Under the searing white light of midday, red dust swirled. The road emerged suddenly from the tangled branches of Greenwood, then stretched out languorously to the East. Along the forest border, an eager young river hurried on its way, bringing tributes of pure snowmelt from the mountains in the North to a crystalline inner sea. Here, where the brambles of Rhovanion melted into the stark red ravines and fecund green valleys of Rhûn, a slight figure hobbled eastward, alone.
The traveler walked with an impatient gait, favoring her left side and cursing with each step. "Bloody great brute the size of a young dragon, and he frights at a trick of the wind!" As she approached the river crossing, she paused and raised her nose to catch a whiff of the easterly breeze. "You might as well come out!" she called out in the common tongue. "If you wish to catch me unawares next time, might I suggest bathing?" Her voice carried uncommonly well over the rush of water, but none answered her.
She crossed her arms and scowled at the silent, jutting rocks on the far side of the river. They returned her stare impassively. Still, she did not budge, as if perfectly content to settle in and grow moss to rival theirs. The sun beat down upon them all, urging them to conclude their business.
A single arrow broke the stalemate. It whistled out fromthe rocks to pierce the ground an inch from the traveler's toes.
The traveler glanced down, unimpressed. "Armed men who dare not show their faces to an old woman traveling alone? Fie! Fie! Traps are a coward's weapon!"
Such was the severity of her tone, the authority etched in her small, hunched form, that even the towering rocks seemed to quail from her displeasure. One by one, her unseen adversaries shuffled shamefaced as boys from their hiding places. They numbered fifteen, and in other circumstances they might have made quite a dashing sight, clad as they were in finely crafted road leathers and armed with gleaming swords.
The captain stepped forward: a strapping, barrel-chested man who had never doubted himself a day in his soldier's life. "Who goes there?" His voice emerged sheepish and hesitating, barely audible above the laughter of Celduin.
The traveler eyed him balefully and said nothing.
"Speak, crone! You trespass upon the King's road!"
Deep in the shadows of her colorless cloak, her eyes took on a beady glint. "The King's road! And what King is that?"
Here, the captain swelled like a bellows, for his answer could only be met with deference. "Why, Tar-Ardamin himself!" he boomed. "Wielder of the Winged Sceptre! First Citizen in the City of Kings! Hallowed defender of Numenor!"
The traveler cocked her head. "Eh? Then you have surely lost your way, son–Numenor is a ways back yonder!" She jerked one thumb behind her.
A ruddy hue rose through the captain's neck up over his cheeks to his hairline. "You test my patience! Pay the toll for passage and be on your way, or I shall have that uncivil tongue yanked out at the root!"
"Oh ho, a toll ! Are the coffers of Armenelos so depleted that it falls to common highwaymen to replenish them? Step aside, child–I am late enough as it is." She resumed her arduous way to the bridge. The sudden bristle of five drawn bows gave her no pause at all. To the arrows flying past her ears she seemed blissfully deaf.
A second volley, aimed this time to kill, found no more success, for the east wind worked its fell magic against the Men of the West, and knocked their arrows astray.
The captain's ruddy tint gave way to purple. "Halt! Halt and surrender!" Yet even as he bellowed, he stepped back from the dark figure advancing slowly and inexorably over the River Running.
The archers made a third attempt, but it was without conviction. The hag gained the eastern bank. Irrational terror overtook the soldiers, and they stood as though petrified.
Valiantly, the captain stepped forward alone to stand in her way, chest thrown forward and arms akimbo. "Halt," he repeated hopefully.
She clicked her tongue and peered up at him. "Young man, I have not trod half the length of Middle Earth, broken an engagement with the naiads of Baranduin, wrestled the ravening Huorns of Eregion, and matched wits with the Dread Worm under Caradhras, only to be vanquished by a tax collector. I ask again: step aside."
He faltered. But in those days, the sons of Numenor were made of sterner stuff, and Captain Rador, son of Badhor, dared not fall short. He lunged for the hag.
She slipped from his grasp like a shadow and bolted for shelter among the boulders. He scrambled after her, but she clung to the jagged rock face and clambered, lizard-quick, out of his grasp. Her right leg dragged uselessly behind her, and her breath rattled with each great exertion. But she was close, so close, to gaining the green landing above the river. Only a few more–
Breathtaking pain shot through her leg. A vise grip closed tight around her ankle. By the time she thought to scream, she had already hit the ground. The brutish sun turned cold against her skin. River-laughter rang in her ears. Eyes, glittering black, filled her vision as she slipped into unconsciousness.
He was a tedious man, Captain Rador. He united the equally contemptible traits of a weak intellect and an inflexible code of honor into a single, useless pillar of muscle. And now he stood–resolute, stolid, stupid as a rock–directly in the way. Lothar of Umbar contemplated his options.
Under any other circumstances, he would have cut the fool's throat and given the matter no further thought after stepping over the corpse. But Rador's men seemed unlikely to accept such a solution. And for the moment their swords still served a greater purpose. Yet nor could Lothar concede, for the bounty that Rador defended was far too promising to squander. So, reluctantly, he resorted at last to diplomacy.
He affected an aggrieved countenance. "Captain Rador, will you allow me to attend my patient, or are you content for her to die of her injuries?"
Confusion twisted Rador's brows for a moment. "Injuries you caused!" he retorted. "You expect me to entrust her to you?"
"Only because I am the healer," Lothar sighed.
"The healer, or the executioner?"
This was going nowhere. "The same skills are required for both."
A voice from the Captain's tent forestalled his reply. "Let him pass, Rador."
It was a voice that should not exist. It pierced the bone and rang through the marrow. It crashed like waves and stung like salt. Lothar hated it immediately.
Captain Rador stepped aside instantly at her command. The hem of the tent fluttered under the influence of a strange wind.
"Well? Are you coming in, or must I come out, O gentle executioner?" The impossible voice pealed with mockery.
Lothar became aware that he had been standing, paralyzed, with his eyes fixed ahead. He gritted his teeth and swept the curtain aside.
She lay upon Rador's cot, helpless and paler than death. Such a little, fragile thing. A soft face, freckled and young. Only in her eyes did her true nature become apparent, for they shone, hard and malevolent, even in the dark.
"Come closer," said the prisoner. "I won't bite." She smiled slowly, and it was a wolf's smile.
Without willing it, Lothar found his right foot jerking forward at her bidding. He clenched his jaw and stepped into the motion smoothly.
He forced a bland smile. "How might I be of service?"
"Tell me: which is it?"
"Pardon?"
"Which are you, Lothar of Umbar–healer, or executioner?"
He hesitated despite himself. "I–"
"Because you see, I am bleeding to death as we speak. Choose now or not at all, my lad."
"My hands are clean," he heard himself say, holding them out for her inspection.
"Then let us begin."
It came so easily, capitulating to that voice. The small satchel she carried at her hip contained wonders beyond the dreams of common Men: surgical tools so precise that they could separate the veins of a fly's wing; three little lamps that seemed to multiply the light of the wick tenfold; medicines he scarcely recognized.
She chanted their names as he set them down. "Athelas to stop infection. Wolf lily to replace the blood. Spun gwenaur to close the wounds." The two smallest vials were scarcely larger than his thumbnail, filled with a colorless liquid. "Emerhari to see us through. One for each." She toasted him with an ironical twist of the mouth and emptied the contents of her vial onto her tongue. Caution abandoned him, and he followed her lead.
A sweet, spicy fragrance, unlike anything he had ever known, flooded his mouth. The effect was instantaneous–fearsome clarity took hold of his mind and his senses were whetted to near-unbearable perfection.
"Now. A cut to the abdomen–here." She traced a line along her skin with one long finger. The scalpel followed, and his hand with it. Red blossomed out behind. "The tear lies just above the branching of the artery. Mind the liver, if you please."
She would accept no relief for the pain. Between terse instructions, she bit down on the fine leather of her belt. Rador knelt at the bedside, his face even more bloodless than hers. He clenched his teeth and said nothing as her hand crushed his. In his other hand, he held a mirror through which she watched Lothar work.
Lothar was not a squeamish man. The son of an executioner could not afford to be. From his earliest days he had learned in intimate detail the frailties of flesh and bone. For this he had looked on as mutineers, murderers, and cutpurses met gruesome ends in the city square. For this he had pried open the carcass of his favorite wolfhound even as silent tears choked him. For this he had worked beside the great, unspeaking brute that was his father. For this: the bright blood that now hallowed his hands.
And yet, though her voice pulled like the tide and her eyes shone with a faraway light, here upon the table she was no more complex than his old dead hound–just another red labyrinth. He sank into the chilly resolve that had served him so well in the torture rooms of Umbar.
At last, he found it. The smallest of punctures, insidiously draining her life. It occurred to him, suddenly, that he could stop here. Mere minutes, and she would die. And who would ever know that he could have stopped it? It would be their little secret, hers and his.
He recoiled from the thought. It was too intimate, to kill her like this. She had too much power here, with her voice rattling through his skull and her eyes cutting into his skin. He would never be rid of the stain of her on his hands.
"Will you proceed, Lothar?" she asked. There was a note of curiosity in her tone.
He met her eyes. "Instruct me," he said.
"Clamp the vessel just above the wound. Then thread a needle with the thread of gwenaur. Rador, another drop of the wolf lily."
Rador's hands shook badly as he poured the precious substance onto her tongue. Lothar's remained unerring as he began the slow, painstaking work of suturing.
"You will have to stitch each layer of tissue individually. Five stitches each–even as can be. You are familiar with a surgeon's knot?"
Lothar grinned. "You insult me, madame?" He tied off the first layer–perfectly.
She chuckled, then winced. "Forgive me–I don't know what passes for an education among you corsairs."
"Well, on the first day we learn to swear with a saber between our teeth." The second layer, finished even more finely than the first. "On the second day, we learn how to steal a man's shoes off his feet after drinking a barrel of whiskey." The third set of sutures could only be called a masterpiece.
"And on the third day?" she prompted. Some of the music had drained from her voice, and when he glanced up he found her eyes glassy and unfocused.
"On the third day we learn to keep a civil tongue while addressing our surgeon."
"The other days sound far more fun," she murmured. The hand that Rador held was slack and blue.
"Another drop, Rador," he muttered.
"You must flush the sutures with athelas before closing." Her eyes were shut, her voice toneless, as if she spoke from a deep sleep.
He finished his task quickly, beautifully. It was the finest work he would ever do–this was certain. Yet there was no one to appreciate his accomplishment, for the elf maiden had drifted away across a vast and impassable ocean.
Silence fell in the tent. Without thinking, Lothar began setting her broken leg. It was an easy task, for her body was now perfectly limp.
"What do we do now?" Rador's voice rasped as Lothar cleaned his hands meticulously.
"Now? We do nothing at all. The rest is up to her."
For five days, they waited. Each morning, the Faithful among the soldiers gathered around the captain's tent and muttered fervent prayers. How, they whispered among themselves, could the Valar forgive them for the destruction of something so beautiful?
Their prostrations filled Lothar with mounting contempt. A pathetic sight it was–sons of Numenor so debasing themselves before the uncaring powers of the world. Yet their terror served him well. These men, who had so recently looked upon him and seen only the taint of his family profession, now addressed him in hushed, reverential tones. All this for the sake of one girl, who lay either recuperating or dying–only she knew which–in Rador's tent.
Only Rador still regarded him with chilly suspicion. He was too simple a man to dissimulate–it was beyond his imagination to do so. But his very honesty now alienated him from his own soldiers. For all they had seen in the confusion of the riverside ambush was Captain Rador confronting the traveler, leading the assault, defying the Valar themselves. Captain Rador had plunged them into iniquity. Now, perhaps, Lothar, humble healer, might lead them back to the light.
And so it was that by luck, and by skill, and by patience, the fickle tide was turned.
She woke abruptly in a cold sweat. First she met a pair of eyes warm and blue as Belfalas.
"My lady, you live!" a deep voice, over-loud, grating on her tender nerves. Rough, damp hands wrung hers.
Gingerly, she retrieved her hands and investigated the claim, wiggling first her fingers, then her toes. "Yes," she agreed. "So it seems."
"Drink this." The second voice, dry as dust, chilled her to the marrow.
She contemplated the tin cup he offered. Fresh, bittersweet fragrance of athelas enticed her. If he wanted to kill her, surely better opportunities had presented themselves. "Thank you, Lothar." The draught burned pleasantly on the way down, clean and pure.
"I suppose you shall persist in refusing the extract of poppy and mandrake?"
"Clever boy."
He tended her wounds efficiently, with quick, sure hands. If he noticed her watching him work, he gave no sign. Indeed, he avoided her gaze assiduously.
With his wide, dark eyes and a sharp, fine-boned face, he might have been a handsome man if life had been kinder to him. But old pockmarks mottled his cheeks, and his pale skin was that of a much older man, sallow and slack. Some childhood affliction had left the right half of his face stiff and unmoving, his mouth twisted forever into a half-grimace.
"The incision is healing well," he said at last, rising to his full height. He towered over her cot, eyes cast in shadow. "Your color is better. Your heartbeat is slow and steady. You do not seem inclined to die at present." It was plain that he took no pleasure in this pronouncement.
"You did well."
He inclined his head and made to leave.
"So… why am I alive?"
He paused at the opening of the tent. The forgiving light of morning bathed his left side, lending him a moment of beauty. "Do you think it wise to ask?"
"If I were wise, I would not be at the mercy of the likes of you. And yet… you are no elf friend, and still you saved me."
Lothar turned to face her, looming black against the daylight. "I don't need a friend," he answered at last. "I need a witch."
The curtain fluttered closed behind him, dousing Aearis again in darkness.
That night, he came alone.
In the flickering light of a single candle, he was monstrous. Every old scar was thrown into brutal relief, the humiliations of time carved starkly into his white face. Aearis looked upon him, this young son of Numenor, and felt only revulsion.
He spoke without preamble. "I require your assistance."
She took a long, slow swallow from her cup. "If I refuse?"
"At the risk of stating the obvious," he said, "I could kill you."
She waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, you don't want to do that. What if I'm some sort of prodigal elvish princess, whose father swears bloody vengeance on you and your descendants?"
He looked her up and down. "I don't think you are."
"Ah, but I might be. Do you really care to stake your life on it?"
"I have staked far more on longer odds." Something in his eyes gave her pause: an implacable light buried deep beneath his chilly semblance.
She forced an amicable smile. "How might I be of service?"
He leaned in. With difficulty she mastered the urge to recoil. "Are you familiar with the necromancers of Asraa?"
She sipped thoughtfully from her cold cup. "Not on first name terms."
His lip curled. "I saw the East Wind conspire to save you on that bridge."
It was dangerous to provoke him. Only a fool would do it. "Perhaps the East Wind has not forgotten its chivalry," she replied with a pointed look. "Or perhaps your archers leave something to be desired."
Though he affected amusement, his fingers twitched convulsively. "Prevaricate if you will. But I know what you are."
"Really? Well that makes one of us."
His anger was building, seething. She resolved that if she lived to tell Bereneth this story, she would certainly leave out this section.
"Come now," she said with a conciliatory smile. "Tell me what respectable men like you could possibly need from a witch."
He searched her face with narrowed eyes. It was an uncomfortable gaze: knife-cold and surgical. "I require a navigator."
She scoffed. "Have the sons of Numenor forgotten how to find their way?"
"Only a sorcerer can strive against the work of another."
"I have heard it said. Go on."
"In the ravines north of the Inland Sea, there is an orchard. Around it, the necromancers of Asraa have woven fell enchantments of protection. Long have the sons of Numenor sought the Orchard without avail."
"Rank superstition!" Her scorn burst through all at once. "You attribute to black magic what simple incompetence may explain. Mortals make poor enchanters–this orchard is certainly no more magical than the love potions of a village hedgewitch."
Rather than make any attempt to persuade her, he shrugged. "Then, madame, your job shall be rather simple."
She glared at him, torn between disdain and curiosity. "If you are willing to defy the East Wind, pit yourself against necromancers, and, worst of all, consort with an elf," she said slowly, "this orchard must bear precious fruit indeed."
"You might reckon it trivial." A flicker of resentment tinged his low, smooth voice. "Yet for mortal Men, there can be no higher cause." He leaned forward, teeth bared and glinting in the candlelight. "For the Orchard of Asraa holds the secret of eternal life."
At the end of its long and driven course, River Running suddenly unravels, frays into a hundred aimless silver streams that lace the blooming deltas of Rhûn. Here the land is treacherous and beautiful. Lush carpets of emerald green growth conceal sharp falls into cold, brackish pools. Great, luminous aquatic blossoms unfurl like open hands. The air lies heavy with their fragrance, enticing unsuspecting travelers into deep, fretful dreams. To the southeast, the red cliffs that trace River Running's eastern bank plunge into a mist-veiled sea.
"You should rest, milady." Aearis glanced up from her work briefly to meet Rador's blue gaze. "No steed, no matter how valiant, is worth your life."
"I must try." She returned to her task. Without Glorfindel's lute, she found her voice insufficient to protect them on their journey.
Already two horses had died. Halion's mount had startled as the company approached the joining of Celduin and Carnen. The wind had picked up suddenly, shrieking out from the ravines and raising red sand in writhing shapes that sent the steady, good-natured beast into a wild panic. Young Halion had lived–narrowly–to see his beloved horse dispatched efficiently by a stone-faced Lothar. A broken leg, he had explained. Nothing to be done. The second horse had fallen dead with exhaustion mid-gallop, sending his rider careening into the sharp rocks that surrounded them. They had left him several days back, nursing a nasty head wound with only a scant bag of rations and his hunting bow.
Now Aearis crouched beside Rador's fine bay gelding. For a fortnight he had carried Aearis and Rador both, steady and tireless through the long, hot days. Then they had awoken to find the faithful beast lying as he did now: dazed and cloud-eyed. Aearis sang softly in his ear, hoping by some miracle to pull him from his strange trance.
Yet again, her voice fell short. Powerless, she listened as his great heart stuttered into silence. She sat back upon her heels and suppressed a cry of frustration.
When she could command her voice again, she turned to Rador. He sat cross legged beside his dead horse, weeping quietly but unashamed.
"Have we done wrong in coming here?" she wondered aloud.
He looked up, his wide, honest face crumpled. "Something causes you doubt, milady?"
She hesitated. "No," she answered at last, and she saw some of the tension leave his massive shoulders. "No. Don't mind me, Rador–just a trick of the wind."
He smiled kindly. "This land is too coarse and brutish for one such as you, milady." Laboriously, he rose to his feet and offered his hand to her. "But I can swear to you, even on the life of my firstborn son, that our mission is righteous. Nothing less could unite the lords of Umbar and Pelargir in a common goal."
"Yes," she admitted. "That did surprise me–never did I dream to see the sons of Numenor lay aside their grievances."
It was a careless remark. She watched a question flit across his brow–one she had no intention to answer. She hastened to distract him.
"Why is our task so important?" she asked with the wide, ingenuous eyes of a child.
His paternal air might have insulted her if it were not so utterly sincere. "Well you see, the Necromancers of Asraa have long conspired with the Enemy to sow darkness in Middle Earth. The East Wind carries the taint of their fell whispers–" Here he cut himself short, doubtless to protect her delicate feminine sensibilities. "Long has Numenor striven to break their hold upon Rhûn. And at last, thanks to Lothar," (he made a creditable attempt to suppress his distaste), "we may discover the source of their fell power."
They turned together to look eastward into the great red mouth of the ravines. Though the light of midday shone over them, the path forward was utterly dark.
That night, the company ate a fine supper of horsemeat.
When at last the campfire had burned to extinction, Aearis slipped away into the long shadows. Low-lying, moon-silver mist wrapped around her ankles. Half awake, she wandered freely. Only when she felt cool water lapping at her feet did she know that she stood upon the shore of the Sea of Rhûn.
What fate might await her, she wondered idly, if she struck out into the unseen waters? She narrowed her eyes and stared into the mist. It revealed nothing. Softly she sang, coaxing the sea for its secrets, but her voice was carried away and smothered without hearing.
With the tip of her toe, she sent a ripple running out into the depths. She waited. Then, though the tide was low and the night still, a great swell of water swept out from the fog and soaked her to the waist. Briefly the dancing mists parted to form a window that looked over the rippling sea. Peering into it she saw–or imagined she saw–a great scaled crest breaching the water, glistening and colorless. The curtains closed, and she saw no more.
"My apologies," she murmured, stepping back to stand again upon dry land.
"You do like to tempt fate." Lothar's voice prickled along the back of her neck.
Reluctantly, she turned her back on the water. "Clearly. I wouldn't be here otherwise."
He ambled forward to stand beside her. It took all her determination not to shrink away as his shoulder brushed hers. His wide, cold eyes scanned the obscure southward sea. She faced to the north and shut her eyes.
"The men are restless enough as it is," he said at last. "Do try not to agitate them further."
"If you answered my questions yourself, I would not need to seek elsewhere."
Rustling of coarse cloth as he shifted restlessly on his feet. "You know all that you need to. Any more would only serve as a distraction."
"I have promised to help you, and I shall. But I cannot work in the dark."
"You give yourself too little credit," he replied, his voice soft and cold. "I suspect that you thrive in darkness."
She opened her eyes and turned to scrutinize him. Viewed thus in profile under faded starlight, he could be mistaken for a handsome man. She pitched her voice low and sweet. "I could serve you better if you trusted me." She grazed his wrist with her fingers. "I could lessen your burden."
Grim amusement twisted his face, but his eyes did not waver from the sea. "I suppose that sort of thing usually works terribly well."
She retracted her hand. "Oh yes," she agreed breezily, "without fail–almost."
At last he turned from the water and ran a hand across his weary eyes. "Ask what you will," he said. "But I promise nothing."
She knelt to pluck one of the great water flowers that bloomed around her feet and raised her eyes to watch him through her lashes. "If your errand is to infiltrate Asraa, why make camp at the crossing at Eryn Galen? It is a bit out of the way for a company out of Belfalas. And I shan't flatter myself that you awaited my arrival in particular."
The shadows around his eyes grew deeper as he looked down upon her. "Few Men now walk the Old Forest Road, for it is grown wild and cruel in these dark days." A long, contemplative pause. Then: "But the lore-finders of Asraa pass often that way to take counsel with the long-beards under the mountains."
Aearis breathed in deeply from the blossom cradled in her palms. Though the scent was soft and sweet, it burned in her nostrils and behind her eyes. When she looked back to the sea, the mist seemed lessened slightly. She waited for him to speak again.
When he resumed, his voice was low and fervent, as if he spoke only to himself. "Others have attempted this journey before me. They have sought and vanished without trace in the ravines. If we could only capture a lore-finder, I thought–" he broke off with a bitter smile. "Oh, but they are clever, these easterlings. They pass through our nets like water, aided ever by the fell power of their necromancer queen. Long have I hunted them. Long have they evaded me."
"So you settled for me." Aearis was aware of a flat, petulant note in her voice.
He laughed suddenly. "Do not mistake me, madame–your appearance was a greater blessing than I dared believe possible. An elvish sorceress limping along with a broken leg? Who ever heard of such a thing?"
She winced. "It was not my finest moment, I concede. Not all elves can be wise."
"Some day you must tell me how that came to be."
"Certainly. Though I fear that it is a long, dull tale."
"Ah, but you forget," he said with a gloating smile, "I shall have all the time in the world."
"What makes you so certain that you shall succeed where others failed? So sure, in fact, that you could persuade the Council of Pelargir to back you? That is no small feat for the son of an Umbar executioner."
The mischief in his grin made him downright boyish. "I have been given something no other ever has." He paused for dramatic effect. "A map."
"A map! That is a great advantage!" she exclaimed. His mood seemed uncommonly good, so she pushed her luck further. "And how, pray, did you acquire such a thing?"
"It was bestowed upon me by a… generous benefactor. I can tell you nothing more."
"Ah!" she cried. "Then out of all the Men in the colonies of Numenor, you alone were selected to complete this quest! This benefactor must be a man of rare taste and discernment!"
His eyes danced with amusement and he fixed her with a knowing stare. "Madame," he replied in an admonishing tone, "if you wish to know the identity of my benefactor, I fear I must leave you unsatisfied. Not by all your devices shall you pry it from me."
She smiled sweetly. "You seem quite certain of that."
"I mean no diminishment to your powers of persuasion," he assured her. "But I cannot reveal what I do not know."
"You mean to tell me that you undertook this endeavor, which you know has killed countless others before you, at the behest of an unknown benefactor?" She rose to her feet to look him squarely in the eye. "You are many things, Lothar, but I never took you for a fool."
"We are all made fools by our dearest desires." He broke her gaze and turned to make his way back towards the campfire.
When the dense, dark night had swallowed him at last, Aearis allowed herself to relax. She lay back and rested her cheek against the silken silver petals of a water blossom and breathed in deeply.
The wind howled through the cliffs with a deep, cold voice. Long, shining bones criss-crossed the path, bright white and cracked under the midday sun. The red labyrinth sprawled out around her, inescapable. It was not too late to go home.
I have no home, Aearis retorted peevishly.
A lone figure stood upon a silent shore, bent double with grief. Though he screamed with all the air in his lungs, no sound left his lips. It was not too late for her to turn away.
Why? she demanded to know. Where can I turn, that grief will not find me?
Young green leaves danced overhead. Unseeing blue eyes turned up towards the sun. Blood pooled in rich black soil, then drained away. It was not too late for her. She was not one of them.
Yes, she replied. I am.
She woke with a ragged gasp. The night was still, untroubled by the wind.
The next day, the company gathered at the mouth of a narrow, unassuming ravine.
"We will leave the horses," Lothar declared. He glanced at Aearis. "So, madame, are you ready to earn your keep?"
In the palm of her hand, Aearis cradled her last vial of emerhari. She nodded.
"Are you well?" Rador murmured, too quietly for any but her to hear. "Perhaps we ought to rest for an extra day. The ride has been taxing for all of us, but especially a lady–"
She turned to smile at him. "You are too kind, Captain. But I am quite well–only saving my voice for the task ahead."
He eyed her with marked concern, but pressed her no further. The other men clustered behind him, shifting and fidgeting nervously. It had not occurred to Aearis before how very young they all were.
"Well!" she cried, with an attempt at a merry chuckle, "are we going or aren't we? Onward, brave soldiers!"
As she stepped into the shadow of the ravine, the wind picked up suddenly.
Too late, it wept in its deep, cold voice. Too late.