“Shouldn’t Shavala have caught up to us by now?”

Corec checked the warden bond. “She’s … southwest of us,” he told Katrin. “I think her old border camp would be southeast of here, so she must have gone on to Terrillia instead.”

“She changed her plans? Is Razai with her?”

“No, Razai’s to the west. I’m sure Shavala’s fine, but she might decide to take a different road out of the forest so she doesn’t have to backtrack. She could be planning to meet up with us in Four Roads.”

“Should we send Leena to check on her?”

“Humans aren’t allowed in Terrillia, but if we don’t see Shavala in Four Roads, we’ll figure out a way to get a message to her.”

Katrin nodded, then stopped in front of a wide, single-story building with a flat roof, a cooing sound coming from above. A pigeon post aviary. “This must be it,” she said.

Corec tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “Closed for the day, I guess.”

“We can come back tomorrow,” Katrin said. “We have to pass by here on the way out.”

Corec nodded. He planned to write to his father to let him know the visit home would be delayed due to the dragon. The road between Four Roads and Larso was too close to its new territory, and Corec didn’t want to risk being caught out in the open.

A pigeon would have to take the message to Highfell, and from there, a courier could be sent to Tarwen Village. It would cost extra for the service, but it was the only way—there were no pigeon keepers back home, and Corec couldn’t ask Leena to risk using magic in Larso.

“Let’s head back,” he said. “We passed a saddle shop on the way, and I want to stop in and see if their work is any good. Nedley needs a new saddle. You probably do, too.”

The sound of angry voices reached them.

“What’s going on?” Katrin asked.

The inns in town were full, and many of the refugees fleeing from the dragon couldn’t have afforded to stay at one anyway. Dalewood had allowed them to set up camps in a few spots around town, and one of those camps was here, at an intersection just beyond the last of the shops lining the street. A large group of people had gathered around a bonfire for warmth, with wagons and tents encircling the area.

The camp had been quiet just a moment earlier, but now the refugees raised their voices, shouting at each other. Corec couldn’t tell what they were saying.

“We’d better check it out,” he said, hopping off the wooden walkway down to the muddy street. It had rained earlier in the day, and most of the streets in Dalewood weren’t cobbled. He reached up to help Katrin down.

She grimaced at the mud but accepted his help, then followed him.

More people joined the argument, seemingly two groups shouting at each other while others tried to get out of their way. Then one man shoved another, and the second man’s friends rushed the first, bearing him down to the ground. The scuffle quickly devolved into a brawl, refugees fighting each other with fists or clubs or cudgels.

Corec broke into a run, casting his combat spells as he charged into the center of the melee, shouldering and elbowing men out of the way. He grabbed one man’s cudgel and snapped the shaft over his knee, tossing the pieces to the side. Another refugee tried to hit him with a quarterstaff, but it was deflected by his shield spell, a brief flash of light washing over the fight.

“Enough!” Corec shouted as he shoved the staff-wielder down onto the muddy street. Corec wasn’t wearing his plate armor, which people sometimes mistook as a symbol of authority, and his mail shirt was hidden under his winter coat. His sword harness was slung across his back, but he didn’t want to draw the weapon unless there was no other choice. He’d have to control the crowd without any help.

Then Katrin’s voice cut distinctly across the cacophony. “Stop fighting and stand down!” she called out. There must have been some bardic magic in it, because everyone took a step back and looked around, trying to figure out who’d spoken.

Those at the center of the brawl had seen the flash of Corec’s barrier shield. They may not have known what it was, but it was enough to startle them, and now they were trying to put more space between him and them, pressing back against the crowd behind them. The result was a widening circle with Corec standing alone at the center, except for a single town guard who’d gotten caught up in the fight and was now slowly struggling to his feet. Corec gave him a hand.

Katrin nudged her way through the mob and joined them, the refugees’ attention drawn to the warden rune glowing blue on her forehead. Magic was rare in the free lands—and sometimes feared, thanks to the proximity of Larso. People quieted down as they stared at her.

“What’s going on here?” Corec demanded of the crowd.

The guardsman tried to respond but his answer was drowned out by the shouts coming from all sides.

Then one of the refugees stomped into the cleared area. “They got food!” he yelled, pointing at the group nearest the wagons. “Them Dalewood bastards won’t help us and my family ain’t eaten since yesterday!”

A middle-aged man on the opposite side of the circle, dressed like a shopkeeper, stepped forward. He was holding one hand up against the side of his head, blood dripping down his cheek. “We’ve got our own families to feed!” he said, swaying unsteadily. “It’s not our fault you didn’t bring anything with you!”

“The dragon chased us off our land!” the other man shouted. “We didn’t have no choice!”

Corec turned to the town guard. “Why aren’t the temples helping? Or the mayor or the baron?”

The guardsman’s eyes went wide. “The temples are already …” he stammered. “The mayor … we can’t feed them all.”

That didn’t seem to be enough of an answer for the angry mob, and the refugees started shouting again, the two sides jostling back and forth.

The man with the head injury didn’t join in this time. He blinked rapidly and then collapsed down on one knee before falling to the ground. A woman who’d been huddling behind him shrieked and crouched down over his body. “Help him!” she cried out to no one in particular. The mob grew quiet, staring at the fallen man.

“We’ll send for a healer,” Corec assured her. He raised his voice. “I need a runner!” he called out. “Someone who knows Dalewood, and knows how to find The Goose and Gander. I’ll pay.”

An older boy, perhaps Nedley’s age, was shoved forward out of the crowd.

“He’s been here before!” a boy behind him called out. “He’s got a townie girl!”

The young man flushed.

“You know where The Goose and Gander is?” Corec asked.

“Yessir.”

“Then go there and find a woman named Treya. She’s a healer. Tell her I need her here right away. Oh, my name’s Corec—tell her Corec needs her here. And ask her to send Ellerie and Boktar too.” They could help him figure out who was supposed to be responsible for feeding the refugees. “And Sarette and Ariadne.” He’d need them to make sure no other fights broke out. “Do you have all that? Repeat it back to me.”

The young man repeated the message, only getting Ariadne’s name wrong. It was close enough, so Corec sent him on his way.

Corec turned back to the mob. “There’ll be a healer here soon,” he said, projecting his voice so everyone could hear him, and slowly turning in a circle to meet their eyes. “And we’ll get you something to eat.”

But there had to be over a hundred refugees at this camp alone. How much help could Corec and his friends really provide?

#

Ellerie held back while Boktar stepped forward to introduce her. She was wearing the nicest clothing she could find in her packs, which happened to be the red silk dress she’d purchased in Snow Crown. It was wildly out of place in Dalewood, but it was the best she could manage on short notice.

“Mayor Oren?” Boktar said. “I’d like to present Her Exalted Highness, the Lady Ellerie di’Valla, daughter of Queen Revana of Teravas.” After asking around town, they’d tracked down the mayor at the finery forge—it seemed he was part owner.

The chubby man’s eyes widened, and he took a step back and gave an awkward bow. “Your … umm … Your Highness?” he stammered. “You, uh, do us honor with your visit. Welcome to Dalewood. How can I help you?”

Ellerie didn’t bother to correct the term of address. “I’m merely passing through,” she said. “I had business in Tyrsall. But while I’m here, I’d like to speak with you about your refugee problem.”

Oren’s face fell. “Ahh, yes. A terrible thing, that dragon, and now so many people coming here to escape it.”

“And what do you intend to do about those people? Many of them are going hungry.”

The mayor grimaced. “Ahh, well, we’ve done all we can, Your Highness. The temples are packed full with as many refugees as they can manage. The priests take in a collection to feed the hungry, but that’s just enough for our own people. I don’t know what we’re going to do with all these new folks.”

“As mayor, you must have access to additional funds. My friends and I are arranging food and blankets, but we’re only here for a day. Surely you don’t want the refugees begging on the streets or robbing your own citizens.”

Oren hesitated. “I’d like to do more, but I can’t,” he said. “Baron Greendale controls the town’s treasury, you see. Dalewood is the seat of the barony.”

“Will you introduce me to the baron?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s wintering in Tyrsall. I spoke to the seneschal, who said he’d send a pigeon, but that was over a week ago and we haven’t heard back yet.”

“Did the seneschal actually send the message?”

“I …” the mayor started, then faltered. Ellerie could guess the problem. He couldn’t accuse the seneschal of not doing his duty, but the alternative was to accuse Baron Greendale, which would be even worse. And it was possible the baron was arranging aid but just hadn’t sent a pigeon back.

“Never mind,” she said. “If you’ll write out another copy of the message, I can have it to the baron today—faster than any pigeon. You can say you sent it twice in case the pigeon didn’t reach Tyrsall. And another copy for the Duke of the West, just to be safe.”

The mayor’s eyes went wide. “Today?” Then he shook his head. “I can’t go to the duke behind the baron’s back!”

Ellerie considered her options. Dalewood was in the heart of the region Varsin Senshall managed for the Senshall Trading Company.

“What if the message didn’t come from you, but from someone both the baron and the duke do business with?”

#

“What is a dragon?” Ariadne asked Sarette as the two of them patrolled the perimeter of the refugee camp.

She’d been too embarrassed to ask the question in front of everyone. The language issue wasn’t as much of a problem anymore now that she knew enough trade tongue to get by, but the group sometimes dropped into Eastern or Western when talking with others they encountered, and Ariadne could only keep one of those languages in her head at a time. She’d only heard bits and pieces of the conversations with the refugees.

“You’ve never heard of dragons?” Sarette asked.

“They’re giant sea snakes, but those are just old stories,” Ariadne said. “They’re not real, or if they are, they died out a long time ago. Nobody’s seen one since we started keeping records. And I saw the map—Four Roads is nowhere near the sea.”

“I haven’t heard of sea snakes. Dragons are real, but they don’t live in the ocean. They look more like lizards than snakes, except they have wings and can fly. And they’re big, as big as a large building.”

“How does something that big fly?” There were feathered serpents in Van Kir—snakes with wings—but they were small, weighing not much more than a large bird. A creature the size of a building shouldn’t be able to support itself in the air.

Sarette shrugged. “I don’t know, but I can fly. Maybe it’s magic.”

Ariadne frowned at that. “Animals can’t use magic. Except for the totems, but they’re different.”

“Dragons can breathe fire too. How could they do that without elder magic?”

“They breathe fire? Rather than air?”

“No, I mean they breathe it out, like a weapon—or like Shavala’s flame spell. That’s why some of the refugees’ homes burned down. You’ve really never heard of dragons? Or drakes? Drakes are like dragons, but much smaller.”

“No, neither. Where do they come from?”

“Across the sea from somewhere, I guess. I don’t think we’ve ever had a dragon in the Storm Heights, so we’ve only heard stories.”

Ariadne nodded, then stepped around a refugee family attempting to assemble a tent they’d been given.

Calm had finally descended after the chaotic rush to purchase food, blankets, and warm clothing, and to distribute it all to the three refugee camps dotted around the town. Wooden crates and canvas bags lay empty and forgotten after having been used to transport beans, dried fruits, rice, and oats. A long and narrow cooking fire had been constructed near the dying bonfire, and now the last of the pots were being emptied and cleared away as the refugee families finished their meals. The smell of fresh bread had begun to waft over the town—Boktar had paid half a dozen bakers to reopen their shops for the evening. There’d be bread in the morning, to accompany the next food delivery.

It wasn’t enough. The refugees would eat for a few days with the coin Ariadne’s friends were leaving behind, as long as the people they were leaving it with were trustworthy, but after that, the problem would have to be solved by others. Ellerie had sent messages to that effect to Tyrsall, but Leena hadn’t returned yet with any responses.

A shadow flickered from an unexpected direction, and Ariadne came to a sudden stop. Something was off.

“What … ?” Sarette started.

Ariadne shook her head and held her finger to her lips, not sure what she’d seen. Maybe it was nothing.

No, there, outside the range of the mage lights, beyond the wagons and tents. A warm spot—warmer to her eyes than the cold night air surrounding it. Not as warm as a fire, so it was likely a person or an animal. The wall of a shop blocked her view, but the heat was radiating outward from its origin. Whoever it was had been there for a while. Probably just a curious local, or a refugee looking to get away from the crowd.

But it was best to make sure. She pointed, and Sarette followed her around to the other side of the building.

There, they found a large man in rough clothing standing close to a smaller woman. He was leaning over her, against the wall, and trailing a finger across her cheek.

Ariadne exchanged a grin with Sarette. They hadn’t been noticed yet, and were about to leave and give the two their privacy when the woman tried to edge away. The man followed, staying close, keeping the girl between him and the wall.

“It looks like she wants to leave,” Sarette called out.

The man whirled around, then laughed when he saw them. “What do you want? We’re busy here.”

Ariadne stepped forward. “If she wants to go back to the fires, let her go.”

“This ain’t any of your business,” he said, then looked down at the girl and tilted her chin up so she was facing him. “She doesn’t want to go back.”

The young woman’s frightened eyes darted back and forth, but she didn’t say anything.

“Why don’t you let her answer?”

He snorted. “Why don’t you leave us in peace? What, does that fellow with the sword need girls to do his fighting for him?” Ariadne and Sarette had their armor on to help prevent any further trouble, but Corec hadn’t bothered to retrieve his own. He had just a mail shirt hidden under his winter coat, choosing to appear more approachable so he could talk to the sometimes-frightened refugees.

Ariadne scowled. A human peasant taunting a Chosar Mage Knight in the street. How had the world come to this? What had the old wardens done to cause so much change?

Sarette probably wouldn’t approve if she drew her sword on one of the refugees, so instead she clenched her fist in front of her, infusing her gauntlet with lightning magic. The man jerked backward as flickers of blue and white light danced over her fist. The gauntlet wasn’t designed for elemental infusions, but it was still made from mirrorsteel—it would hold the temporary enchantment long enough for her to make her point. She layered a flame infusion over the top of it, then stalked toward the man, her hand engulfed in fire, crackles of lightning magic still sparkling within.

That was too much for him to take. He scrambled backward, falling off the shop’s wooden walkway and into the muddy street. He struggled to his feet, then ran off into the darkness. The girl’s eyes had widened, and then she ran too, but toward the camp. Ariadne hadn’t meant to scare her, but at least she’d be safer within the lit area.

The spells had come to Ariadne more easily than she was accustomed to. She’d given up on elder magic after finding out how weak her gift was, but with sufficient practice, could she learn enough to make it useful?

“How did you charge your gauntlet like that?” Sarette asked. “I can’t just hold my spear out and charge it; I have to tap it against the ground, or pull a bolt of lightning to it.”

“Magic works differently for everyone, but within the precepts we set for ourselves. How did your teachers infuse their weapons?”

“Infuse? You mean charge? They do it the same way I do.”

“Then there’s your answer. Your stormrunner magic works a certain way because you believe it does, and you believe it does because that’s how it’s always worked.”

“What?”

“There’s a joke,” Ariadne said. “Three mages are working together on a task. The philosopher amongst them says, ‘Magic is defined by the wielder. If you believe it, you can will it.’ To which the researcher replies, ‘That has not been demonstrated. If it’s true, prove it.’ Finally, the practitioner turns to them and says, ‘Will you two be quiet? I’m trying to cast the damned spell.’”

Sarette didn’t laugh. “I don’t understand,” she said, furrowing her brow. “What does it mean?”

“It means …” Ariadne had to stop and think. The joke depended on specific archetypes and philosophies common in Chosar stories, and she’d never had to try to explain it before. “I suppose it can mean any number of things, depending on your point of view, but I always took it to mean that the nature of magic is unknowable and can never be proven. And that you can learn to break some constraints but not others, and no one really knows how or why. And that at some point, you just have to stop talking and start doing.”

#

“How did it happen?” Treya asked the boy. She held his arm carefully, using her healing senses to examine the cracked bits of bone in his forearm. It hadn’t broken completely, and had started healing on its own, but the bruising and swelling suggested he was in more pain than he was willing to admit. He winced when she brushed her fingers over the spot.

“Tripped and fell when we was runnin’ from the dragon,” the boy, Harri, said in a hillfolk accent. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, and his sister was even younger. She clung to his other arm, staring silently as Treya worked.

“The healers in Four Roads didn’t look at it?” Treya asked. The siblings’ parents had perished when the dragon burned down their farmhouse, and it was clear the boy couldn’t afford a healer, but shouldn’t someone have helped him anyway?

“Couldn’t find no priests of the Raven there,” Harri said.

Of course. The hillfolk followed the old gods, so the boy must not have known who to go to for help. Not that that excused the priests in Four Roads—they should have realized something was wrong. The injury wasn’t the most severe Treya had seen that day, but he’d clearly been favoring the arm. Harri was the last patient waiting for her attention; some of the other refugees had pushed him into the line that had formed after she’d arrived.

When Treya’s hands lit up with healing magic, the boy gasped and tried to pull away, but she held him in a tight grip until she was finished.

“There,” she said. “All healed. How does it feel?”

He worked his arm and his fingers, and then poked at the spot that had been injured—tentatively, as if expecting pain. Then he poked it again, harder.

“How’d you do that?” he asked. “There ain’t no girl priests, and you don’t got no raven feathers.”

“There are lots of girl priests outside the hills,” Treya said. “Raven priests use healing magic?”

“Sure. They’s got potions and tinctures and poultices.”

Treya nodded. Herbalism, like Bobo had practiced when he’d lived in the hills.

“Who are you traveling with?” she asked. There was no one waiting for him other than his sister.

“We ain’t travelin’ with nobody. The knights made us go to Four Roads, but everyone says the dragon’s comin’ there next, so we left.”

“Knights?”

“They came to the village after the dragon was gone. They wouldn’t let us go south—said it ain’t safe. Took us all to Four Roads instead.”

“And then you and your sister just left? By yourselves? What about the people who made you come see me?”

“We ain’t travelin’ with them. We was just followin’ behind. Sometimes they got extra food.”

Treya was quiet for a moment as she thought. She couldn’t just send the two children on their way, and it wasn’t safe to try to take them back to their own people in the hills. An orphan boy of Harri’s age should be apprenticed, but would a craft master or shopkeeper agree to take the sister as well?

“What’s your name?” she asked the girl.

“Ditte,” the child said in a small voice.

“I like that name. I’ve never met anyone named Ditte before. How old are you?”

The girl chewed on her lip before answering in that same quiet tone. “Six.”

That was how old Treya had been when her own parents had died. A neighbor found her and took her to the Three Orders.

An apprenticeship for the boy and the Orders for the girl? It didn’t seem right to split them up.

“Do you like horses?” she asked Harri.

He shrugged.

Corec was nearby, speaking to one of the refugee families. Treya waved him over.

“Now that Nedley’s a guard, we’ll need a new groom, won’t we?” she asked, tilting her head in Harri’s direction.

Corec studied the two children. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Harri, sir.”

Corec blinked at the accent, but just said, “Harri, how would you like a job as a groom, taking care of our horses and mules? You’d feed them, exercise them, clean the stables. The pay’s a silver piece each day, and it includes room and board. For both of you. I’ve got to warn you, it’s hard work—we’ve got a lot of animals.”

Harri’s eyes had gone wide at the mention of the pay. He nodded rapidly.

Treya said, “We’re heading west, back toward Four Roads, but I promise we won’t go anywhere near the dragon. We’ll make sure you and Ditte are safe.”

The boy bit his lip, then nodded again, but not as eager as before.

Corec peered back into the refugee camp. The sun was long gone, but he’d lined the area with mage lights.

“Hey, Ned!” he called out. “Come here!”

Nedley jogged over. Like Sarette and Ariadne, who were also patrolling the camp, he was dressed for a fight. Or, rather, as a deterrent against any further fighting. He was wearing silversteel plate armor and had his sword at his side and a small shield strapped to his back. If he’d been a few years older and a few inches taller, he might have made an imposing sight.

“Nedley, this is Harri,” Corec said. “He’s going to be our new groom. Will you teach him what he needs to know? Ask Boktar to find a place for him and his sister to sleep.”

“Sure, Corec.”

“Harri,” Corec said, “go along with Nedley and he can get you started. He’s a soldier now, but he used to be our groom, so he knows what to do.”

Harri looked back at his sister. “But …”

“Ditte can go with you,” Treya said. “Just keep her away from the horses so she doesn’t get hurt.”

Corec reached inside his coat for his coin pouch—the public one that he only kept a few coins in. He pulled out a silver piece and handed it to the boy. “Here. Your first day’s pay. Ned, see if you can find him a belt pouch too.”

Nedley nodded, and led the two children away.

“No family?” Corec asked once they’d gone.

“The dragon killed their parents,” Treya said.

Corec sighed. “If Dalewood can’t cope with refugees, Four Roads will be worse. The free lands aren’t prepared for something like this. That’s how the dragon took the keep in the first place, and Matagor just abandoned everyone who lived nearby.”

“Harri said a group of knights escorted them to Four Roads.”

“Probably patrolling for hillfolk bandits. If they’re protecting the hillfolk now …” Corec shook his head. “I doubt they received orders for that. They might have been cut off from their route back to Hightower.”

“But we’re still going to Four Roads?” Treya asked, though she already knew the answer.

“We have to. One patrol of knights isn’t enough to hunt a dragon, and besides, they’ve probably scampered back to Larso by now, through the northern passes. I’ve been talking to the folks here and they all say that when they left, Four Roads didn’t have any sort of plan for the dragon yet. I think Ellerie’s right—we’ll need to pay for the mercenaries ourselves.”

“Will we be able to hire enough trained men in Four Roads?” Treya didn’t remember seeing many mercenaries when she’d lived there.

Corec grimaced but didn’t reply, making the answer obvious. He sighed again. “At least this group seems to be settling down now that they’ve got some food and blankets. Ellerie and Bobo say the other two camps are quiet, no fighting.”

“What are we going to do with them all? One day of food isn’t enough.”

“No, and we can’t feed this many people for long. Leena’s gone to Tyrsall with a message for Varsin Senshall, to see if he’ll ask Baron Greendale and the Duke of the West to intervene. According to Ellerie, the temples here are already doing what they can, but the mayor’s going to try to convince the local shops to donate more than usual.”

“There’s no temple of Allosur here. If Leena’s making another trip tomorrow, I could write to Priest Telkin and Bishop Lastal to ask them to send help.”

Corec nodded. “They have bigger pockets than we do. Warn them that it’s not just Dalewood. They should plan for refugees from Four Roads to Tyrsall. But for now, if you’re done here, will you come with me to check on the other camps?”

“Of course.”