Disclaimer: On chapter 1.

Ralca slept through the night. When Neave tried to wake her up in the morning, she started screaming at him in Karsite and hit him with her burnt arm, which made her collapse back, moaning in pain. Daeor was getting more and more worried about her. He was starting to clamor in Neave's, fretting about Ralca, until Neave finally asked Kyldathar to take care of him. The voice in his mind faded, and he finally got some peace.

Ralca woke up, finally, just after Neave had finished dinner. He was outside, reading a battered book he'd brought along with him from Haven (technically not allowed, but a common practice), when he heard Daeor cry happily, :She's awake! She's awake!:

He snapped the book shut and hurried in. Ralca was sitting up in bed, leaning on her uninjured arm and cradling her left to her chest. She whipped her head around to look at him, and paled visibly.

Well, an entire life's teaching wasn't banished in a day, as Neave knew well from painful experience. He was a Herald—a White Demonrider to the Karsites. Though Ralca herself would soon be one, she had every right to be afraid. Neave didn't know what to say to her, but she solved that problem for him. In slightly accented Valdemaran, she asked, "Who are you?"

"Neave," he replied automatically, surprised at seeing her awake, despite Daeor's warning.

"A D—Herald, you are?"

Definitely a Karsite. Alberich used the same sentence patterns. It drove some of his students crazy, but Neave rather liked it, except for the fact that sometimes it got so hypnotizing to listen to that he started using the same accent. The slight hesitation over the word "Herald" also betrayed her heritage. "Yes. Your Daeor ran in here with you yesterday. I imagine by now you'll be starving?"

She frowned. "Can you say that again, slower?" Neave repeated himself, and she nodded. "Yes, very. Have you any food?"

"Lots."

He could feel her watching him as he ladled some of the still-warm stew he'd made for dinner into a bowl. He didn't like it when people watched him like that, usually, but he didn't mind as much now. That didn't make any sense at all. Neave was slow to trust anyone, one of the many aftereffects of his horrific childhood, but he was already comfortable with Ralca. He shook his head, as if to banish such confusing thoughts, and passed Ralca the bowl.

"Thank you," she said shortly, and attacked the food.

Neave leaned back in his chair and watched her, smiling slightly. She must really have been starved, to enjoy his cooking so much. Her face was classically Karsite: sharp-featured, tanned copper, and hawk-like, with piercing black eyes and framed by thick black hair. Hers was cropped short about her ears. Even wounded, starved, and bedridden, she held herself like a warrior, and Neave had no doubt she would be a formidable one. "Daeor told me what happened," he said as she finished eating. "Would you like seconds?"

"Please." She held the bowl out. He took it, refilled it, and passed it back. "Glad am I that he did. I shall not have to relive it in the telling."

Neave recognized the hint for what it was, and changed the subject. "Know you what Gifts you have?" Damn, there he went again! She'd think he was mimicking her accent, making fun of her.

To his relief, she didn't appear to notice. "A small Gift of Mindspeech, but nothing else, says Daeor. What Gifts have you?"

"A sort of Mindspeech, very strong. I project."

"Project what?"

"I just—project. Emotions, experiences, words, images, you name it. I've even accidentally projected my own dreams, when I was first learning. I can receive things too, but my projection is five times better, at least." He thought for a moment. "If your Gift is so minor, we could probably start training it whenever you felt ready—the sooner the better."

A look of distaste crossed her face. "Must I? Overlooked by the Sunpriests, my Gift was, for it is so weak."

"Sometimes the weakest Gifts can be the most dangerous," Neave told her, quoting one of his first teachers, Herald Ylsa. Ylsa was dead now, had been for years. "To their wielder, if not the enemy, for they can be overlooked as inconsequential and explode at inconvenient times." He smiled wryly. "Not that any time is good for a Gift to explode on you."

She shuddered. "No. Very well, you may begin to teach me the use of this Gift tomorrow." She passed him the empty bowl. "And now, weary am I, once more. I must beg your leave, Herald, and sleep again."

Neave raised his eyebrows. She trusted him enough to sleep—already? Well, she had been asleep for the last day, and he hadn't killed her or hurt her in any way. Not that I would, let alone could... "Good night, then." He walked across the room towards his own. "And I'm Neave—just Neave—to my friends."

"Am I your friend?"

"You can be."

The dream-memory...

He walked through the taproom, under the smoke. He was ten again, and filled with terror as he slipped past the half-crazy, half-conscious drunks that frequented the tavern, serving them cheap wine.

A man woke from his daze and grabbed his arm so tightly it hurt. "Come here, little boy, pretty boy," he crooned. Neave tried to pull away, but he was too weak, just a child, and helpless to defend himself. "I only want to give you something..."

Neave pulled himself up from the grip of the nightmare/memory, drenched in sweat and breathing in horse gasps. "Kyldathar..."

:I am here, Chosen.:

Neave half-fell out of bed and ran through Ralca's room, then outside, to the stables. He slammed into the door and shut himself in Kyldathar's stall, huddled against his Companion's side.

It was ridiculous. Neave, a full Herald and capable adult, was still haunted by something that had happened over fifteen years ago.

:It's not ridiculous, Chosen. Not after everything that happened to you.:

:I know. It just feels that way. I've healed, but I don't know if I'll ever be fully healed. Not while I keep having that dream. I haven't had it for years, not since...I don't know. I think the last time was when Ancar had Talia. Why am I having it again now?:

Kyldathar had no answer. Neave stayed there the rest of the night.

Ralca was awake and standing when Neave came back into the Waystation the next morning—in fact, she was cooking breakfast one-handed. She'd made a sling for her bandaged arm. Guess my cooking did make an impression on her, Neave thought. Hope she's a better chef than me.

She glanced up when he walked in, giving him an odd look. He could expect no less: he had straw in his incredibly messy hair, he was wearing only a tattered pair of old breeches, and he probably looked like hell. He didn't really care.

He walked past her into his room, pulled on a clean set of Whites, and came back out again, combing the straw out of his hair. Ralca plunked a bowl of porridge in front of him. "When can you start teaching me?" she asked as they sat.

"After breakfast," he replied shortly. The tone of his voice cut off any further conversation. Ralca shrugged and turned her attention to her food.

"Ground and center!"

Ralca pulled herself inwards. She was almost stable, when a mental shove from Neave's powerful Gift knocked her over. At least he'd had the courtesy to shove her from the left side, so instead of falling onto her sore, burned arm, she fell onto her sore, half-healed hip. She hissed in pain and dragged herself up with the single-minded determination that had seen her through so much before.

"Ground and center!"

This time she pulled herself in properly. She felt Neave push her, then shove her as hard as he could. She swayed a bit, but held tight to what she had.

"Good. Very good. Do it again."

Ralca pulled herself out, and waited for Neave to signal her.

"Ground and center!"

Faster than she had before, Ralca grounded and centered. This time Neave couldn't even budge her.

Neave smiled—the first smile she'd seen from him today. "You've got it." The smile faded. "And now you have to make it reflex."

"Make it—"

"Ground and center!"

Ralca centered herself, and was half-grounded when Neave shoved her.

Hard.

She rolled to the side, yelping as she banged down hard enough to bruise on the arrow wound. "I wasn't there—" she started to protest.

Neave cut her off. "That's the point. You've got it when you have a million years to get ready, and now you have to be able to do it in less than a second. Let's keep at it. Ground and center!"

It went on all day. They broke for lunch, and by evening, Ralca could ground and center in a fraction of a second, and hold herself against Neave's strongest mental shoves.

 She was also so tired it was a wonder she was still on her feet. Neave felt the same way, she could tell. It gave her a bit of guilty comfort. "Tomorrow, I'll teach you how to build your shields," Neave announced once they had eaten dinner. Neither of them had spoken throughout the meal.

Ralca groaned. "There is more?"

"Much more."

She sighed. "Then it's to bed I am going—now—if without falling I can walk over there."

He laughed tiredly. "Good idea, ."

They stumbled off to sleep.