troupe fended off well; there was the bruise here, the laceration there, but no casualties. It was a long ride; Eothen and Rozem worked out an arrangement for the crossbreeding of Orin to two of his mares in return for his stallion providing stud service for one of hers. She wasn't sure what she would do with the resultant foal; she wasn't personally in the horsebreeding business. But that was something to be worked out later. She could sell the foal, or have an extra mount for cliff scouting, or just a packhorse; she didn't have to decide just now.

But when they got back to the stronghold, they did not have the respite waiting for them that they had expected and desperately needed. It seemed that the banditry that had plagued them on their journey was not the only game in town; some group of outlaws had burned down their stronghold. There wasn't a hut left standing; it was a good thing that it seemed destruction was the miscreant's only goal, since the animals left behind were scattered, but intact. Eothen rounded up the two mares she had in addition to Orin and made a temporary shelter for them out of her battle tent and some broken tree branches, and then hurried off to where her hut had been; she was anxious to see what few of her belongings had perhaps survived. One, in particular, was precious to her.

Her hut had been on the edge of the stronghold, but even so it had not escaped destruction. What had once been her private home, her only permanence in a lifetime of wandering – first, with her nomadic people and now with a mercenary troupe – was but a pile of ash. All of her skins, painstakingly cured and hung on the walls for decoration and warmth, all of her furs she had kept in a trunk ready to warm her during the coming winter – gone. She wasn't so concerned with that; she had been paid, she could afford to buy a blanket, and it would be warm enough for a bit yet that her bedroll would suffice. She could perhaps manage to make one fur for herself between now and winter. Her foodstuffs were gone; she would have to replace those. And the cabinet they had been kept in, as well. She supposed she wouldn't have much left of that pay, once she had replaced what she could replace; she was grateful that most of the garden was left untouched. That was only because her hut had been on the edge, and she didn't plant her vegetables immediately next to her hut; she had cleared a small area some ways into the forest, instead. She had wanted to make sure no one could dump their night pots on her tomatoes.

She dug around in the rubble, trying not to cry as she recognized burnt fragments of weavings her mother had made, her sister, her grandmother; leather containers made by her father, her brothers, her grandfather. Her hunting bow was gone, as well as the arrows for it; but that could be remade, and her warbow would suffice until then. What she was really looking for took some digging, and pretty soon she was covered in soot from head to toe; but this item wasn't easily burnt.

She found it buried a good deal down below the surface. She was glad that whoever had burned their home had not been attempting to steal; this particular item would have been obviously valuable. It was a set of swords, very old, but very skillfully made; they had gracefully curved blades, braided handles with twisted gold and diamond-encrusted handguards. The leather wrappings had burned away, but they were not important. They had been replaced many times throughout the years, and most recently by her own hand. These blades were certainly still serviceable, but their age and their beauty made Eothen very hesitant to use them. They had been passed down through many generations of her family, and she was the most recent recipient; they had belonged, it was said, to that great-great many times great-grandfather Kurien's aunt, a famous warrior of her people named Taia. Taia was the family member rumored to have once Captained this mercenary troupe; Eothen as a child had loved hearing the stories about her, even while she doubted any of them were true.

It was ridiculous, she thought; a member of her family, a legendary warrior and mage? Trained by and lifebonded - what did that even mean, anyway? – to an equally legendary mage from one of the bird-clans? Magic wasn't real, everyone knew that. There were stories, of course, about people even now who could move things with their minds or read the thoughts of their friends – but those were just tricks. Games. Not real. And this legendary pair had joined a mercenary troupe, been its star members, her many-greats-aunt was its captain and led them to win historic battles that themselves were only distant history to people not even near any lands she had ever seen? Impossible. And then, this aunt that probably had never even existed, had gone on to lead the army of this far-away land against an equally impossible to believe army to save the entire world, and now the story was just getting ridiculous. There was no possible way anyone, no matter how powerful or talented, could get that many different countries to fight together against anything. Ever.

And that wasn't even the end! This aunt trained the younglings of this faraway nation, and then – this is where the story gets incoherent. The faraway land, they say, had an enemy threatening to attack, only they couldn't defend themselves. Eothen didn't understand that; surely, if this aunt of hers had managed to defeat the impossible army, she could have defeated this smaller one? But no. They never actually had a war. The aunt….disappeared for awhile, and when she reappeared, the emperor of that enemy country was dead and the threat was gone. There was wild speculation about that; did she kill the emperor? Did she merely incapacitate him? How? No one knew. Eothen would have long ago concluded that this long-ago relative was just a myth, like many others among her people. This aunt wasn't even the only mythical warrior of her people; she had heard the Hawk Clan's story of someone named Tarma, who sounded a great deal like her long-dead aunt. They were even both partnered with a yellow-haired mage. Perhaps they were actually the same person, Eothen didn't know. Perhaps neither of them had ever actually existed at all.

Except there were these swords. They were not the style her people made now; they rarely fought with swords anymore at all, the metal to make them was too hard to come by and too expensive to buy. They mostly fought with bow and knife, and occasionally a shortsword; Eothen was one of very few members that even knew how to use a sword, and had not had any actual practice with it until she joined the Fire Eagles. Her first season was spent as a horse archer, not a cavalry mount. These swords were clearly made by someone with talent, and they had enough faint nicks in the blade – which had been carefully maintained and regularly re-sharpened – that she could tell they had been used in actual battles. The handles, despite having been carefully covered with leather wrappings over the years to protect the metal as well as improve the grip of the user, nonetheless displayed obvious signs of wear, heavy wear, and by someone who knew what they were doing.

As much as the stories themselves seemed improbable, Eothen was certain that this Taia person had actually existed; whether or not all of the stories were true, she had no way of knowing. But a swordswoman, and probably a very good one, had once owned these swords. Eothen was sure of it.

She wished she could have met her.