“Two days?” Quinn threw the string of rabbit carcasses onto the hard rocky ground. “Only two days for six hares? This food alone feeds me for over a week.”

Deals with gypsy clans almost never went well. At least, not anymore. The desert was no longer a hospitable place and it had little to do with the climate.

“I think I’m being generous,” said Master Trent. He hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his garishly red pants. “Your reputation precedes you. I know where those rabbits came from, how you kill and I’m giving you two days of safety because my people are starving.” He looked over his shoulder. “There are plenty who think I should just kill you, but just as many are afraid we would be cursed.”

Quinn fought to keep her eyes still. The Wind Song caravan was the last clan that didn’t threaten her with weapons and Druid magic whenever she came close. Word travelled fast, it seemed. She licked her lips and looked down at the carcasses.

“Three days,” she countered, leaving the rabbits where they were at his feet. “And I’ll leave in the morning.”

Master Trent picking up the string of fresh meat signaled an agreement, and Quinn gathered her pull cart to find a place to set up her camp.

“At dawn!” he shouted, and now that her face wasn’t within sight she rolled her eyes.

The bright colors of the wagons clashed with the same bright displays of color on the people milling around them and brought life to the dull browns and grays of the high desert. Some were painted in stripes in various combinations of yellow, purple, green, red and blue, or polka dots, and one looked like the night sky with the sun and moon depicted with faces and large grins. Uncomfortable combinations of purple shirts and green pants or yellow dresses with slashes of orange and teal reigned and she looked out of place in brown and white. Quinn felt their eyes on her as she chose her camping space, but didn't look up to meet them.

The sun dipped below the horizon and the temperatures dropped with it. Quinn worked fast to unload her pull cart: tent poles, purple canvas, guy lines, ground furs, bedroll, more furs, and then a tie-down cover for her beloved cart.

The smell of cooking rabbit wafted in the cold air, and the men building the evening bonfire sang as they worked. Children helped carry wood, or arranged cushions around the fire where everyone would eat and thank the wind for another day.

Quinn made her way to the dried up riverbed with her waterskins and digging tools, and started working on the existing hole. It spanned over fifty feet long, with more dotting off to the side. The sandstorms in the southern parts of the desert drove many further north, and it meant caravans like Wind Song lingered longer than usual. As soon as the storms ceased they would be returning south to replenish supplies and trade news. For now, however, they would stay here for as long as there was water.

Squatted down by the edge of the main digging site, Quinn abandoned her tools and instead shifted her mind’s eye. The world went gray, and a mass of black tangles just beneath her vision writhed lazily and oozed black smoke tendrils that dissipated once they left their host.

At her command, a trio of black vines reached into the damp soil and felt for the source of the water. She didn’t have to reach far to find it, and prepared a water skin. Fill, she commanded, and the vines obeyed.

With all of her waterskins full, she slung them over her shoulders and climbed out of the riverbed with her unused tools.

A dinner of rabbit stew with an impressive amount of vegetables and a serving of flatbread showed more than anything how much better off this caravan was, but they still struggled. Children asked for seconds and were denied, and some didn’t have a bowl in their hands at all.

“We aren’t the only ones trapped up here,” said one man. He wiped up the last of his stew with his bread. “Men from city collecting on bounties are up here, too. I can’t imagine who they think they’ll find in the middle of nowhere. We’re peaceful folk.”

The man he spoke with agreed, and Quinn shifted in her seat and focused on her stew.

Once the gypsies began to sing their thanks to the wind god, Quinn settled back and wrapped herself up in her blanket and closed her eyes. Life in exile wasn’t so bad when you spent your nights like this more often than not.

“Excuse me.”

Quinn opened a single eye to see a young boy in yellow and jarring magenta also wrapped in a patchwork blanket. He might’ve been around twelve.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for the rabbit,” he said. “Master Trent didn’t tell us who caught them, but I saw you give them to us. We haven’t had meat in weeks.”

“It’s what I do,” said Quinn. “I do the hunting and I trade my catch for a safe place to sleep for a few nights.”

“But you don’t have any weapons,” he said, and distress showed on his face. “And I watched you get water without digging.”

“Master Trent asked you to follow me, didn’t he.” It wasn’t a question, but he answered with a nod anyway.

“I didn’t want to,” he said. “It was nice of you to share that meat with us. I don’t really care if it came from North Forest or not. It didn’t make me sick.”

Quinn pursed her lips as she considered what to tell the boy.

“Master Trent knows how I hunt, and he doesn’t like it,” she said. “No, I don’t need weapons or tools to catch food or collect water because I use magic.” She wiggled her fingers in the air. The boy looked down at his own hands.

“But we use magic,” he said and furrowed his brow. “Why would he be upset that you used magic to catch those rabbits? And our magic can’t make the water flow, unless you use water magic.”

“My magic is different from yours,” she said, and left it at that. “Magic is only as bad as the person using, in my opinion, so I don’t think it’s fair, but that’s the way it is in Cinder.” The bitterness she felt on the subject must’ve come through, because the boy mumbled something under his breath before walking away from the fire.

The following morning at daybreak, Quinn shouldered a pack and chewed on a hunk of bread she snatched from the cooking wagon, and set off north. No one in the Wind Song caravan would be awake, and she thought it would be for the best. Better they didn’t know where she was going.

North Forest sounded innocent enough, but anyone who set foot inside would say something different. Even in the distance, only a few miles off, the trees looked like ordinary foliage. The true danger lay in the sound, as Quinn learned the hard way, and an uneasiness settled over her no matter how many times she crossed the Silence.

The Wind Song caravan must’ve been desperate to move this far north, Quinn thought. Mere miles away from the Silence, and the Forest itself. It was no wonder Master Trent was on edge when she arrived the day before.

The moment she entered the Silence, Quinn also entered the Gray. She let the black vines creep into a web around her like a force field, and continued on her way. Trees and shrubs grew intermittently for some time, and few things other than scavengers lingered there. Soon she broke through the thick treeline and sounds returned; birds chirping, squirrels chittering, and hopefully rabbits or deer scuffling in the brush.

It was an art, not a talent, to hunt with necromancy. The vines had minds of their own, and craved the life force oozing out of the forest. A forest this old and untouched glowed a deep green within the Gray, bringing much wanted color into the bleak view. Vibrant blue revealed water beneath the surface, and spots of white let Quinn see every bird in every nest, every mouse in its hole, and deer where they grazed and bedded down.

In some ways it was hardly fair.

A dozen vines crept slow and sure, widening Quinn’s reach as she proceeded deeper into the forest. The brightest of white lights caught her attention and a pair of young bucks fought in a clearing not far off.

“Lucky,” Quinn said to herself, and hurried her pace.

As soon as she was within range, two vines hurtled out ahead of her and plunged into the bodies of the bucks. They both froze, momentarily confused, before they convulsed and dropped to the forest floor. Only half dead, now Quinn could use the force she collected to end their lives swiftly. A quick jab of air snapped their necks, and Quinn drew her vines back within a safe range.

This would definitely earn her more time at the Wind Song caravan.

Several hours later with two bucks in tow, Quinn returned to the Wind Song caravan. Master Trent appeared to be avoiding her, even after she gave both carcasses to the cooks to gut and hang without any guarantee of her remaining in their camp.

The boy, his son, however, lurked in the shadows of tents and thought she couldn’t see him.

Weary from her extended use of magic and the long walk over the uneven rocky terrain of the Cinder Desert, she returned to her tent to find someone rummaging through her pull cart.

“Excuse me,” she said, and grabbed the man by the shoulder and yanked him to face her.

A scar from the corner of his mouth extended to his ear, but he didn’t look like a fighter or like anyone who should be wandering the Cinder Desert. He wore plain blue robes, standard garb in Cinder, with a white sash. He held his hands up in surrender and backed away.

“Apologies,” he said. “They told me you were a fellow mage.” He pointed to the gathering of tents, and Quinn raised her eyebrows. Some blood from the stags she killed stained her plain brown trousers, and her once-white shirt needed another hole repaired. “Well, many magical people are mistaken for mages.” He looked her up and down once again.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked, and he hesitated.

“I am Mage Xander,” he said, and extended his hand. Quinn looked at it and gave him a half-bow in return. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I don’t know much about these lands.”

“I can see that.”

“Have you been evaluated?” he asked, leaning towards her and peering at strange places, like her shoulder, stomach, and thigh. Places where her magic was stored when her black vines absorbed it.

“Evaluated for what?” Quinn took a step away and the mage put his hands on his hips.

“Come to the bonfire tonight,” he said. “I watched you bring our supper for the evening, and though they don’t express it, they are very grateful.” She looked over her shoulder, and a half dozen people worked to build the evening’s fire.

“Things have been pretty hard lately,” she said. “I don’t blame them, but I wish I could help more.” Mage Xander frowned and let out a deep sigh.

“So do I,” he said. “There is only so much we can do when things in the capital are so,” he paused, “tenuous.” Tenuous was putting it mildly. Bounty hunters crawled all over the kingdom looking for anyone who might be a necromancer to bring back dead or alive for coin. She grimaced at the thought.

Quinn dismissed herself from the mage, and he wandered over to the gathering of tents where the gypsies prepared for the evening. Instead of dispersing or pretending to be busy, they flocked to him. Strange what an official title did for a person. Annoyed, Quinn took her empty waterskins down to the riverbed and its ever-expanding patch of digging.

She looked over her shoulder like she frequently did these days, and waited as the water she summoned filled her empty skins. The mage, Xander, seemed to see something that she could never see in other mages. She shuddered at thoughts of the last time someone could sense her magic.

The sun dipped lower in the sky and the scent of roasting venison put everyone in a lighter mood, and even the surliest of gypsies gave her a nod as she approached the fresh bonfire.

“See?” Mage Xander appeared at her side. “They are grateful, even if they are wary about where the meat came from. It’s a brave soul that ventures into North Forest so regularly.”

“The winter solstice is coming,” said Quinn. She sat down and gestured for Mage Xander to do the same. “Many of the animals hibernate in the desert, and North Forest is ripe with game. I can’t believe no one else does it.”

Mage Xander scoffed.

“Most people never make it past the Silence and turn back,” he said. Quinn shrugged.

“It takes getting used to,” she said. “I would never cross it without magic.” She shook her head.

Mage Xander studied her again, looking in the same places as he did before, and then held out a hand.

“You never said whether you’ve been evaluated for your magic,” he said. “I understand it isn’t common practice in Cinder like it is in Rainon.” Quinn looked at his hand, but didn’t touch it.

“What does it do?” she asked.

“Traditionally, we evaluate potential students before they apply at the Academy of Mages,” he said. “Most people have enough magic to start a cook fire or divert water, but that isn’t enough to train to become a mage. It also helps us identify where your strengths lie.” He still had his hand out. “It’s painless.”

With that reassurance, Quinn placed her hand on Mage Xander’s palm and he closed his eyes. She watched closely, and as promised, felt nothing other than the warmth of his hand.

A flash of green, much like the black smoke given off by her tendrils, rose from between their hands. Several young gypsy children watched nearby, and let out little gasps. Mage Xander opened his eyes to slits and stared hard at Quinn.

“Does the caravan know?” he asked, and let go of her hand.

“No.”

“Good,” he said, and sighed with relief. “It would be a death sentence. However, should circumstances ever lead you to Rainon, I would recommend applying at the Academy. Your power wells run deep; it’s been a very long time since I’ve seen such potential. The head of necromancy would be thoroughly pleased.”

Quinn nodded and said nothing. He didn’t reveal anything to her she didn’t already know. Bowls of stew heavy with venison went around the fire and the singing began, a routine that set the oddness of a magical foreigner aside and let her relax.

After Quinn finished her second bowl of stew and lied back to admire the singing and the expanse of stars above, she heard choking.

She shot up and a young woman, maybe a handful of years older than herself with an infant in her arms, grasped at her throat with her free hand. Mage Xander beat her to the choking woman, and he smacked her back until a stream of putrid black liquid spurt from her mouth. The infant cried and the woman dropped to the ground in a fit of convulsions, her saliva and vomit creating a gray foam that bubbled from between her lips.

Screaming replaced the singing and more people began choking and spewing foul black vomit. Quinn ran to the cooking wagon, dodging puddles of black and jumping over fallen and seizing gypsies. One deer carcass still hung in the back, fresh and unspoiled. She climbed into the wagon and instead of stew the cauldrons were full of bubbling black ooze that gave off an acrid smell that made her eyes water and burned her nose. Not every gypsy was affected, and she noticed she wasn't a victim of the black vomit, and neither was Mage Xander.

Quinn rushed back to where she left the mage and the convulsing woman. She looked to Mage Xander for direction. Surely a mage from the Academy would know what to do. Why wasn't he using magic? Or brewing an antidote or...

Quinn's blood felt cold.

He lied the first woman down and closed her lids with two fingers and spoke a prayer. When he looked up to meet Quinn's eyes, he smiled, the scar on his face distorting it into something malicious.

“It’s the meat from North Forest!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “The huntress, she’s a necromancer!”

Her stomach dropped to her feet, and she ran.