The riders started at a walk, quickening soon to a trot and then, as they drew within a furlong of the village walls, to a full gallop. The wind rushed past Miriel's ears, and for a brief moment she lost herself in the sheer joy of riding. The feeling was gone as quickly as it had come, however, replaced by grim determination. Gripping Elroch's flanks tightly with her knees, she looped the reins around the saddle horn and reached back to grasp her bow. For a moment she wavered precariously, but as her body adjusted to the rhythm of the horse, she set an arrow loosely to the string, though they were still out of range. The walls drew closer and closer, and the attackers grew from small beetle-like forms to terribly real men, fur-clad and armed with heavy axes. Her throat closed with terror. But she forced herself to take a deep breath, and then another, and then she could breathe. Time seemed to slow, and though the world to either side grew dim, the scene in front of her became vividly clear. The nearest attackers were almost in range.

Afterward, she could not remember making a conscious decision to take the first shot. Yet somehow her hands moved, and then the bow was empty, the arrow flying through the air to bury itself in a man's back, and her right hand was moving again, reaching back to grasp another arrow and set it to the string. Three times she shot, and three times she saw men fall, before the riders crashed into them. At the last moment, she remembered Belegon's instructions, grabbed the reins and yanked Elroch around, wheeling away from the sudden, terrible clamor of battle. Looking across the field to the far end of the line, she saw that Salharin had done the same.

Her mind was icily clear now, taking in all before her with oddly detached precision. One of the attackers attempted to break away on her side, a large, dark figure swerving suddenly away from the fight and running toward the cover of the nearest field. Her hands moved swiftly, instinctively, and the man fell to the ground without a cry, an arrow through his neck. She turned back toward the fight—but suddenly all was quiet. There was a cluster of gray-cloaked men around the gate, but their swords were still. Several had dismounted and now stalked over the ground in front of the walls, prodding at the dark shapes that lay motionless on the trampled earth. It was over.

She found she was shaking so badly that she could hardly hold her bow. She gulped air and lay forward on Elroch's neck, gripping his mane as dark spots swam before her eyes. As if he knew, the horse stood quiet, and the feel and smell of his warm, rough hair under her cheek anchored her, drew her gently back to herself. At last, she opened her eyes and sat up.

She found that her left hand still gripped the bow, white-knuckled. Slowly she lifted it, unstringing it with careful, deliberate movements. The familiar sequence calmed her; once it was done, she urged Elroch forward. Veteran of many battles, the horse did not shy from the bodies, nor the smoke, nor the stench of blood, though she felt sickness rise suddenly in her throat. She swallowed hard to force it down and continued to the gate.

Belegon stood before the shattered timbers, issuing orders in a calm, unhurried voice. "Sador and Salharin, round up any prisoners who can walk, and then see to the bodies. Take them well away from the wall; we'll burn them later. Elya, go get the packhorse. You four, take our horses. Walk them cool before you stable them. Everyone else, come with me – the wounded will need us."

Glad for once to be ignored, she dismounted stiffly, was about to lead Elroch through the gate when a Ranger appeared at her side with two horses. She recognized the man who had been on guard in the forest; he held out a hand to her.

"Here, let me take him," he said. When she hesitated, he added more gently, "You take care of yourself, girl. You've done enough for this day."

After a moment, she nodded and handed him the reins, forced herself to speak though her voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. "He's – he's very weary. He went twice as far as your horses. Give him – "

The man cut her off with a raised hand and a faint smile. "I know whose horse this is. Go, find your father." She nodded and turned quickly away, anxiety suddenly twisting her gut.

But her eyes were drawn to the bodies that lay thick on the ground before the wall. Fur-clad and ragged, pale skin stretched tight over bone. They look nearly starving. She had seen death before, many times and in many forms. But never so much at once, and so brutal. She shuddered, could not look away. Arrows, mostly, though some had fallen to stones hurled from the wall. But only a few sword wounds, close to the gate. The wall held. It held. Stepping carefully around them, she passed through the gate.

The great doors had indeed been broken, and ragged fragments and chips of wood littered the ground. It looked as though the defenders had made a rough barricade of planks and barrels, anchored by a heavy cart that had been turned on its side. Many willing hands were now dismantling this hacked and battered barrier, and she had to step swiftly to one side to keep out of their way. She had just worked her way clear of the debris when she saw him.

"Miriel!" Sirhael's voice was so hoarse with exhaustion and shouting and smoke that she would not have recognized it, but there was no mistaking the stocky figure limping toward her as fast as his injured leg would allow. She ran to him. His arms closed around her, so tightly she could hardly breathe. She found herself shaking again, her legs suddenly weak, and realized only then how afraid she had been.

"Father," she murmured at last, her voice muffled in his shirt. "Father…Father…Father. You're alive."

He released her at last and stepped back, hands on her shoulders, tears streaming down grimy, soot-stained cheeks. "And so are you." He pulled her close again, but more gently this time, cradling her head to his shoulder and stroking her hair. "I didn't know whether to be angry or proud when Faelon told me where he'd sent you." His voice was more controlled now, though still the tears fell. "Bad as things were, it still seemed safer inside than out. But he said you had the best chance of finding Belegon, so in the end," he released her again and looked straight into her eyes, "pride won."

Her face flushed, and she found that she could not reply, her voice too choked with tears. They wept together then, in relief and joy as they held each other, heedless of the commotion around them. At last she drew away, wiping her face on her sleeve, cleared her throat and found her voice surprisingly steady. "Were any of the trainees hurt?"

His lips tightened, and he nodded. "Calen and Lain were wounded at the gate, and I think several others as well." A pause, and then quietly, "And Gallach is dead."

She sucked in a sharp breath and bowed her head. A wordless, involuntary whimper slipped out between clenched teeth. Yet after a moment, she looked up. "I must find the Master," she said, her voice on the bare edge of control.

He nodded. "Go. They've taken the wounded to the healers' house." With a last fierce embrace, they parted.

She found Faelon almost at once, standing in a small knot of men, his back to her. There were women there too, she realized as she approached, gathered around a body on the ground. She was about to speak when she glimpsed the face, and froze.

Silevren's cheeks were waxen pale, her eyes closed, and a bloody cloth lay loosely over her belly. Belegon knelt by her side, clasping her hand tightly. He bent and kissed her lips. Her eyes opened slowly.

"Bel," she whispered. "You made it."

"Not soon enough." There was an emptiness in his voice that made Miriel shiver.

"Not for me. But soon enough for others." She paused, breathing shallowly. "We knew this would happen, some day."

Belegon let out a strangled sob. "But it was supposed to be me, not you. You were supposed to be safe."

"Safe?" The choked ghost of a laugh. "Nowhere is safe. You know that. And I swore an oath, too, or had you forgotten?"

Belegon was silent for a time, stroking her cheek with gentle, bloody fingers. At last, he said softly, "Melethen, I will sing for you."

Silevren nodded, then suddenly gripped his hand, her body tensing with pain. When she spoke again, it was with a voice on the bare edge of control, ragged and breathless. "Give it to me."

Tears glittered on Belegon's cheeks as he took from a healer a small wooden cup. He slipped his arm behind her shoulders and lifted her slightly. Silevren's lips moved once more, her last, whispered words heard only by him. A moment longer they held each other's gaze. Then she closed her eyes and swallowed the mercy draught. She sighed, and her body relaxed, and she moved no more.

Belegon cradled her in his arms, sobbing quietly, cheek pressed against her forehead. Faelon stepped out of the crowd to his side, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, said something Miriel could not hear. Belegon nodded shakily. Faelon moved back a little and sat down heavily on the ground, his head bowed to his knees.

Miriel found that she, too, was weeping. She wrapped her arms around herself, around the fearful terrible emptiness. Her father's voice came to her, out of the deep past, on that awful day when Arahael had brought her grandfather back to die. 'It is the risk we all take, loving and being loved.' And then, with a sudden tug of fear: 'Calen and Lain were wounded at the gate…' Tears still streaming down her face unheeded, she lurched to her feet.

Tired as she was, fear forced her into a jog. Moans and cries and the smell of blood greeted her as she approached the healers' house. Sickness rose again in her throat, but she swallowed hard and kept going.

The house had been built for the illnesses and injuries that were an inevitable part of life in their hard land, as well as the occasional wounded Ranger who made it back to the village alive. It served those needs well enough, but the aftermath of battle was something else entirely.

The grass in front had been covered in blankets, and on them lay at least a score of bodies, men and women alike. Some writhed and moaned, some cried softly, some lay still. All were stained and smeared with blood and soot and dirt. The healers moved among them, along with women of the village and several Rangers from Belegon's patrol, cleaning and stitching and binding wounds, setting broken bones, giving water and draughts for pain. Miriel saw Darya kneeling by a wounded man in the far corner of the yard, a bowl of water at her side and a needle in her hand. She turned toward her, for certainly Darya would be as worried as her father had been. And Mother—but then she saw Calen.

He was on the ground in front of the house, pale and tense as a healer closed a deep gash on his forearm. A bloodstained bandage was wrapped around his head. She crossed the yard, her heart hammering in her chest, and crouched beside him. He looked up, but a smile flickered and died in a gasp of pain. She grasped his free hand and reached an arm around his shoulders, alarmed at the vagueness in his eyes. He leaned against her, and gripped her hand so tightly she thought the bones might break. At last, the healer finished stitching and wrapped a clean bandage around his arm. The woman patted him on the shoulder.

"You're a brave boy. Stay here, and I'll bring you something for the pain." And then, low in Miriel's ear, "Make sure he doesn't fall."

Miriel nodded, drew him back to lean against her. Calen sat quiet, breathing hard, and then weakly: "I—I'm going to be sick—" She had just time to snatch a bucket that lay nearby before he leaned over and retched. Nothing came up but yellow bile; like all of them, he had not eaten since the night before. He moaned in misery, all thought of dignity forgotten. When at last the heaves died away, he fell back, almost knocking her to the ground. She straightened with an effort, cradling him against her chest. He breathed slowly, eyes closed, utterly spent.

"Shhh," she whispered. "It's over now. Be still, and rest." She moved over a little to lean against the wall of the house. Not very comfortable, but at least I won't fall. She reached her arms around him, closed her hands over his, hushed him again when he stirred. Then she too closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted as shock drained away. Be still, and rest – the gentle command to herself and the wounded man in her arms. Despite grief and worry and the murmur of voices around her, she found herself sliding into sleep.

Sudden pain in her head, like the sharp ache that comes of drinking cold water too quickly. Her eyes flew open. She felt a flush of warmth flow down her shoulders and arms. Her hands tingled, held onto his as if by some will other than her own. After a moment, the ache in her head began to fade, but her left arm burned like fire. I'm going to be sick…Reeling and afraid, she squeezed her eyes shut and fought to control the pain, remembering the times she had watched her mother, a small girl unnoticed in the corner as Mirloth fought her own battles. You are empty, filled with light and air. Let it flow through you and out into the wind, down into the earth.

At first there seemed no change. Yet gradually the pain began to lessen, and the sickness eased, until at last it was gone, leaving only the familiar sensations of her own body. She breathed slowly, so weak she barely had the strength to open her eyes, let alone move. A soft grunt, and suddenly the weight of Calen's body was gone. With a wrenching effort, she forced her eyes open. The world seemed unnaturally bright; pain lanced through her head with the light. She squinted, eyes refusing to focus. Just go away, she thought vaguely. Leave me be. She shut her eyes again and turned her head to the side, seeking vainly for darkness.

"Miriel." Calen's voice, soft, almost fearful. A hand, gentle on her arm. "Mir, are you all right?"

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes again, and after a moment she was able to focus on the figure crouched in front of her. Calen was very pale, but seemed otherwise himself. "Here, drink," he said, handing her a waterskin. She gulped the water gratefully, and her head cleared a little.

"I—I'm sorry," she croaked, unaccountably hoarse. "A….fit came over me, but it's passed." Don't lie. A pause, and then, "You look better. Did the healer give you something?" Fool. You know what this is.

He looked at her strangely. "No," he said quietly after a moment. "No, she has not returned." He dropped his eyes, taking her hand, though his own hands shook. When he looked up again, the intensity of his gaze pierced her like a cold wind. "You did this, Mir." A breath, and then, "You have the healing Gift, or I've never seen it."

For a long while, she was silent. "I know," she said at last, very softly. "My mother is a healer. I know."

He looked at her closely, hearing the dread, in her voice. "The Gift is a sign of favor from the One," he said. "It is an honor, Mir."

"What if I do not wish to be honored?" She spat out the words, angry and bitter and too tired to hide it. For a long time, she was silent. At last, in a low voice, "Say nothing of this to anyone, I beg you."

He raised his eyebrows. "Of course, if you wish it." A pause, and then, "What will you do?"

"I—don't—I can't…Just let me think…" No. This can't be. It can't. Not now, not when I'm so close.

"As you wish." A faint smile. "I owe you that at least." He moved next to her, heavily, almost off-balance, and reached a long arm around her back. She leaned against him, lingering uneasiness slipping away with the warmth of his body. They settled back against the rough wall of the house, closing their eyes in the morning sun. When the healer returned with Calen's pain draught, she found them both asleep.