Disclaimer: I would like to claim the world of Tortall and its inhabitants as my own, but I have to do the right thing, save the world, protect the downtrodden, blah blah, woof woof.

A/N: I should never have mentioned that interview, should I? I suppose I wanted to gloat a little. It wasn't face to face; it was via e-mail, for a school project a couple of years ago. She's really rather nice if you want to use the address on her site.

Just so you know, this takes place in the gap between "Lady Knight" and "Trickster's Choice." Daine would be about 25 or thereabouts, if I'm remembering correctly.

Okay, I've been paranoid about whether people are being OOC, so if they are, I beg of you, let me know what I can do to make it better.

Chapter 1

Snowsdale received few visitors, so when that strange man had ridden in the previous night, it had caused quite a disruption. He had been galloping as hard as his mount would let him, and the instant he reached the inn had sent for a healer. Bayard the innkeeper had sent one of his stableboys, and then went about the difficult task of finding out exactly what was going on.

Bayard was by nature a curious—some might have gone so far as to say nosy—man. However, the arrival of a frantic man and unconscious young woman in the middle of the night during the season in which no one in their right mind would be traveling would be enough to pique anyone's curiosity. So as Bayard served them, he had tried to squeeze every detail out of the lanky man, but his mouth had remained determinedly shut. He was sure it had not been intentional; it was obvious that the man was worried to no end about his young companion, and had little room in his mind for much else.

He had seen very little of the girl herself—not much besides a fleeting impression of smoky brown curls and a soft, pale face—but what he could recall rang a distant bell in his memory, though for the life of him could not recall why. It was unimportant though; he had every intention of finding out, and soon.

The healer returned fairly swiftly, living in the village so as to be more easily accessible. His diagnosis of the girl had been almost equally swift: pneumonia. The man, his name now have been given as Numair Salmalin, seemed none the better for the knowledge, and had begged the healer to do all he could before being sent away for being a nuisance. Now the man fretted before the fireplace, the common room having been abandoned by the everyday customers hours ago. Bayard saw his opportunity, and took it.

"Would ye be carin' for a drink, Master Salmalin?" inquired the innkeeper, knowing alcohol to be the best conversation starter.

"Thank you, but no," was his reply. "I fear my disposition would be all the worse for the consumption of much of anything at the moment." A sophisticated gentleman, this one, with his fancy language and fine clothes. If he played his cards right, he might get a handsome tip from this one.

"Some company, then," he said, leaving no room for protest. "From where does ye hail?"

"From Tortall, originally," was the somewhat distracted response. "We are returning from a … a matter of business up north." Bayard congratulated himself on a job well done—this man was both a businessman and a Tortallan, almost guaranteed to have pockets full of money. Before he could respond to this knowledge, Master Salmalin was talking once more.

"May I ask the name of this most accommodating town of yours?" he inquired, although Bayard got the distinct impression that his mind was still elsewhere—with the girl, probably.

"Ye may, sir," Bayard allowed, pleased at Numair's good impression of his home. "Snowsdale, sir."

The tall man looked up sharply, his attention apparently entirely recalled and his eyes seeming to spark with energy. "I'm sorry, I'm not certain I heard you correctly. You did say Snowsdale, did you not?"

"I did, Master Salmalin," the innkeeper replied, puzzled at this strange reaction. He was more puzzled still as the man sank into a chair, eyes wide in a mixture of shock and horror.

"Mithros, Mynoss, and Shakith," he breathed, distress shaping his voice, "what have I done?"

Daine woke feeling awful—not quite as awful as she remembered, but still awful. What was more, she had not the foggiest idea of where she was. Her eyes passed over the room that surrounded her—immaculate, clean, and obviously not been inhabited by Numair for any significant length of time. Of course, if this was an inn as she guessed it was, her companion might have rented an adjoining room, just to save her some of the respect he believed she deserved. She didn't particularly care, but he was insistant that maintaining an appearance of chastity was crucial whilst traveling in foreign lands, so she humored him to the best of her abilities. Besides, she had noted the care with which he said "appearance" of chastity.

It wasn't long before the subject of her thoughts entered the room, and the moment he noticed her eyes open he rushed to her side in such a caricature of a star-crossed lover that she couldn't help but laugh. The sound, however, quickly turned into a cough as her tortured lungs rebelled.

"Are you alright?" he asked, helping her to sit up so that she wouldn't choke.

"As well as can be expected from someone who feels as though she's trying to breathe underwater," she allowed, leaning back against the pillows Numair had propped against the headboard.

"That would be the pneumonia," he informed her from his perch on the edge of her bed. "The healer did his best, but something like this can't be cured in a day. If I recall his words correctly, 'the rest is in the hands of the Green Lady,'" he quoted with an ironic smile that Daine mirrored. The expression soon faded, though.

"Magelet, what did you think you were trying to prove? You scared Cloud and me near to death with that stunt of yours. You should have told us if you were that sick!"

"I'd've told you if I'd known I was this sick," the invalid snapped back. "In any case, I still would have had pneumonia, and we'd have been in just the same position."

"No, we wouldn't." Numair stood and began pacing across the room in irritation. "You would have been able to rest and not have passed out in the snow, and we wouldn't be in this mess."

"I'd hardly call it a mess, Numair," she remarked. "A cold isn't the end of the world, and it's not as though we've a need to be anywhere."

"It's not just a cold, it's pneumonia," the black-robe corrected agitatedly. He ran his hands through his hair, a nervous habit she had become well acquainted with through the years. "And that wasn't what I was referring to."

"Then what were you referring to?" There was no response. "Numair, what aren't you telling me?"

The man stopped his frantic pacing and sighed. He ran his hand through his hair once more before coming to kneel next to her bed.

"You must understand, Daine. You were Mithros knew how sick, and I was helpless. I had to get you help."

Daine made a face. "All this dancing around will help you as much as flapping your arms will help you fly. I'm fair tired of surprises, and putting it off will only vex me more."

One more sigh, then an apologetic smile.

"Magelet, we're in Snowsdale."