Margaret Nearl's first glance of the Kazdel refugee camp was the sight of a spreading mass of tents that flowed over the landscape like some kind of amoebic organism. That first impression of it being a living thing was not far off. As she approached, details appeared. Most, if not all, of the population was Sarkaz, which she had expected, to some extent. What she hadn't expected was the clear division in the camp, a delineation visible from quite some distance, which separated a smaller part of the camp from the majority. The smaller part appeared to be a village or hamlet the camp had anchored itself to, but it was still distinctly separated from the camp, which seemed odd to Margaret at first.

The reason for that became clear as she approached the boundaries of the camp. A group of what seemed to be armed guards, carrying heavy broadswords and wearing air-filtration masks, stalked over to her, glaring suspiciously.

"What's your business here?" the apparent leader growled at her.

"I'm a traveling healer and I heard there was a refugee camp that needed medical help." She kept her tone calm, meeting the leader's eye coolly.

"A healer, huh? Wearing armor and carrying weapons?" His hand slid ostentatiously towards the hilt of his sword. "Now why don't I believe that?"

"I am also the Radiant Knight of Kazmierz. Margaret Nearl, of House Nearl. Do you doubt my word?" She let a touch of irritation enter her voice. Pride wasn't one of her sins, but to have her word questioned was insulting.

"Oh, so you're a knight of Kazmierz? And a healer? And you came here all the way from the other side of Victoria out of the goodness of your heart? Quite a trek, miss." The guard's lip wrinkled in a sneer. "I've heard of you. You got exiled. I figure that makes you a criminal, Infected, or both. And our town already has enough issues." He gestured to the refugee camp in general. "We've got to keep the peace for this refugee camp, distribute food, maintain security for the town… And we don't need disgraced, Infected so-called knights turning up to start trouble and make everything worse. So are you going to get the hell out of here, or are we gonna have a problem?"

Margaret made an effort and kept her voice cool, not wanting to start her time in the refugee camp by fighting the authorities. "I swear on my honor as a knight, I am only here to render aid and comfort to those in the camp who need medical attention. I have no intention of causing trouble here, but I will defend myself and those in need from assault or oppression."

"So we are going to have an issue, then. Boys! Spread out!" The Sarkaz thugs started moving to Margaret's left and right, drawing their swords. "Last chance, bitch. Get out of here and we won't kill you."

She took stock of the odds. Four of them besides the leader, all probably dangerous men hardened in the Kazdel civil war. She could restrain her Arts and full power to avoid injuring them too badly. While the five of them might have been dangerous by the standards of most, Margaret had made her name in the Kazmierz Major, and while the ideals of knighthood may have been perverted, the skill of her opponents and the quality of their arms had still been the class of the world. "I will give you one last chance, sirrah. I mean nobody in the camp ill, unless they mean ill to me or those weaker than them. Do not give me cause to strike you down, and I will pass peaceably, making the camp better in my time here. Attack me, and you will regret it."

"Feh. Big words for a Kuranta bitch." The leader jerked his head, and the five Sarkaz leapt in, broadswords flashing. Margaret swept her shield and mace up into a guard position, awaiting their attack. Their plan was obvious: two of them to attack her from opposite sides, two more to block a counterattack she might make, and the leader to finish it once she was occupied. Their plan had only one flaw: its target.

As the first swordsman leapt towards her, she let her Arts free. Light swelled from her mace and body, flaring out and blinding her attackers. The first Sarkaz to reach her was still blinded, and she simply stepped away from his lunge, leaving to stumble when his blade met neither block nor body, and turned her attention to her next attacker. He cut down from above, half-blindly aiming his blade at her head. She sidestepped his attack too, then sent her mace whistling around in a precisely metered blow that caught his sword between her full strength and the unyielding, hard-packed Kazdel soil, shattering it in one stroke. The third swordsman swept his heavy blade at her from behind, and she blocked the blow with her shield, then bull rushed him, hurling him backwards with formidable strength. He landed hard, dropping his sword and gasping as the breath was knocked from his lungs.

The fourth swordsman and their leader approached more cautiously… then attacked simultaneously, the first swordsman coming up from behind at the same time. It would have caught almost any opponent off guard, but she was ready for it. She stepped into the leader's cut, shortstopping it and throwing him off balance as her shield met his horizontal blow. The move also took her out of reach of the fourth swordsman's blow, and the first man had to pause to avoid rushing into the stroke. She took full advantage of the interruption, kicking the leader sharply in the sternum and spilling him to the ground in a winded mess. She used the momentum from the kick to spin, and drove her shield into the face of the next. The first thug looked around him, shielding his eyes from the brilliant radiance of her Arts, and thought better of launching another attack, carefully laying his broadsword on the ground.

"Wise," she said coldly. "Now, I am going to go to the camp. You so-called guards would be best served by hindering me no further. The next time, I shall not hold myself back." She turned her back on him, striding onwards to the refugee camp itself.

In the camp, she was immediately assailed, but not by individual attackers. This attack was simply the sensory assault of entering a space crowded with suffering people. She looked around, seeing wounds, bruises, the gauntness of starvation, the crystalline growths of Oripathy, and hopelessness on most of the faces. One Sarkaz woman came up to her, cradling a child who had a cluster of Originium crystals growing out of his shoulder. "Please, ma'am, can you give me some food? We haven't eaten in days, the town doesn't send enough food to us…" She cringed when Margaret looked at the child in her arms. "It's not… it's safe, you don't need to… you won't be… just help…"

"No!" Margaret was shocked. "That's not it at all. Here." She reached into one of her belt pouches. She had stocked up on travel rations at every opportunity on her way through Leithanien, and pulled out a handful of survival crackers, a chewy, bland, long-lasting ration heavy on calories and nutrients. "I can try to…" She was mobbed immediately, as desperate men and women converged on the first food many of them had seen in days. "Wait!" she shouted as the crackers were snatched from her hands, and fights erupted. "Stop!" The refugees either didn't hear or didn't listen. She gripped her mace firmly, lifted it into the air, and channeled her Arts. "CEASE THIS!" Her shout, amplified by the power of her Arts, combined with the aura surrounding her, did, in fact, stop the budding riot in its tracks.

Every eye turned to her. She made sure to keep her aura up, trusting its quelling powers to help prevent another outburst, as she slid her backpack off. "I'm sorry. I don't have enough food for everyone here, but I will share out what I have. There is no need to fight over it. And even if I can't feed you, I can provide medical care to those who need it." She used some Arts to project her voice and tone, enabling her to speak calmly and softly, while still reaching the whole crowd. "Please, organize yourselves in order of how long it has been since you were fed. Once I have distributed food, I will tend to the wounded and sick."

Nearl's heart wrenched when she came to the end of her trail rations and had to turn away the rest of the refugees. She consoled herself with the thought that there was still some good she could do, and turned to the small crowd of wounded and sick Sarkaz who had gathered. Her aura, playing over them, gave her some idea of what their worst complaints were. Sadly, she realized that most of them were also suffering from Oripathy, which her Arts could do little or nothing about. Still, Margaret composed her face as she looked them over, and then approached the first in line, a young girl with an infected wound on her arm. She reached her hand out over the wound, and then sent a wash of her Arts down from her palm to the girl's arm. Her power surged through the infected tissue, purging the bacteria and toxins and knitting muscle and tendons together. She reached to another belt pouch, pulling out an aseptic bandage roll, and wrapped it carefully around the wounded area, tying it off professionally. "Keep the bandage on for three days, and try to keep her from using the arm too much," she said to the girl's mother, ruffling the girl's hair with her other hands. The woman thanked her with heartfelt words, but it was the tears of joy in her eyes that brought tears to Margaret's too.


The ex-Redeemer walked through the refugee camp sadly. For all her brave thoughts of aiding the common folk as she left the citadel, she had no real idea of how to do so. All that she had learned as a Redeemer was to kill, to spy, to subvert. Dressed up in the ideals of Sarkaz unity, perhaps, but still only to destroy and deceive, not to help or aid. And so she hurried to the inn in the village at the center of the camp, trying to ignore the misery that she had helped create, until she came across something she could not ignore.

A young boy, clearly malnourished, and with the crystalline lesions of Oripathy apparent on the back of one hand, came up to her and tugged at her robes. She tried to turn away silently, not knowing what to do, but he tugged again, more insistently. The white-haired woman turned back to face the child. "What is it?" she asked, softly, fearing that her appearance would frighten him. Either the boy was too young to recognize the robes under her black cloak, or driven by a greater concern.

"My mother's very sick," he said in a matter-of-fact tone that hurt her heart to hear from a child. "She's asleep and won't wake up, not even to eat. Even the knight lady couldn't help her." Knight lady? Who's that? she wondered, but that was a secondary consideration. "Please, miss. I don't know if you can help her, but… could you try?" He gave her a shy smile, and she made up her mind.

"Of course I can." She followed the boy back to his family's tent, where a young girl sat outside, sniffling. As she lifted aside the drape, she saw a young Sarkaz man bending over an older Sarkaz woman. The young man turned at the movement, seeing the boy who'd brought her first.

"Leshi? Where did you…" he began in a frustrated tone, but paused on seeing her holding the drape. "Who are you?" he asked sharply. Why the hell are you here, his tone implied.

"Just a traveller," she replied. "This boy asked me to try to help his mother. I assume this is her." She gestured gently towards the unconscious older woman.

"Yeah, that's our mother," he said aggressively. "What I was asking was what one of Theresis' assassins had to do with her." He gestured angrily towards her Redeemer's robes and the sword over her back.

"No, I…" Her denial died unspoken in her throat. What could she say? She was almost resolved to turn around and leave, when the boy spoke up for her.

"Why are you being so mean? She came to help Mother! Don't drive her away, she might be able to save her!" Hurt flared on the young man's face, and he furrowed his brow.

"Lesh, don't lie to yourself. Nobody can save Mother now. Even if someone could, it wouldn't be a killer like her." His words hit her like a knife, but for some reason, the pain goaded her rather than driving her away.

"Call me whatever you like," she said calmly, coldly, channeling all her lessons on composure and command, "but do it after I save this woman's life." She stepped forward, gripping the sheath of her sword in one hand. The tent began to darken as she began to draw on her arts, a brilliant glow concentrating itself around the ricasso of the blade. She didn't know how to begin, didn't even know if she could do this… but she knew she was going to try.

Light pooled under the dark-robed woman's hand, forming almost solid-seeming wisps and forms as she drew it in from around her, adding her own power and sending it out. She started by trying to sense what was wrong. That at least she knew how to do. The light of her Arts descended, touching the older woman's arm and then seeping past her skin. She sensed the motes of Originium in the woman's bloodstream, but knew at once that that wasn't the cause of the illness. They seemed too sparse to be causing such severe symptoms. She sent the light, and her awareness, deeper, probing and searching until… oh

She withdrew her light, drawing a firm breath. "Your mother has a tumor. She's also suffering from Oripathy, but you knew that. The tumor is on her liver, but has also spread." The older son grimaced, but also sneered at her.

"So what now? You're going to say you can't do it, aren't you?"

"No." Her voice was still calm, controlled. She gave him a cool, confident look. "I'm going to tell you that I can." Inside, she was uncertain, but outside, she projected utter assurance. "I was once a Redeemer," she admitted, "but no longer. Now, I am a travelling healer. I care for those in need, those who I once was taught were inconsequential." She began channeling more power, then sent her Arts back out into the air. She heard the daughter gasp quietly in awe as a near-solid streamer of light cascaded down into the woman's body.

Her power flickered out, coalescing around the tumors. She fought the urge to use them as she knew, and instead tried to think, to figure out how to cure, rather than destroy. She started with the tumors themselves. Her light flowed around them, and she started trying to erode them, killing the cells rather than letting them free to spread. She cauterized the blood vessels supplying the tumors, and did her best to regenerate damaged organs. And it was easy! Something about it was simply right, her Arts synchronizing with the task beautifully. Faster than she believed possible, she could quite simply sense that the woman was healed. She exhaled gratefully, letting the rest of her powers dissipate. The rest of the tent brightened, and she became aware of the awed stares of the woman's children.

"And?" The older son's voice was somewhat hushed in awe, but still suspicious. "Is she better now?" Shining was saved from having to answer by the woman herself.

"ooh… ngh… 'm thirsty…" the older Sarkaz woman groaned, her eyes stirring open and trying to prop herself up. Her children rushed past the ex-Redeemer, who welcomed the moment to herself to wipe an eye in joy at having finally done something worth doing. She turned to leave the tent, but was stopped by the elder son, one hand on her shoulder, but gently, unthreatening.

"I'm sorry about what I said to you, earlier. And…" He paused, clearly screwing up his courage. "I'm sorry we can't pay you the way you deserve. But here, take this." He held out his hand. A small strand of leather, adorned with a few long ivory beads, lay in his palm. "It's, um… I make jewelry. Nothing fancy. But I want you to have it anyways. As thanks." He pushed it at her. "It's a horn ornament, you tie it onto… well…" He stumbled over his words again.

She smiled kindly, trying to hide the fact that her eyes had gone a bit misty again. "I didn't do what I did in hope of payment. But thank you, anyways." She picked up the ornament, tying it neatly onto her horn, where the two long ends with their beads dangled free, moving gently as she turned away to leave the tent.


The ex-Redeemer knelt next to yet another sick refugee. She had been working non-stop since her first attempt at healing, despite the fact that the sun was now setting, when she'd begun during the early morning. She'd had the odd bite to eat and sip of water from grateful families, but she was driving herself hard. While she kept hearing of a wonderful Kuranta lady knight who was here, handing out food and providing medical aid with her Arts, the knight's Arts were apparently not as potent as her own, at least not in the healing field.

As she finished using her Arts to purge the infection that had set into the man's leg, she stood, wobbling slightly. She had never pushed her Arts this hard before, and the effort of controlling her power to the unfamiliar purpose of healing was draining. She turned away, gathering her determination and pushing onwards towards the next knot of hopeful, desperate faces around a prone body. She paused, however, when an armed group came up behind her, turning to face them. "Yes?" she asked tiredly, furrowing her brow at the interruption. "What do you want?"

"Lady Redeemer," one of them addressed her with a repulsively familiar tone, a veneer of respect over a blend of subservience, fear, and hatred. "We run this camp, and we'd like to know what your mission is here." So that you can get out of here as soon as possible, before you decide to put the whole village to the sword or something worse, the subtext was as clear as his spoken words to her ear.

"You misunderstand," she said sharply. "I am no Redeemer. I'm simply a traveling healer."

"Wearing Redeemer's robes?" The thug's tone hardened, becoming horridly expectant. "Perhaps we should take you in, then. I'm certain that the Redeemers would like to speak to you, in that case."

She knew what that would lead to. And yet, the idea of butchering these thugs to make an example was both distasteful, and seemed unwise. News of such an incident would spread, without a doubt, and she didn't want the Redeemers on her tail. "I think I'd rather not go with you," she said quietly. "Besides, I don't see what I'm doing wrong. These are simply my clothes, and all I have been doing is providing healing to the refugees in need of my Arts."

"We don't care," snarled another of them, this one a woman. "You can't fool us. We know what you are. You're a traitor to Kazdel, a runaway Redeemer. I think, if we take care of you, the Redeemers won't send someone to deal with you, especially if we do our best to make it as nasty for you as they would have." She leered at her with ugly glee.

"No," an unfamiliar voice came from behind the thugs. "You won't be doing that."


Margaret had heard of the healer following in her wake, and had turned back, curious. She was painfully aware of those her Arts were simply not able to help. She was excellent when it came to healing fresh wounds and alleviating pain, but her power was too blunt a tool to deal with infection, disease, or old, crippling injuries. She wanted to meet this person, perhaps learn from them.

When she drew close to the place where she'd been told the other healer was working, she started looking around. At first, she saw nothing, but then she stopped in awe. She recognized the area; she had seen a man here earlier with an infected wound in his arm that had gone to blood poisoning, something she could do nothing to heal. She had eased his pain somewhat, but had been unable to give him the kind of healing that he truly needed, the kind that would have saved his life.

The air around the place was darker than it should have been, as if the light had been drawn out of it, concentrated in the hands of the Sarkaz woman kneeling next to him. She held one hand extended over the man, one gripping a cross-shaped staff… no, a sheathed, two-handed sword. A solid cloud of light spilled from her hand, into the prone body of the dying man. From here, she could feel the purifying, healing power of the Arts the woman was using.

The light finally spread away from the white-haired woman, and Margaret let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. There was something compelling about the other woman, a feeling almost like finding a missing piece to a puzzle, an undefined connection, that drew her after the Sarkaz healer. She halted, though, as a group of the armed thugs passing as camp guards arrived, coming up behind the white-horned woman. She didn't want to get into another entanglement with them if she could avoid it.

She listened as the "guards" addressed the healer. Something was strange. What is a Redeemer? Some kind of agent of the government here? The guards seem afraid, but there's also a lot of hatred. Why do they hate her? She's a healer, after all. The conversation turned ugly, then uglier. She could no longer stand by, though, at one woman's statement. "…if we take care of you, the Redeemers won't send someone to deal with you, especially if we do our best to make it as nasty for you as they would have."

"No, you won't be doing that." Nearl drew her mace from her belt, and unslung her shield from her shoulder. Her face went stern, the light of her Arts beginning to swell.

The thugs turned to face her, their leader scowling. But before he could speak, one of the other thugs grabbed his wrist. "Chief, that's that crazy knight bitch! Don't start anything, she took down four of our best without even trying earlier today!" She recognized one of the soldiers from the fight earlier, the one who'd been wise enough to surrender after she'd taken out his four comrades.

"Shit…" the leader breathed, moving his hand carefully away from the hilt of his sword. "Good idea. Let's get out of here. Let someone else deal with them." He gestured to his squad and they quickly filed away behind him, casting worried looks back at Margaret and the white-horned woman, who looked at her rescuer curiously.

"Why did you come to my aid?" the Sarkaz asked, quietly.

"What do you mean?" Margaret asked in confusion.

"You must have heard the conversation," the other woman replied, still in a quiet tone. Her expression was strange. She looked almost the same way Margaret had felt on seeing her healing the dying man. "And you must have your own troubles. Why bother yourself with mine?" The woman's tone took on an unpleasant tinge at the end of her sentence, an almost-concealed self-loathing appearing for just a moment.

"I am a knight." She didn't realize it when she spoke, but Margaret Nearl's tone when saying that made any further explanation unnecessary. It wasn't a boast, or an introduction, or even a statement of fact. It was something much more, a baring of her innermost self and an awesome yet somehow humble self-confidence, not only confident that she lived up to her ideals, but that those ideals were worthy of the esteem she held them in. "I cannot stand by and do nothing when someone is in need." The Sarkaz woman's face changed. A deep, painful longing flickered in her eyes, just for a moment, before she composed herself once again.

"Thank you, …" The white-haired woman's pause was a polite request.

"My name is Margaret Nearl, the Radiant Knight of Kazmierz." She introduced herself confidently. She was glad to have helped this woman, and she still felt that sense of connection, driving her to try to understand it and become closer to this person. "May I know your name?"

"My name?" The woman's eyes flickered, some kind of discomfort showing. "I… I don't have one." Margaret's confusion must have shown on her face. "I was a Redeemer," she explained, shame plain on her face. "Ever since I was born, I was selected for that duty. Redeemers bear titles, but never a name."

"But surely your parents…" Margaret cut herself off at the flash of pain and… hatred? on the other woman's face.

"No."

"I'm sorry." She didn't quite know whether she was apologizing or commiserating, or exactly what for, but it felt right. "Would you like to come with me? I was going to find a place to eat and sleep near the edge of the camp. As much good as we can do here, I think it would be wise for us to be ready to depart if needed. The "guards" seem to have as much difficulty with your presence as mine." The Sarkaz woman nodded assent, and they walked towards the edge of the camp. As they walked, both of them stopped here and there, giving aid to those who needed it. It was fully dark, the crescent moon high and the stars staring down out of the cloud-dotted sky, when the white-haired woman stood from her last patient for the night, turning to face Margaret.

"Shall we settle here for the night?" she asked, still quiet and calm. Margaret nodded in agreement, and shrugged her backpack off, starting to unpack some simple rations and her tent.

"Could you start a fire, um…" She paused, then shook her head. "Do you even have a title or nickname I could call you?"

The dark-robed woman shook her head. "I'd prefer not to use my title from the Redeemers," she said in a low, somewhat painful tone. "If you want to call me something, I suppose you could come up with something."

Margaret thought for a moment, pondering what she knew of the other woman. Her thoughts kept coming back to the solid, purifying light spilling from her hands as she worked a miraculous cure. "How about Shining?" she asked. The other woman didn't respond immediately, but Nearl saw something amazing on her face.

"That will be fine," Shining said, a small but genuine smile appearing on her face for the first time that day.


"Again," the Sarkaz man in the white coat said sternly. The test subject looked up at him pleadingly, then raised a trembling hand. She drew on her powers, feeling the strange sensation in her Oripathy lesions as she projected her Arts without a channeling medium. It was hard to concentrate, as foggy as her mind was, but she somehow pushed through, forcing herself to control her powers and trying to picture an image in her mind. A hazy figure began to coalesce out of the light of her Arts, as she poured her strength into it, trying to hold the image that the researcher wanted – a soldier.

But it was too much. The image wavered, then dispersed, and she collapsed to her knees, gasping for air, unpleasant sensations crawling out from the crystals growing on her body. The researcher's brow furrowed in disappointment, and he shook his head. "Perhaps another round of treatments is in order," he said into a recorder. "Subject is unable to maintain projection or solidify the images, despite aptitude test indications." The idea of another round of treatments sent a shock of fear through the woman, and she huddled down in the test chamber, dreading what was to come.

The guards at least didn't take her immediately to the surgical facility, instead bringing her to a new room, one that even had a window on it, though it was barred. "The researchers think that a bit more stimulus might help you maintain your focus," one of them explained, not unkindly, at her confused look. "Now lie down, please." He patted a bed, still equipped with the familiar fabric cuffs to prevent her from trying to find any form of escape.

As she lay there, she saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, and a bird alighted on her windowsill. It chirped once or twice, then began to sing. It didn't notice her watching in rapt attention, silent tears streaming down her cheeks at the first beautiful sight she could remember anymore.